Revenge

H. G. de Lisser

Description

Revenge: A Tale of Old Jamaica (1919) is a novel by H. G. de Lisser. Born and raised in Jamaica, H. G. de Lisser was one of the leading Caribbean writers of the early twentieth century. Concerned with issues of race, urban life, and modernization, de Lisser dedicated his career to representing the lives and concerns of poor and middle-class Jamaicans. In Revenge: A Tale of Old Jamaica, de Lisser portrays the deadly Morant Bay Rebellion of 1865, a protest by poor black laborers unsatisfied with the economic and political establishment and the widespread lack of opportunity for freedmen in Jamaica. In response to a period of scarcity brought on by drought and disease, as well as to acts of police brutality against peaceful protestors, a group of several hundred Jamaicans led by Paul Bogle took to the streets in an effort to fight for their rights. In de Lisser’s fictionalized version of events, he explores the experiences of white and black Jamaicans in the days leading up to the violence. As signs of unrest grow impossible to ignore, those in power prove more than willing to reject the pleas of the oppressed, writing their anger off as nothing more than a passing phase. Seated on their veranda overlooking the mountains of the Jamaican countryside, the Carlton family observes a series of fires growing in the nearby hills. While the women see them as a sign of violence to come, the men seem entirely unphased by the threat of an uprising. In response to his mother’s fears, Dick Carlton attempts to calm her: “‘Our people are just now passing through one of their periodical fits of depression, and you will probably hear them expressing fears of negro uprisings and all that sort of thing […] and you may be frightened. Don’t allow yourself to be. The danger is purely imaginary.’” As night falls with no end to the fires, however, and as the songs and cries of the oppressed grow closer, his sense of security will prove a foolish thing indeed. With a beautifully designed cover and professionally typeset manuscript, this edition of H. G. de Lisser’s Revenge: A Tale of Old Jamaica is a classic of Jamaican literature reimagined for modern readers.

Sujets

• Carribean
• Historical
• Black people
• African American
• Black
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Mint Editions
• Date de parution: 28 mai 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781513298559
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Revenge
A Tale of Old Jamaica
H.G. de Lisser
 
Revenge: A Tale of Old Jamaica was first published in 1919.
This edition published by Mint Editions 2021.
ISBN 9781513297057 | E-ISBN 9781513298559
Published by Mint Editions®
minteditionbooks.com
Publishing Director: Jennifer Newens
Design & Production: Rachel Lopez Metzger
Project Manager: Micaela Clark
Typesetting: Westchester Publishing Services
 
This tale of the most stirring, poignant period of our Island’s Story, I dedicate to my most Candid Critic,
M Y W IFE
 
C ONTENTS B OOK I I. T HE M OUNTAIN F IRE II. S OME N EW A CQUAINTANCES III. R ACHAEL AND R AINES IV. M R . S OLWAY C ALLS V. M R . S OLWAY IS A NGERED VI. R AINES O UTLINES A P LAN VII. A M EETING OF C ONSPIRATORS VIII. “I AM S ORRY —V ERY S ORRY ” IX. R AINES M AKES HIS M OVE X. T HE E ND OF THE P LOT XI. “T HE V OICE OF THE P EOPLE ” XII. T HE S IGN FROM H EAVEN B OOK II I. A M EETING OF H EROES II. J OYCE G IVES HER A NSWER III. R ACHAEL ’ S R EFUAL IV. B OGLE ’ S U LTIMATUM V. S OLWAY ’ S T EMPTATION VI. D ISILLUSION VII. A N E NCOUNTER VIII. T HE S OUNDING OF THE S HELLS IX. H OW T IDINGS C OME X. B OGLE G OES TO M ORANT B AY XI. R ACHAEL ’ S W ARNING XII. T HE A TTACK ON A SPLEY XIII. W HAT B ECAME OF D ICK XIV. “C OLOUR FOR C OLOUR ” B OOK III I. A T S TONY G UT II. R ACHAEL ’ S R EWARD III. T HE M AN W HO W AITED IV. F ACE TO F ACE V. D ENBIGH O NCE M ORE
 
