As Flies to Whatless Boys Page 17

  Papee stopped beside a tall boulderstone, caught between a couple mangrove clumps. Its underside encrusted with sharp barnacles, alive with a swarm of scrambling crabs. Now he removed his pocketknife, opening it out. Papee used the blade to pry off a piece of the rock, crushing the sample in his fist. Watching the fragments fall to the sand before his boots—

  Roman cement stone, he says. Same as I remember from the Isle of Sheppey.

  Papee wiped his hand against his trousers. Then he wiped the blade, folding it closed and putting it away. He turned to climb up atop the boulder itself, eight-to-ten-feet above the beach, me following a step behind. And together we surveyed the bay from this vantage point, gazing out over the sparkling water.

  Mr. Carr had just landed his third load. The pioneers stepping anxious from out of his rowboat, onto the stone jetty. I glanced back over my shoulder, watching Papee remove from his breast pocket a stub of pencil and a small notebook, spined along the side.

  I saw him print the word CHAGUABARRIGA in hard capitals cross the cover. Then he opened out his booklet to the first page, sketching a quick map—

  When we got back to the beach Mr. Carr was landing his final boatload. Then, without explanation, he set off rowing again. Disappearing mysterious behind the clump of mangroves to our right. But only a few minutes later we heard Mr. Carr’s excited voice behind us. Turning together to see him hurrying through the line of sea oats at the top of the beach, waving his West Indian wife. His trousers soaked up to his knees, boots caked in black mud—

  I’ve moored our dinghy in the lake, he says, out of breath. Now let me show you round our handsome little estate!

  Mr. Carr turned, leading us along a sandy path that wound through the sea oats, his wet boots sloshing up in front. Soon we entered a grove of graceful casuarinas, breeze whistling through they needles high above. The path veering left, changing from loose sand to hardened dirt, then softish mud. And we arrived alongside the lake Mr. Carr had mentioned a moment ago—his rowboat moored a dozen yards off the shore, tied to a mangrove branch.

  But son, this wasn’t the picturesque lake we’d all envisioned. Not by a steups. This was a morass—its bottom a thick, black, ugly ooze—and when the breeze shifted in our direction we got a whiff of its sulfurous stench.

  The children pinched they nostrils. Adults surveying the scene with expressions of horror.

  Mr. Carr explained how the lake formed a perfect natural anchorage, safe in all weather, even huracanos! He had plans to dig it out deeper—important for health reasons, he explained—and the mud removed from the bottom could be used to fill another low-lying area to the other side of our compound. Which, Mr. Carr informed us, presented a rather serious risk of flooding at high water—

  One of the minor inconveniences of living in paradise, he says. That bloody swamp has flooded up on me a couple of times already!

  Unaware of the gasps coming from the women and children—not to exclude a couple of the men—Mr. Carr continued smiling. Pleased as punch with heself. He removed a handkerchief from his back pocket—the rag so soiled it was almost as black as his boots—proceeding to swab his perspiring face and neck. Neither of which appeared a good deal cleaner than the rag.

  He turned round, pointing ahead, filthy kerchief dangling from his hand—

  Our handsome little compound’s but a few steps away!

  Mr. Carr led us farther along the path, rising beneath our boots, changing from mud to hard-packed dirt again. Passing through another pleasant grove of widely spaced trees—sea grapes & almonds & spindly coconut palms—the ground covered over by a thick padding of leaves.

  A moment later we found weself standing at the edge of a circular clearing. A hundred yards in diameter. With a tall bamboo pole set at the centre and highest point, tattered white strip fluttering at the end. And now we identified the little flag we’d seen earlier from out at sea, appearing at the sound of Captain Maynard’s conch. A few yards behind it we observed a dead cookfire, with an enormous cast-iron pot suspended above it from a tripod of bamboo poles. Nearby the pot a long table—seemingly built from planks of salvaged wood—sawed-off logs at both sides for benches. The table itself tucked under a widespread almond tree. But what attracted our attention most was a number of small crocus sacks hanging from the tree’s outstretched limbs—foodstuff suspended from the reach of crabs and wild animals, though of course we couldn’t have known this yet—like a madman’s version of a Christmas tree.

