We finish off our visit to St Vincent and the Grenadines, SVG to its friends, this week. After an extraordinary tour of the oldest botanic garden in the Western Hemisphere, we continue inland to the old British garrison barracks of Fort Charlotte.

As we joined another couple from our ship at the rear gate of the gardens, I was slightly mystified that our taxi headed uphill and, therefore, inland. I had always been under the impression that these defence works were constructed on the coast to thwart any attack from seaward, which is where the French usually came from.

When we parked outside the main gate, it soon became apparent that, whatever the reason for the location of this particular fortress, it would be the devil’s own job to take it from well-armed defenders.

It was perched high on a hilltop with magnificent views towards the shimmering Caribbean Sea and equally commanding lookouts from the landward ramparts. Having visited forts built during the same era, I was dumbfounded by the lack of a glacis, meaning that well-positioned siege artillery could bang away to its heart’s content when assailing the position.

Perhaps the designers were so confident that no French cannon would be able to get close enough and achieve the requisite elevation for its barrels to be effective.

It might only have been a fifty-metre or so walk to the gate, but beads of sweat soon appeared on one’s brow as the lungs worked extra hard for a few seconds. Yes, I thought, if I was part of the forces investing this particular fort, I would soon tire of how hard it was to take the blighter.

I suspect the only way would be a surprise nighttime escalade, possibly a forlorn hope, given its prominence.

The gate swung open and we were greeted by our host for the tour. Brenton was, fundamentally, the lighthouse keeper, now positioned atop the seaside battlement of the old fort. He was also a government-accredited guide and was allowed to conduct historic tours of the old British stronghold.

Like Anthony at the gardens, he soon cottoned on to my white cane, going above and beyond in his treatment of me. I do, sometimes, feel like a celebrity, what with all the personal attention my cane seems to garner. Do I mind? Not at all. A little adulation goes a long way, even if it isn’t really deserved.

A fortress built for control

“Why is it so far from the sea?” I asked.

“Well,” started Brenton, “it wasn’t built to see off invaders from the sea but, rather, to protect Kingstown from the restless natives. The indigenous Caribs, the Garifuna, had become quite miffed at being put under the heel of their European colonial masters, first the French and then the British.”

That is understandable; after all, who would want their idyllic and peaceful life shattered by these incomers who only wanted to exploit the islands for their agricultural abundance? Like many of the other West Indian islands, St Vincent was no exception, with its fertile soil providing excessive yields for many different types of crops.

As we learned last week, the botanic gardens fed the local town and garrison with some of the most delicious food grown anywhere within the British Empire. In order to protect its possession, the British completed the fort in 1806, having commenced construction 43 years earlier.

The Garifuna became fractious and often launched forays against their better-armed foes. It was during one such confrontation, on 14 March 1795, that their leader, a fellow by the name of Joseph Chatoyer, the Paramount Chief of the island’s people, was killed.

He is now recognised as the country’s sole national hero and, on every anniversary of his death, National Heroes Day commemorates his heroic deeds and the lasting contribution he has made to the history of this small island nation.

He was of mixed Carib and African slave heritage. What a great man to hold up as your national hero, in more ways than one.

I was intrigued to learn more of Charlotte’s dual purpose. The lighthouse is fully manned twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and is overseen by Brenton and a number of colleagues who share the shifts between them.

He is the only one, though, officially recognised to provide tours of the building. I can’t think of many better side shuffles. We really did strike it lucky and, to be quite honest, we could not begrudge US$4 each for the experience.

It was disappointing to hear one of the group ask if he declared the cash to the relevant authorities. I mean, who could care less?

Life at the lighthouse, and island dangers

When you are doing two jobs at the same time, you might well be called away from one to the other. I think looking after the lighthouse was higher on Brenton’s priority list than showing a bunch of tourists around his beloved fort.

On one such occasion, when he was called away by a ship approaching Kingstown, he took himself inside his little office, which doubled as the lighthouse. I perched myself on a wall just outside the door.

When you think lighthouse, don’t think of a tower on top of a clifftop. This one is already so high up it doesn’t need to be anything more than a goldfish bowl looking out to sea. From here he had a commanding view of approaching shipping and, as and when necessary, would despatch the pilot to guide them safely into harbour.

