Claire still stood there, so I smiled and said, “Now, if you will excuse me, ma’am, I must attend to my duties. Absalom here will show you to your cabin when it’s ready.”
I was rewarded with a smile and another bosom-displaying curtsy and turned to see how Rork was doing with the stevedores. He was almost done with the task of offloading Delilah’s cargo, but my eyes keyed in on another person, standing stiffly in the background. Cynda was watching me from twenty feet away, with pursed lips and folded arms, and a very determined face. She’d heard everything. Executing an about-face, she marched up the gangway to the main deck and proceeded down the ladder to her now former cabin.
At that moment, to round out my very good reasons for a foul temper, Inspector Geoff Randall walked up, bag in hand and innocent grin plastered on his fat red face. He went around introducing himself to the passengers and crew, then ambled over to me. “Geoff Randall,” he said, as if we’d not met. “Methodist missionary from the Society to Spread Christ’s Word. Bound for Great Inagua to save souls for everlasting life. I believe I’m on your passenger list, sir.”
It was quite a performance. “Yes. You are,” I replied unenthusiastically.
Randall looked around at the menagerie. “What a truly eclectic yachting party.”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice, while raising his eyebrows conspiratorially. “Should be entertaining, don’t you think, Commander? This is much more interesting than mucking about with the dregs of London.”
“You didn’t tell me Roche had a woman with him.”
“Didn’t want to spoil the surprise!”
“What else about them do I need to know?”
Randall allowed a sly smile. “Nothing at this time, Commander.” He then left me and hailed Claire in terrible French, explaining how much he’d always loved her country.
***
We got under way at four in the afternoon. This was after waiting for Roche to make his final goodbyes to new good friends at the Empire Club on Bay Street, Claire making Absalom run back to her hotel room for a missing hat box, Billot returning from an errand for Roche, and Randall having me occupy Claire’s attention while he searched through her baggage for incriminating evidence.
With all plain sail set, we close-hauled our way east through the harbor with the assistance of an ebb tide, tacking through the various anchored and moving vessels. By five o’clock we were clear of the eastern end of the harbor. With a moderate breeze from the northeast and Absalom up at the crosstrees guiding us, Delilah took her departure from Fort Montague, charging toward Porgee Rocks, southeast of Athol Island.
Once at Porgee Rocks, we bore off to the southeast and roared our way toward the notorious Yellow Bank, where a swash channel would allow us to traverse the coral-studded bank and gain an eventual overnight anchorage on the lee side of Dog Rocks, just north of Ship Channel Cay, in the Exumas.
Our European passengers lounged about the main deck, looking at distant cloud formations and joking among themselves. Clair and the “clergyman” were by the foremast. Roche and Billot were aft of the mainmast, sitting on the starboard side of the cabin top. We had barely avoided a giant mound of coral near the surface, with much swearing in Gaelic by Rork, when a new facet emerged in the mystery of exactly who was what aboard the schooner.
I had the helm at the time, with Corny beside me. The Frenchmen were speaking in their native tongue quietly, but the few words I understood translated into “message received in Paris” and something about someone named “Philippe Dru.”
Corny, historian and international ethnologist, is fluent in the major languages of Europe and knows the basics of several others. While steering, we compared whispered opinions of the topic of the French conversation and settled on it probably being about the person who funded their journey.
Then, suddenly, Roche shook his head and glared at Billot, growling out, “Elle ne me plait pas! ” I knew that meant I do not like it! The surprise was what happened next. Billot recoiled from his boss’s wrath and blurted out, “Prahsteetyee. Ehtah nyeh lyeekhko! ”
Roche instantly snarled back, “Durak! Vyehrnyeetyehs’ nahzahd k frahntsooskee!”
Following his outburst, Roche backhanded Billot across the face, knocking him off the cabin top to the deck. Rising quickly, Billot went to the leeward main shrouds and stared bitterly out to sea, one hand on his swelling lip, the other holding on to the shroud.
