How long I lay there, I do not know.
Ultimately, my unconsciousness was pierced by human sound. I heard voices out there, somewhere beyond my vision. Proving that I still lived, those words imprinted themselves in my mind to this very day.
A boy nearby yelled, “Granpapa! Batoo fraka! Batoo fraka avèk blancs! ”
I caught some of it. Batoo . . . like bateau?—“a boat.” Avec blancs?—“with whites.” Someone was speaking French? I was trying to process that when someone else, an older man farther away, shouted in panic, “Mwem Bondye! Voye chèche èd. Rele houngan!”
That particular lingo was beyond me. But I was lucid enough to realize that somehow during my oblivion, Delilah had remained intact long enough for a band of natives to make their way down through the jagged cliff wall to the wreck.
Under the command of an elder, several young men were climbing aboard to see if anyone was alive. One of them, holding a torch with flames whipping about in the wind, leaned over me, shaking my shoulders. I woke to see a wild black face in the dark, inches from mine.
“Ou vivan?”
It sounded French, like the other, and I interpreted it as his asking if I was actually alive. I made the mistake of trying to answer likewise in French and implored him to send for help.
“Appelez . . . aide . . .”
He shrank back and yelled to his comrades, “Franse! Franse! ”
Then I remembered where I was and what Roche had said. “No, no! Américain, Américain! ”
That did the trick. He came close again and lifted the fore gaff off my left thigh, immediately alleviating the pain I felt there, then brushed the hair and blood from my eyes. He tapped his chest and said, “Mwen Adolfus. Kijan ou rele? ”
His name evidently was Aldolfus. I took it that he wanted to know mine. Not wanting to incite problems again by using my admittedly bad French, I parroted his phrase and said, “Mwen Peter.”
Two of them were huddled over Rork. By the light of Aldolfus’ torch, I could see my friend was covered in blood and still not moving. One of the Haitians used the word “mouri ” and shook his head sadly. The worst had happened. Rork was dead. After all we’d been through on five continents, my dearest friend died because I’d failed in seamanship on a routine voyage in our home region. My heart went still, emotion filling my eyes as I cried out, “Sean! Please Sean, get up. Dear Jesus, not him.”
Adolfus began throwing debris off me, hurried by another lurch of the hull. When the pile was cleared off, he pulled me along the deck to a section of planking that had been broken off. I was laid on it and from somewhere another man appeared. They lifted me up and a third man lashed me to the makeshift litter. Seconds later I was passed over the gunwale to other men on the rocks, who then gave me to still others, passing me up a line of men along a narrow path through a jumble of large rocks, up the cliff face.
Torches illuminated the area of the wreck below, allowing me to see others of my party being transported in a similar fashion. Coming up the path behind me I saw only three litters and tried to remember how many had been aboard. Was it eight? No, it was nine. None of bodies on the litters were moving. Instead, their heads rolled with the motion and limbs down hung limp. I rose on one elbow and searched for Cynda. By the flickering light I could tell which one was her by the blue cotton print dress. Her body lay inert, a clump of clothing on a board.
God help me, they were all dead. . . .
***
Adolfus put me down in a shallow cave, maybe twenty feet up the cliff from the wreck. Across the walls crude emblems were painted in white and blue; the graveled floor contained piles of papers, simple sketches of faces, and pieces of clothing. Scattered on the floor around me was a white powder in the vague shape of a cross. In a far corner, I saw a bottle surrounded with tiny lit candles, the kind one sees at Catholic churches. The candles cast a dim dreamlike gauzy light, illuminating facets in the rock, casting nervous shadows. It was an other-worldly scene.
Aldolfus gestured around the space and said, “Gròt Manman Jimos yo.”
I had no idea what he meant by that. “What did you say, Adolfus?”
He ignored me and left. I lay there, alone, still tied to the planking and unable to move. I called out, “Hello? Does anyone here speak English?”
From the shadows—the cave was deeper than I’d thought—came a woman’s voice, deeper than most, deliberate, with a patience about it, as a teacher would have.
