Trade-Wind Cay

TRADE-WIND CAY

By A. Hyatt Verrill

First published in The Wide World magazine, 1 March 1924

To be marooned on a desert island sounds delightfully romantic, but the experience can be decidedly perilous and uncomfortable unless the place is selected with great care. This story describes the adventures of three men who found themselves stranded on an uninhabited islet, once the lair of pirates, in the Spanish Main.

THERE are few men, I believe, who have not, at some period of their lives, wished that they could spend a few months on a desert island. No doubt, could one choose the island, such an experience might be most interesting and enjoyable; but unfortunately, when Fate takes a hand and sees fit to give one a taste of Robinson Crusoe life, it does not leave the choice of locality to the castaway. And— take my word for it!—a Crusoe life on some desert islands is not one to envy.

During my many years of knocking about out-of-the-way spots in the American tropics, while exploring or carrying on scientific investigations, I have met with quite a few novel experiences, narrow escapes, and adventures, but I do not think that I encountered anything more nerve-racking and thoroughly objectionable than my taste of being marooned.

I had been for some months on the island of Santo Domingo, conducting a search for the supposedly extinct Solenodon Paradoxus —specimens of which, by the way, I secured after the creature had been lost to science for nearly seventy years—and had adopted a novel plan for tracing the whereabouts of the beasts. This consisted in having cards printed bearing a picture of the Solenodon and stating, in English, Spanish, French, and German, that I would purchase specimens alive or dead. These cards were posted to all outlying villages and officials, distributed in the markets, and given to all wayfarers met on the roads. Many a false trail had been followed when country people brought word that they knew where the “Jutias,” as they called the animals, could be found, and I had begun to despair when a man arrived with a tale of the “Jutias” haunting a small island in Samana Bay.

This bit of land, near the mouth of the huge bay, is about a mile in length by a quarter of a mile wide, and is semicircular or crescent-shaped in form. In olden days it was the haunt of buccaneers, who fortified it and transformed it into a veritable Gibraltar, where they defied the powers of the world. According to the natives, vast treasures were buried upon it, but they vowed that the pirate loot was guarded by evil spirits and demons and showed the utmost dread of the spot. With perfect sincerity they told how, at one portion of the island, there could be seen a great chest submerged in the clear water with a rusty chain leading from it to the rocky shore. Many a man, they declared, had attempted to haul up this treasure, only to find, as the chest reached the surface, that upon it there sat a most fearsome and awful monster, who instantly seized the unfortunate treasure seeker and dragged him to his death beneath the sea.

As far as I was concerned, the Solenodons which were supposed to inhabit the islet were of far more interest than either treasure or evil spirits, and being anxious to run down every possible clue, I at once made arrangements to visit Cayo Levantado, as the place is called, although to the Dominicans it is more often known by its old piratical name —Trade-Wind Cay. My black boy, Joseph, demurred a little at first, for he had listened wide-eyed to the native yarns, but being a Turks Island boy, and considering all the natives as “stupid niggers.” he finally agreed to accompany me and brave the devils of the island. Possibly thoughts of treasure-trove also influenced him. Then another individual expressed a desire to join the expedition. This was a young Dane, a man named Broberg whom I had met. He was crazy for adventure, a decent enough fellow, but absolutely lacking in common sense, and it was to him that most of our subsequent troubles were due. In fact, had it not been for Broberg I should never have been marooned and this story would never have been written.

As inquiries elicited the information that there was no fresh water on the island, although there were thousands of sea birds and a few wild goats and cattle, a plentiful supply of water was included in the outfit —enough to serve us for the three weeks I expected to be away—while to ensure against any trouble on this score, I arranged with the dusky skipper of the sloop which I chartered to transport us, to bring more water and supplies at the end of the first week. Then, to make assurance doubly sure, I borrowed an American flag from the United States Consul and asked a friend in the little town of Samana, from which the cay could be seen clearly with glasses, to send a relief vessel if the flag was seen “union down.”

With all possible contingencies, as I thought, thus provided for, we set sail well laden with supplies, water, collecting materials, and a sixteen-foot canvas canoe, which I thought might be useful in exploring the coves and lagoons.

A pleasant run of a dozen miles down the beautiful bay brought us abreast of the island, which lies off a wild, almost uninhabited stretch of coast where the jungle is broken only by one or two tiny native villages whose inhabitants bear a most unenviable reputation as smugglers, revolutionists, bandits, and cut-throats.

