Voyage of Malice

by Paul C R Monk

  For now, though, she put the thought to one side as she purchased a choice piece of tournedos and a cabbage on Molard Square, where the vendors were beginning to pack away their wares. Dockers on the far end were stacking articles and merchandise from France by the lake harbour. The bakery below Jeanne’s third-floor rooms was animated with late-morning customers. Commis were tidying up after the morning bake, and Madame Poulain was serving an old lady behind the large counter where wooden racks contained the last of the day’s round loaves. As the baker’s wife took the change, she lifted her head to see who had just walked in. Her commercial smile vanished, and her chubby jowls sagged as her eyes met Jeanne’s.

  ‘Whatever is the matter, Madame Poulain?’ said Jeanne, taken aback by the woman’s visible anguish.

  ‘There’s been an incident, Madame Delpech,’ said the woman.

  Jeanne felt weak in the stomach as she raised her free hand to her mouth. ‘Lord, no, please, not my Paul,’ she said, suddenly hot, pallid, and trembling.

  ‘No, Madame, not Paul, not your family either.’

  Jeanne nearly passed out with relief. Then, realising what could be the only other cause for such concern, she dumped her provisions on the counter, lifted her skirts, and hurried out to the stairway entrance before Madame Poulain could utter further explanation.

  On the third-floor landing, she encountered Monsieur Poulain fixing a forced door, her door.

  ‘We heard a banging noise and thought for a minute someone was moving furniture,’ he said, standing aside to let her into the room. ‘Then, before we realised what was up, a couple of blokes came bolting down the stairs, and off they went.’

  Even before setting her eyes on the shambles inside, she knew it was her livelihood they had come to wreck. The frame of her loom was shattered—beaten by sledgehammers by the looks of the dents in the wood—smashed and rendered unusable.

  Across the wall, an untutored hand had painted in red the words: ‘Geneva For Genevans. Huguenots Get Out!’

  SIX

  ‘So you see, my dear Delpech,’ said Monsieur Verbizier, in whose home Jacob had taken quarters. ‘Be you Protestant or Catholic, you’re better off here than in the Old World, are you not? For there, as you well know, your livelihood can be taken away on the whim of a king!’

  Monsieur Elias Verbizier was a self-taught, free-thinking convert whose heart swayed more to the balance of power than with religious fervour. But if one thing made him angry, it was a state-run monopoly, and he secretly hoped the French king would get his comeuppance for all the monies he had been made to pay in tobacco taxes.

  Born into a Protestant family of rope makers, he had left his native La Rochelle as a young man in search of his fortune. He had been a planter in the early days of the buccaneers on Tortuga Island. Now in the force of age, he owned one of the largest plantations in Leogane.

  Delpech had been listening to his host’s update of events in Europe with one ear. The planter had been relating that a league of states neighbouring France had been set up on the suggestion of William of Orange—the champion of Protestantism and sworn enemy of Louis XIV—to counter potential French aggression. They called it the League of Augsburg. But even this might not suffice to contain the French king, as events in England were taking a surprising turn. William’s father-in-law, James II, who was also Louis’s cousin, had refused to join the league and was attempting to catholicise his country. Indeed, should James’s pregnant Italian-born wife give birth to a boy, a Catholic dynasty would be established again in England.

  However, neither Louis nor William nor James was among Jacob’s concerns—that is to say, not yet. He said, ‘I grant you that starting a life afresh in such a new world certainly has its advantages.’ He took another sip of coffee and then continued, ‘But as for myself, there is no place better on earth than with one’s family. In a Christian home, which, I might add, is a home without slaves.’

  They were sitting on the ground-floor balcony, finishing their breakfast of exotic fruits, dried sausage, bread, jam, and coffee. The planter’s residence, one of a few made of stone, was built near a vigorous stream that ran down from the densely wooded mountain. It offered a splendid view over the township of Leogane on the backdrop of the beautiful teal-blue anchorage.

