CHAPTER II

THE RENDEZVOUS

Once again The Rambler drifted idly on the calm Caribbean waters, this time off the northwestern coast of St. Kitts. Not a word was spoken as every one of the men aboard looked out in the distance, trying to spot the signal from the escort that was supposed to meet them at Sandy Hill Point. The atmosphere was tense and the nerves could be measured by the ticking of seconds in Solomon Carter’s wristwatch. The Rambler had been waiting for close to thirty minutes, sporadically sending out the coded flickering of a flashlight in the hope that the signal would reach friendly shores before it was intercepted by the local authorities. Despite the slight delay they had encountered in the journey south from Anguilla, there was an air of disbelief among the militiamen at the silent vacuum that welcomed their arrival in St. Kitts. And yet, there was a limit to the discretion that could be expected from them—a limit that shared its boundaries with the sound of teeth being sucked.

On average, the common Anguillian man is likely to suck his teeth somewhere between 150 and 200 times a day. These suckings can vary in length and tone and will inevitably have a wide variety of meanings, most of which display a degree of disapproval. Frustration, fear, and anger are all most efficiently expressed through teeth suckings, which also play a role when entertaining a crowd or even wooing a woman. In the wee-wee hours of the morning of June 10, 1967, though, teeth were being sucked in The Rambler with a heightened level of anxiety and even a degree of desperation. Until one particularly long-drawn brood was cut short when, in the distance, a bright light flashed intermittently. It was hard to tell whether the sequence in fact corresponded with the previously agreed code, but the expectation inside The Rambler had grown to such extent that as soon as anything at all emerged from the flat darkness ahead, the boat tilted sideways.

Easy, fellas, easy. Alwyn Cooke tried to cool down the spirits of his men. Hol’ on tight, gentlemen—dere kyan be more excitement still. And he instructed Gaynor, Glenallen, Dwight O’Farrell, and Walter Stewart to each pick up a bag and stand by on the port side, ready to throw them overboard upon his call. And then to Rude: Stop signalin’—le’ we jus’ approach an’ see wha’ happen’.

What happened was that as soon as Rude put the flashlight away, the other boat stopped sending signals, triggering fear among the Anguillians that, indeed, they had been picked out by the revenue cutter. Rude slowed down considerably, so as to have enough power left in the throttle to try to make a quick escape if needed, and Alwyn, on the same page, Be ready for a sharp turn to de nort’ side. The final word of advice to the four men holding the bags was to make it as obvious as possible that they were dropping something—Is we only hope if dem stop ’n’ fish out dem packages, while we race away to Statia. So long we kyan get dere before dem, we safe.

Suddenly, Rude Thompson, dismayed, We lose ’em. Long time already dey should have come cross we pat’. Dey lose we.

Alwyn’s reaction was emblematic, countering Rude’s consternation with immediate action, retrieving the flashlight and once again sending out the coded message into the night in all directions. And again. And again. Nothing.

Until the grave sound of another boat’s engines emerged above The Rambler’s own 115hp diesel motor. Which meant it was too late to run. The other boat was just a few yards away, although the moonless night was too dark for anything to be made out in the mist. So Alwyn, terrified about the outcome of his move, switched all lights on and identified himself to the oncoming boat.

Whaddahell yer doin’ wit’ yer lights on? Turn ’em off! came right back from the silhouette of the escorting boat, and the scold was greeted with a deep sigh of relief that was only interrupted by the metal sound from the hammers and safeties of the guns of the three American mercenaries, whose immediate instincts had been not to run away, but to take care of the men aboard the revenue cutter. Nobody had noticed, but Titus Brown had stood firm, his one arm outstretched, his hand turned sideways, pointing his automatic handgun toward the port side of the boat, where he imagined the revenue cutter would appear, while Mario Gómez, right knee on the wet floor of the boat, covered him from a different angle and Harry González held a loaded M16 in his right hand.

Now that the situation had been defused, Titus Brown uncocked the hammer of his gun, slipped it back in its holster, and paced about The Rambler with a contemptuous sneer that gave away exactly what he thought about his Anguillian partners. Harry González threw his machine gun on top of a bag just as Gaynor Henderson placed it back on the ground. I thought we were here to fight. But no one really heard what Harry González had to say, or if they did, they paid no attention, because the friendly red hull of the escorting boat could finally be seen as it approached The Rambler from its starboard side. Where di hell yer been? was the warm welcome extended by the Kittitian contingent to their Anguillian counterparts. In typically understated fashion, Alwyn simply replied, We here—we here waitin’ long time. A cackle from both sides sealed the peace, and the journey reached its next stage.

Twenty minutes later, the two boats arrived in Half Way Tree—a dormant little fishing village that for one day was supposed to become the headquarters of an insurrection. Except, to the men aboard The Rambler, it seemed like the beach of Half Way Tree, running parallel to a small road and a row of darkened houses, was far too dormant to be the hub of anything. Alwyn Cooke chose to ignore the Where everyone be? that revealed the prevalent anxiety, and set out to restore normality—Bring de boat closer to shore before we drop anchor. There was no pier to dock at Half Way Tree, so the landing would have to be made on the beach—not that this posed any difficulty to a people who lived on an island where no piers were built at all, not even for the import of food, medicine, and petrol.