After some difficulty, for a heavy surf was breaking on the beach, everything was landed in safety. Promising faithfully to return in a week, the black skipper hoisted sail and went on his way.

The island was charmingly beautiful. Where we had landed, a crescent of snow-white sand stretched from a point to frowning limestone cliffs. At the foot of these a great rock stood a few feet from shore, its sides undercut by the waves until it had taken on the exact form of a gigantic turtle. Close by a flight of steps led up from the beach to the cliffs, which were literally honeycombed with passages, chambers, and vaults, while everywhere embrasures pierced the rock. Steps, walls, passages, rooms—all were hewn out of the solid rock, and I thought of the story the place could tell. Of toiling slaves—white, black, and red— driven by the pirates’ brutal blows, hewing away at the rock, as they laboured to form this fortress for their buccaneer captors. And yonder, on the strip of snowy sand, many a cargo of loot had been landed from pirate ships—laces and silks, velvets and satins, jewels and gold, bullion from mines, chalices and altar-pieces from desecrated churches, the treasures from countless sunken galleons and sacked towns.

Even far back in the tangled jungle we came upon evidences of the corsairs’ occupancy—crumbled walls of rock where once had been houses, great cisterns hewn from the limestone, rust-covered ancient cannon. Trees had rent the walls and their roots had riven the cisterns, the cannon were mere shells, ready to fall to red flakes at a touch, and apparently no human foot had trod the spot, no human hand disturbed the ruins or felled a tree since the day when the last of the freebooters had abandoned the cay.

Broberg, having no interest in science, was keen to dig and delve amid the ruins, searching for treasure or relics, and while Joseph and I selected a camp site near the beach, he took pick and shovel and began his excavations. To my delight I soon found that our informant had been right about the “Jutias” infesting the islet. On the beach were their footprints, and in the jungle we found places where they had torn fallen trees to pieces in their search for ants and grubs. But though we searched diligently we could not find one of the beasts, for they are nocturnal in their habit and hide away in caves and hollow trees during the day. However, I was not to find my trip profitless, for many species of rare birds also dwelt on the cay; there were several species of undescribed rats; insects and reptiles new to me were there, and my collections grew very rapidly as the days passed.

Above the tent near the beach flew the American flag, and Broberg, not to be outdone, added a Danish flag, while Joseph, being a most loyal and patriotic subject of Great Britain, produced from somewhere a tiny Union Jack to flaunt its folds in the wind.

And here I must mention—for it has a great bearing on subsequent events—that the island’s real ownership was somewhat doubtful. In olden days it had been owned by Spain; then it had fallen to the English buccaneers. Later it had become French, and with the uprising of the blacks had passed into the possession of Haiti. When the republic of Santo Domingo had come into being the island, through some oversight, had been omitted from the treaty, and as a bit of No Man’s Land had been claimed by England. Then, in still more recent years, the Dominicans had sold it —with adjacent shore lands —to an American company. Only the fact that it was practically worthless had prevented it from becoming a bone of diplomatic contention among the Powers, but as it was, nobody bothered as to who was the legitimate owner of the old buccaneers’ lair.

Troubles of a mild sort began to brew the first day of our stay. When we opened our supposedly fresh eggs, obtained from a countryman at Samana, we found that well grown chicks occupied the interiors. Disgustedly I threw mine aside and Josep followed suit.

But not so Broberg. Gulping down the contents of his, he carefully salvaged and devoured the others, remarking that in Denmark such eggs were considered a great delicacy and brought a high price. But even embryo-filled eggs palled upon the Dane. He longed for fresh meat or fish, and abandoned his excavations for the canoe and fishing tackle. Evidently, however, the throng of sea-birds had either exterminated or driven off all fish from the surrounding waters, and not even a nibble rewarded Broberg’s efforts.

Then he experimented with pelicans, gulls, frigate birds, and other winged denizens of the isle, but even his stomach rebelled at these.

As I have already mentioned, there were wild goats and cattle upon the cay, but in all our wanderings Joseph and I saw few of these, and not one allowed us to come within shot-gun range. Broberg, however, all else failing and having tired of digging, declared his intention of going on a goat hunt, and taking my Winchester set forth. As he was an execrable shot and became terribly excited whenever he saw game, I had little hopes of his securing meat, and remarking to Joseph that we’d have a try the next day, I started on my daily search for the elusive “Jutias.” As luck would have it, we actually saw one, the only one we ever did see on the cay—but despite the fact that it was in plain view, I was unable to shoot it.

