Chapter 32
ZINZI
Accompong, Maroon Village, Cockpit Country, Week Four
As I run from my mother’s house, tears stream down my face. This is why I don’t visit. But she’s getting her way. I can’t leave Accompong, not with this tension between us.
I take a mule to Maggotty to send two telegrams, one to Allan, apologizing for being unable to return for the upcoming demonstrations. I must stay in Accompong longer than I originally planned.
The second telegram takes longer to write, even though its message is shorter. Instead of quickly jotting down what I need to write, I walk around the small telegraph office, pacing back and forth. Finally, I hand the message to the woman operating the telegraph. It reads:
Byron, I won’t be returning to Kingston for two weeks.
My mother is very ill. Zinzi.
It’s all I write because otherwise, I might say too much.
A few days later, I leave the house early, wearing a loose-fitting cotton dress tied at the waist, socks on my feet, and thick-soled boots.
My knapsack rests on my back and my machete in hand.
I am ready to hike into the jungle. I follow a familiar path, the same trail I used to take with my father, searching for water, wild pears, or strawberry trees—the sweet fruit of my childhood.
Sunlight filters through the palm leaves.
Branches graze against my arms and legs, but I continue for more than an hour until I reach the clearing.
It is a beautiful, open area, a dry sinkhole, an old campsite of the Maroons where my father often visited as a child and brought me for picnics and swimming.
Encircled by steep limestone ridges and enveloped in thick vegetation, my joy comes from the river, though that may be too strong a term for the stream of water that glimmers in the broken sunlight.
I unlace and remove my boots and socks, strip off my dress, and sink into the rippling water, floating on my back for a while and swimming until my body feels limp.
I walk from the water onto the riverbank, open my knapsack, take out a folded cloth, and stretch it over the ground. Then I lie in the sunshine.
After a short time, a sound from the bushes draws my attention.
I grab my dress and slip it over my head.
A large creature moves through the dense forest. Not a mongoose or a crocodile.
Still, I take one cautious step, but I’m not afraid.
I know who I hope it might be. I told my mother where I’d be right after I received his telegram.
“Who’s there?”
“Zinzi. It’s me.” Byron steps through a tangle of bushes.
“My God, what are you doing here?” I say, smiling broadly because I know the answer. “How did you find me?”
He strides into the clearing, hatless, with disheveled hair, a sweat-soaked cotton shirt, and a knapsack slung over his broad shoulders. “You always ask so many questions. You knew I was coming.”
“Not true. I just hoped.” My tone is terse and teasing all at once. “After receiving your telegram, I told my mother where I’d be. All she had to do was give you directions.”
“She did a decent job, but I also know my way around the jungle. I was raised in the Cockpit. The Tynesdale plantation is not far from here. Besides, you left an easy enough trail to follow.”
He sweeps his hair back from his eyes. “It’s been four weeks and I needed to see you. Did you miss me?” He hooks his fingers on the belt of his pants, giving him a boyish air of uncertainty.
“I’m glad you came,” I reply.
“You are? I hoped you would be.”
I feel my dress clinging to my wet skin. I step closer to him. “Well, you’re right.”
“You should stop looking at me that way or I will want to make love to you again.”
“I can’t stop.” I slide my arms around his neck. “Kiss me.”
He does, and this clearing in the jungle becomes our refuge.
Our intimacy is rich in tenderness and emotion. I mirror Byron’s fervor, clinging to him as he clings to me, his fingers digging into my back, his muscles tense. I hold him in silence as we revel in each other’s touch, warmth, and comfort.
Our clothing came off so easily that it feels awkward to dress again in front of each other, especially with the jungle surrounding us.
I pull on my socks and step into a boot, but there’s a change in Byron’s mood.
His silence is sullen, his movements jerky, and the crease between his eyebrows has deepened.
I brace myself for the conversation I know we need to have about Bernard Christian Tynesdale.
“My father has lost his mind.”
“What happened?”
We still sit on the cloth I stretched out on the ground. “He has a new policy. Any worker—man, woman, or child—who is found in attendance at a labor union rally will be fired.”
I sit upright. “My God, what is he thinking? Even with the awful conditions, people need to work in this economy. That’s monstrous,” I exclaim. “Who will he get to replace the field-workers he lets go? Will he put unskilled laborers in his sugarcane fields?”
