Caribbean: a novel Part 29

'What in blazes do you mean by that?' Oliver asked.

'He's so imbedded in Church of England ...'

'So am I. So are you. Proper thing to be ... what else?'

'But as our governor, he really ought to listen more patiently to the adherents of other religions that are growing strong on this island. Especially the Baptists.'

'They should all be shot, especially the Baptists.'

'Now that's a silly thing to say, Oliver. The Baptists are here and they must be taken seriously.'

'Eyre has given these d.a.m.ned dissenters every consideration. More than generous. After all, Church of England is the religion of this island, the law says so. We pay our taxes to support it, and its clergymen support the queen. Baptists? Who knows what they believe?' Before Pembroke could respond, Croome added, his face flushing: 'I tell you, Jason, I'm not at all pleased with that ugly Baptist report that's been circulating,' and at last Pembroke understood his cousin's uneasiness.

Some years before, a visiting Baptist clergyman named Underhill had published, on his return to London, a favorable book on Jamaica, but he soon began receiving from the island a drumfire of letters from local Baptists lamenting the actual state of conditions there. His correspondents were harshly outspoken about the disadvantages which all nonconformist sects like the Baptists suffered at the hands of an unfeeling, ungenerous Church of England majority: 'We must pay taxes to support their church and their hard-drinking clergy, but they offer our chapels not one penny in return, even though our preaching is closer to the spirit of Jesus. And the governor hates anyone with a touch of color.'

Tormented by these cries, Underhill had, in late December 1864, submitted a noninflammatory report to British authorities. Copies were promptly forwarded to Jamaica, where Church of England leaders, including of course the governor and his supporters, were outraged to think that a mere Baptist would dare to complain against not only G.o.d's chosen church but also, by extension, the queen herself, since she had appointed her local surrogates. 'It's close to heresy,' Croome grumbled, 'or treason.' And then, with that forthright, simple character that cut through ambiguities, he said with great force, banging the chair next to him as he spoke: 'Those G.o.dd.a.m.ned Baptists are nine-tenths n.i.g.g.e.rs, and they're led by a gang of self-ordained preachers who are nine-tenths half-castes. This report strikes at the core of the empire, and the author should be shot.' Croome, like his ancestors, was strong for shooting people.

'Calmly, calmly, Croome. Anyone who charges Governor Eyre with being anti-Negro, whether it's some local Baptist fool or you, is ignorant of the man's past record. I've taken pains to look it up, because I've seen animosities growing between us whites and those blacks, with the half-castes in between shifting now this way, now that.'

'What was his record?'

'In Australia he served ably as Protector of the Aborigines. In his great explorations, when he couldn't find any white men brave enough to accompany him he trusted a young aborigine. When he was appointed lieutenant governor of St. Vincent he was a powerful champion of n.i.g.g.e.rs, and in that post in Antigua he was the same. The man is right for Jamaica.'

'That's why it would be criminal for us to allow the d.a.m.ned Baptists to smear his character. Who allowed copies of that Underhill letter to reach these sh.o.r.es?' Before Pembroke could reply, his cousin, now red in the face, uttered the freighted words that would dictate so much Jamaican behavior in this troubled year: 'Jason, our task as members of the Executive Council is to do everything we can to prevent the terrors of the Indian Mutiny, or the horrors that occurred in Haiti when n.i.g.g.e.rs ran wild.'

Those were the images that dominated: Cawnpore, the city on the Ganges River where hundreds of Englishmen, men and women alike, were brutalized, slain and pitched into deep wells; and nearby Haiti, not much over a hundred miles distant, where even worse ma.s.sacres had occurred.

'We must do everything possible to keep peace,' Croome said, with grim lines etched on his shaven face, 'and if I could lay my hands on that Underhill or any Baptist agitators, I'd shoot them.'

Governor Eyre, returning to the council chamber at this moment, saw the cousins and came to stand before them, tall and G.o.dlike with his flowing beard: 'You are the men I must rely on to protect me when you next take residence in London,' he said with as much emotion as his austere nature would permit. 'You're as much at home there as you are on your sugar plantations. A rare breed, you two.'

Their council duties over, the two cousins rode together along the magnificent trails that led north from Spanish Town, following vibrant streams which had to be forded from time to time, and as they approached the Croome plantation, Jason bade his energetic cousin farewell. 'We did good work for the empire this week,' he said as Oliver turned his horse toward his gate.

