A Journal of The Experiment at Jamaica (The Neville Burton 'Worlds Apart' Series Book 2)

by Georges Carrack

  “Yes, of course,” Neville responded, noticing both the reference to their potential future and the stern nature of the rebuke.

  “Well, then, they must have English here in modern Jamaica, or they are doomed to a life of digging ditches and washing pots, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Come on, then,” she said, and urged her horse into a canter for the last half mile into town. Their path stayed with the unpaved lanes in the poorer areas. After a time the number of buildings increased until they were in a rather dense residential area. The houses were wattle and daub for the most part, with a few of actual adobe brick, but the streets were still sand. Roofs were palm-thatched, but that was typical of almost all buildings other than the grand houses or government edifices. In general, there were no doors on the portals, and windows stood open for lack of glass. There was nothing one would call landscaping other than the occasional pot with a decorative plant or a flowering tree. They passed a restaurant that looked the same as all the other houses except for a couple crude wooden tables with log stump seats in the yard and a hand-lettered sign in Spanish offering ‘Tamales, tortillas y rellenos’. The smell of food wafted across their path.

  “Maria, what is that?” asked Neville.

  “What is what?”

  “The smell of some heavenly food, I’m sure.”

  “Those are...” she began, but then stopped short, “Oh, you haven’t really had any, have you? Father doesn’t like it. Well, you’ve just eaten breakfast. At noon, we’ll find something nice to eat. You may have noticed I didn’t bring anything.”

  “But breakfast was…”

  “No, no. Don’t start that. It’s not my fault you were late. Here’s the school, here.”

  “This?” asked Neville. He had been studying his surroundings anxiously for the last twenty minutes, and the very unfamiliar neighborhood gave him pause. He had been in some parts of London that had something of the same look, vegetation notwithstanding, and was aware that one needed to be very careful to avoid being knocked on the head. Yet here was Maria without a care. Furthermore, when they dismounted, Trombé took the horses off somewhere, leaving the two of them alone beside the school.

  Maria noticed him looking around, “Neville, there’s not a worry in the world here. The place is untidy, sure, because the people have no money, but they are the friendliest people you will ever meet, I promise. We will have children all about us in a minute, so you remember what I told you. I don’t know where Trombé goes, and he never tells, but he will be back on time.”

  Neville could see Maria draw herself up straight and proud and then step into the doorway of a building that was more a stick lean-to having only two walls and a thatched roof. He had hoped for at least a quick kiss, but he could see she was all business today, so that was out. He could hear a woman giving instruction in Spanish within, and his best understanding was that it was a lesson in arithmetic. His understanding of Spanish did not yet include the study of mathematics. Maria was noticed immediately, because the woman’s voice stopped and then after a short pause a great hubbub and braying of children began.

  “Come in with me, Neville,” she called to him from the door. When the children saw him, they all went quiet again.

  “Hola, Señora Mateo. Buenos dias,” said Maria.

  For a second the children quieted and Mrs. Mateo responded, “Hola, Señorita Fuller. Quien estas?”

  When Maria announced Señor Burton as her assistant for the day, the noise immediately resumed.

  “Hola, niños,” she said to them, and with that the lesson began. It was obviously a familiar routine.

  Neville was motioned to a small stool in the corner where he was to wait patiently for his time to assist. Here she is, Neville thought as he watched the class progress. Here’s my adorable Maria, but she’s not demure! She’s the tiger of the classroom. Even the unruly little boys are behaving, and Mrs. Mateo has left the session entirely to Maria.

  Maria had begun to recite the week’s English spelling words to the eleven students who wrote them on their slates. They then followed the usual fashion of stating the word, using it in a short English sentence, and stating it again. He stood as Mrs. Mateo, a short, round woman with black hair and lively brown eyes sidled over to meet him.

  “¿Es magnifico, no?” she whispered to him. (She is magnificent, isn’t she?)

  “¡Si. Muy magnifico!” Neville agreed. He sensed by her smile that his response had been possibly a bit effusive and that this perceptive teacher had picked it up instantly.