  Mr. Carr pointed his rag in the direction of the table—

  Our kitchen n’ dining facility! he says.

  Off to its far side we now observed a rather puzzling structure. Three parallel lines of bamboo poles—six-feet tall and spaced about the same apart—sunk into the ground. At the end of this structure was a series of bamboo cross-braces, tied with vines to the tops of the poles, above them a covering of palm fronds. Crudely thatched together. Son, it looked like a goat’s pen, lacking only the picket fence round the perimeter. Except for the fact that two hammocks—obviously intended for humans to sleep in—were slung under the piece of thatch at the end.

  Mr. Carr confirming for us what we’d already begun to fear—

  Our humble little cottage!

  And even before we had a chance to swallow this down—with a surge of fright rising inside our stomachs as we took them in—three men appeared. Running from out the bush behind the cottage. Charging straight at us.

  On seeing them Mrs. Hemmingway turned to bolt in the opposite direction, held back only by she husband.

  These three men barefoot, they legs coated to the knees in black mud. Stark naked saving what looked to us like crude loincloths. Tied round they waists with pieces of rope. One of the men tall, thin, ebony-black. The other two short & squat & brightly redskinned—they oval faces with fringes of coarse hair cut straight cross they foreheads. With these latter two, as they charged towards us, shouldering a bamboo pole from which hung a large animal of unknown identity, its hide covered over in orange bristles. Fierce fangs protruding from its pointed snout, thumping mercilessly cross the ground. With a number of long spikes—presumably arrows—projecting at various angles out its sides.

  The three men came to a halt before us, they chests breathing in-and-out. Whilst Mr. Carr, still smiling, placed his arm affectionately round the black man’s shoulders—

  Let me introduce to you my three helpmates, he says. This is John. And these two other gentlemen are Esteban n’ Orinoko.

  He nodded to the two men shouldering the animal—

  They’ve all three been busy working like troopers. Alongside me and our unfortunate Captain Taylor!

  Now the three men smiled on cue. The two Amerindians turning they eyes timid to the ground.

  Finally Mr. Carr gestured with his filthy rag at the suspended animal—

  And what have we here? Seems you lads’ve been busy hunting us up some supper!

  It was the black man, John, who answered—

  Qwenk, sir. Wild pork. Cause Rinoko n’ Steban go cook he up in a nice stew!

  And with that Mrs. Hemmingway—with a solid thud—dropped to the ground in a faint.

  11

  Pepperpot

  After Mrs. Hemmingway had been revived, and Mr. Carr had given her a drink of water, it was decided that the women and children should sleep the night aboard the Miss Bee. Captain Maynard had earlier offered them use of his own cabin—in addition to the other guest cabin—saying he’d be happy enough sleeping in a hammock on deck beside his bos’n. Now we decided that the women and children should take they evening meal aboard the Miss Bee as well, from stores brought with us from Port-Spain, still to be unloaded. Indeed, everything seemed to be settled amicable enough. That is, till Mrs. Wood requested that she husband accompany her and they three daughters for the night. Now a fierce argument rose up from Mr. Spenser and Mr. Hemmingway. Demanding that they be allowed to accompany they own wives too. At which point young Billy Sharpe, almost in tears, announ
ced he felt the onslaught of a stiff meegraine. He required his medicines that remained aboard ship.

  Following a heated discussion—including several rather nasty threats—a much-embarrassed Mr. Carr announced that he was willing to transport only the women and children, in addition to young Billy, back to the Miss Bee. The other gentlemen, he said—in manly fashion, and without further complaint—would sleep with the rest of us right here in the compound.

  Mr. Carr set off rowing his loaded-up dinghy again. In the meantime John took the men out to inspect the gardens, whilst Orinoko and Esteban dedicated theyself to slaughtering the quenk.

  John led us along a path that continued at the back of the compound. Passing through another pleasant grove of sea grapes and spindly coconut palms, reaching they ragged heads up above the canopy into patches of bright sun. The ground turning rocky, vegetation sparse, interspersed with clumps of crabgrass growing along the declivities. We gazed up at the forested mountains looming before us, about a half-mile ahead. Seeming to rise straight up out of the flat ground. It was this bramble-covered strip of flatland, running roughly east-west at the base of the mountains, that had been cleared to plant the gardens.

