Mr. Craddock stumbled before us, tottering, yet remaining atop his feet. His face vacant. And we watched the smouldering timber drop from out his hands. The burnt end splintering off as it landed, tossing out a small fistful of sparks. Tumbling over the rippled sand at Papee’s feet.
Son, now I recognised something else for the first time. Something that struck at me like a stiff zobell cross the back of my head. I recognised that familiar colouring of Mr. Craddock’s face. Same familiar uninhabited stare in he hideous, yellow-stained eyes. Because all of this had happened so quick, I didn’t have a chance to take it in not till now.
Mr. Craddock stumbled another step forward, down the slope of the beach. He dropped to his knees in front of Papee, like he’s kneeing down before him. We watched his head drop down too, slow, like his neckbones have been replaced by a rusty hinge.
Mr. Craddock spewed forth a thick black puddle onto the white sand.
He raised up his head again, dribble of pitch trailing down from one corner of his mouth. Down alongside the protruding veins of he scrawny neck.
Mr. Craddock’s head dropped slow on its rusty hinge—and as if he’s trying to mimic the gesture of that same schooner behind him, he nosedived into he own black puddle.
Nobody dared approach him. Not for the duration of a long minute. Kneeling there with his skinny bamsee pointing straight up in the air, face pressing just so into his puddle of vomit. Mr. Craddock and the schooner behind him frozen contrapuntal into the same nosedived position, mocking each other.
Papee took a step forward, crouching to the sand before him. He took hold of Mr. Craddock’s shoulders, rolling him to one side, then onto his back. Cradling Mr. Craddock’s head with the same gentle motion, guiding it onto his lap.
Now Papee leant forward, over him, using the tail of his canvas shirt to wipe the vomit and caked sand away from his face and neck. With all the care and deliberation of a midwife sponging down a baby after birth. Mr. Carr came running with a glassbottle filled with drinking water, holding it up to Mr. Craddock’s cracked yellow lips. Tiltsing it back for him to swallow a few sips, rinse out his mouth.
Papee turned to summon my assistance, John’s as well. And together the four of us took Mr. Craddock up, carrying him back to the compound, laying him down in the nearest hammock.
As he was burning a high fever, Mr. Carr set about preparing a dose of acetylsalicylic powder, dissolved in a calabash with water. Giving it to him to drink.
But Mr. Craddock refused—rum, he wanted only rum.
This, of course, Mr. Carr denied having. Causing Mr. Craddock to curse the lot of us as villains and lying scoundrels. He began to struggle in the skin of his hammock, violent, fighting-up the four of us together. All four struggling together to hold him down.
Eventually, in the midst of this, Mr. Craddock threw his head over the side of the hammock. Spewing the ground with pitch again. Which had the fortunate effect of subduing him some—or frightening him into submission. Because once he’d finished—and Papee’d cleaned his face again with a damp rag—he drank down the dosage of acetylsalicylic acid without a fight. Then Mr. Carr gave him two blue pills from a vial in his little box, pressed under his tongue, which Mr. Craddock complied with too. Calm & quiet & amicable enough. To such extent that Mr. Carr acquiesced into giving him a short calabash of rum. He swallowed it down in three gulps, tossing the cup aside.
Mr. Craddock remained like that a minute longer. Sitting up in his hammock. And after babbling a set of nonsense about Greener’s Grove—a wee pint o’ lager n’ Mauger’s mince-n’-raison pie—he dropped back into his hammock again. Out cold unconscious.
___________________
We left him under the care of Mr. Carr. By this time Orinoko and Esteban had arrived at the compound. They set about preparing an early dinner for everybody. Yet when Papee & John & me got back to our toppled-over schooner, we found those other pioneers already loaded up. Preparing to set off in they dinghy again. Understand, prior to this episode on the beach they hadn’t the remotest notion that Mr. Craddock was ill—any more than Craddock heself seemed to’ve known. And this sudden discovery alarmed them to such extent all they wanted was to get theyself away from him & Chaguabarriga & the rest of us as fast as possible. Back to the Prescott Estate.
