As Flies to Whatless Boys Read online

  It stood there before us a full minute, suspended, hovering in midair.

  But now we began to notice something else: our bridge seemed to be bowing slightly under the crate. Nobody said a word. Not a one. We simply stood there, trousers soaking in the shallow water up to our knees, staring at the bridge cokeeeyed. Whilst Mr. Hemmingway—who’d just taken his turn on the winch—commenced to cranking the crank with all the life he had in him.

  To no avail. Because a moment later we heard the loud KERRRACK-CAKKK as the bamboos comprising the bridge snapped in two—rollers flying up into the air—our Satellite dropping with a great splash into the water. Accompanied by a THUD as it settled to the sandy bottom, at a depth of three-feet, bamboo rollers splashing down at our sides. Now we began to notice that familiar ooze, seeping out through cracks between the boards. As a thick, tomatoey, gently breathing cloud took shape in the crystal water round us.

  By this time it was late afternoon. Leaving us little choice but to abandon our Satellite soaking in the shallow water, return the empty barge to the Miss Bee, and regroup first thing in the morning. Of course, by the time we managed to tow the barge out to his sloop, Captain Maynard informed us—much as we’d already begun to suspect—that insufficient daylight remained to transfer us to the Prescott Estate. Which seemed all for the best. Because we were so exhausted after our long day, even the short voyage up the coast seemed too strenuous an effort. Wanting only to retire to we compound and rest up little bit. That is, after helping weself to a couple more bottles of Mr. Whitechurch’s whiskey.

  ___________________

  But Papee didn’t even give me a chance to relax myself with the other men that afternoon. Earlier I’d spied a russet-breasted hummingbird feeding on some white flowers, all the way down by the beach. I’d wanted to look in my book and try to identify him. But Papee was anxious to survey the remainder of Chaguabarriga—that part of the estate that extended beyond Mr. Carr’s gardens—which we hadn’t inspected yet. So whilst the other men lounged about happy inside they hammocks, treating theyself to a well-deserved sup of whiskey, and Orinoko and Esteban added more quenk to the evening pepperpot, Papee and me set off behind John into the mountains.

  We started out along the dry riverbed, dividing the orchard from the vegetable plots. Easygoing for the first half-hour, the ground rising gentle beneath our boots. Then, all-in-a-sudden, it angled up before us almost vertical. We abandoned the dry bed, John leading us along a path that cut sideways cross the flanks of the mountains. Weaving its way between giant trunks of cedar & bois cannot & spiky boxwood. Purple-skinned balata trunks that John called bullyboy trees. Others he called bittah trees—raising his cutlass up to chop a wedge of the bark for Papee and me to touch we tongues against. Squinging up our faces at the harsh taste.

  John laughed at us—

  Same as how he tie-up you mout, just so dat bittah swill does keep-way erry kinda varmint. Good wood to make furniture, me could tell you. N’ build strong house!

  Papee turned towards him—

  And what of boat-building? Good wood for the hull of a ship?

  Egn-egn, John shook his head. Cause he plenty weighty—heavy too bad. For build boat you does use de bois cano. O’ de bois gri-gri.

  We rinsed our mouths out with a swallow of water from Papee’s canteen. And we continued climbing. Another half-hour. Picking our way along the sideways-sloping path. Then it turned up, so steep we had to scale the cliffs on all fours. The air cooler, drier. Now the path turned sideways again, and we passed before a series of dark echoey caves. Receding into the rock walls. John explaining that in these caves the oilbirds built they nests—

  We does call dem diabotins.

  Eventually we reached a place where the trees opened up into a small plateau, looking down from the top of the first ridge. Running roughly parallel to the contours of the coast. Two other mountain ridges rising up parallel behind our backs. We took our seats along a fallen log at the back of the clearing—three of us sitting in a line like schoolboys—catching our breath. Taking a swallow of water from Papee’s canteen, as the feelings of vertigo settled theyself inside our stomachs. Taking in the view.

