And so the brainstorming continued—evolved, really—and moved on from the general question of what to do, to the particulars that entailed creating a situation that was alarming without becoming threatening, because Anguillians were fed up with this artificial association into which they had been born, and Anguillians craved more than anything else in the world a chance to build a future for themselves, and Anguillians were determined to put the time and effort required for change to come about. But the rod would still have to bend a lot further before it snapped, and Anguillians were God-fearing people, principled in their actions and peaceful in their manners, and the mere suggestion of using violence to intimidate Bradshaw—to make him understand the gravity of the matter—would have been enough to split the public opinion in two and give more strength to the pro-government minority. Therefore, as soon as Rude Thompson noted, We bot’ have shotgun in we trucks, Alwyn Cooke looked at him straight in the eye and with a final, curt tone, Don’ even t’ink about it.
So he didn’t. That was that as far as guns and violence were concerned—but more than stones and bullets can be used to turn a crowd hostile. There would be no stone throwing when Bradshaw and Bryant showed up in Anguilla, but Rude Thompson and Alwyn Cooke made certain there would be a suitable reception to make the foreigners realize that they were unpopular and unwanted, and that what had transpired in the recent elections was an accurate representation of the opinion of the vast majority of Anguillians, and that the most the two of them would be able to achieve in their visit would be to get out of the island in one piece.
Rude Thompson and Alwyn Cooke spent days preparing for the occasion—organizing meeting points, coordinating means of transport to mobilize the crowds, devising slogans, producing banners, riling the people, and making completely and definitely sure that the message would be one and the same wherever Bradshaw went, whoever he asked. When the date of the planned trip was announced, Alwyn Cooke went to the small haberdashery by the tamarind tree at the heart of The Valley and bought four brushes and two gallons of black paint. That was the final touch—a touch of spontaneity—missing in the plan. Everything else was set in place and ready for the big day—the day the world would hear, perhaps for the first time, about the hardship, the neglect, that was inflicted upon Anguilla on a daily basis.
CHAPTER IV
THE SPEECH THAT NEVER CAME TO BE
As soon as the slender dark figure of Robert Bradshaw emerged from inside the de Havilland Twin Otter operated by the Leeward Islands Air Transport (LIAT), a deep, loud jeer erupted from the back of the crowd awaiting his arrival at the precarious wooden “terminal” of Wallblake Airport in Anguilla. Indeed, the cloud of smoke lifted by the contact of the aircraft’s fixed wheels with the dirt strip had barely settled when a group of protesters pulled out large banners and wooden boards demanding the expulsion of Bradshaw, the dissociation of Anguilla from St. Kitts, and the direct mandate of Britain on the island.
The first thing Bradshaw could see when his hunched frame, humbled by the small dimensions of the only commercial aircraft capable of landing on the short runway at Wallblake, finally found the space, beyond the threshold of the plane, to rise erect, was a minor brawl that ensued when a young man produced a placard that read, Bradshaw NO—Britain YES, next to a middle-aged Bradshaw supporter. The older gentleman, a square, dark fellow with thick hands and a smooth, round face, grabbed the wooden pole from which the young man held the placard and, fueled by an overwhelming indignation, screamed, Boy, wha’ kinda manners dem teach you at home? as he smashed the wooden board against the floor and the boy’s head alternately.
The second thing Bradshaw could see as his body straightened up on the steps of the Twin Otter, left hand in the air, greeting the crowd with a wave of his wide-brimmed slouch hat to go with his khaki field uniform and his Sam Browne belt, was a message which had been delivered overnight in thick black letters painted on the façade of the building that stood directly behind the ramshackle terminal: ST. KITTS + ANGUILLA = UNHOLY UNION. The tone had been set for Chief Minister Bradshaw’s visit.
