CHAPTER I REVISITED

THE BITTER ARGUMENT

Put da’ away an’ save your aggression for de Bradshers. Alwyn Cooke spoke authoritatively, full of confidence, to the man whom, just a week before, he had not known how to address. In the previous ten days he had gone from being a charismatic rich man to becoming an efficient leader. He walked into the scene and, without making a big fuss, defused the situation. We all tense, nuh, but we mus’ take it easy. Gaynor—watcha doin’ shouting nonsense like dat for? And Gaynor, half ashamed but steadfast in his resolve not to yield, almost got started again. And Harry González, Think very well what you’re gonna say, the hammer of his gun still cocked, no longer looking into Gaynor Henderson’s nose but directed at the stars.

Yet at this point, it wasn’t only Gaynor Henderson who had to choose his words carefully, because all of a sudden just about every person on The Rambler, except for Sol and Rude, had something to say about the plan. All of a sudden it was as if the words that had not been spoken had to be retrieved, rescued, from the previous silence. All at once, unsuspecting friends and family members faced the imminent danger of a blaze of fire spreading uncontrolled through the slums of Baseterre, which was all one big slum. Meanwhile, others who until now had seemed too neutral or perplexed to make any kind of statement displayed a vicious vein and condemned to death by fire all of those who had conspired against the rightful development of their homeland, even if it was only by omission. And then there were those standing between the rifles and the dynamite who claimed they had not come along to send anybody to the stake, for it was no one’s business other than God Almighty’s to decide who’s to live and who’s to die, and when and how, and there is no greater sin than to play God, and there ain’ no cause, no matter how righteous, wort’ da soul of a single one of God’s children. Amen! And in no time at all the back of The Rambler became a franchise of Babel, where nothing was being erected and no languages were being spoken, other than English, but where everyone addressed everyone else, and no one addressed anyone in particular, and consequently no one heard what anyone said, and words came and went and mixed and jumbled and rose over, above, on top of one another, forming this unintelligible gobble that got lost in the endless darkness of the sea.

Fellows, stop it already. Leave it alone! But the words had taken their toll, and this bedlam was not about to be sorted out by the sober, understated reprimands of Alwyn Cooke. Leave it alone, I say! And he turned to the man whom he thought was stirring all the trouble, but he found Harry González sitting back in his place, hammer uncocked, gun back in its holster, head in both hands, looking at the floor, thinking, What the hell have I got myself into? and most likely making calculations, trying to figure out whether twenty grand split between three would be enough to account for all this shit.

Out of nowhere, Solomon Carter suddenly roared with intimidating vigor over the yapping crowd, Yo Rude! If dem lights to de west Statia and dem lights dead ahead St. Kitts, you wanna tell me wha’ dem lights over dere be? As soon as he rose to his feet, it seemed like Sol stood on higher ground, and everyone aboard The Rambler fell silent. You go tell me is Barbuda, nuh? The question was rhetorical, but Sol Carter had been insulted, and he felt aggrieved, and he would not stop until Rude Thompson knew exactly what he thought of him. Because it was one thing to be inexperienced—none of the men aboard The Rambler, at least none of the ones who mattered, the Anguillians, were used to sailing between the islands; none of them had ever taken part in a rebellion, organized a revolution, or been in a military operation. But it was altogether a different thing to be proud—so proud that you would not see, would not accept, your mistakes, putting in jeopardy the success of an operation in which every single man was risking his life. Or you t’ink you de only one riskin’ somet’in’ tonight? Tell me, nuh—wha dat light yonder be, if it ain’ St. Kitts?

As soon as Rude Thompson spotted the lights he pulled back the handles of the throttle, letting the engines idle. For a moment, all that could be heard was the empty thump of a wayward wave or ripple crashing against the underside of the hull, as the calm Caribbean waters rocked the boat melodiously, intensely, in the middle of the night. The Rambler drifted helplessly in no particular direction and Rude Thompson had the perfect chance to acknowledge his mistake, to humbly concede Sol’s point, to steer the boat in the right direction and get on with it. He had the chance—Sol had purposely played his cards that way. Except, if Rude had been the kind of fellow with the temperment necessary to take such option, then he wouldn’t have been called Rude: then his nickname would have been Rudy, or Rat, or he would have had no nickname and been plain Rudolf. But he wasn’t; he was called Rude Thompson and he was called Rude Thompson for a reason. So when Sol Carter talked up Rude Thompson’s mistake and made him look like a fool, he didn’t take to it nicely. Who you t’ink you be, Sol? You t’ink you de boss? You t’ink you de leader? You ain’ not’in’—not’in’ but a drunkard, a t’ief, and a failure. They were the first words that came to Rude’s mind—he might have called him anything else he could think of, had he been able to think of anything at all. As he pronounced the words he approached with his fists balled shut, thumbs outside his fingers, ready to pounce on the fifty-year-old man who had spotted his shortcomings as captain and made him lose his cool.

