All of them turned to see him, and Alejandra’s eyes widened, gleaming in the moonlight.
“Hijo,” she said in admiration.
“Thank you, madam,” he said, and bowed to her. “Shall we go?”
HE’D IMAGINED IT vividly, from Malcolm’s account. The bulk of the big tobacco barn, the dark, the whispering of the drying leaves overhead, the sense of waiting men…What Malcolm hadn’t mentioned was the overpowering scent that lay in a cloud over the shed, a thick incense that reached out to grab him by the throat from thirty feet away. It wasn’t unpleasant, by any means, but it was strong enough to make him breathe shallowly for a moment—and he needed all the breath he could get.
Cano. That was the name of the man he must convince. Cano was headman of the slaves of the Mendez plantation. There was a headman from Saavedra, too, named Hamid, but Alejandra said that it was Cano’s opinion that counted most heavily among the slaves
“If he says yes, they all will do it,” she had assured Grey.
There was a great deal more to the barn’s atmosphere than the heavy scent of tobacco. He could smell the reek of constant sweat the instant he stepped inside—and the sharp, dark stink of angry men.
There was a single lantern burning, hung from a nail in one of the uprights supporting the high roof. It made a small pool of light, but the glow of it diffused much farther, showing him the men massed in the shadows. No more than the curve of a skull, a shoulder, the gleam of light on black skin, the whites of staring eyes. Below the lantern stood two men, turned to meet him.
There was no question which was Cano. A tall black man, wearing only short, ragged breeches, though his companion (and most of the men in the shadows, as a sidelong glimpse confirmed) was dressed in both breeches and shirt and wore a spotted bandanna tied around his head.
No question why, either. Gray scars mottled Cano’s back and arms like barnacle scars on an old whale—the marks of whips and knives. The man watched Grey approach and smiled.
Smiled to show that his front teeth were gone, but the canines remained, sharp and stained brown with tobacco.
“Mucho gusto, señor,” he said. His voice was light and mocking. Grey bowed, very correctly. Alejandra had come in behind him, and she made the introductions in soft, rapid Spanish. She was nervous; her hands were twisted in her apron and Grey could see sweat shining in the hollows under her eyes. Which was her lover? he wondered, this man or Hamid?
“Mucho gusto,” Grey said politely, when she had finished, and bowed to her. “Madam—will you be so good as to tell these gentlemen that I have brought with me two interpreters, so that we can be assured of understanding one another?”
At this cue, Rodrigo came in, Azeel a pace or two behind him. She looked as though she were wading into a pool filled with crocodiles, but Rodrigo’s manner was cool and dignified. He wore his best black suit, with immaculate white linen that shone like a beacon in the grubby brown light of the barn.
There was a palpable ripple of interest—and a just-as-palpable hostility at sight of him. Grey felt it like a jab in the stomach. Christ, was he going to get Rodrigo killed, as well as himself?
And they don’t even know what he is yet, he thought. He’d been told—often enough to believe it—that the fear of zombies was so great that sometimes even the rumor of it was enough that a crowd would fall upon the suspected person and beat them to death.
Well, best get on with it. He wasn’t armed, save for the regimental dirk at his belt. Nothing was going to get them through this but words, so best start talking.
This he did, presenting his compliments (that got the breath of a laugh—encouraging…) and stating that he came as the friend and representative of Malcolm Stubbs, whom they knew. Nods of wary approval. He came (he said) also as the representative of the King of England, who intended to overthrow the Spaniards in Cuba and take the island.
This was pretty bold, and Azeel stammered a little as she said it for him, but it went over quite well; it appeared that the crowd was quite united with the king in this desire.
“My friend, Señor Stubbs, has asked your help in this endeavor,” Grey said, looking deliberately from one side of the barn to the other, speaking to all of them. “I have come to counsel with you and to decide how best to accomplish our desires, so that—”
“Dónde está el Señor Malcolm?” Cano interrupted him. “Por qué él no está aquí?”