When I returned to camp, very annoyed with myself, I found Broberg there as proud as the proverbial peacock over the carcass of a half-grown kid.

“Where’s the skin?” I asked, wondering how he had managed to dress the animal.

“Oh, I gave that to the men,” he replied, to my amazement. “They skinned and dressed it and I gave them the skin for their trouble.”

“Men!” I demanded. “What men?”

Then he explained. He had shot the kid, it appeared, on the edge of the cliff at the opposite extremity of the island, and the creature had dropped over the precipice. Looking down, he had seen it lying on a narrow shelf near the water, and without stopping to think had lowered himself down the rocky wall to where his game was stretched. Then, to his amazement and terror, he had discovered that he could not climb up the cliff and that the shelf ended a sheer wall on either side of where he stood. He could not swim —and there he was, alone with the dead kid on a narrow shelf of rock nearly sixty feet from the summit of the cliff and with the surf beating against the precipice a yard beneath his feet. To make his voice heard —he had left his rifle at the cliff top —was impossible, but thinking that by chance we might have heard his shot and strolled to the spot, he shouted lustily. Then, when he had almost given up hope, he caught sight of a fishing boat at a distance, and to his delight managed to attract the attention of the occupants. The men—two coal-black, rascally-looking Dominicans —could not speak a word of English, and Broberg’s knowledge of Spanish was most rudimentary. However, by dint of gestures and the few words he knew, he managed to make the fellows understand that he wished to be landed, and this having been accomplished, he got the two to skin and dress the kid. Not only had he given them the hide, but he had paid them far too liberally for their services, and in so doing had exhibited a good-sized roll of bills. Why they had not made away with him and taken possession of the money then and there was something of a puzzle to me, but somehow I had forebodings of trouble to follow, and I was not mistaken.

The very next morning Joseph, who had gone to the beach for a swim, came racing back, stating that a boat filled with men was landing. They carried guns, he added, and “look laik he boun’ for mek trouble.”

Even while he spoke I heard voices from the shore, and a moment later four men appeared before the camp.

They were the most brigandish, villainous-looking rascals I have ever seen, and the thought flashed through my mind that they might well be some of the old buccaneers come suddenly to life.

The leader was a chocolate-coloured fellow with an enormous black moustache, bushy brows, red eyes, and a cruel mouth. His face was disfigured by innumerable pock-marks, and he was garbed in odds and ends of uniform. His hat was a battered sombrero, his coat a ragged green affair heavy with tarnished gold braid and battered epaulettes; his trousers were —or rather had once been— scarlet and were patched with every colour; the stripes down the legs had been replaced with silver fringe. His feet were bare; a torn and filthy blue denim shirt half covered his body, and about his waist was a twisted strip of canary-yellow cloth through which were thrust a wicked-looking machete and an ancient revolver. His three companions were ragged, dirty, and dressed in much-patched, baggy blue denim. All three wore battered military caps and held ready cocked antique fifty-calibre Remingtons, which they kept pointed most disconcertingly in our direction.

Bowing and saluting, though a ferocious frown drew his beetling eyebrows together, the leader spoke, using the bastard Dominican-Spanish which the natives refer to grandiloquently as “Castiliano.”

“Señor,” he said, addressing me. “Permit me to introduce myself. I” —here he drew himself up to his full five feet four and thumped his chest— “I am the Commandante of La Cacao” (the tiny village in the jungle opposite). “I have come to demand satisfaction. You have killed a goat, the property of one of my citizens. You have destroyed that to which you have no right., and I am here to exact reparation.”

I could not restrain a grin at his pompous attitude and ridiculous speech. The goats, I knew, were wild and belonged to no one, but I at once realized how it had come about. The men with the kid’s skin had reported our presence and Broberg’s act. They had told of his money and his readiness to part with it, and the Commandante—who was no doubt a thief and bandit by profession — had gathered unto himself his bodyguard, if not his entire “army,” and had come to the cay to rob us. If we refused to pay whatever he demanded there was nothing to prevent him from shooting us, with no one the wiser, while if we did stand and deliver he would probably order us all to be shot to prevent our reporting him to the authorities. Mentally I cursed Broberg and wished he had never joined me. Cursing the Dane, however, would not get us out of our dilemma. Those yawning black muzzles in the hands of the dirty “soldiers” were most disconcerting, and the fellows’ fingers were terribly unsteady. Joseph had sought safety in the tent, where he crouched behind my boxes, and Broberg, shaking with terror, stood at one side, gazing with horrified eyes at the menacing guns. Our arms were all in the tent, my revolver resting on a camp table near Joseph, my Winchester leaning against a box and the shot-gun beside it. And, even if we had had them, they were useless —for not one was loaded!