BOOK I
 
I
T HE M OUNTAIN F IRE
Seated on a low verandah which ran completely round the large single-storey house of brick and wood, four persons were gazing in silence towards a range of mountains some eight or ten miles away.
Two of them, Mr. Carlton and his wife, were elderly; the others were Mr. Carlton’s son and niece. The young man was about twenty-seven years of age, tall, well-set-up, with a frank, humorous, sunburnt face and kindly eyes. He featured his father, but his face showed a stronger, more determined character. The girl who sat beside him was of slender figure and moderate height; a blonde with delicate, aquiline features, sparkling light-blue eyes, and a proudly-held little head crowned with a glory of pale golden hair. These two had been talking of “home” a little while before, meaning England thereby, though Dick Carlton was Jamaica-born. Then the conversation had lulled, the attention of the group being attracted to the mountains beyond.
Black but distinct the huge piles loomed, their summits silhouetted against a sky all sable and quivering gold. And on the crests and slopes of some of these mountains fierce fires were blazing, each one a glaring tongue of flame that licked viciously upwards as if hungry for destruction.
It was about eight o’clock. The day bad faded swiftly into night, the darkness having fallen immediately after the setting of the sun. By seven the sky was blazing with innumerable stars and the Milky Way was a shining track of light. It was a typical West Indian night, serene and still and beautiful exceedingly; a night when the darkness of the earth seemed designed as a setting to the wonderful brilliance above.
“This is the worst drought I have ever known,” said Mr. Carlton at length, breaking the silence. “Those fires show how severe it has been.” There was a note of sadness in his voice, which his niece’s quick ear detected.
“Are the fires very dangerous?” she asked: “all the mountains seem to be burning.”
“Not very,” her cousin answered lightly; “they are farther from one another than they appear to be from here, and I don’t think there are any villages or houses near them.”
“We have been expecting you every winter for the last three years,” he continued after a brief pause; “you were always coming, yet only now you have come.”
“I would have come two years ago,” the girl replied, “but mother—”
“God bless my soul!” exclaimed Mr. Carlton.
They turned towards him quickly: he was bending forward and looking with a puzzled expression at the distant fires. “What is it?” asked his wife.
“I may be mistaken;” he said slowly, “but, do you know, I fancy some of those fires have started since we came out on the verandah.”
“I am sure you are right,” said Mrs. Carlton. “That blaze to the left was not there half an hour ago.”
Dick was now staring at the fires as earnestly as his father. Joyce observed his anxious attitude. “What is the matter?” she asked softly. “Is the wind blowing the sparks about?”
“That is not it,” replied Dick slowly; “the wind would not be strong enough to carry embers so far.”
“Then if it is not the wind—”
“Look!” cried Mrs. Carlton, and pointed north-eastward as she spoke. Their eyes followed the direction of her uplifted hand.
A tiny point of light, looking no bigger than one of the great stars that shone serenely overhead, glimmered on the summit of a mountain which had up to then been shrouded in darkness.
“It almost looks like a star,” Joyce murmured; “they seem in this country to rest upon the hills.”
“But this particular star is growing bigger,” said Dick, and even as he spoke a tiny tongue of flame flickered upwards.
“Dick,” said his father positively, “some of those fires are being set. It can’t be anybody clearing land in this dry weather?”
“No, dad, they wouldn’t clear land in a drought.” Dick hesitated a moment, then made up his mind to speak:
“I believe those fires are a call to righteousness.”
“What?” asked his mother astonished.
Dick turned to his cousin.
“You must expect to hear some queer things in this queer country of ours,” he said to her apologetically. “Similar fires have been seen elsewhere of late. Only this morning, before I left Aspley for Kingston, my overseer told me that the people in St. Thomas were talking about a great religious revival. They believe that the drought is a sign of God’s displeasure, and that they are called upon to purge the wickedness out of the land. Some of those fires are lighted as a warning to the unrepentant.”
Mr. Carlton laughed, but his wife did not seem to see anything humorous in her son’s explanation. “Those fires are not only warnings,” she said bitterly; “they are signals. And we are the ‘wickedness’ to be purged out of the land. Haven’t you noticed the change that has come over the people of late?—I have spoken of it before. But only now have they begun to set fires and plan revivals, making the drought an excuse.”
“Nonsense, mother, you mustn’t let yourself be worried by idle rumours,” said Dick quickly. “If we are ‘the wickedness’ we’ll take a lot of purging.” He turned to his cousin: “too tired to take a walk in the garden, Joyce?”
“No,” she said, “I should like it,” and throwing a light shawl over her head and shoulders she went down the steps and into the garden with him.
On either side of the path that led to the main entrance of the penn grew crotons and coliases and elder-flower, which in the daytime made a brave show of varigated colour. Beyond the limits of this carefully tended plot of earth the long guinea grass grew, and huge, heavy-foliaged, wide-spreading trees which created oases of shade even when the day was at its hottest. Fruit trees abounded in this property; mangoes and limes and grapefruit; shaddock, guavas, starapple and orange; and tonight the perfume of orange blossoms filled the air and was carried far away by the cool breezes which came stealing gently downwards from the hills.
“Let me give you a hint,” said Dick, as they strolled out of hearing. “Our people are just now passing through one of their periodical fits of depression, and you will probably hear them expressing fears of negro uprisings and all that sort of thing—you heard mother tonight. I am quite used to it, but you are not, and you may be frightened. Don’t allow yourself to be. The danger is purely imaginary.”
“I have heard a lot of such talk before,” said Joyce. “I was saying that I would have come out to Jamaica two years ago, but mother changed her mind almost at the last moment.”
“Yes?”
“That was because she became afraid; she has never quite recovered from her experience here as a girl. She insists that she and Aunt Charlotte were very nearly murdered by the negroes.”
“She does not exaggerate,” said Dick grimly; “but that was thirty-five years ago.”
“Mother really did not want me to come But I had so often promised Aunt Charlotte to come out that I simply had to. Father said my visit could no longer be postponed.”
“And that is the only reason why you came?”
“Well,” she replied coquetishly, “there is Aspley, our estate, you know.”
“And what about your promise, that some day you would come to Jamaica, and that when next we met you would answer my question? That had nothing to do with your coming?”
“I was a mere chit of a girl when I said that,” she laughed, “and you were only a boy.”
“I was twenty-two. In the intervening five years I have not changed. Have you?”
“Perhaps I am as uncertain as ever,” she said gently. “I don’t know. But I am here, with you. Dick.” She paused for a moment. “I cannot answer now,” she pleaded, “don’t press me.”
The orange blossoms filled the air with their delicate perfume, and the stars filled the heavens with light. Beyond them the darkness wrapped the earth as with a shroud, and hung a veil of mystery between them and the world. Far away, like giant sentinels, towered the solemn mountains, and through the tropical night the lurid fires blazed. But they saw nothing save one another just then, were conscious of themselves alone. He made no comment on her last words; indefinite as they were. She was with him, as she said, and that for the present was enough.
Suddenly, shrilly piercing the silence, came the measured beat of a chant. It intensified the brooding silence, added a touch of weirdness to the wonder of the night.
“A revival meeting in the neighbourhood.” Dick explained. “It begins at ten o’clock precisely and sometimes lasts all through the night. It is growing late. I suppose we must go in now.”
They returned t