The Night of the Rambler

by Montague Kobbé

  Hour after hour the crow of the roosters reminded the men, sitting by a makeshift bonfire, around a game of dominoes or a bottle of rum, that time had not stood totally still, that the next day was approaching, until the first people from Sandy Ground, from South Hill, from Stoney Ground, started to congregate outside the police station again, even before the break of dawn. They brought with them some fish, some bread, maybe a banana cake or some fresh fruit—sugar apple, soursop, pawpaw, pomme-surette, mango—to share with the men everyone knew had stood guard all through the night.

  Long before eight in the morning, Aaron Lowell went to speak again with Inspector Edmonton. By then, Diomede Alderton had readied The Pipe, his Piper Aztec, to take the first batch of policemen back to St. Kitts. The inspector showed himself less collected, less self-assured than the day before, and he had no other option but to order his men to leave him and his fellow officers behind, and I sen’ di men out shortly. It was not even an hour later when the Piper Aztec, full to the rim with members of the police task force, glided just above the heads of the crowd gathered on the main road at The Valley before turning sharply south to make the sixty-five-mile journey that put in motion an evacuating operation which didn’t even have a name.

  All of a sudden, the unthinkable was happening in Anguilla, and as the ball kept rolling there was nothing, anymore, that could stop it. Not even the belated reaction of the central government in St. Kitts, whose decision to act came roughly at the same time as Diomede loaded his “Pipe” full of unwanted guardians of the public order, such that somewhere along the skyline between the two islands he must have crossed paths with a de Havilland Twin Otter operated by the Leeward Islands Air Transport and packed to the last seat with twice as many guardians of the public order as were being removed in the Aztec.

  Luckily for the sake of the unthinkable and for the fate of Anguillians in general, there was absolutely no way the plane carrying the members of the police task force had arrived in St. Kitts, delivered its package, and headed back home in such a short period of time. Therefore, the most alert among a crowd that included many haggard and hungover members understood immediately, as soon as they heard the drumming of the Pratt & Whitney piston engines in the distance, that unwelcome visitors were on their way. Wallace Rey then provided the inspiration that would save the day when he jumped in his red pickup truck and drove it to the middle of the dust strip. From behind a cloud of smoke emerged the aging frame of Wallace, the old fox, wildly beckoning the rest of the cars parked near Wallblake Airport to join him in blockading the runway and preventing anyone from accessing the rebel island. A few minutes later, the Twin Otter approached the airport full of intent, seemingly unaware of the spontaneous barrier, or perhaps assuming that the drivers were still inside their cars and would be pushed into moving out of the way by the sight of this modern-day kamikaze. Except, nobody was anywhere near the cars, and no one had any intention whatsoever of breaking the blockade, such that the de Havilland Twin Otter arriving from St. Kitts with highly armed and badly psyched-out reinforcements for Inspector Edmonton was forced to fly in circles over the airport and its adjacent areas, searching in vain for a suitable landing spot.

  The roar of the Pratt & Whitney piston engines got lost in the distance as abruptly as it emerged. Oil drums were sought to liberate some of the cars; for the rest of the day, and for many months to come, these drums would protect the island by making it inaccessible. Inspector Edmonton was left to face the fact that he would be forced out of the island that was meant to be his jurisdiction, and the group of improvised rebels made the arrangements to dispatch the rest of the task force. Three of them would board the weekly freighter that, like every Tuesday for the past twenty-odd years, would head to St. Kitts with the post. The other five would have to wait until the return of the Piper Aztec that would take them on its second run for their final banishment. Among those five was Inspector Edmonton, who was carrying a bag of guns and ammunition when he was intercepted by Gaynor Henderson and Rude Thompson, who told him to Drop de bag an’ go on. Then came the inspector’s reticence to obey, Gaynor Henderson’s need to restore his injured pride, and the .32 pistol he shoved right inside the man’s mouth, until it polished his uvula. You better drop de bag unless dis is da last t’ing you ever wan’ taste.