Catching Corny and me staring at him, Roche muttered a quick, “Excusez-moi,” then stormed off, heading forward.
“Well, that little tirade wasn’t in French, was it, Corny?” I asked.
Corny confirmed my suspicion. “No, it surely wasn’t, Peter. That was Russian.”
“That’s what I thought. Do you know what they said?”
“When Roche said, ‘I don’t like it ’ in French, Billot answered in Russian. I think he said, ‘Excuse me. It isn’t easy!’ Roche answered, ‘Idiot! Go back to French! ’ Then he smacked him.”
Corny held up a hand. “Peter, I’m not that good, and it’s a damned tough language, but it sure sounded to me that both of them spoke Russian like natives. So now I’m doubting if these boys are French at all.”
He gave me a questioning look. “This whole mess has gotten a lot more complicated, my friend. Do you have any idea just what—and who—have we gotten involved with here?”
At that point, my mind was reeling with possibilities. None of them were good.
“No, Corny. I don’t.”
20
Great Inagua
Matthew Town
Great Inagua Island, the Bahamas
Tuesday, 14 August 1888
At last we made Matthew Town, main settlement of Great Inagua Island, famous for its enormous salt industry. The journey wasn’t easy. Of the two weeks it took to transit the 300 miles south to Great Inagua, we spent six days holding on at anchor in the lee of Deadman’s Cay on Long Island, courtesy of yet another hurricane moving across our path. When the wind and seas subsided, we made our way to the southern end of Crooked Island and its infamous Mira Por Vos Passage. Absalom, who knew the Bahamian archipelago better than any other man I’ve known, before or since, counseled anchoring for the night under the eastern lee of Castle Island, famous for its 130-foot light house. From there we departed for Inagua, crossing in light air and confused seas.
***
By this point in the narrative, I’m sure the reader is wondering about the state of affairs between the guests aboard. Perplexed by the Frenchmen’s intimate knowledge of Russian, I passed along that intelligence to the Britisher, but he merely smiled, as if I had confirmed a prior notion. Inspector Randall then asked if Cynda had befriended Claire enough to obtain information from her.
I replied that Cynda was not disposed to befriend anyone at the moment, including me. Randall nodded politely. The policeman—alias preacher—did not know of the depth of my relationship with Cynda, or of our habitation arrangements before his arrival aboard.
Even though I had terminated our rather tactless daytime lovemaking, we had still enjoyed very discreet romantic interludes in the evenings. Those ended when we left Nassau, and Cynda was still upset over the loss of our privacy by the arrival of a woman aboard—a woman she was forced, by me, to share a cabin with, and whom she deemed nothing more than a dim-witted and badly dyed concubine of Roche and Billot. Cynda vehemently shared her views with me belowdecks, two hours after we departed Nassau, and our relationship had grown colder since. Alas, it’s been my sad experience in life that once a woman has made that particular determination about another of her sex, there is no changing her opinion.
Rork, who’s never been shy about providing me his opinion, provided his assessment of the situation aboard while we were riding out the storm at Deadman’s Cay. He was even more animated than usual.
“Methinks ye got swindled by that Lime
y redcoat major, an’ swindled good. None o’ them’re real Froggies, sir. Nary a whiff o’ garlic or wine about ’em. By God, I can tell a Froggie a mile away, especially upwind, by the smell o’ that garlic. Comes out o’ their skin, it does.”
He was on a roll, but paused for a breath before resuming his lecture. “An’ that Rooskie stuff is a bad omen, too, I tell ya. Rooskies in the tropics? Who ever heard o’ that? An’ none o’ the bloody lot o’ ’em ’re using their real names. Damned imposters, I say. Aye, they’s all as fake as that trollop’s face. A bad bunch that’ll give us nothin’ but trouble, mark me words.”
“You’re probably right, Sean. And somehow they’re involved with the missing boy. But damned if I know how . . .”
