Privateers

by Charlie Newton

  Black hands wrench my armpits. A bar is rammed between my biceps and back. Hands and bar hoist me to standing. I kick a rebel in the balls, am jerked backward, and both arms are roped tight to the bar. Fast fingers cinch my wrists with leather. A rifle slams my shin. Pain rockets my hip. The black hands stink of jungle.

  A woman screams. It’s Sistah at the altar, screaming at another woman.

  Well-armed men pull them apart. A tall woman in crisp fatigues steps into the argument. She points at me, then shouts Kreyol at Sistah.

  The cathedral goes silent.

  The tall woman radiates military presence. She hugs Sistah once, barks orders at the two men, then walks down the cathedral’s center aisle toward me. A .45 is strapped to her leg, four magazines on her belt. Behind her, Sistah strips her T-shirt and pants, and pulls on rebel fatigues, then a nun’s habit over them.

  My eyes squeeze shut. You fucking idiot. Eyes open. The main-altar crucifix towers over Sistah and the men. The fear rush is so strong my knees buckle.

  Dimanche. Again.

  Chapter 21

  Bill Owens

  Die standing. No dicks. No demons. Die standing. My head’s foggy. Hard to think. I’m leg-cuffed to a chair, trussed with the rod, my face flattened on a heavy wooden table.

  Dish candles light military belt buckles and fatigues that ring the table. Kreyol voices echo everywhere in the cathedral. Six belt buckles leave the table.

  Hands jerk my shoulders up and backward.

  Blink, stare, scan. This is the cathedral’s sacristy. Game time. Die standing. Die standing.

  A black Hispanic mulatta is seated across from me, staring. A hand missing a finger removes her beret. She says, “Possibly, I can help you.”

  Die standing. No dicks. No demons. No—

  “I said . . . possibly, I can help you.”

  Show her your teeth. Rapists and demons respect teeth. Die standing. “Okay. Good. Shoot that psycho bitch with the birthmarks.”

  Her eyes harden under straight hair cut short for the bush. Commander’s stars glint on the collar of her fatigues. She says, “In two hours, the hurricane’s outer bands will reach Ayiti.” The accent is educated bland. A long scar carves down her forehead across the left eyebrow and half the cheek. “The People’s Liberation Front will attack Le Cap. By dawn, we will control the airport, the harbor, the square—all of Cap-Haïtien will be ours. The UN forces will fight a retreat to higher ground—west up the main road. We will allow their retreat as far as the Highway 1 bridge before Cercaville. There, the surviving UN forces will be trapped, captured, and ransomed to their multinational leaders, or they will be executed for war crimes. By noon tomorrow the entire north coast will belong to Idamante’s PLF—People’s Liberation Front.”

  I play stupid, blurt: “You’re Idamante?”

  “I am Commander Florent Dusson-Siri—”

  “The Witches of Eastwick Siri? Anne’s partner? Hello? I’m a friend of Anne’s. And Susie. Susie’s MIA; we’re trying to find her.”

  Commander Siri speaks Kreyol to whatever rapist she has behind me. Footfalls echo in the sacristy; a door slams.

  Oh my God. Blood rush; prison Christmas.

  “The gold you seek belongs to the people of Haiti. Lead us to it and Idamante will guarantee your safety.”

  “You heard me? Anne Bonny? Susie Devereux?”

  Commander Siri draws her .45 and places it on the table, pointed at me. “We know from Sistah’s call that the gold—or clues to its whereabouts—is at the de Mezy plantation house, the wine cellar. In Idamante’s PLF, we have many local soldiers from the Nord-Est province; all of them know the plantation ruins well. Some knew of the wine cellar and were able to enter it. For years, they know it as the local mambo’s root cellar.”

  Anne and Susie don’t seem to matter, but gold does. My chances to die standing have gone from zero to fifty-fifty. I replay Sistah’s act since we found the gold ingot in Jamaica, Sistah telling us: “Go here; don’t go there.” Sistah “lost” at Bois Caïman, no doubt on her cell phone, then on her phone again in the square.

  Plain as fucking day—Sistah went patriot, delivered Anne, me, and our treasure hunt to the Rebelyon.

  Commander Siri glances her watch, yells Kreyol at the closed door.

