Caribbean (90 page)

Across the beautiful island, along the seacoasts and in the valleys, men of good will who were allowed no advantages began discussing the message, and its insolent, almost cruel, phrases created a great fury. They saw no hope for the future. Most powerful in the voices raised was that of Preacher Gordon, who moved through the island haranguing his Baptists and uttering statements that became increasingly inflammatory. “We shall have another Haiti on this island” and “I shy away from revolution, but if it must come, I hope it solves these terrible problems” and “It’s shameful to have a German immigrant as the custos of St. Thomas-in-the-East, the parish I love so dearly.” This last protest would, as months passed, have special significance.

Under Jamaican law, the governor appointed parish leaders who exercised considerable authority; their title
custos
and its plural
custodes
suggested the
custodian
role they filled. The custos of Gordon’s parish was, as pointed out so often, a German immigrant and a fearfully conservative man to whom any expression of public demand was repugnant. Maximilian Augustus Baron von Ketelhodt had been judicious, upon his arrival in the island, in paying court to a wealthy widow, who brought him in their marriage five rich plantations and acceptance as a member of the island’s ruling faction. A man of brilliant maneuvering, he ingratiated himself with the lower classes and was no tyrant, even though Gordon, who fell under his custodianship, deemed him so.

St. Thomas-in-the-East Parish, whose affairs the custos supervised, owned that curious name for two reasons: It lay at the extreme eastern tip of Jamaica, and it was named later than an earlier parish
in the center of the island which had already usurped that title. It was unique in other ways: being so far from Kingston and Spanish Town, it believed itself free from restraints which bound the other parishes; it was strongly Baptist, which created numerous problems, especially with Baron von Ketelhodt; and it had an unusual number of educated and headstrong half-caste and black preachers, landowners and quasi-scholars. It seemed inevitable that George William Gordon, in coming from this parish, would be disciplined in one way or another by his custos.

The long summer of 1865 was particularly hot and humid, and watchful sugar men like Oliver Croome became aware that the mood of the lower classes had become sullen, so dangerously so that he sought an audience with Governor Eyre to register a warning: “Governor, if things get any worse, we could have a serious rebellion on this island. The planters who accompanied me on the annual tour of the districts are deeply worried about the conditions we saw at St. Thomas-in-the-East, and we recommend that you summon your custos to give his assessment.”

Eyre, always terrified by the names
Haiti
and
Cawnpore
, grabbed at Croome’s suggestion, and a few days later Baron von Ketelhodt, tall and rigid and ready to stamp out any incipient uprising in his parish, reported to the governor: “That ass Gordon has been creating a disturbance. Seems to have affected one of his underlings, a clown named Bogle …”

“Isn’t that one a Baptist preacher, too?”

“He is. Gordon ordained him, just as he ordained himself. And there appears to be contempt for the posters of The Queen’s Advice.”

“Contempt? How expressed?”

“The broadsheets have been spat upon. And in three instances, torn down.”

Eyre’s face grew grave, his broad brow wrinkled and his long beard trembled. “The Queen’s Advice spat upon! We can’t allow that, Ketelhodt. What have you done to halt it?”

“Caution,” the baron said in his deep Germanic accent. “Not to raise tempers. But to watch. Careful. Careful.”

“And what have you learned?”

“That George Gordon is behind every move. That he is inciting to rebellion. That sooner or later we must throw a net for that one, but taking care to avoid inciting his damned Baptist renegades.”

When Eyre called for Croome and Pembroke to join the meeting,
the former supported everything the baron had reported, strengthening some points: “Gordon is actively preaching rebellion and we ought to silence him now,” but Pembroke recommended patience: “Governor, the most sensible people on this island judge the queen’s letter to have been insensitive. It’s understandable that …”

Eyre rose from his chair, stared down at Pembroke, and said sternly: “Are you daring to denigrate the queen?” and Pembroke said humbly: “Certainly not, sir, but the people are disappointed in it, for it fails to …”

“The queen has spoken,” Eyre thundered, as if the lower classes were pestering him the way flies pester a noble animal, “and the people have naught but to obey.”

“Hear! Hear!” cried Croome and the baron together, and the meeting ended.

