Alexander Davis, who went by Alex, was a sinewy Englishman who supported himself as best he could, partly from his income from one of the island’s modest cotton fields but more so as an innkeeper. His establishment bore the marks of popularity in more ways than one. Everything was worn. Worn-out oak barrels had been set in long rows to serve as tables for the guests as Davis himself walked up and down, chatting with all and sundry, making sure that no one went thirsty, all the while meticulously marking his board to keep tabs.
He took a nonchalant measure of us when we arrived. In the dialect of the island, where Swedish and English words laced a base of simple French, he roared that his rooms were full but allowed himself to be convinced to provide something temporary for us, so long as we were prepared to pay extra for the trouble. He did not give us much to choose from, and quickly recited the services we could expect when the fever struck. Water, a thin soup, rum, help from a maid with the necessities. He poured us some rum to seal the deal, and I could hardly decline. At first I found it revolting, but after the numbing power of the first few sips, I tasted molasses and anise, and I did not find it unpleasant, especially when diluted with a little water. It also took the edge off the anxiety I had been experiencing ever since our arrival on Saint Barthélemy, with everything around me seeming strange and threatening. Dusk and dawn hardly exist at these latitudes. Night rushes in with surprising speed and grows darker than one would imagine, given how piercingly bright the sun is by day. This first evening on Saint Barthélemy we thought we would have plenty of time to unpack our belongings and see more of Gustavia, accustomed as we were to the light hours of the Swedish summer. We were mistaken and, outside our door, encountered a darkness so thick we could not see our hands in front of our faces.
We were therefore stranded at Davis’s establishment and made our way to the public bar in search of an evening meal, where we found some unusual goings-on. A circle had been cleared in the middle of the room, strewn with sand, and people were streaming in from the street. Some of them were carrying cages. As the crowd increased, we were served bread and meat, and in each corner of the room, money started changing hands and small tickets were distributed. Soon, two cocks were set loose in the ring and pushed closer together than either would have preferred, until they each started to attack, eagerly cheered on by the audience. Tiny blades had been tied to their feet. Within a few moments, one had sliced the other’s belly badly enough for the innards to well out, and while the conquered animal lay on its back, its legs quivering, those who had bet wisely cashed in their money. This went on, and the heap of slaughtered cockerels slowly grew by the wall.
The room was now so full we could hardly move, and we found it wiser to remain standing than try to push our way through. So we became witnesses to an escalating altercation: a man who had clearly had far too much to drink was demanding the return of his coins from the one who had given him the odds. Soon a thug stepped between them, apparently in the latter’s employ. No less drunk was he, but so superior in size and skill that this hardly mattered. The complainant received a few blows before pulling a long dagger out from his boot and cutting the larger man in the side, which caused the thug to lose his temper altogether. A kick disarmed the drunkard, and he was knocked to the ground with a strike to the temple, whereupon the larger man started stamping his foot on his throat and face until blood was spattered everywhere.
It was only when his employer patted him on the shoulder as a sign that enough was enough that he desisted and walked off to get his wound bandaged. His broad back had obscured our view of the man lying on the ground, but now we saw that his face had been disfigured beyond recognition, the eye sockets red pools, his jaw hanging to the side, and only a crater strewn with fragments of bone where his nose had once been. Davis elbowed his way over to listen to the bubbling breaths, then shrugged, shooting a few meaningful glances at those nearest him, all of whom turned around while the innkeeper placed a hand over the man’s mouth and nose. The fallen one, barely conscious, made a few attempts at resistance, but Davis shushed him until his heels stopped hammering the floor and his breathing had stopped.
“Welcome to Saint Barthélemy, boys,” Davis snarled as the corpse was carried to the side and laid next to the dead cocks. “If you liked tonight’s show, we have dog fights here every other week, and every third, negroes.” Before we had the chance to escape, we saw a youth use his knife to pry a gold tooth loose from the dead man’s jaw, to the objection of none.
I lay awake for a long time that night, and not only because of the heat and the presence of so many unseen insects, some with wings and some with many legs, that haunted our chamber and seemed to like nothing better than to crawl over my skin. In this strange town, which was now to be my home, I felt the longing for Linnea Charlotta more keenly than ever.
The next day, we went looking for Samuel Fahlberg. We found him in his home, a man who radiated a healthy vigor, somewhere between thirty and forty but still of a youthful frame of mind. He had just finished his morning meal and we were invited to join him for coffee. He was about to make a visit to one of the patients in his care, but we soon found that surgery was only one of his gifts. Fahlberg had a great knowledge of the island and the town, and confessed to having divided up the land and planned the design of the streets when he had first arrived on the Sprengtporten, the first Swedish ship to take the island into possession. “Not that it would be anything to brag about—you can see the results for yourselves. There are forces at work here that will heed neither plumb line nor ruler.”
I told him about the scene we had witnessed at Davis’s last night; Fahlberg showed little surprise.
“When we first arrived, Saint Barthélemy was sparsely populated, and she needed people if we were to be able to count on any income from taxes. Word was sent out that the island was now under Swedish rule and that only Swedish Law had jurisdiction. Every crook in the Caribbean saw his chance of starting a new career, and they emigrated en masse. Thieves, pirates, and murderers: these are the feet of clay on which this giant stands. Small wonder there’s much employment here for one who knows how best to dress a wound.”
I mentioned to Fahlberg that I had heard his name before, through my tutor Lundström at Three Roses. The doctor took this as an invitation to talk at length about the various matters of scientific interest on the island, from its geology to its flora. Just then we walked past a woman with a basket of fruit on her head, her skin tone quite light, and Fahlberg was quick to catch our unspoken question as we followed her with our gazes.
“Most men around here take dark-skinned mistresses. Saint Barthélemy may not have been Swedish for longer than a decade, but the English and Dutch have been here for centuries and have reproduced to their heart’s content.” He went on to list all of the variations in nomenclature he knew.
Johan Axel’s expression was grim as he forcefully posed his question. “There doesn’t appear to be much fertile land here, and the salt basins by the water can hardly yield a fortune. So how can this island support itself?”
Fahlberg gave him a long look. “If the governor hasn’t let you in on that, I think it’s best to await his explanation. Have patience until then.” Then he bade us good day and promised to visit us at Davis’s as soon as our fever started.
The chills came on that same evening, first to Johan Axel, who began shaking with cold despite the heat, and, only a few hours later, to me as well.