As Flies to Whatless Boys Read online

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  Whilst Mr. and Mrs. Whitechurch ate they breakfast the following morning, Marguerite and I took turns sponging down each other’s backs. Soaking together in they big porcelain tub—filled to the overflowing with soapy hot water, brought by the steward at Marguerite’s bidding. First time in my life, I can assure you, I’d bathed in anything more luxurious than a rusted zinc basin. Yet hardly had we finished our bath, toweled weself off and begun dressing, when we heard the first distinct, though slightly muffled shout. Coming from two decks above our heads.

  We strained our ears to hear another shout. Then another.

  Marguerite reaching for her book, scribbling—

  ???

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  By this time one of the stewards had commenced to ringing out he bell—ca-clang! ca-clang! ca-clang!—and before long a louder noise could be heard, coming from the main deck. From all parts of the ship at once. All-in-a-sudden every steward who had a bell to his charge seemed to be clanging-way, cook beating his ladle against the side of a tin pot, kitchen hands ringing out spoons against bottles. Now, up on main deck, the passengers and sailors commenced to stomping they feet and whistling—we even heard singing.

  Marguerite and me hurrying to dress weself. She gathered up her skirts in both arms—not even bothering to slip on her shoes—and we took off together. Down the hallway and up the carpeted steps.

  Hurrying hand-in-hand cross the forecastle deck, towards a crowd of passengers gathered alongside the windward rail. Several of them pointing out to sea, shouting.

  On the distant horizon, Marguerite and me made out the faint gray shapes: two tiny islands.

  It was the passenger standing in front of Marguerite who cried out first—

  Trinidad! he says, pointing at the island with its triple peaks.

  Then the other, smaller island beside it—

  Trinidad n’ Tobago!

  Bollocks, countered the sailor perched in the rigging overtop our heads, hand holding to his brow against the glare—

  Them there islands is the Aaa-zores!

  3rd Message

  21/8/10

  dear mr robot:

  so u asks me last night when we did get through wid all dat amount of jooking up & shouting down de place sweet-as-shiva, & we was relaxing lil bit after catching weself a cool, & u wants me to tell u lil someting bout my own family here in t’dad & where we comes from, & even though in trut i aint know 2 good bout where we comes from meself, only as i was saying last night dat de furst of my ancestors 2 reach here in dis island come from calcutta pon de very FURST ship dat land wid dem indentured east-indians, de FATAL ROZACK, & u sit up in de hilton bed just den wid you toetee only half-hard but still standing up like a standpipe as i say dat exclaiming out loud HOW COOL it is dat my ancestors arrive here in p-o-s de very same year as u family reach wid dat crazyass man etzler & he society, de selfsame year of 1845

  & i was telling u how deepra, she was my great-great-gran-maadoo, how she meet mahun, he was my great-great-gran-paadoo, pon dat crossing from calcutta but in fac i aint know if it was calcutta we come from a-tall, since de history of all dem indentured east-indians in dis place reachback ONLY so far as de PORT dey disembark from, either calcutta or madras, wid all else before dat chop off & obliterate 4good 4ever, cause in trut my gran-maadoo uses 2 have a tiny lil sketching dat she say pass down 2 she all de way from deepra, & even though dat sketching disappear longtime i could still remember it good, & it was a lil stream wid some rocks & lil bamboo bridge crossing over, & if u turn de paper it write in handscript PUNJAB 1842 pon de backside, & so i did start to think from den DAT is where de family must have come from in de northwest part of india & we was probably punjabi in trut, since where else would dat sketching come from? & why else would deepra & my gran-maadoo have it like dat? but nobody know 4 sure

  deepra was 17 when she make dat crossing from india & mahun only 18, & how dey meet was by chance 2 of dem wind up lying side-by-side pon de pallet down below in de bowels of dat FATAL ROZACK as i was saying, & deepa was sick-sick & weak wid dysentery 4 most of de whole voyage, & even though mahun scarce know she he did feed she grain-by-grain wid he own ration of daily rice & hers 2, 4 she 2 gain back strength like dat, & he give up most of he own 3 tin cups of daily water 2 keep she from dehydrating, & when dey reach in t’dad at last after 96 days of voyage from calcutta, & 41 days from de cape, & dey was BOTH near dead in trut, dey have de very good fortune 2 get hire out pon de selfsame estate in de south of de island near san fernando dat wasnt even much of a town yet in dem 1845 times, & so from de start of dat voyage cross de sea mahun & deepra never did spend not even 1 single night separate, very romantic just like hollywood-self!!!