“Adolfus said to you that this is the Cave of the Mother of Twins. Gròt Manman Jimos yo. People come here to get help with their troubled relationships. And yes, there are a few of us in Haiti who speak some English. Missionary school, when I was young.”
I craned my head around but could see no one. The voice was disembodied.
“Where are you? I can’t see you.”
“You do not need to see me, for you would not—you cannot—have the power to believe what you would see. I am the mambo, the woman shepherd, of these people. It has pleased Agwè, the loa of the sea, to save you. Therefore, our duty was clear. You will be safe for now.”
I couldn’t fathom her statement, or the strange words within, but then I wasn’t in a mystical state of mind. “Thank you for your help, madam. Will you please get someone to untie me?”
“Yes. They are coming now with the other blancs.”
I heard him before I saw him.
“Thank ye, lads, but me legs’re workin’ now an’ I can walk fine enough. Me shipmates’ll need yer help, though. Oh now, boyos, I can do it—let me walk.”
I felt my body literally inflate with joy. He looked dreadful, but Sean Rork was far from deceased as he peeked cautiously into the cave.
“Sweet Jesus, Mary, an’ Joseph! I was thinkin’ you were dead an’ washed away to sea. Peter Wake, you’ll be the death o’ me yet, scarin’ me such as that!”
Rork limped in to me, followed by a Haitian carrying our seabags and Dan Horloft on a litter carried by Aldolfus. When he saw me, Dan muttered, “Nice landfall, Peter.”
His short sarcasm struck straight to the core. Rork glared at him, but Dan was right. It was my fault.
Adolfus unlashed me as two other Haitians lugged in the litter carrying Cynda. When they put it down I saw her eyes were open. Tears blinded me. “Thank God above. Darling Cynda, where are you hurt?”
“Everywhere . . .” she croaked out. Moaning as she rolled over, she held out a hand, which I smothered in mine.
Adolfus reported to the mambo in rapid Haitian, which elicited a lengthy reply, more like orders than conversation. Adolfus and the other Haitian men immediately headed out of the cave in response.
Corny Rathburn hobbled in, favoring his right arm, and sat by Cynda. “I’m afraid your dear lady broke my fall down in the galley, Peter. She’s got bad bruises and sprains, but no breaks, I think. I do apologize, Cynda, for being such an oaf.”
She sounded stronger. “Corny, you’re not an oaf. Thank you for carrying me out of the cabin. You hurt your arm?”
“Well, I do fear my drinking hand has been wounded. I’ll be limited to smaller glasses.”
He was rewarded with a faint giggle from Cynda. “Oh, Corny, you’re a saint, aren’t you? You’ve made me laugh in the midst of all this.”
Absalom entered, carrying the front end of a litter containing Roche. The Bahamian was bleeding heavily from his forehead, but walking with only a slight limp.
“Ab! Damned if you don’t amaze me,” exclaimed Dan. “I saw you fly through the air like a bird. You didn’t hit a rock?” He rubbed his knee. “I sure as hell did.”
“Yes, sir, I did. But I came to my senses in the water. I must have bounced off a rock and back into the sea. Praise the Lord.”
Rork took a breath, which I could see hurt him, and returned to his role as my number two in command, reporting, “Two didn’t make it, sir.
Billot and Claire’re dead. Hit a big boulder on the port side. Roche made it, but he’s hurt bad. Ribs and legs, me’s thinkin’, by the sight o’ him.”
Roche hadn’t uttered a word to this point. He rolled to his side, facing me. Through gritted teeth he told me, “Claire . . . Henri . . . gone.”
“I know, Roche. I’m sorry. How bad are you?”
“I am here and alive . . . will walk. Just need a little time . . . to get . . . my strength back.”
Claire’s body was brought in on a makeshift litter. Massive head wound from the rocks. Horrific to see, but a mercifully quick death. One of the Haitian men covered Claire’s head with cloths from the pile on the floor. Billot was laid next to her. I forced myself to shake off my despair. There would be time for pity and accusation later. I needed to calculate what should be done now.
