But Alwyn had thought of that too, and the idea he had conceived was the sort that can only be conceived in a place immersed in another century, because in Anguilla there were no video recorders, no tapes, not even cameras. So, Alwyn’s response—almost instinctively—was to offer as many signatures as were required to confirm that whatever was written in Rude Thompson’s next—first official—“Letter from Anguilla” in the Speaker was all completely and incontrovertibly true. I kyan even get you man, Aaron Lowell, to sign the paper. I kyan get twenty signatures in one hour, fifty in one morning, one hundred in a day—how many you need?
Crispin Reynolds did not need any signatures just yet. All he needed was assurance that the article would be carefully worded and strictly bound to the truth. Yer bring me a letter like dat nex’ week an’ I promise yer dis Rude Thompson will be published so long as he do de same t’ing week in, week out.
For the next four months, until the expulsion of the police task force from Anguilla on May 30, 1967, “Letter from Anguilla” exposed the shortcomings of governance on the island on a weekly basis.
Rude Thompson and Alwyn Cooke, with Sol Carter in the background, worked on an article that would accurately describe the total failure of Robert Bradshaw’s visit to the island in January 1967, trying to avoid the slip of the pen onto controversial, contentious, and slanderous statements against the prime minister, who always seemed most appropriately described with an insult. During that same week, Aaron Lowell came back to his constituency with what he considered to be good news. Instead of him traveling to the UK, the British had agreed to send over a local-government expert to look into the details of statehood with Lowell himself and a committee of advisors, who could then pass on the information to the population in general in a public meeting where all questions would be addressed.
The problem, of course, was that Aaron Lowell had promised to speak to a senior officer in the British government about Anguilla’s situation, and no matter how you looked at it, Peter Johnstone, expert in local-government issues, was not only not senior, he was so far from the higher echelons of decision-making he didn’t even qualify as a minor officer, because he was, really, nothing more than a powerless, if perhaps knowledgeable, advisor. But he was an advisor who could offer insights into a question that the vast majority of Anguillians considered unimportant, uninteresting, and, ultimately, irrelevant, because the only question that really troubled the Anguillian population had nothing to do with statehood as a system of government, with the possibilities established by the system, or the best way to procure effective representation within it. The only question that really troubled Anguillians led, in fact, to the immediate course of action to get the island out of the fold of St. Kitts, with or without statehood, be that through direct administration by the British or otherwise.
So, when Aaron Lowell announced, victoriously, that a local-government expert named Peter Johnstone would travel from the United Kingdom to Anguilla to discuss the ins and outs of statehood with a local committee on January 27, 1967, the general response was not so much lukewarm as angry. This was not what he had promised; this was not what the people wanted.
Rude Thompson, Alwyn Cooke, and, in the background, Solomon Carter finished their letter on January 26, 1967. As soon as Alwyn handed the first official installment of “Letter from Anguilla” to Crispin Reynolds, he went back to the eastern end of the island to work on the collective welcome the people of Anguilla would give to this Mr. Johnstone.
However, by the time Alwyn got back to the thick of things, everything was already in place. Banners had been made, posters, placards, all delivering one firm, uniform, and unmistakable message—NO ASSOCIATION WITH ST KITTS. More than three hundred people gathered at Wallblake Airport on Friday, January 27, 1967 to greet the de Havilland Twin Otter operated by LIAT which brought the British expert in local government to the island. Much to Aaron Lowell’s embarrassment, the crowd was overwhelmingly opposed to the visit of this anything-but-senior official. Peter Johnstone was escorted through the shouting and fist-shaking multitude into an official vehicle—a taxi, accompanied by Constable LaRue—that would take him to the island’s courthouse.