  The spelling quiz ended, and Mrs. Mateo, on cue, took the class back. The slates were passed forward, and Maria motioned Neville to come help carry them outside. Behind the school hut was a pole-mounted palm-thatched roof with a rough wooden table like Neville had seen at the restaurant and more stump-stools. It provided a place to work where they could not be seen by the children and a nice deep shade. They carried the slates there and set them on the table. Before Maria could sit, Neville grabbed her about the waist and pulled her tightly to him, planting a long kiss on her lips. Her first reaction was to push away for fear of being seen, but the reaction passed quickly and she let herself sink into him.

  “My,” she said, looking around for voyeurs, “You are amorous today, aren’t you?”

  “Maria, you are amazing! Those children love you, and so does Mrs. Mateo – and me.”

  “Thank you, Neville, but we must check these slates,” she said.

  They went over the spelling slates, making marks on errors with small red chalks and then recording the results on a larger slate for Mrs. Mateo. After that, Maria taught another session of translations and sentences, and Maria accepted the thanks of Mrs. Mateo for her assistance. As the children skipped and scampered down the dusty street to their homes for lunch, Trombé came walking up the lane leading their three horses.

  “We have one more school to visit today,” Maria said, “but I think there is something important you must learn. We can take an hour off now for lunch. Mrs. Abaroa is used to me being late because she knows I have Mrs. Mateo’s class first and it sometimes runs long.”

  “Trombé, we’ll go to Fernando’s restaurant now, if you please.”

  ‘If you please’, thought Neville. I understand very well that that’s an order. This Jamaica is more complicated than I have thought.

  Fernando’s was only about a mile away, but it was straight toward the center of town on the very edge of the paved streets. It was a luxurious place by the standards of the barrios – the Spanish neighborhoods – with adobe-tile floors, oiled-wood posts for roof supports and wicker chairs with leather seats for the customers. One side was entirely made up of plantings that screened patrons from sun and passers-by. A small bar on the back wall hid the kitchen entrance.

  After a familiar greeting in English by Fernando himself, Neville and Maria were seated in a comfortable shaded corner. The place was busy with English businessmen and a few others who apparently favored the colorful Spanish foods that Neville could see and smell coming out of the kitchen behind the bar. This was apparently not a place frequented by the local Spanish population. It’s probably expensive, though I’d wager that’s no concern to Maria. His stomach grumbled.

  “I heard that,” Maria said, “and I’m sorry you didn’t have a chance for a better breakfast, but on school days I feel very rushed.”

  “That’s no problem at all if this is my reward. What is that?” he asked, pointing to a dish being carried past.

  “Stop pointing! That’s quite impolite! I will order my favorites, and I will tell you what they are when they get here.”

  The meal that followed was a thing Neville had never had before. Maria had done a superb job of ordering samples of a dozen things: lobsters, clams, and fish from the sea on small piles of christophine and yams, spicy tamales, roasted peppers and a small dish of paella. Thin slices of pork were piled high on a vertical spit and turned in front of a fire, then sliced
off the side onto small round flatbreads that Neville by now knew to be tortillas. These were topped with small chunks of pineapple. There were small cups of salsa made with chopped bits of fruit and onions and tomatoes.

  “This is the most amazing food I have ever eaten!” Neville gushed, “How can your father not like it? The aromas! The taste! It is not all peas and mush and sameness. I’m not sure I can ever eat navy food again. I must have more of this before I leave again.”

  “Juanita can cook this. One day when father is away we can ask her for something special. Most of this is Spanish, but there is much in here from the local Indians – the Caribs. Spanish men married local women and they learned to cook from each other, and here it is. Lovely, no?”

  They departed when there was nothing left on the plate other than a few of the peppers that Neville, with watering eyes, declared too hot for human consumption. Another stop at a school similar to the one in the morning followed lunch, and they were on the way back to the Fuller home by afternoon tea.

