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WITH A BRANCH TO THE HARBOUR OF

  PORT-SPAIN

  ______________________________________

  INITIAL DEPOSIT £50 PER SHARE

  PROVISIONAL COMMITTEE:

  GENERAL DIRECTOR & CONSULTING ENGINEER,

  J.A. Etzler, Esq.

  ASSOCIATE DIRECTOR & SECRETARY,

  C.F. Stollmeyer, Esq.

  BANKERS,

  COMMERCIAL BANK OF LONDON

  OFFICES OF THE COMPANY: No. 29 Strand

  THE ISLAND OF TRINIDAD, renowned for its fertility, the richness of its productions, salubrity and elasticity of its luxuriant climate, is about to partake of the prodigious advantages of Railway Communication, which all of its agricultural, commercial, and maritime circumstances so admirably demand.

  A most enterprising Company in London under the above Title offers to construct, entirely at its own expense, a Railway through localities judiciously selected for their proximity to Ports, Towns, and Cultivated Estates, presenting neither engineering difficulties nor entailing any serious outlay of Capital. There is little doubt but that the proposed Line will be enthusiastically embraced by the public—both in Trinidad and here in Britain—inasmuch as it embraces features of a super-eminent practical utility. Of which the following details wholly exemplify: —

  The Railway shall commence at the harbour of Port-Spain, the capital of the island on the North-Western coast, running through various towns and districts to Arima in the East, thence to San Fernando in the South. The island of Trinidad contains 2,400 square miles, or 1,536,000 square acres, affording great scope for the introduction of Railway Communication to this Richest and Most Fertile of all West Indian Colonies.

  It is the intention of the Company to provide for the colonists the increased advantages of the Wooden Railway, which has been so thoroughly tested by our esteemed engineers in the neighbourhood of London. And which, in point of economy, comfort, durability, rapidity, and safety, must be apparent to any person who has given the subject consideration. More especially so in Trinidad, where timber in inexhaustible quantities—adopted not only for our Rails, but other purposes as well—may be obtained at trifling or no expense whatever.

  The important question connected with this subject, however, is the durability of the material of which our Rails shall be composed. Beech Wood has been chosen in England, but Trinidad presents ever-exclusive advantages, since many other kinds of Woods are met there harder than Iron, and in the tropical climate far more durable.

  Indeed, Gentlemen of esteemed engineering talents have painstakingly studied, analysed, and established that with engines properly constructed, Wooden Railroads possess advantages superiour to Iron in four essential points: they are 1. cheaper, 2. more durable, 3. far more comfortable, 4. altogether much safer. Now, as to the first consideratum alone, it should be seen that the difference in price between the proposed materials, Iron and Wood (notwithstanding freight), will be so great that the Wooden Rails utilised by our Company forms a desideratum of unrivaled significance.

  On this point and all others the opinions of our eminent engineers, Messrs. Etzler and Stollmeyer, may be consulted at the Office. These experienced Gentlemen will soon depart for Trinidad, whereupon landing they will make an immediate survey of the intended Lines, of which it is already known with greatest assurity that they present no engineering difficulties whatsoever. From a commercial point-of-view, the island of Trinidad will soon become to the Americas what England is to Europe, and therefore ultimately THE WORLD’S GREATEST MARKET for the interchange of the most valuable productions of the East and West. The enormous fecundity of its soil, its gigantic and magnificent vegetation, its rich plantations and highly elastic atmosphere, here combine to crown Trinidad THE WEST INDIAN PARADISE. Her resources are in fact inexhaustible, the annals of no other place on earth presenting such an extraordinary increase of Cultivation, and consequent production of exploitable WEALTH.

  To wit, an arrangement has already been made with the Tropical Emigration Society here in London, consisting chiefly of highly experienced English Artisans and Labourers, soon to depart for Trinidad as well, in consequence of which the Company will render available the services of said Members of the Society for the construction of our Railway GRATIS, without the expenditure of a single penny! So that no, or at most very few, African or native Laborers will need be hired away from the cultivation of the Sugar Estates, and so deplete our resources.