  Below us stretched Mr. Carr’s gardens, a neat quilt of red & ochre & brown, covered over in tiny green dimples. A short distance beyond them we saw the circular clearing that was our compound, looking like a child’s abandoned game of matchsticks in the dirt. Tiny white flag fluttering-way at the centre. And near the middle of the splotch of gray beach—just off the stone jetty—the child’s discarded matchbox itself. Looking so small and innocent, scarcely capable of frustrating a dozen men the entire day.

  Stretching off in alternate directions from both sides of the bay (east and west), we saw the mangrove swamps. The drinking-pond to this side, deeper salt-lake at the other. Our compound as though squeezed between the two. Beyond it all the sparkling bay. With the toy-sized Miss Bee—empty barge bobbing off her stern—floating placid in the middle.

  We sat a couple more minutes. Watching the sun slip behind the mountains, lighting up the horizon a startling crimson. Bleeding upward into fiery orange, azure swirls amongst the pink-dusted clouds.

  In a vaps I got up to walk to the edge of the cliff. Climbing atop a small promontory, like a lookout platform. Papee following behind me a minute later.

  We stood before the precipice, looking down, tingling sensation rising inside our stomachs. As though our feet were dropping out from under us.

  I listened to Papee’s breathing. Quiet behind my back—

  Mum n’ the girls would’ve loved this, I say. But the person I was thinking about was Marguerite.

  He didn’t answer for several seconds—

  Imagine Amelia, he says. She’d be swinging off the cliff!

  She’d give us a fright, I say.

  And after pause—

  Amelia would’ve got on fine with the Wood girls, don’t you think? They’d’ve had a fine time together?

  But Papee didn’t answer. Like he hadn’t heard.

  By now the bright crimson had faded from out the sky. Fiery orange all cindered up. I turned to climb down off the precipice, seeing that Papee had taken a seat on the rock floor behind me. He’d taken out his journal and the stub of pencil, and cross two open pages he was busy sketching out a map—

  LETTERS FROM MR. STOLLMEYER & MR. ETZLER TO THE MEMBERS OF THE TES & TTC STILL RESIDING IN ENGLAND

  The Morning Star, No. 28, 21 February 1846

  We deem it of utmost importance to lay before our readers the following just-received correspondence. The first, from Mr. Stollmeyer, is addressed to the whole body of shareholders. The second, penned hastily by Mr. Etzler to the Directors, contains propositions some of which were alluded to in his last letter. In all of these correspondences we find suggestions and subjects introduced that are worthy of our deepest and sincere contemplation. For it now seems the time has come for us to decide whether our leaders have their own best interests at heart, or those of ourselves and our friends who struggle on alone at Chaguabarriga. —Thomas Powell (editor)

  28/12/45

  GENTLEMEN—

  By my last I informed you that I was about to commence construction of the first of our floats, to be comprised of bamboos bound together with vines, the whole encoated with tar taken from the La Brea pitchlake in the south of the island. My good news, Gentlemen, is that these much-anticipated labours are already nearing completion! As you know Mr. Etzler has travelled to Caracas on urgent business of the TES, the precise nature of which is to secure in the name of our Society its much-needed Main Grant.

  But prior to his departure Mr. Etzler and I together contracted a local welder, a native by the name of Senor Smitty, to construct various parts of the machinery that shall comprise our NAVAL AUTOMATON, the engine run by the power of waves alone that shall drive our float. (The combination of these parts is, in the opinion of the inventor, the subject of a separate patent from those already taken out. Therefore, to guard
against imitation and piracy, Mr. Etzler is compelled for the present time to keep it in his own mind a secret.) Senor Smitty’s parts, then—with the addition one or two not yet revealed to him as a further security—shall be mounted together in strict privacy by Mr. Etzler upon his return. And not even I shall be permitted to witness their assemblage! As I expect him back here with me in Port-Spain within the week, I can assure you in the greatest confidence that it shall only be a few days more before the two of us will undertake the first SEA TRIAL of our finished float, with its attendant wave-machinery!