  The large tract of land that stretched out before them was divided into fields of indigo, cotton, tobacco, and sugar cane. Especially sugar cane.

  The present harvesting period was proving successful, and there was still a good month left of cutting cane and distilling the juices into sugarloaves. On a normal day, Negro slaves would have long since been hard at work. But today was Sunday. Instead of the usual animation of hacking, hauling, thrashing, grinding, and digging, the air was filled with blithe indolence and the laughter of children.

  Jacob cast his eyes a hundred and fifty yards down the slope to the left, where trees screened the slave shacks. A headless chicken was running round with a bunch of slave sprogs dancing along after it.

  Elias Verbizier contentedly scanned his possessions. He was at peace with the world, more so than ever before, now that the Black Code decreed by King Louis gave him an official framework by which to properly administer his black population. His conscience was clear. And now, with these free Sundays, the death rate had fallen, which meant fewer trips to the slave market, and the yield so far had made an extraordinary profit. He was so glad he had made the switch from tobacco to sugar cane. This is the life, this is how it should be, he thought. How could the gentleman sitting next to him want to go back to the Old World?

  But there again, once the Huguenot had settled into the benefits of the Indies, Elias felt sure the man would come to his senses. Not only that, it did not sit well with the planter to see such a qualified gentleman having a social status hardly higher than that of a mere slave. It did not fit into his notion of social order. At least being allowed to pay Delpech for his expertise would enable him to properly establish his ascendance. But for that, the man would have to fall into step with current standards.

  Verbizier gave another puff of his pipe, then turned back to Jacob. He said: ‘You’ve seen for yourself, farming would not be viable without good slaves. All this wouldn’t exist. What do you think the Code Noir is for?’

  ‘It is unchristian, Sir,’ said Jacob.

  ‘It is in the Bible, Sir,’ said the planter. ‘Slavery has been around since man first walked the earth.’ Here he held up his right hand solemnly and rolled off the cuff a quote he had learnt by heart. He said: ‘Your male and female slaves are to come from the nations around you; from them, you may buy slaves. They will become your property!’

  Jacob had never confronted slavery and at first was disconcerted by its overwhelming acceptance. He could not help feeling uncomfortable about it. He had prayed for enlightenment and had come upon a passage in the New Testament which he now used to respond to the planter’s argument. He said, ‘The teachings of Christ are thus: there is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female, for ye are all one in Christ Jesus!’

  ‘Hah, tit for tat, fair dos,’ said Monsieur Verbizier, who was always game for a battle of wits. He lifted himself lithely out of his rattan chair. ‘But come with me, Delpech,’ he said. ‘I have something to show you that might make you think twice about your movements of the soul.’

  Verbizier had decided the time was right. He was ready to give Delpech some enlightenment, the same that had freed him from religious foreboding and such like so many years ago. Since that fateful day, he had been able to adapt his opinion and behaviour according to his own advantage. And today he was a successful man. As for Delpech, he was still imprisoned by his hopes of heaven which had made him so miserably poor. So Verbizier took it upon himself to free this poor man who deserved much more for his talents.

  Jacob now found he could get up from his chair with hardly a crick or a crack. And he definitely felt that he had put on a bit of flesh. He no longer felt the s
harpness of his bones on the seat. Life, it was true, was not so bad on the island. Small, perhaps. Remote, certainly. Impenetrable, without doubt. But apart from the wretched insect bites, he had become accustomed to its climate. And he had been working on Monsieur Verbizier, trying to make him realise the true Christian path. For in the short time he had been there, he had sensed the planter’s want of spiritual direction.

  Jacob followed into the cool and comfortable study where leather-bound books were displayed in a bookcase, and a series of sketches and paintings of Caribbean landscapes adorned the walls. A two-branched candelabrum was already lit on the acajou writing desk. Verbizier had displaced a brass telescope on a tripod and was pulling the shutters tight to completely shut out the morning sunlight.

