White Gold

Exordium

A new defiance filled his emptiness as he opened the welcome care-basket and saw the Bible. For as long as he had known himself he had dismissed the past with its shadowing misfortunes as a pricking straw against the steel in his back, yet no sooner had he launched onto the promised path than the spangled future began to recede like a faint white moon on a paling horizon.

The days had been a bitter blend since his clash with drunkenness. In a fleeting instant he had seen his vanity explode and prove his facade was as solid as dust. Like everyone born in this indifferent universe he had risen from dust, but never had he dreamed the end would begin with his own intemperance.

Now, pondering life's bleak turns in the isolation of his cell, it surprised him how soon his strength revived reading the Prophets. They proved there really was nothing new under the sun; that though the Lord said woe onto him who makes his neighbors work for little or nothing, to cry injustice never saved the lamb from slaughter.

No matter how it ended, the boy who left home too sober to know the price of love had been judged and found wanting. The man could not stand and plead innocence. No craven lies could be pried from his mouth. For the sake of his son and respect for the contrary women who unbound him, he would curse his adversaries with truth and greet the fear in their hearts with gladness.

Jubilee

Kingston, Jamaica

The imperial sun blazed as though it would never set yet it was already afternoon. There, recessed within high gates, gables gleaming like icy cliffs, sat Her Majesty’s Head Quarters. Out front, two imperturbable black sentries stiffly sweltered in uniforms starched-white, their dress bayonets and sola topees glancing harsh light upon an impudent demonstration.

It was the nineties, and the sixtieth year in the reign of our beloved Missus Queen. And while no one anticipated the arriving ships would stir a boil at this mad-dog hour, ten long years had passed without cause for celebration. Now bright hopes burned in hearts across the land. Her Majesty had heard the People’s cries and dispatched Her Royal Commission! Rejoice! Redemption was at hand! Chance again for dancing teas and diamonds!

Even after Sir Henry’s privates had so infected our southern shore that God severed the tainted spur and sank her peerless booty to the bottom of the sea, our chastened boucaniers had clung to their treasured key. Weaned from the frigid clamp of northern nipples, they settled in the lap of our lush blue mountains, where once upon a time, before the terrible greedy Spaniards, tasty iguanas ranged fat and free and Taino women raised both their men and their sweet-crops gently. But our reformed new lords remained unsatisfied. Craving a yield more in line with enlightened profit, they proceeded to plow our tender soil with the muscle and blood of human chattel. The island’s fertile womb complied and for a hundred years neglected her native brood of pineapples, pimentos and guava to issue bundles of choice tobacco and enough cane-stalks bursting with sugar that a pint of rum and a brown-skin gal could both be had for under a shilling.

Those ravening times, like the virtues of our captive races, have been slashed by history’s lash yet to this day, within glimpse of our tropic harbor, every salt-licked tar randy from rounding the Horn is posturing some imperishable tale of hardy grog and lusty women. But this is not Montserrat or Dominica. This is Jamaica where Victoria’s dictates are sternly enforced by devout Non-Conformists: no more flamboyant outfits with garish prints and heathenish headdresses, the queen has freed her minions from their graceless depravity. Respectable black skins now take care to sedate their vigorous women in sober skirts and high-necked dresses and woo them with stiff upper lips and tight-fit collars.

Despite it all, thanks to the rank ingratitude bedeviling these modern times, affection for a benevolent monarch no longer obliges itself to those shouldering the burdens of civilization. Foolish heads listen to dangerous men and think them wise for whispering ‘Self-Determination!’ into childish ears. And if that is not worrying enough, of late even the most complacent beneficiaries of this great Empire confess to being disquieted by the impertinent star rising uncouthly in the Wild Wild West.

No black subversive notions consume our young Roberson as he sidesteps the bargain-hunters trolling Harbor Street’s row of grand emporiums. He cares not that those glossy caverns hold the last remains from Kingston’s heyday as the hub for every smuggling sloop and British slaver plying the Americas; he is absorbed with his own daring venture. So absorbed, he fails to notice the converging bodies until his progress is blocked. His attention pulled by a string of craning necks, he spots the source of the excited commotion—‌advancing from the docks amid much clamor and confusion is a blue and white phalanx of Yankee seamen.

The blushing sailors appear to have been ambushed by a band of roving women in loud patterned skirts and matching bandannas, some with little baskets of scarlet plums and hands of banana scarcely fatter than their fingers. It is a sea-dog’s dream incarnate—‌fleshy sirens every luscious shade of brown, swooping from out of the sky to bait them with black sparkling eyes and pearl-white smiles—‌yet the Yanks look stunned, stumbling to grasp their luck when the women each snatch up a blue-sleeved arm and proceed to drag them through the gathering crowd’s taunts and whistles.

