Caribbean (92 page)

As soon as he heard this wretched news, Jason realized how improper it was, and wishing to dissociate himself from the murderous Hobbs, he quietly slipped away and galloped eastward, hoping to persuade Governor Eyre to countermand what he knew to be a misguided order.

By dint of forced riding on a horse already tired, Jason reached Eyre’s Kingston residence before the decision to ship Gordon to a St. Thomas court-martial had been put into effect, and breaking unannounced into Eyre’s office, he blurted out: “Governor, for the love of God and mercy, do not send George Gordon to a court-martial in St. Thomas-in-the-East. They’ve gone crazy over there.”

“They’re doing their duty,” Eyre said sternly, holding himself erect and speaking with controlled force. “Those who rebelled against the queen must pay the price.”

“But the court’s behavior is inhuman. Lashing women with wire bands in the cats.”

“Women are often the worst offenders. They should be hanged also.”

“Governor Eyre, I reached the Maroons. Kept them from joining the riots on the side of the blacks.”

“Sterling job, Jason. Dangerous, too.”

“The Maroons went on a rampage against the blacks. Killing, burning. Women and children.”

“When a man like Gordon launches a rebellion, he should anticipate consequences.”

“But he was not in St. Thomas. He played no role in starting the riot.”

Governor Eyre was so infuriated by this defense of the man he was determined to hang that he almost dismissed Pembroke, but the young man’s gallantry in going alone into Maroon territory warranted approval, and Eyre had to bestow it: “You’ve behaved like a true Englishman, Pembroke. Duty called and you answered.”

“Now it’s my duty, Governor, to tell you one basic truth. Everything you’ve done so far, every action you’ve taken has been impeccable. Governorship at its best. The rioting has been brought under control. Island-wide disturbance has been avoided.”

“Thank you. I tried my best … against great difficulties, I must say. They all wanted me to declare martial law throughout the island.”

“Thank God, you didn’t. And now you must halt it where it does exist.”

Eyre could hardly bear to listen to such advice: “Gordon has done a terrible wrong in starting this rebellion. Punishment must continue as a lesson to rebels and he must bear his share.”

“But you can’t send him to St. Thomas. That’s judicial murder.”

“He must learn his lesson.”

With anguish in his voice, Pembroke begged: “Governor Eyre, all you’ve done so far bears the mark of greatness. But if you do this to Gordon, and keep the courts-martial operating, you run a terrible risk. You will be seen as having corrupted the channels of justice. England could well condemn you.”

The words stung, for they touched upon the weakness of Eyre’s position, his lust for personal revenge so strong that he was willing to ignore the traditions of English justice. He knew that Gordon was not legally responsible for the rioting, which he termed rebellion. He knew that a civil court in Kingston would never convict the preacher, or hang him if it did. And worst of all, he was fully aware that he had no authority to kidnap Gordon from civil law in Kingston and throw him into the hands of a court-martial which had no authority over him, an act equivalent to murder. But his smoldering animosity toward this difficult man was so great that in his self-defense he made an appalling admission: “I have always detested George Gordon. A man of color marrying a white woman to gain advantages. A Baptist
sectarian always denigrating our national religion. And worst of all, an unlettered peasant daring to ridicule our queen.”

“I don’t believe he ever did,” Pembroke said. “He merely protested the silly letter released in her name,” but Eyre insisted: “He spat upon her letter,” and when Jason again corrected: “Some foolish women did, not he,” Eyre snapped: “He encouraged it and must pay the penalty. Come, we’re sailing to St. Thomas today.”

“Governor, I must protest again. You do this at great risk to your reputation. All honest men, Governor, will see that your actions are illegal and colored by a desire for personal vengeance. For the sake of your honorable name, do not do this thing.”

Eyre could not be deterred. George Gordon, a frail bookish man in steel-rimmed glasses, was marched in handcuffs to the waiting
Wolverine;
Eyre came aboard attended by Pembroke, who still hoped to dissuade the governor from committing a hateful deed, and the fatal journey to St. Thomas-in-the-East began. But the short sea passage was like something from an ancient drama in which gods and nature conspired against an evil act, for a great storm arose, buffeting the ship for three days and nights and delaying Governor Eyre from delivering the preacher to the waiting court-martial. During this turbulence Pembroke had a last opportunity to talk with Gordon, who said with a surprising calmness: “I shall be hanged tomorrow, and Jamaica will never forget that day, for it will be murder.”

When the storm abated, the preacher was led ashore under a naval guard and marched through the streets to where the court was sitting, and as he went, soldiers and sailors, convinced of his guilt, hurled epithets at him, and some cried: “Here comes Parson Gordon on his way to be hanged,” while others shouted: “I’d love to give you a taste of the cat before you die, you traitor!” The mood was so savage that one reporter noted accurately: “Doubtless, if the blue jackets had been left to exercise their own will, he would have been torn to pieces alive.”

In the improvised shed from which so many had been dragged to be hanged, the court-martial consisted of two young naval officers and one army man even younger. They had no concept of what jurisdiction was nor whether they had any authority to pass judgment on a man who had not been in St. Thomas, and certainly no idea whatever as to what constituted admissible evidence. They had been ordered to mete out justice to criminals, and they had no trouble in
recognizing Parson Gordon as the principal instigator of the riots, because they were told that was what he had been.

There was evidence: letters written to the court from persons elsewhere in the island who were not present to be cross-questioned. Several people said they were sure Gordon had been responsible for the rebellion, and very damaging evidence was brought forth that he had scorned The Queen’s Advice. The Morant Bay postmistress testified that since she always read whatever material came through her office in printed or open form, she could state positively that Gordon had mailed subversive literature, though what it was precisely she could not remember.

