17

Emancipation Day

Christ Church Cathedral

King and George streets

Nassau, Bahamas

Wednesday, 1 August 1888

The center of Nassau transformed overnight. The sleepy languid atmosphere of the prior evening, where no more than two dozen people were on the streets, had become a bustling accumulation of thousands of black residents that filled every thoroughfare. From the deck of our vessel we watched and listened to brass bands, African drums, patois chants, and wildly euphoric dancing. The festive environment gained intensity as the morning progressed—an amazing exhibition of raw, uninhibited, exotic jubilance. It was impossible to hear and see it and not have your spirits lifted.

At eleven o’clock, all hands from Delilah went ashore for the festivities—after I hired a sober watchman to stay aboard—and elbowed our way up George Street to the cathedral. The day’s breeze on the harbor didn’t circulate in the center of Nassau, and the white-washed buildings created an intense ovenlike effect. Every tree had people bunched in its shade. It was beastly hot.

The white population was gathered near the entrance, in their resplendent finery in spite of the heat. I got the distinct impression that most of them couldn’t have cared less about the emancipation of their colored fellow islanders. Barely tolerating the noise and seething masses, they attended the event because of societal obligations. My companions and I were regarded with open curiosity by everyone—we were strangers visiting town in August.

As Mason handed me Cynda’s and my invitations to the events for later on, a trumpet called our attention to the street. The passionately raucous native crowd around us silenced immediately and craned their heads around to peer west, down the street. The parade, commemorating the forty-forth anniversary of emancipation, was about to start. It was led by the troops of Her Britannic Majesty, Queen Victoria, but you would be hard pressed to know that by their uniforms.

Mason explained. “Not your typical redcoats, are they? The Second West India Regiment is made up of soldiers recruited in western Africa, mostly from the equatorial Gulf of Guinea, from the Gold Coast to the Congo. They have no affiliation to the people of the places they are stationed—the Bahamas, Antigua, Barbados, and Jamaica.

“Their uniforms are a bit different,” he said with a grin. “The French African Zouave influence is apparent, with the white turban, blue pantaloons, and white leggings. The short red open tunic is the only British effect, along with the Enfield rifles, of course.”

“They’re huge,” offered Corny.

“Yes, they are recruited for their intimidating size.”

“Their headquarters is where?” I asked.

“Regimental headquarters is in Jamaica. There’s only a company of about eighty men stationed here at Fort Charlotte. They’re from the Third Battalion at Jamaica. Junior officers are billeted at Dunmore House and the senior man is at Graycliff House, next to the governor’s mansion.”

“And the officers, what of them?” I asked as the company marched past us, arms swinging high in the British tradition. Six young white men in regular army khaki, subalterns and lieutenants, were ranged across the front of the company. In front of the junior officers strode a tall white man in the Zouave uniform, like that of the enlisted men.

“The officers are Brits from the regular regiments. They are seconded for two or three years to the West India outfits. The commanding officer here in Nassau is that fellow in front, Major Rupert Teignholder. He is, by all accounts, an odd duck. Prefers to wear the exotic Zouave rig for ceremonial occasions. Solidarity with the troops, I imagine.”

“These lads have fightin’ experience?” asked Rork.

Mason nodded. “The men you see here fought last year at Sierra Leon, in west Africa. Accounted themselves well in quite adverse conditions, according to the press. Teignholder led them. This unit’s only been at Nassau for six months.”

Next came a small military band. Behind it, the line, composed of civilian groups in their best attire, stretched for half a mile. Mason explained the groups represented the major islands in the archipelago, and the “friendly societies” of New Providence. A friendly society was the traditional African tribal association formed for mutual benefit during slave times and carried on into modern society. The most well-known was the Grantstown Friendly Society, which received a substantial cheer from the onlookers.

Mason leaned close to me and pointed to a distinguished-looking black man marching in the procession. “There’s Mr. David Patton. He runs the Union Livery stables on Bay Street and knows everything that happens on the waterfront. I asked him early this morning about Condor and Captain Kingston. He knows Kingston. Said Kingston acted queerly the last time here. Usually he’s drunk and loud. This time he was quiet and guarded. Patton thought he might be up to something illegal. Smuggling, maybe in or out of the Spanish islands.”