  They arrived back at the Fuller Great House late for tea-time. They were tired and dusty and went straight to the terrace. The previous night’s concerns still hung heavily on Neville’s mind, and he was anxious to discuss those thoughts with Maria. Maria was forced to mention the stop at Fernando’s to rebuff Juanita’s distress about their passing on some special little cakes she had baked.

  “I know it is not a man’s place to discuss finance with his….” He stopped there, and a very expectant look came across Maria’s face. Realizing his error, he retraced his thoughts quickly, continuing casually, “…with women, but since I have been here I have learned that it is the household way; that your father believes you might someday take his place running the plantation as Master and Commander, as we say. You know of my good fortune. I have had a discussion with your father about it.”

  Maria’s heart instantly sank. She knew they had met formally, of course. He thinks of money, she ruminated. I had so hoped it would be of me; that he was asking for my hand. I cannot believe that he does not love me as I love him. Why has he not asked for my hand? An unexpected thought burst in on her: Maybe he has. Maybe it is not he who does not ask, but father who does not permit it. I heard him say that a man does not usually speak of money with his…. The next word should be ‘wife’ or ‘fiancée’, and he almost said it. Her cheerfulness returned straightaway, but she felt a hint of anger within it.

  Neville saw the shadow of cloud cross her face so clearly that he looked up to the sky. There was not a cloud to be seen. Today’s sky was a clear blue. Wondering what the disturbance could have been, he returned his eyes closely to her face. He could see no hint of it now, and her almond-shaped brown eyes sparkled at him behind the long black lashes.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you with such talk,” Neville persisted, “but it is important to me and I know you are truly comfortable with it. I am taking your father’s advice and shipping the bulk of this money to an institution in London called a ‘bank’. Then, after keeping some back for my expenses, I must find a place to store or hide the rest. Do you know of a place; maybe in Spanish Town? I am afraid that I must remind you that I am a navy officer. I know you are quite aware that any time I sail I might not return – a casualty of the enemy or the sea. If that were to happen, my fortune is yours. It must be a place that you know.”

  The relief showed plain on her face. He has asked. I’m sure of it now. Why else would he take such precautions to treat me as his wife? “I know just the place,” she said. “I will show you after tea, while we are still dusty from the road.”

  An hour later, they had finished tea and walked the hundred yards out the lane that led up the hill behind it to the stand of mahogany trees that denoted the Fuller House’s cemetery. A large but unkempt rectangle of weeds surrounded by a rusty iron fence had been cleared of trees on a gentle slope that overlooked the sea some decades ago, but there was only one narrow path in. The Jamaican flora would overrun everything year after year if not hacked back. “It’s not our cemetery, really. The land was given to father for his part in the English capture of the island from Spain in 1655. That’s ancient history to me. The graves are from Spanish families that used to live roundabouts, I am sure, for they are old and appear more catholic than Anglican, except for this one,” said Maria. “This is my mother’s grave.” It alone looked to have been weeded recently, and a small pottery vase in front of the headstone contained a few flowers with some life left in them. A scarlet sage plant grew behind it. “Father usually comes up every few days when he’s home. Juanita and I will come here if we’re out for a short walk.” She stared at the grave for a moment, and Neville said only, “I’m sorry I couldn’t have known her.”

  Recovering from her thoughts, Maria said, “Yes, me too. Well, come over here and look at this. She led him by the hand to a stone box with a pointed roof that would best be described as a tiny shrine or mausoleum with the inscription ‘Consuela Martinez, 3 Mayo, 1660 – ‘

  “It’s empty,” she said.

  “How would you know that?”

  “When I was little – before mother died and was buried here, I would bring my dolls out here to play, and I found this wonderful little dollhouse. There’s no date of death, you see, so I looked. You just push this roof piece aside like this…” she said, showing him how it went, “…and there you are. Ooohh. There’s Sally!” she moaned as she lifted out the mildewed remnants of a rough fabric doll. I haven’t seen her since mum passed - didn’t want to come out here and play then. Not a good place for a doll, as you can see, but money wouldn’t mind. Nobody pokes ‘round back here, anyway.”

