ST KITTS PART 2
We may or may not finish off our excursion to St Kitts today. We’ll see how things go. Just sometimes, based on what we have experienced I disappear down rabbit holes and, every now and again, I get lost and stumble across treats I never knew were there.
I won’t forget the story of the poor old lady who mistook an unfamiliar piece of equipment for a formal evening’s headdress. For those of you not sure what a formal evening is, it is when we all get together in, I suppose, a step up from our Sunday best.
They sometimes include a bit of fancy dress, especially for the ladies, the men are genuinely stuck in pretty standard bib and tucker. For a bloke who is at home in tee shirts, chinos, jeans for old men, and trainers I feel very much out of my comfort zone and, I have to add, very much self-aware. Picture is included, see what you think, it’s like dressing an animal in clothes, it doesn’t work. That’s another thing, why do people do that?
If you stumble across a place name, in this case Bloody Point, it is probably fairly safe to say that it doesn’t represent events that were all sweetness and light. In this instance, the B word is not a profanity, but the name given to a place on this, otherwise tranquil tropical isle, that possesses a gruesome and dark origin. As a British citizen I struggle to own this and other similar crimes in history.
There is no doubt that the British Empire brought a lot of good to the world but it also, on occasions, blotted its copybook bigtime. This particular incident involved some pretty unbelievable co-operation with our cousins across the English Channel, quite unusual for the times, I think it is taken that the French and English haven’t always seen eye-to-eye.
This is one occasion when two of the world’s most advanced nations, at the time anyway, came together to perpetuate one of the most heinous and shocking crimes delivered in the name of empire, or should that be empires.
It all started in August 1626, it was such an insignificant event in colonial history that they couldn’t even be bothered to make a note of the actual date, with a woman scorned. To be fair, in my opinion at least, Barbe had every right to feel scorned. She had been forcibly removed, kidnapped, by the Calinago people from her Arawak homeland and brought to St Kitts as a slave to the native chief, Tegremond.
She alleged hearing muttering about an uprising that would expel the French and English dogs from the island forever. She ran off to her lover, Thomas Warner, in charge of the English settlers, and his French counterpart, Pierre Belain d’Esnambuc. The two colonial masters came up with a cunning plan.
They decided to throw a party to which they invited Tegremond and his people. Apart from an argument about who was going to supply the booze, in the end I think they settled for French wine and English ale, good choice, the party, pretty much, went without a hitch and a good time was had by all.
The Calinago certainly got tucked into the drink, not one of them noticing that their hosts were only taking tiny little sips whilst they were glugging it down by the bucket load. Perhaps they had no reason to suspect anything untoward.
The natives, rather unsteadily, made their way back to the village and rolled into bed, dreading the monumental hangovers that waited for them in the following dawn. The English and French thought that they had better go and check on their guests, and heavily armed, you never know what you might encounter on the way, they entered the native village and slayed 120 of the sleeping partygoers, including Tegremond. That’s a hell of a way to prevent hangovers, a little drastic really.
You would think that would be honour restored, the head of the rebellious snake had been cut off. The settlers were mightily chuffed with the success of their deception that they were emboldened. They set about rounding up around 4,000 indigenous people and marched them down to a bend in the nearby river, concealed by a ravine and, with the bloodlust up, they slaughtered another 2,000 men, women and children.
I can’t find any record of how many survived the attack without injury. It is said that following the massacre the river ran red for three days. The river is now known as Blood River and the point as Bloody Point. What lovely and caring people the colonists were. I bet they were really proud of themselves. Well, I am not, I am appalled by the brutality of what man can do to man.
This didn’t matter to the bigger pictures, the victims were savages and more importantly, to the warped European interpretation of Christ’s teaching, were not Christian.
There is now much scepticism about the veracity of Barbe’s allegations. She had fostered an understandable loathing for her Calinago captors and, somehow, had developed a romantic relationship with Warner. It looks like she seized the opportunity, she had Warner exactly where she wanted him and poured poisonous sweet nothings into his ear.
Many settlers abroad didn’t need a second invitation to carry out a bit of ethnic cleansing, and Warner and d’Esnambuc were no exception. Whatever made them think a piledriver should be used to open this particular coconut is beyond fathomable.
