I was about to ask for clarification of that last part when Laurent’s mouth curled into a leer as Yablonowski translated the lieutenant’s next comment. “The two Bizangos that arrived that night were bourreaux.”
He turned his eyes to Yablonowski. “You know how those Bizango bourreaux are. I think your lost blancs who went with them are already dead, or wish they were, by now.”
I noted that both times Laurent said the word bourreaux, Yablonowski’s eyes widened. “Sergeant, what does all this mean? What’s a bourreau? What—?
He stopped my inquiry with a sharp glance. The man was visibly shaken. “I’ll explain later, sir. Later!”
Having accomplished frightening my companion and baffling me, Corporal-turned-Lieutenant Laurent stood abruptly and glared down at me. “That is all I know. Except for this: the general ordered me to let you stay a night, and you shall. But in the morning I order that you leave. I do not want you here. I have heard how you have already humiliated the mambo of Picolet and displeased the loa.”
He leaned over close to me and spoke almost in a whisper, his strange African-sounding language losing none of its vehemence in Yablonowski’s translation: “Little blanc sailor man, you are just like all the arrogant others who have come here and disrespected our ways, defiled our monuments, tried to steal what little we have, and treated us like the slaves we once were.”
Laurent straightened up and gestured around him. “Ah, but Haiti has a way of dealing with you, all of you—from the French monsters in my grandfather’s time, to the amerikens now. Oh, yes, I can smell the anger of Kalfu around you and see that the color red is everywhere in the air. Death is in your shadow.”
Such was the first time I saw Lieutenant Laurent, but not the last. A few hours later his sinister prediction came true.
28
Revanj avék Pwazon
The Royal Apartment
within the Citadelle
Montagne Laferrière
Northern Haiti
Saturday, 25 August 1888
I called a conference that evening to brief everyone on what Sergeant Yablonowski and I had learned from Lieutenant Laurent. We filed into the royal apartment’s dining chamber and sat around a cherry wood table lined with silver place settings that would’ve done justice to French nobility. In fact, I was informed by the Haitian sergeant that it had done justice to French nobility and was looted after their dismemberment following the slaves’ revolution. Such was the acquisition process for much of Christophe’s wealth.
The room had a strange character about it. The thin veneer of French sophistication reigned amidst a surrounding atmosphere of African malevolence, all of this placed within walls thirty feet thick, built to repel the mightiest army in the world. But was it a place of safety or a prison? It felt like the second to me. We were, for all purposes, very much like the French ninety years earlier—a foreign garrison besieged by an enemy beyond our capacity to comprehend.
Three tarnished silver candelabra mounted on the paneled walls, assisted by a larger one at the center of the table, provided the light. Rork, stationed at the door, gave us a semblance of security, but I cautioned everyone that we had to assume the walls might have passageways, and thus unfriendly ears. Outside, we heard those night drums again, an unsettling background to discuss the latest disturbing intelligence.
Dinner was being prepared for us, but until then we were given clarin to drink—out of cut crystal goblets. Priceless Hungarian goblets, Corny observed dryly. Clarin, for those fortunate enough not to be familiar with it, is the Haitian version of rotgut sugar cane liquor, and definitely unsuitable for the faint-hearted. There was no need for me to counsel caution on that point, we were all too nervous to imbibe more than a sip or two.
I explained to the circle of anxious eyes that Yablonowski and I had met with the Citadelle’s unsympathetic commander, who informed us that Luke Saunders and the others had been at the fortress and left of their own will, heading east into the jungle with Bizango men. Then I turned it over to the sergeant for some background information about the culture of Haiti. Taking a deep breath, and averting his eyes away from Cynda, Yablonowski began.
“Haiti is Africa. The Haitian word for Africa is Guinée—and it is a large part of every Haitian’s core to this day. Remember, when freedom came to us less than nine decades ago, the majority of the slaves here had been born in Africa. They remembered their homeland and the old ways of their tribe very well. Slaves in Haiti came from many tribes in Western Africa. Some of those tribes were enemies back there. When they arrived here and were put into the plantations, they naturally tended to stay with their own people. Because of distrust and to protect against enemy tribes on the plantations, the slaves formed secret tribal societies based on the ones back in their homeland. The societies also preserved their ways of life, their culture.