Not even remaining with us long enough to take they dinner. Son, they didn’t suggest bringing Mr. Craddock back with them neither. Not for a steups. Now, of course, they had the current coming from behind, shoving them up the coast. So they return trip wouldn’t cost them hardly any effort a-tall. Nothing more than an oar rowlocked at the stern to steer them along. And almost before Papee & John & me could raise up we arms to bid good-bye, they’d disappeared again.
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Much to we own surprise it didn’t take us hardly any effort to get our schooner braced back up in her cradle. A single hour’s easy toil. Again we utilised Captain Maynard’s winch-and-blocks, tied off this time to a horizontal sea grape limb, stretching across just above her prow. John climbing the tree in two ticks to make fast the lines. This time we did winch her straight up into the air—the foremost part of her bow anyway—and after an hour’s breezing work our task was done.
It was whilst eating dinner that evening that Mr. Carr informed us of something else. Something that struck me with a serious shock. Though I couldn’t even be sure of my own suppositions yet. And in any case I kept them quiet to myself.
According to Mr. Carr a government surveying vessel had dropped anchor in the bay early that morning. The captain coming ashore in search of potable water. And Mr. Carr told us he’d been more than happy to oblige him. This captain was on his way back to Port-Spain, and so Mr. Carr had placed in his trust a letter composed by Mr. Whitechurch in he final hours. Addressed to his wife and niece. In addition to that gold St. Christopher medal the old man had seemed most anxious for them to have.
Son, Mr. Carr narrated these events for us calmly enough—between sips of water from his calabash cup—yet as he spoke I felt my heart beating right the way up through me.
Mr. Whitechurch wasn’t even a Roman Catholic—he was a bloody High Protestant!—so where-the-arse did he get that St. Christopher from? Yet the medal’s significance—patron saint of travellers—seemed obvious enough: it was meant to safeguard Mrs. Whitechurch on she journey back to England.
It did seem inevitable that with the old man gone, Mrs. Whitechurch would want to return to whatever family she and Marguerite had remaining there. Because now I realised I didn’t have any idea—I’d never even thought to question Marguerite about it. But regardless of any family they might or mightn’t have, Mrs. Whitechurch would no doubt need to return to London: she’d have to settle she husband’s estate.
Why-the-arse should she remain in Trinidad anyway? what did she have now to keep her there? Worst of all—I understood with a jolt—Marguerite would need to accompany she aunt to England. And what of Marguerite’s own anger—directed possibly at me, having convinced her to come so far only to have her uncle perish in the bush?
I tried my hardest not to think about it. Not to consider it further. And in any case we were so occupied with our labours over the schooner I hardly had energy leftover by the end of our long days to contemplate it. Even if I’d wanted to. Yet I couldn’t close my eyes at night without seeing the flash from that St. Christopher medal. Dangling now like a noose round my own neck.
From that day of Mr. Craddock’s incident we slept right there on the schooner’s deck. Suspended above the moon-bathed beach by her bamboo cradle. Three of us sleeping side-by-side together—Papee, me in the middle, John at my other side—the unfolded parcels of canvas spread in three separate layers to make a mattress. Comfortable enough to sleep on. And time as night arrived we could’ve slept anyplace we lay down we heads.
After that incident with Mr. Craddock Papee refused to stray far from the schooner’s side. For any reason a-tall. Like if that cumbruxion of Mr. Craddock’s making had s
pooked him or something. Like if it was Papee’s duty now to defend the schooner—though whatever-the-arse he felt he needed to protect her from I couldn’t tell you. Not Mr. Craddock, because we found him dead in his hammock the following morning. That is to say, Mr. Carr found him. But even with Mr. Craddock gone and out the way, Papee became even more obsessed over the schooner. Something more penetrating and consuming than whatever need he felt to make her seaworthy again. Something more disturbing. More alarming to witness at close hand. Like if Papee’s own survival—the survival of all of us—was somehow dependent on how fast he could breathe-back life into this ancient bark. Some kinda arse-backwards race not to the finish, but the starting line. Redrawn right there in the sand.
