The Conqueror

VIII

Ear­ly in Au­gust, 1772, Mr. Cruger sent him on a busi­ness tour to sev­er­al of the neigh­bour­ing Is­lands, in­clud­ing the great _en­tre­pot_ of the West In­dies,--St. Thomas. De­spite the sea­son, the prospect of no wind for days at a time, or winds in which no craft could live, Alexan­der trem­bled with de­light at the idea of vis­it­ing the bustling bril­liant ver­sa­tile town of Char­lotte Amalie, in whose har­bour there were some­times one hun­dred and eighty ships, where one might meet in a day men of ev­ery clime, and whose beau­ty was as fa­mous as her wealth and im­por­tance. How of­ten Alexan­der had stared at the blue line of the hills above her! Forty miles away, with­in the range of his vi­sion, was a bit of the great world, the very piv­ot of mar­itime trade, and one cause and an­oth­er had pre­vent­ed him from so much as putting his foot on a sloop whose sails were spread.

As soon as the de­tails of his tour were set­tled he rode out to the plan­ta­tions to take leave of his rel­atives. Mrs. Mitchell, who barred the hur­ri­cane win­dows ev­ery time, the wind rose be­tween Ju­ly and Novem­ber, and sat with the barom­eter in her hand when the palms be­gan to bend, wept a tor­rent and im­plored him to ab­stain from the mad­ness of go­ing to sea at that time of the year. Her dis­tress was so acute and re­al that Alexan­der, who loved her, for­got his ex­ul­ta­tion and would have re­nounced the trip, had he not giv­en his word to Mr. Cruger.

“I'll be care­ful, and I'll ride out the day af­ter I re­turn,” he said, ar­rang­ing his aunt on the so­fa with her smelling-​bot­tle, an of­fice he had per­formed many times. “You know the first wind of the hur­ri­cane is a de­light to the sailor, and we nev­er shall be far from land. I'm in com­mand, and I'll promise you to make for shore at the first sign of dan­ger. Then I shall be as safe as here.”

His aunt sighed for ful­ly a minute. “If I on­ly could be­lieve that you would be care­ful about any­thing. But you are quite a big boy now, al­most six­teen, and ought to be old enough to take care of your­self.”

“If I could per­suade you that I am not quite a fail­ure at keep­ing the breath in my body we both should be hap­pi­er. How­ev­er, I vow not to set sail from any is­land if a hur­ri­cane is form­ing, and to make for port ev­ery time the wind fresh­ens.”

“Lis­ten for that ter­ri­ble roar in the south­east, and take my barom­eter--Heav­en knows what barom­eters are made for; there are not three on the Is­land. I shall drive in to church ev­ery Sun­day and be­siege Heav­en with my sup­pli­ca­tions.”

“Well, spare me a breeze or I shall pray for a hur­ri­cane.”

He did not see Mrs. Lyt­ton or James, but Mr. Lyt­ton had scant ap­pre­hen­sion of hur­ri­canes, and was on­ly con­cerned lest his nephew roll about in the trough of the sea un­der an Au­gust sun for weeks at a time. “That's when a man doesn't re­pent of his sins; he knows there is noth­ing worse to come,” he said. “I'd rather have a hur­ri­cane,” and Alexan­der nod­ded. Mr. Lyt­ton count­ed out a small bag of pieces of eight and told the boy to buy his aunt a silk gown in Char­lotte Amalie. “I've no­ticed that if it's all one colour you're not so sure to have it ac­cept­ed with a sigh of res­ig­na­tion,” he said. “But be care­ful of plaids and stripes.” And Alexan­der, with deep­er mis­giv­ings than Mrs. Mitchell had in­spired, ac­cept­ed the com­mis­sion and rode away.

He set sail on the fol­low­ing day, and made his tour of the less­er is­lands un­der a fair breeze. Late in the month he en­tered the har­bour of St. Thomas, and was de­light­ed to find at least fifty ships in port, de­spite the sea­son. It was an un­usu­al­ly busy year, and he had dared to hope for crowd­ed wa­ters and streets; exquisite as Char­lotte Amalie might be to look up­on, he want­ed some­thing more than a love­ly cas­ket.