“Some of that culture is a religion, called in Haiti voudou. Most of it is harmless and a relatively positive influence on the lives of the people. But some of it is what Christians, like me, consider evil. To most Haitians, however, it is simply the everyday conflict between the good and bad sides of a man’s soul—his desires and his conscience. The secret societies are part of this voudou, operating at night and keeping their people in fear by intimidation. And that is why Haitians stay inside after the sun goes down, unless they are in a society or have the protection and permission of one.”
He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable explaining this to foreigners, and particularly to the sole woman in the room whose son was now in the jungle with the Bizango. His pained expression reminded me of Victor Pamphile’s impassioned plea for us not to go to Haiti.
“As you know, I am half-European and half-Haitian. The Haitian half is of the Mende tribe, from what the Europeans call Sierra Leone. The Mende people have a secret night society here called the Poro. The Kakonda people from farther down in Africa have a society called the Bizango. It is one of the largest in Haiti, very powerful, feared by other tribes.
“The Bizango are mainly in the central and south parts of Haiti. They have a reputation for being very violent to people who refuse their orders. They do not like the people of the Kongo and Efik tribes because they consider them traitorous to the African slaves. Efik lived along the coast of Africa and captured slaves inland, then brought them out to the coast and sold them to the whites who came by ship from Europe. Many Kongo slaves were given good jobs at the plantations, easier jobs, sometimes as foremen over the other slaves.
“In this area of northern Haiti there are many Kongo and Efik. That is why the Russian man is using Bizangos for his guards and workers, because they intimidate the local people.”
Yablonowski swallowed hard, looking at Cynda. He then explained what Laurent had told us about the whites getting drunk and leaving with the Bizango men.
The assembly gasped and it grew very quiet around the table as Yablonowski continued, bringing up the point I was about to inquire upon. “There is another factor. Laurent said those two Bizango men were bourreaux.”
“Oh, my God,” uttered Corny, his head jerked around to see my reaction. “That’s the French word for executioners . . .”
“Yes, Dr. Rathburn, it is,” observed Roche. “But remember our hypothesis: the passenger from Condor is probably a hostage. There is no reason for Sokolov to kill him. He’ll need him alive to get the ransom.”
“If that is what he’s really up to,” said Dan.
Cynda, silent until then, cried out, “My son is with savages in this jungle! We have to get to him. Now!”
Yablonowski, who had not been privy to Roche’s theory, or any of our knowledge about Sokolov and Kingston, studied us carefully as Rork asked me, “When do we get under way, sir?”
“At sunrise,” I replied. “We’re not going out there in the dark and wander around aimlessly. For right now, we eat dinner and try to get some
rest. I want everyone ready to leave the fortress as the sun comes up.”
Cynda started softly crying as I told the sergeant of our suspicions about Sokolov. He simply nodded and said, “I hope you are wrong.”
***
Dinner, described by Yablonowski as diri ak djon djon, consisted of rice and mushrooms in grayish gravy, scattered with red beans and bits of meat identified as chicken. Two young barefoot soldiers of the garrison functioned as servants, their eyes watching us fearfully as they set the plates down. I imagined they worried about our affiliation with General Hyppolite and any repercussions of our displeasure.
The meal was bland but filling, and my famished companions soon finished. Yablonowski departed to bunk in with his men at the enlisted barracks, two levels down in the fort. His final words to me were, “I do not like this situation, Mr. Wake. It is far more complicated than I was told back in Cap Haitian. There is too much we do not know. We must be very careful when we leave here in the morning.”
To say the least, thought I.