  mahun & deepra was both de same sudra caste, & dat was good & bad 2 in different ways, first it was bad since sudra was de servant caste, which is de lowest of de 4 castes after brahmin & kshatriya & vaisya, but mahun was even LOWER den she as u go hear in a sec, de lowest of de low, only people lower den he is pariahs, but dat was GOOD 2 in de sense dat since mahun & deepra was de SAME sudra caste dey could marry widout breaking de law, by which i mean to say de CASTE law, & deepra & mahun DID marry as u go hear, cause u might tink dat after dey reach in t’dad all dem laws of caste did no longer apply 2 de east-indians neither, & dat crossing 2 a new land & life would put everybody pon de SELFSAME level and station, but u would be very wrong mr robot & dat is 1 ting de chupidee whitepeople dont have NO FRANCIN IDEA, cause even though everyting ELSE change 4 dem indentured east-indians, de separation of caste is 1 ting dey still maintain in dem old days very stringent & rigid mongst deyself

  but mahun was even lower den just sudra, as i was saying, he was a CHAMAR-sudra & dey was de leather workers who mutilate de hide of de sacred ox, but dat was bad & good again as u go hear cause dat skill of leather-working 2 make de shoes & belts & bags & such dat mahun had plenty skill in from a lil boy, even though it was looked down pon in india so bad dat even de SHADOW of a chamar pon de food of a holy brahmin would contaminate it & u got 2 throw it way & not even a potcake could eat it, but dat was a GOOD ting 4 mahun cause before long de overseer of dat estate find out bout he skills 4 making shoes, & next ting u know he take mahun off de cane-crew & put he 2 make boot 4 he & shoe 4 he wife & doux-doux & ALL de whitepeople, & paying him fa dese shoes 2 since dis kinda work didnt have no bearing pon he contracture, & soon as mahun could catch enough money from making de shoes he marry deepra in one bigass fancy MONSOON WEDDING PON DAT ESTATE!!! & now de overseer take deepra off de cane-crew 2 & put she 2 assist mahun in de shoe-shop, so listen here what happen how de whole ting did catch like bushfire

  cause furst mahun was making shoe 4 de overseer & de rest of de whitepeople pon dat estate, & in trut he & deepra was making dey daily wage by law 2 like all de rest of dem indentured east-indians, ¢25/day each & sometimes dey would get a lil ¢5 or ¢8 lagniappe from de overseer wife or he doux-doux or he daughter when she get a nice pair of shoes, but next ting u know all of dem EAST-INDIANS come 2 mahun & deepa 2 make DEY shoes 2, at ¢50 4 man-boot & ¢45 4 woman-shoe & ¢25 4 child-shoe, so just as u could imagine next ting u know word spread round 2 all of dem other estates, & mahun & deepra was making plenty shoes 4 de whitepeople, & even MORE shoes 4 de east-indians now, & before long plenty plenty dollars was wetting dey palms in trut

  so nex ting u know de 10 years of dey indentureship was finish-up, so deepra & mahun was entitle 2 free passage back 2 india now, or else according to de NEW law just instituted den if dey elec to remain here in t’dad dey would receive a small parcel of land 2 put in agriculture 4 deyself, but since deepra & mahun didnt want 2 go back 2 india not-4-noting, cause dey was RICH RICH & living like king-&-queen in t’dad now, so dey choose 2 take de land dat was 5 acres each, or 10 acres 2gether, but since mahun & deepra didnt know a pum bout agriculture neither but only making shoe shoe shoe & more shoe, dey didnt want dat land in de country & so dey sell it off & take dat money plus what de
y have save-up 2 buy a shop in san fernando on coffee street 2 make & sell de shoes, wid a floor on top where dey could live wid dey children dat was 3 now, 2 boys & 1 girl & ALL of dem born trinis!!!