  Escalation had, indeed, reached its peak. A few moments later Diomede Alderton would be on his way again, his dark gray flier sunglasses and wooden pipe clearly visible in the cockpit as he tipped the wings of his Aztec from side to side, flying low over The Valley in a saluting gesture to the men and women who had dared to rid the island of its oppressors. Just like that, an insignificant speck of coral in the northeastern corner of the Caribbean had revolted, and Anguilla found itself, very much by accident, “independent.”

  CHAPTER I

  ATTACK!

  Harry González was still fiddling with the wires connecting the five sticks of dynamite to the detonator when a distant drumming of shots forced an angry Shi-it! out of him. Titus Brown, one-armed, lay low on the ground, having diligently mounted the Browning M1919 machine gun on its tripod, pointing its long barrel in the direction of the Defence Force camp ahead.

  The ride from Half Way Tree, anxious and reckless, had taken the men through the vast cane fields to the left, and the black emptiness of the sea to the right, as they moved past Old Road Town, the first British settlement on the island, now bereft of glory and simply dotted with a row of run-down wooden houses crowned with ripped or rusted galvanized roofs. They had cut through the poor quarters of Challengers, along the edge of Palmetto Bay, until they reached the western outskirts of Basseterre and joined the main road, Cayon Street, which led them into Springfield Cemetery, where the endless rows of limestone tombs and crosses glowed despite the moonless sky.

  This was as far as the Kittitian at the wheel of the car that had taken Rude Thompson, Glenallen Rawlingson, and two bags of guns, dynamite, and detonators would venture.

  How you mean?

  And the young Kittitian, I waitin’ all night out in di boat for yer—I tired of dis business now. I done too much a’ready an’ bring yer dis far, and with a gesture that hovered halfway between fear and violence he turned around on the front seat of the car, reached with his left hand, and, opening wide the back door of his Rover 60, Is up di hill to yer left, di defence camp. Now, out! All of yer. Rude Thompson thought about letting the automatic .25 handgun he carried in his pocket do the talking, but by then Glenallen Rawlingson was already out on the street, carrying the bag he had not set down from the moment Alwyn had instructed him to pick it up and stand by the port side of The Rambler, ready to throw it overboard. Glenallen was joined by Harry González, who, upset and confused, wondered What the hell is going on?

  Rude Thompson let out a long sucking of his teeth before pulling himself out of the Rover. He barely had a chance to snatch the bag out of the trunk before the man gunned it, steering wheel pulled all the way to the left, tires screeching as the car made a U-turn, both suicide doors at the back still open, and returned to the depths of the Kittitian countryside.

  Corporal Gómez and Titus Brown emerged almost simultaneously from the vehicle behind and Rude began to explain the situation when Harry González cut him short: How ’bout we get out of the main fucking road? Jesus—don’t get what all the fuss is about: we could blow up the whole damn island and we’d still be doing them a favor. By then, all that was left of the dark-blue Land Rover that had taken the three Americans into Basseterre was a faint echo of its two-liter diesel engine racing down Cayon Street, but the five men hardly noticed, as their hunched shadows disappeared into the night en route to the headquarters of the Defence Force at Camp Springfield.

  Meanwhile, Alwyn Cooke and his party in Ronnie’s Austin truck continued along Cayon Street until they met the imposing stone structure of the Anglican church, where Ronnie turned to the left, to reach the police station from the quieter north side, heading out of town before turning right
at Taylors Road and then right again, rolling slowly past the wooden structure of Warner Park, the island’s cricket grounds, until they got to Lozac Road. Ronnie decided to park his truck in a dark patch beside the road, and to make the short distance from there to the station by foot.

  At this point Alwyn split the group in two. Sol, Dwight, Desmond: go by Cayon Street to de front of the buildin’ an’ take de position dere. Whitford Howell, Ronnie and his child, and Alwyn Cooke stayed on Burt Street, looking to break into the station through one of its side doors.

  Empowered by the weight of the M1 rifle strapped to his shoulder, Ronnie found the courage that had seemingly abandoned him at Half Way Tree, and he straightened his back and puffed his chest out, adopting a rebellious swagger. We goin’ get ’em good!

