As Flies to Whatless Boys Page 20
It was my only chance, only hope. Somehow I had to give my heart to her in words. And if I couldn’t write them down—if it was impossible to get them down on a blasted piece of paper—at least I could speak them to her aloud.
All-in-a-sudden we were shaken from our sleep by Mr. Carr’s shrill voice. Coming to us from the gardens. Grudgingly, we rolled out of our hammocks. Making our way towards him. Finding Mr. Carr sitting there like an emaciated Buddha—his legs folded beneath him—in the midst of a plot of sweet peas. With a river of bright clear water washing down the bulwarked channel behind him.
But son, this flood came at us from the opposite direction. From a thousand different sources high up in mountains. Not from the sea behind our backs. This flood came at us controlled, untainted, serviceable. Mother Nature, bent according to our own collective will and design. Offering up her gifts. We’d achieved it not with the aid of machines, effortlessly, but by our own hands and our own hard toil. Most significant of all we’d achieved it together.
And now, together, we reaped our well-deserved reward.
As if by instinct—and without a word spoken between us—we stepped from out our soggy boots. Stripping off our soiled drawers and ragged merinos. Mr. Carr standing in his plot of sweet peas to do the same, in addition to doffing his soggy West Indian wife. Six pale Englishmen and one ebony-black African. We climbed over the bulwark of stones, wading out into the cold clear water in the middle of the channel—a startling four-feet deep! And now, together, holding hands and hooting like badjohn-schoolboys, we threw weself in. We abandoned weself to the water. Letting it carry us for three-quarters of a mile, right the way out to sea.
But when we swam round to the beach and climbed up onto the sun-warmed sand we found it deserted. No fire burning beneath the stolen cast-iron pot. The hammocks previously tied between the casuarinas all taken down. For a moment we stood there looking round at each other chupidee. Then, as if in answer to the question we hadn’t even formulated yet, we heard the sound of Captain Maynard’s conch behind us—baaaaah!
We turned round to look out cross the bay at the Miss Bee. Which had escaped our notice up till now, all our attentions focused on those deserter-pioneers. Now we saw that after a delay of six long days, Captain Maynard’s sloop was at last ready to sail off to the Prescott Estate. Her bright mainsail and jib already flapping loose in the breeze. Deserters packed up and aboard.
The seven of us stood there naked, lined up on the beach, warming weself in the sun with our hands cupping over our shriveled-up stones. Staring cross the water at the Miss Bee. And son, now we realised something else. Something rather vile: those dissenters had taken Mr. Carr’s skiff. Without any discussion a-tall. Conceivably they’d need it to get back to the estate—to visit us, perhaps daily, and aid us in our labours, our group endeavour. But they’d taken it without warning, no boat remaining for us a-tall. Because there it floated, two hundred yards away, tied off the stern of the empty barge. The barge in turn tied off the Miss Bee. With the three vessels lined up one behind the next in order of diminishing size.
Leaving Mr. Wood and Mr. Hemmingway with no choice but to take off swimming again. Straightway, naked as they were. If they had any chance of catching up with the Miss Bee—not to mention they wives and children—before they set off for the Prescott Estate. And after a few minutes they were taken aboard, embraced by they waiting families, blankets wrapped round them for decency till fresh clothes could be retrieved.
Only five of us remained now at Chaguabarriga: me, Papee, Mr. Whitechurch, Mr. Carr and John. Standing there on the beach warming weself in the sun. Watching from a distance as Captain Maynard’s bos’n stretched heself out over the bowsprit to haul in the anchor. We watched the Miss Bee turn broadside to us, her bright sails filling with the gentle onshore breeze. And she started off, hobbling out the bay, her two smaller charges hobbling behind like a family of floating pelicans.
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Not till Orinoko and Esteban arrived later that same afternoon—smiling and bearing a crocus sack stuffed to the brim with pheasants they’d hunted down for the evening meal—did we realise the full significance of the occasion: it was Old Year’s night. It hadn’t occurred to us not till now. The pilfered cast-iron pot scrubbed clean right there at the beach, returned to its rightful place above the cookfire. And Orinoko and Esteban set about preparing they lavish meal. To which Mr. Carr contributed a single ingredient that, in point of fact, did not rightfully belong to him. It was the property of our deceased Captain Taylor. Mr. Carr had kept it a secret all this time, waiting for the appropriate moment. Because now he rolled from out its hiding place beneath a clump of sea grapes a half-full half-barrel of the finest West Indian rum.