The town is set on three con­ical foot-​hills, which bulge at equal dis­tances against an al­most per­pen­dic­ular moun­tain, the tip, it is said, of a range whose foun­da­tions are four miles be­low. The three sec­tions of the town sweep from base to point­ed apex with a sym­me­try so per­fect, their hous­es are so light and airy of ar­chi­tec­ture, so bril­liant and var­ied of colour, that they sug­gest hav­ing been called in­to be­ing by the stroke of a ma­gi­cian's wand to grat­ify the whim of an East­ern po­ten­tate. Sure­ly, they are a vast seraglio, a triple col­lec­tion of plea­sure hous­es where cap­tive maid­ens are con­tent and nautch girls dance with feet like larks. Busi­ness, com­merce, one can­not as­so­ciate with this en­chant­ing vista; nor cock­roach­es as long as one's foot, scor­pi­ons, taran­tu­las, and rats.

When Alexan­der was in the town he found that the hous­es were of stone, and that one long street on the lev­el con­nect­ed the three di­vi­sions. Flights of steps, hewn out of the sol­id rock of that black and bar­ren range, led to the lit­tle palaces that crowned the cones, and there were palms, co­coanuts, and tamarind trees to soft­en the bril­lian­cy of fa­cade and roof. Above the town was Black­beard's Cas­tle; and Blue­beard's so high on the right that its guns could have lev­elled the city in an hour. Al­though not a hun­dred years old, and built by the Danes, both these frown­ing tow­ers were mu­se­ums of pi­rat­ical tra­di­tion, and trav­ellers re­turned to Eu­rope with imag­ina­tions ex­pand­ed.

The long street in­ter­est­ed Alexan­der's prac­ti­cal mind more than leg­ends or ar­chi­tec­ture. Huge stone build­ings--ware­hous­es, stores, ex­change- and count­ing-​hous­es--ex­tend­ed from the street to the edge of the wa­ter, where ships were un­load­ed and load­ed from doors at the rear. Men of ev­ery na­tion and cos­tume moved in that street; and for a day Mr. Cruger's busi­ness was in abeyance, while the boy from the qui­et Is­land of St. Croix leaned against one of the heavy tamarind trees at the foot of the first hill, and watched the rest­less crowd of Eu­ro­peans, Asi­at­ics, Cubans, Puer­to Ri­cans, North and South Amer­icans. There were as many na­tion­al cos­tumes as there were ri­val flags in the har­bour. There was the British ad­mi­ral in his reg­imen­tals and pow­dered queue, the Chi­na­man in his blouse and pig­tail, the French­man with his ear­rings, vil­lanous Malays, solemn mer­chants from Boston, and ne­groes trundling bar­rows of Span­ish dol­lars. But it was the ex­traor­di­nary as­sort­ment of faces and the vi­olent con­trasts of tem­per­ament and char­ac­ter they re­vealed which in­ter­est­ed Alexan­der more than aught else. With all his read­ing he had not imag­ined so great a va­ri­ety of types; his men­tal pic­tures had been the un­con­scious re­flec­tion of British, Dan­ish, or African. Be­yond these he had come in con­tact with noth­ing more strik­ing than sailors from the neigh­bour­ing Is­lands, who had sug­gest­ed lit­tle be­sides the ad­vis­abil­ity of plac­ing an ex­tra guard over the mon­ey box­es whilst they were in port. Most of these men who surged be­fore him were mer­chants of the first rank or the rep­re­sen­ta­tives of oth­ers as im­por­tant,--cap­tains of large ships and their mates. The last saun­tered and cursed the heat, which was in­fer­nal; but the mer­chants moved rapid­ly from one busi­ness house to an­oth­er, or talked in groups, un­der the tamarind trees, of the great in­ter­ests which brought them to the In­dies. Up­on the in­her­ent char­ac­ter­is­tics which their faces ex­pressed were su­per­im­posed the dif­fer­ent seals of those ac­quired,--shrewd­ness, sus­pi­cion, a hawk-​like alert­ness, the greed of ac­qui­si­tion. Alexan­der, with some­thing like ter­ror of the fu­ture, re­flect­ed that there was not one of these men he cared to know. He knew there were far greater cities than the busy lit­tle _en­tre­pot_ of the West In­dies, but he right­ly doubt­ed if he ev­er should see again so cos­mopoli­tan a mob, a more picked as­sort­ment of rep­re­sen­ta­tive types. Not one looked as if he re­mem­bered his wife and chil­dren, his creed, or the art and let­ters of his land. They were a sweat­ing, curs­ing, vol­uble, in­trigu­ing, greedy lot, pic­turesque to look up­on, prof­itable to study, cal­cu­lat­ed to rouse in a boy of in­tel­lec­tu­al pas­sions a fury of fi­nal re­sent­ment against the mean­ness­es of com­mer­cial life. Alexan­der jerked his shoul­ders with dis­gust and moved slow­ly down the street. Af­ter he had re­flect­ed that great coun­tries in­volved great ideas, and that there was no place for ei­ther po­lit­ical or moral ide­als in an iso­lat­ed and pure­ly com­mer­cial town like lit­tle Char­lotte Amalie, he re­cov­ered his poise, and lent him­self to his sur­round­ings again with con­sid­er­able phi­los­ophy.