Byron takes my hands in his. “It’s not just the Tynesdale Estate.
He’s formed an alliance with six other sugar plantation owners in St. Elizabeth Parish.
They’ve agreed to support him and one another in enforcing the policy.
He claims they also provide financial backing to hire detectives and constables to monitor attendance at the movement’s activities.
He even said he’ll hire scabs, strikebreakers, to do the work. He’ll even ship scabs here from Cuba.”
“Damn.”
“He wants me to stop playing around. No more labor union talk. No more dining in public with labor union activists.” He smiles. “I told him to go to hell.”
“Good for you, but how does that stop him from destroying lives?”
Byron runs his fingers through his hair, his eyes dark with rage. “I can’t let him get away with this.” He stands and paces. I rise, too, watching him as he stalks back and forth. But I can’t keep silent.
“No matter what he does, he won’t stop the labor movement,” I say defiantly. “We will work harder. Recruit more volunteers. The movement will only grow bigger and stronger. We won’t be stopped.”
Byron clenches his fists. “I believe you believe that,” he pauses, “but my father is relentless and greedy. To stop him, I need to play his ball game.”
“What game? Steal the rum recipe?”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “No, that won’t work. He’d squelch that story. He owns too many people, including newspaper reporters.
“But I’ve found another way,” he says. “During Prohibition, while I was out of the country, my father formed an alliance with some American rum runners out of Chicago. Now, he has a new deal with the same partners. And it’s legal—but that doesn’t mean ethical.”
My nerves feel like they’re coming apart. “You learned all this since the last time I saw you, four weeks ago?”
“I can hire detectives, too.” He takes my hands. “Let’s sit down.” He helps me return to our spot on the ground. We face each other, sitting cross-legged.
“Okay, I’m ready.”
Byron exhales. “I’ve known about his illegal rum business during Prohibition for a while.
There was no ban on liquor or rum in Jamaica.
My father’s new business supplies distilled rum to his Chicago partners.
They handle bottling and distribution in the United States.
It’s a huge deal. To make it work, he has to increase his rum production.
The deal won’t work if there’s a labor union.
This business venture gives him the capital to resist the labor movement, and his attack on the Maroons shows he’ll do anything to make a profit.
But I’m going to put a wrench in his plans. ”
“How?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I understand complications.”
He caresses my hand. “I know that.”
“What have you done?”
“I met with one of his partners. Actually, both of them have been in Jamaica for a couple of weeks, secretly meeting with my father. Bernard doesn’t want the other plantation owners to get wind of his plans.
” He pauses. “Turns out I can be just as unscrupulous as my father. I reached out to one of these men and made a deal to put more money in his pocket rather than my father’s. ”
“Earning his trust—”
“Yes.” He chuckles. “By playing the part of the spoiled son, who wants his father’s business for himself.”
“What did you do, exactly, Byron?”
“I’ve been feeding this fellow shipping schedules and some financial information. Making it seem as if I’ll do anything, even partner with him, to delay major shipments.”
“Don’t your actions also ruin the partner’s business interests? What happens when your father finds out? I thought he was ill. I thought he was dying!”
“That was a lie to get me to come home. He has health problems, but they aren’t killing him.”
“Christ.”
“Amen.” Byron takes my hand and we start down the path. “This man is greedy. More so than even my father. He’s making deals with rum distillers in Cuba and all across Jamaica. He wants money and power.” Byron sighs deeply.
“What’s wrong? Is he dangerous? Has he threatened you?”
“He asked to meet you.”
I let go of his hand, stopping on the path lined with rock formations. “Why me? I have nothing to do with your father’s business.”
“He doesn’t trust me. Meeting with you, my girlfriend, the labor union activist, who has prompted me to betray my father …” Byron shrugs a shoulder.
I don’t miss the girlfriend comment but move on quickly. “I hope I’m not the reason you’re doing this.”
“No.” He cups my chin and kisses me. “Not the only reason, but will you help me?”
“Oh God, Byron.” I pause, thinking of all the reasons I should say no—all the reasons Byron should walk away from this dangerous plan—but the look on his face. He’s desperate to do something, anything to stop his father. “When do you want me to do this?”
“So, you’ll meet with him?”
“Yes, I’ll meet him.”
He exhales his relief, which I can feel in my chest. “In a week, maybe two. You’ll need to come to Kingston.”
I chew my lower lip. “I can do that.”