Alwyn had not yet decided what he would do when the knocking on his door startled him and his wife out of their morning routine. He jumped from his seat, spilling his tea, and dashed toward the back door, which led into a backyard and farther still into the bush, where, he knew, he would be able to hide for days without being found.
As it turned out, Alwyn Cooke did not need to run because the knock on the door came not from the police, who wouldn’t venture into the eastern end of the island before the break of day, but from Solomon Carter, whose countenance, severe and pained at the same time, was met by the similarly stern expression in Ylaria Cooke’s face.
Good day. Solomon Carter did not wait for an invitation to come inside the house, nor did he expect his greeting to be reciprocated by Ylaria. You husband home, or he gone hide in de bush already? Alwyn Cooke, midway between his backyard and the shrubs beyond, stopped in his tracks when he heard the familiar voice. As he returned to the house, Sol Carter nodded in his direction and scornfully, You man enough to make dis mess, an’ you ain’ man enough to stan’ by it? The long, loud, pronounced sucking of his teeth left no room to doubt the extent of his disapproval of the prior evening’s course of events.
Alwyn Cooke was aware that, though he had played no part in Rude Thompson’s ill-conceived plan, he would have to be right at the center of the reconciliation process among all sides of Anguilla’s dissenters. Relieved that it was not the police, he welcomed Solomon Carter warmly into his home. But Solomon Carter had not come to Alwyn Cooke’s house at this early hour of the morning to be treated as a friend, to have his ego massaged. Solomon Carter had walked through the goat path that led from his home to Alwyn Cooke’s a good hour before the break of dawn because he wanted to make it completely clear to the man before he went into hiding, or better still, to prison, that neither he nor those around him would condone the sort of behavior in which Alwyn and his people had engaged the night before.
Alwyn Cooke tried to explain he had had no connection to Rude Thompson’s group of troublemakers, but Solomon Carter was in no mood to listen—he had come to speak, and above all, he had come to deliver one clear, if hostile message: I see too many people dead real close in my life already, you know, an’ I ain’ goin’ t’rough dat again jus’ because you say so.
Solomon Carter was not so much a pacifist as he was suspicious of violence. That is to say, he did not always advocate for peace, did not stand staunchly by peaceful methods as the best solution to any problem. Indeed, Solomon had lived too long, had grown too savvy, to believe that honest-to-God goodness would be sufficient to produce any kind of long-lasting or even democratic change in Anguilla. However, what he had seen the day before had been close to honest-to-God stupidity; what he had seen the day before had been a display of thoughtless, wanton lawlessness; what Solomon Carter had deplored the night before had been the sort of pointless, infectious violence that he had first experienced thirty years before, as a child, working in the cane fields on the southeastern plains of the Dominican Republic.
I ain’ never had de chance to go to school yet, Alwyn, and Alwyn Cooke didn’t dare voice the “me neither” that formed in his throat. But de Lord bless me wit’ enough years to turn dem hairs behind my ears white, you know. An’ it don’ always have to be so, I tell you. Listen to wha’ I say, so you understan’ why I han’ you over to de police when I do, and suddenly Ylaria Cooke, eavesdropping behind the curtain, felt an urge to grab hold of the visitor by the neck and throw him headfirst out of her home. But Ylaria contained her anger out of respect for her husband, and Solomon Carter continued telling Alwyn Cooke how he had been to the Dominican Republic to cut sugarcane from the time he was twelve years old.
My mother, God rest her soul, she make me 1923, so when I was twelve, times were hard, you know. Alwyn Cooke knew all too well, because Solomon Carter spoke about a time of hardship and poverty in Anguilla which had affected them both—a time when only those who left the island faced any chance whatsoever of earning a decent living for themselves and for those they left behind on the Rock.
Back in those days, Alwyn had been blessed by God, Lady Luck, or the devil, who knows, but he had found a place in the workforce of D.C. van Ruijtenbeek’s estate, the Lover’s Leap, in St. Martin. The rest, as they say, is part of his unlikely twist of fate. Meanwhile, Solomon had had no choice but to embark with his two cousins aboard a local schooner, The Warspite, on a five-day journey westward to join his father and uncle at the alien cane fields of the Dominican Republic, where they had earned all the money in the family for the past ten years.
