The Lamplighter, стр. 10
And changed her name to Prattle.
LAMPLIGHTER:
I remember. I forget.
MARY:
At seventeen, she succumbed to the flux and died.
BLACK HARRIOT:
Raveface was 24 at a guess
When she arrived
She was a field hand for forty years.
Freedom finally came for Raveface
In 1838. She was 64.
LAMPLIGHTER:
I remember. I forget.
CONSTANCE:
Phoebe, a Coromantee, suffered from Yaws.
MACBEAN:
It is nauseous and loathsome in appearance. Its frightful ravages, its twitching pains, extending to the very marrow, bring with it a deformity of bone and flesh that is horrifying.
LAMPLIGHTER:
So many of the field hands
Had crab yaws on their hands
Or ringworms on the side of their necks.
BLACK HARRIOT:
Cure for Yaws. Stand them in a cask where there is a little fire in a pot. Give them a mixture of two woods, Bois Royale and Bois Fer and apply an ointment of limejuice and rust of iron to the sores.
LAMPLIGHTER:
This is my story.
Told by myself.
I am dead and alive.
I am wanted, dead or alive.
SONG:
O Canaan, sweet Canaan
I am bound for the land of Canaan.
O Canaan, sweet Canaan
I am bound for the land of Canaan
O Canaan, sweet Canaan
I am bound for the land of Canaan
I am going to the promised land
I am going to the promised land.
LAMPLIGHTER:
And when one of us died a sugar death,
Of Yaws or dysentery or heat
When one of us died
Of leprosy, TB, pneumonia or yellow fever,
When one of us died because
We couldn’t take no more
Out in the sugar fields
When one of us died again
Out in the tobacco fields
We would call out her name.
ALL:
Clarissa, Phoebe, Raveface, Sally.
LAMPLIGHTER:
And into her grave would go, quick, quick,
Some rum,
Some rum and some casava bread,
Even when we’re hungry, hurry up,
No time now, no time to mourn the dead,
A pipe, quickly now,
A pipe and a tier to light the pipe.
CONSTANCE:
I will not forget her!
ALL:
Clarissa, Phoebe, Raveface, Sally.
LAMPLIGHTER:
Free at last! Free at last!
Thank God Almighty, she’s free at last.
ALL:
Clarissa, Phoebe, Raveface, Sally
CONSTANCE:
I remember Sally!
BLACK HARRIOT:
Was always running away
She was say, seventeen
Or eighteen years old,
She was Congolese.
Chains and stocks did not stop her.
MARY:
Remember Mountain Lucy? Mountain Lucy
miscarried after she drank Contra Yerva every day
on purpose. Remember.
CONSTANCE:
I remember Mountain Lucy!
ALL:
Clarissa, Phoebe, Raveface, Sally, Mountain Lucy.
LAMPLIGHTER:
Thank God Almighty! Free at last!
SONG:
(The next part should be sung by the chorus each sharing the lines.)
ALL (singing):
Dark down there in the faceless dark
We couldn’t see for looking
We couldn’t take your hand down there
We couldn’t hear for listening.
Remember the steps down
We couldn’t take for breaking
We couldn’t breathe down there in the dark
We couldn’t speak for fearing.
Then, up we came two at a time
We couldn’t walk for running
Up and out along a strange new path
We couldn’t stop for going.
CONSTANCE:
I walk along the path with my bean girl’s hand in mine. ‘Bring her up to the House. Make her look nice.’ Maybe I am wrong and this day will not be an end. Maybe I will walk back down the hill with my little bean girl’s hand in mine.
I know if I try and run, or if I try and get her to run, we will both be dead. He is walking close behind. I try and blot him out, so that this last walk is our own. What is she wearing? What smile today? What questions?
I can’t remember. I remember I smile as much as I can, so that if she ever remembers me, she will see that: us two walking, the sugar cane, the breeze, the special hand squeeze.
As I walk along that path, slow as I can, with her hand in mine, I try and figure which would be better the dead death, or the living one. Last night I placed my hand over her mouth and her nose. It could have been easy. But suppose I am wrong? Suppose I will be walking back down the hill with my bean girl’s hand in mine?
The man behind pushes me – Hurry up there!
Move it! He says. Her eyes are big saucer shapes.
She says to me – Where are we going?
What do I say to her?
I make something up, I think.
I can’t remember what foolish thing I think up at the time.
Anyway, whatever it is I say and said, she.
She believes me.
Why wouldn’t she?
Scene 11: Runaway
FX:
(We hear the sound of running and bush being cut and the ominous beating of a drum. The barking of dogs. The firing of a gun.)
LAMPLIGHTER:
I am a fugitive. I have been running away since I was a little girl, since I was eleven, nearly twelve years old.
At first I could only run away in my dreams. Then, on the plantation I was shackled and watched. One visiting day, visiting another plantation, the shackles were off and their eyes weren’t checking me. I ran. Away.
MACBEAN:
Any slave who escape beyond the River is to lose an ear and be branded with the letter R on the chin.
MARY:
Where can you run to? Only into the arms of Jesus.
LAMPLIGHTER:
I am running to my mama, she is wearing her yellow head tie.
ANNIWAA:
I am running to my mama, today she is wearing her yellow head tie.
LAMPLIGHTER:
She is the lamp that guides me.
ANNIWAA:
I have been running away since I was eleven, nearly twelve years old.
BLACK HARRIOT:
Villain, Trash, Whore and Strumpet
Frequently absconded
David, born to big Sue
Was always running away.
Strumpet was described as Field Able Runaway.
Lady ran way in 1785
Was caught in 88
And returned late
One dark night.
MACBEAN:
Who ever shall bring the said woman back, or give information that she be back again, shall receive a handsome reward.
BLACK HARRIOT:
Where can the runaway hide my dear?
Where can the runaway hide?
In the middle of London, in Yorkshire
On the edges of a Jamaican plantation,
In the bush or in the mountains,
Where can the runaway hide, my dear?
MARY:
Where can the runaway hide.
BLACK HARRIOT:
In the forest or by the rivers,
In the swamp land or in the towns,
In the thicket, in the thick of it,
On another plantation,
Or with good friends –
Where can the runaway hide, my dear?
MARY:
Where can the runaway hide.
CONSTANCE:
The runaway crossed the water
The runaway crossed the sea
The runaway was looking for her daughter
The runaway was looking for her family.
BLACK HARRIOT:
Where can the runaway hide, my