In the resulting air of bonhomie, Durand sent fruit and chilled juices up to our rooms, arranged hot baths for all hands, and promised new clothing and a visit from a doctor later that morning. Promises are never expected to be kept in the West Indies, but, most notably at this hotel, they were actually fulfilled. The stench and local suspicion of us at Cap Haitien were off-putting, but there was no denying the general’s, and Durand’s, sincerity. To be fair, all the people of substance we had encountered within the city were uniformly accommodating to our needs, leaving us with a pleasant impression of middle and upper Haitian society. By noon, the entire contingent—fed, clothed, and medically ministered to—had fallen into bed.
Except for me, of course. With the exchange between him and Roche still in my mind, I cornered Yablonowski in the lobby and asked about his background. My suspicions that, despite what he said to Roche, he was in fact Russian turned out to be unfounded.
The sergeant enlightened me on the subject. It seems that when Napoleon sent forty thousand troops to recover Haiti from the rebelling slaves in 1804, they included over five thousand men in the famous Polish Legion. That veteran army was led by General Wladyslaw Franciszdek Yablonowski, the good sergeant’s great-great-grandfather, by way of a Haitian servant woman.
During operations in Haiti, eighty percent of the Polish Legion died of wounds and disease. The general himself died of yellow fever. By the end of the conflict, four hundred Poles, disaffected with the French, elected to join the revolutionary side and became Haitian citizens. Within a year, that had dwindled to 240, who intermarried and settled in five towns across southern Haiti, where their descendants still lived. Those Poles were the only white people allowed to become citizens and to own land in the new black country.
They were known as the Moun Rouge—the light-skinned people. The sergeant was commonly known as the Sólda Rouge—the “light-skinned soldier.” Yablonowski candidly explained that his general valued his inherent military skills, his lack of blood affiliation with anyone in the north, and his disconcerting appearance to the local population. Not to mention his language ability. “I am useful in unusual situations,” he said with a slight smile.
I learned from the sergeant that the American consul was in Port au Prince due to some political troubles there. I asked about sending a cable to Washington, my intention being to explain to my superiors the probable delay in returning from leave, but was told the new telegraph line was malfunctioning. Worried about my commanding officer’s reaction to us overstaying our leave, I wrote a letter to Commodore Walker explaining our predicament and asked Durand to post it. It may be fairly questioned why I didn’t send a letter to Delilah’s owner, explaining her loss. The candid answer is that I was exhausted and forgot. A regrettable omission, as I would later realize.
Finally, I requested to see the head man in the area, General Hyppolite, to present my appreciation for his, and his countrymen’s, generosity to us. Yablonowski went off to deliver the request in person, returning an hour later with an approval. I was to be guest of the general at breakfast the next day. Thanking the sergeant again, I wearily climbed the stairs to my bath and the ultimate refuge of that glorious bed.
26
Hyppolite’s Decision
Governor’s Residence
Rue Penard and Rue Consuiel
Cap Haitien, Haiti
Wednesday, 22 August 1888
Compared to his fellow citizens, Florvil Hyppolite lived in magnificent luxury. We shared breakfast in the interior courtyard of a one-hundred-fifty-year-old mansion that once belonged to a slave-owning Frenchman. Surrounded by verandahs overlooking the estate’s tranquil gardens, the whole protected by a ten-foot-high wall, it was a world removed from the impoverished reality of the city. The historic Gallic architectural accents and Haitian servants padding around silently told of the old times, but my host, as African as one can be, brought the impression up to date. He was a senior general of the Republic of Haiti, second longest independent nation in the Western Hemisphere.
“Captain Wake, we will get you home as fast as we can,” the man offered pleasantly in very good English as he sampled a slice of pineapple. “Most fortuitously, a passenger-carrying cargo steamer should arrive tomorrow or the next day from Port au Prince. They are heading for Havana. We will prevail upon them to take you and your passengers away. Sergeant Yablonowski will arrange everything.”