The spectacle has drawn every dusty-headed waif in the treeless city. Naked save for their swaddling breechclouts, the little ones dance along in front, dodging the women’s sharp swats to beg the sailors’ coins or some candied chiclet until the bigger boys shove them aside to slyly flash the loot in their bulged pinch pockets. None can distract the woozy sailors who, away from the ties of kith and kin, risk waking from this dream just long enough to inhale the rich complexions and steal a glimpse of those swaying hips which with every sway stiffen more painful and urgent desires.

The road-wide procession stalls, as the women try to bribe off the pestering young pirates with gifts of fruit. Alertly, Roberson spins to escape and crashes against a pushcart a resourceful little imp has perched on to follow the show. Stick limbs flailing like a ball-shot bird, tiny brown toes curling the handlebar like talons, the wobble of scuffed knees, grimy brow and plaits somehow keeps from toppling over while spraying obscenities that would rattle an army surgeon. Two of the heftier pickpockets turn to stare, their glum cheeks puffed with half-sucked plums, spurring Roberson to reverse his way through the jam making liberal use of his elbows.

He makes it clear without any retaliating bruises, and with the girl’s shrill curses still in earshot he hops the wire fence to one of the city’s boarded-up mansions and sprints the length of the deserted patio to the shadowed back lane where little craft and Chinese shops occupy the haunts of the gentry’s vanished cobblers, bakers and tailors. Emerging on King Street, he heads for the new tram line linking the waterfront bazaars to the hopeful settlements starting to sprout in the surrounding cow pastures. As he trails the rails on foot, he replays the curious street scene trying to decide what had shocked him most. It had not been the ragamuffins with their vulgar mouths and skulking tempers—‌he had seen the rub of daily hunger threaten to explode the day an Italian circus sailed in unannounced and sparked a near-riot when it tried to set up tent by Chiggafoot Market. Nor had it been the onlookers’ almost tortured strain to make merry—‌lately, it seemed, every drunk and homeless beggar was out to impress the world with his gargled devotion to Queen Victoria. No, what had shocked him most was the striking contrast—‌not the blue and white jumpers clashing with red and yellow dresses—‌it was the sight of pink and brown locked happily arm in arm. He supposed, considering the amalgams one saw right here in Kingston and his own family, come to think of it, such things should not seem that uncommon. He had just never seen it done.

The day was too hot for his pace and seeing his objective rising from Duke Street he took the time to catch his breath. Showing up wet and out of breath would not help his cause. He was not through drying his face when, to his annoyed disbelief, he saw that the Marines and their traveling burlesque had been tracking his heel. Damned if he’d let them dash his future! Swiping the handkerchief across his forehead one last time, he resolved not to sweat as he approached the gate to Her Majesty’s Head Quarters.

He marched straight to the imperturbable sentries and in a clear unwavering voice, stated his business. Neither guard replied or budged an eyelash. Seconds dragged, his heart a hummingbird shimmering in his throat. Cold sweat poured from his armpits. He risked a peek at the glinting bayonets then tried again. No reply. Summoning every grain of his nerve, he held his breath and stalked between them, gasping in relief when he made it through without being skewered.

He parted the fawning tendrils stretching from the walkway’s magenta shield of bougainvillea and was nearly to the doors when he glanced back and chuckled. The Yanks had made it to the gates and were tossing their loud impotent commands at the immovable sentries. He had no notion what business called a crew of Yankee Marines to the Colonial Offices but something told him they were equally intent on appealing to the governor.

And how may we be of service?

The greeting was stern and off-putting. He had bounded up the steps and was barely inside before the voice was on top of him. He fumbled off his hat and it confoundedly eluded his grip and tumbled to the lobby’s waxed tile floor. He lunged to retrieve it and was further humiliated when it rolled from his grasp and came to rest by the boot of his interrogator.

Fancy that, an original Bates. The voice held its smirk as the receptionist snapped up the bowler to squint at its faded label.

Throttling his temper, Roberson gathered up every inch of his skinny six feet and was surprised by a face so startlingly pale it appeared like a fluke.

Thornton, first clerk to the Governor’s Chief Administrator, the young Englishman announced, handing him back the wayward hat. Have you a scheduled appointment? One eyebrow peaked on the paste-white forehead.

I have to go to Panama.

For a visit?

No sir! Not a visit. I intend to work.

I see. The young clerk seemed oddly amused. And what prompts this burning desire?

I’m surprised you don’t know, sir, Roberson retorted, why, its been in all the papers—‌they’re hiring again for the big French project.

"Nonsense. There hasn’t been any real work going on there for years!"

They have a new plan—

Oh yes, and I’m sure it’s smashing, Thornton responded, his self-importance dripping condescension. Look, the whole world wanted them to succeed but the bumbling wastrels made a total botch of it. It was clear the French failure gave him great satisfaction.

They’re attracting more investors!

Utter bollocks! They’re grasping for straws. No sensible person wants any part of that mud-hole.

Roberson rightly suspected he was not being taken seriously. But he had come prepared. He knew by heart every detail of every proposal published on the project over the past three months. He pressed his case while trying to appear calm and confident. There’s a good chance the Americans are prepared to join and help finish it. They’re sure to be needing more men.