As everyone headed off to their beds in an attempt to rest for the night, I posted a guard detail at the entrance to the apartment. I couldn’t define why, but didn’t like the look in those servants’ eyes. Laurent was no friend, Yablonowski was too far away for immediate help, Roche was still an unknown quantity to me, and Absalom was too young, so I used only the men I trusted fully—the Americans. Rork would take the first two-hour watch, I the second, Dan the third, Corny the last. Of course, only Rork and I were armed, but no one else knew that. The men dispersed. I went to my bed and lay there by the light of a tiny candle, thinking.
Ten minutes later it hit me—gradually at first, then accelerating rapidly.
I felt light-headed, dizzy, as if drunk. My mouth filled with saliva, and my face started to swell. The saliva began to dribble down my lips. Was I drunk? I couldn’t be, for I’d only had half a glass of the clarin. I decided to rise and try to find some coffee, but my limbs were sluggish and I fell back. Rolling out of the bed I dropped roughly on the stone floor, but registered no pain. It was then that I realized my heart was pounding faster and faster, and I tried to call out for Rork, but my voice was a slurred moan.
Was what happened next serendipity or Divine intervention? I think the latter. There was a rustling in the hallway and Cynda opened the door.
“Peter, can I stay with you tonight? I’m so scared, and . . .Peter? Why are you on the floor? Dear Lord, what’s happened!”
I couldn’t tell her, for my tongue had ceased to follow commands, as did my arms and legs. I lay there drooling and groaning, looking up at her in the shadowy light. The look of absolute fright on her face did nothing to improve my morale.
Fortunately, she understood that I was not drunk and rushed out to get help. It arrived seconds later, when the men lifted me into bed and peppered me with questions I was unable to answer, for my voice was completely gone now, not even a moan was available to me. It was beginning to be hard to breathe and suddenly it all became clear to me. I was dying slowly, while wide awake and paralyzed. Oddly, I could still hear the conversation, but I wasn’t looking up at them anymore, I was looking down at them, and my body, from the ceiling.
Absalom was the first of them to ascertain the problem. “Poisoned. A voudou poison. But what kind?”
Then Corny shouted, “The beans! We ate beans and rice for dinner. They must’ve given him Calabar beans in with the rest. They’re a West African poison. I read a paper about it years ago, written by a Scottish missionary in Calabar, Africa.”
“An’ what’d be the medical remedy, then?” demanded Rork, grim-facedly inspecting my body for wounds.
“I’m trying to remember. It’s been twenty years ago that I read it, Rork. Jesus above, I just can’t remember! Well, the antidote was another plant, I do know that.”
Rork ordered Absalom to fetch Yablonowski. They returned in what seemed an hour to me, but was probably only minutes.
The sergeant reported to Rork, “Most of the fort’s guards have left. One of them still here told me that the lieutenant is Efik—and a bokor, a sorcerer, with the Leopard Society. He would know what to do, but I’ve searched and Laurent is nowhere to be seen. I have my men looking for him now. Only a bokor knows the method to reverse a Revanj avék Pwazon.”
“Revenge with poison?” asked Roche, translating it into French, then English.
“Yes. There are many different methods of a coup poudre, a poison powder. Lieutenant Laurent would know the proper cure, if we could make him tell us.”
“Hell, Laurent’s the bastard what did this. He’ll not help us a wee bit,” Rork growled at the Haitian. “You’re a local lad. Don’t you know what to do?”
Yablonowski shook his head quickly. “I stay away from these things. I am a Christian. I’m sorry, Mr. Rork, but I do not know.”
“We at least have to get him to vomit,” Corny remembered. “Peter has to vomit as much of it as he can, get it out of his body, before he goes into deliriums and convulsions. Is there any ipecac around here? Is there a medical kit? There should be some in a medicine chest.”
The sergeant wagged his head. “There is no money for regular medicines. We use bush medicine here in Haiti. Plants. But I do not know which one causes vomiting.”
“Buttonwood broth is what the obeah use in my islands,” Absalom offered. “But we’re too far from the coast. It doesn’t grow up here. What about snakeroot? They use that in the Bahamas to get people to vomit. There should be some here. It grows in the forests.”