That didn’t need interpretation, but for the sake of protocol, he let Azeel translate it before replying that, alas, Señor Malcolm had been arrested and was imprisoned in Morro Castle. Hence he, John Grey, had come to carry out Señor Malcolm’s plan.
A small rumble of doubt, a shuffling of bare feet in the dust.
“For your assistance in this matter, Señor Malcolm promised you your freedom. I promise this, too.” He spoke as simply as he could, hoping that this would carry sincerity.
Exhalations, quiet murmurs. They were worried—and were more than right to be, he thought. The barn was hot, packed with so many men, and damp with their sweat and the exudations of the drying tobacco leaves. Sweat was seeping through his linen.
Suddenly the other man—Hamid, it must be—said something abrupt and jerked his chin at Grey. The man was bearded, and it occurred to Grey that perhaps he was a Mussulman.
“This gentleman wants to know how you will accomplish the things you speak of,” Azeel said, glancing at Grey. “You are only one man. Do you have soldiers, weapons?”
Grey wondered what the views of the Prophet were with regard to zombies…because it was clear that he was going to have to use Rodrigo.
Rodrigo himself stood close beside his wife, his face calm and unmoving, despite the weight of eyes upon him, but Grey saw him straighten a little and take a deep breath.
“Tell Señor Hamid”—and Grey bowed to the bearded man—“that I am indeed one man…but I am an Englishman. And I am a man of my word. To show that this is true, I have brought my servant, Rodrigo Sanchez, who will tell them why they may believe me and trust what I say.”
Heart thumping audibly in his ears, Grey stepped back and inclined his head toward Rodrigo. He saw Rodrigo squeeze Azeel’s hand lightly, and drop it, before he moved forward.
Unhurried, composed, civilized in a way that these men had never known, Rodrigo picked up a wooden bucket standing near the wall, carried this to a central spot in the light of the lantern, turned it upside down, set it on the floor, and sat down. Very slowly, Azeel moved to stand behind him, her eyes fixed on the men in the shadows.
Rodrigo began to speak, his voice deep, soft but carrying. There was an audible intake of massed breath from the audience, and a ripple of horror moved through the barn. Azeel turned to Grey.
“My husband, he says…” Azeel’s voice trembled, and she stopped to clear her throat. Then she straightened and, putting her hand on her husband’s shoulder, spoke clearly.
“He says this: ‘I have been dead. I died in the hands of a houngan, and I woke in my grave, smelling the rot of my own body. I could not move—how should I move? I was dead. And then, years later, I felt the air on my face and a hand on my arm. The houngan pulled me from my grave and told me that I was indeed dead. But that now I was a zombie.’ ”
Grey felt the ripple of horror that moved through the room, and heard the intake of massed breath, the shocked murmur that had broken out at this. But Azeel put both hands on Rodrigo’s shoulders and glared over his head, turning her eyes from one side of the room to the other.
“I tell you—listen!” she said violently. “Escuchen!”
Grey saw Cano jerk back a little, whether from affront or shock, he couldn’t tell. But the man gave an explosive snort and over the murmuring in the shed said loudly, “Háblanos!” The murmurs stopped abruptly, and Azeel turned her head to look at Cano, the light of the lantern gleaming on her skin, in her eyes.
“Háblame,” she said softly to Rodrigo. “Sólo a mí. Háblame.” Speak to me. Only to me.
“I was dead, and a zombie, in the power of an evil man, in the power of hell. But this man—” He moved his head a little, indicating Grey. “This man, he came for me. He came alone, into the high mountains, and he walked into the cavern of Damballa, the great serpent—”
At this, exclamations and agitations broke out in such a confusion of noise that Rodrigo was obliged to stop speaking. This he did and went on sitting there, unmoved as a statue.
God, he’s beautiful. The thought sparked for a moment in Grey’s mind and then vanished as Rodrigo raised a slow hand, palm out. He waited, and the noise died away in a smother of shushings.
“In the cavern of serpents, this man walked—alone—through the dark and through demons. He turned the houngan’s magic back upon himself, and then he came out of the cave and he took me back. By his own power, he raised me from death.”