  They occupied four to five acres at present. The rocks taken out piled in neat low walls, separating the various plots. Towards the rear, in a long mound, we saw the jumble of gnarled brushwood uprooted in clearing the ground. Drying, waiting to be torched.

  Obvious—even at first glance—that these gardens had been laid out by a most meticulous hand. Each plot a perfect rectangle of red or brown or ochre-coloured earth, varying in size, each demarcated by its low stonewalls. With the newly planted seedlings spaced at equal intervals, none as yet taller than a few inches. Neatly printed signs, indicating a variety of sweet peas, stood at the heads of this first group of smaller, more compact plots—SNOW PEAS, BROAD BEANS, FRENCH LEGUMES, COWPEAS. A larger plot, its shootlings more widely spaced, contained WEST INDIAN PIGEON PEAS. Another YAMS and IRISH POTATOES. Still another GROUND PROVISIONS, subdivided into CASSAVA, EDDOES, ARROWROOT.

  John turned round to face us, smiling—

  All de ground provisions, he explains, is planted pon dis side excepting greenfig. Cause Mr. Carr did insist pon putting dem ovah by de fruits horchard.

  Bordering this first group of plots stretched a dry riverbed, the ground etched-out and pebble-paved, reaching towards the mountains—

  Dis dry bed, John tells us, go make a good ’nough river when de rains come. Soon-soon!

  It formed a natural division, in Mr. Carr’s elaborate layout of the gardens, between the vegetables and the fruits.

  Now John brought us to the other side of the riverbed. To an unlabeled plot he called the coco-nursery, containing a number of large, brown, half-buried coconuts. Spaced about a foot apart. Each with its bright green shootling unfurling out the crown. Another more expansive plot contained a quantity of miniature, yellow, dried-out-looking stumps. Planted at separations of three-feet—PLANTAINS. This field, according to John, was Mr. Carr’s pride and joy. Subdivided into five varieties—SWEET PLANTAINS, RED BANANAS, SICKEEAFIGS, GREENFIGS, CAVENADISH BANANAS.

  By this point we’d worked up a good thirst. John led us over to a single spindly coconut palm—it seemed to be growing at random at the back of the plantains field—laden with nuts. And presently we had the pleasure of watching him climb up using his bicycle—a loop of rope circling his waist and the palm’s trunk—cutlass clenched tight between his teeth. John leant backwards into his bicycle, circling round-and-round the trunk as he scampered up, chopping down a thick bundle of nuts. He descended to make short work of preparing them for us to drink.

  Now we rested in the patch of shade cast by the lone coconut palm, enjoying our unexpected treat. Grateful to John, marveling at the industry of our Mr. Carr: so much he’d done already, in so short a time.

  Mr. Spenser drained out his nut, addressing the group—

  And without a Satellite to assist him. Imagine what we’ll accomplish, soon as our machine’s up n’ running!

  Aye, aye! we answer together.

  ___________________

  We were further impressed with Mr. Carr when we arrived back at the compound. From stores still to be unloaded from the Miss Bee, he’d brought back a hammock for each of us. These eight hammocks already strung up in a most ingenious fashion. Amongst the eighteen bamboo poles of our humble cottage.

  Dusk was upon us, and we couldn’t have been more pleased.

  By this time the compound was infused with the aromas of Orinoko and Esteban’s stew. And shouldering the bubbling cauldron as they’d previously done the quenk, they shifted it off the flames. Proceeding to ladle out the steaming stew onto wide balisier leaves, utilised for plates. Everybody squeezing weself round the dining table, eating with our hands, by the light of the still-blazing cookfire. Some of the men returning to the pot three and four different times.

  Only the two non-flesh-eaters amongst us did not partake of the stew. They were Mr. Carr and—much to Papee’s surprise—he own son. Because I hadn’t touched a morsel of meat since the Rosalind had departed the Azores. Not another paper-thin slice of acorn-fed Catalonian ham. Mr. Carr preparing a dinner for us of boiled yam and mashed greenfig. Which I can assure you we enjoyed as much as the other men did they own dinner.

