As Flies to Whatless Boys Read online

  Mr. Johnston went on talking, me sitting there struggling hard not to listen. Not to hear him. Because I’d heard enough for the time being. I’d heard enough already.

  But it couldn’t’ve been more than a few minutes. Because next thing I realised Mr. Johnston was excusing heself. Saying he regretted having to cut our meeting short—

  Unfortunately, he says, I’m already late for an appointment with Governor McLeod.

  Papee and Mr. Whitechurch thanked him for all the trouble he’d taken on the Society’s behalf.

  Nonsense, he says. I’m paid quite handsomely for such trifles!

  And upon saying good-bye he offered us still another kindness. A gesture that managed to lift even my own distressed spirits a moment. Mr. Johnston extended an invitation to both our families—all the Tuckers and the Whitechurches together—to come round to Samaan’s Repos one evening soon for cocktails and dinner. He’d check with Heather to find out which evening suited her, and he’d send word.

  Yet my spirits plummeted just as quick with Papee’s enthusiastic response—

  We’ll raise a glass or two to our bon voyage. Since surely by then we’ll be all set to sail off with Mr. Etzler!

  ___________________

  But after a week we still hadn’t dined at Samaan’s Repos. I still hadn’t heard a word about Marguerite neither. Only that the Whitechurches were staying with a French family named de Boissiere, amongst the earliest and most prominent settlers on the island. They lived at the Champs Elysées Estate, in a place called Maraval Valley. Located, far as I could tell, a good distance outside town.

  For the whole of that exhausting week Papee and me, together with a half-dozen other men, spent our days struggling to refloat the submerged Satellite. Captain Damphier arguing from the start that the barge onto which he’d been ordered to off-load the two-ton crate was inadequate to keep it afloat. Captain Maynard—who’d chartered the barge on Etzler’s orders—saying the same thing. Yet Mr. Etzler had insisted that his numbers proved a barge of those dimensions, with that specific buoyancy-coefficient, was adequate to transport three of he Satellites.

  After securing the crate to the gunwales of the undersized barge, Captain Maynard had the good sense to tow it behind the Miss Bee to the eastern corner of the bay. Just to the west of the bocas of St. Anns River. A spot where the current deposited a substantial mound of mud and sediment. And in this shallow place, fifty yards from shore, he’d left the barge anchored overnight. Till he received further instructions.

  By the following morning both barge and Satellite had sunk to the marshy bottom. With the upper few feet of the crate still visible above the ripples, waterline at high tide neatly bisecting the word SATELLITE cross its middle.

  Our group of rescuers consisted of the same men who’d shown up for the captain’s burial (excepting Mr. Carr, who’d returned to Chaguabarriga alone). Every morning we gathered at Park Street, in the home Mr. Etzler had rented for heself and he wife, cross the street from the Stollmeyers’ residence. And every morning Mr. Etzler presented us with some new strategy he’d thought up overnight to accomplish the task. As though Mr. Etzler enjoyed the challenge this predicament had landed atop he head. For which, it goes without saying, he heaped all the blame on Captain Maynard and Captain Damphier. And the more frustrated we became in we various attempts to refloat the sunken machine—reporting back to Mr. Etzler at meetings held in his parlour each evening—the greater became our leader’s enthusiasm. The more outlandish his instructions.

  Son, from the first moment Mr. Etzler and Mr. Stollmeyer had set foot in Port-Spain, they’d launched a veritable blitzkrieg on the island’s wealthy populace. Attempting to win them over to the cause of the TES and TTC, in addition to they railroad company. And yet—far as any of us knew—not a once during that week did either gentleman make the five-minute walk down to the wharf to take a look at the half-sunk Satellite for theyself.

  It was Captain Maynard who eventually devised a sensible strategy. He moored the Miss Bee parallel to the sunken barge, and utilising a wench-and-pulley rigged through the boom of his mainsail, he hoisted the unfastened Satellite off the bottom. Now we watched it rising slowly into the air, deluge of rust-red water sifting out though the cracks between the boards. A thick cloud forming in the water round us, like a softly breathing patch of tomato soup.