At Trevelyan, Jason was greeted by a deputation he did not much care to entertain, a motley group of farmers, from St. Ann's Parish to the north, led by one of the most difficult of the half-caste Baptist preachers-a smug, persistent man of forty-seven, one George William Gordon, of a color called by white Jamaicans bedarkened and with an almost insolent stare that came from fighting incessant battles on behalf of his colored and black parishioners. His face was framed by a curious part-beard which extended from his full head of curly hair down each side of his face and completely under his chin, leaving the rest of his face unshaven and stern, as if his teeth were permanently clenched. He wore wire-set gla.s.ses and clergyman's dress, although whether or not he had been legally ordained no one could say; Pembroke thought so, but his cousin was certain that Gordon had a.s.sumed both the t.i.tle and the dress.

As soon as Pembroke recognized him at the head of the group of St. Ann farmers, most of whom lived just over the border from the parish in which Trevelyan stood, he realized there might be trouble, for Gordon's jaw was fiercely set.

Gordon was a tough man, having come up the tough way. His father had been a sniveling white man who had slipped into an alliance with one of his female slaves, by whom he had seven children. But later in life, when he had acc.u.mulated a little money, he threw the slave woman and her brood out of his house, married a white woman, and refused ever to allow any of his half-caste children, George William among them, entrance to his new home. Even so, when the father fell into financial trouble, he came whimpering to his son, begging the money which would allow him to maintain decency. In the meantime, the young man had so prospered in various business enterprises that he was able to finance not only the purchase of a home for his father, but also to a.s.sist in the care of the latter's white wife and children. Such a man could not be dismissed with contempt, despite his unfortunate color.

Pembroke sought to be congenial, inviting the black and colored farmers into the mansion, where he called for refreshments as he listened to the mournful reason for their visit. 'You are the wisest member of the council, Mr. Pembroke,' one of the farmers said, 'and you know our land in St. Ann better than anyone else except maybe Parson Gordon, who preaches there now and again. We are hardworking men, but we need land for our crops. Thousands of acres lie fallow there, no one working them. When emanc.i.p.ation came years ago we were supposed to receive that land ... to buy it if necessary. We've saved. We have the money to buy it if the price is reasonable. But the government will not break it loose for us. They tell us: "Your role is to work for the white man at whatever wages he chooses to pay you." Well, there are no white plantation owners in St. Ann to hire us, and no land on which we can grow our own crops.'

On and on went the pitiful complaints, which could have been echoed in each of Jamaica's parishes. When emanc.i.p.ation came to the British Caribbean in 1834, the former slaves had been tricked into believing that land would be made available to them, but the Legislative a.s.sembly, composed in large part of white plantation owners and their half-caste employees, refused to cede any land, and the lower cla.s.ses had no recourse. At one point Jamaica had 450,000 citizens, but only 753 were eligible to vote, and they did not propose to turn land over to the Baptist followers of Preacher Gordon, whom they despised.

Pembroke, understanding these matters, listened attentively to the farmers, and when they finished he suggested that they retire and draft a courteous letter to Queen Victoria, laying out their problems and their views as to how they could be solved. When Gordon volunteered to write the letter, Pembroke said gently: 'I think not, sir. You're known as a radical, and I'd be reluctant to submit one of your agitations to the queen, even though I believe you to be right.'

So with Pembroke's help the letter was drafted, a sensible, restrained appeal for help in time of drought and a respectful prayer that the queen would release some crown lands, which they would then cultivate with their hearts and hands and remit the required rents. When it was read aloud, the farmers agreed that it represented both their cause and their affection for the queen, and they believed that she would listen favorably. Preacher Gordon felt that it could have been stronger, but Pembroke a.s.sured him that this was the proper way to address a queen whose generosity was known to all: 'I will forward it through proper channels, and I can a.s.sure you she will respond.' And the rump meeting dissolved with mutual congratulations.

Two days later Oliver Croome strode into Trevelyan, his face livid: 'What in the name of h.e.l.l have you done, Jason?'

'What do you mean?'

'That pet.i.tion to the queen. The one that swine Gordon wrote for the St. Ann people.'

'But I wrote it. In proper tone, I believe.'

'You! G.o.d, Pembroke, are you out of your mind? Don't you realize that those people are all Baptists echoing the lies of that Underhill report? Those people are revolutionaries. Do you want another Haiti on your hands?'