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We had to dress Mr. Craddock back in his vomit-soiled clothes to bury him. But in a profoundly different way than we prepared Mr. Whitechurch, prior to carrying him out to the gardens to lay him to rest. Mr. Craddock was of a different stripe.
According to Mr. Carr he’d spewed up pitch several more times that night. One moment his yellow-stained skin was burning up with fever, next it was stone-cold, his body trembling in a fit of ague. Mr. Carr covering him over with Captain Taylor’s blanket till the chills passed. Then he pulled it off. At one point, approaching dawn—so Mr. Carr told us—Mr. Craddock found the strength to get up from out his hammock. And after helping heself to a calabash spilling over the brim with rum, he stripped heself down naked. Slow & careful & methodical beneath the billowing moon. Folding each garment of he ruined clothes like they’d just come from a Kings Road tailor. One-by-one in a neat pile atop the dining table. His last remaining seven shillings in a little shining stack balanced on top.
He lay heself down on he back on the cool dirt. Right there in the middle of the open space at the centre of we compound. Just beside the mound with its tattered flag. Just so—stark naked with the moon spilling down atop him, arms spread to each side in the posture of a crucified Christ.
After he’d expired Mr. Carr had moved him to the dining table. Yet this time the spectre of death lying there hardly affected us a-tall. Nothing more than a mild nuisance, a duty to be performed. And son, as we dressed Mr. Craddock and carried him out to the gardens that morning—as we dug the hole beside Mr. Whitechurch, swung him down and topped him over again—all we felt was a sense of relief. All I can recall feeling.
We were back to work on the schooner in the blink of a hour. Working till evening without a pause. Till the time came for us to tumble down onto our canvas mattress again, tumbling again into our distant dreams.
Papee and me sitting together in the tavern of our East End borough—two of us alone at the long table at the back—Papee ordering fried eggs & bacon & buttered toast. Breakfasts we subsequently devoured like prisoners out the gaol. Eating with our hands. Wiping up the yolks of our eggs and bacon grease with pieces of ripped toast. Till our plates shone like if they’d been scrubbed.
Papee then led me round the corner to the barbershop. Where he proceeded to have his head shampooed, his hair trimmed. The barber laying him back in the big chair to lather and shave his face. Then—much to my own surprise—I substituted my father in the chair for the same lavish treatment. Minus the shave. First time in my life anybody other than Mum or Georgina had cut my hair. And nobody’d never shampooed it neither since I was a bloody tyke.
Now we went off to the tailor’s shop. And during the hour that followed Papee and I were measured-out for matching frock coats—single vents at the back according to Papee’s specifications—pinstripe pants, embroidered waistcoats, white linen shits with French cuffs and silk cravats.
Whilst the tailor and his two assistants busied theyself with all this—at a couple other shops—Papee purchased new dress boots and stockings, tall stiff top hats that resounded like tassa-drums when you rapped on them, pairs of soft white button-up gloves. For both of us.
All on credit—you can bet you tail—like everything else purchased by Papee that morning. The whole business so sudden and so bizarre—so far removed from reality—I’d long given up trying to suss out where the funds would come from for all these inexplicable extravagances. Beginning with the absurdity of we eggs and bacon for breakfast.
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Only after we’d departed the tailor’s shop for the second time that day—both wearing our fancy new outfits with the transformation so complete, already my former self felt like a distant cousin—only then did Papee offer me an explanation. The semblance of an explanation.
He put his arm round my shoulders. Round the shoulders of my new frock coat with the single bloody slit at the back—
A summons to Government House, he says. It arrived late last night for a William Sanger Tucker.
He paused—
The truth is, your mother and I are clueless as to what it means.
Now he smiled—
We don’t even know if it’s addressed to me, son. Or to you.
Papee paused again—
Of course, we assume the summons was sent for me. But your mother and I have decided, nonetheless, that you should come along.
And following a breath he added—
As the only male representative of the Tucker clan after me.