But that did not terminate agitation in Jamaica, because six days later while Gordon was speaking in Kingston, his associate Bogle in St. Thomas-in-the-East led a frenzied uprising in which infuriated blacks, tired of waiting for their complaints to be heard, ran amok, slaughtering in the most brutal fashion eighteen whites, including officers of the queen, plantation owners, minor officials and, with special vengeance, their custos, Baron von Ketelhodt, whose body they mutilated, cutting off his fingers. These they circulated as souvenirs of their successful uprising, and some blacks, participating in the wild rioting, were heard to shout: “Now we do like Haiti!” and island-wide rebellion loomed.

The two protagonists in the Jamaican tragedy, Governor Eyre and Preacher Gordon, were indisputably in Kingston when the deadly riot broke out in St. Thomas-in-the-East, many miles away.

In this extremity, with his governorship being threatened by widespread massacre, Eyre behaved magnificently. Cool, decisive, looking always at the strategic situation, he gave few orders but always the right ones. At dusk on the afternoon when he received word of the rebellion, he said: “Of myself I cannot declare martial law. That must be done only by our Council of War,” and Croome, who was a member of that council, volunteered to spend the night assembling it, and, in anticipation of their decision, himself drafted the decree.

In the meantime, with a burst of the old energy he had shown in Australia, Eyre rode out to Spanish Town to attend to duties there,
then galloped back to Kingston to lead a dawn meeting in which martial law was declared for St. Thomas-in-the-East and all parishes contiguous thereto. At this point Eyre displayed both great common sense and firm decision, for when everyone, especially Croome, clamored for the town of Kingston to be put under martial law, he said: “No! Only enough force to handle the situation. Martial law in a crowded place like this might lead to terrible brutalities,” and he could not be persuaded.

Alone with Croome and Pembroke, the governor asked Jason: “Did not your ancestor gain fame for having pacified the Maroons … a century ago?” Jason nodded. “And was it not he who pacified those at the eastern end of the island?” and again Jason agreed. Making an instant decision of great subsequent importance, Governor Eyre cried: “Pembroke, ride posthaste to the Maroons and implore them not to side with the niggers in this dreadful affair.” When Jason snapped: “Yes, sir!” Eyre urged: “Make any concessions. Offer them any inducements. But keep them from joining the rebellion.” That was his first use of that fearful word, and during the next four decades it would be one he would constantly employ when he justified his actions: “It was rebellion and I had to put it down.”

Before seven that morning Jason was riding hard to the perilous mountain area which his great-great-grandfather had penetrated under comparable conditions to try his hand at peacekeeping.

At eight the Council of War proclaimed martial law for the east, and as soon as this gave him the authority he required, Governor Eyre, accompanied by Oliver Croome, chartered a French packet ship to speed him along the coast to the troubled area, and at ten in the morning he was on his way. Intercepting another ship limping into Kingston crammed with refugees from the rebellion, he heard for the first time the gruesome details of what had happened in one of his most peaceful and prosperous parishes: “Church of England Reverend Herschell, tongue ripped out while still alive, hacked to death, black women tried to skin him. Member of Assembly Price, a black man, belly ripped open, guts pulled out while he still alive. Lieutenant Hall, him brave, pushed into privy, door locked, he burned alive. Eyes scooped out, heads smashed open, brains dripping. German baron, hacked to death but he fight them to the end.” Thanking the refugees for their horrifying reports, but sickened at hearing them, he told them to proceed to Kingston, while he headed for St. Thomas-in-the-East.

There he found the military courts-martial already under way, staffed by enthusiastic young officers from army regiments stationed in Jamaica or from ships which had hurried to the area. Proceedings were brusque, with prisoners being stood before the court in batches and sentenced in the same way. Any black man arrested for any unusual behavior whatever, even looking furtively at a soldier, was condemned without a chance to defend himself. “Hang them all,” the presiding officer cried, and forthwith half a dozen black men would be suspended from the remaining walls of the burned-out courthouse. It was a hideous way to die, whether guilty or innocent, for a rope was thrown about a prisoner’s neck and he was hauled aloft—instead of being dropped in the normal way to break his neck—to strangle slowly.