When Pembroke tried to remonstrate with him, saying that he had helped them draft their letter for the precise reason of avoiding revolution, Croome cut him short: 'Jason, you don't understand the n.i.g.g.e.r question, and as a member of the council you ought to think about it more clearly. This might help,' and he thrust into Jason's hands one of the most amazing products of British intellectualism. It had been written sixteen years earlier, in 1849, the year of great revolutions across Europe, and was obviously influenced by those uprisings of the lower orders. It was ent.i.tled 'Occasional Discourse on the n.i.g.g.e.r Question,' and was written by Thomas Carlyle, the Scotsman famous for his advocacy of hero worship as a guide to personal and national life. He was also a strong believer in the British right to rule those he lumped together as lesser breeds. And he thought it proper for men to make decisions and for women and children to obey.

As Jason started to read Carlyle's rantings, Croome said: 'I'll inspect how you make your great Trevelyan rum,' and left his cousin alone in his study.

Quickly Jason caught on to the author's two code words. All blacks, especially freed slaves, were called Quashee, a euphonious name which one of the African tribes used for any child born on Sunday. Carlyle apparently liked the word for the humorous way it dismissed any black to whom it was applied, for he used it almost ad nauseam in his vitriolic comments. He had also picked up, possibly from some visiting cotton or sugar plantation owner from the Carolinas, the idea that blacks spent all their time lolling in the shade eating watermelon, but since Carlyle had never seen a watermelon, he confused it with a pumpkin and filled his essay with humorous references to Quashee and his pumpkins.

Jason frequently gasped as he continued to read the essay, for he could not believe that an intelligent Briton could write such trash: 'Our beautiful Black darlings are at last happy; with little labour except to the teeth, which surely in those excellent horse-jaws of theirs, will not fail!' 'With a penny-worth of oil you can make a handsome, glossy thing of Quashee.' 'No, the G.o.ds wish that besides pumpkins, that spices and valuable products be grown in their West Indies. Infinitely more they wish, that manful industrious men occupy their West Indies, not indolent two-legged cattle, however happy over their abundant pumpkins.'

Then came the crux of Carlyle's solution to the 'n.i.g.g.e.r question': 'Quashee, if he will not help in bringing out the spices, will get himself made a slave again, and with beneficent whip, since other methods avail not, will be compelled to work.' In other words, Carlyle, a devotee of the master-race theory, was calling for the reimposition of slavery, at least in the West Indies, where lack of slaves had slowed the sugar industry.

He then rhapsodized over the brave British men who had brought civilization to the islands: 'Before the West Indies could grow a pumpkin for any Negro, how much European heroism had to spend itself in obscure battle ... Under the soil of Jamaica, before it could even produce spices or any pumpkin, the bones of many thousand British men had to be laid. How they would have rejoiced to think that all this was to issue in growing pumpkins to keep Quashee in comfortably idle condition!'

In fiery sentences Carlyle spelled out his vision of the world: 'My obscure Black friends, you will have to be servants to those who are born wiser than you, that are born lords of you; servants to the Whites, if they are (as what mortal man can doubt that they are?) born wiser than you. That is the Law of the World, to be servants, the more foolish to the more wise.'

So sorely was Jason Pembroke shaken when he finished this incredible screed that he went outside and shouted to his cousin: 'This is appalling-making fun of human beings, speaking of them as if they were horses, calling for the reinst.i.tution of slavery.'

'Wait a minute! Do you want what happened in Haiti to happen here? Or another Indian Mutiny? Carlyle speaks the truth, the hard ugly truth. n.i.g.g.e.rs are really little better than animals, and if they won't work our fields at the wages we propose, they must be made to work, and if that means bringing slavery back, so be it. They asked for it.'

Shocked by Oliver's vehement adoption of all that Carlyle had said, Jason inadvertently stumbled onto the one name that would infuriate his cousin: 'No wonder Gordon makes headway with the blacks.'

'Gordon!' Oliver bellowed as if stabbed near the kidney. 'Are you listening to that ranting fool? People like you say he was kind to his white father. But did you know that he had money only because he stole land and houses from that father? Did you know that he had his workers run down the values of all the father's farms so that the old man had to sell at a great loss? And who bought? Gordon.'

His contempt for the troublemaker was fathomless, but he saved till last his harshest condemnations: 'Are you aware, Jason, that his wife is a white woman ... that he married her to improve his position in the community? And have you heard that in his sermons he often ridicules our established church with his Baptist heresies? And are you aware that in his constant agitation he casts aspersions on our beloved queen? That man should be destroyed, and I'm amazed you allowed him in your house.'

