The rape of Augusta
BUILT ON a swamp between the 1740s and ’50s, Fort Augusta’s objective was to protect the western section of Kingston Harbour. Yet, Fort Augusta, located in St Catherine, and built of bricks and stones, is still waiting for an invasion, or is it?
During its construction, many people died from fevers and insect bites. Many more lives were lost there when in 1763, the magazine containing 3,000 barrels of gun powder was struck by a bolt of lightning. It is said that over 300 people were killed and the explosion caused damages to home 17 miles away. By 1765 the fort got a new magazine, and by 1770 it was capable of holding 1,400 barrels of gun powder.
The research did not reveal when it was transformed into a prison for women, but its use for such came to an end in March last year. The inmates were removed to the South Camp Road Rehabilitation Centre. And the facility was abandoned, it seems.
I chanced upon it recently on one of my treks. The entrance gate appeared to be closed, but when I reached it, I realised that a smaller gate within that entrance was open. I let myself in. Not a soul was in sight, so I pressed on. And then I stopped with arms akimbo, wondering when ‘Hurricane Vandal’ had blown over Fort Augusta. Signs of vandalism were everywhere.
Not one of the modern structures was spared. Door jambs are yearning for the return of their doors. Window spaces need no blinds or curtains. To block out what? The roofs seem to have flown away with the winds. The former dorms and cells are now shells, echoing the cry of anguish and pain of those who dwelled there. All the metal bed frames have been sawn from the walls covered with graffiti that reveal the names and other peculiarities of the former inmates. I also saw a book full of their names and when they were released.
Many pieces of rejected scrap metals are strewn all over. Nobody should walk in that place in the dark. Cables have been dug from the ground, leaving gaping trenchlike openings. The copper was
removed and the useless metals left behind. Razor-sharp security metal coils are on the ground keeping company with the grass. They have no one to restrain and intimidate, so they have gone to eternal rest.
The old chapel, also made of thick brick and stone walls, seems to be the best preserved of the ancient structures. The ‘tunnels’ at the back and side of it were wet and replete with garbage. Inside the arched-ceiling room there is only one bench of invisible worshippers, perhaps annoyed at my intrusion. On the walls are a few plaques bearing interesting inscriptions.
Back outside, it was time to ‘tour’ the brick-and-stone fortress itself. Its thick walls seem sturdy and strong, though sections of it, ravaged by time and lashed by the sea, are crumbling. From it, the vistas of Kingston Harbour, Port Royal and the Hellshire Hills are picturesque, yet the sight of the polluted sea pounding the base of the fort is not so flattering.
Not one of the 80 cannon placed strategically around the fort by 1768 was ever fired in war. The paranoia of the English was in vain. I saw four of them, which the saltladen air has turned into rusting, flaking, redundant and impotent dogs without a bite. While they faced the sea looking out for ships to blast apart, an invasion of sort took place behind their back, and the invaders are long gone with their ‘treasures’.
Fort Augusta is a part of the story of the fortification of Jamaica, and its ancient stone and brick walls hold the secrets and narratives of the men who were stationed there, and women who were imprisoned within. It used to be their home. Why, then, was this prime heritage site left for all and sundry to plunder and rape?
Augusta, the mother of King George III, for whom it was named, might just be cursing in her grave, shouting, “Remove my name from it, I do not deserve this! It is an insult to my honour!” Poor Augusta.