For three sleepless days Eyre prowled the coast, satisfying himself that the rebellion which had ravaged St. Thomas was not spreading to nearby parishes, and when he returned to the scene of the major uprising and saw that each morning the courts-martial were hanging dozens of black prisoners with never a one found innocent, he was able to tell Croome: “We’ve broken the back of the rebellion. You stay here with the troops and see that the pacification continues.” With that, he boarded the chartered French vessel and returned to Kingston, from where he immediately sent a report to London that he had contained the rebellion with a minimum loss of white lives and without having to throw all of Jamaica into convulsions by imposing martial law generally. When he finally fell into bed, he felt justified in believing that he had acted swiftly and in the great tradition of British colonial governors; indeed, he was so pleased with his behavior that he got out of bed and added a postscript to his report: “By stern and prompt action against the queen’s foes, I believe I have averted another Indian Mutiny or a Haiti-type uprising.”

For eleven hours Eyre lay in bed almost motionless, as if savoring the sleep of a hero who had behaved well in a major crisis, but when he woke his mouth felt ashen, for he knew that he had fallen far short of a real victory. Where is George Gordon? he asked himself, for the instigator of the rebellion had disappeared. No, he’s too clever to show up in St. Thomas, because he knows I’d hang him if I caught him. In the silent speculation that followed, the governor never once considered that Gordon might not have been at the scene of the murders
and that he was not involved, either directly or indirectly. To Eyre, Gordon was responsible for everything: He must have given the orders that launched the riot, and for it he must hang. His obsession was so all-consuming that he did not bother to consider what grounds could be used for hanging Gordon or even in what civil court the infuriating preacher could be tried. No civilian court in Kingston would condemn the man, for the very good reason that no valid charges could be brought against him in normal procedure. He had murdered no one. He had not taken up arms against the queen. There was no proof that he had incited the riots, beyond his open dissatisfaction with the queen’s letter. And not even the most prejudiced witness could claim that she or he had seen Gordon in St. Thomas during the rioting or the weeks prior. But Eyre knew that if the Baptist preacher could be lured into going to St. Thomas, the court-martial could grab him, and would not be constrained by any niceties of logic or legal tradition.

Now Eyre vowed: I will find Gordon and take him to St. Thomas; but no one could inform him as to where the archcriminal was: My God! Has he fled the island? Has he escaped the wrath due him?

For two days Eyre fumed, telling his subordinates: “I must have that criminal! Find him! Find him!” But Gordon could not be found and Eyre could not sleep, for the vision of Preacher Gordon standing on a gallows with a rope around his neck tormented his hours. His frustration in not being able to haul the man to justice infuriated him, and he roared at his underlings: “Find that man. Track him down,” but not even spies among the black population knew where he was. Summoning the local custos, he stormed: “Sign a warrant for his arrest,” and this was done, but it accomplished nothing, so his anger continued to seethe.

Then suddenly, on the morning of the third day, George William Gordon, still looking like a contentious preacher, walked calmly into Kingston’s army headquarters and said quietly: “I think you may be looking for me. I am Reverend Gordon.”

The astonished officer called for his commander, who gasped, then rushed to Eyre’s office to inform him Gordon had been taken.

Suppressing his excitement, Eyre said: “This is very fortunate, we were looking for him,” and when he was allowed to see the prisoner, he told Gordon, in a low, controlled voice: “You must come with me … to St. Thomas-in-the-East.” Bowing slightly, Gordon repeated what he had been telling his black and colored friends during
his days of hiding: “If I go before a military court-martial, it will be to my death,” and Eyre said through gritting teeth: “Perhaps.”

The ship
Wolverine
was scheduled to sail within the hour, but it was delayed because an agitated man with the highest credentials burst into Eyre’s office, dusty and near exhaustion, with the cry: “Oh, sir! You must not send him to St. Thomas. You really mustn’t!” and since the governor had to pay attention to this particular speaker, the delivery of Gordon to certain death was delayed.

On the morning almost a week before, when Jason Pembroke was commissioned to use his family’s honored name to prevent the wild Maroons from joining the rebellious blacks, he entered upon an adventure which seemed an evocation of some earlier century. After a determined ride he left the Kingston area and entered turbulent St. Thomas-in-the East, and as soon as he approached Monklands, the settlement farthest west, he saw signs of upheaval, and a white planter who recognized him shouted: “Go farther at your own peril!”