“The ship—did you get a look at her? What’s left to salvage?” I asked Rork.
“Hull and rig’re done for. Delilah’s skin and bones’re falling away fast. Maybe some provisions an’ belongin’s can be gotten out. I had them get your and my stuff out. By the way, sir—where the hell are we?”
“I don’t know exactly, but I think we’re close to Pointe Picolet.”
“Then where’s that damned lighthouse?” said Dan. “I was on lookout and didn’t see anything.”
The mambo’s eerie voice echoed out of the shadows, startling my cohorts.
“The lighthouse is right above us, on the top of the cliff. President Salomon had it built ten years ago to warn blanc sailors of this point of land. It is iron for strength, has the most modern light mechanism, and will last a long time. Salomon wants to modernize Haiti, you see. To encourage trade, to make us like the other countries. He is, of course, a foolish dreamer.”
“We didn’t see any light.”
A little laugh came back to me as she uttered, “But of course, monsieur. This is Haiti. Salomon’s lighthouse has not been lit for years. No need for it—we know the location of Pointe Picolet.”
She waited, then said, “It is time for you all to go. We have done what Agwè desires. You will be taken to the fort and turned over to the authorities. They will meet you there.”
I called out to the dark corner, “We must get the rest of our personal things from the ship first, madam. It won’t take long.”
The voice that replied was almost a snarl. I’d never heard a woman sound like that. “The contents of your ship belong to us now. Some will be returned to Agwè. Others will be given to the deserving. Do not come back to this place, Capitaine Wake. Yes, I know your name. You will go and take your dead with you. It is not for you to be here. Any of you, even the Bahama nwa.”
Absalom’s eyes widened and he said something to Corny, the two of them turning their attention to me. Sitting up by then, fully alert and vexed by the dramatics, I peered into the gloom from where the voice emanated. I still could not see her, though she must’ve been just outside the cast of the candles’ light, not more than fifteen feet away. “And just how do you know my name, madam?”
“Agwè knows your name and told me. Beware, Capitaine Wake, for the loa of the sea has told Kalfu, he who controls the crossroads, too. And Kalfu will be watching you closely while you are in this land of Haiti.”
I was about to ask for an explanation of all this Agwè, loa, and Kalfu business, who I supposed to be tribal chiefs or some sort, when Corny leaned over toward me, a worried look on his face.
“Don’t say a word, Peter. Just do as she says,” he whispered. “I’ll explain later. But we need to go. Now.”
24
Chanm Mouri Nan
Pointe Picolet
Near Cap Haitien
North coast of Haiti
Tuesday, 21 August 1888
We formed a column outside the cave. Rork, Adolfus, and I in front. Corny, Dan, and Absalom followed immediately behind. Roche and Cynda were carried on litters. In the rear were litters carrying Billot and Claire.
The route was even more treacherous than before, a series of ever-ascending stepping-stone boulders with deep crevasses between. Boys with torches were stationed along the way, so that the blancs could see the perils of uncertain steps. Other boys waited to help us at the worst places, one of which involved stepping over a small stream plunging down into the sea. Aldolfus led the way, periodically conversing with me in his language, none of which I could decipher beyond his tone, which was attentive for our safety.
No, actually it was beyond mere concern—the man was visibly scared that we would be hurt. I’d seen that look in the Orient. It was as if he had been made personally responsible for us, at his own peril.
We finally made it up to a level place with wind-bent stunted trees, perhaps ninety feet above the crashing waves, and rested there. We blancs fell in exhaustion, massaging legs and ankles. I didn’t think I, or any of us from Delilah, could go much further on foot, but there was no place a wheeled vehicle could have traveled. The Haitians stood around nervously, exchanging comments and watching us. It was clear they didn’t want to linger there.
“What time is it?” I asked Corny, who had his watch out. We were sitting together on a rock ledge, the sea surging below. A torch nearby showed how little room there was.
“Little after three o’clock. Another three hours till daylight.”