“I have heard of that, but do not know its appearance,” said Yablonowski. “But one of my men might.”
“Get some fast, lad,” Rork told the Haitian. “An’ take Ab with ye.”
Cynda was still holding my hand and stroking my sweating forehead. I couldn’t feel her hand. My stomach was cramping so badly it made my body jerk and tremble uncontrollably. My head was on fire and she felt it with her wrist, tears streaming down her face. “He’s burning up. We need to do more than just make Peter vomit, we need that antidote. Corny, please calm down and think—what was the plant antidote to Calabar beans? The plant was . . . ?”
Corny slammed a fist down on the bedside table. “Belladonna! That was it! A solution in sugared water, made into a broth. You put it in the eyes and down the throat. There’s atropine in the plant and it restores the nervous system, but too much can kill. You have to get it right. The solution was . . . yes, six grains of atropine of belladonna to one . . . drachma of sugared water. Hmm, we’ll have to approximate.”
Rork grabbed Dan by the shoulder. “Aye, get yourself down to Sergeant Yablonowski an’ tell him to detail some men to find belladonna too, an’ get it back up here straightaway.”
He turned to Corny. “Get some water boilin’ an’ ready. We’ve got to get the water cleaned up for makin’ that broth.”
Then Rork pulled the lever-action Winchester shotgun out of his seabag. Holding it in his good right hand, he pulled back his jacket to reveal the Navy Colt in his waist and said to Roche, “Guard that door. Tell me if anyone other than our lads is comin’ an’ then stand out o’ the way.”
The Frenchman nodded, smiled slyly, and removed his hand from a trouser pocket. It held a small revolver. His other hand produced a cylindrical object that he clicked and a stiletto blade appeared. “I have my own weapons, Mr. Rork. Please allow me the honor of the first shot against any enemies that may appear. I admit to having some experience at it.”
I vaguely remember how smoothly he said it—that even then, in the middle of a desperate situation, Roche was polished and blasé and ready for anything. Imperturbable. A very dangerous man. I wanted to warn Rork to watch him thoroughly. Of course, I couldn’t.
Cynda called for sugared coffee. To keep me from unconsciousness, she said. I thought that pleasant but wanted to tell her it was too late, for the scene around m
e was fading into nothingness. Seconds later, I slid beyond awareness of my last senses, the ability to see or hear.
The pain ended. Fear disappeared. A great release of tension came over me. Then there was nothing but darkness. I was amazed that it was so easy. Anticlimactic, really. Almost pleasant, there at the end, floating away. The reader may be shocked at this, but I wasn’t anymore. It was suddenly all understandable.
I was dead.
29
Dosye Lanmò, Longè Lavi
The Royal Apartment
within the Citadelle
Montagne Laferrière
Northern Haiti
Sunday, 26 August 1888
What happened next, I do not know. But Rork remembers it well.
Cynda began shrieking when she recognized I was gone. Corny came in with the boiled water and examined me, looking for a sign of a pulse or respiration. A few minutes later Dan, Absalom, and Yablonowski breathlessly came in with snakeroot and belladonna leaves, having run all the way through the fortress from the jungle. The Haitian sergeant had formed his men in a picket line in the courtyard and on the parapet, so there was an outer perimeter prepared to defend the area of the apartment. Laurent’s men were nowhere to be seen, apparently having fled with their leader.
Corny could find no sign of life in my body but declared, “This doesn’t mean he’s dead. The poison slows down the body’s metabolism to the point where it’s difficult to find a pulse or a breath. He may still be alive.”
He started issuing orders to the others. Cynda, still sobbing, prepared the sugared water. Dan, Absalom, and Yablonowski pounded the snakeroot and belladonna into a powder, taking great care as it was poisonous in large quantities. Meanwhile, Roche and Rork maintained a watch on the supposedly loyal Haitians guarding us outside.
Honor Bound Page 23