In January 1967, when Robert Llewellyn Bradshaw visited Anguilla, he was fifty years old. He had been actively involved in politics for more than twenty-five years, had been part of the St. Kitts Workers’ League and later the Trades and Labour Union since its creation in 1932, and had served the island’s legislature for twenty years, emerging victorious every single time the people of St. Kitts-Nevis-Anguilla had been summoned to the polls after the introduction of universal suffrage in 1952. Bradshaw had been elected to the legislature in 1952 and had joined the Leeward Islands Executive Council in 1955; he had figured as minister of finance in the Federation of the West Indies and had been an outspoken advocate of the union even as it faced fierce criticism from within during the months leading up to its disintegration; he had been an important part—pivotal, some would say—of the legislature of St. Kitts-Nevis-Anguilla under the government of Chief Minister Paul Southwell between 1961 and 1966, before being elected himself as chief minister. Now, as he was poised to become the first premier of the self-governing “associated state” of the tri-island entity, he approached all Anguillians in an effort to advertise the concept of statehood, to make certain everyone understood that this was the most effective way to move forward—forward toward the future, forward toward progress, forward toward complete independence.
In short, in January 1967, when Robert Llewellyn Bradshaw visited Anguilla, he was already a successful politician, experienced beyond his age, self-confident and self-assured, assertive in his manners, unbending in his convictions, unaccustomed to opposition, and intolerant of dissent. Hence, when Robert Llewellyn Bradshaw emerged from the constrained space inside the de Havilland Twin Otter that had taken him and his right hand, Fitzroy Bryant, over the sixty-five-mile strait that separated Anguilla from St. Kitts, he was not in the least bit amused by what he saw first. What he saw next simply sent his temper through the roof and ensured that this would not be a successful visit. Even before Bradshaw had set his right foot on the dirt strip at Wallblake Airport, it was already evident that the purpose of his journey would not be achieved. In fact, had he turned around then, taken his seat, and ordered the pilot to hop back to St. Kitts, he would have made a more favorable impression than he did by touring the island. Then again, hindsight is both precious and free.
Determined to show these people what was right for them and their country, Bradshaw descended upon the crowd with restrained anger and moved composedly toward the front, where he intended to deliver the first and shortest of his speeches that day. Little did he know how short his foes would force all of the speeches to be. Think about it, the setting strikingly poor, with a small, rundown plane on a dust strip; cows would have been grazing all around him, had there been any cattle on the island. But Anguilla is sparse and dry and arid, and there’s hardly any grass at all—let alone anything but goats to eat it. And this imposing, successful, father-like figure approaches untroubled by the barrenness of the environment, willing to offer a (strong) hand, to give (unquestionable, inexorable) advice, to reassure the people—his people—that everything will be all right. And how do his people respond? Like rebellious teenagers, like spoiled brats, waving placards, vandalizing buildings, hurling insults, and dissenting without even listening.
Toward the front, some fifty or so Anguillians were there to welcome Chief Minister Bradshaw with their worries, their concerns, their petitions, because the situation on the island really was alarming, but how could Robert Bradshaw, or anybody else for that matter, know exactly how bad things were in Anguilla, when nobody had visited the island in so long? And, besides, there was no point in all that foolish talk about separation and all the rest. What was a poor, small island like Anguilla going to do on its own, when much bigger places like Jamaica, like Trinidad, were having hell at being independent? Toward the back, however, gathered a substantially less understanding bunch of dissenters who had come to take a look, fac
e-to-face, at the character they had learned to dislike so much. Among those, spread out in pockets of three or four, were the men and women whom Alwyn Cooke and Rude Thompson had mobilized to create a discernibly hostile environment for Bradshaw and Bryant. And in the middle, caught out of place, a bit too far toward the front in the heat of the moment by a burst of excessive enthusiasm, was Walter Stewart, whose placard had been smashed to pieces by an older supporter of the regime.
Bradshaw, enraged by the embarrassing scene, turned a short arrival speech into a piercing threat: I see already some of di Anguillian people have no respect at all. Is good t’ing yer always have St. Kitts to lead yer by di hand! And the resentment could be sensed on both ends of the mob.
Alwyn Cooke’s signal wasn’t necessary for the crowd of dissenters to start heckling Bradshaw as he spoke.
So you t’ink dis a bunch of children you speakin’ to?
But Bradshaw simply ignored the question and kept on with his warning message: Di future for St. Kitts looms bright and fair. T’rough short, certain steps we soon be able to call dis we land, we nation, we country.