All this flashed through my mind so quickly that I doubt if the glowering Commandante noticed my hesitancy.

“You say that a goat was killed and that the animal was the property of someone at La Cacao, Senor Commandante,” I said at last. “Why, then, have you not brought proofs? Where is the owner? How can anyone swear that the goat —if goat there were —was his? And what is a kid, anyway —a matter of a few centavos?”

The Commandante threw out his chest and his eyes fairly blazed. “Do you question my word?” he demanded, while his men straightened as if expecting the order to shoot. “I am the Commandante, and I say the goat was killed, and that it was the property of a caballero in my village. That caballero, Señor, is myself! And as for the value of the chibo, that, Señor, is not as you say a matter of centavos. No, Señor; his value is ten pesos, not one centavo less.”

Ten pesos for a kid! My blood boiled at the idea, but before I could speak Broberg interrupted. “Oh, go ahead and pay him,” he cried, having got the drift of my conversation. “What does he want? Tell him I’ll pay.”

As he spoke he drew that accursed roll of banknotes from his pocket, and the eyes of the Commandante and the soldiers were riveted upon it. “I made a mistake, Señor,” said the Commandante, without turning his eyes from the bills. “The value of the goat, I find, is fifty pesos.”

I could have murdered Broberg! But I had had much experience with Latin-Americans and Dominicans and I had a faint hope that there might yet be a way out of the difficulty.

“I cast no doubt on the Senor Commandante’s word as a gentleman,” I said. “But, as the Commandante knows, others may also come to claim money for the goat. If you are the owner and receive payment, then, no doubt, you will be willing to give a receipt.”

A cunning look crossed his face and his cruel lips smiled. “Of a truth, why not?” he replied. “It is but a matter of business.”

“Then, Senor, I will get pen and paper,” I said, inwardly a little doubtful as to whether my ruse would work. Stepping into the tent and turning my back to the rascals, which I felt might spell my doom, I moved to where the guns leaned against the box and pretended to rummage among the things therein. “Quick, Joseph!” I whispered in English. “Take my revolver and act as if it were loaded. Don’t show fear —they’re cowards; stupid niggers, you know — and we’ll bluff them. Quick! while my body hides you.”

Joseph, who was really no coward at heart and realized the necessity of instant action, seized the revolver. Broberg was close beside me, and I ordered him to stand by the shot-gun and be ready to grasp it and cock it as I faced the Commandante. Then, suddenly grabbing up the rifle, I wheeled round and strode towards the amazed four.

“Señor,” I exclaimed, ostentatiously cocking the rifle. “Permit me to state that you are a thief and a liar!”

A look of fury swept over the Commandante’s features and he opened his lips to speak, but I interrupted him. “Moreover,” I went on. “You and your men are trespassers on American property. See that flag?” —I nodded towards the bunting overhead— “The United States Government has taken possession of this island. If your goats are upon it you are liable to pay damages. I give you just three minutes to get off this cay. Go!”

The Commandante might well have asked what the flags of England and Denmark were doing there, but possibly he thought that the three Powers had joined hands in acquiring the bit of land. He gritted his teeth, his moustache bristled; there was murder in his eyes. For a moment he hesitated.

“One half of the first minute has passed,” I reminded him, fingering the rifle.

The Commandante stared at Joseph, who was holding the revolver a bit waveringly. Then his eyes swept Broberg and the double-barrelled shot-gun, and finally rested upon the high-powered Winchester in my own hands. He glanced ruefully at his three ragged men, with their ancient Remingtons, at the rusty old pistol in his sash, and his mind was made up. His force outnumbered ours, but the advantage as to weapons was all on our side.

Discretion, he knew, was the better part of valour.

With his face still a thundercloud, he bowed.

“I regret, Señor,” he said, “that a slight error has been made. Possibly those who gave information were mistaken, or perhaps they lied, quien sabe? I am sure, Señor, that the Americanos have destroyed nothing belonging to others. A thousand pardons for inconveniencing the Señores. Adios!”