  _____________________________________

  FORM OF APPLICATION FOR SHARES

  To the Provisional Committee of the Trinidad Great Eastern and South-Western Railway:

  Gentlemen, —I request you will allot me ______ Shares of £50 each in the above Co., and I hereby undertake to accept the same, or any less number you may allot me, and to pay the Deposit of £1 per Share thereon, and to sign all necessary Deeds when required.

  Dated this day of 1845.

  Your name in full________________________

  10

  Chaguabarriga

  As we approached the wharf it became more and more obvious—the closer Marguerite and me drew—that the small band of people waiting there were distressed about something. It was obvious from the looks on all they faces. From the women’s languished gestures. The men’s muffled curses. Of course, I could only assume that this something—the source of our group’s collective concern—was none other than me and Marguerite. How could it be otherwise? Not only had we disappeared since the early hours of the previous evening, it was a scandalous matter for the two of us to be associated a-tall—under any but the most innocent circumstances—none one of which occurred to me at that particular moment: a boy of fifteen and an eighteen-year-old woman. And even more significant than this was we differing class rank. They had a right to be scandalised too. So exquisite was the night we’d spent together, sheltered only by the big-leafed bozee majo trees of the forest. But son, I’m not yet ready to tell you about it. Not as yet. That single night we’d spent together since our arrival in Port-Spain, finally, after our long wait. You just going to have to hang on a little bit for that one.

  Our overnight disappearance also explained Papee’s absence amongst the group. Since no doubt he was out searching for us right now—perhaps with Mr. Johnston as well?—because I couldn’t find him there amongst the farewellers neither. Mr. Johnston promising at our Christmas dinner he’d be here bright-and-early this morning to see us off. Both men probably occupied at this very moment trudging through the woods behind Samaan’s Repos, scouting the hillside below the Observatory, foraging the banks of St. Anns River. Shouting out our names. Searching for Marguerite and me.

  Much to my own surprise nobody seemed especially relieved—nor newly outraged neither—as we stepped arm-in-arm past the wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the wharf. As I escorted Marguerite cross the jetty towards the members of our families. Nobody even seemed to take notice. Only young Amelia gave us a brief wave as we walked up—she smiled suspicious—the only one remotely interested in our shocking interlude. Marguerite bending for Mrs. Whitechurch to give her a distracted-looking good-morning kiss on the cheek. As though she aunt was so consumed by other, more significant matters, that our tardy arrival on the jetty, our scandalous overnight disappearance, hardly amounted to nothing a-tall.

  Mrs. Whitechurch turned from her niece, pointing her chin up at me—

  Well, isn’t this lad the early rooster? she says.

  And that was the extent of the reception they gave us that morning.

  ___________________

  Only after listening to the agitated voices round us a few more minutes could we begin to decipher the cause of the morning’s calamity. It seemed that the two individuals who’d not shown up on the dock, and had kept the rest of us from setting sail—the two conspicuously absent members of our group who had the others so distressfully up-in-arms—were none other than our two leaders: Mr. Etzler and Mr. Stollmeyer.

  Now we began to wonder, along with everybody else,
where could these two possibly be.

  Eventually Papee and Mr. Johnston were pointed out in the distance. Wading through the waves of heat rising at the farthest corner of Marine Square. Hurrying towards the wharf.

  Our group assembled anxious before them, both men red-faced and in a sweat. Papee raising up his two hands asking for quiet. In one he clutched a piece of paper that looked like some kinda official document—a summons from the chief of police?—the word stamped conspicuous cross the top. Clearly visible through the page in large inverted capitals.

  Papee announced, in a loud voice, that they’d just returned from Mr. Etzler and Mr. Stollmeyer’s residences on Park Street. Where urgent enquiries had been made.

  He paused, slowing down his speech some—

  According to what we’ve learnt from Mrs. Stollmeyer, he says, her husband set off at the crack of dawn this morning. Pushing a wheelbarrow in the direction of the La Brea pitchlake. In the far south of the island, some twenty miles from here.

  He paused again—

  As I understand it, Mr. Stollmeyer has gone to this remote location on official business of the TTC. Since he’s about to construct the first of his Floating Islands, and intends to coat its bamboo hull with pitch taken from the lake.

