As Flies to Whatless Boys Read online

  i find a LETTER mr robot dat write out by must be you OWN great-great-gran-paadoo MR WILLIAM SANGER TUCKER after he did arrive here in t’dad & write back 2 englan 2 de editor of dat same journal address 2 he FRIEND POWELL, cause dat is how de editor name, & dis letter is publish in de journal 2 cause from what i could tell just scanning it lil bit dis letter describe in full details bout some estate up pon de north coast wid some bigass long name call CHAGUABARRIGA or someting so, dat it was sounding lil bit familiar 2 me in trut but i cant remember where i see dis name be4, but i say it MUST be de place where dis man ETZLER go wid all he english people and u family 2? cause why else would it be publish in dat journal like dat? & dis letter is saying how de estate was & what animals dey got in de forest & fish in de sea & what crops dey plant, all kinda peas & plantains & groun-provisions & everyting else like dat u could want 2 know right here in dis same letter!!!

  so mr robot i cant WAIT 2 show it 2 u & i would be holding it PERSONAL in my office at de back of de archives, cause dis is surely de most important & exciting piece of news & HISTORICAL ARTIFAC u find yet 4 u research pon u family here in t’dad, & i want to see de look pon u face when u read it

  cordial,

  miss ramsol

  director, t&tna

  ps i would be holding dis photocopy 4 u in my back office just as i say & wearing my dental-floss panties 4 u & me 2 celebrate 2gether 2!!!

  II

  On Land

  2 December 1845

  7

  Arrival

  Under the late afternoon sun the sea had already changed colour. From that sombre slate of open water, it had turned a cripsy beryllium-blue. In the glaring distance gulls and raucous kingfishers went about they business. Awkward pelicans dropped out the sky in cannonball-splashes. The Rosalind hugging tight to the island’s rugged north coast, a ridge of serrated mountains rising above we heads. Sailing alarmingly close to rock-shorn cliffs, past jagged inlets and wider, beach-encrusted bays. They names pronounced aloud for us from a dog-eared seaman’s chart by Captain Damphier—Madamas, Chaguabarriga, Morne Poui, Blanchisseuse, Macqueripe.

  Out from crevices between the rocks graceful coconut palms sprouted, as if in boldface defiance to gravity’s laws. Dense tropical forest lined the promontories like an animal’s pelt, right the way up to the loftiest peaks. Now the ship rounded Corozal Point, when all-at-once the three teeth of the Dragon’s Mouth jutted up before us—Monos, Huevos, Chacachacare. Beyond these three steppingstones, in the hazy distance, the mountains of Venezuela. Highest peaks lost amongst the clouds.

  The ship sailed through the Boca de Monos, past Scotland Bay to port, the water changing colour again to a murky emerald-green. As we entered the Gulf of Paria—fed, miles away on the South American mainland, by the alluvial flush of the River Orinoko. Yet hardly had we time to glance round again when the imposing structure of Fort San Andrés stood glowering at us, cannons mounted round the periphery above like sawed-off wagon spokes. And stretching out into the bay farther still—a giant’s great stone finger—the mole of Kings Wharf.

  The Rosalind creaked her way round it. Slipping into a quiet, almost hidden bay. Suddenly alive with ferries, white-sailed sloops, rowing pirogues. All scuttling amongst the larger vessels at anchor here. And as the sun dropped behind the mountains of the Northern Range, those same mountains we’d first perceived from out at sea on the opposite side of the island—opposite side of the world it seemed—now we got we first ever sightings of our destination: this modern capital of the colony, crown of the West Indies, the town of Port-Spain.

  But hardly was it more than a glimpse. A fleeting impression. Cut off by the velvet curtain of night. The surrounding hills closing in, one crowded cluster after the next, as if in ordered succession. They tumbled down atop the town—Laventille, Belmont, Maraval, Montserrat. Sails aflutter, in a shock of total darkness, Captain Damphier at last issued he command, sailors scrambling like ghosts towards the bow. And presently we heard a splash followed by a rumble of rusty chain so foreign to our ears, we couldn’t scarcely identify it.

