When Wake and Laporte boarded the carriage for the ride back to Bridgetown they were pleasantly surprised to see Allen hurrying out of the mansion house, sea bag slung over a shoulder.
“Thought I’d better ship out on this ride while it’s here. Don’t want to take a chance on missing our steamer!” he said and off they went, this time by the east coast road, the driver explaining the west coast road they had taken the day before would “today be full of them black-bellied beasts.” Allen laughed and said, “He means the famous black-bellied sheep of Barbados. They’re called sheep but they look like goats to me. The farmers are taking them to the market today, so that road will be jammed. The east road is rougher but has some nice scenery.”
Allen pointed out the sights as they descended from the central highlands to the wild east coast. The coast road went right along the cliffs and they clearly saw wreck after wreck in the breaking surf. The waves were huge rollers that had swept unimpeded from Africa to smash on Barbados’ rocky shore, producing fantastic shapes and colors among the boulders. It was a sobering sight for sailors, a graveyard where a moment’s mistake meant death—Wake couldn’t see how anyone would survive a wreck on that coast.
They rode through villages with quaint names like Chalky Mount, where the inhabitants made pottery from the local clay, and Bathsheba, where the African descendents were surf fishermen. All of the officers commented on the bravery and skill needed to get in and out through those incredible breaking waves, many exceeding fifteen feet. Allen pointed out the semaphore signal station at Gun Hill, explaining that a hundred years earlier the army had built them around the island to warn of a French attack. Nearby they saw the imposing White Lion, a statue erected on a hilltop a few years before, in ’68, commemorating British rule and the emancipation of the slaves. Allen thought it an odd location for an imperial monument—it was in the middle of nowhere.
From Martin’s Bay on the coast they ascended very steep hills up into the interior again, stopping a half mile from the sea at St. John’s Church, perched atop Hackletons Cliff. The driver advised they would be there for at least one hour to change horses and that since it was noon on Sunday, they could probably attend the church picnic that was about to start. It sounded like a good idea to the weary travelers and Allen led the way into the Anglican church, a seventeenth-century crenellated structure of cut coral stone overlooking the deep blue of the Atlantic, white trace of sandy beach, and green slopes of the hills—one of the most magnificent views Wake had ever seen. Standing by a low retaining wall just outside the front doors, he could see for miles along the rugged coastline six hundred feet below them.
The old rector was delighted to have them visit and gave a tour of his church, pointing out in his gentle tone the pet finches that flitted about the rafters, their chirps echoing around the naves like a natural miniature choir. He invited them to join the congregation that was about to enjoy a picnic lunch under the giant mahogany trees. They were treated as honored guests, with parishioners competing for their attention as they ate flying fish, crane chubb, and plantains—a tasty local combination of food from English and African origin. The young ladies of the parish eyed their every move. The stopover ended too quickly when the driver announced it was time to get under way again.
Just as they were boarding the carriage to the heartfelt good wishes of the crowd, the rector came up to Allen. “I couldn’t place it at first, but now I remember you! I was filling in for the sick rector up at Antigua last month, Lieutenant, and clearly recall that you had an excellent voice during the hymns. I’m sorry you are leaving us.”
Wake noticed Allen glance at him when the rector said Antigua. Then the Marine answered, “Thank you, sir. I fear my voice is far more loud than excellent.”
“God be with all of you gentlemen!” cried out the rector as they drove away.
“Well, now that was very enjoyable meal,” said Allen, as if to change the subject as he wistfully looked back at the crowd.
“Yes, it was,” agreed Wake, doubts about his fellow passenger ended. It was beyond mere coincidence that Lieutenant Peter Sharpe Allen, RMLI, was going to be with Wake for the next four thousand miles.
10
A Different Kind of Voyage
The Trinidad was owned by the British North American Steamship Company—founded by the legendary Samuel Cunard thirty years earlier. She was a ten-year-old medium-sized steamer that had been employed on the West Indies–Mediterranean route since 1871 and was commanded by a grizzled old veteran named Fletcher who, like most captains in the merchant fleet, disliked naval officers and thought most of them pompous fools tied to obsolete traditions.
The passengers, who had been arriving during the week in Bridgetown from all around the West Indies, thronged the pier shouting in several languages, soon creating a madhouse scene. Wake and Allen arrived together at the pier and slowly made their way through the mob to the gangway where they met the first officer, a middle-aged Scot named Newton who obviously had little time for them.
Wake knew he would be sharing a cabin and asked the officer who his companion was to be. Newton scrutinized a passenger list, looked up at him incredulously,