  A number of uneasy murmurs arose from the crowd.

  Papee continued—

  On the other hand, it seems that our Mr. Etzler has set off for a far more distant destination.

  Here Papee was compelled to raise up his hands again, paper flapping in the breeze, begging for quiet—

  It seems that Mr. Etzler has departed on a ship bound for South America. For the city of Caracas, in the country of Venezuela.

  Papee waited a few beats for us to swallow this down—

  According to his wife, Mr. Etzler set sail three days before Christmas. Unbeknownst to any of us. His objective, apparently, to petition from the Venezuelan government a parcel of freehold land. This property—according to what Mrs. Etzler has just informed me—to constitute the Society’s Main Grant. Whatever Mr. Etzler means by such a term, because his wife couldn’t tell me.

  Papee halted a few more beats. He shifted to a tone that sounded, at one and the same time, subdued yet still more incredulous—

  What I mean to tell you is that neither of these gentlemen ever intended to accompany us to Chaguabarriga a-tall. Indeed, for quite some time, both have had very different itineraries. Whether-or-not such travel plans were devised in secret—deceptively—I cannot rightly say.

  With the uproar that followed our group seemed to lose sight of that conspicuous, official-looking document still clutching in Papee’s hand. That is, till Mr. Whitechurch, standing towards the rear, questioned him about it—

  And what of that notice you’ve got there, William? he asks.

  Papee turned towards him—

  This? he says. Raising up the paper as if he’d forgotten it heself. Inverted flashing at us anew from the top of the page—

  This document was given to me by Mrs. Etzler, as instructed by her husband, prior to his departure.

  Papee looked down, studying the page—

  Evidently it’s a letter written by a certain A.L. Gomez. Whom I take is a local attorney representing Mr. Etzler. In any case, the letter is addressed to us—that is, to the members newly disembarked in Trinidad. It says something to the effect . . .

  Here Papee cleared his throat, reading from the paper itself—

  . . . that any and all attempts to remove, transport, or convey said Satellite from the immediate environs of the township of Port-Spain, without express written consent from its rightful owner, J.A. Etzler, who remains in full possession of all pertinent patents and licences, &c., &c.—shall hereby constitute an unmitigated act of larceny punishable to the fullest extent of all binding British, Spanish, and Maritime laws.

  Again a pronounced protest. Again it was little Mr. Whitechurch, perched on toetips to peer over the members gathered in front, who interrupted the clamour. He asked for permission to examine the letter heself. Papee handing it over to the woman standing before him, with a little train of passes till the document arrived at Mr. Whitechurch.

  We all turned anxious towards him. Watching Mr. Whitechurch remove from his vestcoat pocket a crystal monocle attached to a goldchain, fix it in place, and squint down through his single bloated fisheye at the letter.

  A minute later he looked up, giving us an oversized fisheye-blink through the monocle. After which we watched the lens drop from out his eye, dangling on its long chain. Swinging back-and-forth and flashing beneath the sun.

  Mr. Whitechurch raised up the document in both hands, high above his head. Holding it there suspended a moment before us. He ripped it in two; then he ripped these two pieces again in two; and two again.

  With a little celebratory flourish he tossed the eight fragments into the air. High above his head. As we watched the breeze carry away the pieces of paper like a distant flock of gulls. Out over the sparkling waters of the bay.

  ___________________

  Son, despite my tardy arrival I was first to board the transport. Since I needed to take advantage of its small cabin to change my outfit, still wearing my fancified clothes from our Christmas bon voyage the previous night. I scrambled to dress myself in my tropical costume. Reaching up the disheveled bundle to Mum just as the ferry pulled-way. Standing there on the wharf with my three sisters, Mr. Johnston & Mrs. Whitechurch & Marguerite. All with they hands raised high above they heads, cheering, waving good-bye.