I’m sorry, the Governor is not approving any Panama contracts at this time, the clerk declared, cutting him short with the cultivated air of finality perfected by English bureaucrats.

Sharing popular opinion that their island colony served as a handy dumping ground for the mother country’s lesser-born and ne’er-do-wells, Roberson took the view that this Thornton chap was a small fish out of his waters. While he was prepared to concede defeat to a frustrating lack of pounds and shillings, he was not about to let some wet-eared underling deny him his rights.

But that can’t be! I personally know of at least two men who have gone to work there just this month!

"If that’s true, they did so without our authorization. My guess is they simply lied or snuck off as stowaways. Look— Thornton went on after a weighty sigh to show he’d grown weary of their chat, we still have hundreds of men who went over legally. They all want to come home, but they cawn’t because the bloody Frogs welshed on their promise to repatriate them."

Perhaps because it’s premature, he countered adroitly. The French are discussing new terms with the Colombian government. They intend to renew their lease in Panama. I read all about it in The Gazette. I’ve got the article right here—

He was about to dig inside his pocket but the clerk waved him off. Very well. If you insist on going, you may deposit your return with the Inspector of Police. But first you’ll need two reliable persons of property to vouch a ten-pound surety. That should cover your funeral expenses. Thornton offered the morbid prediction matter-of-factly then nodded towards the door. Right then. You made it in, I take it you can see your way out.

But, sir— Realizing that his assertive approach was getting him nowhere, Roberson retreated inside a cloak of meekness. Please sir! You see, that last requirement is what’s a bit awkward for me right now. I just came from speaking with one of their agents—‌Mr. Malabre from Messrs. Malabre on Harbor Street? Well, he seems to think that once my particular circumstance is brought to his attention, the Governor might be disposed to grant an exception.

The incredulous eyebrow arched to its summit. An exception you say—‌and from His Excellency! Thornton gasped in a parody of awe.

Roberson knew he had stretched the truth to its breaking point, but since the alternative was failure, there was nothing more to lose. He would forfeit family pride and stake his future on his wits.

Mr. Malabre suggested that if His Excellency cannot see me, I should contact the papers and ask them to petition the Commissioners. I’m an orphan, you see. My mother died when I was young and my father lost his life while in Her Majesty’s service—‌he was a sergeant of police.

Thornton leveled him with a fish-eyed stare reputed to turn the most resolute native spine into jelly, but to his annoyance the lad stood firm. One moment, he finally snarled in a tone that would curdle cream, then vanished behind the dark sliding doors of His Excellency’s inner offices.

The Chief Administrator was not pleased to be disturbed. He had just reclined in his stuffed chair to enjoy a short postprandial nap when his officious new assistant showed up to announce that he had an adamant young man outside who insisted on going to Panama. He was about to snap and ask why such a trivial matter needed to molest his meditations when Thornton ran on, saying the hotspur seemed inclined to make a fuss and the Royal Commissioners were expected within the hour.

Scowling as he dismissed the smug young clerk, Morley Drummond buttoned his tight-fitting collar and pondered all the glorious demands of Jubilee: besides having to negate any suggestion that the Governor was insulated and unresponsive, the shambles that the island’s economy had become needed to be glossed over and excused as temporary. It would be a neat stunt to pull off, seeing it was the people’s embarrassing howls from hunger that had finally prodded Whitehall to dust off another slate of moth-eaten lords and ship them south to show the Crown’s deep concern. As a result, for the next several days, on top of coordinating a raft of exalting spectacles, he was expected to ensure that a packet of epicurean knights were royally plumped and stuffed while they doddered about the colony tut-tutting about its shameful mismanagement, reserving ample time, of course, for cocktails with tea and that ‘nice bit of sun in the tropics’ which supposedly did wonders for one’s lumbago.

And for what? Drummond grumbled, fumbling with his tie. For all his coddling, once they were back in England, those duty-bound paragons were sure to pen a scathing report. Their suggestions, no doubt keenly sensible, would be loudly hailed in all the papers then quietly filed for the sake of British pride and posterity while a livable Jamaican wage remained impossible to come by. Who could blame these enterprising youngsters for wanting to take their chances in Central America? The Governor had tried proposing as much himself, despite the planters’ bellyaching. Some regulated emigration would at least ease the high unemployment raising everyone’s temper, which was more than any vaunted Royal Commission could ever achieve. Then again, Drummond mused, running a finger across his teeth as he prepared to meet his latest supplicant, when the promised land was Panama such encouragement could just as easily be viewed as cynical and cruel.