'But don't you think,' Jason asked quietly, in an effort to lower the temperature of his cousin's rhetoric, 'that your Thomas Carlyle is just as damaging, preaching his hatred?' and Oliver answered: 'But they are n.i.g.g.e.rs, Jason.'

When Pembroke delivered the supplication of his St. Ann neighbors to Governor Eyre, that officer thanked him, but as soon as Pembroke was gone, he summoned Oliver Croome, and four like-minded planters who thought like Carlyle, to help frame the Jamaican comment on the farmers' appeal to the queen, and they, drawing heavily on 'Occasional Discourse on the n.i.g.g.e.r Question,' undercut everything the supplicants had said, a.s.suring the queen that all was well in Jamaica and that the protest came almost exclusively from disaffected blacks and half-castes who were Baptists. 'Not one gentleman or plantation owner in the entire island would demean himself by signing such an impertinent letter.' And off it went.

It would never be known for certain who drafted the reply to the starving farmers, but since it was delivered to Jamaica as Victoria's personal response to their pleas, it became known in history as The Queen's Advice: The prosperity of the labouring cla.s.ses depends in Jamaica upon their working for wages, not uncertainly, or capriciously, but steadily and continuously, at the times when their labour is wanted, and for so long as it is wanted ... They may be a.s.sured that it is from their own industry and prudence, in availing themselves of the means of prosperity before them, and not from any such schemes as have been suggested to them, and they must look for an improvement in their conditions.

Her Majesty will regard with interest and satisfaction their advancement through their own merits and efforts.

Not a word about starvation, never a promise to release land locked in idleness, for the plantation owners argued that if the blacks got hold of land for their own use, they would no longer work the sugar fields and rum distilleries. Only that terribly cruel command: 'Work for your white masters when they want you, for as long as they want you, and at whatever wages they graciously offer.' Jason Pembroke, on finishing his reading of the letter, muttered: 'It could have been written by Thomas Carlyle.'

When Governor Eyre showed The Queen's Advice to Croome and some of his more conservative friends, they exulted over the fact that Victoria had adopted much of their phraseology, and they loudly agreed with Eyre when he said: 'Well, I think that answers the agitations of Brother Gordon.' Eyre approved when Croome suggested: 'It's so clear, so fair that we must put copies of it on trees and buildings throughout the island,' giving authority to print up fifty thousand broadsheets. Croome and his friends arrogantly rushed to all corners of the island, posting these conspicuously and with a final flourish of the hammer as if to shout: 'Well, that takes care of your silly pet.i.tion!'

But when Pembroke saw what was being done, and the sullen rage with which the farmers, the little people and the undernourished mothers read the letter and sometimes spat upon it, he said to himself: It will be worse than Haiti. And he leaped on his horse and rode to Kingston to seek out Preacher Gordon: 'My friend, I have grown to respect what you're trying to do, so for G.o.d's sake watch your step in the weeks ahead. Keep your lips sealed.'

'Why, in the face of such an insulting message from the queen?'

'Because she is the queen. And because men of great power wish you silent.' Then, to ease Gordon's disappointment and disgust, he uttered a fatal sentence, which when quoted by agitated blacks and coloreds would account for two hundred of their deaths: 'And you can be sure that the queen did not write that letter.' With that, he turned and rode back to his plantation, where he tried to rea.s.sure his own workers that the queen could never have written that cruel a reply.

The fifty thousand broadsheets which had been nailed to trees and meeting boards were intended, by the foolish writer who composed the letter, by Governor Eyre, who had provided the outline of the response, and by wealthy men like Oliver Croome who circulated it so enthusiastically, to stifle dissent over the harsh way in which Jamaica was being governed. Croome insisted, after a long excursion into the western parishes: 'If they can read, they will applaud the queen's intelligent response, and if they can't read, her words can be explained to them. Either way, there should be an end to fruitless discussion and ridiculous claims for land and the distribution of food that hasn't been properly earned,' and even other plantation owners better informed than he believed the famous Advice had solved all problems for the next decade.

It had quite the opposite effect, because the farmers of St. Ann who had helped draft the original pet.i.tion saw at once that the queen had evaded answering every one of their complaints: 'How can we work if no work is offered? How can we be industrious if we're allowed no land on which to prove ourselves?'