  A rebel opens the door and brings Commander Siri an old Barbancourt bottle. She accepts it, sets it on the table between us. “From the de Mezy wine cellar. My compliments; you are an excellent reader of American treasure maps.” She removes the seal and shakes out a glass tube. “Unknown to Sistah, there was a trap. Two of our comrades were killed.” From the tube, Commander Siri unrolls parchment papers. She shows them to me in the candlelight. She says, “I have never been to America. And would not understand the nuance of these words. But because you are a very lucky man, you do.”

  “I’m lucky? Tied to a fucking stake, surrounded by tomorrow’s dead heroes?”

  She waves again, then sits back. The same rebel who brought the bottle steps into the shadows, returns with a long, heavy iron pipe. Shackles hang from the pipe high and low.

  Commander Siri says, “This, Mr. Owens, would be a proper stake. Similar to the one used on Messiah Mackandal when the French burned him alive.” She waves for the stake to be planted next to me . . . like I’m being measured.

  “The bokors and mambos say you and the pirate Anne Bonny murdered the Baby. Stopped the 1986 Rebelyon. The Baby was the loa child. It was she who had forced Bébé Doc from the palace. She would pick the Rebelyon’s leader and Haiti would be saved.”

  The rebel with the stake coughs. Not a man, a woman.

  I say, “The Anne Bonny you played rugby with—”

  “But because of you, Haiti falls into agony for another twenty-three years. Your palm bears the proof of your crime.” Commander Siri shrugs small. “So, yes, you are lucky. If you could not read American treasure maps, you would already be burning at your stake. The fire would be kept low. And last for hours.”

  Her threat produces an odd vibe instead of more fear. It’s not just the commander’s reluctance to acknowledge Anne Bonny and Susie as partners, or the tone being used, but the length of her preamble. This woman is a professional soldier, minutes away from lighting up her part of a revolution. But she’s taking a long time to get to the point.

  Basically, the point should be: Decipher the map or we make your worst fears come true. Her style isn’t gruff, it’s as smooth as her skin where she isn’t scarred. She’s explaining, taking me into her confidence, building trust. Like an interrogator would. A professional. Like Susie Devereux.

  I say, “Sistah said Idamante’s rebels have Susie Devereux. You remember Susie, right? From Guantanamo Bay, maybe? Rugby before that? You, Susie, and Anne in Glasgow? Susie and I are sweethearts. She’s in serious trouble; needs our help or she’s gonna die. Badly.”

  Commander Siri doesn’t bite on Susie either. “The gold, Mr. Owens.”

  A man and two women are led past the sacristy door. All three are handcuffed; all wear church vestments. The man wears the high hat of a bishop. I glance to the altar at Sistah watching the bishop pass.

  Commander Siri says, “Shortly, we will hang all three as collaborators. From the balcony overlooking the square. Are you ready to read the Barbancourt papers?”

  “No. Can’t concentrate trussed up like one of your magic pigs.”

  Commander Siri’s eyes narrow just enough that I notice, then she smiles. Under the scar, three teeth in her upper jaw are missing. “Haiti fights for her fair opportunity to flourish. I wish us all luck, Mr. Owens; all of us will need it.”

  She stands, palms her .45, tells the rebel holding the stake to tie my waist to the chair, then cut me loose of the truss. When I’m resecured, she holsters her .45 and opens two bottles of warm Prestige beer. She passes one to me along with the papers. My hands are free; the rest
of me is not. The beer bottle isn’t a gun, but smashed it could cut my wrist to the bone. I’m almost giddy.

  Eddie O’Hare’s two-dead wine-cellar ode reads:

  The first verse is a stanza from Edgar Allan Poe’s “El Dorado.” A poem about a knight hunting for a treasure he can never find. At Oxford, we decided Poe’s poem meant ‘live life to the fullest,’ because it’s the trip on the rainbow that’s the treasure . . . not the pot o’ gold that even the leprechauns never find.

  I sit back; my neck bumps into a pistol barrel. Did Eddie O’Hare, shithead lawyer, run this entire game as a life lesson? Did he just kill me and every other sucker who chased his treasure . . . so he can be philosophical to the one schmuck who gets this far?

  No way. A lawyer’s ego needs a bigger audience.

  And lawyers don’t have life-lesson genetic code. And for sure, horseplayers don’t. The long-shot/riddle/handicapping-puzzle/pot-of-gold is why they get up in the morning.