Smuggling? With tourists aboard? Hmm, well, the more I thought about that, the more it seemed feasible. Businessmen passengers would provide a perfect veneer of respectability. What would he smuggle? Most smugglers in the West Indies carried rum, fancy goods, or people past the customs officials. Perhaps I had completely misunderstood. Possibly Condor’s passengers weren’t businessmen from New York City.

A tug from Cynda brought me back to the scene around us. Each civic group had solemn-faced elders in front, carrying the Union Jack. They were followed by a younger set, who danced slowly as they played various instruments, most of them African in origin. In contrast to the jubilation of the morning, the procession was more akin to a coronation. Measured, serious, proud.

Once the parade had ended, we entered the Anglican house of worship, the largest church in the Bahamas. Rork, as is his preference, stayed outside. Christ Church Cathedral’s bells rang two o’clock as we sat down five pews back from the front. Above us was a shadowy dark wooden ceiling—in stark contrast to the white walls and pillars. Stained-glass windows, brightly illuminated by the sun, surrounded us.

The service was a high mass of the Episcopal Church, a two-hour ritual with which I was familiar, having grown up in that denomination in New England. The impressive pageantry was made seemingly much longer, however, by the overheated condition of the sanctuary, densely jammed with bodies. Mason scanned the assembly but said the Frenchman wasn’t there, suggesting that perhaps the man was Catholic.

A Reverend Swann presided and preached a sermon on “Providing things honest in the sight of all men.” The meaning of that was lost on me, but then the rising temperature and odor probably interfered with my intellect. Little paper fans flitted like butterflies in the hands of the ladies, who sat there and baked, glistening with perspiration. The gentlemen’s suits formed dark patches, spreading larger as the reverend went on, confirming I was not alone in my misery.

Mason, like the other upper-society people, was apparently unbothered by it all and sat there as if nothing untoward was occurring. I found their serene behavior extraordinary and was myself sopping wet and rather ill-tempered when we emerged into the glaring sun for the next social obligation of the day.

***

Rork and the others from Delilah were off to their own devices for the rest of the afternoon as Cynda, Mason, and I joined a collection of the privileged on the walk up the hill along the shady side of George Street. We passed through the gates to the governor’s grounds and up the steps to the Columbus statue, then across the lawn to the large portico of Government House where an honor guard of soldiers awaited. The view of the town below was nothing short of beautiful, but brief, as the line of guests continued their pace inside.

Not anticipating any of this sort of thing back at Patricio Island, I naturally had no carte visite for official presentation to the governor’s staff. This breech of protocol was glossed over by the fact that Cynda and I did have invitations. Engraved ones, I might add; Mason did have good connections. Of course, other than Mason, I knew not a soul among the locals assembled for the annual audience with the man who ruled Her Majesty’s Crown Colony of the Bahamas—one Sir Ambrose Shea.

According to Mason, Shea was a seventy-three-year-old career politician and administrator who had done good work in his native Newfoundland. Knighted in 1883, he was given the Bahamian governorship in October of 1887 by the queen.

Sir Ambrose had the respect and admiration of the islanders, both black and white, and was a courtly specimen of the old school of British etiquette. Meeting me in the receiving line, he barely shook my hand and paused long enough to say, “Welcome,” before turning to the next person. He was noticeably more cordial to Cynda, ahead of me, but then again, what man isn’t? Shea may have been old, but he certainly was not dead.

Mason explained later that like most Canadians from the Atlantic coast, Shea was more than a bit negatively influenced by the fishing dispute of the previous year. It had erupted into rather bellicose talk between the United States and Great Britain, protector of Canada. I had some inside knowledge of that sad affair, as ONI had been given the task of ascertaining Canadian defenses during the crisis. My commanding officer, Commodore Walker, led a personal covert reconnaissance of the Royal Navy base at Halifax. Not one of our prouder national moments, in my opinion.

But I have regrettably digressed and must now return to the tête-à-tête that ensued within the elegant confines of the ballroom, where the governor’s guests had settled after enduring the receiving line. Cynda and I met various personages, including the attorney general, the chief justice, the postmaster, and the chief inspector of police. Smiling and saying inane things to people who couldn’t care less—especially in a hot room while wearing a stifling collar, tie, and coat—is my idea of slow torture.

Cynda, however, was made of sterner stuff. With admirable prowess, she targeted her wiles on the chief inspector, asking him about summer tourists in the islands.

