Approaching Cap-Français
April 1799

Some years ago, along a long sandy beach on the island of St. Croix in the Danish West Indies colony, two young boys were taking turns diving under the azure blue Caribbean waters on the west side of Gallows Bay. One after the other, they would bring up conch shells and toss them on the rocks, adding to a growing pile already harvested.

“Alex, I think we’ve got enough now, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, we’ve got a nice haul today, Ned! We did good, Mon!”

“Mama will be pleased. She loves lobster and conch,” replied Ned. “Let’s get a couple more bugs—more would be perfect for Sunday dinner. There are some in that hole down below.”

“Beat you to it!” Alex smiled, taking a deep breath and disappearing under the surf. Ned filled his lungs with air and quickly followed with a lobster snare in his hand. He dove down, weighted by a belt of rocks hidden in pouches of cloth around his waist which his mother had sewn for him last Christmas. It helped him dive rapidly and fight his buoyancy on the surface.

Ned arrived on the ocean floor to find Alex already working the small cave, his arm deep within the cavity. The sand was jetting out of the cave’s mouth and he knew instantly that Alex had snared a prize—and what a prize it was; a Caribbean lobster of at least four pounds!

The crustacean was fighting as hard as it could to remain in the safety of its hole as Ned kicked harder in Alex’s direction to help. Ned grabbed onto Alex’s snare, already lassoed to the creature, and the two yanked as hard as they could to dislodge the lobster’s legs from the coral points to which it had anchored. It wasn’t budging as it waited for the two boys to exhaust the oxygen in their lungs. Alex looked at Ned and held up three fingers—the sign of a secret maneuver they had executed many times before.

Three, two, then one finger—and the boys pushed the snare towards the bug—their name for Caribbean lobsters—giving the crustacean a false sense of victory. The crustacean temporarily dislodged its grip on the rocks and attempted to head backward. Just then, Ned and Alex gave a synchronized pull of the snare and the lobster lifted, legs scrambling to grab coral or rock as the boys pushed off from the ocean bottom with their muscled legs.

They breached the surface gulping the salty air to refill their lungs. The two boys looked at each other and burst into laughter.

“She’s the one Alex. She’s the prize of the catch! Let’s take a look to make sure she has no eggs. Would be a shame to throw her back.”

The boys waded over to a huge black rock and threw the lobster upon it, holding the snare tight so it wouldn’t wander back into the water. They flipped the bug onto its side, inspecting her bottom for any reddish eggs. Finding none, they looked at each other and laughed the childish, innocent laugh of twelve-year-olds and laid their backs on the huge sun-warmed rock, exhausted and panting after the ordeal.

Ned watched as pelicans dove after a school of fry, the small silvery main staple of Spanish Mackerel, Bonito, Barracuda, and Tuna. He looked up at the sky; the sun was bright and hot, just how he liked it. He’d certainly burn under it if not for the smelly lard-based concoction his mother cooked up in the kitchen to protect his skin. He promised her to always wear it. Next to him, Alex suddenly sat up.

“Ned, promise you’ll always stay here on St. Croix with me. We could sell our catches to the ships that visit. We could even salt some. We are good fishermen, you and me. We make a great team.”

“I’ll never leave this place. Alex,” answered Ned. “There’s nowhere else for me like this.” 

In the distance, the two boys could hear a voice calling.

 “Masta Ned, Masta Ned, Masta Ned!”

Ned raised his hand and waived in acknowledgment.

“About that time. Seems they’ve sent Aksel to fetch us.”

Alex and Ned placed their haul into two canvas bags; four lobsters, eight conchs, and two large Spanish mackerels.

“Our moms will be pleased, Ned” Alex said with excitement. “We will all eat well this day!”

As it was on every Sunday, their mothers would send the boys to hunt for seafood to bring back to the traditional Sunday supper attended by the Stevens and Hamilton clans. The slave Aksel arrived to retrieve the conch, lobster, and fish and begin the cleaning and filleting process.

“Masta Ned, you boys done good!” Aksel smiled large as he peered into the bags.

“That we did, Aksel. Here; Alex and I want you to have this for your family’s supper today.”

Ned held up a Spanish Mackerel and a two-pound lobster, thrusting them toward the slave.

“I cannot accept that Mon, you should know that by now. I would get a whipping if anyone caught me,” Aksel said. “No slave is allowed to eat that good.”

“It’s always been our secret, Aksel. We’ve never been caught before—go ahead, take it,” replied Ned.

“Yeah Aksel, take it why don’t ya,” Alex said.

“But I’s a slave, Masta.”

“Well, you’re no slave to us. You’re our friend. So take the food and keep it between us,” Ned insisted. “If it were up to me and Alex, there would be no slaves.”

Aksel smiled back as Alex and Ned both looked at Aksel as a true friend and equal. Though only fifteen, Askel had a family of young brothers, sisters, and a mother to feed. His father had been senselessly killed by the hand of a ruthless Danish sailor many years ago. 

Ned looked across the beautiful beach, filled with coconut trees and sea grapes, and out towards the ocean. He took one deep breath, then another, as oxygen rushed into his lungs and refreshed him to the point of giddiness. On the horizon, a schooner was slowly sailing toward them. He loved the islands dearly. He closed his eyes—the constant lapping waves only broken by the sound of his name being called from a distance over and over again…

“Dr. Stevens… Dr. Stevens … Dr. Stevens?!”

….