  ‘Do not fret, Delpech. I would just like to show you a little experiment of my own fabrication which I stumbled upon some time ago. I pray it will enable you to see some sense and help you out of your needless quandary. Now come, please.’

  The planter closed the door and invited Jacob to the desk. He then pulled up a comfortable armchair and asked Jacob to take a pew on the one that was already positioned. Jacob sat down.

  ‘Now, watch this,’ said the planter, who brought out a three-sided mirror from a cabinet and placed it behind the candelabrum on the desk.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘I see a man who could do with a shave and a haircut,’ said Jacob, trying to make a jest of the situation which was becoming a little strange.

  ‘But how many faces can you see?’

  ‘A great many, I suppose. Depending on how I sit and face the mirror.’

  ‘I would venture to say that there is an incalculable number of faces. In fact, I would go as far as to say that it would prove that your theory of infinity really does exist, would it not?’

  Verbizier was referring to a conversation they often had about the immortality of the soul and the infinity of heaven.

  The planter had maintained that life is not infinite in any shape or form, neither in one’s life nor in one’s death. Once you are gone, you are gone. That was all there was to it, he had said. This was shocking to hear and something that was hardly ever even whispered. But the planter was a plain-speaking fellow who had seen life and death. And he knew one thing for sure: a dead man does not come back! Though of course, he also knew when and when not to share his private thoughts, as well as with whom, or else he could end up being roasted at the stake like a soulless savage.

  ‘An astonishing observation, I grant you,’ said Jacob, peering into the mirror so that his reflection appeared to recede in an endless stream of faces.

  ‘Now, watch this,’ said the planter, whose mischievous little chuckle announced one of his tricks. He then licked his thumbs, leant over the acajou desk, and snuffed the candle flames out simultaneously.

  ‘And there is your proof of nothingness. No infinity, just plain nothing!’ said the victorious voice of the planter from out of the darkness.

  There was a moment’s silence as Jacob, stumped for words, took in the abominable notion.

  Then he said, ‘But, Sir, I ask you. Who created this nothingness? What is this blackness in which we hear ourselves speak? It is part of God’s creation! For if there were no darkness, how would we recognise the light? In the same way, if there were no sorrow, how could we appreciate happiness?’

  ‘Hah, damn you! When a man don’t want to learn, he won’t learn!’ said Verbizier, pushing away his chair with a forced chuckle. He then charged across the room to open the door as the Sunday mass bells began to chime. But his cordiality had returned by the time he turned back to Jacob.

  ‘Will you come to church?’ he said.

  ‘As I have told you every Sunday since I came here, I do not need to visit a Catholic building to go to church.’

  ‘A more stubborn one there never was. But even if you keep your infinity, and your heaven and hell, think over what I say. You only have to join in the ceremony to be a wealthy man again, Delpech.’

  ‘That may be, but certainly not a happy one!’

  This Huguenot was decidedly Protestant to the marrow.

  ‘That is why, Sir, it is important to live for the day!’ said the planter, who always liked to have the last word. He took his leave and met his wife with their children and her pretty slave girl, at the front of the grand house where a coach was waiting to take them to church.

  *

  Strolling down towards the village, Jacob contemplated the view over the bay. If only he could find a way to cut and run. However, the forest around was impenetrable, the mountain behind impassable. And as yet he had not seen a single foreign vessel come to anchor in the roadstead.

  Upon arrival at Leogane, the governor had handed the Huguenots over to the lieutenant governor, Monsieur Dumas, who had advised them to find lodgings among the inhabitants. They were assisted in this delicate undertaking by Catholic priests who acted as go-betweens. But the Protestants did not come without resources. Most of them had skills and expertise to offer in exchange for board and lodging.

  Given his knowledge of farming and irrigation, Delpech was offered the room at the plantation, where Verbizier was glad to have a gentleman of quality with whom to converse, and who knew about farm management.