  Long, slow exhale. I glance through my eyebrows; Commander Siri hasn’t moved. I can feel the rebel behind me but can’t see her or her weapon. Back to the poem.

  Shade is repeated in the Poe stanza and the last verse. A shade could be a ghost or black person.

  The shade is telling us to “ride, boldly ride . . . if you seek for El Dorado.” Okay, pretty straightforward—a ghost or a black person is telling us to hunt the gold.

  But if you skip to the last verse, we’re told don’t trust the shade.

  Hmm. So why talk about the shade at all?

  Maybe try the second verse.

  But in the wind eat the herb.

  Only they avoid the slaughter

  Beyond the cape, Fish the shallows

  For they swim in freedom’s tomorrows.

  No idea. My head hurts.

  Try O’Hare’s last verse again.

  Drink your fill The pirates will

  Trust only the vintner

  And his hare contraire

  Never the shade

  nor his fille fille de joie.

  Don’t trust the “shade” or his “fille de joie.”

  Fille de joie could mean “a woman of pleasure.” Or it could be a filly that you like in a race. Either way, it could be O’Hare deep into his raconteur persona suggesting that you should “ride, boldly ride.”

  Eye rub. Maybe look at the big picture? Eddie O’Hare’s new clue was found in a rhum bottle, hidden in a French plantation that owned both of the slave-rebellion leaders, Mackandal and Boukman. It was in a wine cellar. The plantation’s owner the de Mezy sugar company. Rhum is made from sugar.

  “Well?”

  I look up at Commander Siri. “You think this is simple?”

  “I think it must be.” She nods backward to the window behind her. Tree branches scrape and slash the window. “We lack the time for difficult.”

  “Bring me Susie Devereux, if you have her. Put us on a safe ship with Anne Bonny, and I’ll get smarter.”

  Commander Siri sips her beer. “Would the other photos and papers assist you?”

  Shit. I glance for Anne’s trusty sidekick, Sistah.

  Commander Siri finishes her sip and sets the brown bottle down. “We took the Esmeralda before we took you.”

  I nod at all things femme fatale; those movies in the ’50s didn’t lie. “Yeah. The photos and papers would be good. Anne too. She helped me get this far.”

  “Anne Bonny is necessary?”

  “Her and Susie Devereux. Need ’em both if you want the gold.”

  Commander Siri smiles. “There are worse ways to die, Mr. Owens. I understand you have history with mon kolonèl.”

  Heat prickles my neck. “Wanna watch, huh? Like that kinda sport? Like your fucking nigger piece-of-shit kolonèl?”

  Her lips go tight. She speaks Kreyol to the woman rebel behind me, who in turn yells into the cathedral nave. Commander Siri sips her beer again.

  “I am born in Cuba”—she pronounces it “Cooba”—“on my mother’s side, the direct descendant of Cap-Haïtien slaves. The white French planters here”—she draws her .45 and raps the table with the barrel—“bought members of my mother’s family. The French planters sailed them to Cuba during the last days of Boukman’s Rebelyon. My mother’s people were braceros who cut the cane that their French owners introduced in Guantanamo and Baracoa. My mother’s people were slaves, Mr. Owens, and we remained slaves to the USA’s United Fruit and others until Fidel rode into Havana on January 8, 1959.”

  Exhale. I dial it back a little, nod out the door at the rebels. “Castro trained you?”

  “He did; as did others in Eastern Europe. And Africa, where the ‘niggers’ successfully dethroned their colonial masters. Everywhere and always, slave-rebels—niggers who fight—are the people’s answer to capitalism.”

  She reads me as I try to rein in some serious fucking poison.

  “Do you wish to help the people, Mr. Owens?”

  “Depends. Like you say, I have history with your kolonèl. Probably kill that motherfucker dead if we ever go face to face. Again.”

  “Your interrogation by Kolonèl Idamante is minor compared to America’s transgressions in this hemisphere. Your revered secretary of state, John Foster Dulles, and his brother, Allen, director of the CIA, were both major stockholders in United Fruit during their tenures in high political office. Did you know that, Mr. Owens? Imagine their conflict of interest, the thousands of ‘niggers’ and braceros who died under the assaults of America’s military, including two of my brothers, all to enhance the profits of United Fruit and the Dulles brothers. Imagine why Kolonèl Idamante might investigate that you were CIA.”