Across the beautiful island, along the seacoasts and in the valleys, men of good will who were allowed no advantages began discussing the message, and its insolent, almost cruel, phrases created a great fury. They saw no hope for the future. Most powerful in the voices raised was that of Preacher Gordon, who moved through the island haranguing his Baptists and uttering statements that became increasingly inflammatory. 'We shall have another Haiti on this island' and 'I shy away from revolution, but if it must come, I hope it solves these terrible problems' and 'It's shameful to have a German immigrant as the custos of St. Thomas-in-the-East, the parish I love so dearly.' This last protest would, as months pa.s.sed, have special significance.

Under Jamaican law, the governor appointed parish leaders who exercised considerable authority; their t.i.tle custos and its plural custodes suggested the custodian role they filled. The custos of Gordon's parish was, as pointed out so often, a German immigrant and a fearfully conservative man to whom any expression of public demand was repugnant. Maximilian Augustus Baron von Ketelhodt had been judicious, upon his arrival in the island, in paying court to a wealthy widow, who brought him in their marriage five rich plantations and acceptance as a member of the island's ruling faction. A man of brilliant maneuvering, he ingratiated himself with the lower cla.s.ses and was no tyrant, even though Gordon, who fell under his custodianship, deemed him so.

St. Thomas-in-the-East Parish, whose affairs the custos supervised, owned that curious name for two reasons: It lay at the extreme eastern tip of Jamaica, and it was named later than an earlier parish in the center of the island which had already usurped that t.i.tle. It was unique in other ways: being so far from Kingston and Spanish Town, it believed itself free from restraints which bound the other parishes; it was strongly Baptist, which created numerous problems, especially with Baron von Ketelhodt; and it had an unusual number of educated and headstrong half-caste and black preachers, landowners and quasi-scholars. It seemed inevitable that George William Gordon, in coming from this parish, would be disciplined in one way or another by his custos.

The long summer of 1865 was particularly hot and humid, and watchful sugar men like Oliver Croome became aware that the mood of the lower cla.s.ses had become sullen, so dangerously so that he sought an audience with Governor Eyre to register a warning: 'Governor, if things get any worse, we could have a serious rebellion on this island. The planters who accompanied me on the annual tour of the districts are deeply worried about the conditions we saw at St. Thomas-in-the-East, and we recommend that you summon your custos to give his a.s.sessment.'

Eyre, always terrified by the names Haiti and Cawnpore, grabbed at Croome's suggestion, and a few days later Baron von Ketelhodt, tall and rigid and ready to stamp out any incipient uprising in his parish, reported to the governor: 'That a.s.s Gordon has been creating a disturbance. Seems to have affected one of his underlings, a clown named Bogle ...'

'Isn't that one a Baptist preacher, too?'

'He is. Gordon ordained him, just as he ordained himself. And there appears to be contempt for the posters of The Queen's Advice.'

'Contempt? How expressed?'

'The broadsheets have been spat upon. And in three instances, torn down.'

Eyre's face grew grave, his broad brow wrinkled and his long beard trembled. 'The Queen's Advice spat upon! We can't allow that, Ketelhodt. What have you done to halt it?'

'Caution,' the baron said in his deep Germanic accent. 'Not to raise tempers. But to watch. Careful. Careful.'

'And what have you learned?'

'That George Gordon is behind every move. That he is inciting to rebellion. That sooner or later we must throw a net for that one, but taking care to avoid inciting his d.a.m.ned Baptist renegades.'

When Eyre called for Croome and Pembroke to join the meeting, the former supported everything the baron had reported, strengthening some points: 'Gordon is actively preaching rebellion and we ought to silence him now,' but Pembroke recommended patience: 'Governor, the most sensible people on this island judge the queen's letter to have been insensitive. It's understandable that ...'

Eyre rose from his chair, stared down at Pembroke, and said sternly: 'Are you daring to denigrate the queen?' and Pembroke said humbly: 'Certainly not, sir, but the people are disappointed in it, for it fails to ...'

'The queen has spoken,' Eyre thundered, as if the lower cla.s.ses were pestering him the way flies pester a n.o.ble animal, 'and the people have naught but to obey.'

'Hear! Hear!' cried Croome and the baron together, and the meeting ended.

But that did not terminate agitation in Jamaica, because six days later while Gordon was speaking in Kingston, his a.s.sociate Bogle in St. Thomas-in-the-East led a frenzied uprising in which infuriated blacks, tired of waiting for their complaints to be heard, ran amok, slaughtering in the most brutal fashion eighteen whites, including officers of the queen, plantation owners, minor officials and, with special vengeance, their custos, Baron von Ketelhodt, whose body they mutilated, cutting off his fingers. These they circulated as souvenirs of their successful uprising, and some blacks, partic.i.p.ating in the wild rioting, were heard to shout: 'Now we do like Haiti!' and island-wide rebellion loomed.