With a sharp order to his men, the Commandante strode off at the head of his “army,” and a few moments later the punitive expedition from La Cacao was bobbing on the waves, headed for the village.

Broberg, limp and nerveless, sank down, Joseph grinned, and I cursed the Dane for an idiot, but we all felt vastly relieved.

We soon found, however, that our unwelcome visitors had not surrendered and retreated without reprisals. When Joseph went to our store of water and supplies beside the canoe on the beach a yell brought us rushing to him. Not a drop of water remained! The angry Commandante and his men had knocked the bungs from every keg, smashed every demijohn, and gone off with fully half the provisions!

Nevertheless, it was not as bad as it might have been. In two days the sloop would arrive, and with care we could manage for that length of time with what we had in camp. When the two days passed, however, and no sail appeared, I began to grow troubled. If that black skipper failed us we should be marooned without water, and with mighty short rations of food. To be sure, we could hoist the flag union-down and summon aid, but several days might elapse before help came.

Twenty-four hours more went by, and still there was no sign of rescue, and matters began to look desperate. Directly the prearranged time had elapsed, we hoisted the flag union-down, but not a flicker of a sail showed on the bay. There seemed nothing to be done but to attempt to reach shore in my frail canoe. It was a desperate undertaking, for the trade wind was blowing very strongly, a heavy sea was running, and the nearest point of the mainland was fully six miles distant. Even then there would be a long and hazardous trip to any settlement, and for more than one of us to attempt the passage was impossible. However, I decided to try, but before 1 had gone fifty feet from the shelter of the island the little craft was swamped, and it was only with the utmost difficulty that I managed to reach the beach and save the canoe.

We were now down to less than a quart of water for the three of us. In our extremity we investigated the old pirate cisterns, but not one contained a drop of water. Then we bethought ourselves of those most handy of properties for writers of castaway stories —the coconut palms. But there was not a coconut palm on the island. Two bitter wild lemons were the only fruit we could find, and these were worse than nothing. We dug into the sandy, rocky soil and were at last rewarded by a trickle of water, but when we tasted it we found it was as salt as the sea itself.

The next day our last drop of water was exhausted and we resorted to drinking the juice of tinned fruits, but this seemed to increase rather than to relieve our thirst.

We were literally marooned—cast away on a desert island without water. That night a short shower fell, and the next morning we managed to secure a little more than a pint of dirty water from hollows in the rocks, but the mere taste of the lukewarm liquid made us thirstier than ever. The only way we could get any relief was by lying immersed in the sea. Not one of us got any sleep that night, and when day dawned we felt that we were facing death in its most terrible form.

Almost hopelessly we gazed across that waste of blue water, searching for a sail, for any craft we might signal. And then, so suddenly and unexpectedly that for a moment I thought myself delirious, a boat appeared within fifty yards of where we stood.

Wildly we hailed it, and in a few moments it had grated on the beach. The craft was the craziest thing 1 had ever seen afloat.. It was a huge dug-out or cayuca, formed from a ceiba log, but so ancient, so rotten, and so leaky that I marvelled it could float. It was patched with bits of tin, a crack extended from end to end, and the only thing that prevented it from falling apart was telegraph wire wound around and around the hull. Its occupants were almost as villainous-looking as the Commandante and his men. They were filthy, wild-faced, half-naked negroes, and their sole supply of water consisted of a gin-bottle full of evil-tasting liquid. But a yacht could not have been more welcome to us; the piratical-looking fishermen were Samaritans in our eyes, and the mingled flavours of poor gin, fish, and brackish water passed unnoticed as we eagerly drained the bottle.

Rapidly I made known our desire to reach shore, and, to their credit be it said, the negroes neither stopped to haggle nor demanded an exorbitant price. Once we were afloat, however, I began to think we had merely traded death by thirst for death by drowning. With the added burden of the three of us and our luggage the ancient dug-out was brought below its accustomed level, and water poured in through countless unstopped holes and cracks. The strain of our weight opened the cracks, and a perfect fountain gushed into the boat at every roll. With Broberg and Joseph bailing for their lives, I tore my handkerchief, my shirt, and even my coat into shreds and strove to caulk the leaks, but all in vain. Despite every effort, the water gained, and it was evidently but a question of minutes before the boat would fill and go down. The harder the now thoroughly frightened boatmen pulled on their oars, the more the crazy craft strained and the faster it leaked, and with nearly six inches of water in the bottom, we gazed shoreward to see that we had covered less than half the distance.