Twelve years had passed since the massacre at Culebra but its repercussions were being felt to this day. The midnight slaughter of over sixty of their countrymen had so outraged the Jamaican people that the government had been compelled to pay the return fare for hundreds of traumatized workers. When the entire scandal-plagued endeavor crashed two years later, thousands more were left stranded and the Crown, for all its deep concern, bluntly refused to share the cost of repatriation. Making matters worse, thanks to the cavalier use of dynamite many were coming home disabled, more than a few missing both their legs. All of which meant the island’s hard-put legislature had to somehow find funds to support the infirm and at the same time pacify the returning legions of uninjured but no less bitter and destitute Panama laborers.

If things turned out so disastrously under the French, the Chief Administrator muttered to himself hearing his assistant’s respectful knock, one can only imagine the horrors to expect with the Americans.

Thornton delivered the stiff-backed youngster inside then promptly left, shutting the door without a sound.

Drummond snapped up primly. Come. Have a seat, Master—?

Roberson, sir. William Linsworth Roberson.

So, Master Roberson, I understand you wish to make a trip to Panama?

Not a trip, sir. I’m told there is good employment to be had there.

I see. Drummond shifted his gaze to tinker with one of several stacks of paper on his desk and remind the boy he was a very busy man. Do you have a written contract? he asked without looking up.

No, sir.

Do you have a return passage receipt?

No, sir.

Do you have any trade skills?

In a way, sir. I'm a fair pilot.

The Chief Administrator glanced up in surprise.

A pilot?

Yes indeed, sir. You see, my father operated the police ferry to the new Port Royal. When it wasn’t busy he would take me out and show me how to navigate. I learned to steer and handle a sail.

I see. Drummond made certain to appear suitably unimpressed as he took stock of his young petitioner. He could see why Thornton had balked at taking him on. Besides being articulate, for a lad of such tender age Roberson possessed an almost noble repose, and yet he bristled with an inner defiance, evidenced by the ability to look an important British official right in the eye. And where is your father now?

He drowned during the accident.

The lad’s sudden hollow tone knocked the stuffing from Drummond’s snide demeanor. He remembered the tragedy all too well: a rare sheath of fog had clouded the harbor late that night. Sixty rum-steeped dignitaries were being ferried back to Kingston after a charity ball when they were blind-sided by a barge. Twenty-four had perished, some of his dearest friends among them, but the rest had been saved thanks to the pilot’s bravery.

He gazed at Roberson solemnly. You can be proud. Your father died a hero. We should have— he was about to say ‘done more’ then stopped, seeing the youngster frown and grow tense. He slipped past the subject and went on lightly. I may presume you are enrolled in higher school?

Roberson’s assurance appeared to droop. I was, sir, St. George’s College, until my dad was killed. My family—‌my aunties—‌they barely manage. I’ve needed to work. I’ve already sat for my final exams in maths and I write decently enough, but there aren’t any jobs, leastways none that I seem to qualify for. The banks won’t even accept my application and the railway says they’ve filled all their openings.

How old are you?

Almost eighteen, sir.

Drummond guessed that last part was a lie, but the rest of the story rang true. Though it was not impossible for a policeman’s son to obtain a first-rate education, no Kingston bank or established firm was prepared to hire a chap like Roberson. It was one thing to turn a blind eye to the progeny from some fool aristocrat’s indiscretions, quite another to confront one’s genteel customers with a fuzzy-haired Negro.

Drummond silently cursed the heat and stopped to dab his brow with the square of cloth he kept moist in a water-bowl inside his desk. He felt for the boy. Roberson obviously had some pedigree, despite his family’s financial straits. He needed sound mature guidance, yet how should one advise him? Without money or connections he’d have a hard go of it here in Jamaica. On the other hand, that hell-hole could serve his death warrant.

What do you imagine working at in Panama? Drummond asked pointedly as he finished running the soothing cloth gently across the rash from his damned starched collar. I doubt there’s a great demand for ferry-boat pilots or aspiring bankers.

My cousin worked there in the eighties, for one of the top French engineers! He says that if anyone can finish the job properly it’ll be the Yanks. Roberson ran on excitedly, unfazed by the Englishman’s snort, They certainly have the money! My cousin says they’ve already shipped oodles of gold from California!

Drummond held up his hand to cut off the breathless gasconade. Does he have a name, this all-knowing cousin of yours?

Judah, sir, Thomas Judah.

Drummond blinked to hide his astonishment. The Judahs were one of the island’s richest and most distinguished families. The lad seemed frank but the assertion was almost laughable.

We need to speak with the Governor! We need to speak with the Governor!

The chant came blasting through the door to the chamber. Drummond jumped to his feet looking pale. One moment! he declared, pointing a finger for the lad to stay put.

Racing out to the hall, the Chief Administrator was stunned to see a detachment of Yankee sailors backed by an assortment of country tarts rarely seen in Kingston daylight engaged in a raucous verbal assault on his flustered assistant. What the devil is going on? He aimed his fury at the nearest plaid-skirted trollop who shrank from his glare with an elfish grin. Who let you past the guard?

Yuh mean yuh not ’appy to see us?