  so now mr robot u have a lil bit bout where my family come from & how we reach here in t’dad, dat i dont mind telling u as i was saying, but i was just bout 2 finish writing u out dis email dis morning 5 minutes ago when miss samlalsingh arrive 4 work & she explain 2 me how yesterday thursday when i did had de afternoon off & she was in charge, & u come inside here in de archives saying how MISS RAMSOL GIVE U PERMISSION 2 USE DIS MACHINE & copy out u copies of dat MORNIN STAR or whateverdeass it is of dis crazyass man ETZLER u say u writing u book bout, & u tells miss samlalsingh how u & miss ramsol is tight tight now jooking-down de place like pusscats most every night & miss samlalsingh know is de trut 2, but mr robot she tell u just as i instruct SHE enough times dont matter if is de QUEEN OF FRANCIN ENGLAN TUTI U JOOKING dat dont give u access 2 dis xerox machine, & i aint know who de ass u yankees tink u is, just cause u skin white like u toetee make from gold bar & u pums smell like french perfume, but miss samlalsingh is more savvy den dat & she see through all of u boldface lies & bullying straightway & dont let u near dis machine, not 4 hell mr robot, so listen here what i telling u, eh: u best learn some effin manners & behave uself proper & follow de rules just like everybody else, unnastan? eh? cause laws is laws & rules is rules & aint no exceptions 4 dis xerox machine not 4 u nor nobody else, unnastan?

  good

  so watch u francin self mr robot, unnastan? eh?

  cordial,

  miss ramsol

  director, t&tna

  ps if u want u could meet me at pelo 2nght again round 9

  pss & me or miss samlalsingh would be holding 2 articles 4 u at de reserve frontdesk out de p-o-s gazette of 1845 would be of plenty interest 2 u i feel sure

  THE PORT OF SPAIN GAZETTE

  30 November 1845

  FIRST LOT OF INDIAN IMMIGRANTS

  We have much pleasure in announcing the arrival this afternoon of the long-awaited ship, the Fatal Rozack, 96 days from Calcutta and 41 days from the Cape of Good Hope, with 217 coolies on board ‘all in good order and condition,’ as the bills of landing have it. There were five deaths on board during the passage, but the general appearance of the coolies is very healthful indeed. When our people are informed that there are countless thousands of these coolies, inured to a tropical climate, starving in their own country, and most willing to emigrate to the West Indies, it may be the means of opening their eyes a little to the necessity of working more steadily and giving greater satisfaction to their employers. Coolie provisions, also arriving aboard the Rozack, are available at Losh, Spiers & Co. at Richmond Street Wharf. The Fatal Rozack is a fine vessel of 445 tons and is manned by a crew of lascars.

  Coolie provisions (very cheap) including:

  rice

  dhal

  ghee

  turmeric

  chillis

  tobacco &

  Indian hemp

  THE PORT OF SPAIN GAZETTE

  2 December 1845

  ARRIVAL OF THE ROSALIND

  We have the pleasure of announcing this morning that the Rosalind has arrived in port, 47 days out from London and 19 days from the Azores, bearing a good deal of long-awaited goods and produce. Included amongst the passengers travelling on this vessel were the first lot of ‘pioneers,’ 37 in number, of the Tropical Emigration Society, a joint-stock association formed in London by Messrs. Etzler and Stollmeyer, who arrived amongst their enthusiastic followers. Mr. Etzler is a self-styled inventor, scientist, and philanthropist. He is here in Trinidad not only as director and founder of his Society, but also as Consulting Engineer for the construction of the Great Western and South-Eastern Railway, Trinidad’s first locomotive system which is to utilise ‘wooden rails,’ and which will connect our capital with San Fernando and other locations in the south. Mr. Stollmeyer, who acts as Secretary for the Society, has been a printer in London and Philadelphia. The Rosalind is a fine vessel of 596 tons under charge of Captain James Damphier. Newly imported articles and provisions may be purchased at Losh, Spiers & Co. at Richmond Street Wharf, including the following—

  Fine European Goods:

  linens & silk bedsheets

  female lingerie & hosiery

  sherry & wine

  champagne

  brandy

  votive churchcandles

  salted hams

  Dutch Edam

  & other cheeses

  5

  The Captain’s Ball

  They were Santa Maria and Sao Miguel. And as the Rosalind drew closer, as the whitecaps settled and the ocean shifted colour from slate-gray to bright aquamarine, they revealed theyself to us in all they splendour. Because let me tell you after twenty-eight days aboard ship, only staring at nothing more solid than the empty horizon, they were something astonishing to see. First it was Santa Maria, which gave the illusion of being the larger of the two, due to its height and closer proximity. Like a hallucination it slipped past we starboard rail. And the ship made she way towards the habour of Punta Delgada, on the southern shore of the more elongated Sao Miguel. Its triple brown peaks lined up before us, one after the next. And presently on the grassy hillsides of this isle we made out numerous white dots—wandering about, puzzling at first. They were grazing sheep.

