Walter Stewart, still sitting at the back of the boat, had paid little attention to the line of water that wet the soles of his boots a few minutes after The Rambler had retaken its adjusted course en route to St. Kitts. But now, some half hour later, the waterline was substantially higher, so much so that the fifteen-year-old felt it was time to speak up. Water had been leaking into the boat from the moment Alwyn had ordered to go at full speed. It came in through the rudder case as the backwash of the engines increased, and it collected in the aft of the boat due to its inclination. By the time Walter Stewart drew Alwyn Cooke’s attention to the situation, the water had already reached the bags with the guns and ammunition. The Rambler had to slow down by a couple of inches and the men got together to bail out the boat. Of course, if there was one thing in abundance in The Rambler, it was hands to deal with the problem.
What there wasn’t, however, was much confidence. All the excitement of some hours earlier had dissipated, or had turned into fear and anxiety. There was an air of restlessness, which grew with every mile that took them closer to St. Kitts. This anxiety reflected not an eagerness to get on with the task at hand, but rather a muted regret for having taken part in a senseless operation, a desire to turn right back and be homeward bound. Alwyn Cooke could feel the reservation of his men, even if none of them dared speak it—he could hear it in their slow speech, he could see it in their downcast eyes.
The Rambler reached the lights of St. Eustatius round about midnight, more than an hour behind schedule. This was the time when they were supposed to reach Half Way Tree; instead, they made their way at full-speed-minus-a-couple-of-inches to the shores of Sandy Hill Point. The final leg of the journey would be done in total darkness, with all the lights of The Rambler switched off to avoid St. Kitts’s revenue cutter from spotting the rogue boat. So, as soon as they reached St. Eustatius, Alwyn Cooke summoned Gaynor Henderson, Harry González, Solomon Carter, and Rude Thompson to the bridge of the vessel. What he had to say, he knew, would incense Harry and undermine Gaynor, so he said it quickly, yet in stages: Gaynor here, he right, you know. Ain’ no sense in blowin’ up de fuel depot if we don’ need to, and before Harry González could utter a word, We mus’ leave de Kittitians do dey dirty job, if dey wan’ do it.
Despite the time of night, Alwyn Cooke still believed blindly in the figures that Dr. Crispin Reynolds had shown him six nights before in his residence at Island Harbour, still expected to find no less than one hundred supporters of Dr. Reynolds’s cause who would constitute the bulk of the force making their way through the streets of Baseterre. Alwyn Cooke was happy to distribute the spare guns between them, he was happy to appoint them with explosives, with instructions, and with plenty of courage. But Alwyn had decided that God had not intended him and his people to kick out the police task force from Anguilla, to declare independence and call the attention of the entire world, only to land in St. Kitts ten days later to murder a whole bunch of innocent people in an attempt to put another, more sympathetic autocrat in power. So, Alwyn Cooke called off the attack on the fuel depot, cut down to ten the number of men who would go into Baseterre, reduced the squads from three to two, with him leading the group that would head toward the police station, while Rude and the three American mercenaries attacked the Defence Force camp.
So where you wan’ me?
But Alwyn Cooke didn’t think it was appropriate to let Gaynor Henderson know yet that he would be left to protect the boat with some of the youngest members, awaiting the return of the troopers. I tell you later. That was as far as this first stage of reorganization would take him. He was prepared to face the exasperation of Harry González, but not the brutish temper of Gaynor Henderson.
His strategy worked perfectly, as Gaynor, still too embarrassed about his recent outburst to be excessively forceful, accepted Alwyn’s deferral without complaint. Meanwhile, Harry González, too far from hope to harbor any, simply delivered a tirade of insults that finished with: Twenny minutes before landing you decide to alter the whole plan? You’re all a bunch of morons. To which Alwyn Cooke simply reminded him, You job will soon be done, Mr. González.
