Black Jim, the strongest man who had ever lived
in Saba, could not read or write, yet he sometimes stopped at the Central
Store and bought ink and pens to impress other Blacks who could do both.
More than six feet tall, he boasted that he could carry a double bag of
sugar weighing three hundred pounds--or 'a hundred pounds more than a
jackass'.
From his shoulders a pair of shoes flapped like wings sprouting. Jim's
shoes, like an African chieftain's earrings, were merely ornamental. They
were ready-made though it seemed unlikely that anywhere in the world was
there a pair of ready-made shoes to fit those huge web-shaped feet; so
flattened were they by the weight of his burdens that the heels protruded
four inches behind the ankles.
He had once carried a barrel of cement all the way from the Bay to
Windwardside, which is situated at 1500 feet above sea level, and was only
to be reached in former times by a torturous goat trek up and along the
mountain flanks, Afterward four men picked up the barrel to lift it through
a window. They lost their grip and the barrel fell, breaking the sash.
He never put a burden on his head until he had rolled up his pants around
the knees. 'Day is times', he would say, 'when ah has to watch me legs'.
On her way to The Bottom, Miss Hopie came upon him trudging up the stone
steps, the muscles of his neck and the veins of his legs standing out as
though they had been grafted to the flesh. On his head he steadied a trunk
it had taken five men to lift.
'Jim, why do you carry such burdens?' she asked him as he stood, legs
braced. The whites of his eyes shone above a full beard, drops of
perspiration rained down his cheeks into the bushy mop below. His voice had
the rubles of stones rolling in a barrel.
'Ma'am, ah likes to feel a weight on mah head. Sometimes it seems ah'm
carrying nothin' at all'.
His legs quivered as he again gathered strength to set himself in motion.
His mouth set stoically. His eyes lost their look of friendliness, taking on
the vague, far away expression of all Blacks carrying burdens. His back
swayed a little, and the bones of his feet pressed against the flesh as his
toes gripped the hot stone. He had forgotten Miss Hopie's presence. He was
Atlas bearing the weight of the world, a figure of muscle with a mind that
possessed the power to lift...
Not until he had reached his destination did Jim become an eye-twinkling
human-being, and then only when he had dropped the trunk with a thud that
shook the house. When he had pocketed his money, he went to the cistern
behind the house, filled a calabash gourd to the brim and swallowed the
contents with all the sucking and gurgling of a horse drinking out of a
trough.
Then he went to the Central Store, ordered a big tin of corned beef, ripped
off the lid, and digging out the bulk of the meat with one swoop of a giant
hand, gulped it down. He bought three more cans of corned beef, two loaves
of bread, and two bottles of Bay Rum. With these tucked under his left arm
he swayed out of the doorway, a great gangling, bushy-faced figure.
Despite his great physical prowess, Jim didn't progress very far in a wordly
way. His giant body was always at the disposal of the islanders, but if he
earned eight dollars in two days, he spent it for food and Bay Rum.
A farmer told me he had seen Jim bearing firewood from The Bottom. People
carrying wood always came into Windwardside from the opposite direction,
through English Quarter from Core Gut.
'Where you goin' with that wood, Jim?' the farmer asked.
'Carryin' it home', replied Jim. 'Picked it up at Core Gut, took it to St.
John, offered it for thirty-four cents. They'd only pay thirty. Took it to
The Bottom and dey wouldn't pay no mo', so by God, ah said, ah'll bring it
hom".
Jim had carried the wood a distance equivalent to making a complete circuit
or the island rather than let it go for four cents less than his asking
price.
They tell too of the time he shipped aboard his uncle's schooner. The uncle
didn't feed him enough, so Jim stole the ship's compass, took it to shore,
sold it and bought all the corned beef and bread he could eat. Then he
boarded another vessel and came back home.
Often he would climb among the cliffs where he sought out the nests of
'white birds' which he caught and cooked. When he lost his appetite for
birds, he would carry burdens or go fishing.
Jim, at such times stood on a rock, his naked body silhouetted against the
waves. He never had more than one suit at a time, and he always fished
without clothes.