The drive from Wallblake to the heart of The Valley, where the single-story wooden building stood, between the police station and the government house, was about two-thirds of a mile. Nevertheless, the atrocious condition of the dust road, heavily scarred with potholes the size of tires, combined with the attentions paid to the visitor by a hostile crowd that ran to keep pace alongside the car, meant that the journey took a good ten, fifteen minutes. By the time Peter Johnstone faced the hand-painted board that in black lettering over a white background read, Courthouse, nailed to the side of a feeble wooden building, he was already frightened out of his skin. Then he encountered the blockade that a furious Anguillian mob, led by Rude Thompson and Alwyn Cooke, had mounted in the courtyard, intimidatingly demanding something that was out of his remit entirely, unwilling to listen to any alternatives, desperate to take a stance, to make a statement, to turn him into an example.
Peter Johnstone did not so much as take three full breaths of Anguilla’s clean air: a few seconds were enough for him to understand he could not accomplish a thing through peaceful dialogue with these savages. Put to the test, his decision-making proved instantaneous, because his instincts told him his life might be at risk, and he knew when he was not welcome, and no mission was worth him sticking his neck out, so he turned on his heels and ordered the taxi driver to take him back to the airport, straightaway. Luckily, the de Havilland Twin Otter operated by LIAT that had brought him to this godforsaken place had not yet departed the island. By the time it did, Peter Johnstone was back in it, along with his undelivered message.
CHAPTER VI
THE STATEHOOD QUEEN SHOW
If leaders can be judged by the measure of their understanding of their people, then Robert Bradshaw was a most incompetent ruler for the Anguillians. In this respect, it’s somewhat fitting that it was the British who indirectly made him their head of state. But Bradshaw’s ignorance was such that, despite the fact that he could hardly have been more distant from the island’s political pulse, he simply assumed that the havoc he had witnessed on his failed visit to Anguilla had been organized and orchestrated by a handful of troublemakers—Dem rascals in di green Ford following us all roun’ di place an’ wexin’ di crowds wit’ dem nonsense—and he was convinced beyond doubt that all the Anguillian people really wanted was—like the spoiled children they were—a bit of attention, and that this had been nothing if not the collective equivalent of a tantrum. Now, on the whole, Robert Bradshaw had, up to that point, carried himself with the authoritative air of a strict—severe, even—if benevolent father. (From Papa Doc to Papa Bradshaw to Uncle Gairy, what is it with Caribbean political leaders and the father syndrome?) Yet even the strictest parents allow, on occasion, some time for play. Perhaps as a strategy to gain popularity; perhaps as a means to keep the frustration that evidently assailed the people of Anguilla from escalating into full-fledged rage; or, perhaps, as a genuine measure to bring joy to the people of the island—who knows?—but after being forced to cut his visit short by one full speech, Robert Bradshaw decided that the best way to solve Anguilla’s problems would be by staging some of the celebrations, scheduled for the days leading up to the final declaration of statehood, on the island.
The month of February was meant to be one of jubilation in St. Kitts, Nevis, and Anguilla; the month of February was supposed to bring the culmination of a long and painful process of regional integration and decolonization which Bradshaw had seen wither from the association of ten presidencies to the administrative union of merely three islands; but the month of February was sure to herald the dawn of a new era: an era of self-governing and responsibility, a political coming-of-age for the three neighboring islands and their populations that would set the example for the rest of the Caribbean to follow, that would vindicate the defeated but not-yet-
forgotten cause of regional integration, that would make the whole wide world gasp in wonder and, even, envy. And so, still fresh from the anger that assaulted him inside the maroon Morris Minor that took him from his failed meeting at the park to his more successful meeting in West End, Robert Bradshaw spontaneously decided that a beauty pageant would be the perfect balm to soothe all tempers, and he decreed that nothing could be more fitting than to directly engage the capricious but ultimately beautiful children that Anguillians were in the statewide official party that would precede the declaration of statehood, and suddenly, without any sort of consultation or deliberation, the Statehood Queen Show was set to be held in Anguilla on February 4, 1967.