The spiced patois floated through the lull and stung Drummond’s ear like a hornet. High-ranking civil servants were entitled to their peccadilloes, but with a Royal Commission likely to arrive and surprise him at any minute to have one exposed in such careless fashion could end his career. He turned to the teasing voice and caught Thornton gaping like a dying mudfish.

I’m surprised at you, my dear, he murmured to the aging ginger-skinned beauty standing tall as the obvious ringleader. You, of all persons! he hissed, seeing the familiar almond eyes light on him mischievously. He had been ducking his long-time paramour in advance of Jubilee; no doubt she had arranged this little caprice to reclaim his attention.

We must be mindful of—‌ahem— he tried to project more authoritatively then stopped to cough as the nerves constricted his throat. "The Governor welcomes your petitions. However, protocol must be followed. He paused to rasp at his wily mistress between clenched teeth, two tickets to the birthday gala if you get these hussies out of here now without a fuss. Banking on his bribe, he ended with the right balance of diplomacy and bombast. Everyone must understand that His Excellency has a very busy schedule."

His guileful lover smiled at him coyly. Yuh right, Mistah Administratah. We girls know how you big important genklemen always busy.

She wanted to see him squirm Drummond realized, but thankfully the woman was not stupid. By most standards he was a thoughtful and generous man, well worth a middle-aged courtesan’s time. If she still wanted the benefit of his company, she would call off her little lark before it went too far. I guarantee everyone shall be heard, but you must each first apply in writing, he declared before gesturing outside with a sweep of his palm. Now, if you ladies don’t mind—

His mistress smirked in triumph then feigned being crestfallen. Come, ladies, our poor little needs must wait. Our American friends have dem own business to attend to.

On cue, the women dropped their animated poses and began shuffling meekly towards the door. The sailors, stunned by this abrupt transformation, looked like children deflated to see the party was coming to its end and they’d be getting no presents. Thornton appeared no less disappointed.

Relieved to hear the tall ringleader assure them that the girls would be outside waiting, the Yanks resumed their protest of the government’s new policy. The city now required every seaman on leave to register and obtain a voucher, the five shilling deposit to be reclaimed upon departure. The sailors resented the drastic curtailment of their spending money, but with a Royal Commission on its way the island’s gentry were in no mood for any crass displays due to the Americans’ apparent inability to mix basic inhibitions with a few small glasses of Jamaican rum. Now, any sailor caught brawling, shooting off his firearm, or relieving himself in public, would be arrested and thrown in jail then returned to ship having forfeited his deposit.

Drummond firmly explained that their meeting with the Governor was out of the question, then added that since the U.S. Navy had endorsed the new policy, they would be better served taking it up with their Inspector. His ploy seemed to work as the sailors grumbled then, with their minds no doubt on the waiting women, finally withdrew without precipitating an international incident. He cast a gloating glance at his downcast assistant then remembered the lad still inside at his desk. He found Roberson on his feet, intent on the office wall’s massive depiction in oils of His Majesty’s frigate Shannon bombarding the hapless Chesapeake.

Fine work, is it not? Really stirs the patriotic juices.

Startled to hear the Administrator’s voice behind his shoulder, Roberson dashed for his chair as if he’d been caught ogling dirty pictures.

Sorry about that, old boy. Damn Yanks—‌cheeky upstarts! Don’t want their cow hands pawing our fine girls, now do we? Drummond’s conspiratorial wink perished beneath the lemony smile he received in response. Right then—‌where were we? he went on briskly, his irritated neck beginning to flush. Ah yes, you wish to work in Panama. So, tell me, what do you know about smallpox and malaria? He got a tentative shrug. How about yellow fever? A pensive pause. Well?

Not everybody who goes there ends up sick. My cousin Thomas heard that dengue fever makes you immune and I’ve had—

Drummond again raised his hand to interrupt. No one is immune to pneumonia and that alone can be fatal. There’s a convenient myth that you darker-skinned chaps are impervious to white-men’s diseases but take it from a pale old fogey, the black truth is grim … we lost close to twenty-thousand to this fanatic adventure the last go round. He searched the teenager’s face, unsurprised by the stare of resistance; there was clearly no dissuading him. The lad would find his way to Panama one way or another but his father had died so others might live, a true hero. His son deserved better.

With that most noble sentiment in mind, he paused to assess young Roberson’s profile. Fortunately for the lad, while his skin was definitely dark brown, his nose was not overly broad nor was his mouth too blatantly negroid. Encouraged, he pulled a roll of parchment from inside his drawer and after untying its black-bowed ribbon, seated it inside his green felt blotter with conspicuous ceremony. While Roberson looked on befuddled, he lifted his official feather-quill pen from its well and let the excess ink drip from its nib. Finishing his painstaking script with a flourish, he stopped to admire his handiwork, then addressed the youngster with rueful sympathy. I realize your heart is set on going, but before you embark on this perilous journey I implore you to think it through carefully. That said, I will have Thornton provide you a waiver for the surety requirement. However! he stuck in severely before the ‘thank you!’ could bubble from Roberson’s throat, you must obtain a legal contract that provides for repatriation. Failing that, you will need to lodge a full return fare deposit with the Inspector of Police.