  Captain Maynard wasting little time off-loading our luggage onto the deck of the Miss Bee. The vessel awaiting us anchored out in the bay—barge bearing its colossal crate floating off her stern, now with a two-week-old mossline bisecting the SATELLITE cross its middle. To make up for our tardy departure, added to the considerable disadvantage of having to tow the heavy-laden barge, Captain Maynard set sail as soon as he bos’n could haul in the anchor. And before long we were hurtling past those towering cliffs, leaving behind us the larger, more recognisable bays.

  We soon arrived at a stretch near the middle of the north coast that became suddenly indistinct. Mangrove-fringed. The water swallowing and growing calmer, shifting to those lighter tones of sandy greens. The bays and coves smaller, still more numerous—tiny inlets caught between stone clumps and patches of gnarly mangrove. The most challenging part of our journey being the pinpointing of Chaguabarriga itself.

  Each time we sailed past a stretch of sandy beach, to the delight of the children, Captain Maynard raised a faded pink conch up to his lips. Blowing into the crown through bulbous cheeks.

  Eventually, as the Miss Bee glided past still another patch of gray sand, and the captain sounded his conch, a tiny white flag appeared in the distance. Fluttering-way. Beckoning to us over the brilliant green mass of mangrove. Just at the base of the jagged mountains.

  All-in-a-sudden Captain Maynard turned his sloop about, tacking back a short distance. He tacked again—and letting loose his mainsail and jib in the same breath, the captain eased his vessel into the shallow, crystal water of a tranquil bay. Two hundred yards from shore he turned about a last time, up into the wind, bowsprit pointing straight out to sea. Bringing the Miss Bee and her charge behind to a swift and simultaneous halt. Sails loudly aruffle. His bos’n reaching out over the bowsprit to toss in the anchor.

  Moments later a small rowboat appeared, seeming to coalesce from out the bright clumps of mangrove theyself. East of the little beach. It came rowing steady in our direction. And moments later we made out the man working the oars, his battered ‘West Indian wife’ perched as ever atop his head—he was our own Mr. Carr!

  ___________________

  There was, of course, insufficient daylight remaining for Captain Maynard to transfer us to the Prescott Estate. Located on another of these sandy coves a couple miles up the coast. And in any case the pioneers had already sounded out our demand—in a single voice—to be taken ashore immediately. So anxious we
re we to set foot on our own property. We’d come too far, and were far too excited, to wait till morning—devil-be-damned where we slept the night!

  Mr. Carr much taken aback to learn that for the time being, rather than remaining with him there at the settlement, we’d reside at the Prescott Estate. Nonetheless, Mr. Carr had to admit—brushing aside his personal feelings for that unsavoury gentleman—that the plan for us to stay beneath Mr. Prescott’s roof for the present time seemed sensible enough. In particular the women and children. Yet it disheartened him to think some of us wouldn’t wish to remain with him at Chaguabarriga—

  A handful of the men at least? he says. A wee little show of camaraderie?

  At which point Mr. Whitechurch, rucksack perched already atop his back, spoke out bold for the rest of us—

  Nonsense! he says. We’re all anxious to go ashore and see what you’ve been up to. So let’s shake a leg, shall we?

  Indeed! Mr. Carr answers, all but beaming.

  Within minutes he set off with the first boatload, including Papee and me. He rowed us over to the small beach, landing us atop a raised stone pathway at the centre of the patch of sand. Like a natural jetty, formed on purpose by Mother Nature for our own convenience. And whilst Mr. Carr returned for his second load, we wandered off towards the hulk of a bark washed up onto shore. So camouflaged by creepers we hadn’t seen it from out on the bay—Captain Tailor’s schooner, as the Port-Spain newspapers had christened it.*

  ___________________

  *Referred to throughout by the pioneers as ‘Captain Taylor’s schooner,’ the name of this beached vessel, painted on the stern plate and still discernable (it is listed among the property’s accoutrements in the original purchase deed), was the Miss Ellen.

  ___________________

  But Papee and me soon left the others to take a short walk up the beach. The tide fully in, so before long we found weself picking our way amongst the rugged boulderstones. The gnarly trunks of dried-out driftwood weathered to a stark white. Forging our way along—our boots already wet and caked in sand—till the thicker mangroves cut us off.