By A. A Fenty
There was no moon to be seen that night. A few stars seemed determined to cast some light, but only barely succeeded The night was a humid one, for mid-April showers had vied with the sun for supremacy during the day. And the surrounding jungle helped the atmosphere to be heavy, oppressive, doubtful.
The two Black men sitting under a Sandbox free regarded each other warily, but tolerantly
The clearing around the big main building was bordered by tall shrubs, sweet-scented flowers, black-sage. Fireflies hovered, glittered, emphasized the inadequacy of the star-light. Black men could be seen; some dozing, some watching, muttering softly under sheds, on the steps, on the verandahs, and in bungalows.
Plantation Hollandia was their headquarters
The two men under the Sandbox were conversing in low but earnest tones ‘…an’ is months an’ months an’ months o’ planning dis ting tek,” the shorter, medium-sized one was saying, “I risk plenty lash. I GET plenty stocks… an one time Fourie even mek me walk on hot coals when I get all de slaves on de Plantation to stop wuk. Ow, my brother, yuh know all ’bout it., so why now you mus want cause trouble? Why cause dissension? I have enough worry now…”
But he was interrupted by the other man. This fellow was taller than his colleague. He looked younger and his strong, black, muscled body, his entire demeanour, suggested enthusiasm, restlessness. “…me know, me know all ’bout we planning, we organizing in de past. I back you well… yuh know dat… I too suffer… befo February… I not making trouble. Is you. You start acting funny… you keep telling we dat you is a GOVERNOR Governor o’ de whole o’ Berbice. Governor over all a we. Yuh ordering dis an yuh ordering dat! We kyan even drink lil o de White man rum! Man, de people doan like it1 You too commanding! Blast it man! ALL black man is boss now! We pon top! But since dis rebellion start yuh only want to be Governor! Yuh governing dis an yuh governing dat!” He felt strongly about it. His speech was becoming quite animated.
The older fellow shook his head in disgust. He clucked his tongue impatiently, stood up with arms folded across his chest and gazed towards the stables where the white prisoners, taken captive after the successful siege of Peerboom were chained aid bound. He assumed a stooping position and addressed himself to the other. He had a crisp, clear voice but kept a tow tone.
“Atta, Atta. What wrong wid yuh? I jus call myself Governor so dat our people will know an understand dat dey gat a leader. Dat is important me brother. Dere mus be ONE leader, one unity. All dese black men hay was slave two months ago—we wuk like dog on de Dutchman plantations. Dey use we women. We get brand. We get we bones break up. All sort o torture! On Magdalenenburg, Goed Fortuin, all dem plantation on de Canje an on de Berbice, slaves suffer. Now we come together as one. God man! We got to, MUS stay together! Look. Dis rebellion ain’t gone anyway yet Atta. If 1 allow black man to booze up and dress up and spend de whole time wid woman, what yuh tink go happen?
Ow man, yuh not see I have to be a serious Governor? Look what happen yesterday…”
“Who fault yesterday?” interrupted Atta anxiously
‘… is Akara man Akara. He too impatient He go an mount attack on Dageraad jus so…”
“But e had good reason I think. De longer yuh wait de stronger de Planters an de Government go get. Van Hoogenheim get lit help from Suriname already.”
“Yes-yes me brother, but fighting ain’t all. We got to ne ne negotiate. I got to bargain…dat is why I mus keep dese white…” He motioned to the half-starved prisoners moaning in the stables.
“No! Me na agree,” said Atta hotly. “Kill dem all! Tek over Fort Nassau! Den we go advance and tek over…”
“Wait! Wait! Atta, listen.”
The older fellow was struggling to maintain his calm. He desperately wanted reason to prevail. Especially with this comrade. The wet leafy air, the incessant sounds of insects and tree-frogs in the dense undergrowth and in sapodilla trees; the restlessness of some in camp; the dark, damp gloom of this jungle night all made for short tempers. But this Governor had a great purpose.