  In my last correspondence I informed you that as the entirety of all funds at our disposal were expended during the passage over, and in our members’ settling in here in Port-Spain, whatever subsequent monies have be laid out for the building of our float, as well as the contracture of Senor Smitty and purchase of his required materials, have come from the combined pocketbooks of Mr. Etzler and myself. We do not mind this in the least. But please note that until further funds are sent the float and its attendant wave machinery belong exclusively and entirely to us. Again, we are not bothered by this in the slightest. Our sole purpose is to demonstrate for you the ABSOLUTE ADVANTAGE of floats over hollow vessels, and wave machinery over conventional sails or steam engines, and once FULLY AND COMPLETELY convinced of this FACT, you may commence to pouring your coins into our coffers just as fast as they may be poured forth! For you have our solemn promise, as honest men, to build for you as MANY floats as you may care to purchase, to be at your desideratum driven by our Naval Automaton, at which time Mr. Etzler and I shall request for ourselves nothing in return but 10% of profits from said enterprise. But Gentlemen, I ask you, why wait even another day to rein in your profits? Send us your money NOW so that we may go to work for you immediately!

  On this subject it appears that you have 200 shares of the TTC still available, and might sell off more, and thus in a short time raise as much as £4000. The passages and provisions of ourselves (being the first lot of emigrants sent out) cost as you will recall £7s10 each: therefore 400 passages would cost £3000. For that sum you may have a FLEET of 36 floats at your disposal! Each 5 feet thick (or they may consist of two, each 2½ feet thick and separable as desired on occasion (=72!). The passages and provisions would therefore not cost more than £1000—which is the totality of expenses for transit of 400 persons on FLOATS—¼ the expense of ordinary vessels! The difference would be your own clear gain (£3000!). You may do the math yourselves, Gentlemen, and draw your own conclusions. You need not take my word on these matters. And yet afterward, when our enterprise is done and finished, the floats will remain your property forever. Indestructible floats that will last as long as any man’s life, and be ALONE the means to raise our company to grandest opulence. Therefore, if the majority of you have now understood the true nature of floats with wave machinery to drive them, and it is your desideratum to have them at the earliest possible opportunity, and see straight to your clear profits, NOW is the time to send your money and put us to work!

  I remain, your honest companion and associate,

  C.F. STOLLMEYER

  ___________________

  30/12/45

  SIRS—& those of you who would feign be called FRIENDS—

  My Satellite has been stolen from me! The culprits? The undeniable roguish curs? None other than YOURSELVES. If still you count (as I do not!) those—former—members of our Society who have gone so skippingly off to Chaguabarriga, our money ringing in their pockets to see them along their merry way, as HONEST men and TRUE associates of this, our heretofore grand and most auspicious TES. For I deny them! And henceforth do proclaim to sever all ties with that ATROPHIED ORGAN of our great and one-time noble enterprise. My friends, if your left hand is found to taketh from your right, what shall you do but cut it off? This for my own part I have done already forever. I shall not rescind, never (unless my Satellite is returned to me immediately).

  This is the disheartening news that reaches me from my companion, Mr. Stollmeyer—the theft of my Satellite!—here in this foreign city of Caracas where, as I have dutifully reported to you already, I have come not for my own purposes, but on urgent business of the TES to secure from the Venezuelan Government our Main Grant. In this endeavour already I have made great progress. Not the least of which is verification of my earlier suspicions that in this country may be achieved a thousand times what is possible in that small, most unneighbourly, and already overpopulated island of Trinidad. Yea, a thousand-thousand times! Friends, my question for you is this: Will you join me? Or shall I be forced to reap my reward in achieving all of these glorious things for humanity alone? Shall you turn your backs, as I have done, on those dishonest and self-serving thieves who have gone off so slouchingly to Chaguabarriga—where they remain still, utterly ashamed and in hiding—and constitute with me a NEW society of BETTER men in a more hopeful and promising land?

