“The legend says that the king, anxious for his family’s safety and financial security when the inevitable should happen to him, asked his dear friend to take several trunks of valuables with him upon his departure. Popham was to hide them at the closest British territory, a mere day’s sail downwind from Christophe’s kingdom on the north coast of Haiti. That place is right here, Peter. Great Inagua.
“In this way, the king’s family would have an easily accessible and safe cache of treasure, on which they could live for the rest of their lives, in comfortable exile. Christophe asked this as a matter of honor between gentlemen. How could a man like Popham refuse such a request?
“Five months later—exactly one month after his friend Popham died in England—and as the external enemies from the south of Haiti pressed closer and closer, the men of Christophe’s own personal guard regiment revolted. Six days after that, on October the eighth, in the year eighteen twenty, fate arrived. In his royal apartments at Sans Souci Palace, King Henri Christophe, the first native monarch in the New World, shot himself through the heart, using a silver bullet he kept for that very purpose.”
My host slumped, exhausted by the passion expended in the telling of the tale. He poured more rum. It was his seventh glass since my arrival. I waited, digesting the story, forming my questions.
“Victor, does the legend say exactly where Popham buried the treasure?”
Pamphile’s mouth creased slyly, those eyes studying me for trickery. “Why, at the place named for my king’s treasure, Peter. At Christophe’s Lagoon. We all know where the treasure is, we just have not found it yet.”
“Did you tell this story to some white men from a schooner called Condor, back in May?”
Suddenly, he changed, slurring his words, lapsing into Haitian Creole. Was it the rum hitting him or was he alarmed by my question? I wasn’t sure.
“I told some blancs, yes, but I do not remember their names or the name of any bato. I mean ship. They looked, but not very hard. Bitsi bitsi. Little bit here and there. But anyen. Nothing. I did not think they would find it—they are blancs and do not have the proper understanding. I left them there, after they paid me, of course.”
“Do you remember a white boy in the crew? His name was Luke.”
“Oui, there was a boy. He helped them search.”
“Where did they say they were going next?”
“They did not say. But they looked fatigué . . . tired, when I left them. As I am tired now. I thought at the time that they would sail home, but no one saw them again. You know, Peter, my new friend, I am old, and the wonm . . . excusez-moi, le rhum . . . the rum, it has weakened me . . .”
I was losing him. It was no act. “Victor—stay awake! Has anyone ever found any of this treasure?”
He rolled his head to one side and stared at me. “Non, mwem zanmi. No, my friend. Though many have tried.”
“Does anyone live out there, at the end of the island? Could they have come in contact with the whites?”
“Oh, yes . . .”
“Can you take me there?”
“In three . . . days . . . when the wind serves. I am . . . tired . . . now.”
Pamphile slowly lowered his head to the table. Seconds later I heard snoring. Walking back to Matthew Town by the light of a half moon, my mind turned to the immediate future. The end of the island was the last place I knew that Condor was seen by anyone. Maybe I could find a witness. One who was sober.
Map 2
21
Unlikely Allies
Matthew Town
Great Inagua, Bahamas
Saturday, 18 August 1888
By now we were eighteen days into the sweltering month of August. The previous three days saw the weather resume its summer norm—light to moderate winds from the east and south, with the occasional afternoon thunderstorm. During that time we prepared Delilah for a further voyage, which I assumed would be to search the Ragged Islands archipelago to our northwest, and then return back to Nassau.
Once there I would relinquish the schooner. Rork and I would then take a steamer to Key West, sail Nancy Ann back to Patricio Island, and subsequently take train passage to Washington and our naval life. I calculated that the timing would be close, but with luck we could make it.
The former passengers, meanwhile, had been to all outward appearances as languid as the atmosphere and people of Great Inagua. Randall told people at the local church he was thinking of heading to the Caicos Islands to preach there. Lounging around the boardinghouse, the French passed the word they were waiting for a southbound steamer.
McGregor, as I had hoped, shared with me what he had heard.
“Your man Roche has been discreetly inquiring about Condor, and particularly about her people. Asked about Russians aboard and where the schooner was headed next. Billot has been trying to get someone to take him out to the eastern point. He hasn’t talked to Pamphile yet, but I imagine he will. The French woman has been asking about Haitians here on the island and their communications with Haiti.
“Mr. Randall finally came to me with his true profession. I am not, of course, at liberty to discuss that subject any further. But you were correct, Captain Wake. They are an artificial lot.”
“Well, they are your lot now, sir.”
His face crinkled into a grin for a moment. “Not for long. With any luck at all, the monthly steamer should be here any day now.”
***
My companions had changed during the journey thus far, and not for the better. Cynda was growing more morose and hostile each day. Our affection had yet to recommence. After the French woman vacated the stern cabin I returned there and Cynda resumed her place in the mate’s cabin. But the moment for love had evidently passed. She was still polite, and sometimes playful, but mostly sad and distant, as if she knew the search was nearing the end, knowing she would have to confront reality soon and admit that her son was dead.