General Florvil Hyppolite was an impressive man. Sixty years of age and of medium frame, he had the patrician’s unlined benevolent face, like a bishop comfortably entrenched in an affluent diocese. His chocolate skin and black moustache, receding carpet of snow white hair, and small shock of white goatee gave the man a grandfatherly air. Clad in his blue and gold dress uniform that morning, he projected something more than aristocratic poise, however.
Life and death were his to dispense. Florvil Hyppolite was the most powerful man in northern Haiti, and his intense large brown eyes, the only incongruous part of the image, showed that he knew it, and demanded that you respect it. They looked right through any veneer you might erect.
He clearly wanted these newly arrived Americans and Frenchmen out of his area as soon as possible. That much was obvious, despite the flowery talk that had occupied our breakfast so far. Unexpected, and requiring far more effort than we were worth, my companions and I were an annoyance he could do without right then, for he had larger issues to deal with. Unfortunately for the general, I was about to make his day worse. Although I would try to be as pleasant about it as he had been to that point.
“Your Excellency, thank you again for the wonderful kindness and compassion shown to me and my companions by the gentlemen of the Army of the Republic of Haiti. The inhabitants of this city have been wonderful. No nation in the world could do more than you have, and it is profoundly impressive and appreciated. Until this moment, I have not had the chance to explain why we were coming to Haiti, so allow me to explain—”
He stopped eating and interrupted me with a displeased tone. “You were intentionally coming to Haiti? Why?”
“To search for a missing fourteen-year-old boy named Luke Saunders, who came here several months ago on a schooner called Condor. Her captain is named Kingston. Do you know of him or the vessel, sir?”
His answer was far too quick. “No.”
“The lady in our group, Mrs. Saunders, is the mother of Luke, who was a ship’s boy on that schooner. The ship and boy are missing now but were last seen heading right here from Great Inagua Island. The lady is convinced her son is alive. I am convinced he is here in Haiti. The other gentlemen aboard, important men from Washington and Europe, are also convinced Luke is in this part of Haiti.”
I paused to gauge his reaction. His jaw set like stone during my last sentence about Washington and Europe. The next part of my presentation would be delicate. If Roche was telling the truth and there really was a criminal called Sokolov in this area, the general might very well be one of his cronies. Hyppolite focused on me. He didn’t fidget or delay his reply.
“I know nothing of a missing white boy around here.”
I judged that Hyppolite was lying about Condor and Kingston—but truthful about his ignorance of Luke. Now came the main proposition.
“I think the boy got lost in Haiti and is residing with a Russian man named Sokolov, at some sort of farm up in the mountains. I intend to go there, retrieve the boy, and go home to America. But, of course, General, I need your help to do so.”
Hyppolite leaned back in his chair, all signs of amiability leaving his face. Folding his hands in front, he inspected anew the audacious Yankee who had disturbed his domain by crashing into it.
“Sólda Rouge was wrong,” he grumbled, more to himself than to me.
“Sir?”
“He said you would be gone in three days. On the steamer.” The general shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “I
think Yablonowski and I have completely misunderstood you, Captain. As a military man, I have learned that misunderstandings can be fatal. I do not make a habit of such mistakes. Now I must re-evaluate you, and the situation at hand.”
He stopped me from replying with an upstretched hand. Then my host seemed to rise slightly in his chair and lean forward, the more to allow his total authority to emphasize itself upon me.
“I presume you are about to ask me to approve your travel to this man Sokolov’s farm and also to provide an official escort on the journey to ensure safety. Alas, death is part of life in Haiti, Captain Wake, and I fear your presence in the interior would tempt the darker forces that inhabit men’s souls—and those more violent loa that many believe live in the air around us. Not that I believe in such things, needless to say.”
He let all that weigh on me for a moment, employing the old technique of transforming a guest into a subordinate. The performance was neatly done, I must admit, and probably enough to frighten the wits out of the average blanc who found themselves within the zone of his displeasure.