He had al­most crossed the foot of the third hill when he turned abrupt­ly in­to a large store, un­like any he had seen. It was full of wom­en, splen­did crea­tures, who were bar­gain­ing with mer­chants' clerks for the bales of fine stuffs which had been opened for the dis­play of sam­ples to the whole­sale buy­ers from oth­er Is­lands. These wom­en pur­chased the ex­iled stuffs to sell to the ladies of the cap­ital, and this was the on­ly re­tail trade known to the St. Thomas of that day. Alexan­der bethought him­self of his un­cle's com­mis­sion, and pre­cip­itate­ly bought from the open bale near­est the door, then, from the next, a present for Mrs. Mitchell. Mrs. Lyt­ton, who was an in­valid and fifty-​eight, re­ceived, a fort­night lat­er, a dress pat­tern of rose-​coloured silk, and Mrs. Mitchell, who as­pired to be a lead­er of fash­ion, one of el­der­ly brown. But Alexan­der was more in­ter­est­ed in the sell­ers than in the pos­si­ble dis­sat­is­fac­tion of his aunts. The wom­en of his ac­quain­tance were fair and frag­ile, and the Africans of St. Croix were par­tic­ular­ly hideous, be­ing still of par­ent stock. But these crea­tures were tawny and mag­nif­icent, with the most su­perb fig­ures, the most re­mark­able swing, that ev­er a man had looked up­on; and glo­ri­ous eyes, sparkling with dev­il­try. On their heads the white linen was wound to a high point and sur­mount­ed by an im­mense hat, caught up at one side with a flow­er. They wore for cloth­ing a dou­ble skirt of coloured linen, and a white fichu, open in a point to the waist and leav­ing their gold-​coloured arms quite bare. They moved con­stant­ly, if on­ly from one foot to the oth­er. Oc­ca­sion­al­ly their eyes flashed sparks, and they flew at each oth­er's throats, screech­ing like guinea fowl, but in a mo­ment they were laugh­ing good-​na­tured­ly again, and chat­ter­ing in voic­es of a re­mark­able soft sweet­ness. Sev­er­al of them no­ticed Alexan­der, for his beau­ty had grown with his years. His eyes were large and gray and dark, like his moth­er's, but sparkled with ar­dour and mer­ri­ment. His mouth was chis­elled from a del­icate ful­ness to a curv­ing line; firm even then, but al­ways hu­mor­ous, ex­cept when some fresh ex­pe­ri­ence with the in­gen­uous self-​in­ter­est of man deep­ened the hu­mour to cyn­icism. The nose was long, sharply cut, hard, strong in the nos­trils, the head mas­sive, the brow full above the eyes, and the whole of a boy­ish and sun­burned fair­ness. He could fetch a smile that gave his face a sweet and daz­zling beau­ty. His fig­ure was so sup­ple and well knit, so proud in its bear­ing, that no wom­an then or lat­er ev­er found fault with its in­con­sid­er­able inch­es; and his hands and feet were beau­ti­ful. His ador­ing aunt at­tend­ed to his wardrobe, and he wore to-​day, as usu­al, white linen knee-​breech­es, black silk stock­ings, a lawn shirt much beruf­fled with lace. His ap­pear­ance pleased these gor­geous birds of plumage, and one of them snatched him sud­den­ly from the floor and gave him a re­sound­ing smack. Alexan­der, much em­bar­rassed, but not whol­ly dis­pleased, re­treat­ed hur­ried­ly, and asked an En­glish­man who they were and whence they came.