Though they maintained polite loyalty, Corny and Dan were no longer optimistic supporters. The twists and turns of the expedition had drained their positive hopes and energies, and now even they showed subtle signs of doubt in my leadership, or in the wisdom of continuing the mission. It didn’t help that Corny’s suave attempts with Claire had been for naught, since she was obviously attached to Billot.
Tensions mounted. Our guide Absalom respectfully expressed a desire to head back to Andros. And Rork, my stalwart friend, was clearly nervous about our official leave ending in two weeks. He doubted we would make it back to headquarters in time. Unfortunately, neither of us were strangers with disciplinary repercussions in our careers. Rork reminded me that we didn’t need any further problems of that sort at naval headquarters.
Early that Saturday morning, three of us embarked on the final step to find definitive evidence of Luke Saunder’s location. Rork, Cynda, and Dan stayed aboard Delilah. Absalom, Corny, and I walked to Pamphile’s house, where we all launched his small boat out into the surf line and sailed east along the twenty-mile southern side of the island. The old man, who was doing this for a payment of one bottle of rum—afterward—and two dollars, still had the skills of a good sailor, keeping the boat just off the line of reefs the whole way. It took all morning to pass Lantern Head, Sail Rock, and Rocky Point, until we reached the far end of the island.
Once there, Pamphile sailed the boat over the reef into a circular cove where he rounded her up triumphantly into the wind. He swung his arms about him and proclaimed, “Christophe’s Lagoon. This is where the king’s treasure is. Somewhere here.”
We, of course, were not there for treasure, and he knew that. My idea was to search for any islanders who lived nearby and possibly had had contact with the men of the Condor. Maybe they could give me insight as to what had happened here, and where the schooner was heading next. Pamphile said there was only one family who farmed the area.
Half th
e circumference of the cove was a serrated line of barely submerged reef, the other half a low shoreline of sandy beach. The depth was perhaps ten feet in the middle, with a shallow opening to the northeast. Because of her draft, I surmised that Condor had probably anchored just outside of that opening, on the narrow ledge of sand and coral bottom fringing the island, before it dropped off into the ocean deep.
I assigned each man a task. Absalom would walk inland and look for the farming family. I would walk west along the beach, Corny east and north, both of us searching for any debris from Condor. Pamphile would watch the boat and examine the cove itself.
An hour later, Absalom approached me with a young native boy, who informed me in a rapid-fired thick accent that, yes, he had met white people looking for the gold in May.
I eagerly interviewed him. “Did you see a boy of fourteen with them? He was in the crew. Please speak slowly, so I can understand you.”
That was obviously an effort, but he complied. “Yes, the boy had a Bible name. Luke. He helped the old men look, but they didn’t find anything. No one does, you know. They were only here one day, until just before the sun went down. After they talked to my father and heard what he said, they left.”
Corny and Pamphile joined us as I asked the boy, “Where is your father now? I want to speak with him. I need to know what was said.”
“He’s gone to Abraham’s Bay, up Mayaguana way. But I know what he said. It’s same as what he says to them all. He told them this is only the little treasure, the big one is that way. . .” He pointed southeast. “. . . It’s still back in Haiti, at the big fortress.”
“What happened then?”
“They left in the boat. That way, toward the big treasure.”
He pointed to the southeast again. Toward Haiti.
I turned to Pamphile, who shrugged. “The boy is right. The main treasure is still hidden in Haiti. It never got out.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“You only asked about the treasure here. When I left the white people here, I thought they would return to Nassau. I did not know they headed toward Haiti—a very foolish thing to do.”
Foolish maybe, but understandable. Haiti is close to Great Inagua. I quickly estimated how long it would take us. “There’s no time to waste. We need to go there too.”
Pamphile took a breath and shook his head slowly. “No, no, . . . Captain. The treasure there is in a haunted place. At Laferrière, atop Bonnet l’Eveque, the bishop’s cap. A place of death and despair.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“The fortress of King Henri Christophe, inland from Cap Haitien, on the north coast.”
Corny stepped forward. “Isn’t Cap Haitien close to here?”
Absalom nodded and said, “One hundred miles. An overnight passage in this light easterly wind, but it won’t hold light. It will pipe up soon. And when the trades build up, it takes a week against the wind and current.”
“The land of voudou . . .” Corny intoned solemnly as he gazed across the ocean toward Haiti. “I studied some of that, years ago. Remnants of it are still around in the States, especially Louisiana. I’d be interested in seeing the home of it all.”
Pamphile snorted in agitation. “No, no, no! You people should not want to go there. If your boy is there, then he is dead. Let it be.”
He was becoming upset, but I was invigorated by this decisive intelligence of Condor’s whereabouts. It made sense. Civilization was to the north, and Condor hadn’t been seen that way. So maybe they headed away from civilization, on one last desperate try to find treasure, in a place few visited. Wrecked on the shore, they could be waiting there. We were provisioned and ready to go. Delilah could be under way as soon as we got back to Matthew Town.
The old Haitian’s chest was heaving in anger at being ignored. “Do not go there!”
“And why is that, Victor?” I asked him gently, as the island boy backed away, alarmed by Pamphile’s outburst. The boy ran off from us.