Drummond placed the letter in a large beige envelope and after affixing a second seal tied it carefully with a strand of blue satin. It’s the best I can do. I hope it will prove of value to you someday, he said, finally conceding a smile of encouragement. Guard it wisely, and good luck, lad!

It took all of Roberson’s willpower not to jump and whoop with joy as he thanked the Chief Administrator and left to await the promised documents. Every minute seemed to pass like an hour until at last Thornton emerged and handed him the coveted waiver, but with a shocking admonition.

Forget Panama. If I were keen on digging a glorified canal, I’d get myself to Nicaragua.

Back outdoors, past the sweltering guards, the streets had slumped back into their usual mid-afternoon lassitude as Roberson drifted home in a daze. His plan had succeeded but his high expectations were shaken by Thornton’s shocker. Could it be true? Were the Yanks really gearing to start from scratch after the French had been at it all these years? He had heard it was being considered but had dismissed it as rumor. Everyone knows the shortest path between the seas cuts through Panama—‌not Nicaragua!

Were it not for his upsetting exchange with Thomas Judah he would have brushed the comment off as a fluke. Had his cousin actually been telling the truth when he said the French had known from the beginning that Panama would likely prove too unhealthy and unstable for their great gate of intercourse between East and West? Were his boastful letters about taming jungles and leveling mountains to unite the world and advance civilization mere fables meant to console a motherless boy? Was a Panama Canal just a big wish, a dead hoax to make a few scoundrels rich? He could not—‌he would not —‌believe it. The French surely expected a job that monumental would have its dangers—‌did that make it less worth the sacrifice? Thomas himself had defended the project’s value. When a local merchant said he resented having his taxes spent to fetch home a bunch of bungo-heads who didn’t have donkey’s sense to realize they were going to Panama to dig their own graves, his cousin had replied that at least they weren’t sitting here like an ass with their eyes squeezed tight hoping to draw milk from a gray queen’s dried-up bosom.

The priceless memory of the merchant’s face swelled purple repaired his outlook: so what if Thornton was right, he’d just have to find his way to Nicaragua. His determination grew stronger as he came to the pulsing shanty-town starting to engulf Manchester Square as more country-workers deserted their failing plantations. He tapped the papers in his pocket for reassurance and was suddenly halted by a cocksure rooster, its crowned head high on its lambent teal neck as it squired six fluffy yellow chicks across his feet and on through the muddling traffic.

Len’ me a sixpence, nuh, stushie!

Drawn from admiring the rooster proudly shepherding his new family through the hole in a squatter’s tacked-up fence, it took a moment for him to realize the shout had come from one of the four young toughs slouching by the shanty-town’s nearest rum-hole. Eight jealous eyes locked on his dated three-piece suit as he approached, pretending not to have heard.

You’d think a stush man like dat wud wan’ mek sure we can toast de Queen ’pon her birt’day!

This seemed to tickle a collective funny-bone because the toughs all tittered as one, their thin bodies quaking like empty tamarind shells caught in the wind.

Clashing voices spilled out from the bar where an argument was brewing with drunken heat. Put on edge by the idlers’ badgering, Roberson was about to double his pace when a rasping voice blared out from across the lane.

When wilt thou save the people?

Not kings and lords, but nations;

Not thrones and crowns, but men!

Flowers of thy heart, O God are they;

Let them not pass, like weeds; away,

Their heritage a sunless day:

GOD SAVE the PEOPLE!

Country-dark and built like a hogshead barrel, the saver of souls took charge in her broad white hat, white dress and gloves. REPENT! THE JUDGMENT IS NIGH! screamed from the placard in her stout right hand. Such was the force of her grating contralto that as she ended the young toughs scattered and the bar stood silent.

As he left the rasp-voiced redeemer to her thirsty sinners, Roberson recalled the time when, as a very young child, he had asked his Aunt May why drunks always looked so unhappy. ‘Your grandfather used to say that’s just part of Satan’s tricks. He fools poor men into believing frustration disappears at the bottom of a bottle when drinking just makes it grow bigger.’ Well he would not let frustration make him a drunk or a beggar. He’d bet his life on a worthwhile promise and, God willing, never look back.

A bolt of panic crashed his pledge as he came to the vine-covered wall overlooking a hedge of pink and white oleander. Unconsciously he had strayed to Winchester Park and his dear old Mulry Hall. For months he had zealously avoided its vicinity. He had no stomach for his chums’ inquisitions. Or their clucks of pity. The terror passed as he remembered that St. George’s had no classes this late in the summer.