  “Investigate isn’t what your fucking kolonèl did—”

  Commotion at the door. Two large rebels bring Anne Bonny through the arched doorway. Her clothes are torn. She’s cut, bloody, and smells of seawater but walking under her own power. Two rebels seat her at the end of the table and handcuff her to the chair. Anne winces but bites it back. The rebels give their commander a bag from the Esmeralda. Commander Siri checks the bag for weapons, then pushes it to me.

  I ask Anne, “You okay?”

  Anne checks the room. “Never better.”

  I shake Eddie O’Hare’s new pages at her. “Right where I said they’d be.”

  “A good man you are, Bill.”

  “Not like your chicken-blood girlfriend who can’t remember whose side she’s on. No, Sistah’s valuable. Gotta have her with us.”

  Anne looks at Commander Siri. “The day’s ne ended yet.”

  I nod out the door at Sistah. “Hers has, if I get to her.”

  “And the papers, Bill.” Anne is still staring at Commander Siri, who’s staring back. “Do they tell us anything?”

  “Maybe.” I read Anne the three verses, then push the page to her place at the table. She cranes her neck to read, reads again, then sits back.

  “Poe. Thought we’d be done with his misery at Oxford.”

  “Guess not. Anything in there that jumps out at you?”

  Anne refocuses on Siri and asks, “What deal do ya make?”

  Siri says, “Deal?”

  “Bill and I will keep a big piece of the gold if we find it. If we don’t find it, you get none.” Anne nods at me. “We lack time to negotiate and so do you, Florent.”

  “We have Susie Devereux.”

  Anne sits back. “Do ya now? Present her, then. She’d be the tailor’s breakfast, even all blood and bandages.”

  Commander Siri’s jaw clamps. The sacristy vibes away from survival negotiation and into ghetto street dance. Anne and Siri stare, like two alpha females with boyfriend history. Siri mimics Anne’s accent. “Are ya comfortable, Anne Bonny, handcuffed to yer chair.”

  “I’m down four friends and two boats; close to a million do
llars. I’ll not be sent home empty-handed.”

  “Home?” Commander Siri drops the accent. “I understand Jamaica will pay to hang you.”

  Anne shrugs, then nods toward the door and Sistah beyond. “Seems Sistah has returned to your Rebelyon. You could thank me for not leavin’ your former girlfriend to my rope.”

  My eyes tennis-match between Anne and Siri. I can’t help a fatal laugh. “Susie and I are gonna die in girl-bar catfight because you and Anne stole each other’s girlfriend?”

  Anne stares three hundred years of pirate blood at Siri and her .45. “No, Bill, you’ll not be dyin’, not if we can figure the poem. Treasure hunters with those talents are worth $26 million dollars. And you, Commander Florent Dusson, bring Susie in before she never forgives you.”

  The window behind Siri shatters. Half the candles blow out. Glass splatters the table and Eddie O’Hare’s poem. I grab for the .45. Siri jerks it back and levels the barrel dead-center on my chest. Wind shrieks through the window. The three of us freeze. Hurricane Lana—the other absent femme fatale—has taken her seat at the table.

  ***

  The sacristy’s window patch has held for an hour. Commander Siri returns, stepping through the door without Susie Devereux. Two hard-looking black rebels follow.

  Anne says, “Our Susie?”

  Commander Siri points one rebel toward Anne. “Convince me that you can find the gold, or you, Susie, and your man have consumed all the protection I can give you. There are those outside who believe it is time for the plantation owners to hang with the clerics.”

  Anne smiles. “I believe Bill and I have her figured, at least what can be figured from inside a dark cathedral.” Anne nods at the candles on the table. “Does Idamante allow his hero commanders a map to go with his fine uniforms and heroic speech makin’?”

  Siri frowns. “That mouth has always kept you close to the gallows.”

  “And the pretty boys and girls as well. The map, Commander? Or do you cut me loose and I draw you a picture?”

  A rain-soaked rebel rushes past the sacristy’s door guard and shoves a field radio at Commander Siri. She turns her back, already talking, and walks to the far corner under the patched window. Siri’s arm twists her watch close enough to read. She covers the phone and in English asks the rebel, “Is Sistah ready?”