The next interruption came from a woman who had not been involved with, or even aware of, Alwyn Cooke’s gang: So you t’ink dis St. Kitts where you be?
And Bradshaw, as if answering the question he never heard: Together, as brothers—and here the left fist was raised to the heavens in a signal of unity—we go make Anguilla share from our future.
T’ief!
Statehood is jus’ di beginning.
Liar!
Today statehood, tomorrow independence, and all of a sudden a widespread Boooo erupted at Wallblake Airport.
Aaron Lowell, representative of Anguilla in the legislature of St. Kitts-Nevis-Anguilla, approached Robert Bradshaw solemnly to bring across a point the Kittitian had been too blind (deaf and dumb) to see. Escorted by Lowell, Bryant and Bradshaw headed toward the maroon Morris Minor that would take them through their planned tour of the island. On its way from the airport, along the dust road that joined George Hill and The Valley, the Minor was greeted by vociferous Anguillians who shouted and gesticulated at the men inside, as they went past the grandiose façade of the Wallblake House to their left, one of the very few plantation manors left standing on the island, past the emblematic stone tower that crowned the top of the road by St. Mary’s Anglican church to their right, before arriving at the central point of the political life of the island: Burrowes Park.
The meeting at the park—park as in a sports venue, not its metropolitan usage as in Central, or Hyde—had been called well in advance, and the speech Bradshaw would deliver was expected to contain the kernel of whatever it was that he (personally) wanted to say to the people of East and West End, respectively, so from the moment LIAT’s de Havilland Twin Otter could be heard in the distance, people started heading toward the center of town. Unlike the one gathered at the airport, however, this crowd seemed far more restless, far less awed by the figure of the chief minister, and far less evenly split between sympathizers and detractors of government. The Morris Minor carrying Aaron Lowell, Fitzroy Bryant, and Robert Bradshaw had to crawl behind a procession of anxious Anguillians who only made way for the vehicle to pass after they had jeered at the passengers, waving their index fingers, sucking their teeth in anger. Once the car reached the grounds of the Anglican church, the concentration of people was such that there was no way to go through. At the merest sight of an opportunity to dissociate himself from the foreigners, Aaron Lowell jumped from the vehicle and walked the final three or four hundred yards of the way ahead of it, his short, stocky legs pumping, his small hunched torso further dwarfed by the occasion, his thick, gigantic hands awkwardly bulging out of his gray flannel suit to pull the crowd apart and allow the passage of the Minor.
By the time Bradshaw managed to step onto the small stage (more a speaker’s box than anything else), Alwyn Cooke and Rude Thompson had already taken their positions. At their positions, too, were Walter Stewart, the fifteen-year-old grandson of Connor Stewart from Island Harbour, and Gaynor Henderson, Rude Thompson’s childhood friend from East End. Infiltrated among the crowd was also Bernice Cooke, one of Alwyn’s twelve siblings, as well as her pal and confidant Maude Sullivan, a heavyset young girl from Island Harbour. Indeed, among the twenty or so conscripts Alwyn Cooke and Rude Thompson had managed to gather expressly to create the tense atmosphere within which they hoped the people of the island would fail to be intimidated by Bradshaw’s presence and would feel confident or angry enough to voice their true opinion, there were at least eight or nine women.
Some of them were young women, frustrated by the state of Anguillian affairs and enthusiastic about change—any change. Others were already grown women, wives or sisters of fellow troublemakers (quite literally) who would (unequivocally) not allow their men to get involved in something like this unless they were nearby to protect them. Much to the surprise of Alwyn and Rude, but not at all to the women they had brought along with them, more than half of the crowd awaiting Robert Bradshaw at Burrowes Park that day was female.