He hurried away annoyed that he had grown nostalgic, even for an instant. He had never really shared his family’s wishful dreams. He was never going to study in England or stand for the bar. Even if his father’s absurd sense of duty had not crippled his future, he would have been hard pressed to find a decent profession in Kingston. He was definitely not going to be a boot-licking policeman. So what if he had to spend a year or two as a digger? There were nineteen-year-olds with high school diplomas scrambling to find a job that paid two dollars a day—‌and that was without free medical care and paid vacations. And in Panama he’d be working near the latest, most powerful engines. He would just have to work his way up through the ranks. All he needed was that course to be greased with a smidgen of luck.

Random luck returned to tease his brain as the rusty gate creaked open to the dusty front yard: he saw himself, still in short pants, crouched on one bony scabbed knee, the tiger’s eye shooter poised between his bent forefinger and the tip of his thumb a second before he flicked Billy Escoffrey’s last marble from the circle and won the straightedge and compass he would use to pass his entrance exam and earn his partial scholarship. Today that tiny grassless yard, like the mustard-yellow house sitting dwarfed between the two black mango trees his father planted as saplings, seemed so much tinier; the shiny red steps his aunt waxed and rubbed so religiously gleaming less with pride than with hardened denial.

As Son uttered his dreadful words: Great news, Auntie—‌I’m going to Panama! May’s mouth went dry and her brown skin turned cold and ashy. Old demons jumped out of their slumber, smacking the walls inside of her skull.

May Roberson had called her nephew ‘Son’ since the day she arrived in Kingston to care for her widowed twin brother and comfort his brooding three-year-old. Upright and church-going, already near the end of her child-bearing years, May had shunted aside thoughts of marriage, content in her role as surrogate wife and mother. While her much younger sister Orianna endeavored to spoil him, May had raised her nephew with loving strictness, molding his temper to the Roberson cross, convinced that the road to God’s Peace was only made harder by indulgence and unhelpful sentiment.

The ferry accident, followed by her mother’s sudden death weeks later, had struck May cruelly. Though by stature she was tall and broad-shouldered, her sensitive nature, like her dead twin brother’s, made her appear shy and socially withdrawn. Bereft of her beloved twin and the family’s dry-eyed slave-born matriarch, her life felt cut in two, her waking hours passed in a fog of despondent half-consciousness. For weeks she could not bear the sound of her own voice until one night, she was startled awake, thinking she had heard Son cry out for his mother. Rushing into her nephew’s bedroom, she found the fourteen-year-old muttering in his sleep with his staring eyes open. The set of his face struck the root of her grief—‌her dear orphaned Son had begun to bear an unnerving likeness to her own murdered father.

One of the island’s most fiery Baptist preachers, Orville Roberson had been chosen to represent his Portland parish in the colony’s first legislative assembly. A towering presence, with limbs cast like rods of iron, he soon antagonized his wealthier light-skinned brethren, his advocacy on behalf of poor country farmers viewed as class treason. So when the assembly was abruptly dissolved after the peasants’ mounting grievances escalated into violence, Orville Roberson was arrested for abetting unrest and ordered to prison by the British Governor. While awaiting trial, his jail mysteriously caught fire. The newspapers reported that before the flames could be extinguished the Reverend Roberson and two other men had burned to death. No one had ever been charged but like most of the parish, May was sure that the irate gentry had secretly murdered her father.

Although she had been too terrified to tell a soul, seventeen-year-old May had foreseen her father’s death. It had come to her in a dream while he was languishing in prison: he was weeping, his generous hands in chains, his strong body roped to a burning stake. Her awful fears confirmed, she crawled into bed and lay there paralyzed, unable to speak or sleep. Only a deeply ingrained trust in God had sustained her will to live. It took years of anguished prayer but she finally suppressed her dark visions of white floating bodies and the nightly seduction of a rolling calf bent on hounding her to madness.

The ghostly images had returned to haunt her only once more. That they showed up the night before her twin brother drowned left poor May again devastated, her tongue locked by its guilty silence. Now, listening to Son’s excited words, she tasted dread. A believer’s quiet grace had seen her through her dwindling family’s calamities, but there was no way in hell she was going to stay quiet and see the child she loved as her own damn his life. She also knew that, despite a veneer of his father’s reserve, her nephew could be as stubborn as a parson’s mule, so she swallowed the bile on her tongue and tried to look calm as she settled in her drawing-room chair.

Where will you stay in Panama? Who will do your wash and cook your meals?

I-I'm sure—‌I’m sure they h-have accommodations.

And who, may I ask, are they? Don't-‌even-‌try-‌to-‌be-‌vague-‌with-‌me! was Aunt May’s abrupt commanding attitude.

The canal company, of course!

Though mature for his age, Roberson was still too young to avoid her trap. The octave jump in his voice collapsed his ground.

William Roberson, don't you dare come in here lying to your aunt!

So rarely did anyone call him William—‌at school he went by his surname, while at home he was always plain ‘Son’—‌it took him an extra moment to respond.

"Answer me! Who is ‘they’? Those samfie French recruiters with more of their ’nansi spider promises? Did you sign any contract?"