  Captain Maynard then set the crate down on another barge, this one adequate to float the load. And utilising his pulleys and hand-wench—secured this time to a furry casuarina standing on the shore itself—the sunken barge was dragged at high water as far up onto the bank as possible. When the tide receded we bailed it out and floated it easy enough.

  ___________________

  Whilst all of this strenuous Satellite-rescuing activity was taking place, several hostile arguments erupted between Mr. Etzler and his most disgruntled members. These pioneers demanding that he lay down straightway for they return voyage to England. Meanwhile they insisted that he pay for all they food and lodging for however long we remain shipwrecked up this stinking arsehole of Port-Spain! All they pleas, to be sure, falling on deaf ears. Mr. Etzler refusing even to grant them an audience. And only after busting down the door of he house on Park Street—at knifepoint, according to rumor—were they able to talk to him a-tall.

  A handful of these same members had taken up residence at Le Palais Cramoisi, the most luxurious boardinghouse in town, located on Kings Street. There they treated theyself to lavish meals and drink, all on Mr. Etzler’s chit. Of course, when payment was not forthcoming they were promptly tossed out into the street. One member, a fancy gardener named Mr. Bisbeal—after three days of drunken, riotous behaviour—arrested and thrown in prison. He then demanded that Mr. Etzler pay all he fines and bail. Mr. Etzler informing the police constable that never before in his life had he heard of any such Monsieur Imbécile.

  Hardly had the TES arrived in Trinidad a week when three other prominent members—Mr. Cooper, Mr. Perry, and Mr. Whidden—announced they were severing all ties with Etzler’s Society. Not-for-nothing would they consider going out to that mosquito-infested morass at Chaguabarriga only to drink swamp-water and eat iguana-stew! Mr. Whidden, a trained chemist, set sail with his wife and children on a ship bound for New Orleans. Despite Mr. Etzler’s efforts to confiscate they luggage and have the family arrested before they went aboard.

  But Mr. Perry and Mr. Cooper had no intention of leaving Port-Spain. They found lucrative employment in town. Mr. Cooper engaging heself to a local firm as a professional cooper (according to Mr. Etzler the first occupation to pop into his tiny brain). Mr. Perry, on the other hand—though he’d contracted heself to the TES as a blacksmith—found employment at an engineering firm. According to his own boasts, at a salary of eighteen dollars a week, plus a horse to ride upon. At this news in particular Mr. Etzler fumed. He vowed that before it was too late he’d force Perry to refund the Society every farthing for his passage out—

  If zis nincompoop is an engineer, he grumbled, zen I am a zebra! Unt whatever salary zey do pay him is zat much huv our own money srown away on concupines unt rum!

  ___________________

  In addition to Mr. Etzler and Mr. Stollmeyer, the group who’d signed up to go to Chaguabarriga consisted of eleven men. There were also three women and five children, including Mr. Burden’s nephew, Billy Sharp. Because for these women and children the option of remaining behind in Port-Spain did not exist. By this time they were all but penniless.

  Concerning our impending departure I could find only three minor consolations: that the pioneers would have a proper roof over we heads, and proper food, thanks to the intervention of Mr. Johnston; that our departure had been postponed five additional days, so we could spend Christmas with friends and families in Port-Spain; finally—and most important of all so far as I was concerned—that our much-delayed invitation to dine at Samaan’s Repos, all the Tuckers and Whitechurches together, had been changed to a Christmas dinner. In addition to we
bon voyage.

  At last, after waiting almost three weeks, I’d be reunited with Marguerite. If only for a single night.

  Much to everybody’s surprise Mr. Etzler and Mr. Stollmeyer readily agreed to the five-day delay. Without a word of protest. There was even some talk of postponing our departure further—till after Old Year’s night—but few in the group could restrain they excitement to get to Chaguabarriga for so long.