I began moving toward the table of chilled fruit juices, hoping to discover a small supply of rum and invigorate the day, when Mason deftly steered me away. With a sly grin, he walked me to the far end of the room and introduced me to Pierre Jean Roche.

The Frenchman.

Roche was tall, thin, and handsome, in his late thirties to early forties, with long dark wavy hair. Below prominent cheekbones and a strong nose, he had one of those pointed goatees and a moustache that was perfectly trimmed. His smile seemed genuine. His handshake indicated resolve. Mason spoke to him in French, and I noted that Roche’s reply was in the classical form, devoid of slang or contraction. Upper-class, refined. A graduate of one of the polytechnic institutes, I guessed. Possibly with some military experience, gauging by his stature. He was dressed in a simple but well-tailored satin dinner suit. Pierre Jean Roche was the epitome of a European gentleman, a modern Frenchman of the Third Republic.

But it was his eyes that one’s attention was immediately drawn toward. They were narrow, almost oval, and absolutely black, like drops of shiny onyx—beautiful and frightening at the same time. Roche had the habit, probably cultivated over time, of turning them on you and not blinking. Intense. Waiting for your reaction. And most alarmingly, I could not discern any emotion in them.

Mason departed, hailing a friend and discreetly leaving Roche and me in the corner alone. I decided to forgo insulting the man with my mangled French and spoke English.

“Good to meet you, sir. I’ve heard you are the only Frenchman in Nassau. I regret to say my French is not fit for public intercourse, much less for this august soirée, and so I must beg your pardon and speak English.”

He smiled slightly. “And I must ask for your forgiveness about the state of my English. It should be better, but I fear it is lacking substance.”

“What brings you to Nassau, sir?”

The eyes surveyed me for a moment. “Tourist, seeking the tropics. I am here with some friends, but only temporarily. We are en route to the south, to the Caribbean proper. And why are you here, sir?”

I glanced over and saw Cynda engaged in conversation with a clergyman. I continued with Roche, very aware that he was evaluating me. This would require, as the French would say, a certain finesse.

“Me? I’m here looking for business endeavors that have potential for investment.” Remembering what the Condor’s passengers told Mason, I added, “And what a coincidence, I’ll be heading south, also. To the southern islands of the Bahamas. Tell me, Mr. Roche, have you seen much of the Bahamas?”

“No, I have only been in Nassau. I will be leaving soon.”

Only Nassau, eh? Hmm. Lie number one. “And where in the Caribbean are you headed?”

The smile again, this time not so friendly. “I do not know, yet, Mr. Wake. It is a decision I will make this week though. There are several possibilities among the French-speaking islands.”

I looked him in the right eye and said, “You could try Kingston, over in Jamaica. I hear there are unique birds there. Condors.”

There was a split-second delay as he weighed my double-entendre before he answered. “You do not appear to me as merely a businessman, Mr. Wake. I observed you during the parade today. You stood like a soldier when the British national flags passed by. Now you speak obliquely, like a diplomat. An unusual combination of behavior.”

The smile again. This time definitely not genuine. “If you will kindly forgive me, Mr. Wake, I must go. I see that there are several ladies present who are in need of some refreshment. We French have a duty to assist whenever we see such a tragedy occur.”

With that he was gone. I was convinced we would meet again.

***

Dinner was predictably boring, with a speech by the governor pontificating about the equality of Her Majesty’s subjects, the rule of law throughout the realm, and the glory of the Empire. The drone was total hogwash to my way of thinking—I’d seen several parts of the British Empire.

Roche sat with some colonial bigwigs near the head table, animated in discussion. Occasionally I saw him glancing over at me. Cynda and Mason and I sat at the end of the farthest table from the speakers. That was fine with me. Like most sailors, pomposity bores me at the very least, and angers me frequently.

The most intriguing part of the entire Emancipation Day events began for me at nine forty-five—fifteen minutes before the formal end of the evening. Mason approached me with none other than Major Rupert Teignholder in tow. He was still in his Zouave uniform, which are colorfully menacing when worn by an African, but ridiculously cartoonish on a Briton. Didn’t he ever look in a mirror? What did the governor think?

After introductions, Mason suggested we retire to the garden for cognac and cigars. At the last minute he veered off, joining Cynda in taking a tour of the mansion with the governor’s wife. The major and I walked out into the night alone.