T’ree years straight I go cut cane for eight dollars a ton, an’ den de t’ird year somet’in’ deadly happen. When we go Santo Domingo, people in de island already crazy. Everyone lookin’ at everyone else like dey is de devil self, like dey should not be dere, like dey de enemy.
One day we hear of fightin’ in a plantation close by; some oder day we hear hell break loose in town. Den one day come de Spanish people self. Dem come wit’ sticks, dem come wit’ stones, wit’ machetes, anyt’in’ dem could find on de way, an’ dey call us dogs, woose dan dogs: dem call us pigs, an’ woose dan pigs: rats—de same people we cuttin’ cane wit’ for years, de same people bleedin’ dem hands every day wit’ you for t’ree years, de same people drinkin’ you rum at night, night after night, now come treat we like we rats, hittin’, kickin’, t’rowing stones at we heads.
This was in the early despotic days of Rafael Leónidas Trujillo, and things were no longer what they used to be. Ever since his ascent to power in 1930, measures had been taken against the assimilation of black immigrants, even if they were only temporary workers, in favor of European blood, who would contribute to the general plan of “improvement” of the nation’s natural stock, which was one of Trujillo’s most altruistic ambitions. Nevertheless, Solomon Carter’s family had been employed steadily by the same plantation for a full decade, and the passing fancies of yet another autocratic ruler in the country was not about to govern the way in which the bigger—more potent—plantation owners ran their businesses. Consequently, the Carters, along with a number of proven West Indian workers, were asked year in, year out to spend January through July working the cane fields.
One choild, younger dan me, get hit in de head, fall stone cold. We start fightin’ back, you know. We fight as we can, we get de machetes from dem, we cut dem wit’ dem own weapons, we hit dem wit’ dem own stones. When police come, four people dead on de groun’. We t’ought police come help we, but dey only aks questions an’ leave dem Spanish alone. Den dey come aks we more questions—some senseless questions dat have not’in’ to do wit’ not’in’, like how we go say parsley in Spanish: perejil. Who kyan’t say it go inside de truck. I don’ speak Spanish. I go inside de truck wit’ plenty fellows from Haiti.
Alwyn listened carefully. Solomon’s words were matched by an intense silence that emanated both from Alwyn’s eyes and from Ylaria’s presence, concealed behind the curtain. And yet, the atmosphere in the room had changed: there was no longer any of the aggression Ylaria had felt against Solomon Carter, nor any of the fear Alwyn had felt when he first heard the knock on the door. Instead, there was a heavy charge of energy, of undiluted passion, being invested in the same cause.
Dey ’bout to take we to de river, when one Spanish fellow look me in de eye, call the police, an’ say I okay, I English. So dey take me out, while every person in de truck screamin’ an’ shoutin’ an’ tryin’ to come out wit’ me.
Dem take more dan twenty people from de plantation dat day. Dem take me friend Winston too. He seventeen—older dan me. We cut de cane side by side every day for t’ree years. Dem take he an’ de rest to de river an’ make dem drown, for no good reason. Or dey kill ’em before an’ make it look like dey all drown. De same people we work wit’ every day for t’ree years. Some more dan t’ree years. Dem say dey kill ten t’ousan’ people in de river. Ten t’ousan’ people. You kyan picture ten t’ousan’ faces in you head?
You know how much blood dat make? A whole new river.
Dawn was about to break; the roosters in Alwyn Cooke’s yard and all around his home had begun their daily round of crowing, making it past yards and fences and up the hill toward Harbour Ridge to the east and in the opposite direction, along the shoreline toward Welches Hill; and Alwyn knew the time to hide was right now, in the twilight, while there was enough light to find his way through the tangled shrubbery and yet not enough to be seen by the police.
We come back before time dat year. We leave when we kyan catch de first good wind and we make it home in twelve hours. Normally, plenty schooners would make de way back at de same time, racin’ eastward wit’ de wind to see who make it home first. Normally, it have a big party in Anguilla when we men come home, de women dress like dey goin’ to church, and de children dress de same way, waitin’ by de beach wit’ music an’ food an’ all kind of jollification for de men to reach. Dis year dere ain’ no race, an’ dere ain’ hardly no talk at all on de way back. Dis year de beach empty wit’ not’in, as de men come back before time, we hands empty like never before, wit’ no money, but happy to be alive. I remember de mornin’ sun come out, shine on de white sand of Sandy Groun’, an’ I t’ink I never seen somet’in’ so beautiful yet in my long life.