Of this liquor Mr. Carr did not partake heself. With the exception a short calabash cup raised with the rest of us at the stroke of midnight, according to Mr. Whitechurch’s golden pocketwatch.
Standing to his feet at the head of the table, Mr. Whitechurch slipped his watch back inside the pocket of his green velvet vest. And taking up his own cup, he begged us for a moment’s indulgence. Mr. Whitechurch offered a toast, saying that never before had he felt happier nor healthier—
And barring only my dear wife and niece—’oom I hope are enjoying as splendid an Old Year’s fête as we are tonight—never’ve I known such affections as for these six gentlemen gathered round me at this table! So let us bless this ground, and offer thanks for a new life embraced together. Here in this, our cherished new home!
Tears in he eye-corners, Mr. Whitechurch knocked back his calabash cup.
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It was late the following morning, a good hour after breakfast—whilst me & Papee & John were taking our daily seabaths down at the beach—that Papee sent me back to the compound to check up on him. Since, as we all suddenly realised, Mr. Whitechuch hadn’t risen from his hammock that morning to take he breakfast with us.
But I couldn’t find him not-for-nothing a-tall. Calling out his name at the compound, proceeding to the gardens, and calling out his name again. In the distance I made out Mr. Carr & Esteban & Orinoko, over by the plantains plot, crouching together in the dirt. I shouted out for Mr. Whitechurch again. But oddly enough it was Mr. Carr who stood and doffed his hat, crouching back to the dirt.
I shrugged my shoulders, returning to the compound, calling out for Mr. Whitechurch a last time.
Suddenly I breathed a sigh of relief. There he was, sure enough, in the most logical place—the only place I hadn’t looked proper yet!—fast asleep inside his hammock.
I hurried towards him, there at far end of our cottage beneath the piece of thatched roof. I reached my hand into the shadow of the hammock to take hold of his shoulder and shake him awake—maybe a bit too abrupt, a bit too harsh. Watching Mr. Whitechurch sit up slow and unsteady. His trembling hands groping for the sides of the hammock, swinging gentle back-and-forth, back-and-forth.
Son, my heart gave a jolt: now I saw that his face was stained a most repugnant yellow colour. Most unnatural—because I’d never seen nothing like it before. The colour saturated all through his skin. Unlike the film of slimy sweat covering it over. Mr. Whitechurch staring up at me through bloated-out eyeballs. Stained the same frightful, same hideous yellow.
But son, it was like if he’s seeing a stranger standing before him. Like if he doesn’t know who-the-arse I am a-tall.
Then I saw a flicker of recognition. Floating up from somewhere in the depths of his hideous yellow-stained eyes. And now he leant forward, towards me, shoving his head over the side of the hammock. Reaching his face towards me at the end of his long yellow clean-neck-fowl neck. And for some peculiar reason I can’t explain, now I felt like he wanted to kiss me. Just so. And for some peculiar reason I’m embarrassed by it. By this sudden show of unmanly affection.
I jumped back a step.
But son, Mr. Whitechurch didn’t kiss me. He didn’t kiss me a-tall. He coughed twice, spewing forth a
small puddle of vomit. A small puddle, lying there on the dirt before my bare feet. Shaped like a dagger: it was the colour and consistency of molten tar.