Alwyn Cooke recognized this as the perfect opportunity to assert himself as the natural, undisputed leader of the revolution. Without thinking, he stepped between the two men and instructed Rude to Go back to your post, captain. In an instant, Alwyn had elevated himself to a rank superior to that of the captain of a boat at sea. Alwyn became the moral, the spiritual, the intellectual leader of a motley bunch with one dubious, unprepared gesture. Who the hell you two t’ink you be? And that was the very first time most of the men aboard The Rambler ever heard Alwyn speak about hell. Wha’ you t’ink you doin’? Another mention of hell might have rendered the first one banal, so Alwyn stopped himself short of stepping too far into the realm of the common. His mien was severe, and all of a sudden renewed confidence could be seen in the way he carried himself. Dis ain’ no joke, gentlemen—dis serious, serious business. But Alwyn knew nobody on that boat was really in the mood for scolding, so he did not remind anyone that they had all come along on this adventure willingly, and they had all known well in advance what the plan was. Instead, he turned toward the bridge of The Rambler to study the situation with his captain.

It was well past eleven p.m. when the resolution was made to keep heading toward St. Eustatius, to pass it on its western side and then tack toward the southeast, thus taking a safer route into Sandy Hill Point, avoiding the channel between St. Kitts and St. Eustatius for the most part.

When you t’ink we reach Sandy Hill Point?

Is still awhile was not exactly what Alwyn Cooke wanted to hear from Rude Thompson at that point.

Full t’rottle all de way, nuh.

With the logistical problems surrounding the arrival in St. Kitts having been discussed and resolved, Alwyn now had to address the more pressing question of how to handle things once they landed at Half Way Tree. Gaynor Henderson had raised an issue out of turn, but the reaction Alwyn Cooke had witnessed in the men aboard The Rambler told him that the matter was more troubling than anyone organizing the coup would have liked to think. So Alwyn approached Solomon Carter and, without any discernible trace of alarm or panic, Wha’ we goin’ do, Sol?

Solomon Carter might have sulked at this point. He could have made yet another scene, forced a power struggle, disturbed the morale of the group further; he might even have sought to put his name forward on the list of popular leaders of a revolution that was just ten days old. But Solomon Carter was not Rude Thompson—that was not his temperament, nor was it his ambition. When Alwyn Cooke approached him, looking for advice, Solomon Carter did not turn around and walk away, he did not rub his anger in Alwyn’s face, he did nothing other than provide his sober point of view. I ain’ like it.

Solomon was a pacifist. He was as unlikely a protagonist of a revolution as anyone could have found in the annals of Caribbean history, and yet he was wholeheartedly committed to the cause by a curious sense of fate that made him believe there was a particular purpose to his life, that God had placed him at a particular juncture in time, in a particular place, all for a good reason. I ain’ like it from de start, yet his voice was low and discrete, and his muttering was less conclusive than the words he spoke. If we do our job wit’ de Defence Force, we no need to blow up no fuel depot or not’in’. A long silence ensued, before: You don’ t’ink?

Alwyn Cooke was thinking, all right—he was thinking about the people-goin’-dead nonsense which Gaynor had started, and he was thinking whether it really was nonsense, or if, indeed, too many people were going to die in vain. But Solomon Carter’s question gave back perspective to his wandering thoughts, and helped him to focus again on the real question, which was not how many people would die in the exercise, but what was required for the operation to be a success. Could an army of a hundred-odd people take Baseterre by storm and depose the tyrannical government of Robert Bradshaw without creating the havoc that would follow the explosion of the fuel depot, right there on the edge of the urban area?

The sad reality of the affair, however, was that, posed with the million-dollar question, Alwyn Cooke could not provide an educated guess as to whether or not Baseterre could be taken without blowing up the fuel depot. The only man vaguely qualified to make an assessment on that situation was Harry González, and Alwyn Cooke had seen enough of his temper already to understand that he was not the right person to turn to at that moment. Alwyn Cooke sat in silence next to Solomon Carter for a long time. Not a word came from either of the two, as they both considered what was best for the day, what was best for the country. Then the next crisis arrived.