  Much to our regret customs officials could not be contacted to clear the ship till morning. Yet the majority of us stood transfixed before the rail. For still another hour. Staring away at nothing. Nothing more than the afterimage of a pasteboard town fading fast from out our eyes. Because all that remained were its diverse scents—wet earth & cooksmoke & baking pitch & putrefying morass. All subdued by the heavy dampness of night. Nothing but a half-dozen hucksters’ flambeaux reflecting at us in wavering lines cross the still water.

  The weary travellers succumbing at last to the exhaustion of our long day. Wandering below for a subdued and surprisingly haphazard evening meal, most of us still too emotionally wrung even to eat. And after draining a quick cup of cool water, we descended below to our cabins. Determined to rest up for the event of going ashore in the morning—first time we’d set foot on solid ground in nearly seven weeks.

  The Tucker clan snoring-way in a matter of minutes. All of us excepting me. Because I lay there in my bunk, head resting atop my folded arms, half-asleep. Drifting again in my familiar memoryspace. My daydream night-place.

  The sky already turning a faint purple as I arrived back to our East End borough from Knightsbridge, my heart still beating fast. Skin still crawling like a line of batchacks up my spine. Completely exhausted. Having followed the Whitechurches home after they meeting, in secret, just as I had planned.

  And after hiding in the shadow of a horse chestnut tree for still another half-hour, a candle had shone in a second-story window. The curtains were swept aside, and Marguerite appeared. Son, I went to her. Just as I’d intended—at least I made my most valiant try. Moreover I’d managed, somehow—without a single word, written nor spoken neither—somehow I’d convinced Marguerite to forego her steadfast convictions for the sake of love.

  She’d agreed to come with me—with us—to Trinidad!

  As I approached my own basement home I listened to Dyers’ clocktower sounding four times in the distance. I descended from the street. Only to find my family assembled round our kitchen table, even at this hour. And not for breakfast neither. All still wearing they nightdresses.

  My family sat silent, blankfaced, candle flaring up in they midst.

  I didn’t know what to think. Where-the-arse to carry myself. So after a pause I took a seat on one of the benches too, between Georgina and Mary.

  Finally Papee spoke up. Addressing nobody in particular—

  No way we can afford six passages, he says. Not six.

  Another minute of silence. Now it was Mary who spoke—

  But Amelia, she says, would travel at half-fare, wouldn’t she?

  Doesn’t matter, Mum answers. We couldn’t afford five-n’-a-half passages either.

  She looked at Papee—

  Not after purchasing a full share in the Society for each of us. Even Amelia! Shares your father believed would guarantee his delegation as Mr. Etzler’s agent. In which case we’d’ve all travelled to Trinidad at the Society’s expense.

  Papee interrupted—

  I’d hoped that after my efforts on the Satellite with Mr. Frank . . .

  But his voice broke off.

  Mum continued—

  Now, not only are we stuck here in London, we’ve no reserve.

  Another minute of silence. It was Mary who spoke—

  Couldn’t we sell off our shares of the TES then, n’ pay for our passages that way?

  No one would buy them, Papee answers. The entire Society’s overinscribed. TTC as well. Everybody scrambling to off-load. Our shares, at the moment in time, are all but worthless.

  Hopeless, Mum says, as though she’s correcting him. As though she’s marking down the final full stop at the end of the sentence. End of discussion.

  I didn’t know what to think. How to comprehend this piece of news: now that Marguerite had decided, finally, to come with us to Trinidad, it seemed that my family—I—wasn’t go
ing noplace a-tall.

  I rose up to my feet, slow, leaning forward onto my hands to steady myself. Feeling the wood pressing up soft and warm through my handpalms. All-in-a-sudden my head spun. My vision went blurry. I fought to find a focus, looking round at the faces of my family, one-by-one.

  Then I found my voice. Or it found me—

  Fuck Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, I say.

  Swallowing—

  What are you people talking about?

  All-in-a-sudden I heard a loud rapping on both our latched-back cabin doors together. Sitting up so startled I bounced my head against the ceiling, hard. For a moment I didn’t know where I was. Then I recognised Mr. Whitechurch’s voice.

  Mr. Carr, he was saying, n’ Captain Taylor!

  I heard Papee—

  Whom?

  Why, Mr. Etzler’s two agents—Carr n’ Captain Taylor!

  Whereabouts? Papee asks.