When Robert Bradshaw took to the stage that was nothing more than a speaker’s box, he was filled with a warm sense of security, with a comforting coziness that obeyed his impression that he addressed nothing more than a harmless group of housewives. But nothing could have been further from the truth, because all the women gathered at Burrowes Park that day—young and old, big and small, fat and thin, all of them without exception—were there for a very serious, a very troubling, and a most uncomfortable reason. They were there because they were not only deeply aware of but also deeply dissatisfied with the neglect in which Anguilla was mired; they were there because they worried about the well-being of their families, and whatever they would have to do next to secure it; they were there because they feared for their children, for their future, and for their country. Thus, even before Robert Bradshaw was given the opportunity to introduce himself and his right hand, Fitzroy Bryant, the women, much more vociferous—ferocious even—than the men present at the park, asked the Kittitian politicians, Why you starve me child? Why you kill me family?
This time Bradshaw could not ignore the question—the accusation, really—of the crowd of listeners, not least because only ten yards away from him stood Euralia Lannock, a teenage mother of three boys from The Valley, whose youth had been sapped by the complications of her third pregnancy, and who tirelessly asked the same question repeatedly, the rollers on her head slowly coming undone with every one of her angry jolts, her thunderous voice quashing every other muttering around.
Woman! Stop aksin’ dat same question over an’ over. I ain’ know why yer child dead but it ain’ got not’in’ to do wit’ we. We here to protect people like yer, we here to offer one hope for di future, we here to make yer be part of dat future. Bradshaw stopped short of explaining that what he really meant was St. Kitts’s (bright) future. Instead, he turned this into the perfect platform to make his speech—affected with the diction of the populace, speaking like one of “them”—to return to its agenda, to labor on the concept of statehood, to stress the temporary nature of such status, to build toward the climactic end and the ultimate goal: independence.
But Euralia Lannock had managed to interrupt Chief Minister Bradshaw. Indeed, she had forced him to engage directly with her, directly with the people, in an exchange, rather than just a one-way communication. So, as soon as Bradshaw stopped to acknowledge Euralia and her calls, the whole crowd erupted in a multitudinous voice that corroborated her position, that questioned his response (What? asked a man toward the back, lingering with indignation on the vocalization of the “w” and dropping all the weight of his anger on an abrupt and violent “t”), that built on the point she had just made, or that simply added further questions to the equation, such that Bradshaw’s voice became indistinguishable, lost within the common roar, just like that of Euralia, who continued to express herself effusively, hitting her bosom with her closed right fist, gra
bbing her breasts in desperation, holding her head in agony, tearing her rolled hair from her scalp, as if she had truly lost her family, her children, as if it were not all an apt, yet radical, metaphor.
Bradshaw’s anger grew (visibly) by the minute, but he was unable to overcome the tumultuous clamor. He gesticulated frantically, pointing with his left hand toward members of the audience to the left, toward a woman out there to the right, but all to no avail: no one was listening anymore, because nobody had come to listen in the first place. Exasperated, Bradshaw made one final attempt to control the mob. He stood erect, looking out in the distance, in total silence. But there was no room for silence in Burrowes Park that day, and no one really noticed Bradshaw as he, á la Caesar, once again lifted his left hand, arm outstretched, then lowered it again, slowly, as if to instruct the crowd to be quiet. Three times his left hand rose up in the air, and three times it came down, progressively more manically, more frustrated, more disgustedly, until, at last, an instinct led him to open both arms wide and to direct a gruesome SILENCE! at the crowd.
There it was, the unfamiliar stump at the end of his right arm, a hand still vaguely recognizable, if clearly deformed, turned inward at the wrist, fingers atrophied, too small, too thin, not quite capable of making a fist because of the machine shop at the sugar refinery, which, more than thirty years before, when he was just a teenager, had endowed him with a humiliating legacy. Right-handed at everything—hell, even at onanism—up until that point, Robert Bradshaw had had to learn how to live all over again. But his reinvention as a left-handed unionist had been a successful one, and from very early on—when the pain was still sufficiently fresh in his brain to remind him that there was no shame to be had in the measure of ill fortune that had been allocated to him—Bradshaw had learned to turn the tragedy of an accident into an inevitable act of fate—of a higher being, a larger consciousness—to keep him away from the physical travails of cutting and processing the cane, and to land him closer to the organizing ranks at the helm of St. Kitts’s Workers’ League, where, by the gracious will of God Almighty, it had all started.
The Night of the Rambler Page 11