I’ve just come from the Colonial Office, he announced with great pride, regaining his footing. The Chief Administrator remembered my father. He gave me this … He held out the bulky envelope then grew tense as his aunt abruptly snatched it from his hand. He’d been so worried about Thornton’s admonition and finding the money for a return fare ticket he had forgotten to read what the Englishman had written.

May untied the elegant blue ribbon then gently lifted the seal and removed Drummond’s letter. Her lips moving silently while she read, she let her free hand gingerly stroke her hair, as if to confirm that each black wavy strand was still there and in place. Finally she sank down in her chair and stared blankly at the letter fallen open on her lap.

Roberson anxiously grabbed it back and read it quickly under his breath.

To William Linsworth Roberson,

It is upon the recommendation of His Excellency Sir Arthur Blake, Governor of Jamaica, that Captain Linsworth Martin Roberson, in recognition of his heroic bravery and sacrifice in the performance of his duties, shall be posthumously awarded the distinguished Medal of Honour of the Royal Humane Society.

In accordance with the very consent of Her Majesty the Queen, at the duly appointed time to be determined, your presence shall be requested for its acceptance on your father’s behalf.

Below his own signature Drummond had affixed the Governor’s waxed seal.

May fixed a rebuking eye on her nephew. Boy, is this some prank you’re out to play on your poor aunt?

No, Auntie! You know I would never joke like that! I really did speak with the Chief Administrator—‌once I mentioned the accident he knew who my father was right off. He seems very fair-minded for an Englishman.

His aunt puffed the air through her teeth. "This after what—‌two years? No pension money, not even a so-so farthing for his son, but you just march into a government office and all of a sudden my poor dead brother rates a Medal of Honour? Grow up my son. No so-so civil servant can pull that rabbit from his hat!"

I agree it seems a bit strange, but why would the Chief Administrator risk writing it? Unless— Roberson grew excited as the idea came to him, unless he judged that safely away in Panama it may impress. He knew I wasn’t about to dash off and show it to the Governor, he reasoned with a chuckle. "Anyway, maybe Mr. Drummond does mean to propose the idea to His Excellency. It’s not so far-fetched—"

I thought I taught you better than that. May looked disheartened. You sound like some of our silly country-people who think their dear Missus Queen ended slavery. Your father had such high hopes for you. The poor man worked himself day and night—‌sacrificed so you could have more education. Why are you going to make him turn over in his grave over some fantastic Panama stories your cousin fed you as a pickney?

My father can splash more water in his grave for all I care. He should have thought of us before he ended up dead!

William!

Sorry, he mumbled with shrug, it’s just the truth. How are we supposed to manage? You know we can't afford for me to stay in school. This big project is my chance, Auntie! I’ve always wanted to work with engines—‌I have ideas for all kinds of machines. Think what it means if the Americans get it done—‌this country might finally have a future! And this way once I’m gone you can let out my room for the extra money!

So what, I'm supposed to live here with God knows who and no family? Then it’s me one when Orianna ups and gets married.

Roberson guffawed. Aunt Orianna's not about to get married! She doesn't even have a beau, unless you mean Barefoot Brady! Brady was a childhood friend of Orianna's who had recently moved to Kingston and was hopelessly sweet on her. Unfortunately he was also somewhat slow, a handicap that became even more bumbling under the stress of his desired’s presence. He was a hapless match for the quick-witted Orianna who years ago dubbed him Barefoot Brady, a pitiless sobriquet that alluded both to his humble origins and her outlook on his fortunes. And if she does decide to get married you can come live with me in Panama. By then I’ll be a rich man like Cousin Judah! he bragged, only half-joking.

Your cousin done filled that brain of yours with his ginnalry! I’m happy Thomas has done well for himself but don’t forget his last name is Judah. His father was too rich and important to marry into your mother’s family so your Aunt Jo done spoiled him rotten to make up for it. You need to be practical, Son. You can’t go chasing every bright notion. Besides, she went on harshly, "your cousin only struck it rich after he left that filth-hole."

His thoughts blurred with rage, he refused to look at her.

Son, please— May reached her arm to him, despairingly. Don’t throw your life away trying to be your cousin! He can afford to go gallivant ’cross the world because he can always write Mommy to get money from Daddy. You don’t have that luxury. Thomas is free to be a sprite because that lets him escape any time and place. You’re a Roberson. You don’t have that freedom. Be a little more patient. God will provide. We’ll find a way for you to finish your schooling. Your Aunt Orianna and I will gladly make any sacrifice for that to happen. Desperate, when he did not respond, she tried again, "Son, you’re not Tom Judah! But neither are you a street urchin or some raw-chaw laborer used to living on a little dry yam or a hard-boiled dumpling. Panama is no place for a boy like you to set his hopes on. You were too little so we couldn’t tell you—‌your cousin nearly died twice in that awful country. I had to bury your father—‌I don’t know what I’d do with myself