  Pulled along uneven by a single foresail at the prow—puffing up and falling limp again like the beaten canvas itself was exhausted—the ship creaked she way into the harbour’s clear lime-green water. So still that upon its shimmering surface a succession of watery rings could be seen. Issuing forth from the Rosalind’s hull-line. Spreading out round us in all directions. Until—at the centre of these brightly undulating rings, in a silence void of all save the distant squawk of gulls—Captain Damphier at last issued he command: the sailors dropped anchor.

  Out from nowhere a yellow-sailed sloop appeared, seemingly overburdened by its cargo of brown-hued men and women, all wearing colourful costumes. Calling out to us in a language sounding like water sloshing forth from a bucket. Without warning they scrambled aboard. And even before we had a chance to suck we first breath of earth-smelling land-air, we heard they mandolins, strumming-way in our midst. Now the barefoot, brightly-ribboned dancers divided theyself up into parallel lines, stretching the length of the third-class deck. Bowing and curtsying to each other and pairing off, turning round with they hands clapping above they heads, ribbons twirling. Singing out in they water-sloshing tongue. Eventually forming a circle so wide it seemed to encompass the entire ship.

  With smiling gestures the dancers encouraged us inside they circle. And led off by none other than Captain Damphier heself—spinning round expert and kicking up he heels—we followed timid behind. Next thing you know, son, we were all dancing—every man-jack and woman-jill aboard that ship! In whichever graceful or bumbling manner we spirits commanded. Laughing out loud. And in no time a-tall those tedious weeks at sea seemed distant and unthreatening as the sun sinking into the rose-tinted horizon behind we backs.

  Other sloops arrived. Bearing quantities of fresh fruits and vegetables—milk, eggs, cheese—fish still flapping in they wicker baskets. Cackling chickens and fat guinea hens clasped upside-down by they wiry feet. Transforming the deck of the Rosalind to a raucous marketplace. The captain setting about replenishing he stock, bartering like a seasoned old housewife.

  More sloops shifted alongside. And eventually smaller dinghies drifted up too. The gesturing, smiling, sunbaked Azoreans passing us up bottles of wine. All our arms reaching down to grab them up. An exotic liquor smelling strong as brandy—but tasting like a combination of the sweetest strawberries and tartest limes—for which those of us who could afford the extravagance readily tossed down we shillings. Flashing into the dinghies’ wells.

  Son, whilst the Azorians were allowed aboard ship, due to immigration and quarantine regulations the passengers were strictly forb
idden to disembark. And in any case the Rosalind had already fallen behind schedule. So there wasn’t time. The captain announcing that any attempt to depart ship would amount to nothing short of insurrection. He own legal jurisdiction to leave us behind: under no circumstances would said passengers be allowed back aboard.

  Such prohibitions made the starkly weathered wharf and gray-shelled shore, the quaint village rising behind of neatly whitewashed houses with red-tiled roofs, seem to us even more enticing. At the same time there was something gentle & easy & comforting in the island’s mere presence before us: its hazy solidity. The indisputable fact of its simply being there—only a stone’s throw away—despite its dreamlike appearance. And those of us still leaning up against the rail, still gazing through the descending dark, found it difficult, almost painful, to turn we backs to it.

  But son, now we all experienced a next emotion again. A growing excitement to return to we cabins, freshen weself, and don we finest apparel. Because that same evening we’d be treated to a special banquet, anticipated since the start of the voyage. Served to us beneath the stars on the third-class deck, at tables and benches already being shifted into position by the sailors. To be followed by the Captain’s Ball. Because even those deckhands were freed from all duties tonight—Captain Damphier’s treat—since they’d be served dinner by the Azoreans too.

  ___________________

  Our own two adjacent cabins already a hubbub of commotion, the Tucker clan hurrying to dress weself. Georgina pulling out her clothes garment by garment, all-in-a-sudden in a serious flap—she couldn’t find she lace brassiere. It’d somehow disappeared from amongst the things packed so careful beneath she bunk. Her fancy square-toed shoes gone too. Next thing Mum couldn’t locate her silk stockings and garter. And Mary couldn’t find her bloomers with the little pink bows at the hips.