I know dat day in de truck someone up dere pardon my life, an’ I know it for a reason. I ain’ know for wha’ reason yet, but dat mornin’ when I lay foot on Anguilla soil I promise to God, I promise to myself, I ain’ never—never—goin’ let somet’in’ awful like dat happen in Anguilla. Not even somet’in’ similar. Not even ten persons dyin’ jus’ like dat. Not’in’. An if God let me live to stop you from performin’ you stupidity, Alwyn Cooke, den so be it.
Before making his way out into the open field, Alwyn turned in the direction of Solomon Carter and, rather solemnly, I give you my word, Sol, you ain’ never gonna have to stop me doin’ not’in’ at all, because wha’ you want an’ wha’ I want is one an’ de same t’ing. His words lingered in the room a lot longer than his presence, as he simply turned his back on his unexpected guest and on his concealed wife, and walked out of the door, through the backyard, and into the bush.
That was at the break of dawn of Saturday, February 5, 1967. The police task force sent two units and four officers, more than one-third of its full contingent, less than one hour later with express orders to arrest Alwyn Cooke. But Alwyn Cooke had already gone into hiding, and he entered the thick hinterland of Anguilla dressed in his usual pressed gray trousers and crisp white shirt, and by the time Sergeant Raymond Edwards became the recipient of all of Ylaria Cooke’s spite, Alwyn Cooke was lost without a trace between the shrub and the thicket.
Sergeant Edwards, a heavyset man in his early forties, found in the orders he gave his subordinates the only route to escape Ylaria’s scathing attitude. Thus, the four policemen entered the land of the goats and brushed the bush that led from the back roads of Island Harbour, a few hundred yards south of the bay, up White Hill, directly behind the town, westward, toward Welches Hill. Four hours later, now caught right in the middle of the high-noon heat, the three constables reemerged from the shrub, uniforms torn at the edges, boots muddy to the heels, dusty at the laces, sweat running down their faces, forming pockets of wetness underneath their armpits, along their spines, between their nipples. Sergeant Edwards, some thirty or forty yards behind the rest of the men, was the last to rejoin the road. His light-brown complexion was tainted with an intensely red hue that might equally have been caused by the physical exertion or by his bout of anger. Either way, his clever plan had provided him with no more findings than an old, rusty machete which had been cached behind a cactus in bloom.
By this time all the fishermen in town had returned to shore, and a lively crowd had gathered around the two police cars parked before Alwyn Cooke’s house. A spontaneous collective guffaw ensued when a beaten and empty-handed Sergeant Edwards became discernible down the road. Children of all ages ran toward the four desolate policemen, bustling around them as they slowly made their tired way back to their cars, pulling at the torn pieces of cloth on their trousers and shirts, exposing their wounded flesh, their injured spirits. The women started howling like cats, hissing like serpents, roaring like tigers, as a generalized sense of mocking gained momentum with a round of applause that kept the beat set by the loud laughter. Finally, as the policemen reached the haven of their official vehicles, Sergeant Edwards warned, as a final (and futile) effort to recover an ounce of dignity: Laugh all di laugh yer coin take nuh, man, cause by di time I havin’ my final say yer be cryin’ like babies, aksin’ for forgiveness.
The long cheer that ensued followed the two-car convoy on its way out of Island Harbour, past Welches Hill, and back down the road toward Deep Waters, into Little Dix Village, past North Side, and up until the mahogany tree at the junction in The Valley. It followed the men out of the cars, past the arid yard, into the plain, concrete, single-story police station. It was still there as Sergeant Edwards recounted to his superior, Inspector Edmonton, every detail of the most unsuccessful search for a suspect to be recorded in the annals of Anguillian policing. Inspector Edmonton, feet firmly planted on the table before him, hat slightly tilted, listened in disgust, as a drop of sweat traveled slowly down his left cheek, irritating his nerves as severely as that goddamned cheer burned the insides of Sergeant Edwards. Inspector Edmonton fixed his large black eyes on Sergeant Edwards for a brief instant, and the irritation, the cheer, and everything else paused for a moment—until a brazen fly landed on the inspector’s prominent nose. Then, one dry, deep roar liberated all the tension of the moment and chased the fly away with the full contempt of a choleric Idiot!
