In the course of the same day, the manager of the estate arrived in town, and upon seeing the proprietor, was congratulated by him upon the “fine rains” he had so fortunately experienced in the country. “Fine rains!” said the manager, in surprise, “do I hear you aright, or are you joking? (although I think you’ll find it no joke in the end;) we have had no rain at all, and I came into town this morning to consult with you upon the subject; for from the excessive drought, the canes are all burnt up, the cattle dying in all directions, and the labourers themselves are dropping down exhausted from want of water.”
The proprietor stormed and raved—that fellow Cato told me you had had fine rains last night; and I was so pleased to hear it, that—that—I actually gave the black rascal a quarter-dollar for his information. “Here, John! go and call that fellow back,” turning to a domestic, “and tell him to make haste—do you hear?” In the course of a short time Cato returned, rolling up his eyes until only the whites (or rather yellows) were visible, holding his little flannel cap in one hand, and in the other, what was once designated as a pipe, and uttering a mysterious noise, which was intended as half interrogative, half conciliatory, waited until his master, who was puffing and blowing, and looking “unutterable things,” should speak.
At length the storm burst—the torrent descended. “How dare you tell me such a story this morning, sirrah? How dare you, sir? answer me!” “War ’tory, massa,” inquired the self-convicted, but waggish negro, the left foot at the same time performing countless evolutions, and the flannel cap twirled round the thumb with increased velocity. “What story? you arrant rogue! why, the story you told me this morning about having fine rains in the country.” “Me no tell no ’tory, massa,” retorted the negro, determined to stand his master’s ire undaunted, and, like many other guilty ones, striving to have the last word. “Me no tell no ’tory; war for me go tell ’tory? me no ’peak de trute.” “You speak the truth, indeed! Here’s the manager, who tells me there has been no rain at all, but, on the contrary, that my stock are all dying from want of water; and yet you dared to tell me you had fine rains last night.” “Yes, massa, and so we hab fine rain; me tell de trute. An more den dat, de rain fine so till—t-i-ll (prolonging the word) me hardly able to see him, he so fine!” Both owner and manager found it difficult to maintain their gravity at this definition of fine rains; while Cato, with a grin of self-congratulation at having so adroitly got himself out of a bad scrape; and grasping more firmly his quarter-dollar, which he imagined to be in some danger, set off for his own residence.
“Hope deferred, maketh the heart sick;” and so indeed it was with us, when day after day passed, and still no appearance of rain. But One, who does not “willingly grieve the children of men,” remembered us in our great affliction, and when we least thought of it, sent us the needful blessing. I never saw such a fall of rain before; and many of the oldest inhabitants said the same thing. In about an hour from the time it first commenced, the streets were streaming with water; indeed, the one in which we reside looked more like a small river than anything else, for not a vestige of dry ground appeared.
Report said two or three children were carried into the sea by the violence of the stream which rushed through the streets; but upon further inquiry, I found, as is generally the case, report did not speak truth. It originated from an old woman, seeing some chickens (which had been brought to market for sail, with their legs tied together) floating down the stream, when she exclaimed, “Eh! eh! look de fowl pic’nee;[[67]] he sure he go get drowned!” This travelled, and lost nothing by its peregrinations, until at length it became magnified into the loss of several children.
In a very short time, all the ponds and cisterns in the island, which for so long a time had been perfectly dry, were filled to overflowing, and care and distress gave way to joy and thankfulness.
About June, July, and August, Antigua is liable to be visited by storms of thunder, and lightning, and earthquakes. The lightning in this part of the globe is very vivid; and the thunder bellows through the air in terrific peals, every hill and mountain reverberating the sound. Often have I seen the lightning playing down the spiral branches of the cocoa-nut trees, presenting a sublime but awful appearance.
But although these storms are so violent, and consequently so harrowing to the feelings, they are nothing in comparison to the earthquakes with which we are sometimes visited. Every nerve is shaken by these terrible convulsions of nature; the very brute creation seem to feel their influence.
In April, 1690, Antigua suffered very severely from this cause. Nearly the whole town of St. John’s was destroyed; and the sugar-works upon the various plantations in the country almost all overthrown. In many parts of the island, the solid earth was rent open; rocks were hurled from their places, and the very mountains defaced. The line of hills which skirts the harbour suffered from the concussion in a remarkable manner: one of them was rent completely in twain; and now, after the lapse of so many years, presents the appearance of two heights, with a deep dingle running between them. Soon after this awful occurrence, two comets made their appearance.
The first time I felt an earthquake, I took it to be the approach of a heavy carriage; but by the increased, rumbling and tremour of the earth, was quickly undeceived. It was but a slight shock, however, and I began to think an earthquake was not so dreadful as my fancy had depicted it to be.