As The Rambler neared the beach, Alwyn broke the news to Gaynor Henderson that he was to stay with the younger guys, looking after the boat.

Wha’? Who you go send in my place?

And Alwyn, not so much answering Gaynor’s petulant question as issuing the final instructions: Rude, you take Harry, Titus, Mario, and Glen to de Defence Force camp; I take Sol, Dwight, Desmond, and Whitford to de police station. Be careful wit’ dem bags, nuh.

As the men jumped into the sea and carried the heavy loads to safety on their heads and shoulders, Gaynor was caught between two minds, at once relieved about not having to face the prospect of killing anyone and aggrieved at being relegated to a peripheral role in the important mission. But before he could settle his thoughts, it was Alwyn’s turn to jump into the night.

Remember, if you ain’ hear not’in’ by five a.m., leave to Statia. May de Lord be wit’ us, may He guide we steps tonight and shed His light on our pat’s to help us achieve de freedom of our country and de blessing of our Lord. Amen. Okay, le’s see where all dem Kittitian people be.

It had not yet dawned on Alwyn Cooke that no one was hiding anywhere, because there were no other people than the ten, twelve lost souls sitting between the beach and the roadside. It had not yet dawned on Alwyn Cooke that Dr. Reynolds’s folder full of numbers contained not so much an optimistic overcalculation but rather a vulgar lie based on nothing other than speculation. It had not dawned on Alwyn Cooke that Dr. Reynolds had come to his house six nights before much like a moribund Christian visits a shrine, seeking more a miracle than a cure. Dr. Reynolds had left Alwyn Cooke’s house early that very same morning and gone straight to his office, where he had worked most of the day, manipulating the numbers inside his folder in order to make them look consistent, plausible, and, above all, encouraging. But fixed numbers on a sheet of paper have no resonance anywhere other than in a man’s imagination. So, when Alwyn Cooke reached Half Way Tree imagining he would find one hundred or so incensed, brave, grateful Kittitians, ready to kill and to die for the future of their country, he was confronted with the cruel reality of a situation which had been quite deliberately misrepresented.

Alwyn Cooke, half-incredulous, half-enraged, walked up to one of the pockets of people visible on the beach. It was a group of four young men caught up in a game of dominoes that was prolonged by fumes of rum clouding the reasoning of the players. When Alwyn Cooke explained who he was, one of the young men turned, as if to make sure there really was someone there speaking the words he heard, and with a dismissive chuckle, Wha’? Dis time at night yer come to cause trouble? and the hard sucking of his teeth echoed in the night.

Not one to indulge in heavy drinking or even condone it, Alwyn Cooke was discouraged by the sight of an empty demijohn of rum toppled underneath the table where the domino stones lay. But before he could say anything, Rude Thompson stepped forward and vented the frustration that had built inside him ever since the lights of St. Kitts emerged far to the east of their course with a kick that sent the table flying while he grabbed one of the drunkards by the collar of his T-shirt. You better show some respect to a brother come from far away to help you ass, nuh. The racket shattered the silence of the night. Where you leader be? But the question landed on deaf ears, not so much because all four young men were numb from the rum and the violence, but simply because there was no leader at all. Between giggles and cackles, a mocking Leader who? was followed by, We all free men in St. Kitts, yer know.

Alwyn had already turned away in the direction of another group of people assembled farther up along the beach. Four young boys and a middle-aged man looked toward him, startled by Rude Thompson’s burst of anger. Yer guys wanna get caught before yer start? This time the interaction followed more commonly accepted rules of courtesy. The middle-aged man called himself Ronnie. He might have been in his fifties, though it was hard to tell in the darkness of the night. His skin was particularly dark, and the features of his face—his bulging cheekbones, the creviced lines around his mouth, his large nostrils—carved a map of shadows that sharpened the roughness of his physiognomy. His voice was grave but soft, his demeanor reserved and collected, and his hands, uncannily large, gave away a history of hard labor, either out at sea or in the cane fields.

Ronnie explained how a larger crowd had gathered earlier that night, but they had expected the Anguillian contingent to arrive by midnight, so when nothing had happened by one o’clock most of them had dispersed, lured by the call of rum or women. As for the four rowdy men on the other end of the beach, Dem a bunch of no-goods yer no wanna deal wit’. What Alwyn needed, Ronnie explained as he waved the bright white palm of his hand, was brave young men such as these fellows here. Alwyn looked at the tired faces of the four boys. The oldest of them might have been fifteen. Their countenances were fixed by fatigue halfway between fear and excitement. They might have been brothers, half brothers, or just cousins, though they were certainly related to Ronnie, all strongly built. But Dem too young to come along, and while Ronnie expressed his indignation and explained how at their age he was already a grown man, working at the sugar fields, earning his own living, and soon to be a father, Alwyn considered the consequences of their delay on the subsequent execution of the original plan.