8th Message
11/11/10
dear mr robot:
i so sorry!!! cause i was sittin dere in pelo waiting 4 u so long & den i did start to getting vex 2, vex & sad both, so i txt my brothers pon de cell & tell dem come carry me home, & nex ting lil buddah and raj come inside pelo & dey see me sitting pon de bar & looking so forlorn most in tears, & dey asks me straightway, what happen wid u, lil sis? & nex ting u know i tell dem everyting, de whole long story come spilling out, bout how u did subjuice me just to try & copy out u copies but still i stick by de rules no matter what, cause laws is laws & still i wouldnt give u de copies but take proper advantage of all dat sweet jooking sure enough, cause i aint no fool mr robot, but now u say u vex & cant take it no more & want 2 go back home in amerika jook-&-run
raj say OH-HO!!! he say JOOK-&-RUN?! francin-yankeeass-whiteman want to JOOK-WE-LIL-SIS-&-RUN?! & right den lil buddah chime in behind he 2 saying sis, i didnt just hear you say JOOK-&-RUN?! please dont tell me my ears didnt just perceive u saying JOOK-&-RUN?! not JOOK-&-RUN?! & nex ting u know lil buddah & raj bolt from inside pelo out de door & no way i could hold dem back neither, cause dey was in a RAMPAGE on de search 4 u now in de hilton or wherever dey could find u mr robot, & i did know dat would only mean plenty plenty trouble 2, so onliest ting i could do is knockback de rest of my rumcocktail & hurry hail a maxitaxi & go home fast as i could to wait 4 dem, & soon as my brothers reach home i ask dem U FIND MR ROBOT? & raj say, give he 2 blue-eye, & lil buddah say, buss mr robot nose, & i say what u do dat 4? how u could buss poor mr robot nose and give he 2 blue-eye? & lil buddah say sis, u dont say JOOK-&-RUN & ask WHAT 4? not JOOK-&-RUN, so i ask, well where mr robot is now? & raj say, must be de hospital
so mr robot i was feeling so bad when i hear bout this beating raj and lil buddah give u, i rush furs ting down to dat mergency room & dont even tink to change from out my panties i was wearing special 4 u 2, dem dentalfloss ones u love so much & say dey aint got noting like dat in amerika neither, dats how bad i was feeling mr robot, & when de nurse tell me u was only a lil bit rattle wid no broken bones but only de blue-eyes and buss-up-nose, & she give u de discharge, but now in trut i was more distress den ever mr robot, cause u wasnt dere dat i could explain everyting & say how sorry i feel, & i go back to pelo & u wasnt dere neither, & i check de hilton & u wasnt dere neither, & now i was going mad, i just dont know what i could do i did feel so terrible, & onliest ting i could promise u mr robot, if u come in de archives dis morning u could make a few, only a FEW photocopies mr robot, but i know dat few would be enough to make u heart feel glad
cordial,
miss ramsol
director, t&tna
ps plus mr robot we would be private back in my office where de machine keep
pss & i would still be wearing dem 4 u 2
psss & plus i find 2 more articles de furs i know u would love, de 2nd from plenty years later bout u family, i tink maybe de selfsame R-W TUCKER u name 4???
Inventors Narrowly Escape Drowning in Sea Trial of Naval Automaton
Trinidad Gazette, 7 January 1846
Yesterday afternoon at Maracas Bay a crowd of animated observers, together with a handful of unruly hecklers, gathered beneath the sun in bleachers erected especially for the occasion to witness the much-anticipated sea trial of the Naval Automaton. This contraption, purportedly fuelled and powered by waves alone, was designed to drive a unique craft called a Floating Island. According to the boasts of its inventor, Mr. J.A. Etzler, the resulting craft (Naval Automaton + Floating Island) would be ‘capable of crossing the Atlantic in the cheapest, safest, and most comfortable manner in five days or less.’ It would soon supplant all other outmoded models of ‘hollow’ vessels presently traveling the sea.
The proceedings of the afternoon were met with some delay when a number of the spectators refused to pay the admittance fee of $5 per adult, and $3 per child. As advertised this fee permitted them entrance to the stands, in addition to the privilege of observing the spectacle of the Naval Automaton ‘in full action.’ The fractious individuals congregated on the beach in front of the stands, claiming their entitlement to do so, refusing to move off even when threatened by Mr. Etzler himself. Tempers flared under the hot sun, resulting in a further confrontation between the inventor and the Police Constable, whose opinion favoured the crowd. The situation grew still more volatile when several angry spectators, having paid the admittance fee, demanded their money back. But everything was settled amicably by Mr. Stollmeyer, the inventor’s associate, who removed his leather helmet and passed it amongst the rebellious beach crowd collecting $2 each.
Finally, after a lengthy speech delivered by Mr. Etzler through a large pasteboard cone, in which he recounted the many attributes of his invention, the craft (hidden beneath a tarpaulin at water’s edge) was unveiled to a burst of applause. Derogatory hisses were heard as well, together with a generous amount of laughter, since the advertised ‘futuristic’ craft scarcely looked more novel or sophisticated than the river-raft of a half-tamed Warahoon living up the Orinoko.