No-one was ever brought to justice for this genocide. Did all those that took part in the killing honestly believe it was justified. I find that very hard to believe, not a single one of them appeared to have a conscience. Is that actually possible?
Right, after that, where shall we go next? Something a bit lighter, I believe.
We pulled over to the kerb in a small inland settlement. Regrettably, I did not record the name of the village in my journal. Overall, it seemed an attractive enough place. Moses hopped down from his driver’s seat and headed to some roadside trees sporting an incredible array of tropical fruit.
Jane described to me what Moses was picking from one of the trees. I said that I thought it might be breadfruit. I was wrong, it does happen you know, rather too frequently than I wish for, but it was soursop. I am not sure there is a less attractive sounding foodstuff in the world, providing you have already taken McDonalds and Greggs out of the equation, and looking back to my diary I described it as sweet and tangy with a creamy texture, it really was quite delicious. I wonder if Sainsburys do it...?!
I’m back... I just popped to their app to check, and the answer is a big fat no. And they don’t do breadfruit either. What’s the world coming to?
We had been so immersed in Moses plucking fruit from a tree that none of us had noticed a forlorn creature approach our open sided bus from the other side. He was, I think it was a he, much like one of those bog-monsters I had recently feared when Michael and I broke down in the Fens during our recent epic cycle ride, only worse.
This one had been fuelled up by alcohol, and who knew what other toxins, in the nearby hostelry. Others described him as unkempt, which I think was kind given the more detailed descriptions I was given, truly frightening, especially to the ladies who, somehow, had mainly managed to find themselves on the right-hand side of the vehicle.
Hair, matted with all sorts of detritus, hadn’t had a meaningful encounter with scissors or shampoo in an age, clothes that were so encrusted with sticky stuff from everyday life and shoes that were well past their best. Shall we be kind and simply say he was a little ragged.
I can tell you that he stunk to high heaven. People sometime observe that my working senses must perform better in the absence of sight, I have no idea whether this is true or not, I think I just use them differently, but sometimes a less sensitive nose might be a bonus.
He held out his hand, making some passengers recoil in horror. He was only looking for charitable donations to take back into the bar and keep the drinks industry going on his own. A polite, but firm, no did the trick.
It is within the English zone that we find the present-day Wingfield and Romney Estates, the latter being home to the Caribelle Batik enterprise. When the estate was first established the land had belonged to our old friend, Tegremond, chief of the Calinago people.
No wonder he may or may not have become miffed a few years later, for this land was sacred to the Caribs, another name for Calinago.
Interestingly, the first man to own the estate, I mean steal the estate, was a chap named Samuel Jefferson, whose descendant, a certain Thomas, became the third President of the fledgling United States of America.
The Jeffersons were Quakers and the estate was first named the Red House Estate because of the red colours they wore, not exactly bright and cheerful reds but dour and sombre, representing their beliefs. I had never given it a second thought but is that why Quaker porridge oats are packaged in mainly red?
It first produced tobacco but then colonies in Virginia began growing a better-quality product, no less cancerous I daresay, so that was the end of that.
For a little while it grew indigo, also known as blue gold, to produce a fade resistant dye for the clothing industry. In fact, it was often used in art as well and could be found on the palettes of many artists across the globe. It was in the late nineteenth century that German scientists created a cheaper synthetic version which saw off the need for plant extract.
As it happens, indigo is still used in high value cloth as well as denim, a juxtaposition if ever there was one. Jane’s Mum wouldn’t let her wear jeans when she was young as it was for working class people. Mine didn’t object, although I wasn’t allowed platform shoes, so I’m not really sure how the pair of us fitted into late twentieth century society. I suppose, as most would say, it proves I was, and still am, punching way above my weight.
Wingfield soon cottoned on to a new, more trendy, cash crop, still gold but this time white gold… sugar.
This sustained the place over the next 300 years plus, even through the abolition of the slave trade, which just goes to prove it could have been done. The estate owner at the time, the Earl of Romney, saw the light and manumitted his enslaved labour before anyone else on the island. That was too late to save slaves from savage and brutal punishments meted out to runaways in earlier less enlightened times.
If slaves escaped, then later recaptured punishments would range from time in the stocks, floggings or, although this might be myth, being strapped to a thorny tree trunk such as our old friend the acacia. The sharp barbs would press into the body, arms and legs of the man, or woman, or child, and, if they were repeat offenders, they might be whipped as well. Doesn’t that just make you sick even to imagine it.