“So what was it you wanted to tell me back there?”
“You were angry, Peter. I needed to stop you before you got that mambo woman annoyed to the point of ordering her men to do something violent.”
“I didn’t like her threat, Corny. We’re shipwrecked seamen. Human decency dictates that civilized people help us, allow us to retrieve our belongings, not threaten us with mumbo-jumbo from their petty tribal warlords.”
Corny lowered his tone. “These people are civilized, Peter, but it is a very different kind of civilization than what we’re used to. And she wasn’t referring to human warlords, she was referring to spirits.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Corny. Not you, too. I expect this sort of drivel from young Absalom, and Rork, but you’re an educated man—”
“—who has studied exotic cultures, including this one. Peter, we’re not in the Western Hemisphere anymore, culturally. Make no mistake about it, my friend. We are in Africa and what she was talking about is voudou. Every Haitian’s soul is purest Africa. Their voudou is not magical entertainment—it’s their religion from Africa. If we violate that, or dismiss it, we do so to our mortal risk. Agwè is a powerful loa, or spirit, here—the patron saint, as it were, of sailors and the sea. They think he saved us. Don’t make light of their beliefs.”
Absalom joined us, listening as Corny continued his elucidation. “And Kalfu is the loa of the night. He is one of the most powerful and sadistic of their spirits, the guardian of the crossroads from one world to another. Most of all, he controls the evil forces of the night. Her warning about him was very real. She was upset.”
“One of his signs is the moon,” added Absalom, who shifted his gaze upward. Above us to the west, the full moon began to shine through a thin area of the charcoal haze hiding the stars. Several of the Haitians were pointing it out to Adolfus.
Corny exhaled loudly. I noticed his hands trembling. The man was seriously worried. “So Peter, let’s just be very cognizant that the Haitians believe in this, and let us try not to antagonize them. When we get to a city, we’ll probably find sophisticated Christian people that will help us. Until then, we need to go along with whoever we find in charge.”
“You agree with this?” I asked Absalom.
“I am a Christian like you, sir. But, just as I said at Andros Island, there are some things we can’t explain. The obeah of the Bahamas is like this voudou in Haiti. Christians in the Bahamas do not make light of it.”
***
After a short rest, we started up the cliff again, my crew barely ab
le to move at this point, tottering stiffly along in line. When we reached the top, Adolfus stopped and pointed with his right hand toward a higher outcropping set back from the edge. A boy ran off with a torch and halted fifty yards away, illuminating an object.
It was the lighthouse. Made of an iron cylinder with thick support braces and a checkerboard black and white paint scheme, it poked above the surrounding trees and faced north, across the sea. A useless silhouette in the dark. Seeing streaks of rust in the paint, I wondered how long Salomon’s lighthouse would remain standing.
We tramped inland, now moving on a real path through ever thickening foliage. The ground was relatively level, a bit easier to negotiate. At a wide part of the path, after hearing his charges in constant pain, Adolfus proclaimed another rest stop, gesturing for us to sit along the path. My people did so, groaning with the effort.
Rork nudged me and walked fifteen feet away, to the edge of the torch light, where he sat down and leaned against a tree. I joined him, apart from everyone else. The Haitians gathered in a group on the far side of the path from us, much more agitated, and glancing around into the dark for some reason. Several looked our way, and none too friendly.
“Methinks we’re bein’ led somewhere evil, sir. The native lads’re getting’ a might testier the farther we go, like they’re knowin’ what’s acomin’ for us. We’d better be ready to fight.”
“Yes, I’ve perceived that, too. But it’ll be a damned short fight in our condition. Where are our seabags?”
We had our personal weapons in the seabags, but Rork pointed out that the bags were over next to Adolfus and his men, who had been carrying them. Thus they weren’t within reach. Then he had an idea. “We could get some deadfall limbs to use for cudgels. If it looks like a fight, we bash ’em over the head, grab our bags and get the weapons out. Until then, we use ’em as walkin’ sticks.”
Honor Bound Page 19
