The Tribune

IN his column on page 18 of today’s edition, Larry Smith writes about what is today called “counterfactual history”— as he explains, it is “an attempt to answer hypothetical questions by considering what would have happened if certain key historical events had not occurred”.

In our university days, this was one of our favourite pastimes, only we called it the “What if …” game. For example, what would have been the outcome of the battle of Waterloo if the night before the battle a heavy rain had not turned the ground into a slushy bog, thus delaying Napoleon’s attack and giving the armies under the Duke of Wellington, joined by Blucher and his Prussians, a headstart by being the first on the Belgian battlefield. And then there was Montgomery and Rommel at el Alamein in the Second World War and the part the hot desert sands of North Africa, and the parched throats of the thirsty Germans contributed to the defeat of that famous German commander’s tank division.

We spent hours of our leisure time racing through history and turning all sorts of events upside down, speculating as to what the world would be today if certain events had not occurred, and the various outcomes had been different.

In his column, Larry went on to discuss the revival of Clement Bethel’s “The Legend of Sammie Swain,” which as he says is today a classic Bahamian folk opera. “Dis me, Sammie Swain” is a musical experience that no one should miss.

Reading Larry’s column turned on our “what if” switch and set us thinking of what a masterpiece and a musical talent would have been missed if the late Sir Etienne Dupuch, writing about the stories he was told as a child, had not sat down one night and over a period of several evenings in 1955 written the “Legend of Sammie Swain.”

One day in the early eighties, Clement came to our offices to discuss the Sammie Swain story with Sir Etienne. Clement remembered the story, which had inspired him at the time, but had later set his musical brain on fire when he was in search of a folklore theme to to turn into a musical score. He said he had an idea. Sammie, the star-crossed lover was the kernel of that idea.

Clement and Sir Etienne went down into The Tribune’s morgue — a place in an editorial office where the dead files are stored — and the search for Sammie and his elusive Belinda, a love story created 28 years before, had started. Clement in the following days, notepad in hand, made several trips to the morgue.

Launched in April 1983, The Tribune records that the musical had a successful two-week run at the Dundas Civic Centre — later the Dundas Centre for the Performing Arts. Since then it has been added to and developed into the spectacular show that it is today.

“Born in 1899,” Sir Etienne wrote, “I am a child of the century, but the Sammie Swain story goes far back into the last century. It was one of the stories told me as a child when people got together in the evening to spin a yarn or two. There was nothing else to do in those quiet days in Nassau.

“The best part of the story,” he wrote, “could not be reproduce on the stage. It was what happened to Sammie, the rejected cripple, and Belinda, the beauty of the village in Cat Island, after fear, born of human hatreds, sent both of them to an early grave. It was then that God himself came into the story and bestowed everlasting happiness on these two unhappy earth people in His own glory-land on the far side of Jordan.”

Sir Etienne was the last of the great story tellers. Tired of the political squabbles of the day, he would often break away from them in this column and turn to his favourites — the ghosts and goblins that haunted a land that earlier in its history had not yet heard of the electric light or the motor car.

One of his favourite stories was the legend of the Chicharnies, the legend of three-fingered dwarfs who are supposed to have lived a secluded life in the forests of Andros. “These mysterious little people,” he wrote, “did not interfere with anyone, but Androsians feared them because as the story goes, they could become vicious if anyone crossed their path, especially during one of their ritualistic ceremonies.”

Their curse, according to Androsians, haunted British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain to his grave.

As the story goes, Sir Neville’s father, Joseph, owned an estate in Andros. Sir Neville, as a young man, was sent out for a short time to manage the estate. One day, he made the mistake of cutting down many of the trees on his property — the home of the Chicharnies. According to Androsians, every time his appeasement policies got him into political hot water in London, Adrosians would shake their heads sorrowfully, wag a finger and declare: “Dat’s de curse of dat dem chicharnies!”

Whether the chicharnies are out and about now turning this country upside down is anybody’s guess. But to cool modern tempers, instead of wasting so much time on their devious little plots, we would suggest that the politicians soften their bitter venom with the “What if game” – it might lead them to greener pastures and help them create a brighter future for us all.