Ronnie didn’t know it, but he had sealed the course of the evening with his vague description of the scene a few hours earlier: he had confirmed a bigger crowd had assembled, and Alwyn Cooke had immediately imagined the hundred-odd people Dr. Reynolds had promised, even though Ronnie was referring to nothing other than a motley crew of forty to fifty people, including women and children. People in St. Kitts had come to see the Anguillian forces with the same curiosity that other people in other places go to the circus to see the cannonball man or the glass-eating giant. But in Alwyn Cooke’s mind, Dr. Reynolds had kept his end of the deal; in fact, in Alwyn Cooke’s mind, Dr. Reynolds had put his reputation at stake for the good of the Anguillian people. Therefore, in Alwyn Cooke’s mind, it seemed increasingly difficult to get out of the situation without going ahead as planned.

The voices of another group of people could soon be heard farther back along the beach, somewhere between the collapsed domino table and the four children. It was the crew of the red escort boat who had come ashore and convened with two other men who awaited their arrival by the beach. Alwyn Cooke made his way to the group, and walked into a conversation about how late The Rambler had arrived in St. Kitts. Alwyn immediately snapped, Boy, da’ de way it is, man—how many cars there be t’ take we to Baseterre? He then saw the rest of his men approaching. Harry González, typically cynically, Not quite the army you were expecting, huh? To which Rude Thompson, Who say we need more men?

This was the cue for Desmond O’Farrell, an eighteen-year-old kid, to deliver a speech he had not prepared, to try to talk some sense into a bunch of old men who seemed to have lost perspective. I ain’ wan’ soun’ like no coward, but we come help dem people an’ dere ain’ a soul to be helped. Seem to me we messin’ wit’ a problem that ain’ ours to mess wit’. But before he could finish his metaphor about eating from someoone else’s plate, he was interrupted by Alwyn Cooke, who explained that St. Kitts was a problem that had very much to do with Anguilla’s reality, that Anguilla wouldn’t have a plate at all if Bradshaw had his way, and that whether or not there were any people to welcome their expedition had nothing to do with what they had come to do in St. Kitts, nor with the reasons why they had come to do it.

Desmond O’Farrell had already been comprehensively shut up when fate produced the trump card Ronnie still had to play, because it transpired that there were only two cars to take ten armed men and four large bags full of guns, ammo, and explosives into Baseterre. But Ronnie owned a small pickup truck, which was precisely what the group needed, so all of a sudden his posture on the dark sand of Half Way Tree became haughtier, and his attitude turned more relaxed—even aloof—and his position became unequivocal: either the kids go along, or there would be no using his truck.

Alwyn Cooke was growing unnerved by the whole situation, but there was no time to waste, least of all negotiating trivial matters, so he agreed to take one boy, the oldest, so long as he kept quiet, did exactly as he was told, and stayed right next to his father, who would have to take part in the attack. Deal! And as the cars were assembled to set out toward the capital, a dose of sense seeped into Solomon Carter’s mind. He approached Alwyn Cooke and took him aside for a word. There, five yards away from the others, he explained how Dis too dangerous, Al. We ain’ need you here; we need you good an’ healt’y at home.

Solomon Carter was concerned about the future of the revolution if the present mission proved to be a failure. He recognized in Alwyn Cooke the undisputed leader of the people, the father of the nation, and he worried that, despite the best efforts of the peacekeeping committee, everything would spiral into havoc and ultimate submission, should anything happen to Alwyn that night. Alwyn, flattered as he might have been, was adamant about not staying behind—We already too few, Sol—and before he could say that they needed every man they could get, Sol disarmed his argument with the most powerful of remarks: Dat why you leave six ah we behind?

Naturally, this had not been the reason. In fact, the only consideration that had played a role in that decision had been the safety of his people. The excitement of the struggle for freedom had infected vast portions of the population in Anguilla—particularly the younger and the poorer on an island where poverty was the rule and infancy prevailed. But there had been too many adolescents too keen to fight a battle that was plagued with uncertainties. Alwyn himself might not have felt so strongly about it had Gaynor not uttered his shattering too-many-people-goin’-dead nonsense, although it had always been part of the plan to leave at least three people looking after The Rambler as a decoy in case the authorities spotted the alien boat. Yet it was true that even if the danger of getting caught or killed had not increased substantially, their awareness of it had certainly grown dramatically since their departure from Island Harbour, eleven hours earlier.

If you no wan’ sen’ no kid, sen’ Gaynor instead. Sol’s insistence made Alwyn angry, just as much as it made him realize how serious Sol was about the issue.

You really wan’ a man next to you who get col’ feet already an’ might run away any time? and the Better he dan you came at the exact moment that the three cars pulled up together on the roadside by the beach.

It was well after two in the morning, and the army of one hundred men had been reduced to a single scared adolescent—but the operation was underway as three crowded vehicles raced out of Half Way Tree and headed in the direction of Baseterre. Sol Carter looked over his shoulder and saw the faint silhouette of a man disappear into the night as they drove off toward the sites where the hits were to be carried out. Once in town, the freedom fighters would be on their own—once there, it would be their task, and their task alone, to succeed, or to find a way back to The Rambler.