The meeting was already over when Rude Thompson announced, Dem de last lights of Oranjestad. We soon be in de channel, meaning the short strait between St. Eustatius and St. Kitts. Alwyn Cooke ordered the lights of The Rambler, including the navigation lights, to be switched off, and he told the men to take their positions. An’ be quiet, nuh. It would be at least another half hour before they reached Sandy Hill Point, but given that they were over an hour late, there was no telling where the escorting boat might be at this stage, or whether the St. Kitts revenue cutter was on the lookout for them.
So The Rambler darted through the channel at full speed, cutting across the darkness of the night, while sixteen men, caught between whispers and mutterings, waited for a signal—any signal, from friend or foe—to put them out of their misery.
CHAPTER II
THE RENDEZVOUS
Once again The Rambler drifted idly on the calm Caribbean waters, this time off the northwestern coast of St. Kitts. Not a word was spoken as every one of the men aboard looked out in the distance, trying to spot the signal from the escort that was supposed to meet them at Sandy Hill Point. The atmosphere was tense and the nerves could be measured by the ticking of seconds in Solomon Carter’s wristwatch. The Rambler had been waiting for close to thirty minutes, sporadically sending out the coded flickering of a flashlight in the hope that the signal would reach friendly shores before it was intercepted by the local authorities. Despite the slight delay they had encountered in the journey south from Anguilla, there was an air of disbelief among the militiamen at the silent vacuum that welcomed their arrival in St. Kitts. And yet, there was a limit to the discretion that could be expected from them—a limit that shared its boundaries with the sound of teeth being sucked.
On average, the common Anguillian man is likely to suck his teeth somewhere between 150 and 200 times a day. These suckings can vary in length and tone and will inevitably have a wide variety of meanings, most of which display a degree of disapproval. Frustration, fear, and anger are all most efficiently expressed through teeth suckings, which also play a role when entertaining a crowd or even wooing a woman. In the wee-wee hours of the morning of June 10, 1967, though, teeth were being sucked in The Rambler with a heightened level of anxiety and even a degree of desperation. Until one particularly long-drawn brood was cut short when, in the distance, a bright light flashed intermittently. It was hard to tell whether the sequence in fact corresponded with the previously agreed code, but the expectation inside The Rambler had grown to such extent that as soon as anything at all emerged from the flat darkness ahead, the boat tilted sideways.
Easy, fellas, easy. Alwyn Cooke tried to cool down the spirits of his men. Hol’ on tight, gentlemen—dere kyan be more excitement still. And he instructed Gaynor, Glenallen, Dwight O’Farrell, and Walter Stewart to each pick up a bag and stand by on the port side, ready to throw them overboard upon his call. And then to Rude: Stop signalin’—le’ we jus’ approach an’ see wha’ happen’.
What happened was that as soon as Rude put the flashlight away, the other boat stopped sending signals, triggering fear among the Anguillians that, indeed, they had been picked out by the revenue cutter. Rude slowed down considerably, so as to have enough power left in the throttle to try to make a quick escape if needed, and Alwyn, on the same page, Be ready for a sharp turn to de nort’ side. The final word of advice to the four men holding the bags was to make it as obvious as possible that they were dropping something—Is we only hope if dem stop ’n’ fish out dem packages, while we race away to Statia. So long we kyan get dere before dem, we safe.
Suddenly, Rude Thompson, dismayed, We lose ’em. Long time already dey should have come cross we pat’. Dey lose we.
Alwyn’s reaction was emblematic, countering Rude’s consternation with immediate action, retrieving the flashlight and once again sending out the c
oded message into the night in all directions. And again. And again. Nothing.
Until the grave sound of another boat’s engines emerged above The Rambler’s own 115hp diesel motor. Which meant it was too late to run. The other boat was just a few yards away, although the moonless night was too dark for anything to be made out in the mist. So Alwyn, terrified about the outcome of his move, switched all lights on and identified himself to the oncoming boat.