The young judge allowed Gordon to make a statement in his defense, but it contained only what the preacher had always said to Pembroke and others of his friends, that he wanted to help the citizens of Jamaica better their lot. The three judges paid little attention to his rambling and had no difficulty in finding him guilty, or in sentencing him to be hanged.

The trial was held on Saturday afternoon, and because the officer who would carry out the sentence felt it might be improper to hang a clergyman on a Sunday, the execution was deferred till Monday morning. It rained Sunday night, and on Monday heavy clouds, fringed by the sun which hid behind them, darkened the stone archway from which the rope was suspended. The preacher stood on a wooden plank, totally pinioned lest he try to escape, and when that plank was suddenly withdrawn he plunged to his slow, strangling death. Governor Eyre had been avenged for the insults he imagined that Gordon had heaped upon him.

Jason Pembroke, now anxious to return to Trevelyan, hoped that with the hanging of Gordon, martial law throughout St. Thomas would be terminated and that the various courts-martial, over which no one had any control would be dissolved, but neither of these desired orders was given. Instead, Governor Eyre assigned him to serve with that Colonel Hobbs he had met while with the Maroons. Hobbs, who had seen action overseas, especially at the siege of Sebastopol in the Crimean War, was an easy man for ordinary soldiers to like, for he treated his men well and obeyed a keen sense of military duty. Jason, aware that the rebellion, if it was one, expected Hobbs to exert stern discipline, keep his youthful charges under control, and report
that military rule, at least in his quarter, should be ended, there being no signs of any further disturbance.

But Jason’s analysis was flawed, for the real horror of martial law had not yet shown its cruel face. The Maroons, considering themselves free to loot and burn, shot nearly two hundred blacks, rejoicing as if engaged in a jolly hunting party. Colonel Hobbs’ men specialized in shooting any blacks they saw on remote hillsides, competing among themselves as to who could kill at the greatest distance. When Jason protested these barbarities, Hobbs showed him the letter from the island headquarters under which he served:

That, of course, was license for extermination, and Hobbs discharged his assignment with exuberance, finding special delight in hanging men or lashing women if it was said of them: “That one scorned the queen.” He could not tolerate the thought that a black had cast aspersions on the queen, and his eyes glazed over when Jason argued: “Hobbs, can’t you see that their protest was not disrespect for the queen?”

“How could that be?”

“They were unwilling to believe that she could have dismissed them so coldly, for they love her.” Hobbs, eyes still glazed, rasped: “You heard. They laughed at her Advice. Hang them.”

Jason could never anticipate what Hobbs might do next. Once along a distant road they came upon a black man who could have had no connection with the rioting, but when Hobbs heard that the man’s name was Arthur Wellington and he was reputed to be an obeah man, a sorcerer, he fell into a maniacal rage: “How dare a nigger take the name of a great man like the duke! How dare he claim to have strange powers! I’ll teach him!” and he had Wellington tethered to a tree on the far side of a gully. Then, ordering all blacks from nearby to watch, he had his men line up and fire from a distance of more than four hundred yards. Several of the bullets struck the tethered man, killing him, whereupon Hobbs shouted to the watchers: “What mystical powers does he have now?” and they were impressed with the superiority of the white man’s gun over the black man’s powers.

One soldier serving with Hobbs showed Jason the letter he was sending his parents in England:

Pembroke, revolted by such excess, begged Hobbs to halt the killing, but the honored veteran of the Crimea, a man of proved valor, seemed to have turned into a frenzied savage, for all he would respond was: “It’s like India … colored men rising against white. And it cannot be permitted.”

While Pembroke was going through the agony of seeing Englishmen run wild, his cousin Oliver was having a much different reaction to martial law. He was serving as second-in-command to a certified military hero, Gordon Dewberry Ramsay, who had galloped in the lead during the charge of the Light Brigade at Balaklava and won England’s highest honor for doing so, the Victoria Cross. He served in Jamaica as a police inspector, and because he was a hearty type, Croome worked well with him, assisting in the floggings, the shootings and the hangings. Like Ramsay, he believed that the honor of the white man had been traduced by the blacks, that Baptists had scorned the established church, and that almost every black had insulted the queen. Under those circumstances, mercy was unwarranted and almost any punishment that Ramsay meted out was justified.

Ramsay, carrying a small stick like a baton, would march through a village and peremptorily order his men: “Give that one a dozen,” whereupon the metaled cat would be applied on the spot. Several times he growled: “That one looks a bad lot. Give him a score,” and the man would be thrashed.

On one occasion he was watching the application of fifty lashes to a thin black man who had given no offense, when at the forty-seventh blow the man grimaced from the unbearable pain. In a rage Ramsay shouted: “That man bared his teeth at me. Take him down and hang him.”

Croome saw nothing wrong in these excesses, for no matter what
preposterous act of revenge Ramsay engaged in, like the hanging of scores without even the pretense of a trial, he approved, for as he told Ramsay repeatedly: “They took arms against the queen. They deserve whatever you give them,” and he applauded when any black men who seemed to have an ugly countenance received proper punishment. “That one looks an evil fellow,” Ramsay would cry, pointing with his baton. “Hang him.”

Jason Pembroke, having witnessed Hobbs behaving no better, had at least questioned his mental stability, but Oliver Croome saw nothing wrong with what Ramsay was doing, and even helped him rampage through St. Thomas dispensing blind revenge. Once as the pair watched a black woman receiving a hundred strokes of the cat, Ramsay said: “She was heard by three different people to speak ill of The Queen’s Advice,” and Croome said: “You do well to halt such treason.”

An admiring newspaperman who traveled for some days with Ramsay and Croome wrote:

Of the routine hangings, Hobbs and Ramsay accounted for about two hundred.