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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.

This page was last updated on 06/29/2008