  Until such time as our group would be ready to depart the Tucker clan had taken in Mr. and Mrs. Wood, together with they three young daughters. If not they’d’ve been forced to live in the street. Mary and Amelia hardly able to contain they disappointment at having to give up they new beds, together with the magic of the mosquito nets—for the time being they spread blankets on the floor in the parlour, whilst the entire Wood clan occupied they room. And in any case Mary and Amelia were so excited to return to school after two years’ absence—they’d been accepted into St. Joseph’s Convent, the Catholic girls’ school—that they scarcely said a word. Georgina, who’d been enterprising enough to find employment at a bookseller, had the smallest bedroom of the Tucker home all to sheself. Of course, from that first evening we’d arrived at the little house, Papee and I had shifted aside the dining table on the back porch. We’d strung up a hammock for me to sleep in for the time being. Till we’d be ready to go.

  The final decision, agreed to by general vote at a meeting held in Mr. Etzler’s parlour, was to set sail early on the morning of Boxing Day.

  7th Message

  5/11/10

  dear mr robot:

  i only got 1 ting to tell u, so LISTEN GOOD: u best haul u tail & go back home to new york or wherever is de francin place in amerika u comes from, cause u say u cant take it no more, u goin mad, all u want 2 do is copy out a few copies 2 make u research 4 dis book u say u writing bout dis crazyass man ETZLER, but u cant do it, u just cant do it, u done try everyting & every scheme is scheme u could tink of & plenty bullying & more bullying & noting work, noting a-tall, 3 months now u trying & STILL no photocopies, & u say how dis place t’dad is de turd-world & we is all backwards living here dat we dont know noting bout noting a-tall, but i could only tell u DIS mr robot: TENEGRITY & IMPETUOSITY is what we got aplenty here in t’dad dat u never bounce up de likes of noting like DAT before in amerika, cause rules is rules & laws is laws & when i say NO photocopies allow inside de t&t national archive i means NONE, no matter who u is & what tuti u jooking even if it is de director MISS RAMSOL OWN, & if u cant write out u notes wid pencil & paper like everybody else den 2 francin bad 4 u mr robot!!!

  & i could tell u someting else: i got a good mind to tell my brothers how u do, cause if raj and lil buddha only FIND OUT would be proper hell to pay, i could tell u dat mr robot, how u did try & subjuice me only to gain access to dis machine, & how u succeed sure enough but ONLY in de subjuicing part, & not de photocopies part a-tall a-tall, & soon enough 2 of we was jooking down de place like no tomorrow & i could only admit how much i was loving it 2, but den mr robot U FIND OUT sure enough how SWEET is trini-east-indian-tuti-in-trut, & nex ting U CANT GET ENOUGH NEITHER, same as me, & u say 1 ting 4 sure dey aint got NOTING like DAT in amerika, dat east-indian-t’dad-tuti-ting, & soon as we start to jooking down de place like dat u forget every scheme u was scheming & bullying u was bullying to try to get u hands pon dis xerox machine, & all u want is jook jook & nex jook again every night 2 of we shouting down de place like wild pusscats, & nex ting like u forget everyting else, book-writing & ETZLER & all de rest, & only jook is jook u want to be jooking so sweet every night same as me, but now u say u done had enough, u OVERSATURATE & cant take it no more, & if u cant copy out u copies u give up and goin back home 2 amerika, & i say in trut mr robot dat would be very sad 4 me & i got a good mind 2 tell my brothers lil buddah and raj how u do

  cordial,

  miss ramsol

  director, t&tna

  ps u say u dont want to see me never again (less u could make u copies) but if u change u mind u could meet me at pelo round 9 same as usual

  pss & i would make sure 2 be wearing dem dental-floss panties u love & LOOK how many articles i have waiting 4 u at de frontdesk

  Captain’s Death Linked to In salubrious Estate Property

  Trinidad Guardian, 4 December 1845

  The Guardian reported yesterday on the death of Captain John Taylor. As has now been revealed the captain arrived in our colony three months ago as an agent of the Tropical Emigration Society, under the auspices of Mr. J.A. Etzler. The exact cause of death, as provided by Mr. Etzler himself, was ‘the direct result of drinking three coconut waters, whilst in a state of extreme agitation and exhaustion.’ This had occurred several hours earlier at Chaguabarriga Estate, located on our north coast, where the captain was stationed. Together with his fellow agent and companion, Mr. Carr, and a handful of peons, the two men had undertaken the strenuous labours of clearing several acres of brushwood, and attempting to drain off the pestilential waters from a low-lying section of the estate, working daily beneath the sun for twelve hours at a stretch. This work they had persisted in for nearly a fortnight. To quench his thirst the captain drank continuously of the only water available on the estate, that taken from the swamp itself, and the aforementioned coconuts. For his sustenance, rather than adhering to a strict vegetable diet, as did Mr. Carr, the captain prided himself in partaking of animal food cooked by the peons, principally grilled iguana and stews of the indigenous bush rat known as aguti.