Which is to say that exactly eight days after the envoy from the British government, a local-government expert by the name of Peter Johnstone, had been expelled from the island, a big show, including Jaycees from Nevis, musicians from St. Kitts, and contestants from Anguilla, was supposed to take place to celebrate the attainment of a status most Anguillians desperately sought to avoid. Understandably, no sooner was the de Havilland Twin Otter operated by the Leeward Islands Air Transport that carried Peter Johnstone back to whence he came from up in the air, than the de facto leaders of a revolution that had not yet started gathered to make a decision as to what would be the plan of action concerning the upcoming event. In the absence of any form of communication on the island, Alwyn Cooke, Rude Thompson, and everyone else knew that if the British were, finally, to show any sort of reaction, the Anguillians would not know about it until, at least, one or two days later. However, following the disappointment that had come after Anguillians had, effectively, kicked Bradshaw off their island, the sense of expectation was far less dramatic, far less pervasive, now that they had done the same with a perfect stranger sent for no reason from Mother England.
That Friday, the evening news carried no comment about the British local-government expert’s inability to communicate with the people of Anguilla. Nothing in the BBC; nothing on ZIZ. Predictably. When the eight o’clock news shows again failed to mention the island the following day, no one was surprised. But Rude Thompson had already discovered the escape route represented by the Speaker, and he had spent the previous twenty-four hours reproducing the details of the events that took place the day before, trying his absolute best not to leave anything out—nothing at all—and still make it all fit on one page. It would be the only article Alwyn Cooke would ever let him publish without making a single amendment to it—other than a comma here, a semicolon there, not to allow Rude to feel he could dispense with his editorial advice at this early stage.
And yet, commas and semicolons weren’t the only things about which Alwyn Cooke and Rude Thompson would disagree in the days to come: no sooner was Peter Johnstone off the island than the two sat together, discussing what to do if, indeed, the Statehood Queen Show went ahead as planned, the following Saturday, February 4, 1967. Rude Thompson’s frustration grew as he became progressively more convinced that their present strategy was too passive—too impotent—to bear any palpable results. It didn’t help matters that Alwyn’s suggestion for the show on February 4 was to disable the airport and bar anyone outside Anguilla from entering the island.
Tell me somepin’, Al: How dat goin’ make any difference to us? How dat goin’ change anyt’in’ at all?
Alwyn didn’t even have to ask to know that Rude was, again, thinking about violence; but the truth was that he himself wasn’t sure whether, in fact, closing the airport would create any kind of impact.
We problem be nobody know the first t’ing ’bout Anguilla. Now you have a whole load a dem comin’ over for somepin’—not to let dem come in would be stupid!
Alwyn was not convinced, but it seemed like this time nothing could persuade Rude against using brute force, not even You fire one shot an’ de British will be walkin’ on our streets tomorrow. Because to Rude that seemed like the perfect solution, to Rude If de English come we win already. Dem people kyan’t be so blind to come to Anguilla an’ not see de problem we have wit’ St. Kitts. Besides, who talkin’ nonsense now? Who say not’in’ ’bout guns? Dere be plenty ways to intimidate people dat ain’ got not’in’ to do wit’ guns.
To which Alwyn responded, I ain’ wanna know not’in’ ’bout intimidation.
And so, a few days before the biggest day yet in Anguilla’s struggle against association with St. Kitts, the two leaders of a revolution that had not yet started went their separate ways, peacefully—not even acrimoniously—but individually. So it was that in the days leading up to the celebration of the Statehood Queen Show, two independent plans were organized uncoordinatedly to send a sharp message of dissent in the direction of anyone who cared to listen. So, too, it was that Rude Thompson never heard when Aaron Lowell came to Alwyn Cooke with news freshly arrived from London, where the British had learned in total bemusement about the hostile reception their advisor had received from a people who had been fully aware, they said, participatory and supportive of the political process for the past year or so. Alwyn looked as bemused as the British claimed to be, while Aaron Lowell read out loud the scolding and utterly misinformed piece of correspondence. Participating? Supportive? How dey mean? Dem t’ings mean somet’in’ else over dere? Aaron Lowell was in no position to answer—not that Alwyn Cooke was expecting a response.