  Alwyn, terrified, hunched his back, lifted his shoulders, and stooped instinctively at the roar of Ronnie’s voice. A finger to his thick lips and a fiery glance that sparkled into the night was enough to make the Kittitian understand he should not speak another word.

  The police station in Basseterre was a relatively small redbrick building, practically attached to the island’s prison. It was two stories tall and it made the corner that joined Burt Street with Cayon Street, where a small watchtower rose into the night. Ever since the expulsion of Inspector Edmonton and the rest of his crew from Anguilla ten days earlier, a guard had been deployed in that post to look out into nothingness, in case it was replaced by something suspicious. Every night a different corporal was placed in the tower, following the orders of Inspector Edmonton, who chose to ignore the ignominy of his submission to the Anguillian mob with the constant reminder of a very clear, very present danger: If dey be crazy ’nuff to kick we outta de island, dey crazy ’nuff to come here.

  Whether it was a faint echo of Ronnie’s reckless boasting, the fear that could be sensed—smelled, almost—in Alwyn Cooke’s reaction, or simply an unusually diligent dose of care prompted by Inspector Edmonton’s constant warnings over the past week and a half, the case remained that Constable LaRue, performing his rounds along the narrow corridor on the rooftop, on his way to the sentinel post, paused and took a deep breath. He took a long, careful look into the darkness of the night, trying to make out something—anything at all—that could tell him if things were happening out there that didn’t qualify as nothing.

  Alwyn was frozen still by the glare in the eyes he thought—he was certain—were looking straight into his. His knees bent slowly, progressively, and to make sure he would stay on his feet, he grabbed hold of the two men at his sides—Ronnie to his left, Whitty to his right—with a motion that they took to mean they should very slowly lower themselves to the ground, as Alwyn was doing.

  Meanwhile, Sol Carter and the O’Farrells wondered what was happening, not so much with Alwyn and the rest of the gang as with Rude Thompson and the unit deployed to the Defence Force at Camp Springfield, who were supposed to trigger the whole operation with one big blast. But the dynamite in Harry González’s rough hands was wet, and Maybe we can save some of these sticks, and Maybe we can use some of that, and everyone sat around watching in silence and disbelief as Corporal Gómez opened the damp bag and went through its contents, handing Harry what he thought could be used, while he, Harry, mixed the powder from different sticks, made a new bundle, taped the cylinders together, fiddled with the wires that connected the dynamite to the detonator.

  The watch on the wrist of Sol Carter, the only Anguillian wearing one that evening, read twelve minutes past three when the first shots were heard from Burt Street. Alwyn had come back from his stupor and taken the reins of the situation, whispering to Whitty and Ronnie, Time to get in de station, nuh. Ronnie, you take de tear gas. Whitty, take a real gun, man, in case t’ings get nasty, and the M16 changed hands while Alwyn insisted that the element of surprise was their most important weapon. T’row two canisters of da’ stuff, upstairs firs’, den downstairs, an’ when I see smoke coming out de buildin’, I cut out de power. Whitty, cover Ronnie. I cover you, and the men were on their way.

  As soon as Ronnie and Whitty moved in the direction of the station, Alwyn summoned the child by his side. You can shoot? The boy’s nod of the head could have been taken for anything at all, but there was no time to waste on details, so Alwyn just pulled a .32 pistol from behind his neatly pressed gray trousers and Hammer, trigger, bang—jus’ like de movies, okay? When I tell you, shoot six holes into dat switchboard right by de building, okay? Again there wasn’t much in the way of response from the terrified kid, whose eyes danced bewildered in the night as he listened to the rest of the instructions: Take t’ree steps behind, point at de t’ing like dis, empty de gun, and den run, run, run, an’ you no stop runnin’ till you reach home by you ma, you hear me? You hear me?