The craft’s hull consisted of liana-bound bamboos, with a small carrot-roofed hut (intended to provide shelter in the event of nasty weather) situated towards the rear. At the front of the thatched hut, above its low entrance, a large posterboard sign was affixed containing a seaman’s chart of the Atlantic Ocean. In the lower left corner of this chart our tiny island of Trinidad could be seen, with the somewhat larger isle of Grand Britannia on the upper right, a red line traversing the blue void so as to connect the two, indicating the operators’ course of travel over the next five days.
Behind the hut, attached via rowlock to the stern of the craft, was a wide-bladed oar, presumably the steering mechanism.
Two large paddlewheels could be seen on either side at the front (as though the Warahoon had attempted to convert his river-raft into a crude, pedal-powered paddleboat). Located between these two wheels, at the very centre of the raft, was a wooden box with the letters N-A-V-A-L A-U-T-O-M-A-T-O-N painted across its four visible sides, in addition to the mysterious symbol:
[see Etzler's Machines]
A fiercely toothed iron shaft protruded from the top of this box, projecting fifteen feet into the air, passing through the float’s bottom and extending another three feet below the raft. It was welded to a wide steel platform below the hull (the platform’s size roughly 2/3 the surface area of the raft). This platform was raised into the up position, the craft resting atop it on the sand, with a three-foot gap-space between the platform and the bottom of the raft. Thus the craft seemed to hover slightly in the air above the sand, the only possibly ‘futuristic’ attribute of its appearance.
At the rear of the box was a crank which, in the words of the inventor, ‘serves to lower the platform into the still water beneath the waves’ undulations, so that once the mechanism is engaged, the upward vertical thrust exerted upon the hull will be captured and transferred to the shaft driving the paddlewheels, thus converted into a horizontal propulsion.’
Between the box and the hut sat two tall operator’s stools, fastened to the floor of the raft, complete with seat belts. At the front was a flagpole with a white banner, its purpose to warn slower vessels to take heed and clear out of the way. Dangling from the lower portion of the flagpole was a four-foot-long bunch of green bananas, intended to serve as sustenance for the operators during the five days of their journey.
For the sea trial Mr. Etzler had engaged the assistance of Captain Jerry and his mailboat for the purpose of towing his craft off the sand and into the water, thence out to sea. Mr. Etzler and Mr. Stollmeyer, wearing their leather helmets and safety goggles, strapped themselves onto their pilot stools and gave the thumbs-up signal to Captain Jerry, waiting 50 yards off the beach with a towline attached to the craft. An emotional crowd then watched as the captai
n engaged his engine. But the steel platform below the hull dug into the sand, preventing it from being dragged off the beach. Captain Jerry applied more power: the platform only dug deeper into the sand. Finally the captain applied full throttle, and amidst a cloud of smoke and an uproar coming from both the crowd and the mailboat’s engine, the craft was yanked with a great splash into the water, the operators fortunate to be wearing their seat belts and safety helmets.
Captain Jerry then backed down his throttle, and he towed the raft slowly out into the calm water of the bay. When the craft met with the first gentle undulations, 100 yards from shore, the thumbs-up signal was again given by the operators, and the craft was turned loose. Those spectators resourceful enough to have brought along their binoculars and lorgnettes, now raised them to their eyes. They watched as Mr. Etzler leant forward on his tall stool to turn the crank and lower the steel platform (now hidden beneath the craft) deeper into the water. Slowly the fiercely toothed shaft became shorter and shorter. When it had disappeared completely, Mr. Etzler threw a lever beside the crank, then he sat upright again on his pilot’s stool. At this point the copilot, Mr. Stollmeyer, took hold of the steering mechanism.
Excited spectators stared through their binoculars and lorgnettes, offering a running commentary. But for the first few minutes the craft, pointed towards the open sea by Mr. Stollmeyer—bow-first into the gentle, oncoming waves—seemed only to drift backwards, rising and falling gently as it floated over the swells. After a few minutes the craft commenced a visible bouncing action on the surface of the water. This motion gradually increased, until the raft appeared to be jumping up and down, sending out large splashes from each of its four sides. Until this point no forward progress had been noted. But no longer did the craft seem to be drifting backwards either. Slowly but surely the paddlewheels began their visible churning, and the bouncing craft seemed to move gradually forward. This continued for fifteen or so anxious minutes, as the craft progressed slowly out to sea, bouncing its way towards the first whitecaps. Even those spectators without binoculars, and those who’d previously derided Mr. Etzler in the foulest language, could now be heard cheering him on.