The two protagonists in the Jamaican tragedy, Governor Eyre and Preacher Gordon, were indisputably in Kingston when the deadly riot broke out in St. Thomas-in-the-East, many miles away.

In this extremity, with his governorship being threatened by widespread ma.s.sacre, Eyre behaved magnificently. Cool, decisive, looking always at the strategic situation, he gave few orders but always the right ones. At dusk on the afternoon when he received word of the rebellion, he said: 'Of myself I cannot declare martial law. That must be done only by our Council of War,' and Croome, who was a member of that council, volunteered to spend the night a.s.sembling it, and, in antic.i.p.ation of their decision, himself drafted the decree.

In the meantime, with a burst of the old energy he had shown in Australia, Eyre rode out to Spanish Town to attend to duties there, then galloped back to Kingston to lead a dawn meeting in which martial law was declared for St. Thomas in-the-East and all parishes contiguous thereto. At this point Eyre displayed both great common sense and firm decision, for when everyone, especially Croome, clamored for the town of Kingston to be put under martial law, he said: 'No! Only enough force to handle the situation. Martial law in a crowded place like this might lead to terrible brutalities,' and he could not be persuaded.

Alone with Croome and Pembroke, the governor asked Jason: 'Did not your ancestor gain fame for having pacified the Maroons ... a century ago?' Jason nodded. 'And was it not he who pacified those at the eastern end of the island?' and again Jason agreed. Making an instant decision of great subsequent importance, Governor Eyre cried: 'Pembroke, ride posthaste to the Maroons and implore them not to side with the n.i.g.g.e.rs in this dreadful affair.' When Jason snapped: 'Yes, sir!' Eyre urged: 'Make any concessions. Offer them any inducements. But keep them from joining the rebellion.' That was his first use of that fearful word, and during the next four decades it would be one he would constantly employ when he justified his actions: 'It was rebellion and I had to put it down.'

Before seven that morning Jason was riding hard to the perilous mountain area which his great-great-grandfather had penetrated under comparable conditions to try his hand at peacekeeping.

At eight the Council of War proclaimed martial law for the east, and as soon as this gave him the authority he required, Governor Eyre, accompanied by Oliver Croome, chartered a French packet ship to speed him along the coast to the troubled area, and at ten in the morning he was on his way. Intercepting another ship limping into Kingston crammed with refugees from the rebellion, he heard for the first time the gruesome details of what had happened in one of his most peaceful and prosperous parishes: 'Church of England Reverend Hersch.e.l.l, tongue ripped out while still alive, hacked to death, black women tried to skin him. Member of a.s.sembly Price, a black man, belly ripped open, guts pulled out while he still alive. Lieutenant Hall, him brave, pushed into privy, door locked, he burned alive. Eyes scooped out, heads smashed open, brains dripping. German baron, hacked to death but he fight them to the end.' Thanking the refugees for their horrifying reports, but sickened at hearing them, he told them to proceed to Kingston, while he headed for St. Thomas-in-the-East.

There he found the military courts-martial already under way, staffed by enthusiastic young officers from army regiments stationed in Jamaica or from ships which had hurried to the area. Proceedings were brusque, with prisoners being stood before the court in batches and sentenced in the same way. Any black man arrested for any unusual behavior whatever, even looking furtively at a soldier, was condemned without a chance to defend himself. 'Hang them all,' the presiding officer cried, and forthwith half a dozen black men would be suspended from the remaining walls of the burned-out courthouse. It was a hideous way to die, whether guilty or innocent, for a rope was thrown about a prisoner's neck and he was hauled aloft-instead of being dropped in the normal way to break his neck-to strangle slowly.

For three sleepless days Eyre prowled the coast, satisfying himself that the rebellion which had ravaged St. Thomas was not spreading to nearby parishes, and when he returned to the scene of the major uprising and saw that each morning the courts-martial were hanging dozens of black prisoners with never a one found innocent, he was able to tell Croome: 'We've broken the back of the rebellion. You stay here with the troops and see that the pacification continues.' With that, he boarded the chartered French vessel and returned to Kingston, from where he immediately sent a report to London that he had contained the rebellion with a minimum loss of white lives and without having to throw all of Jamaica into convulsions by imposing martial law generally. When he finally fell into bed, he felt justified in believing that he had acted swiftly and in the great tradition of British colonial governors; indeed, he was so pleased with his behavior that he got out of bed and added a postscript to his report: 'By stern and prompt action against the queen's foes, I believe I have averted another Indian Mutiny or a Haiti-type uprising.'