Walter Stewart, still sitting at the back of the boat, had paid little attention to the line of water that wet the soles of his boots a few minutes after The Rambler had retaken its adjusted course en route to St. Kitts. But now, some half hour later, the waterline was substantially higher, so much so that the fifteen-year-old felt it was time to speak up. Water had been leaking into the boat from the moment Alwyn had ordered to go at full speed. It came in through the rudder case as the backwash of the engines increased, and it collected in the aft of the boat due to its inclination. By the time Walter Stewart drew Alwyn Cooke’s attention to the situation, the water had already reached the bags with the guns and ammunition. The Rambler had to slow down by a couple of inches and the men got together to bail out the boat. Of course, if there was one thing in abundance in The Rambler, it was hands to deal with the problem.

What there wasn’t, however, was much confidence. All the excitement of some hours earlier had dissipated, or had turned into fear and anxiety. There was an air of restlessness, which grew with every mile that took them closer to St. Kitts. This anxiety reflected not an eagerness to get on with the task at hand, but rather a muted regret for having taken part in a senseless operation, a desire to turn right back and be homeward bound. Alwyn Cooke could feel the reservation of his men, even if none of them dared speak it—he could hear it in their slow speech, he could see it in their downcast eyes.

The Rambler reached the lights of St. Eustatius round about midnight, more than an hour behind schedule. This was the time when they were supposed to reach Half Way Tree; instead, they made their way at full-speed-minus-a-couple-of-inches to the shores of Sandy Hill Point. The final leg of the journey would be done in total darkness, with all the lights of The Rambler switched off to avoid St. Kitts’s revenue cutter from spotting the rogue boat. So, as soon as they reached St. Eustatius, Alwyn Cooke summoned Gaynor Henderson, Harry González, Solomon Carter, and Rude Thompson to the bridge of the vessel. What he had to say, he knew, would incense Harry and undermine Gaynor, so he said it quickly, yet in stages: Gaynor here, he right, you know. Ain’ no sense in blowin’ up de fuel depot if we don’ need to, and before Harry González could utter a word, We mus’ leave de Kittitians do dey dirty job, if dey wan’ do it.

Despite the time of night, Alwyn Cooke still believed blindly in the figures that Dr. Crispin Reynolds had shown him six nights before in his residence at Island Harbour, still expected to find no less than one hundred supporters of Dr. Reynolds’s cause who would constitute the bulk of the force making their way through the streets of Baseterre. Alwyn Cooke was happy to distribute the spare guns between them, he was happy to appoint them with explosives, with instructions, and with plenty of courage. But Alwyn had decided that God had not intended him and his people to kick out the police task force from Anguilla, to declare independence and call the attention of the entire world, only to land in St. Kitts ten days later to murder a whole bunch of innocent people in an attempt to put another, more sympathetic autocrat in power. So, Alwyn Cooke called off the attack on the fuel depot, cut down to ten the number of men who would go into Baseterre, reduced the squads from three to two, with him leading the group that would head toward the police station, while Rude and the three American mercenaries attacked the Defence Force camp.

So where you wan’ me?

But Alwyn Cooke didn’t think it was appropriate to let Gaynor Henderson know yet that he would be left to protect the boat with some of the youngest members, awaiting the return of the troopers. I tell you later. That was as far as this first stage of reorganization would take him. He was prepared to face the exasperation of Harry González, but not the brutish temper of Gaynor Henderson.

His strategy worked perfectly, as Gaynor, still too embarrassed about his recent outburst to be excessively forceful, accepted Alwyn’s deferral without complaint. Meanwhile, Harry González, too far from hope to harbor any, simply delivered a tirade of insults that finished with: Twenny minutes before landing you decide to alter the whole plan? You’re all a bunch of morons. To which Alwyn Cooke simply reminded him, You job will soon be done, Mr. González.

The meeting was already over when Rude Thompson announced, Dem de last lights of Oranjestad. We soon be in de channel, meaning the short strait between St. Eustatius and St. Kitts. Alwyn Cooke ordered the lights of The Rambler, including the navigation lights, to be switched off, and he told the men to take their positions. An’ be quiet, nuh. It would be at least another half hour before they reached Sandy Hill Point, but given that they were over an hour late, there was no telling where the escorting boat might be at this stage, or whether the St. Kitts revenue cutter was on the lookout for them.

So The Rambler darted through the channel at full speed, cutting across the darkness of the night, while sixteen men, caught between whispers and mutterings, waited for a signal—any signal, from friend or foe—to put them out of their misery.