  But the boy had no chance to answer this time, because smoke already seeped from the lower floors of the police station, because Ronnie, precocious through his excessive eagerness, had thrown the tear gas canister upstairs without activating it, such that all it did was alert the guards with its loud thump that something was wrong; but for the job downstairs, Ronnie prepared himself better and he walked into the telecommunications room alongside Whitty, whose Nobody move! was indeed like in the movies, except he didn’t know what else to say, because this wasn’t a holdup, and he wasn’t sure what it was instead, and “Dis a rebellious attack” just didn’t have the same cling, the same swagger to it, and it wasn’t really even necessary to say anything else, because the four men inside the telecommunications room had simply turned toward the outlaws, noticed Whitty’s M16, and thrown their arms up in the air, but while Whitty wondered how to follow his Nobody move! Ronnie wasted a canister of tear gas, throwing it (activated) into a room that had already been taken without a fight.

  And Alwyn, under the threshold of the side door to the police station, instinctively ordered Ronnie’s child to Go! He could see Whitty, who, alerted by the heavy sound of boots running down the stairs, turned toward Constable LaRue arriving from above, took his aim, and, without saying a word, click. Except Anguilla’s was a bloodless revolution from start to finish, despite the visit of the HMS Salisbury and the subsequent invasion by the British troops, which would follow roughly two years after one of the most naive failures in the history of military aggressions; through the frustrating demonstrations, the meetings at Burrowes Park, the visits paid to the island by Bradshaw the tyrant, by Johnstone the nobody; despite the havoc that marred the Statehood Queen Show, and the open challenges directed at the police task force; despite Rude Thompson and Gaynor Henderson, the nighttime raids, the looting of the supermarkets, the burning of the Landsome House; despite, even, the unthinkable taking place and the unlikeliest of crews embarking on one of the most ridiculous episodes anyone will ever find in the annals of revolutions, Anguilla’s was still, and would remain throughout, a struggle that was waged at the expense of not one single human life.

  Which is not to say, as it has often been claimed, that Anguilla’s was a peaceful revolution, nor one that succeeded without firing a single shot. Plenty of bullets sailed through Anguilla’s tropical latitudes, and the atmosphere on the island was anything but peaceful in the days and months both immediately before and after the clumsy—laughable, almost—execution of a sinister plan to carry out a coup d’état in St. Kitts in the early hours of June 10, 1967.

  And yet, no lives had been claimed by the Anguillian cause to that point, and Divine Providence, human incompetence, or Whitty’s cracked nerves made certain it would stay that way because, though the Anguillian had calmly taken aim and could see the pathetic expression on Constable LaRue’s face through the gun sight as he pulled the trigger, he had not released the safety of the M16 after Alwyn Cooke had handed it over to him, such that Constable LaRue’s pathetic expression got suspended in a timeless dimension for the briefest of moments as he distinctly heard the dry click of the hammer landing on the safety. Whitty pulled the trigger again, to no avail. He shook the M16 franticall
y, as if a good lick might make it work, and then the tear gas began to affect his eyes. Constable LaRue finally unbuttoned the holster of his gun, as more men approached from above in numbers. That was when the first shots could be heard in the Kittitian night. They came from Ronnie’s child, barely fifteen, who had been pointing at the switchboard for a minute or two, trying to find enough courage to pull his index finger—curled around the trigger—toward his palm. He emptied the .32 revolver as Alwyn had instructed him, although his quivering pulse only allowed him to hit the target once, before dropping the gun on the spot and setting off on his long run.

  The one accurate shot from Ronnie’s child on the switchboard momentarily sunk the police station into the darkness of the night, before the lightbulbs were hesitantly reignited by the damaged circuit. The smoke-filled telecommunications room came in and out of the dark as the lights flickered dimly and filled the air with the haunting rattle of a circuit about to explode. Like the slowed-down reel of a movie, Whitford Howell saw the pallor in Constable LaRue’s countenance be replaced by an ounce of composure, as he unbuttoned the holster hanging on his right hip and pointed his gun. The next frame was black, but the thunderous roar of a shot and an instant flash that shook the scene out of the night and right back into it told Whitty that time had not expired along with the generator. Whitty patted himself with disbelief, trying to find where he had been hit, though the shot had been fired not at him, but rather at Constable LaRue, by Alwyn Cooke, still standing near the threshold.

  Except Alwyn Cooke was a hopeless shot, and the bullet flew right past Constable LaRue, hitting the metal stairs that led to the second floor before bouncing with a high-pitched whine against the far wall of the building.