The travesty of the consultation process had reached its climax just before the turn of the New Year, when a meeting between British officials and representatives of the islands of St. Kitts, Nevis, and Anguilla had been called with late notice. By the time the summons reached Aaron Lowell, the meeting had already taken place. A few days later, however, he received a file with a detailed account of the minutes of the meeting, along with a request for formal agreement from Mr. Lowell to discuss these matters further at a later stage. Aaron Lowell’s agreement was now being taken as proof of the participatory and, indeed, supportive attitude displayed by the Anguillian electorate toward the creation of an autonomous association with St. Kitts. Alwyn queried Aaron Lowell as to how they had gotten into this situation in the first place, and how he planned to get out of it, to which all Aaron Lowell could muster was, I mus’ get audience wit’ a senior British official an’ den I go make real clear wha’ our position be. For the first time, Alwyn Cooke understood the exasperation Rude Thompson felt toward his own peaceful methods.
But Alwyn Cooke would still not be convinced to use force against anybody—at least not yet. One point Rude had managed to drive home with Alwyn was the need to allow people—anybody—to come to Anguilla for whatever reason and see for themselves both the extent to which the island lived in neglect and the popular sentiment against the imposed union with St. Kitts. Alwyn had given up on his idea to block the airport and, while he still distanced himself from the aggression Rude was promoting, he trusted the man enough (just) to allow him to play his cards without intervening.
On the days leading up to Saturday, February 4, 1967, on the Monday and the Tuesday and the Wednesday of that very week, two parallel, uncoordinated schemes to foil the plans of the organizers of the celebrations—all Bradshers by conviction or association—were simultaneously developed on the back porch of Alwyn Cooke’s home in Island Harbour and in the front yard of Rude Thompson’s place in East End. One group scouted the most ragged areas of the island, looking for round stones the size of a cricket ball, or slightly smaller, but large enough to fit snugly in a man’s palm for accuracy and power when it came to releasing it; the other sought cloths and sticks and paint to create banners that could be hung all around the school, the only venue that featured anything comparable to an auditorium, where the contest was meant to take place. Some looked at the old building—a building with which they had been familiar all their lives—with renewed interest, seeking new ways in and out that would provide escape routes, locating the generator that would offer a rare sight of electric lights for the evening; others surveyed the perimeter of the school, searching for the perfe
ct place to stage their demonstration.
By Friday afternoon Rude Thompson had recruited about twenty young men who were ready to teach those Bradshers a lesson. Rude’s crude plan was to place groups of four militants armed with pockets full of stones at opposite corners of the building, who would stage brief preliminary attacks upon the school, while two infiltrators smuggled into the auditorium created unrest from within. Once the initial supplies of stones were exhausted the whole gang was supposed to gather by Rude’s green pickup truck, loaded with the rest of the stones, to continue the assault as a unified force. The operation would be coordinated through the disruption of electricity, which would come right at eight o’clock, the time when Dwight O’Farrell would sever the live high-voltage wires that emerged from the generator.
Dwight O’Farrell was the oldest son of an important cleric from East End—an Anglican canon whose close relation to the people had vastly increased the popularity of his creed in the past ten years. His name was John O’Farrell and he was as committed to the revolution as anybody in Anguilla. However, he was unaware of his son’s involvement and would likely have smacked him in the head had he known Dwight’s was the arm behind the machete that cut through the live high-voltage wires that emerged from the generator of the Comprehensive School on the night of the Statehood Queen Show.
But at twenty-one Dwight was old enough to decide what he should do, and he was definitely old enough to understand what was going on, and there was absolutely no way he would not take part in the single most important moment his country had ever lived. So Dwight O’Farrell defied the instructions of his father, the leading minister on the island, and actively engaged in the nitty-gritty of the revolution.
On Friday afternoon Rude Thompson himself went to the generator house, inspected the connections, and wedged a thick plank of wood between the cables and the wall, behind which he hid a machete. Then, the following day, as he dropped Dwight O’Farrell in town during one of his trips in and out of the East End, he instructed the young man to le’ go de machete. Dwight O’Farrell didn’t really understand what Rude meant, but he didn’t have to ask either, because Rude just continued, When you get to de generator house, you understan’: before de blade hit dem cables, le’ go de machete, boy, and he slammed his door shut as he drove away.
The Night of the Rambler Page 14
