Here, There and Everywhere

by Lord Frederic Hamilton

I noticed that brick houses suffered more than stone ones. This was attributed to the inferior mortar used by Jamaican masons, for which there can be no excuse, for the island abounds in lime. Wooden houses escaped scatheless. Every statue in the Public Gardens was thrown down, except that of Queen Victoria. The superstitious negroes were much impressed by this fact, though the earthquake had, curiously enough, twisted the statue entirely round. Instead of facing the sea, as she formerly did, the Queen now turned her back on it, otherwise the statue was uninjured. The clock on the shattered Parish Church recorded the fatal hour when it had stopped in the general ruin: 2.42 p.m. As far as I could learn, the earthquake had not taken the form of a trembling motion, but the solid ground had twice risen and fallen eight feet, a sort of land-wave, which apparently was confined to the light sandy Liguanea plain, for where the mountains began no shock had been felt. The fine old church of St. Andrew had been originally built in 1635, but had been demolished by the earthquake of 1692 and rebuilt in 1700, as the inscription at the west end testified. Here the words "Anna Regina," surrounded by a mass of florid carving, showed that Jamaica is no land of yesterday. The earthquake of 1907 shook down the tower, but did not injure the collection of very fine seventeenth- and eighteenth-century monuments the church contains. The inscription on one of these, opposite the Governor's pew, pleased me by its originality. After a detailed list of the many admirable qualities of the lady it commemorates, it goes on to say that "in the yeare 1685 she passed through the spotted veil of the smallpox to her God."

We accompanied the Governor to Port Royal to take stock of the damage there. Previous to 1692, Port Royal was reputed the richest and the wickedest spot on earth, for it was the headquarters of the Buccaneers; here they divided their ill-gotten gains, and here they strutted about bedizened in their tawdry finery, drinking and gambling. I should be inclined to distrust the local legend that in the many taverns the wine was all served in jewelled golden cups, for, given the character of the customers, one would imagine that the gold cups would be apt to leave the taverns with the customers. Then came the earthquake of 1692, and half of Port Royal was swallowed by the sea. A pillar has been erected at Green Bay, opposite to a Huguenot refugee, one Lewis Galdy, who had a wonderful escape. According to the inscription on it, "Mr. Lewis Galdy was swallowed by the earthquake, and, by the providence of God, thrown by another shock into the sea, and lived many years afterwards in great reputation."

Port Royal cannot be called a fortunate spot, for in 1703 it was again entirely destroyed by fire, and in 1722 it was swept away by a hurricane.

It is, in spite of its historic past, a mean, squalid, decaying little place. Being built almost entirely of wood, the town had sustained but little injury, but the massive concrete fort at the end of the peninsula had slid bodily into the sea, six-inch guns and all. Some twenty cocoa-nut palms it had taken with it were standing in the water, their brown withered tops just peering above the surface, giving a curious effect of desolation. A tramway used for conveying ammunition bore witness to the violence of the earth-waves, for it stood in places some ten feet up in the air, resting on nothing at all; looking for all the world like a switchback railway at Earl's Court. So many charges are levelled at the Royal Engineers that it is pleasant to be able to testify that every building erected by this much-abused corps at Port Royal had resisted the earthquake and was standing intact. Port Royal, notwithstanding its situation at the end of a peninsula, had in old days a terrible reputation for unhealthiness, only surpassed by that of Fort Augusta across the bay, the latter a veritable charnel-house. The neighbourhood of the poisonous swamps of the Rio Cobre was in both cases responsible for the loss of tens of thousands of British soldiers' lives in these two ill-fated spots. They were both hot-beds of yellow fever.

My nephew and I, being able to do no good there, were anxious to escape from ruined Kingston, and made arrangements to stay as paying guests with one or two planters, in order to see something of their daily life. After a second drive through the exquisitely beautiful Bog Walk and over Monte Diavolo, we found ourselves on the sugar estate of a widow, a lady of pure white blood. There were abundant indications of the former prosperity of the place, and even more apparent signs that at present the wolf was very close to the door. The verandah was paved with marble, there was some fine mahogany carving in the central hall, the dessert-service was of George II. silver-gilt, and the china beautiful old Spode. Everything else about the place told its own story of desperate financial conditions. Our hostess declared that it was impossible for a woman to manage a sugar estate, as she could not always be about amongst the canes and in the boiler-house, and her sons were not yet old enough to help her. No one who has not experienced it can picture the heat of a Jamaican sugar-factory; I should imagine the temperature to be about 120 degrees. Most people, I think, take a rather childish pleasure in watching the first stages of the manufacture of familiar products. I confess to feeling interested on being told that the stream of muddy liquid issuing from the crushed canes and trickling gaily down its wooden gutters, would ultimately figure as the lump-sugar of our breakfast-tables. There is also a peculiarly fascinating apparatus known as a vacuum-pan, peeping into which, through a little tale window, a species of brown porridge transforms itself into crystallised sugar of the sort known to housekeepers as "Demerara" under your very eyes; and another equally attractive, rapidly revolving machine in which the molasses, by centrifugal force, detaches itself from the sugar, and runs of its own accord down its appointed channels to the rum distillery, where Alice's Dormouse would have had the gratification of seeing a real treacle-well. In this latter place, where the smell of the fermenting molasses is awful, only East Indian coolies can be employed, a West Indian negro being unable to withstand its alcoholic temptations.