Rork raised his false hand to make his point. “Oh, they’re in it to their friggin’ eyeballs, an’ a lyin’ bunch o’ bastards too. Aye, mind me words here an’ now—the Devil’s in here somewhere with those foreign bastards, that much’s for certain.”
The French, which is how I kept thinking of them, kept to themselves all this time, plainly frightened by the sea. I heard no more Russian spoken and very little French. Evidently, they knew they’d blundered and were determined not to repeat the mistake.
Randall did his best to act his part, praying over us in the storm, attempting to ingratiate himself with his fellow passengers, all the while periodically nipping below and surreptitiously going through all of their things. Rork observed him in the act several times and reported it to me. The Brit didn’t share the results of his investigation with me, instead regarding me with amused condescension, like a superior regarding an upstart. My dislike, and extreme distrust, of the inspector escalated. The sooner I was rid of all of them, the better.
***
During our several days at anchor off Matthew Town, I managed to accomplish several things. First, I divested myself of the French people and the Brit, who were installed ashore in a boarding house. Second, I obtained provisions for Delilah. Third, and most importantly, before Roche or the others could do so, I asked Mr. McGregor, the local magistrate, about the missing schooner, explaining that my friends and I were searching for the missing boy. McGregor, one of the few black magistrates in the islands, was a dignified gentleman and deliberated over my question for several seconds.
“Yes, Condor visited the island, three months ago. I remember her well,” he said.
“That would place her here in late May. Did you interact with the passengers or captain?”
McGregor nodded. “Yes, I duly noted Condor’s arrival in my journal. Later, ashore, I had occasion to speak with Captain Kingston and learned of his passenger’s standing. I then arranged for a dinner at my home, visitors of such high strata being a rare occurrence here.”
He said that the dinner was attended by Kingston and the New York businessman, Jason Hobart Vanderburg. The crew, including Luke, stayed aboard Condor, which was anchored directly off Matthew Town, as we were.
McGregor and his wife saw nothing indicating duress from Vanderburg.
“Quite the contrary, he and the captain seemed gay and excited, for they were going the next day to search the eastern end of the island for the hidden treasure of King Henri Christophe, the black king of Haiti. They had already looked about at other islands for treasure. Henry Morgan’s loot at Andros, I believe.
“Mr. Vanderburg vaguely indicated that he’d had some sort of falling out with some companions earlier and they’d gone home from Nassau. He said he was heading home also, after hunting around Inagua for the Haitian treasure.”
McGregor never saw them again. Later, when he got word the schooner was no longer anywhere in sight around the island, he got to thinking it over and sent a routine report to Nassau reporting Condor’s visit to the island. Until we arrived, he hadn’t thought again about Captain Kingston and his passenger.
When I asked about the actual legend of the treasure, McGregor smiled and said, “I think it’s untrue, a quaint romantic myth, but there are many here in the Bahamas, and in Haiti, that do place credence in it. In fact, I know one man on Great Inagua who knows more about it than anyone else.”
The magistrate suggested I visit Victor Pamphille, an elderly ex-Haitian retired to a modest dwelling on the south shore of Great Inagua after a life spent commanding island schooners around the Caribbean. It was still light out, so we walked the mile or so to Pamphile’s home, just west of Salt Pond Hill. McGregor asked the man to tell me all he knew of the treasure, that a boy had gone missing while searching for it. Leaving me there with the old man, the magistrate began to walk home.
McGregor was a man who took his responsibilities seriously, so before he left, I decided to alert him to some of the oddities regarding my former passengers, who were now under his accountability.
“Mr. McGregor, there are some unusual aspects of my passengers that I think you should be aware of. Pastor Randall is actually a British policeman, who has been surveilling the French people all the way out here from London. And there is some speculation that they are not really French, since they speak Russian quite well. I’ve discovered that Roche, the tall Frenchman, had been inquiring about the Condor’s visit at Morgan’s Bluff, up in northern Andros Island. He is connected in some important way with all of this, but I don’t know how. What he did tell me were lies. Perhaps if you do learn anything about them, you could share it with me. It might help in my search for the boy.”