Meanwhile, at Island Harbour the party spirit had not really taken hold of the village because, despite the moral victory provided by the police that morning, Sergeant Edwards’s threat had to be taken seriously, for dem wit’ power will want to abuse it, an’ even more so after dem make de ass. Indeed, while Alwyn Cooke wandered through the bushes in search of the perfect cave in which to lay low until nightfall, some five hundred people braced themselves for the torrid backlash they expected to suffer from the hand of the law. So it was that Rude Thompson, still feeling triumphant from the havoc he had caused the night before, was shaken out of his revelry by a buzzing suspicion that reached way past White Hill, behind Island Harbour, that traveled through the open fields of low brushwood and cuji, that hovered over the pond at East End and told him that, having failed to capture the man they had searched for, Alwyn Cooke, whom they thought was the main man behind the rioting, the police would come back for anyone on whom they could lay their hands.
Gaynor Henderson was warned by the same open secret, traveling from door to door, from voice to voice, along the dust roads of East End, through the goat paths of Island Harbour, but while Rude Thompson jumped out of his hammock and over the heads of his two dogs—two scruffy little street animals with lean limbs, long snouts, and sad expressions in their eyes—heading into his kitchen, where he picked up an old piece of cloth to prepare a bindle with the provisions necessary to spend the night out in the bushes—some kerosene, a lamp, matches, a change of clothes, a quart of water, a roll of toilet paper, some johnnycakes, and a Guinness—then tied it to the barrel of his Smith & Wesson rifle and, gun and bindle on his left shoulder and machete in his right hand, stepped out into the wild, Gaynor simply stood by his own doorway with a stubborn, angry pose, shouting out to the four winds, the seven seas, and beyond, Gaynor Henderson ain’ goin’ nowhere tonight! No sir! Anyone wan’ speak t’ Gaynor Henderson, he know right well where he be. Anyone wan’ take Gaynor Henderson somewhere will have to deal wit’ me here, nuh.
Several hours later, as the convoy of three police vehicles—two cars and a van to transport the detainees—made its way back out of the eastern portion of the island, well before six in the afternoon to beat the sunset, Gaynor Henderson was one of the only three suspects whom the police intended to t
ake back to the station for interrogation. That was before, of course, the armed convoy, already on its way back to The Valley, was intercepted by a group of twelve or thirteen Anguillian matrons, equipped with pans and stones, blocking the road. The face-off was something out of a comic book.
Sergeant Edwards, again in command of the operation, looked in wonder at the group of colorful bandits ahead, wearing headscarves and long dresses. Time stood still, tumbleweed tumbled to the hesitant tune of a distant harmonica, even the goats fell silent, and for an instant the whole world shrunk down to the short corridor of hot air rising visibly between Sergeant Edwards’s fearful eyes and the outlaws, when suddenly, out of the crowd, Bathsheba Henderson stepped forward and, Where you takin’ me man, nuh? Leave me husband alone!
It was the loud, reverberating thump of her stone against the metal door of the car that shook the rest of the women out of their stupor. They did not all venture as far as Bathsheba, whose gigantic black arms and ferocious expression fed her courage beyond reason, but they did start to tap the bottoms of their pans with the stones in their hands, making a raucous clatter that gained in tempo progressively, as they encroached upon the policemen. Leave de men alone! cried a shrieking voice from one of the women, clad in a blue dress that hung to her voluptuous hips, to her protruding stomach, to her powerful thighs. Ain’ no one goin’ take me husband from me issued forth from another throat, and for a moment everyone was slightly puzzled, because the young girl in shorts and a T-shirt, with rolls in her head covered by a ragged scarf, was neither married nor engaged. “Girl, watch who you mout’ call husband—you better start makin’ sense or go home, nuh!” was a thought that (simultaneously) crossed more than one of the women’s minds, but the time was not right to show any rifts in the group, and questions of semantics and fidelity would have to be addressed—if not solved—later, when the well-being of the men had been safeguarded.
The Night of the Rambler Page 16