But when Jim dressed for church, he began at the neck and worked up. To his
week-day clothes he added a derby, and a tie without collar. Attending the
Anglican Church, he sat near the rear, on the edge of a pew, with his hat
always behind him, looking less like a churchgoer than a gangster protecting
his derby.
Jim's hut was so small that he couldn't even stretch out a full length. He
slept on two logs dragged up from the sea and tipped at an angle.
Night filled him with terror. He was afraid of jumbies, and to protect
himself, broke up empty Bay Rum bottles and sprinkled the pieces on the
floor. No one could convince him that a ghost's feet couldn't be cut.
Jealous of his privacy, Jim never left his hut unguarded. Against the door
he rolled a giant boulder which only he could budge.
His undoing came at one of those times when his body's earning power fell
behind his appetite.
Near Midnight on a moonless Christmas, Mr. Carl had consented to open the
store and get a bottle or two of wine to replenish the supply required for a
late dance. The streets were shadowy stone trenches. Lights shone from the
windows of a few houses on the mountain where holiday parties were still in
progress.
As he approached the door of the store, using a flashlight, he observed that
the lock had been tampered with. But such a thing was sacrilege--never
happened in Saba. Mr. Carl summoned a black man, asked him to wait at the
door while he aroused the Schoolmaster.
The latter brought his revolver, and handed it over to Mr. Carl who kept the
weapon in front of him as he pushed the door open.
'Come out of there or I'll shoot', he cried. 'Go ahead and shoot', came a
deep voice. 'Ah's got no business in yo' place.' Sheepishly Jim crept into
the path of the flashlight.
Beside him on the floor were half a dozen tins of corned beef and a few
loaves of bread. While Mr. Carl had gone for help, Jim could easily have
escaped through the back door, but in emergencies his mind moved as slowly
as the hour hand of a clock.
Later a long procession, lighting its way with lanterns and flashlights,
with a gangling, gaunt figure at its head, travelled the winding trail to
The Bottom. There the Brigadier turned his key on Jim, and the islanders
were thrilled as they had not been in months.
Next day, the day after Christmas, Jim was summoned before the Receiver,
received a lecture and was told that he would be released if he apologized
to Mr. Carl, as the latter had decided not to press charges. So, at the head
of a curious group of villagers, Jim climbed back up the trail. Stepping
inside the Central Store, he removed the black derby which he had put on for
Christmas, and bowed stiffly.
'Mars' Carl', he said 'Ah's apologetic'.
'Go on you scamp', Mr. Carl replied jokingly. 'Get out of my shop'. There
followed for Jim the saddest day of his life. He could no longer swagger in
front of the 'ignorant' blacks. The money he had spent for ink and pens had
been spent in vain. Something important was missing. In a vague sort of way
he realized that the something important was reputation. Malicious minded
people, probably some of the 'ignorant' blacks whom he disliked, told him
that Mr. Carl had changed his mind and intended to have him locked up again.
Jim lost his heart for burdens. He wandered about the cliffs like one of the
jumbies he feared, though no jumbie ever drank the quantities of Bay Rum,
nor left in its wake anything so tangible as empty bottles.
On the sixth of January, Jim was missing. Groups of neighbors, white and
black, scoured the hills. Too late they discovered how important Jim was.
His body was found on the beach at Core Gut. where the sea had tossed it
upon the rocks. Near the spot where Jim was found, a huge grave was dug, and
the Government paid for the funeral. Down a path, treacherous even for a man
travelling alone, half a dozen islanders bore an empty coffin.
The Receiver and a large number of Sabans attended the service. The Rector
of the Anglican Church raised his voice above the roar of the waves; and
afterwards an old Sage offered a eulogy...
'Some of the missionaries in these islands who tried to cure Jim o' Bay Rum
drinkin' may be bearin' burdens beyond the gates o' hell, but those few
groceries ain't disturbin' his rest in Heaven.'
Later, when a group of natives climbed to Jim's hut, they found it guarded,
as always, with a giant boulder. Three men bent their shoulders to the rock,
and when it was rolled away, entered to find the tiny room bare, except for
the tipped logs which had been his bed, empty corned beef tins, and the
broken glass of Bay Rum bottles scattered on the floor to ward off jumbies.