  Our first mistake was to place any confidence in the likes of a Mr. Carr and a Capt Taylor. Who chose them? Where did they come from? For clearly these two are incompetent and small-minded, most supreme of selfishness (witness for yourselves the death of one of them already!). Men lacking in both the character and vision necessary to act in a responsible manner, since how else could they throw away monies—not belonging to them, not in the least, but placed in their hands in good faith and trust!—on such a stench-hole as Chaguabarriga? The greatest part of which is ought other than miserable and uninhabitable morass? [*Note: We find these questions posed by Mr. Etzler incomprehensible, since we had never met nor heard of Mr. Carr or the unfortunate Capt Taylor until he introduced them to us. TP, ed.]

  My friends, the damage has been done. Money tossed away like leaves in the wind! Never to be found again for a million years!

  Here, in this most Democratic country of Venezuela, good and fertile land may be had for free (according to their ancient Castilian laws of emigration which I have examined) or very nearly so. The land is dry and mostly level, pleasantly rolling hills in the higher, cooler altitudes. There is as much here as may be desired, for little more than the asking (or a trifling farthing or two). I have with me the modest funds obtained from Mr. Rake’s cutlery, placed in my charge to do with as I saw fit and proper (all of which has been sold off except a handful of knives and forks and a single teapot of which the Venezuelans have expressed some interest), and with these meagre monies I propose to purchase for myself and Mr. Rake and those of you who care to join us—should you but say the word!—an estate called Santa Magdalena, here in the locality of Baranjas, just a few miles south of the capital town of Caracas. This property is unmeasured, but said to exceed 70,000 fanegas! Gentlemen, I can only assure you of this: A man might gallop upon his steed for 3 days and nights without rest and still not gain a fair glimpse of its farther side! There are already buildings enough on this estate (formerly utilised by peons and cowboys) which, with some minor renovations, will house 30-40 of our persons most admirably. This in addition to the main house where I propose to reside with my wife (just as soon as I am able to settle the affairs of the TGE&SWR and other pending matters in Trinidad). There is not a finger to be lifted, only the gleaming brass door handles to be turned! Only to fold back the handsome Indian spreads and slip between the sheets!

  Gentlemen, I wait to hear from you on this matter. Will you join me in constituting a new and better society here in Venezuela? Not composed of thieves and petty men? (I will get my Satellite back from them one way or another, of this you may rest assured. For imagine what WE shall do with it here!) You need only say the word and I shall be healed. I, who am more sinned against than sinning! Our former TES promised you one solitary acre for every £10-share of that joint-stock company (a puny acre we now know consists of nothing more than miserable morass). Yet in this, our newly composed Society—the MANIFESTO of which shall be drafted and sent to you via the next post—I hereby pledge ONE HUNDRED acres of the most luxuriant Venezuelan farmland, fertilised by the sweet dung of roami
ng herds of fatted cattle from time immemorial, for your same £10-share investment! You may come here immediately and take up residence in a fine house on your own property. Or you may entrust me with your purchase only to reap your sure profits, until such time as you see fit to join me.

  My fellow Directors still in London, one final word: You do wrong to limit this business to the members of the TES and the TTC. No. You must draw in others! Many others! Even Capitalists and Money-Lenders where you see the chance. Even Jews. (I mention this only in case you should have any difficulties in raising the funds quickly.) For time, my friends, is the LEAST affordable commodity when greater profits may be made!

  —to be continued at next mailing—

  I am, in haste, your trusted servant & true friend,

  J.A. ETZLER

  12

  Black Vomit

  The following morning, after rising a good few hours later than we’d proposed—after our customary hefty breakfast—we gathered on the beach to plan out our strategy for the day. Son, something stopped us in our tracks: now we saw that the entire bay—stretching as far as the spot where the Miss Bee and her charge floated serene at anchor, two hundred yards from the beach upon which we stood—had changed colour overnight. It was tinted that startling magenta you find beneath the severed skin of a Seville blood orange—the whole bay purple-red, one side to the next.

  We stood speechless, boobooloops, staring at the rust-tinted water. Our soaking Satellite the cause. Like some kinda natural phenomenon—beautiful and alarming at the same time—we just couldn’t shift we eyes from it.