I, however, most assuredly did not fall into that particular category. No, indeed, for I knew certain things and had some unique leverage to which the dear general in all his grandeur was not privy. You see, I knew what Florvil Hyppolite was afraid of.
This positive turn of events stemmed from the evening before, when two of our company had not been idle. Following his afternoon rest, Corny went with his new friend Durand to the Club des Negociants, the Traders’ Club, down on the waterfront, where they met a talkative local businessman named Gourgues. The three raconteurs enjoyed dinner and wine and several rounds of digestifs.
At the same time, Rork sat with Sergeant Yablonowski for simpler fare at a tavern near the barracks in the center of town. Both Corny and Rork shared a common mission assigned them by me—find out everything they could about Kingston, Condor, Luke, and Sokolov. Our conference had taken place later that night in my room.
Corny reported that he learned Kingston and his vessel were occasional visitors to the harbor who excited no undue interest. Condor had last been at Cap Haitien in late May. The schooner stayed only overnight and departed the next morning, after the tourist aboard, an old rich man from America, made his way ashore with Captain Kingston. Once on land, they were met by some Haitians and immediately proceeded out of the city. The rumor was that they were en route to a place known as the Citadelle, on a mountain peak called Laferrière—the fortress built by King Henri Christophe. The same place Victor Pamphile had told us about.
Rumor further had it that they were either amateur archaeologists or treasure hunters, which made sense to the locals, as Haitian legend had it that there was a cache of treasure hidden within the fort. No one had seen them since they’d left for the interior, and Durand thought the blancs might have forged their way farther south to Port au Prince, an arduous journey. It was ninety miles as the crow flies, but over a hundred fifty by road. The hotelier knew of no young white boy. He had heard of a Russian émigré, however, who was running a cattle ranch in the northeast part of Haiti, but he did not know names or details.
Then Corny briefed us on the political situation, which was in flux. The president of the country, seventy-three-year-old Lysius Salomon, a progressive from the south, had been in office since 1879. Over the years, his administration had increased public education, decreased the national debt to France, reorganized the army, established a national bank, joined the International Postal Union, fought down numerous rebellions, and contracted with a British company to connect a telegraph cable from Cap Haitien to Cuba—hence the ship in the harbor. In 1883, Salomon had sent two offers to the United States: naval base leasing rights at the island of Tortuga or at Mole St. Nicholas, in return for American protection. Both were rejected, a development I remembered well, for the rejections were my suggestion.
The situation had dramatically changed in Haiti in the last several weeks though. Salomon, tired and ill, resigned from office on August tenth; a special executive council of various personalities in Port au Prince had ostensibly taken over the government as of August eighteenth; rebellion by bands of cacos, peasant revolutionaries, was spreading throughout the land; and on the nineteenth, the U.S.S. Galena had entered Port au Prince harbor to protect American citizens. That explained why the local consul went to Port au Prince.
No one was in real control in the capital and anyone might seize command of the country at any time—except in the north, which was under the firm control of Hyppolite. Rumor had it that General Hyppolite was about to march on the capital and form a national government, by force if necessary. Everyone in Haiti was pondering what side to take when that happened.
Rork reported that Yablonowski had heard of Captain Frederick Kingston and the Condor. He did know that a party of white people had headed into the interior, looking for French ruins. He’d personally seen them leaving the city—with a young white servant. None of them appeared under duress. He also knew of the Russian with a cattle ranch in the remote mountains east of the Chaîne de Vallières mountains, near the border with Santo Domingo. He said the local word was that the Russian was building up the ranch stock with an eye to eventual export of the beef around the Caribbean.
Both Rork and Corny reported that none of their companions knew anything of a man whose name began with an ‘O’. No one knew of the Russian doing anything illegal. And no one had seen the missing captain, tourist, or boy since they’d left town.