  A pleasant breeze kept the sandflies at bay. And just as we were finishing up our meal—and the deeper dark descended upon us—a three-quarters moon appeared above the rim of trees, overshadowing our small compound. The night all-in-a-sudden bright as day. But softer, cooler, more sheltering.

  Only one ingredient remained to make us feel even more happily arrived at Chaguabarriga. And Mr. Whitechurch provided it. He reached beneath the dining table to retrieve his canvas rucksack, which none of us had noticed up till now. Rising to his feet at the head of the table—

  Gentlemen, he says, I’ve been withholding from you a small secret. In regards of which it now gives me great pleasure to share.

  He paused—

  My only regret is that our good host, Mr. Carr—who’s gone to such great lengths to prepare for our arrival—is of the spare sort himself!

  Now Mr. Carr produced a smile as ample as Mr. Whitechurch’s. In response to which the rest of us added a collective—’Ere, ’ere!

  Mr. Whitechurch continued—

  But tonight we shall forego our host’s admired fastidiousness. And hope, likewise, that he shall pardon us our wee indulgence.

  With that Mr. Whitechurch removed from his satchel two bottles of Irish whiskey. Holding them up before us, a bottle shining in each hand—

  Gentlemen, welcome home!

  ___________________

  Later that evening, by the light of the still-smouldering cookfire—after Papee and me had helped weself to a sup each of Mr. Whitechurch’s whiskey—I watched him reach into his breast pocket to take out his journal again, scribbling various notes—

  That first morning at Chaguabarriga, after a leisurely arousal, we ate a hefty breakfast of still more pepperpot. Topped off with the dregs of Mr. Whitechurch’s bottles—

  Nothing to fear, gentlemen, he says, bouncing sprightly on his toes like he’d slept the finest night of his existence. There’s a good deal more cherub’s-piss where that came from!

  After convening for a short meeting, Mr. Carr presiding as chair, we determined that our first order of business ought to be transferring the crated-up Satellite ashore. Thence to the locality of Mr. Carr’s gardens: our Satellite must be put to work for us at the first opportunity.

  By this point we had considerable experience manoeuvring about the obzockee two-ton crate, having rescued it once already from the harbour at Port-Spain. Mr. Craddock—a fancy milliner by trade, and self-taught scholar of the ancient world—devised the plan.

  Our Satellite would be moved using the same method that the ancient Egyptians, in the third millennium, utilised to transport great blocks of stone vast distances to construct the pyram
ids. That is to say, by dragging our crate over tree trunks—in this case bamboo poles—placed beneath it as freewheeling rollers. Over which our crate would travel with a minimum of effort.

  Mr. Wood raised a polite objection. That perhaps we should stick closer to our Egyptian model—and use solid trunks as opposed to bamboos, which are hollow, susceptible to crushing and snapping.

  He was silenced in the same breath.

  Mr. Craddock went on to explain that once the barge was floated at high water as close to shore as possible, a bridge of two bamboos would connect it to the natural stone jetty at the centre of the beach. Then a number of shorter bamboos would be laid down transversely cross the bridge, in such a manner that our crate would glide over them as if upon greased wheels. After our Satellite was transferred onto the jetty—hence dry land—the bridge would be reassembled on the ground before the crate as it rolled its way steady towards the gardens like a species of movable railway track.

  Mr. Craddock concluded—

  Mark my words, gentlemen. We’ll have that Satellite up n’ running afore our evening pepperpot!

  We set weself eager about the task. Using Mr. Carr’s rowboat—in addition to Captain Maynard’s tender, lowered from the deck of the Miss Bee—we towed the barge, crate lashed down atop it, over to the small beach. All this accomplished by early afternoon when, according to plan, the tide was approaching full mark. The barge beached and moored into position fifteen short feet from the stone jetty. Now two long bamboo poles—cut fresh by Esteban and Orinoko from a patch growing alongside the sweetpond—were laid down to form the bridge. Shorter bamboos crosswise to act as rollers.

  A hand winch, also loaned to us by Captain Maynard, was secured to a casuarina growing a short distance above the beach. The rope passing through it made fast to the crate via a series of block-and-tackle, just as we’d done so successful in Port-Spain. And in little more than a couple hours—without scarcely any effort a-tall—our Satellite was winched off the barge, out over the bamboo rollers. Out onto the middle of the bridge.