“This is the largest rally we’ve ever organized, and we can’t afford distractions.”
Allan has been on edge since the Victoria Park rally. He doesn’t blame Byron for what happened, but his organization is drawing attention across the parishes. All eyes are onthe Kingston branch of the labor movement, and any misstep could affect the movement throughout the country.
Allan moistens his lips. “I’ve been informed that there are rumblings among government officials regarding taxation and the Cockpit. Supposedly, someone in the British Parliament is advocating for a tax on rum produced and sold in the Maroon villages.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I think of Raymond’s telegram. “My people have made, bought, and sold rum only among ourselves since 1760 without a hint of taxation. It’s our cultural right. Besides, not a single jug is sold outside of the Cockpit. It’s not a business.” I rise, my anger driving me to pace. “What does Colonel Rowe think about this?” The colonel is the leader of Accompong and is highly respected among the Maroon people, including the arrogant members of the British government. “I’m sure he has a lot to say about it. I can’t imagine he’ll let this happen without a fight.”
“Please, Zinzi. The war doesn’t have to start in my office tonight.”
My voice had shamefully risen. But I’ve been so focused on my life in Kingston for so long that I haven’t considered how the labor movement might impact Accompong. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s perfectly fine,” Allan replies. “The government is eager to boost island revenues. My sources indicate that these are initial discussions, while some argue they are merely rumors. Nevertheless, we must remain vigilant against these tactics that undermine our people.”
Covering my face with my hands, I massage my cheeks. “I’d bet anything that the source of this taxation chatter is the island’s European landowners and the rum barons.”
Rum barons.Another name for wealthy, influential families who dominate the rum industry and, like the Tynesdale family, also own large sugar plantations, distilleries, and export businesses.
“They are behind this tax plan.” My head hurts from thepressure in my skull. “Rum barons. How dare they attempt to punish the Maroon people?”
I sit at the long table in his office, contemplating whether to tell Allan about Byron’s reckless idea of stealing his father’s rum recipe, which, suddenly, doesn’t sound so ugly to me.
The labor movement has taught me many lessons, but one stands out: One person’s loss, pain, grief, or thirst for revenge is just a grain of sand on a beach. What the island needs and what Jamaican workers deserve are dedicated union leaders. Anything less will not suffice. One man’s problems shouldn’t matter, especially if that man is named Tynesdale.
The room fills with volunteers as Allan reviews his ledger, preparing to speak to the group. “The Kingston Waterfront is a crucial hub. Our demonstration will be one of the largest we’ve organized, focusing on dockworkers in the shipping and export industries,” Allan states. “Movement organizers will travel to Kingston from every parish in Jamaica.
“Dockworkers are very frustrated with low wages, poor working conditions, and a stagnant economy. The risk of violence is significant, and the authorities at Victoria Park are ready to use force at the slightest sign of unrest.” He pauses, intensely scanning the faces before him. “While we cannot eliminate the threat of violence, we must not provoke it.” He locks eyes with everyone at the table. “Our aim is a peaceful demonstration, and we must commit to the necessary steps to ensure this.”
The office door creaks open, and a girl hesitantly peeks in. “What is it?” Allan demands sharply, showing his irritation at the interruption. “Can’t it wait?”
She swallows hard. “There’s a white man outside with his limo driver,” she says. “He insists on seeing Miss Green.”
My heart races. My immediate thought, the only one, is of Byron. Something must have gone wrong, and someone is here to bring bad news.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Allan. “I truly am.” Then I dash out of the room, my new companion—dread—following close behind.
Bernard Christian Tynesdale, Byron’s father, waits for me at the reception desk. He wears an ivory gabardine suit and a Panama hat, exuding fashionable arrogance with a well-scrubbed, uniformed limo driver by his side. If not for his slightly quivering white mustache, Mr. Tynesdale Senior would seem indomitable rather than uneasy in proximity to so many dark-skinned people. As I approach him, the questions rolling around in my mind are about Byron. Has something happened to him? Is that why his father is here to see me? But why would his father come to see me if that were true? He knows nothing of me and Byron. Private detective aside, that awkward introduction in the lobby of the Myrtle Bank Hotel shouldn’t have led him to me. Why would he think I care? Well, I won’t give him any clues about my feelings, especially those I don’t fully understand.
“What brings you here?” I ask coolly.
Mr. Tynesdale scans the office as if it’s infested with sand fleas. “I need to speak with you privately.”
I position myself with my feet apart and my hands on my hips. “You can say whatever you want right here.”
“It concerns Byron,” he replies.
My determination wavers. “Is he okay? Has he been hurt?”
“As far as I know, he’s just as you left him when you last saw him.” From his choice of words and sarcastic tone, I can tell he knows I spent the other evening with Byron in Trench Town, and maybe that I didn’t leave his Myrtle Bank Hotel until dawn, especially if the private detective Byron mentioned was on the job.
“Yes, we can step outside.” I move past him, not waitingfor his response or to see if he follows. It’s early evening but the streetlights are on. I stand by a lamppost.
“I’ll make this quick, Miss Green. According to my private detective, Byron is trying to involve himself in the labor union movement, with your encouragement.”
“No, that’s not true,” I respond firmly. “Byron is not easily influenced. He makes his own decisions.”
“Well, that’s debatable,” Mr. Tynesdale replies. “I know my son is not an extremist. He doesn’t get involved in causes. His interests guide his passions. Despite your idealistic beliefs, your influence over him has little to do with the labor union.”
“I have no influence over him.”