Thus, as I watched General Hyppolite regard me as an old tomcat would a cornered mouse, I knew that inside that emotionless exterior he was uncertain as to his own longevity at the hands of his compatriots; and most importantly, uncertain about what the United States thought of him. No doubt, he was probably waiting nervously for a U.S. Navy warship to come around Pointe Picolet any day now. Ah, yes, surmised I—this was no time for a Haitian leader to be harming, or even threatening, Americans in Haiti.
And right then was the moment to let him know precisely that.
“General, there are only the two of us in this room, so let us not waste time. I will be very blunt. This is what I need: a decent map of the region, a letter of introduction from you to whomever I may meet, Sergeant Yablonowski assigned as my guide, some sturdy pack animals, and a dozen good soldiers for security. It will take a week, maybe two, then we will leave with the boy. Our journey will be subtle in nature and not disturb the peace of the people, that I can assure you.”
He began to shake his head, but I said, “No—hear me out. Let me finish. What you need is this: someone to find out what Sokolov is really up to out there in the jungle; and secondly, someone with influence to speak on your behalf to the American military when they arrive here, probably next week. As you well know, the U.S. Navy has already arrived in Port au Prince and their guns cover the city.”
I counted internally to ten after that rather salient point, then continued with my discourse. “The United States can be a valuable ally or a formidable foe. The French, British, and the Germans will also probably arrive with warships within a week, to protect their people and investments.
“General, you are poised to be the supreme leader of the Republic, to realize your destiny and become the most famous of your country’s presidents. Now is the time to safeguard your political flanks and rear with the support of prominent foreigners who can and will persuade their governments to support your efforts. You know that I, and the gentlemen of my expedition, can quite efficiently satisfy that need.”
Thankfully, no one in Cap Haitien knew my real profession, or things would’ve gotten really complicated. Most of what I’d said was pure bluff. The ensuing silence lasted a full thirty seconds—a long time when you are staring eyeball to eyeball with a man who could very easily have you taken out and shot, or worse. It began to appear as if he was considering that very thing, until he finally spoke.
“I will give yo
u the letter, the sergeant, some pack animals, and some men. You will write me a letter, copied four times, right now. This letter will be addressed to any captain of any warship from Europe or the United States. It will say that General Florvil Hyppolite is a professional military man of honor and should be accorded all of the respect and privileges such a man deserves. It will also say that I am the primary government executive in northern Haiti and all matters regarding foreign people and money will be referred to me and decided through me. And when you return to Cap Haitien from this journey into the mountains, you will privately brief me about this Russian and his farm project.”
I raised my glass of rum-infused orange juice. “It would seem that we are both well-intentioned allies, sir. May I offer a toast? That the future unfold well for both of our enterprises.”
***
I left the general’s residence in the late morning with Sergeant Yablonowski and ten soldiers in tow. The letters had been written and signed. Supplies for the expedition were obtained from the army depot. The map, from the revolution eighty years earlier, had been gone over by Yablonowski and me. All was ready.
My next duty was a sad one—to oversee the funeral of Claire Fournier and Henri Billot in the Catholic house of worship facing the main square of Cap Haitien, the Place d’Armes. The church was a distant echo of France’s glory, its roof a hodge-podge of underfunded renovation, the unpainted walls eroding in spots, the pews merely crude benches. But the edifice was still guarded by large statues of St. Peter and St. Paul, set in niches on the outside of the front wall. These two guardians of the faith overlooked the once-great plaza, presently a weedy yard, where once rebellious slaves were tortured in front of crowds of blacks forced to watch the spectacle.
The decayed treasury building, another ancient relic of the French, squatted across the square, perhaps remembering those glory days and quietly brooding its present fate. Around us, the descendants of those slaves shambled unhurriedly on their errands during the heat of the day, oblivious to the fears of this blanc in their midst. Their grandparents had exacted a gory revenge upon the French masters, and I wondered as I watched them if that hatred still smoldered. I thought it must. The Place d’Armes was a depressing scene of civilization decayed, of unspeakable horror—the ultimate nightmare scenario of European empires.
Honor Bound Page 21