He took his eye away from the glittering sea for a second and spotted this blind tourist, supposedly in his care, sitting on top of a wall with a precarious-looking drop to the rocks below. All thoughts of guiding the ship safely to shore went out of his mind as he appeared to suffer an apoplexy at the thought of me toppling over the edge.

He exited the lighthouse, waving his arms like a windmill. I moved, and he went back to his primary task.

When a relieved Brenton came and rejoined us, he informed us that it was Jesus who had made him turn around at the right time to save me. He then went on to explain how he had found Jesus again a few years earlier and that everything happened because of him.

I did want to say that I thought it slightly careless to have lost him in the first place but, just maybe, that thought was better left in my head. I did have another thought, two at the same time, quite the thing really. I am blind, not lacking in balance. Sitting on a wall about half a metre thick, I didn’t think posed me too many problems.

Still, if Brenton thought my survival was down to the intervention of someone who died nearly 2,000 years ago, who am I to disagree?

Just outside the gates to the fort is a standalone building. It was pointed out that this was, at one time, the island’s leper colony. This got me thinking.

I have read many accounts of the military importance of the Caribbean lands and knew that yellow fever was a major cause of illness and death among army, navy and civilian populations. Brenton advised us that it had not been a threat here in St Vincent.

I must admit I found this hard to believe, for the region had always been known as the Fever Islands. In a major outbreak in the 1790s, St Vincent did not miss out. It seems to have started in Grenada prior to spreading to the other colonies, inter-island trade, no doubt, causing this.

The condition manifests itself by showing jaundice-like symptoms and does not discriminate who it attaches itself to. It was brought over to the Caribbean by the slave population from Africa and would affect a master just as much as it would a slave.

Apart from the ever-present fear of contracting Yellow Jack, a colloquial nickname for the disease, I cannot think of a better posting in any part of the fledgling British Empire than this small paradise. Abundant food, abundant rum and incredible views.

It seems that women were in short supply, making them sound like a commodity rather than 50% of the world’s population. Different times, but not a bad place to live out your days.
Although there were falling-outs between the British and the French and, sometimes, the Spanish, there was, by far, a much bigger chance of dying from the frightening condition. As with our recent exposure to Covid, some were immune from catching it.

Unlike Covid, though, if one did contract it and survive, you then held lifelong immunity. If you did not leave the hospital feet first in a wooden box, you could look forward to a magical time, so why on earth would you ever want to get posted back to England?

Why Yellow Jack? Well, this comes from the sailing fraternity. Jack is a naval term for a flag, much in the same way that the Union Flag is referred to as the Union Jack at sea. The yellow flag hoisted aloft on ships riddled with the virus was known as the Yellow Jack.

It was most unfortunate for ship crews to get it, when you think about it, for they spent most of their lives at sea, miles from the dreaded mosquitoes that transmitted it to humans, mainly in tropical regions.

Every now and again, though, they had to put into port, and that was where the danger lay, especially in Africa, South America, Asia and, unfortunately for our folks, the Caribbean. So, if you ever see a ship flying a yellow flag, stay away!

Now, we have looked at leprosy, yellow fever and warfare, but what other ways could residents find to die? Have you ever eaten grass before breakfast? Quite frankly, if you say yes, I am inclined not to believe you.

Let me explain — it’s not nice. Eating grass before breakfast was usually the fate that awaited the loser in a duel. Whilst, technically, duels were illegal, they still took place, often and usually, between gentlemen.

I don’t mean any old men; I mean those from the higher social ranks in the land, not the likes of you and I — well, me at any rate. Brenton informed us that a Major Alexander Leith bit the dust, ate the grass, following a slight on another officer’s wife, fiancée or woman. The details appeared sketchy.

I looked it up. It does look like Major Leith fought a duel, even though this is doubtful, but it wasn’t with a fellow army officer, nor was it over a woman. He faced off against our old friend, Joseph Chatoyer, in a fight to the death on Dorsetshire Hill.

Leith won, Chatoyer lost and the rest, as they say, is history. Or is it? It probably didn’t happen that way. Why on earth would the leaders of the two sides during the Second Carib War think it a good idea to settle matters over pistols at dawn?

Next week we find ourselves going ashore on the historic Dutch colony of Curaçao. Once again, following extensive reading about the Napoleonic Wars in the area, I couldn’t wait.

Find Out More
Fort Charlotte: https://www.tourism.gov.vc

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Fort Charlotte: good, a little precarious in places - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)