Aground on St. Thomas

by Rebecca M. Hale

  She found herself tousling her hair, adding additional tangles to the ones Bobo had initiated, particularly when a couple of befuddled soldiers stopped to converse by the lawn’s last tree. Trying not to look conspicuous, she stepped off the curb at the end of the walkway and weaved her way into the Emancipation Park crowds.

  Immersed in the park’s edgy atmosphere, her grip tightened on her briefcase shoulder strap.

  The garbled speeches from the grandstand threw out harshly spoken words and phrases.

  “. . . cowards been stealing from us . . .”

  “. . . dare take over our government . . .”

  “. . . if I catch that Governor, I’ll tell you what I’ll do with him . . .”

  “Hey, you, pasty boys . . .”

  With relief, Sanchez reached the opposite side of the park’s overflow crowd and hurried up the narrow street to the church.

  Alone outside the locked iron gates, she looked back toward the park. There was no sign of Bobo. She wondered if he’d been picked up by the Guard.

  “Gotcha!”

  Sanchez jumped as Bobo grabbed her shoulders. She cringed at the touch of his naked skin.

  “Bobo, get off me.

  “I mean it. Now.”

  •

  AFTER SEPARATING HERSELF from Bobo’s bare-armed bear hug, Sanchez returned her attention to the church. The chapel’s massive hurricane-strength doors were swung open, but there was no other indication that the place was currently staffed. The courtyard was empty, and the rosebushes looked as if they could use a drink of water. The cistern in the side yard must have run empty.

  It had been a mistake to come here, Sanchez thought. But as she reached for her cell phone to attempt a call, Bobo poked her in the ribs.

  She looked up to see a man in a brown cassock and gold chain crossing the inner courtyard. She wasn’t sure where he had come from, but he was now walking briskly toward the locked gate.

  “Who’s that?” she whispered.

  “Bishop of St. Thomas,” Bobo replied with a knowing nod.

  A lifelong Catholic, Sanchez attended mass almost every Sunday. She knew most of the local clergy, but this man was unfamiliar. It wasn’t the Catholic bishop or the equivalent Episcopalian leader. There were dozens of independent religious organizations on the island. Perhaps he was a member of one of those—but surely she would have heard of a bishop.

  “Bobo. I think you’re confused. That’s not any bishop of St. Thomas that I’ve ever met.”

  Her fellow senator pumped his eyebrows.

  “Oh, I assure you. He’s the Bishop all right.”

  Charlotte Amalie Harbor

  ~ 31 ~

  Through the Looking Glass

  CASANOVA MOTIONED FOR the motorboat to slow as it approached the outer fringes of the Charlotte Amalie harbor. Keeping a safe distance from the cruise ship port and the docked navy freighter, the Crucian craft veered toward the west side of the protected bay.

  The commercial ferries had been halted, but as Nova’s source had assured him, there was little policing of the hundred or so smaller craft in the area.

  The boat slipped easily behind Hassel Island, a onetime peninsula that had been cut off from the mainland in the 1860s to create a shipping lane.

  The ever-expanding size of Caribbean cruise ships placed constant pressure on harbor officials to maintain and widen the water routes to Charlotte Amalie’s deepwater dock. While such alterations remained environmentally controversial, the island’s lifeblood depended upon regular visits from the floating cities and their thousands of cash-dropping passengers.

  Even with the harbor modifications, the massive ships moved through the designated passage points at a snail’s pace, their captains fearful of straying from the narrow course and beaching on the adjacent shoals.

  No such turtle traffic cluttered the area that day. The lone cruise ship stranded at the dock had sent a clear message to those scheduled for late morning arrival. The next several days’ worth of vessels had already diverted to other destinations. There were plenty of islands within range happy to host an extra cruiser.

  The Crucian powerboat edged around the far side of Hassel Island and slid through the cutout channel. The motor cut back to an idle as Nova whipped up a pair of binoculars and surveyed the shoreline.

  His magnified lenses skimmed over the shuttered waterfront shops to the Legislature Building, whose front entrance was guarded by a pair of FBI agents. Across the street, the crumbling rear walls of Fort Christian retained their typical forlorn and abandoned stance.

  Shifting his view up the slope, Nova scanned the crowds packed into Emancipation Park. National Guard troops from the navy ship had encircled the perimeter and were trying, without much success, to maintain order.

  Moving another notch higher in elevation, Nova’s glasses picked out the Lutheran church and, just above its metal roof, the easy marker of Government House. Skipping up the adjacent public staircase and past an abandoned construction site, a zoom of the binoculars captured the lookout tower for Blackbeard’s Castle.

  As Nova’s scope swept across the hilltops toward the Governor’s Mansion, he homed in on a taxi van speeding along a curved road at the city’s upper outskirts.

  He kept the lenses trained on the vehicle, following it back to the center of the upturned city, where it stopped in front of Hotel 1829, a historic accommodation at the bottom of Government Hill.

  Hotel 1829

  Charlotte Amalie

  ~ 32 ~

  Room at the Inn

  THE AIRPORT TAXI van screeched to a stop, blocking the one-way street outside Hotel 1829.