There was a moment’s silence, as Azeel’s soft words vanished among the hidden leaves and the dark bodies. Then Rodrigo nodded, once, and said simply, “Es verdad.”
It’s true.
Utter silence for a long moment, and then a murmur, another. Wonder. Doubt. Amazement. Grey thought the language had changed; they weren’t all speaking Spanish but some other language—or perhaps languages. African tongues. He caught the word “houngan,” and Cano was looking sharply at him, eyes narrowed.
Then the bearded man spoke gruffly to Grey in English, jerking his chin at Rodrigo.
“Tell your zombie to go outside.”
Grey exchanged a quick look with Rodrigo, who nodded very slightly and stood up.
“If you will oblige me, Señor Sanchez?” Grey bowed, gesturing toward the door. Rodrigo returned the bow, moving very slowly, and walked with equal slowness to the big open door. Grey thought he might be exaggerating the stiffness of his gait, but perhaps he was imagining that.
Had it worked? “Your zombie,” the man had said. Did they believe that he had rescued Rodrigo from the houngan, from death, or did they think that he was himself some sort of English houngan who controlled Rodrigo and had compelled him to make that speech? Because if so…
Rodrigo’s black form merged with the night and disappeared. There was a noticeable relaxation of the atmosphere, as though every man there had released a sigh of relief.
Cano and the bearded man exchanged a long look, and after a moment, Hamid nodded reluctantly.
Cano turned to Grey and said something in Spanish. Azeel, who had gone nearly as stiff as her husband as he walked away, pulled her eyes away from the open door and translated Cano’s question.
“So, then. How shall we do this thing?”
Grey let out a long, long breath.
Simple as the concept was, it took no little time to explain. Some of the slaves had seen a cannon—all of them had heard one fire, though only in the far distance, when the cannons of the two fortresses were fired on holidays or to salute a ship coming in—but almost none of them had any notion of the operation of a gun.
A space on the floor was swept free of tracks and trampled tobacco leaves and another lantern was brought. The men gathered close. Grey drew the outline of a gun in the reddish dirt with a stick, talking slowly and simply as he explained the loading and firing of a cannon, and repeatedly pointed out the touchhole.
“Here is where they put fire. The powder”—he prodded the barrel—“explodes”—a murmur of confusion, explanations from those who had seen this thing—“and BOOM!” Everyone looked stunned for an instant, then broke into laughter. When the repetitions of “BOOM!” had died down, he pointed again at the touchhole.
“Fire,” he said, and waited expectantly.
“Fire!” several voices said happily.
“Exactamente,” he said, and, smiling at them, reached into his pocket. “Look.”
“Miren,” Azeel said, but it was unnecessary. Every eye was fixed on the six-inch metal spike in Grey’s hand. He had a large bag of them in his pack, of different sizes, as he’d had to take whatever he could find from the various ironmongers and ship chandlers of Havana, but from what Inocencia and Azeel had been able to tell him of the guns in Morro Castle, he thought they would suffice.
He squatted above his drawing and mimed pushing the spike into the touchhole. Then he pulled a small hammer from his other pocket and pounded the spike vigorously into the dirt.
“No fire,” he said, looking up.
“Bueno!” said several voices, and there was much murmuring and nudging.
He took a deep breath of the thick, intoxicant air. So far, so good. His heart was thumping audibly in his ears and seemed to be going much faster than usual.
It took much longer to explain the map. Only a few had seen a map or chart before, and it was very difficult for some of them to make the mental connection between lines on a piece of paper and the positions of corridors, doors, rooms, cannon batteries, and powder stores in El Castillo de los Tres Reyes Magos del Morro. They had all seen the fortress itself, at least: when they were taken from ships onto the dock, on their way to the slave markets in the city.
Sweat was running down Grey’s back under his uniform coat, his body throbbing with the effects of moist heat and mental tension, and he took the coat off, to avoid fainting.