For eleven hours Eyre lay in bed almost motionless, as if savoring the sleep of a hero who had behaved well in a major crisis, but when he woke his mouth felt ashen, for he knew that he had fallen far short of a real victory. Where is George Gordon? he asked himself, for the instigator of the rebellion had disappeared. No, he's too clever to show up in St. Thomas, because he knows I'd hang him if I caught him. In the silent speculation that followed, the governor never once considered that Gordon might not have been at the scene of the murders and that he was not involved, either directly or indirectly. To Eyre, Gordon was responsible for everything: He must have given the orders that launched the riot, and for it he must hang. His obsession was so all-consuming that he did not bother to consider what grounds could be used for hanging Gordon or even in what civil court the infuriating preacher could be tried. No civilian court in Kingston would condemn the man, for the very good reason that no valid charges could be brought against him in normal procedure. He had murdered no one. He had not taken up arms against the queen. There was no proof that he had incited the riots, beyond his open dissatisfaction with the queen's letter. And not even the most prejudiced witness could claim that she or he had seen Gordon in St. Thomas during the rioting or the weeks prior. But Eyre knew that if the Baptist preacher could be lured into going to St. Thomas, the court-martial could grab him, and would not be constrained by any niceties of logic or legal tradition.

Now Eyre vowed: I will find Gordon and take him to St. Thomas; but no one could inform him as to where the archcriminal was: My G.o.d! Has he fled the island? Has he escaped the wrath due him?

For two days Eyre fumed, telling his subordinates: 'I must have that criminal! Find him! Find him!' But Gordon could not be found and Eyre could not sleep, for the vision of Preacher Gordon standing on a gallows with a rope around his neck tormented his hours. His frustration in not being able to haul the man to justice infuriated him, and he roared at his underlings: 'Find that man. Track him down,' but not even spies among the black population knew where he was. Summoning the local custos, he stormed: 'Sign a warrant for his arrest,' and this was done, but it accomplished nothing, so his anger continued to seethe.

Then suddenly, on the morning of the third day, George William Gordon, still looking like a contentious preacher, walked calmly into Kingston's army headquarters and said quietly: 'I think you may be looking for me. I am Reverend Gordon.'

The astonished officer called for his commander, who gasped, then rushed to Eyre's office to inform him Gordon had been taken.

Suppressing his excitement, Eyre said: 'This is very fortunate, we were looking for him,' and when he was allowed to see the prisoner, he told Gordon, in a low, controlled voice: 'You must come with me ... to St. Thomas-in-the-East.' Bowing slightly, Gordon repeated what he had been telling his black and colored friends during his days of hiding: 'If I go before a military court-martial, it will be to my death,' and Eyre said through gritting teeth: 'Perhaps.'

The ship Wolverine was scheduled to sail within the hour, but it was delayed because an agitated man with the highest credentials burst into Eyre's office, dusty and near exhaustion, with the cry: 'Oh, sir! You must not send him to St. Thomas. You really mustn't!' and since the governor had to pay attention to this particular speaker, the delivery of Gordon to certain death was delayed.

On the morning almost a week before, when Jason Pembroke was commissioned to use his family's honored name to prevent the wild Maroons from joining the rebellious blacks, he entered upon an adventure which seemed an evocation of some earlier century. After a determined ride he left the Kingston area and entered turbulent St. Thomas-in-the East, and as soon as he approached Monklands, the settlement farthest west, he saw signs of upheaval, and a white planter who recognized him shouted: 'Go farther at your own peril!'

'Government business,' Jason shouted back as he headed resolutely for the Blue Mountains. They might not have been impressive in comparison with the Himalayas or Andes, but they were much higher than anything in Great Britain, reaching up at times to more than six thousand feet, deeply ravined and tree-covered. When he had traveled halfway to the east coast he turned his horse sharply to the north, up a rugged path containing a few slave shacks perched at lonely spots. Again he was warned, this time by blacks: 'Here no more, ma.s.sa! Yonder big trouble-Maroons.'