  Jacob had been at Leogane for over a month already. He had established a cordial relationship with the Catholic clergy who, despite their numbers, had failed to convert him. On the contrary, he had become a popular speaker and defender of the Protestant contingent, one that the priests would rather have been without.

  He rejected the Catholic Eucharist, impertinently questioning how the act of taking bread and wine could make you more righteous.

  He asserted that praying to God through saints was another invention of the Catholic Church which had made it rich.

  And he even went as far as insinuating that the Roman Catholic doctrine of the celibacy of the clergy was unwritten, unnatural, and misleading for its ministers.

  Such was his heretic verve and foolhardy conviction that the poor priests ended up complaining to the lieutenant governor, a former Protestant himself, that Delpech was impeding them in their mission of conversion.

  And as if all that were not bad enough, now he was teaching African slaves who—since the Code Noir had granted them a human soul—were supposed to receive instruction in the Christian faith by their master. And there was no point counting on the likes of Verbizier to set his man on the right course. A moral compass he was not, more a weathervane. Everyone knew what he got up to when away buying slaves.

  Even the other indentured workers were turning to Delpech for spiritual guidance, which he had the cheek to dispense in French instead of Latin. For the love of God, had the man really no sense of tradition?

  Apart from the Huguenots themselves, many of these indentured workers had also been Protestant. Labourers for the most part, they had to give three years of their lives to a master for the right to a plot of land, a little cash, and their freedom at the end of their term. And they were the fortunate ones compared to the African slaves whose term only ended on the day they drew their last breath.

  It is written in the Bible, the likes of Verbizier would say, then quote a learnt-by-heart extract such as: ‘And ye shall take them as an inheritance for your children after you, to inherit them for a possession; they shall be your bondmen for ever.’

  But Jacob found the Bible also warned: Masters, give unto your servants that which is just and equal; knowing that ye also have a Master in heaven.

  Treating someone just and equal is certainly not to whip and beat them like stubborn beasts, thought Delpech. Yet, for all his research and reasoning, he had to admit that slavery was the way of the world here, and perhaps something he might have to get used to.

  *

  An hour later, he was standing with Mademoiselle Duvivier. She had taken a room at the house of an old lady, Madame Grosjean, whom she had agreed to care for. Marianne had b
lossomed in the time Jacob had known her, which equated to eight months, and which seemed like half a lifetime. His paternal presence still bolstered her confidence, especially since he had asked her to organise their secret assemblies, which she did with relish and gusto.

  They were at present quietly singing a psalm with as many Huguenots as could fit into Madame Grosjean’s small downstairs parlour. It turned out that the old lady had only converted to Catholicism to be left in peace, but her heart was firmly Protestant. And the house was conveniently located at the opposite end of the village from the church. Secret assemblies like these took place throughout the township. In fact, Jacob was finding out that every other white person he met was of Protestant stock. Like Madame Grosjean, they had many a tale to tell of the days of the first buccaneers, who were not filibusters at all, but Protestant planters and hunters who initially settled on the northwest coast of Hispaniola, and on the island of Tortuga.

  After the clandestine service, Delpech led a small party around the sugar works on the pretext of assessing the advancement of the new mill that he had been commandeered to oversee, along with the construction of wells. The works was located at a five-minute walk along the palm-lined track from the township, and gave a legitimate reason for them to meet in plain view.

  The mill, the boiling area, and the drying room were situated near the river at the bottom of the plantation, where the first fields of sugar cane had been planted. A water-powered mill, like the ones made by the Dutch, was under construction to cope with the extra land to be freed up for the lucrative crop.

  The party were at present speaking around the old ox-powered mill. Here, only last week, a slave had caught his hand in the vertical rollers that normally mangled the sugar cane. It only took a couple of ox strides for the columns to travel the equivalent of a yard, and before the ox driver could bring his animal to a halt, before Jacob could process the screams, the poor man’s body had been drawn in and his head crushed like a pineapple.