  With a weary wave to the other riders, the author climbed out and met the driver at the rear cargo doors. She paid her portion of the fare, grabbed her roll-around suitcase, and watched the driver shuffle back to his slot behind the wheel.

  She saw the wince on the driver’s face as he pulled open the door. The interior’s cool blast of air-conditioning couldn’t mitigate the ongoing commentary of the Mojito Man in the front passenger seat.

  Seconds later, the van squealed off. The driver was eager to make his next delivery as quickly as possible.

  His next stop was around the corner and up the hill at Blackbeard’s Castle.

  •

  THE AUTHOR EXTENDED her suitcase handle and rolled it toward the hotel’s front steps.

  The drive into Charlotte Amalie from the airport had been far from routine. Near the downtown area, the van had encountered a number of pedestrians on the streets. The driver had slowed the vehicle to a crawl, carefully pushing the bumper through the roaming crowds. He hadn’t used his horn, perhaps fearing retribution. The day’s events had understandably left the populace on edge.

  A number of low-riding pickups, many with stereo speakers hanging out their rear windows, had further blocked the roads. After taking to a sidewalk to get around a snarl of parked trucks, the driver had finally detoured up into the surrounding residential hills in order to gain less impeded access to Government Hill.

  Like the rest of the van’s passengers, the author had been unable to get any updates on the lockdown situation. Her cell phone didn’t appear to be working, and the taxi van’s radio had been drowned out by the Mojito Man’s constant yammering.

  All she knew is what she’d been told at the airport. The territory’s elected officials had been indicted on bribery charges. The FBI had moved in to arrest them, but the Governor and two senators had so far escaped capture.

  Still standing by the hotel’s front steps, the author turned to look down at the waterfront. She had a partial view overlooking several flights of stone and brick steps that tracked down the slope to a post office, which, like the adjacent jewelry shops, had been locked up and barricaded.

  Most of the action was happening the next block over in Emancipation
Park, where bullhorns and portable microphones amplified the noise from the crowd. It was difficult to discern the actual words, but the tone was clearly one of anger and concern.

  Beyond the park, the occasional pop of gunfire echoed through the air.

  It was a tense, uncertain scene.

  She wondered if she’d made a mistake coming into town.

  •

  THE AUTHOR ALMOST didn’t make it out of the airport.

  The taxi concierge had managed to secure a viable phone line, but it had taken several attempts to get through to a hotel. Due to the telecommunications outage, none of the resorts were reachable. With the help of the officers stationed at the airport, the concierge had reached a police station located across the street from Hotel 1829. Using this relay, a room had been held for the author.

  There were relatively few lodging options within the city limits, even without a government siege. For many tourists, Charlotte Amalie was a place for passing through. The town hosted about a hundred thousand cruise ship passengers per year, but those visitors came for the day, spent their money in the shops, and, at the signal from their ship—a hooting whistle that could be heard across the entire downtown—returned to their staterooms for the evening. The next day they’d disembark at St. Maarten, St. Barts, or some other cruise ship–friendly destination with a deepwater port and repeat the process all over again.

  Another flow of tourist traffic used Charlotte Amalie as a connection hub to neighboring islands. The ferryboats that docked along the waterfront provided transport to St. John and the chain of British Virgin Islands to the north.

  Even those tourists planning to spend their vacation on St. Thomas rarely overnighted in Charlotte Amalie. The expansive resorts that dotted the northeast shore provided everything a guest might need or want, from relaxation to water sports and casual to high end dining.

  With resort lodging unavailable, the author had been lucky to secure a room in town.

  Of course, the Mojito Man had offered to host her at Blackbeard’s Castle, but she had immediately rejected that suggestion.

  She recalled his offer with a shudder.

  “I would have preferred a mat on the airport floor.”

  •

  THE AUTHOR LOOKED up at her temporary home—for who knew how many nights.

  As the name suggested, Hotel 1829 had been around for a while. The date was a reference to the year of the building’s original construction.

  Painted coral pink with white trim, the multistory structure was built into a steep slope at the bottom of Government Hill, just two doors down from Government House—which presumably explained the presence of the FBI agents on the street.

  As a pair of boot-stomping agents jogged past the author and up the hill, the hotel’s front gate opened. A cheery man with a sandy-gray mustache and a matching ponytail issued a hearty welcome.

  “You must be the writer. Come on in!”

  ~ 33 ~

  The Gym Membership

  IT TURNED OUT the hotel’s check-in clerk was also the bartender—or, more accurately, the bartender did double duty as the receptionist. The check-in counter was a wooden table inside the bar.

  He was a cheerful bloke. The smile behind the mustache was one of genuine contentment, the kind often found among older expats living in the Caribbean. After years of a regular nine-to-five job up in the States, he had chosen to work where he vacationed, so that every evening was a tropical sundown and every day off offered a potential swim at the beach.

  Once the author signed in, he handed her a key and motioned toward a doorway leading through to the building’s inner courtyard.

  A younger man with an athletic build brought in a bucket of ice and dumped it into a bin on the serving side of the bar’s long counter.