  Following his grueling work sessions Captain Taylor insisted upon retiring to the rotted-out hulk of a schooner washed up onto the beach, and in this entirely unventilated place, he sought shelter. Mr. Carr made his own camp beneath a tarp nearby. It was apparently so hot inside the schooner by the end of a day’s baking that the captain was able to brew his ginger tea without resort to a fire. For the previous several days he had suffered from nightly bouts of fever. Mr. Carr would discover him sequestered in his secret abode, huddled under an old blanket, shivering, his skin stone-cold to the touch despite the oppressive heat. For these conditions Mr. Carr attempted to treat his companion from his box of homeopathic pills, the captain insisting solely upon his seaman’s remedies. According to Mr. Etzler, ‘Aught other than a jigger or three of the devil’s own strong rum. Of this fine medicine he treated himself in ample avail!’ Mr. Etzler concluded the interview in saying: ‘Clearly the captain’s death can be blamed on none other than himself. For after such selfish, intemperate, and irresponsible behaviour, it’s a great wonder the foolish old billy goat lasted as long as he did!’

  For the greater part of his life Captain Taylor had commandeered every manner of vessel sailing between London and the South Pacific. He was renowned amongst his fellow seamen as an officer of utmost capacity and experience. This was his first visit to the West Indies. The captain died at age 72, and he is survived by a wife and nine children, all residing in the Eastcheap district of London.

  Death of Captain Taylor

  POS Gazette, 3 December 1845

  Chief of Police Derek Adderly boarded the newly arrived Rosalind early this morning so as to investigate the death of Captain Taylor, who had apparently arrived to this island several months ago, and had gone aboard late last night. The Gazette interviewed Captain Damphier, commander of the Rosalind: ‘Captain Taylor came aboard my vessel at some point during the wee hours, without my knowledge or consent.’ Indeed, Captain Damphier was only made aware of his presence aboard at approximately 3 AM when—in response to a cry of alarm sounded by one of his sailors—he rushed from his cabin to the aft-deck. There he discovered two of his passengers, Mr. Etzler and Mr. Stollmeyer, in the final stages of their attempt to dispose of Captain Taylor’s body in the waters of the bay. They had tied him up in a large canvas sack which, curiously enough, they intended to weigh down with a valuable teapot and a large tureen of solid silver.

  Captain Damphier made swift work of arresting the two men, and of confiscating the aforementioned
articles of silver. He held Mr. Etzler and Mr. Stollmeyer shackled wrist-to-wrist around his mainmast, until early this morning when he sent for the chief of police. The Rosalind, however, was officially still at sea (the ship hadn’t been cleared, her landing papers remaining unfiled), in which case Constable Adderly, as he informed Captain Damphier directly upon arrival, held no jurisdiction.

  Nonetheless Captain Damphier and the police chief interviewed a number of passengers, including Mr. Tucker, who vouchsafed that Captain Taylor had died before his eyes of natural causes. Written statements to this effect were taken down. Captain Damphier was admittedly pleased as punch to brush his hands of the entire sordid affair. He was anxious to proceed with the details of clearing his ship and seeing his passengers safely ashore. Indeed, he was just preparing to do so when five other passengers stepped forward: two presented Captain Damphier with receipts of purchase—officially signed and stamped by Mr. Etzler—for the silver teapot, and the three others for the valuable tureen. These five passengers claimed to have paid for the articles in full, but had yet to collect from Mr. Etzler, and now all riotously claimed ownership.

  Advertisement from the back pages of the London Guardian, microfiche, 15 September 1845:

  THE

  TRINIDAD

  GREAT EASTERN

  AND

  SOUTH-WESTERN RAILWAY,