After seeing all the lions of the island, we drifted as paying guests to a school for little white boys on the north coast.

The surroundings of this school were ideally beautiful. It stood on a promontory jutting into the sea, with a coral reef in front of it, but shut in as it was by the hills, the heat of the place was unbearable, and the little white boys all looked pathetically pale and "peaky."

My nephew pointed out to me that a little cove near the school must be the identical place we had both read of hundreds of times, and he justly remarked what an ideal spot it would be in which to be shipwrecked. All the traditional accessories were there. The coral reef with the breakers thundering on it; the placid lagoon inshore; a little cove whose dazzling white coral beach was fringed with cocoa-nut palms down to the very water's edge; a crystal-clear spring trickling down the cliff and tumbling into a rocky basin; the hill behind clothed with a dense jungle of bread-fruit trees and wild plantains, whose sea of greenery was starred with the golden balls of innumerable orange trees; the whole place must really have been lifted bodily out of some boy's book, and put here to prove that writers of fiction occasionally tell the truth, for it seemed perfectly familiar to both of us. Certainly, the oranges were of the bitter Seville variety and were uneatable, and wild plantains are but an indifferent article of diet; still, they satisfied the eye, and fulfilled their purpose as indispensable accessories to the castaway's new home. It would be impossible to conceive of more orthodox surroundings in which to be shipwrecked, for our vessel would be, of course, piled up on the reef within convenient distance, and we would presuppose a current setting into the cove. We should also have to assume that the ship was loaded with a general cargo, including such unlikely items as tool-chests and cases of vegetable seeds, all of which would be washed ashore undamaged precisely when wanted. It is quite obvious that a cargo of, say, type-writers, or railway metals, would prove of doubtful utility to any castaways, nor would there be much probability of either of these articles floating ashore. My nephew, a slave to tradition, wished at once to construct a hut of palm branches close to the clear spring, as is always done in the books; he was also positively yearning to light a fire in the manner customary amongst orthodox castaways, by using my spectacles as a burning-glass. With regard to the necessary commissariat arrangements, he pointed out that there were abundant Avocado pear trees in the vicinity, which would furnish "Midshipman's butter," whilst the bread-fruit tree would satisfactorily replace the baker, and the Aki fruit form an excellent substitute for eggs. He enlarged on the innumerable other vegetable conveniences of the island, and declared that it was almost flying in the face of Providence for a sea-captain to neglect to lose his ship in so ideal a spot.

Whilst watching the little boys playing football in a temperature of 90 degrees, we noticed an unusual adjunct to a football field. A great pile of unripe, green cocoa-nuts (called "water-cocoa-nuts" in Jamaica) lay in one corner, with a negro boy standing guard over them. Up would trot a dripping little white urchin, and pant out, "Please open me a nut, Arthur," and with one stroke of his machete the young negro would decapitate a nut, which the little fellow would drain thirstily and then rush back to his game. The schoolmaster told me that he always gave his boys cocoa-nut water at their dinner, as it never causes a chill, and as there were thousands of trees growing round the school, it was an inexpensive luxury. One of the duties of Arthur, the negro boy, was to supply the school with nuts, and I saw him going up the trees like a monkey, with the aid of a sling of rope round his leg.

I and my nephew went out fishing on the reef at dawn, before the breeze sprang up. The water was like glass, and we could see the bottom quite clearly at nine fathoms. It was like fishing in an aquarium. The most impossible marine monsters! Turquoise-blue fish; grey and pink fish; some green and scarlet, others as yellow as canaries. We could follow our lines right down to the bottom, and see the fish hook themselves amongst the jagged coral, till the bottom-boards of the boat looked like a rainbow with our victims. As the breeze sprang up, the surf started at once, and fishing became impossible. We had been warned that many of the reef fish were uneatable, and that the yellow ones were actively poisonous. We were quite proud of our Joseph's-coat-like catch, but our henchman, the negro lad Arthur, assured us that every fish we had caught was poisonous. We had reason later to doubt this assertion, as we saw him walking home with a splendid parti-coloured string of fish, probably chuckling over the white man's credulity.