There was only one thing to be done, one chance of reaching land, and that was to jettison cargo and so relieve the boat of weight. Then I decided to take to the canoe. Placing all the cases and boxes I thought it would stand in the tiny craft, I embarked, and trusting to the lee of the dug-out breaking the worst of the waves, seated myself in the stern and started. But I soon found that to keep alongside the other craft was impossible. I could not hope to keep afloat unless I paddled head-on into the seas or ran before them. The former was impossible, as such a course would lead me to the open sea. Shouting to Broberg and Joseph and receiving assurances that the boat, relieved of my weight and the boxes, was in no danger of sinking, I swung my canoe about and headed up the bay towards Samana. Each sea drenched me and every few moments I was forced to stop paddling and bail. A score of times the craft came within a hair’s breadth of capsizing, but still I kept on, exerting all my skill and striving to work inshore. It was horribly slow work. The afternoon was passing, the sun was setting, and in an hour or two it would be pitch dark. I could not tell how the others had fared, for I dared not turn my head. Almost imperceptibly the shores grew nearer, and when night fell I was in calmer water in the lee of a cape and half-way to Samana. The worst was over. Almost exhausted I managed to beach the canoe at a point where a tiny stream trickled into the bay, and fairly revelled in the fresh cool water. Then, having eaten and drunk my fill, I resumed my journey. As I proceeded I was filled with fears for the others. If all had gone well they should have overtaken me by now, for they could have secured a sailing boat at the fishing village, and yet I had seen nothing of them.

At midnight I reached Samana, moored my craft and, with aching muscles and unsteady legs, walked to our house. Imagine my amazement when, opening the door, I found Broberg and Joseph just finishing a hearty repast.

The rascals had been there for two hours. There had been no sail-boat at the village, but there were horses, and here the two were, thoroughly enjoying themselves, although they seemed as dumbfounded at my appearance as I had been at theirs. Indeed, as both declared, they felt sure that I had been drowned.

The next thing I did, of course, was to hunt up the skipper of the sloop and my friend who had promised to aid us. Sloop and skipper, however, were missing, and not until months later did I discover that he was reposing in jail at Savanna la Mar and had been there since two day’s after leaving us on the cay, while my friend, who was consular agent, had been called away unexpectedly on business and had quite forgotten to notify anyone of the pre-arranged signal.

A week after we had reached Samana, as I was seated in my room one morning 1 heard a voice outside that sounded oddly familiar. Evidently the speaker was having an argument with Joseph, and stepping to the window, I peered out. There, dressed in spotless white, his face shining with coconut oil and perspiration, but as villainous in appearance as ever, stood the “Commandante” of La Cacao!

As he caught sight of me he swept off his hat with a flourish. “Ah,” he exclaimed, beaming, “it is the Americano Señor. It is the most glorious day of my life that I find you well! I have been desolated for fear that the evil ones on the cay had brought you misfortune, Señor. Can the great Americano Señor, in the kindness of his heart, pay me for the kid? Just the few centavos you mentioned, Señor. Nothing—”

“You unspeakable scoundrel!” I cried “Thought you’d kill us by thirst, did you? Caramba! I’ve a mind to ask the Alcalde to have you marooned there without water!’’

The man’s face was a strange mingling of fear, rage, and surprise. “Señor”—he began.

But I had had enough of him. As I looked at that evil pock-marked face all my worries and sufferings and that nightmare trip in the canoe came vividly to my mind. Leaping through the open window, I sprang at him. But the Commandante of La Cacao was no fool; moreover, he was fleet of foot. As I landed where he had stood but an instant before, he was out of reach—of all but the toe of my boot, and that thumped delightfully upon the seat of his immaculate trousers.

“Stoopid niggers,” remarked Joseph with a grin. “He mos’ surely is pure corruption!”

Afterword

A very good internet friend, Alan Schenker, with an interest in Verrill, sent me this at my request. I now recognise that I have read the story before; but some more details seem apparent in this version.

Trade-Wind Cay or Cayo Levantado is presented in its 2020 version. It is now an exclusive resort! The isle is about 300 metres by 1 kilometre. It is located 1.6 km offshore, 7 km from Samana.

Years ago we vacationed at Puerto Plata, a resort community 100 kilometers NW from Samana Bay; that is why I retained the interest in ‘Trade-Winds Cay’. /drf