I have only once visited the Black Republic, and that was some years ago, when I was still a midshipman. I was in the Argo then, a curious old tub that has long since been scrapped. We had been cruising about the islands and enjoying ourselves hugely, when the captain received orders to bring certain pressure to bear upon the Black Republicans. I don’t know what the fuss was about; that didn’t concern me. What did interest me was the fact that we—myself and four other “snotties”—were allowed shore-leave for the afternoon.

A strange wild place the island looked as we approached it in the picket-boat: a huge tumbled mass of bare mountain peaks, for all the world like a crumpled newspaper thrown down on a blue carpet. It was beautiful too in this glare of the tropical sun, with its gleaming grey rocks and dark forest belt, and the straggling lines of white houses that backed the harbour.

As we drew nearer we could see the yellow lateen sails of little fruit-boats that crowded round the quay, the green sun-blinds of houses, and the white dresses and brilliant red and blue parasols of the ladies who thronged the promenade—a regular kaleidoscope of dazzling colour points. And we promised ourselves a jolly afternoon of exploration and ramble.

But no sooner had we rounded the mole and entered the harbour than the whole aspect changed. It is difficult to convey a true impression of the extreme shabbiness and tawdriness of the scene. It fell like a blight upon us, and our spirits sank down into our boots. The whole surface of the harbour was covered with a scum of dirt and oil in which floated banana skins, bits of orange-peel, matches, and dead flies, while the quay was pervaded by an indescribable stench, heavy and sweet, like an old dust-bin.

We came alongside and walked up the steps, slipping on fishes’ heads and fruit skins; and everywhere we were met by the same dirty finery and pretentious tawdriness. Crowds of ladies walked up and down the parade—black ladies, dressed in dirty white frocks and darned canvas shoes. Their brilliant parasols were torn, and their hat-feathers dishevelled like those of a scare-crow.

Innumerable soldiers—black men, of course—thronged the streets, strutting with indescribable self-satisfaction. But they were as shabby as the “ladies”, in their dirty cocked-hats, their concertina-like trousers, and tunics stuck all over with medals and orders like Christmas-trees. We discovered from the Commander afterwards that the whole army consists of officers, very few of them below the rank of Major-general. They are inordinately proud of their medals, and quite amazingly inefficient.

It was really beastly—there is no other word to describe it—so beastly that we snotties walked along in silence, unable at first to realize how funny it all was. Presently a huge black major-general, decked with gold tinsel epaulets and as many orders as the Lord High Executioner, came across to us and saluted with magnificent gusto.

“What the deuce does the old buffer want?” whispered Jones to me.

“Me speak Englees,” said the major-general, and paused.

“Well, out with it, old son; what do you want?” asked Jones disrespectfully.

And then at last we saw the humour of the whole ramshackle system; for what in the world should this affected old turkey-cock of a major-general want, but to carry the bag which contained our towels and tea for the modest sum of half a crown! We roared with laughter; and at that moment our 1st Lieutenant came along.

“Get out! no want!” he said; and the disconcerted major-general slunk away with the most humorous expression of offended pride and grovelling servility.

“I shouldn’t stay in the town,” said the lieutenant; “it stinks. If you carry on down the road, you will come to a first-rate bathing-place.”

And so we did.