  Whereabouts, my darling William? Whereabouts? Why—aboard ship—that’s where! I do mean here, William. Been parleying with Etzler, Stollmeyer n’ me these past two hours together!

  Papee paused a long minute. Sussing all this out—

  Well isn’t that grand! he says at last, his voice sleepy still, still subdued.

  Grand indeed! says Mr. Whitechurch. Etzler’s called for an assembly of the entire Society. Every member aboard ship. Including the wives n’ children. Even at this late hour.

  He paused to swallow a breath—

  I do mean now, William!

  And presently Mr. Whitechurch shoved his head inside we own cabin. Rattling the door handle, startling us, his voice suddenly booming—

  Up up up my young lad n’ lassies. We’ve all of us a jolly congress to attend!

  ___________________

  The night, which had earlier felt so thick and obscure, was now considerably brighter. Stars swept the sky. A three-quarters moon had positioned itself above the ship’s mast. Pitch-oil lamps were dispatched, and the thirty-seven pioneers assembled weself on the third-class deck. Some already wearing they tropical costumes—canvas jerseys and trousers, tall boots and wide-brimmed straw hats—prepared for a moonlit trek into the rainforest. Others, like my own family, still wearing we tatty nightdresses. Feet bare against the deck’s salty, still-warm boards. Mum with her nightrobe wrapped round sheself and Mary both, against the damp of the tropical night. The Tucker clan taking our place behind the others, Papee hoisting Amelia atop he shoulders to see over they heads. Moffie perched in turn atop my sister’s back.

  With me standing there pressing up onto my toetips, looking round for Marguerite. Son, I couldn’t find her not-for-nothing. Neither Marguerite nor she aunt. And now I wondered if Mr. Whitechurch, in all his excitement, had neglected to inform the members of he own family about the meeting.

  After a couple minutes Papee put Amelia down. He took hold of her hand and led her to the front of the crowd, crouching to one knee beside her. I was just about to turn and leave—having decided to go rouse out Marguerite myself—when I was stopped short by the arrival of our two leaders. Both they faces, above they freshly groomed beards, a reflection of the serious business at hand. They made they way through the crowd, ascending to the top of the Satellite’s crate. Followed by a pair of unfamiliars—because none of us had seen these latter two before. Both filthy and scruffily dressed, olive-hued stains in the pits of they arms when they raised them up. Both wearing five-day-old beards—the one blond, other gray. Both shockingly red-faced—either burnt by the sun, or they’d just stepped from out the local pub. Or whateverelse went for such establishments in this place. The younger and taller of the two wearing a battered straw hat—so now I couldn’t help but recall Mr. Etzler’s own costume for Savvy—the gray-bearded one with a threadbare seaman’s cap.

  And son, when the breeze shifted in our direction, we took in they rough scents.

  The fact is these two looked rather like vagrants. Even to us—unwashed, ungroomed seafarers—the majority not having partaken of a proper scrubbing in over a month.

  Mr. Etzler first to address the crowd. With the three taller men standing behind him, peering at us awkward overtop he head—

  Ladies unt gentlemen, he says. Fellow members huv zee Tropical Emigration Society! It gives me great pleasure to introduce our two agents—Mr. Carr unt zee Captain Taylor!

  Here, with an ample gesture of his upraised arm, jacket unbuttoned to reveal his crimson vest, Mr. Etzler indicated the two men.

  He continued—

  For zee past sree months zey haff prepared for our arrival. Unt zee wonderful news, my good ladies unt gentlemen, is zat our Society is now in possession huv a home in zee tropics! Zee exact details huv which my comrade, Mr. Stollmeyer, will now inform you in full!

  A second burst of applause followed. Mr. Stollmeyer stepping forward, chest inflated, smartly groomed beard tussled by the breeze. Mr. Etzler retreating behind his back.

  He cleared his throat—

  Let me begin with a bit of background, Mr. Stollmeyer says.

  The crowd letting loose a subdued groan. As we prepared weself for a lengthy—if not painfully tedious—preamble.

  Mr. Stollmeyer explained how our agents had been sent out from England to petition from the Trinidad government a parcel of freehold land. It was understood that such parcels were available to enterprising Englishmen simply upon the asking.