“Me brother,” he tried an imploring tone, “not because Van Hoogenheim abandon Fort Nassau we can attack a wild-wild so. Ow man, look wat happen yesterday. Akara didn’t plan so we get beat back. Van Hoogenheim still got good guns; he guarding de mouths o de Canje and Berbice and he know dat Dageraad good to defend from. I tell you Atta, Van Hoogenheim not a coward man. His is a good soldier…a smart man… a smart Governor.”
“So what?” enquired an impatient Atta.
“—me… me go show him. Show him dat Black man smart too. First, me go talk peace. Me go let e know dat me want half o Berbice for Black man. We go take over de rivers an de interior. White Christians could tek Coastlands After dat we could gradually tek over all o Berbice so long as every Black man join we. Dey coming everyday. But we got to stay united. STAY ONE. Dat is where you, Atta, can help ”
“Dem is big-big mix-up plans,” said Atta. Then, for the first time that night, he called the other man by name.
“Cuffy, you know you and yuh plans sound mad-mad?”
“No boy. NO. It late now. I go ketch some doze. Tomorrow morning me, you, Akara and Accabreh go plan big-big story. White man-style to beat white man. De days o’ bondage go end forever. But Atta, mek sure everybody stay together. Ow man, nah try fo lead too… one leader…all o we mus be one…”
Atta sucked his teeth disagreeably and departed to his benab. Everything was not quite dear.
***
The mid-year rains had apparently begun. It poured heavily the next day, and for one reason or another, the proposed war council Cabinet with Cuffy as head, did not meet. But the Leader spent that day moving from section to section of the vast camp, issuing directives, personally supervising accommodation for the new enlistments who were daily abandoning their life of slavery for the freedom of the rebels. He visited those men who were struck seriously ill with a sickness that was threatening to assume epidemic proportions. But their morale was high. He also drafted and dispatched a letter to the Dutch Governor van Hoogenheim, who, along with the white settlers who had escaped, was holding out at Plantation Dageraad, a reasonably fortified plantation. In it, he set out his terms for the cessation or hostilities; his plans for the partition of the land. With true military dignity and in observance of the ethics of declared warfare, he invited the Dutch Governor to come to talk peace, promising him no harm. And one of Cuffy’s last acts that day was to break up a free-for-all among a group of men who were violently deciding who should singularly use one of the much-favoured white female prisoners.
“Stop dis! Stop it me people We got we own women wid we you know!!” But some male, possibly Atta, had bellowed back jeeringly: “O yes! But look who talking!”
Cuffy had ignored that, wisely.
During the days that followed, the long wet season imposed itself and the creeks and the rivers swelled. Some days, when the sun was allotted to peer through, the Kiskadees, hoo-yoo birds, wild parrots, and the beasts of the jungle all sounded their approval and gladness.
The men too were heartened. They were in a new camp now for mud, mosquitoes and fever forced them to move to another plantation which had been abandoned by the planters in their flight to the forts. They were now actually nearer to Dageraad—the centre of the resistance.
Meanwhile, Cuffy had his hands full maintaining discipline among the mass of free black men. Some were inclined to be hostile towards their brothers from a different tribe; even creoles were intolerant of their African-born kith and kin; former house slaves tended to be idle, happy only to drink and dress from what they had looted in the height of the rebellion
And, occasionally, Atta seemed determined to have a personal following
But the dream of dominance, the vision erf ultimate Black power in the colony of Berbice drove the leader on. With Captain Akara’s help, men were kept in training; weapons were made; guerilla tactics formulated; food provided. Freedom necessitated discipline and sacrifice. Besides one brief bit of correspondence from Van Hoogenheim—a note which sought more details from Cuffy about his initial propositions—no clear-cut replies to Cuffy’s letters were forthcoming. Cuffy disliked this tardiness. Finally, he assembled his War Council for a meeting. Atta, Akara, Accabreh and a leader of the women were there
‘Brothers, sister, as Governor of Berbtce and your leader, I call dis meeting to tell you what I decide. I feel dat is time to attack ‘cause Van Hoohenheim like e delaying…*
“De man done smart you, man!” Atta interrupted at once. “Some men talk say dey see boats wid soldiers sailing down river-mouth.”