Whaddahell yer doin’ wit’ yer lights on? Turn ’em off! came right back from the silhouette of the escorting boat, and the scold was greeted with a deep sigh of relief that was only interrupted by the metal sound from the hammers and safeties of the guns of the three American mercenaries, whose immediate instincts had been not to run away, but to take care of the men aboard the revenue cutter. Nobody had noticed, but Titus Brown had stood firm, his one arm outstretched, his hand turned sideways, pointing his automatic handgun toward the port side of the boat, where he imagined the revenue cutter would appear, while Mario Gómez, right knee on the wet floor of the boat, covered him from a different angle and Harry González held a loaded M16 in his right hand.
Now that the situation had been defused, Titus Brown uncocked the hammer of his gun, slipped it back in its holster, and paced about The Rambler with a contemptuous sneer that gave away exactly what he thought about his Anguillian partners. Harry González threw his machine gun on top of a bag just as Gaynor Henderson placed it back on the ground. I thought we were here to fight. But no one really heard what Harry González had to say, or if they did, they paid no attention, because the friendly red hull of the escorting boat could finally be seen as it approached The Rambler from its starboard side. Where di hell yer been? was the warm welcome extended by the Kittitian contingent to their Anguillian counterparts. In typically understated fashion, Alwyn simply replied, We here—we here waitin’ long time. A cackle from both sides sealed the peace, and the journey reached its next stage.
Twenty minutes later, the two boats arrived in Half Way Tree—a dormant little fishing village that for one day was supposed to become the headquarters of an insurrection. Except, to the men aboard The Rambler, it seemed like the beach of Half Way Tree, running parallel to a small road and a row of darkened houses, was far too dormant to be the hub of anything. Alwyn Cooke chose to ignore the Where everyone be? that revealed the prevalent anxiety, and set out to restore normality—Bring de boat closer to shore before we drop anchor. There was no pier to dock at Half Way Tree, so the landing would have to be made on the beach—not that this posed any difficulty to a people who lived on an island where no piers were built at all, not even for the import of food, medicine, and petrol.
As The Rambler neared the beach, Alwyn broke the news to Gaynor Henderson that he was to stay with the younger guys, looking after the boat.
Wha’? Who you go send in my place?
And Alwyn, not so much answering Gaynor’s petulant question as issuing the final instructions: Rude, you take Harry, Titus, Mario, and Glen to de Defence Force camp; I take Sol, Dwight, Desmond, and Whitford to de police station. Be careful wit’ dem bags, nuh.
As the men jumped into the sea and carried the heavy loads to safety on their heads and shoulders, Gaynor was caught between two minds, at once relieved about not having to face the prospect of killing anyone and aggrieved at being relegated to a peripheral role in the important mission. But before he could settle his thoughts, it was Alwyn’s turn to jump into the night.
Remember, if you ain’ hear not’in’ by five a.m., leave to Statia. May de Lord be wit’ us, may He guide we steps tonight and shed His light on our pat’s to help us achieve de freedom of our country and de blessing of our Lord. Amen. Okay, le’s see where all dem Kittitian people be.
It had not yet dawned on Alwyn Cooke that no one was hiding anywhere, because there were no other people than the ten, twelve lost souls sitting between the beach and the roadside. It had not yet dawned on Alwyn Cooke that Dr. Reynolds’s folder full of numbers contained not so much an optimistic overcalculation but rather a vulgar lie based on nothing other than speculation. It had not dawned on Alwyn Cooke that Dr. Reynolds had come to his house six nights before much like a moribund Christian visits a shrine, seeking more a miracle than a cure. Dr. Reynolds had left Alwyn Cooke’s house early that very same morning and gone straight to his office, where he had worked most of the day, manipulating the numbers inside his folder in order to make them look consistent, plausible, and, above all, encouraging. But fixed numbers on a sheet of paper have no resonance anywhere other than in a man’s imagination. So, when Alwyn Cooke reached Half Way Tree imagining he would find one hundred or so incensed, brave, grateful Kittitians, ready to kill and to die for the future of their country, he was confronted with the cruel reality of a situation which had been quite deliberately misrepresented.
