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By Sheldon Pemberton,

In the charged air of 1967, as the Caribbean stirred under the weight of independence movements and faltering colonial ties, the island of St. Kitts simmered in political tension. It was a time when mere whispers could become allegations, and dissent could be disguised as sedition.
June 10, 1967, is remembered in the official record as the day of an attempted coup — a ragtag team from Anguilla, disenchanted with Premier Robert Bradshaw’s rule, allegedly launched an invasion into St. Kitts to topple his government. But what if that story, so often repeated, was little more than a convenient fiction?
The truth is far murkier — and far more revealing.
What was publicly hailed as a bold coup attempt may have been nothing more than a poorly fabricated narrative. No hard evidence ever surfaced proving a coordinated plot of magnitude. No weapons caches were uncovered. No definitive communications were intercepted. No clear hierarchy of command was established. And virtually no connection to any local resistance leaders in St. Kitts — except one name that Labour propagandists clung to: John J. Reynolds.

A Grandfather on Trial: The Political Persecution of John J. Reynolds
Reynolds, a former police inspector and respected member of the opposition People’s Action Movement (PAM) was swiftly arrested and detained under emergency powers mere hours after the alleged insurrection. For two full months, he was held without charge, without proof, without due process.
But he was not alone.
In the aftermath of the June 10 events, the Bradshaw-led Labour Government launched a full-scale crackdown on the opposition. Prominent PAM leaders and activists across St. Kitts were arrested, harassed, and intimidated. Homes were raided. Businesses tied to PAM supporters were targeted. Political gatherings were infiltrated. It was a campaign not of law and order, but of fear and suppression — a desperate attempt to silence the growing momentum of a people-powered movement.
Founded in 1965, PAM had quickly become a rising force in Kittitian politics. Its message of accountability, empowerment, and progress resonated with a public tired of autocratic rule and political intimidation. By 1967, Bradshaw and the Labour establishment could feel the ground shifting beneath their feet. Their once-unchallenged dominance was cracking — and PAM’s surge in popularity posed the gravest threat yet to the old order.

Justice from the Highest Court
When the case reached the Privy Council in London — not once, but twice — it became clear that the narrative spun by the Bradshaw administration was collapsing.
The Privy Council ruled decisively:
● The Emergency Powers Regulations under which Reynolds was arrested were unconstitutional.

● The Indemnity Act, hastily passed to shield the government from legal consequences, was invalid.

● The detention of Reynolds was illegal, and damages were awarded.

These weren’t minor procedural errors — they were fundamental breaches of constitutional rights. The rulings didn’t just clear John J. Reynolds — they undermined the very legitimacy of the so-called June 10th “coup.” They revealed a government so desperate to maintain control that it manufactured an enemy and imprisoned its critics.

A False Flag and a Failing Regime
The case of AG v. John J. Reynolds stands not just as a legal victory, but as a historical reckoning. It casts serious doubt on the existence of any real insurrection on June 10 — instead painting a picture of a government clinging to power through fear, fiction, and force.
That era was not marked by revolutionaries storming the gates — it was marked by ordinary citizens and principled leaders being painted as traitors to preserve a faltering status quo.
The Labour Government’s crackdown, its use of unconstitutional emergency powers, and its attempts to indemnify itself against justice were all signs not of strength, but of a regime in retreat — a regime terrified of the people’s awakening.

Legacy, Truth, and the Bloodline of Resistance
Today, as the grandson of John J. Reynolds, I write not only to reclaim a legacy but to challenge the unofficial fabricated history. My grandfather was not a conspirator — he was a patriot, a man who stood firmly for justice and paid the price for daring to speak the truth in a time of political darkness.
The truth is not always what is written by those in power. Sometimes, it survives in the margins — in the bruises of those who resisted, in the silence of the innocent detained, and in the hearts of their descendants.
The story of June 10, 1967, was never about an uprising. It was about a government unravelling, and a man — and a movement — who refused to be broken.
And in the end, truth outlived tyranny.