We were standing under the shade of the punishment tree when Moses opened up the trunk and served up some cold Carib beers, rather appropriate given the alternative name for the Calinago. In tribute to the product of this land, he also dished up some good old rum punches. It was all rather incongruous to think we were standing there, on such a delightful sunny afternoon, imagining what had gone on there in the past. There were worse places to be on a Monday afternoon in January.
That brings us on nicely to the next piece of information handed out during this most interesting of excursions. Moses asked if we were familiar with a character by the name of John Newton. All onboard could be heard whispering to one another, it was on the tip of everyone’s tongue, including mine and Jane’s. No, we couldn’t bring it to the front of our mind, not surprising given that we were probably the youngest on the bus. Memories aren’t what they were for most of us.
Then Moses began singing, and what a cracking voice he has, “Once was blind, but now can see.”
“Oh yeah,” we all said in unison. “Of course, it’s Amazing Grace.” So, that’s where we heard the name of the man who penned it.
There have been some great versions of this song, or is it a hymn, down the years, but the one I first recall is Judy Collins in 1971. I am not a religious person in the slightest, but that particular line resonates with me, at least ever since my RP diagnosis. I always cling to hope. I must admit, if I am in the house on my own, I value my marriage too much to sing it out loud in company, I do like to belt it out. Not sure what I am doing wrong, it has never worked for me, perhaps I am taking it too literally.
What’s all this got to do with St Kitts? Well, Newton, a very successful trader in human misery, he was a slaver, was sailing, with a full cargo, from Africa to the West Indies, when his ship, The Greyhound’ was caught in a ferocious Atlantic storm. Fearing the ship was going to sink he cried out to God who rescued him by grounding the ship on a beach in St Kitts.
It has been widely circulated over the years that he was the sole survivor, he was not. And neither did he give up the slave trade straightaway, as is also often reported. And neither did he write the song immediately, that didn’t come about for another 25 years.
He had enjoyed, not sure that is the right word, early life. Despite being enslaved himself by an African family he still took up the role of captain of slave trading ships. I think this is where we have to be careful when throwing the reparations word around with free abandon.
Many, many Europeans were enslaved by African tribes, not all of them were lucky enough to have a father rich enough to launch a rescue mission, like our John. Slavery, although abhorred when looking back with modern sensitivity, was rife. Africans often enslaved white people and often enslaved other Africans.
None of this, of course, makes it right, but how can any court rule on matters that took place, in some cases, over four-hundred years ago? How far do we go back with the justice thing, should the Saxons be seeking compensation from the French for the Norman Conquest? Should the Romano British seek payouts from the German government for the Saxon Conquest? And should the indigenous British, among many others, pursue legal claims against the Italians for the brutality of the Roman Empire?
It’s all nonsense and should be consigned to where it belongs, history.
Eventually, Newton, after a bout of illness, changed his life over an extended period, it wasn’t exactly a road to Damascus moment, far more gradual, I mean, he had plenty time to change his life around, he was 82 when he died, no mean achievement for the eighteenth century.
I do find Grace to be amazing, even though she didn’t do it for me, I will have to wait until the scientists get their act together.
Speaking of which, there was great news this week, dig out the pinch of salt, with the announcement that early trials of the Beacon Gene Vista Project had shown encouraging results in treating the defective RPGR gene, the one associated with “X” Linked Retinitis Pigmentosa, my exact strain of the condition.
Whilst it might be too late for me, I am beyond help, comments not welcome, I am over the moon for what this means for my grandchildren and beyond as well as other younger members of my extended family.
I can tell you right now, it isn’t going to prevent me from trying new experiences. Next year, I am hoping to give carriage driving and climbing walls a go. Despite what my good friend at Vision Norfolk, Penny, might try and encourage, I will not be taking up dancing or singing, unless Mrs T is out of the house.
Some people are born to sing and dance, and some aren’t, pretty simple really. I want to continue getting better at cycling and running.
I have really enjoyed recounting our visit to St Kitts, so much so I think we had better call it a day here. Will finish the island off next week when I will also have a new parkrun to report upon.
Oh, and I haven’t forgotten the incident with the head dress in the laundry room. A small clue, if you were going to use it in fancy dress, I can only think you might be a unicorn.