The old man pointed a shaking finger inches from my face. “Because you are all the wrong color, Captain Wake! You do not—cannot—understand the ancient ways.”
The yellowed eyes came closer, no longer pitiful, but intense, almost crazed. He
grabbed my wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, and squeezed it for emphasis.
“Les blancs do not survive in Haiti . . .”
***
We arrived back at the dock at Matthew Town an hour before sunset. Loading last-minute goods into the dinghy at the wharf and absorbed in the minutiae of getting a ship under way, I didn’t notice Roche’s approach.
“May I have a private word with you, sir?” he asked.
His deferential tone stirred my curiosity. We walked over to the corner of the nearest salt warehouse, while Absalom, Rork, and Corny finished stowing the supplies in the boat.
The Frenchman surprised me. “I know you are sailing to Cap Haitien tonight. Pamphile just told my man Billot, who ran to tell me. My assistants and I need to go there also and want to take passage on Delilah. Our baggage is being assembled and will be here in ten minutes.”
Oh, no, you don’t, thought I—no parasites or idlers on board my ship now.
“This isn’t a pleasure trip, Mr. Roche, and Haiti is not a tourist destination. I have no more time for passengers.”
I started to walk away when he held my shoulder and said, “I know that you are an American naval intelligence officer, Commander Wake, not a businessman or a merchant schooner captain. And though I will pay you fifty gold sovereigns to cover our expenses, we won’t go as passengers on this journey.”
I stopped. “My profession is of no consequence here. And you are correct—you won’t go as passengers, or anything else, even for money.”
His voice had military authority in it as he said, “We will be your allies-in-arms. You have need of us as allies, Commander. Especially me.”
I was mightily tired of British and French pomposity by this time. I’ve had my fill of it around the world. “Oh? And pray tell me, why in the world would I need you right now?”
Roche’s tone softened. “Because I think I know the area where Luke Saunders is, who he is with, and why he is there. And I further believe that you do not have the remotest idea of any of it.”
More than his words, it was his grim confidence that compelled me to wait, to let him explain. “Very well, I’m listening.”
“He is in the mountains of northern Haiti, somewhere near the fortress Pamphile spoke to you about, at the redoubt of a Russian émigré who has been engaged in a criminal enterprise there. We will need each other, Commander, to reach this place and take action once there.”
He didn’t seem to be an escaped lunatic, but his wild comments certainly gave the appearance of one. I surveyed him closely, this apparent European swell, stuck on a poor black island in the tropics. Was this a ruse to get off a boring island? Or perhaps an effort to flee the closing noose of the British police? Only desperate people went to Haiti. Why was he desperate?
In the past, I’ve had to make instantaneous judgments about people. Sometimes I’ve been wrong, but this time I didn’t think so. Roche had the ring of truth about him. That alarmed me, for if what he had indicated was true, Luke Saunders was involved in some very perilous stuff indeed.
“I think we’d better start over, Roche. We’ll begin with the first question in my mind: just who the hell are you?”
“A man who is compelled by circumstances to trust you, Commander. A man with a background and responsibilities very much like your own. I cannot say more on that. The situation is precarious but simple—you must trust me and what I tell you. Together, we can accomplish both our missions, and save lives in the process. Separately, neither of us will be successful—and many men will die because of it.”
“Go on,” I said, wary of the
theatrics.
“It is a long story and we haven’t much time, sir.” He looked to the south. “We must make this passage before the trade winds from the southeast start up again to prevent a fast voyage. I suggest we continue this conversation aboard Delilah while en route to Cap Haitien. What I have to confide with you at that time will change your mind about me and my present urgency. My colleagues will be here to board at any moment. Please, let us make haste now.”
And so it was that I said the words I couldn’t have anticipated only ten minutes earlier: “All right, Roche. I’ll do it. I’ll trust you. Get your peoples’ gear aboard. I presume Randall isn’t coming.”
Roche raised an eyebrow and grinned. “No, Commander. There is no requirement to notify him, and no need for a policeman, or a pastor, where we are going. The culture there is quite beyond the point where those professions would be useful.”
He walked away and I returned to my comrades. True to his word, ten minutes later, the French entourage arrived on the dock in the gathering dusk, this time carrying a minimum of baggage.
Claire explained to Absalom. “We will not need the more fashionable clothing where we are going.”
Right then, I didn’t know how very true that statement was.
My conversation with Roche at the Matthew Town dock was the exact pivotal moment when everything changed for me that summer. The noble quest to find out what had happened to Luke Saunders was about to abruptly transform from a general exploration for information into the focused pursuit of an evil man and his fantastic enterprise, the likes of which I had never imagined in my rather complicated life.
22
Navigating the Haitian Sea
Aboard the schooner Delilah
Bound south in the Sea of Haiti
Monday, 20 August 1888
The wind was already beginning to pipe up when we put to sea. It was coming directly from our destination at Cap Haitien, so the closest we could steer on the port tack was for Cape Nicholas, seventy miles to leeward along the coast, at the western end of the upper pincer of Haiti’s clawlike shape. The stories of sailors being taken west by the wind and currents along the coast were legion, and that was my primary fear.
Honor Bound Page 17