Alwyn Cooke, half-incredulous, half-enraged, walked up to one of the pockets of people visible on the beach. It was a group of four young men caught up in a game of dominoes that was prolonged by fumes of rum clouding the reasoning of the players. When Alwyn Cooke explained who he was, one of the young men turned, as if to make sure there really was someone there speaking the words he heard, and with a dismissive chuckle, Wha’? Dis time at night yer come to cause trouble? and the hard sucking of his teeth echoed in the night.
Not one to indulge in heavy drinking or even condone it, Alwyn Cooke was discouraged by the sight of an empty demijohn of rum toppled underneath the table where the domino stones lay. But before he could say anything, Rude Thompson stepped forward and vented the frustration that had built inside him ever since the lights of St. Kitts emerged far to the east of their course with a kick that sent the table flying while he grabbed one of the drunkards by the collar of his T-shirt. You better show some respect to a brother come from far away to help you ass, nuh. The racket shattered the silence of the night. Where you leader be? But the question landed on deaf ears, not so much because all four young men were numb from the rum and the violence, but simply because there was no leader at all. Between giggles and cackles, a mocking Leader who? was followed by, We all free men in St. Kitts, yer know.
Alwyn had already turned away in the direction of another group of people assembled farther up along the beach. Four young boys and a middle-aged man looked toward him, startled by Rude Thompson’s burst of anger. Yer guys wanna get caught before yer start? This time the interaction followed more commonly accepted rules of courtesy. The middle-aged man called himself Ronnie. He might have been in his fifties, though it was hard to tell in the darkness of the night. His skin was particularly dark, and the features of his face—his bulging cheekbones, the creviced lines around his mouth, his large nostrils—carved a map of shadows that sharpened the roughness of his physiognomy. His voice was grave but soft, his demeanor reserved and collected, and his hands, uncannily large, gave away a history of hard labor, either out at sea or in the cane fields.
Ronnie explained how a larger crowd had gathered earlier that night, but they had expected the Anguillian contingent to arrive by midnight, so when nothing had happened by one o’clock most of them had dispersed, lured by the call of rum or women. As for the four rowdy men on the other end of the beach, Dem a bunch of no-goods yer no wanna deal wit’. What Alwyn needed, Ronnie explained as he waved the bright white palm of his hand, was brave young men such as these fellows here. Alwyn looked at the tired faces of the four boys. The oldest of them might have been fifteen. Their countenances were fixed by fatigue halfway between fear and excitement. They might have been brothers, half brothers, or just cousins, though they were certainly related to Ronnie, all strongly built. But Dem too young to come along, and while Ronnie expressed his indignation and explained how at their age he was already a grown man, working at the sugar fields, earning his own living, and soon to be a father, Alwyn considered the consequences of their delay on the subsequent execution of the original plan.
Ronnie didn’t know it, but he had sealed the course
of the evening with his vague description of the scene a few hours earlier: he had confirmed a bigger crowd had assembled, and Alwyn Cooke had immediately imagined the hundred-odd people Dr. Reynolds had promised, even though Ronnie was referring to nothing other than a motley crew of forty to fifty people, including women and children. People in St. Kitts had come to see the Anguillian forces with the same curiosity that other people in other places go to the circus to see the cannonball man or the glass-eating giant. But in Alwyn Cooke’s mind, Dr. Reynolds had kept his end of the deal; in fact, in Alwyn Cooke’s mind, Dr. Reynolds had put his reputation at stake for the good of the Anguillian people. Therefore, in Alwyn Cooke’s mind, it seemed increasingly difficult to get out of the situation without going ahead as planned.
The voices of another group of people could soon be heard farther back along the beach, somewhere between the collapsed domino table and the four children. It was the crew of the red escort boat who had come ashore and convened with two other men who awaited their arrival by the beach. Alwyn Cooke made his way to the group, and walked into a conversation about how late The Rambler had arrived in St. Kitts. Alwyn immediately snapped, Boy, da’ de way it is, man—how many cars there be t’ take we to Baseterre? He then saw the rest of his men approaching. Harry González, typically cynically, Not quite the army you were expecting, huh? To which Rude Thompson, Who say we need more men?
The Night of the Rambler Page 5