'It's them I seek,' he cried back, whereupon the blacks said: 'Not go, ma.s.sa, soon you hear horns,' and not long after he pa.s.sed the last shack in the ravine he was following, he heard that deep-throated mournful sound which terrified Jamaicans: the pulsating moan of three or four great horns sounded in unison, the lonely cry of the Maroons, those runaway slaves who had persisted in the mountains of Jamaica, living their own untrammeled lives for the past two hundred years. Laws did not affect them. Police never dared enter their mountain, and even well-trained army troops preferred not to engage these formidable warriors. No white man could even guess how they lived. Coming down from their mountain now and then to work for wages, tilling their fields and engaging in small-scale raids, but retreating quickly to their hidden lairs, they made do.

Their horns were fashioned from various materials: treasured seash.e.l.ls pa.s.sed from father to son, horns from cattle taken in raids, curious instruments made from wood. Whatever they used, sometimes simply manipulating the human voice, they achieved fearful effects, for the sound of the Maroon horns signified trouble, meant that the mountain blacks were once more on a rampage.

But in recent years it meant primarily trouble for other blacks, rarely for white men, because as happened repeatedly in other parts of the world, like Panama and Brazil, in which renegade slaves fled to the jungle to gain their freedom, they saw other blacks as their major enemy, people never to be trusted. The Maroons had gained their greatest concessions from white men by serving as human bloodhounds-tracking, capturing and returning valuable runaway slaves-but they had also admitted slaves to their brother-hood, especially black women, to keep their own numbers strong.

They were redoubtable warriors who had been able to defend themselves for more than two centuries, keeping alive traditions inherited from Africa and posing a kind of mythic background to Jamaican life. They understood English but preferred their own indecipherable patois rich in African words, and they were extremely black in a way that made their visages terrifying to a white man. Not one white person in ten on the island had ever seen a Maroon, but everyone had been aware since childhood of their presence-'Be quiet or the Maroon will grab you'-and it was into the fastness of their hideaways that Pembroke now proposed to penetrate.

As he moved higher into the mountains he became aware that the Maroons had spotted him, for he heard first one mournful horn in the far distance, then another, but remembering his brave ancestor Sir Hugh, who had been the princ.i.p.al agent in pacifying the Maroons, he plunged ahead, hoping that he would be allowed at least one moment to identify himself to someone who would remember favorably the Pembroke name. It was risky and he knew it, so when the path grew steeper, as if in approach to where the Maroons had their remote dwellings, he dismounted and walked close to the right flank of his horse so as to protect himself from at least one side.

Then he began calling out: 'Pembroke coming!' and repeating this at intervals while the sounding of the horns intensified.

As he approached the crest of a slight hill he was startled by two black men who suddenly leaped in front of his horse, each grabbing the reins with one hand while threatening him with a club held in the other. 'No! Stop!' he shouted as they brought the clubs close to his head.

These men were not savages from some jungle. They wore tattered trousers and torn shirts, and were clean-shaven. Pembroke, aware that what he did in these first moments might determine whether he lived or not, allowed them to take his horse, made no gesture that could be interpreted as unfriendly, and repeated over and over: 'Pembroke your friend. Pembroke your friend.' The men, making nothing of this, looked at each other as if to ask: 'What shall we do with this one? He seems brave.' They must have reached some unspoken decision, for one man led the horse forward while the other guarded Pembroke with his club as they started up the remaining portion of the climb.

Quickly they came to a village of sorts surrounded by small cleared fields, which their women tilled. The twenty-odd houses were little more than rude shacks, but a larger one in the center was sheathed in metal roofing and obviously housed the chief, an older black whose ancestors had fled to this mountain from the fields in 1657, two years after they had been landed as slaves by Sir William Penn, the British admiral who had captured the island from the Spanish. When the chief saw this white man coming toward him, his first inclination was to have him either slain for his impudence or thrown off the mountain, his horse being kept behind as a treasure, but Jason, hoping to prevent either of those misadventures, began talking swiftly, trusting that someone nearby would understand the force of what he was saying: 'I am Pembroke. Same Pembroke who brought you peace, long ago.'

The words had a magical effect, for the Maroon leader caught his breath, came forward to inspect the visitor, and then embraced him: 'We know Pembroke. Many years. Good man. Trusted man.' Extending his right hand, he said: 'I am Colonel Seymour ... in charge here.'

When Jason saluted as if the man were a real colonel, the latter called for a rough-hewn bench, placed it alongside his own, and invited Jason to join him. After some pleasantries, Jason broached the purpose of his visit: 'Big trouble Morant Bay.'

'We know.'