‘Stay quiet nuh man!” admonished Accabreh.
“…I always seh we shoulda attack weeks ago when de Sickness had dem bad an…”
But Cuffy persisted in a louder tone: “I try to use fair military strategy…to…to bargain, but e no want dat. My people, dis rebellion now get serious. Dis is de first time Black men in dis part o de world rise up and make revolution. BUT IS HASTY PEOPLE LIKE ATTA WHO CAN SPOIL IT! ATTA! Why you want put me people ’gainst me an me methods..”
He got up and began to pound the dining-table around which they were seated.
‘…I trying my best! Two-three hundred years from now, people go talk bout dis rebellion. You all no have vision? Dey go either praise we or laugh we ..T
“But why you so fussy ‘bout dat white missy George from Peerboom?” It was an irrelevant query from the female representative.
“I using she! She an another prisoner is my personal slaves. Letter-writing an so an. I making George suffer…!”
Of those who would have really liked to tell their Chief that he was dilly-dallying much too long instead of attacking the whites systematically, only Atta articulated disgust at the delay. But Cuffy was not the leader to admit to any error of judgment. Akara and Accabreh were essentially fighting men. They questioned the Governor. He outlined his plans for a major offensive.
‘We launch attack nex week…daybreak, May thirteenth… three waves o’ men…we got over two thousand…”
***
Well they lost that battle of Dageraad. Then they lost themselves the war.
They were not as together in intent as they might have been. And unity of method was absent far too often. Superior in the knowledge of warfare and with information from traitors, the Dutch were able to beat them back. The peace of the jungle was shattered by the sounds of blazing muskets: the boom of the cannon; sorties from the stockades, from the ships; the wailing of voices to retreat
Dutch help from Holland and the West Indies proved too much. The battle was short and bitter. The slaves fled And even in defeat Atta was triumphant
“What I tell all you? Cuffy stupid! See what happen? See? I did know…”
During the retreat to the Canje—Cuffy had decided to return to Magdalenenburg—Atta and his chief disciples Goussari. Accabreh. Quacco and Hoobaka taunted the leader, but his dignity never deserted him
“You have a lotta big-talk Atta. But you can mock all you want…I not beaten yet.”
“We not take orders from you now. Bah! Governor! Governor! Yuh kyan even governor de white woman Amelia George…!
Their trek back to the Canje Plantation was hampered by the thunderstorms of June and July. When they finally re-established camp, members diminished through death and desertion by the unfaithful, Cuffy was fared with internal power struggles. Disarray. Division and disunity. Akara was faithful but independent. Atta was powerful Accabreh waited and watched. Distrust reigned. Still, the Governor had a trump.
“Georgie girl… you know what? Atta can’t do nothing without ammunition. Me still control dat! Me people control dat! Me know we still got chance!”
The reluctant First Lady merely smiled.
When a group of white renegade soldiers surprisingly offered their mercenary services instead of killing them all off, Cuffy was able to use a few of the men. They made gun-powder: taught the Africans new tricks. The leader still entertained hopes, positive General he wanted to be. (But a house divided against itself cannot stand Coconut pointers not bound cannot make a good broom”.) Towards October, Cuffy openly accused Atta of stealing some ammunition. The two men challenged each other.
Tom-Tom sounds gave way, one cold watery night to the sounds of fisticuffs Two Mack leaders were fighting to front of their followers. The Governor lost the duel. Lost his dignity. Lost his will. Ended his life.
So, through a primitive encounter, a fight in a forest, a matter of pride and spirit Guyana and posterity were denied the full benefit of this man’s true greatness.
“Cuffy, Governor of Berbice”, written circa 1977, is reprinted with permission of the author, A.A Fenty.
