her . . .
He is trained as a detective, to look and to behave brave, even when he is scared. Still, Sargeant does not like this darkness. It frightens him.
Many nights, moving along the narrow track that separates the North Field from the South Field, he would pause often, imagining that he hears the sound of a man moving in the canes, trampling the dried trash; and this would make him grip his truncheon round its thick brown girth, its leather strap wrapped tight round his fingers, as he grips it now; and his body would become tense as steel; and so, stunted by fear, he would listen to the swishing sounds of footsteps deep within the vast, dark bowels of the thick cane fields, swaying in the South Field and the North Field; wondering all the time how he will apprehend this man who intrudes upon his peace, and who delays the pause for refreshment at the rum shop, for the shot glass of Mount Gay Rum whose taste is so enticing.
Sargeant knows about Amurca and Canada from magazines of those countries that carry stories of murders and “’vestigations” by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the FBI ; and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the RCMP ees; in the swallowing swamps of Southern Florida filled with alligators; and in the deep snows of the Canadian North, where, as he read, a man could freeze to death in two minutes flat, if he stands outside on a street in a town named Winnapeg-Manitoba, in November and December and January and February, when the temperature in fifty-three degrees below zero; and he knows that the FBI and the RCMP ees enforce the Law carrying guns; and he wonders why the authorities, the Commissioner of Police and the Solicitor-General and the Governor of this Island, in charge of his personal safety, balk against arming a man like him; arming him against the violence of all “these blasted criminals” hiding in cane fields, in his Village, in his jurisdiction, trampling the blasted trash a man have to do his business on.
So, Sargeant carries only a truncheon. It is the weapon to protect him from criminals. It is officially issued by the Police Force. It is made out of local wood. Mahogany, perhaps; or lignum vitae. But, in addition, privately, and secretly, Sargeant carries a bull-pistle, a whip made from the cured penis of a Zeebu bull, soaked in water and linseed oil; hidden in a long narrow side pocket custom-made into his trousers.
Tonight, he hears the dried trash swishing in the canes that surround him like the sea; and the crushing sound of the criminal’s footsteps, magnified on the cane trash, at the bottom of the field, like a carpet six inches thick; and on this carpet of cane trash, Sargeant himself, on a slow night, would take a woman, Gertrude, Miss Mary-Mathilda’s maid, more often than others, and would lie; and then lie-down on her belly; and turn over on his back, and dream; and then when he has had his orgasm, which he does not stifle but announces with a “Jesus Christ!” because the field is vast, and he can be loud and still no one would hear his ecstasy; he would then roll over, putting the woman, Gertrude, more often than others, on his belly, and look past her head, right at the skies, and start to count the stars, identify for her the constellations, Orion, the Big Dipper, Neptune, constellations he read in a book his daughter, Ruby, sent to him from Brooklyn, the only ones he memorized; and actually identify the stars he counted, because the sky was dark blue and the stars were like emeralds. But now, tonight, the sky is black and there are no stars. The noise of the criminal’s footsteps on the trash, in the middle of the field, comes closer to him; and makes him grip his truncheon, tighten its leather strap, until he can feel the pain in his fingers. The strap is twisted tight round his right fist, perfect for the delivery of a quick, deadly blow.
He grips his searchlight. It is almost two feet long, issued specially to sargeants and detectives tracking
He is trained as a detective, to look and to behave brave, even when he is scared. Still, Sargeant does not like this darkness. It frightens him.
Many nights, moving along the narrow track that separates the North Field from the South Field, he would pause often, imagining that he hears the sound of a man moving in the canes, trampling the dried trash; and this would make him grip his truncheon round its thick brown girth, its leather strap wrapped tight round his fingers, as he grips it now; and his body would become tense as steel; and so, stunted by fear, he would listen to the swishing sounds of footsteps deep within the vast, dark bowels of the thick cane fields, swaying in the South Field and the North Field; wondering all the time how he will apprehend this man who intrudes upon his peace, and who delays the pause for refreshment at the rum shop, for the shot glass of Mount Gay Rum whose taste is so enticing.
Sargeant knows about Amurca and Canada from magazines of those countries that carry stories of murders and “’vestigations” by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the FBI ; and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the RCMP ees; in the swallowing swamps of Southern Florida filled with alligators; and in the deep snows of the Canadian North, where, as he read, a man could freeze to death in two minutes flat, if he stands outside on a street in a town named Winnapeg-Manitoba, in November and December and January and February, when the temperature in fifty-three degrees below zero; and he knows that the FBI and the RCMP ees enforce the Law carrying guns; and he wonders why the authorities, the Commissioner of Police and the Solicitor-General and the Governor of this Island, in charge of his personal safety, balk against arming a man like him; arming him against the violence of all “these blasted criminals” hiding in cane fields, in his Village, in his jurisdiction, trampling the blasted trash a man have to do his business on.
So, Sargeant carries only a truncheon. It is the weapon to protect him from criminals. It is officially issued by the Police Force. It is made out of local wood. Mahogany, perhaps; or lignum vitae. But, in addition, privately, and secretly, Sargeant carries a bull-pistle, a whip made from the cured penis of a Zeebu bull, soaked in water and linseed oil; hidden in a long narrow side pocket custom-made into his trousers.
Tonight, he hears the dried trash swishing in the canes that surround him like the sea; and the crushing sound of the criminal’s footsteps, magnified on the cane trash, at the bottom of the field, like a carpet six inches thick; and on this carpet of cane trash, Sargeant himself, on a slow night, would take a woman, Gertrude, Miss Mary-Mathilda’s maid, more often than others, and would lie; and then lie-down on her belly; and turn over on his back, and dream; and then when he has had his orgasm, which he does not stifle but announces with a “Jesus Christ!” because the field is vast, and he can be loud and still no one would hear his ecstasy; he would then roll over, putting the woman, Gertrude, more often than others, on his belly, and look past her head, right at the skies, and start to count the stars, identify for her the constellations, Orion, the Big Dipper, Neptune, constellations he read in a book his daughter, Ruby, sent to him from Brooklyn, the only ones he memorized; and actually identify the stars he counted, because the sky was dark blue and the stars were like emeralds. But now, tonight, the sky is black and there are no stars. The noise of the criminal’s footsteps on the trash, in the middle of the field, comes closer to him; and makes him grip his truncheon, tighten its leather strap, until he can feel the pain in his fingers. The strap is twisted tight round his right fist, perfect for the delivery of a quick, deadly blow.
He grips his searchlight. It is almost two feet long, issued specially to sargeants and detectives tracking
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