I regret I write with grimness in this festive season. Perhaps it is good to remember that for countless millions in the world this is, as T S Eliot reminded us in the greatest poem ever written about the birth of Christ, “Just the worst time of the year.” So this column records an event which I vividly remember once cast a shadow for me over the festival of goodwill and love and peace.
Soon after I joined the old Bookers years and years ago the last shipment of mules in the history of the sugar industry arrived in Port Georgetown. There were about 300 tall, strong Texas mules, frustrated and angry after their long sea voyage. The flimsy means to contain them on delivery at Thom and Cameron wharf proved ridiculously inadequate. They broke loose and ran marvellously wild through the town. For days, Texas mules were still being found and lassoed in various parts of the city. It was the last great mule stampede and the whole town laughed.
That morning long ago I was reminded of the great, uproarious mule run. But then, in a flash of man’s inhumanity, laughter turned to bitter disgust. Let me describe, in this Christmas season, what happened, if you will believe it.
My office was on the second floor of then Bookers Universal Building and through my window I looked down on bustling Church Street,