“Hmm, how very interesting. I’ll have to keep alert.” He stopped abruptly, looking at me with doubtful eyes. “And what about you? Should I be alert around you also, Captain Wake? What are your secrets?”
I feigned humor. “Oh, nothing nearly that interesting, sir.”
McGregor wagged his head and said, “I hope so.” Then he sauntered away, toward the mango-colored sun setting over Matthew Town. I don’t think he believed me.
***
Pamphile was getting frail in body, but his mind was still taut as a main sheet in a gale. The best short description of the old man across from me at that table was that he was weathered, like old teak railings that could still perform their function. I estimated his age as seventy-five, at least. He didn’t know himself with any certainty. Educated at a seminary in his youth, Pamphile had developed an aptitude for the European languages of the Caribbean, a skill that helped his maritime career. He spoke English astonishingly well in a steady bass voice, with a schoolbook British accent.
He invited me inside his hut, consisting of coral stone walls and a thatched roof. In the shadowy dwelling, he poured rum into two smudged glasses and we sat down at a hatch-cover table. After establishing our bona fides as veteran seamen, we laughed and exchanged stories of ports and storms and women around the West Indies. It is a necessary prelude among sailors, enabling reciprocal trust.
He grew dramatic, solemn, holding up a hand and saying he needed more rum to tell me what I needed to know. While I waited patiently as Pamphile rummaged his home for another bottle, I surveyed the scene outside.
An opening in the southern wall looked out over the ocean, a hundred feet away. The sun had gone, dusk was gathering quickly. Offshore, Molasses Reef broke the swell in a ragged slash of white foam. The sea itself was indigo dark, blending with the sky, except for that reef with its mocking break in the liquid rhythm.
My host returned and plunked down another bottle of rum, the sort with no label. He filled our glasses again and sighed. Then, with yellowed, watery eyes, Pamphile began to tell his tale.
“The story of Henri Christophe is a long and fascinating one, Peter. But there is no reason or time to tell it all tonight. Here is the part relevant to your quest for the missing schooner and the little boy. Sixty-eight years ago, in May of eighteen twenty, when I myself was a young boy in the village of Port a l’Ecu, my sovereign, King Henri Christophe—the former slave turned king of northern Haiti—was fighting off insurrection within his kingdom. It wa
s stirred up by General Boyer from the south, at Port au Prince, where the famous Petion had ruled. Then Boyer invaded the border area of Christophe’s kingdom. At this same time, my king was a sick man, with serious ailments inside his body.
“While faced with these crises, Christophe received a visit from his close friend, Rear Admiral Sir Home Riggs Popham, Commander-in-Chief of the Royal Navy’s West Indies Squadron from eighteen eighteen to eighteen twenty. Popham had been trying to mediate an end to the civil war in Haiti, but to no avail. Boyer knew Christophe was sick and his military was weakening and would not compromise. Why should he? Death was in the air.”
With the setting of the sun, it had grown dark in the hut. Pamphile stopped his narration with a curse, then lit an ancient oil lamp, its grimy glass shade casting a weak light that barely reached the walls. Above us the thatch ruffled in the wind, which moaned through the glassless windows. The scene, and Pamphile’s ominous story, made me uncomfortable. The old man, seeing my disquiet, topped off our glasses and held up a bony finger.
“Yes, it is a dark story of treachery, but here comes the interesting part, Peter. Admiral Popham was visiting his friend Henri for the last time, at the royal palace at Sans Souci. Popham himself was also very sick, having had two slightly paralytic strokes in the previous four months. At age fifty-eight, he was five years older than the king and going home to England. Both knew this would be their last meeting. Historical records say that they discussed the civil war and reminisced about past glories, but legend says another, more impassioned, matter was discussed.”
As Pamphile spoke, I had little difficulty imagining the great African king of Haiti, his ebony face like that of the noble man before me, conferring with his British naval friend by the light of a similar flickering lamp more than three score years earlier.
Honor Bound Page 16