  Mr. Stollmeyer’s voice changed tone—

  Ladies n’ gentlemen, he says. Upon these and other related matters all of us were quite blatantly misled. That is to say, we were openly, and somewhat underhandedly, deceived.

  Here a general murmur of disappointment issued forth from the crowd. Laced with the first few frightened gasps.

  Mr. Stollmeyer raised up his hands, open-palmed in the manner of an itinerant preacher, by this gesture quieting us down.

  He explained how our two industrious agents, upon landing here in Trinidad, had petitioned a meeting with the Director of the Colonial Office, a certain Mr. Reginald Johnston. This gentleman only confirming for our agents what they’d already determined for theyself aboard ship, simply by studying the map: that no tracts of free government land remained available for emigrants. Be they Englishmen, or any nationality a-tall.

  Again a general grumble of disappoint. Again Mr. Stollmeyer raised up his hands.

  He explained how our diligent agents, undeterred by such formidable news, decided to rent a pair of donkeys. Upon these animals to cross the entirety of the island to its farmost eastern shore. Where they were informed land was selling cheap. This trip—passing through wild savannah and coarse jungle—was to have taken a day or two. Yet it wound up consuming more than a week—serving no purpose whatsoever, other than a waste of valuable time!

  After a pause, during which the crowd again expressed we disappointment, Mr. Stollmeyer continued—

  Our good agents were not able to find a single estate within range of their meagre purses. They then proceeded . . .

  Here Captain Taylor stepped forward. Boldface so. Much to everybody’s surprise. He cut Mr. Stollmeyer off in midsentence—

  Mr. Docket n’ Miss Bly, he says.

  Until this point neither the captain nor Mr. Carr had dared interrupt our leader’s impassioned speech. Now, somewhat taken aback, Mr. Stollmeyer turned to the captain—

  To whom are you referring? he asks, his voice subdued a half-notch.

  Why, our two arses, the captain says, smiling peculiar. You disremembered to remark that they names ’us Mr. Docket n’ Miss Bly!

  Visibly irritated by this intrusion—since he no doubt considered these details irrelevant—Mr. Stollmeyer stared at the captain a few more seconds. He turned to his audience again, taking up his extended oration.

  Mr. Stollmeyer explained how, at this point in they quest, the agents returned to Port-Spain. They’d now determined that the most efficient means of exploring the island would be to charter a small vessel and guide. Since surely they’d make swifter progr
ess should they continue they explorations by sea. A sloop was subsequently chartered . . .

  Captain Taylor interrupted again—

  Miss Bee, he says.

  Mr. Stollmeyer paused, turning once more—

  Thank you, Captain, he says. I believe you’ve already told us the names of your bloody arses!

  The captain blinked. As though to fend off the assault of Mr. Stollmeyer’s voice—

  The sloop, he says, ’us called the Miss Bee. You neglected to mention how she ’us named.

  After another pause Mr. Stollmeyer turned and continued. His tone betraying his own vexation—

  On a sloop named the Miss Bee, our diligent agents set out upon their daily expeditions . . .

  The captain interrupted again—

  May-nard, he says, this word coming out in a distinct hiccup.

  Mr. Stollmeyer looked him in the face—

  What is it now, Captain?

  The sloop, he answers, ’us under the charge of Cap’n May-nard—again the hiccup.

  Mr. Stollmeyer went on—

  Having surrendered the faithful Mr. Docket n’ Miss Bly. And embarking upon a sloop called the Miss Bee, under charge of a certain Captain Maynard, our good agents now set forth upon their daily seafaring expeditions.

  Mr. Stollmeyer settled into his previous ramble. He explained how our agents then proceeded inland from they various coastal landings to examine still other properties. Travelling farther and farther from the capital. First along the island’s west coast, as far south as the pitchlake at La Brea. Then the rugged north coast—along which, Mr. Stollmeyer informed us—we had travelled ourselves this very morning aboard our own Rosalind.

  Yet every expedition led only to bitter disappointment! With the pioneers—meaning ourselves—due to arrive at any moment, the agents began to fear that no suitable property might be procured in time. Indeed, it appeared that the first lot of eager pioneers—meaning us—would soon disembark in Trinidad only to find ourselves completely and utterly homeless!