“They are lit­er­al­ly the pick of Mar­tinique, Cu­ba, Puer­to Ri­co, and the oth­er Is­lands cel­ebrat­ed for beau­ti­ful wom­en. Of course they've all got a touch of the tar brush in them, but the French or the Span­ish blood makes them glo­ri­ous for a few years, and dur­ing those few they come here and make hay. Some come at cer­tain sea­sons on­ly, oth­ers perch here till they change in a night from houri to hag. This day­light trade gives them a _rai­son d'etre_, but wait till af­ter dark. God! this is a hell hole; but by moon­light or torch­light this street is one of the sights of the earth. The mag­nif­icent beau­ty of the wom­en, en­hanced by silken stuffs of ev­ery colour, the var­ied and of­ten pic­turesque at­tire of the men, all half mad with drink--well, if you want to sleep, you'd bet­ter get a room high up.”

“Mine is up one hun­dred and sev­en­teen steps. I am but afraid I may not see all there is to see.”

But be­fore the week was half out he had tired of St. Thomas by day and by night. The pic­ture was too one-​sid­ed, too heav­ily daubed with colour. It made a palette of the imag­ina­tion, sticky and crude. He be­gan to de­sire the green plan­ta­tions of St. Croix, and more than ev­er he longed for the snow-​fields of the north. Two days of hard work con­clud­ed Mr. Cruger's busi­ness, and on the thir­ti­eth of the month he weighed an­chor, in com­pa­ny with many oth­ers, and set sail for St. Croix. He start­ed un­der a fair breeze, but a mile out the wind dropped, and he was un­til mid­night mak­ing the har­bour of Chris­tianstadt When they were ut­ter­ly be­calmed the sun seemed to fo­cus his hell up­on the lit­tle sloop. It rolled sick­en­ing­ly in the oily wrin­kled wa­ters, and Alexan­der put his Pope in his pock­et. The sea had a cu­ri­ous swell, and he won­dered if an earth­quake were im­mi­nent. The sea was not quite her­self when her foun­da­tions were prepar­ing to shake. Earth-​quakes had nev­er con­cerned him, but as the boat drift­ed past the reef in­to the har­bour of Chris­tianstadt at mid­night, he was as­sailed by a fit of ter­ror so sud­den and un­ac­count­able that he could re­call but one sen­sa­tion in his life that ap­proached it: short­ly af­ter he ar­rived on the Is­land he had stolen down to the la­goon one night, fas­ci­nat­ed by the creep­ing mist, the scowl­ing manchi­neels, the talk of its sin­is­ter in­hab­itant, and was en­joy­ing might­ily his new feel­ing of creep­ing ter­ror, when the si­lence was bro­ken by a heavy swish, and he saw the white bel­ly of the shark not three feet from him. He had scam­pered up the hill to his moth­er's skirts as fast as his legs could car­ry him, nor vis­it­ed the la­goon again un­til the shark was moul­der­ing on its bed. To-​night a mist, al­most im­per­cep­ti­ble ex­cept on the dark line of coast, changed the beau­ty of the moon­beams to a livid light that gave the bay the hor­rid pal­lor of a corpse. The mass­es of coral rock in the shal­low wa­ters looked lep­rous, the sur­face was so glassy that it fell in splin­ters from the oars of the boat that towed them to shore. There was not a sound from the reef, not a sound from the land. The slen­der lac­ing man­groves in the swamp looked like up­right ser­pents, black and pet­ri­fied, and the Fort on the high bluff might have been a sar­coph­agus full of dead men but for the chal­lenge of the sen­try.

Alexan­der be­gan to whis­tle, then climbed down in­to the boat and took an oar. When he had his feet on land he walked up King Street more hasti­ly than was his habit in the month of Au­gust. But here, al­though the town might have been a necrop­olis, so qui­et was it, it had not put on a death mask. There was no mist here; the beau­ti­ful coral hous­es gleamed un­der the moon­beams as if turned to mar­ble, and Alexan­der for­got the hor­ror of the wa­ters and paused to note, as he had done many times be­fore, the cu­ri­ous Alpine con­trast of these pure white mass­es against the green and bur­nished arch­es of trop­ic trees. Then he passed through the swim­ming-​bath to his bed, and a half-​hour lat­er slept as sound­ly as if the ter­ri­ble forces of the Caribbean world were safe in leash.