  “I’ll take her up,” he offered, setting aside the bucket.

  “Number fifteen,” the mustached man replied, tossing the key. “Your morning workout.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “It’s not that heavy,” the author said as the second bartender reached for her roll-around suitcase.

  Bemused, she followed him into the courtyard—and then she understood the exercise reference.

  The building’s open interior scaled up the hillside, with the guest rooms accessed by a daunting array of crisscrossed staircases. A small pool had been built into a narrow landing around the slope’s midpoint. The lower level where she now stood held just a small patio, with most of the space taken up by a splashing waterfall.

  “Where’s number fifteen?” the author asked, looking up, her eyes wide.

  The young man grinned his response. He threw the suitcase over his shoulders and nimbly leapt up the first set of stairs. She panted to catch up as he summited the second flight. By the third, she’d given up trying to keep pace. When she finally arrived at the top of the fourth, he was waiting to show her into her room.

  “No need for a gym membership,” he said with a smile.

  •

  THE AUTHOR TOOK a few minutes to freshen up. Then she loaded her camera and computer into her backpack and returned to the bottom level.

  The trip down was much easier than the one up, but the hotel’s steep architecture was just as much a marvel on the descent.

  She stepped inside the bar and slowly looked around, absorbing the details she’d missed on her first pass through.

  While the room now served as a casual entertainment area, it had originally been the building’s main kitchen. A brick fireplace big enough for several people to step inside took up one end of the space. Vintage cooking utensils were displayed above the hearth. Other mementos from that earlier time frame could be seen throughout the bar, with assorted brass pots hanging from the ceiling and plaques and black-and-white photos mounted onto the brick walls.

  A heavy wooden table in the center of the room displayed an oversized backgammon set with a marble board and a matching dice-throwing cup. The author paused to study the game pieces. Given the position of the checkers, it looked as if play had been stopped midgame.

  She turned to the bar itself, a solid structure of deep mahogany with brass detailing, set her backpack on the floor, and climbed onto the nearest stool.

  The bartender leaned over his counter and pumped his mustache, inquisitively waiting for her order.

  “Hi, I’ll have a . . .” she started and then groaned at a dreaded itch on her arm. Swatting her elbow, she caught a bloodsucker still attached to her skin.

  After only a few hours on the ground in the Caribbean, she’d already accumulated a small rash of mosquito bites.

  The bartender eyed the welts. “Wow, they must love you.” He pointed to a pair of bug-spray bottles on a shelf by the cash register. “Help yourself.”

  He reached beneath the counter and brought up a pair of citronella coils. He lit one on either side of her barstool and returned to his counter.

  “Now, what can I make for you, hon?”

  “Whatever you like,” she replied and then added, “Just so long as it’s not a mojito.”

  ~ 34 ~

  The Clamshell

  THE AUTHOR SLUNG her backpack over her shoulder and walked onto the hotel’s veranda. In her free hand, she carried a frozen mango daiquiri, a drink she hoped would help soothe the itch from her mosquito bites and erase the tiresome memory of the day’s travels.

  The bartender soon followed with the burning citronella coils. He positioned them strategically around her table and returned to his station.

  About ten feet up from the street, the porch caught a nice sea breeze. There were plenty of seating options, with two rows of wicker tables and chairs, either pushed up against the building’s coral pink wall or adjacent to the planters that lined the veranda’s front railing.

  The author selected a spot and powered up her laptop, but her gaze quickly drifted
from the computer to the scenery. Sipping on the cool drink, she gazed out at the surrounding city.

  •

  LIKE COUNTLESS OTHER travelers, her previous visits to St. Thomas had been brief, a necessary stopover on her way to other locations. But even from those limited encounters, she knew Charlotte Amalie was different from the typical Caribbean port.

  Many cruise ship destinations had become nothing more than cardboard cutouts, façades created for the amusement of day-trippers, with little of substance existing underneath. Each morning, the tourist-catering businesses and related infrastructure were rolled out like a rug, the pieces neatly polished and positioned, an illusion of a colorful Caribbean scene.

  The moment the cruise ship’s afternoon whistle began to blow, the entire enterprise was closed down, packed up, and carted away. Umbrella operators cleared the beach, jewelry shops shuttered their glass windows, and tour operators folded up their sidewalk sandwich boards.

  Charlotte Amalie had all that superficial dressing, most prominently on display at the vendors’ plaza and in the alley shops, but beneath that commercial shell lay a foundation of culture and history.

  Although the nonstop cruise ship schedule had driven out some of its long-term residents, Charlotte Amalie was still a real town where people actually lived. It was a thriving microcosm, with the diversity, economic strata, and inevitable frictions of a modern Caribbean society.

  And because the territory’s seat of government provided almost as much local employment and income as the passing cruise ships, the town was far more varied than most in terms of drama and intrigue.

  Even with a population of almost twenty thousand, it was a place where everyone knew everyone else. Cupped in the palm of the hill, the actors could wave to one another across the vertical stage.

  The city was a clamshell propped open for observation, each property visible to prying eyes—it was just a matter of finding the right angle.