Finally, a consensus of sorts was achieved. Inocencia very bravely said that she would go into the fortress with the men and help to show them where the guns were. This was met with a moment’s silence, and then Hamid nodded at her and raised a brow at Cano, who, after a moment’s hesitation, also nodded, and a murmur of approval rustled through the men.
Nearly done. He resisted the urge to give in to relief, though. The last item on his agenda might spike his personal guns—or get him killed. He rolled up the crude maps that Inocencia had drawn and handed them ceremoniously to Cano. Then he withdrew from his pack another rolled paper—this one blank—a capped inkwell, and a quill.
His head was not so much spinning as it was floating, and he had some difficulty in fixing his eyes on things. He made an effort, though, and spoke firmly to Cano.
“I will write here that you are performing a great service for the King of England and that I say you should receive your freedom for doing this thing. I am a…God, let me get this right…un hombre de gracia, and I will sign my name.” Hombre de gracia was as close as Azeel could come to the notion of “nobleman.”
He waited, watching their faces, while Azeel translated this. Wary, curious, some—the younger ones—with a touch of hope that stabbed at his heart.
“You must then put down your names. If you do not…have letters…you can tell me your name, I will write it, and you can make a mark to say it is yours.”
Instant alarm, much looking to and fro, the shine and flicker of eyes in the dark, agitation, a gabble of voices. He raised a hand and waited patiently. It took several minutes, but at last they calmed enough for him to speak again.
“I will go with you into the castle, too,” he pointed out. “What if I am killed? Then I will not be there to tell the king you should have your freedom. But this will tell him.” He tapped a finger on the blank sheet.
“What if some of you become lost in the city after we leave the castle? If you go later to the chief of the English sailors and say to him that you have done this great thing and now you must be free, how will he believe you?” He tapped again.
“This will speak for you. You will tell the English chief your name, and he will see it on this paper and know what you say is true.”
“…es verdad.” Azeel looked as though she, too, was about to faint from the strain, the heat, and—no doubt—the fear of the situation, but her voice was loud and firm.
Cano and Hamid had drawn together, were engaged in a low-voiced debate. Sweat was dripping from the tail of Grey’s hair; he could feel it hitting the small of his back through his shirt with the regularity of grains
of sand—slow grains of sand, he thought wryly, very slow—in an hourglass.
At last they settled things between them, though, and Cano took several steps forward, to face Grey himself. He spoke, looking intently into Grey’s face from a distance of no more than a foot; Grey could smell the man’s breath, hot with tobacco and with a hint of rot from his teeth.
“He says,” Azeel said, and stopped to work a little saliva into her mouth, “he says that they will do it. But you must make three papers—one for you, one for him, and one for Hamid, because if you are killed and have the only paper, what good is it?”
“Very reasonable,” Grey said gravely. “Yes, I will do that.”
The sense of relief ran through his limbs like warm water. But he wasn’t quite done yet.
“One thing,” Grey said, and took a breath. Too deep a breath; it made him dizzy, and he took another, shallower.
Cano inclined his head, listening.
“The people in the haciendas—the Mendez family, the Saavedras—I know what your intention was, and we will say no more of that. But you must assure me that these people will not be harmed, will not be killed.”
“…Ellos no serán asesinados.” Azeel’s voice was soft now, remote, as though she was reading the terms of a contract. Which, Grey reflected, it was, in all justice.
Cano’s nostrils flared at that, and there was a low sound—not quite a growl—from the men in the shadows. The sound of it made Grey’s scalp contract.
The man nodded, as though to himself, then turned to look into the shadows, first to one side and then the other, deliberate, as a barrister might look to see the temper of a jury. Then he turned back to Grey and nodded again.
“No los mataremos,” he said.
“We will not kill them,” Azeel whispered.
Grey’s heart had stopped thumping and now seemed to be beating with unusual slowness. The thought of fresh, clean air steadied his mind.
Without thinking about it, he spat into his palm, as soldiers and farmers did, and held out his hand. Cano’s face went quite blank for an instant but then he nodded, made a small “huh” under his breath, spat in his hand, and clasped Grey’s.
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