  “I’ll bring it out and stow it there some quiet morning when nobody’s about. I think the box itself will fit. Once more I am surprised by your resourcefulness,” he said, again being ensnared by her eyes. After a pause, he leaned over and kissed her waiting lips, and continued, “I have no idea why I should be surprised. It is the way of you; always doing for others and thinking of the next great thing – not sitting and knitting or fussing about table decorations and the like.”

  “Don’t think I won’t be fussy when the time comes for it, Captain Burton!” she admonished. “I think there’s time for one more Spanish lesson after we clean up for dinner. You’re doing well, you know!”

  12 - “The Governor’s Meeting”

  Neville had found an opportunity to get together with Thomas Fuller to write an inquiry to Hoare’s about shipping his fortune to them, and it had gone off with a departing merchant.

  Two weeks later Neville saw Experiment being readied for sea. He had watched the last of the sheeting being applied and had visited a few times to discuss progress with ‘Chips’ and review the status of leave-taking with the boatswain, Mr. Tilburne. Every man with an interest – that is to say every man - had had their chance to spend a couple days in Port Royal, and all but four had returned. Mr. Tilburne suspected that one had sailed out on an alleged pirate vessel and two more had gone on a merchant ship for the Carolinas and he counted them as deserted. He was still hopeful of finding the fourth, however, even if he did not return of his own accord.

  The following month presented itself with unexpected routine. The Comtesse du Provence returned with little to report except Lt. Verley’s exuberance for her sailing qualities and the speed with which her company had learned to handle her. The Jamaican army was re-collected from Hispaniola by a reassembled sloop fleet, reporting limited success and a moderate number of casualties. The French remained in control of the island. Once arrived at Port Royal with the army, there was great excitement that the King’s supplies had arrived, but the news of supplies is not great excitement for very long, and the two frigates, together with a smaller contingent of merchant sloops, made an anti-pirate sortie to Tortuga for the first three weeks of December.

  In the last days of the year 1690, Captains Burton and Verley made the trip to the governor’s residence at Spanish Town to pay respects and report what little
they could claim to have accomplished. They had not seen evidence of Laurens. The smaller, less powerful pirate vessels either had gone into hiding or were well-dispersed in the shipping lanes to the north. For the moment, at least as far as Burton and Verley had seen, the waters north of Jamaica were quiet.

  “If you remember,” Lord Inchiquin began telling them, “news had come downwind to us from Barbados that Commodore Wright and Colonel Codrington had resolved sometime in October to attack Guadeloupe. While they were preparing, however, Wright received orders to return to England and had sailed for Barbados. Once there he was delayed from leaving for want of provisions and then received another letter from the Lords of Trade and Plantations directing him to stay in the West Indies till the first of January. Although we are close upon this date, I have concerns about his intentions. He is to provide protection to homeward bound convoys, which is much needed by our merchants, but his orders say that he is to ‘reunite the frigates detached for defense of the Islands to his squadron’. This concerns me greatly, because it might mean that he would call you in to him, leaving us with no frigates at all for our defense, and then possibly send you north with the convoys. On the other hand, he is ordered to leave a frigate at Barbados and send one to the Leeward Islands; I would wager that be Antigua. Furthermore, he is ordered to send a fourth rate frigate hither to Jamaica in place of the Swan, or a fifth and a sixth rate instead. However, he has included his notes to say that Jamaica have their frigates already in the Experiment and the Comtesse du Provence, and he will not send another, but I still worry that he will call you in. He has frigates already patrolling to the north of Guadeloupe, capturing prisoners for intelligence and collecting Indian periagos to use as landing boats. I will be very surprised if you are not called up.”

  “And now I must come to the crisis of this discussion, gentlemen. You report no pirates abroad and Commodore Wright threatens to recall you for the purposes of the Lesser Antilles, but while you have been gone, Laurens has been true to his word and returned. The week after you left, he came with several vessels, seized at least eight of our trading sloops, landed, and plundered a plantation on the north shore. He then threatened to blockade us, but we have it on good authority that he sailed for Vera Cruz in hope of plunder.”