Beyond the shack lay a field of bananas that were engaged in what appeared to be a losing battle with ever persistent creepers and weeds. The farm track came to an end and we began to weave our way through the plantation itself, heading towards the foot of a tall ridge where we would begin our ascent. A dog barked somewhere in the distance and a solitary cock crowed. I sensed a warning against this tomfoolery, but brushed it off with a somewhat unconvincing shrug, following the slight figure of Gurry, my guide, as he arrived at the edge of the field.

The original trailhead had disappeared under a massive landslide in the hurricane of 2004. Our plan was to climb this ridge, hopefully pick up the old trace once we reached the top, and then, with any luck, follow it to the summit of the mountain. Gurry had not been here since Ivan had struck, and everyone had told us the trail had been lost to the storm and the inevitable advance of nature. There were a lot of unknowns on this journey and plenty to be concerned about, but I had a book to write and that meant getting to the location of Fédon’s last stand. Gurry grinned, as if reading my mind and then set off up the hill.

Julien Fédon purchased the Belvidere Estate in 1791. His family hailed from Martinique and his wife was a ‘free coloured’ or mulatto woman. Influenced by the French Revolution of 1789, Fédon began a rebellion against British rule of Grenada and the oppressive regime of ultra protestant planters in the early hours of 3 March 1795. Over the next year he captured much of the island using a militia of mulattos and slaves, raiding and plundering British owned estates, capturing and killing their owners and managers. This very bloody and costly uprising eventually ended on 9 June 1796 in a battle on the summit of what is now known as Morne Fédon or Fédon’s Camp when he and his followers were finally defeated in a fearsome battle. Fédon’s body was never recovered and legend has it he escaped by throwing himself down the mountain and sailing to Trinidad. To many, including Gurry, Julien Fédon is a heroic figure, symbolizing the fight for freedom and independence and, though many lost their lives during this 15 month insurgency, he is often lauded for his liberation of island slaves.

The ascent of the ridge was steep and muddy, the bush dense and very unforgiving. Forging ahead, we cut narrow strips of brightly-coloured cloth and tied them to trees to mark our path, determined our return journey would be a little easier. Both of us carried machetes and we needed them. My arms and legs burned with the exertion of clearing and climbing and when we reached the crest of the ridge I flopped to the ground in a heap. Gurry wandered off and soon returned smiling; he had found the old trace.

Sadly, any hopes of our journey becoming easier were soon dashed by a wall of landslides, fallen trees, razor grass thickets and tangled undergrowth. Clearly, no-one had been along here since Hurricane Ivan and the climb to the summit was now a nightmarish prospect. Huge candlewood trees, torn from the earth by winds stronger than I could imagine, blocked what remained of the path. Sometimes we would clamber over them, nervously hoping our feet would find firm ground on the other side; other times we would crawl in the mud beneath them, not daring to think about how fast they were wedged. In several places the trail and ridge crest had fallen away completely and we found ourselves swinging precariously around the broken bases of trees, desperately grasping at roots and branches, anything that seemed tethered, with nothing below us but air and no-one but a stray dog and a cockerel to ever hear our final cries. Everything was wet; the saturated ground, the tree trunks, the branches, the leaves, and even the air around us as we approached the moist cloud forest environment of moss, ferns and mountain palm. We slipped and fell more times than we could count, pulling ourselves up again with all the strength we could muster, our bodies soaked through and covered in a layer of slime. Razor grass ripped exposed skin from ankle to face, adding blood to the unappetizing soup. Beneath our sodden clothes, red ants marauded and chiggers hitched a ride in our most sensitive regions. But we had reached that point when nothing mattered other than getting there. Wearily we trudged on.

It took about five hours to reach the summit; a small circle of grass and rock with a stone memorial to Fédon standing at its centre. Grinning from ear to ear, we shook hands and slumped against the stone, out of breath, hearts beating so fiercely they threatened to jump right out of our chests. After a short time Gurry turned and sat facing the memorial to his folk hero. I left him in peace for a while before he caught my eye and nodded. And then off we set again.

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The Indian River lies below sea level and is tidal. Right now the waters are receding and the river banks ahead of us expose dark, dank mud flats where soldier crabs emerge and herons wait with baited breath. A kingfisher darts across the river ahead of us and Nature Boy emits a hoot of joy, no doubt relieved his tour is producing the goods. The afternoon is late and the low sun casts our long shadows across the sparkling water, revealing shoals of elusive mountain mullet and the rotting carcasses of tree trunks on the bottom.

My mind wanders to European sailors who anchored in the generous natural harbour of Ouyuhayo, later Prince Rupert Bay, and who ventured up this river in their less colourful yet more powerfully armed rowboats to unravel this magnificent and as yet undiscovered and unexploited country. Ahead of them were the foreboding volcanic peaks of Morne aux Diables and Diablotin, dense swathes of impenetrable rainforest, and to each side the unforgiving confusion and peril of Glanvillea Swamp. And what did the Kalinago think as they spied these strangers from the darkness ?

Nature Boy pulls up along side a damp and rotting wooden jetty, indicating a bush bar and the opportunity to drink. I swat sand flies from my ankles and follow him into the forest.

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He rose to his full height and scratched his balding head. It hurt. His clothes were torn, his skin grimy, and splashes of blood lay half-hidden on the front of his red silk shirt. Wiping his hands on the back of his black trousers, he looked around. The place was a wreck; smashed tables and chairs were strewn in splinters all about, shards of glass were all that remained of once elegant goblets, works of literature and fine art lay in shreds and tatters, and the smoke-filled air was a reminder of the fires that had burned. An old couple in contrasting rags of green and blue shuffled deeper into the dark recesses of the room like nocturnal animals; away from the day, away from him.

Gradually, others began to stir and sit up. Seemingly unable to look each other in the eye, their cheeks were flush with an embarrassment of sorrow, guilt and fear. Their gaunt faces tried to comprehend the wanton destruction they had wreaked, the terrible mess they had created, the inevitable clean-up task that lay ahead, but which would never be completed. They looked up at him, now towering above them like a giant and casting a long shadow across their feeble forms. His face carried no message at all. He lifted the latch and the starkness of reality invaded the room. Stepping outside, he slammed the door firmly shut behind him and smiled. The town was his.

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Les gendarmes arrested the masked men who turned out to be an an assortment of notable villagers and right-wing mercenaires imbeciles from Amerique Du Nord. Their leaders, a rather shamefaced duo of enfants terribles, Artur Mesange and Henri Sommaire, repeatedly declared their innocence, claiming Mayor Aboyer had granted them a licence to export a thousand bushels of cedar leaves. “They sounded like perroquets en coleres,” commented Pascal Le Phare, “C’est une indignation, they shouted. And they are right. But I am toujours so surprised when les gens intelligents de notre village have the wool pulled over their eyes by les imposteurs etrangers. Et vraiment, this is indeed une affaire tres triste. Evidement, without their leaves, our beautiful cedars simply become dead sticks, n’est ce pas ?”

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