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It was several long minutes before I could absorb the fact that the haughty-mannered gentleman seated at the other side of the enormous, disheveled desk—dressed like us excepting our gloves and top hats, the latter of which we’d no doubt have doffed if we weren’t so thoroughly unnerved by all this—was the PM.
He had the distracting habit of breathing out noisy through his nose. After a minute, without looking up, he cleared his throat—
You may thank your man Etzler, he says, like if he’s talking to the piece of paper still holding in his hands. For the arrangement of this meeting.
He tossed the paper aside. Raising his long nose up to Papee and me. His little black beady eyes—
And the con-se-quences of it, he says. Mr. Etzler believes that it is in our interest—that is to say, in the interest of the government of Great Britain—to become fis-cal-ly involved in this enterprise he’s about to embark upon in one of our colonies. And it may well be. It may well be.
Now he looked at Papee—
Mr. Tucker, I can assure you only of this: at Christ Church College it was my privilege n’ distinction to win a double-first not only in classics, but also mathematics n’ physics. So let me cut to the chase here. I have taken the time to peruse the man’s book, which he titles Paradise. I’ve examined, at some length, the plans for his Satellite.
Here the prime minister shook his head, simultaneously raising up his small, delicate, impeccably clean hands off his desk. Folded as if in prayer, thumbs crossed, pressing the sides of his pointer-fingers against his lips. Closing his eyes—
’Twill never work.
And after another long pause—like if he was sussing all this out right there in front of us—the prime minister cleared his throat again. He looked at Papee—
Let me come to the point, Mr. Tucker. Our government, by my authority, has seen fit to send you, together with your family, out to Trinidad as its especial rep-pre-sentative.
He waited a beat—
Make no mistake about it. I am fully aware of your recent clash with the authorities—along with your colleague, Mr. Powell—for your so-called Chartists. Fully aware. I know you very narrowly avoided Newgate Prison yourself. Yet in our opinion such passions better qualify you for the obligations we are about to place in your capable hands. It shall be your duty, therefore, to act as go-between for our government and those British citizens about to accompany Mr. Etzler out to Trinidad. You’ll report to us on any and all matters you may deem important. This done by way of Mr. Johnston, Colonial Secretary n’ Agent General of Emigrants, to whom a letter of mine has already been sent in your regard. And with whom you shall acquaint yourself immediately upon landing in Trinidad. Moreo
ver, it shall be your duty—as especial rep-pre-sentative of the British government and Her Majesty the Queen—to keep a watchful eye on Mr. Etzler.
Finally a pause. But it’s Papee and me who suck in a breath, not the prime minister—
It is my understanding, Mr. Tucker, that Etzler was jailed himself and later sent packing from his native country of Germany. I am further informed that scarcely a year ago, creditors at his heels, he fled forcibly from the United States as well. Indeed, an emotional treatise of not-inconsiderable length has just reached my desk, warning the world against the man! It was penned by an American gentleman of whom, frankly, I am ignorant. Though I’m told he’s somewhat renowned in literary circles—a certain Mr. Henry David Thoreau.
*[Read Thoreau's Review]
Here the prime minister cleared his throat for the umpteenth time—
To conclude, this man Etzler may be a genius—as he’s so apt to proclaim himself—but it is my profound fear, Mr. Tucker, that he is dangerous.
I turned to look at Papee. For the first time since we’d entered the prime minister’s office. First time since we’d taken our seats before his desk. Because now I couldn’t help myself. But I couldn’t read nothing in Papee’s face a-tall, only that he looked confused—
Do you mean to say, sir, that I am to be contracted by the Crown to spy on Mr. Etzler?
The prime minister didn’t answer for several seconds—
Call it what you will, Mr. Tucker. Call it what you will.
Already he’d turned his nose to the document lying on the desk before him—
Now, he continues, like if he’s talking to the paper again. Let me be the first to wish you n’ your family bon voyage.
A strange gurgling, choking noise. I sat up startled on the canvas mattress, looking over at Papee. Then I turned to John—
As Flies to Whatless Boys Page 24