I was also alive, and horrified by that fact.
Because it meant that I was still conscious enough to recognize that Astiza, who’d seen our fate as she peered into the future, was gone.
Chapter 45
I shuddered as I’d never shuddered in my life, from cold, exhaustion, anxiety, sorrow. Harry! I couldn’t stop shaking.
I looked dimly about. There lay a great still form, almost as dark and massive as a sea lion. It was Jubal, lying on his side on the beach.
Blowing sand made a horizontal hail that stung like insects. I couldn’t stand, or even properly crawl on hands and knees; the strength required was beyond me. So I bellied toward him, pitted by grit, dreading the vacancy I might find on his other side.
But no, there was little Horus, coughing and shivering as the great black hero kneaded his chest and served as human windbreak. Jubal’s staring eyes bulged from exhaustion, like stones of quartz and obsidian. He was enfeebled as I was, but he gave a weary grin. “Alive.”
The Negro had saved my son. And me.
I dragged myself around so we formed shelter on both sides of Harry. The beach was dark volcanic sand. Just yards behind us mountainous surf was crashing, but I couldn’t bear to look at it. I dreaded that it might give up the corpse of my wife.
So the three of us fell unconscious.
When I woke, it was late day. The sun was lost behind black cloud to the west, where I presumed the hurricane had gone, but the sky to the east was clearing. The sea was pitching chaos, and I was stiff with cold in this tropic clime. We were pimpled with blown sand, and surf had thrown so many great white drifts of foam upon our strand that it looked as if it had snowed. Palms had been stripped of most of their fronds. No bird dared fly yet. The world had been scoured.
Groaning, I sat up. I felt completely hollowed: of strength, of emotion, of purpose. I’d presided over catastrophe. I’d failed in what I now realized was the only important task in my life, to love and be loved, and to preserve that love by all means possible and necessary.
Love, the mambo had said, that was the basis of faith.
My wife was gone for jewels and glory, the vanity of my being important, the nudging of world affairs. She’d suspected her fate when we first crossed the Atlantic. We’d tried to steer destiny a different direction. Futility.
And yet she’d gone with me onto Pelee in the end, never breathing a word of fear. Somehow she thought it would save Harry. Somehow she still loved me, she’d said. I clung to those words with wonder.
It took a while to steel myself to squint up and down the beach. Yes, there were bodies there.
None looked like that of a woman.
Jubal was stirring, too.
“Can you take the boy up into the scrub while I check for survivors?”
He followed my gaze; we both knew there wouldn’t be any. Why expose Harry to a line of corpses?
“Oui. I’ll look for uncontaminated water and meet you at that shattered palm.” He pointed, and I nodded. My mouth was cotton, too.
I stood, bent as an old man, and staggered down to where the drowned rolled at the edge of the surf. Out beyond the waves still boomed on the reef, and a thousand fragments of wood had been cast ashore from Pelee. Enough to build a warm fire, if I could figure out a way to light it.
I fingered my chest. The magnifying glass was still around my neck.
Maybe tomorrow, if the sun came out.
Astonishing how quickly we begin to think of the future, even when defeated by the past. We close ranks like a Roman legion stepping over its own dead.
The beach was a quarter mile long between headlands. I found five corpses. Two blacks, three whites.
One had his mouth set in a rictus of a snarl. It was Martel.
Napoleon’s agent seemed smaller and deflated in death, his clothes shredded by coral, his shoes missing, his feet wrinkled and white. Our nemesis would have only one aerial flight, it seemed, a glide down to hell. His eyes were open and staring with horror as if he’d seen that descent.
Yet was he really a tool of the first consul? Could his last act have been to lie about Napoleon simply to torment me, to mislead me that the political Prometheus I’d been tied to for years, the great Bonaparte, had betrayed me and my family for a miniature model of what might or might not be a flying machine? I still had one of the toys in my pocket and reached to finger it.
With horror I felt a chain as well. Astiza’s pendant, with Napoleon’s cursed N, had not sunk in the ocean. It had perversely fallen back into my vest like a curse I couldn’t get rid of.
Was Martel laughing from Hades right now, amused to think he’d left me trusting nothing?
I nudged with my foot to roll over his body. As I did so an arm flopped free, its sleeve disintegrated. The skin was so laced with coral cuts that for a second I didn’t even spy the design on the inside of his bicep. Then it startled me. I leaned closer.
It was a tattoo.
Burned into his skin was a N, surrounded by a laurel wreath, the mark of Bonaparte that the villain could tuck privately against his body. Leon Martel hadn’t lied. He had not been a renegade policeman, a refugee from the criminal underworld, or at least not just that. He’d truly been Napoleon’s agent.
As if on God’s cue I doubled over then, my gut wrenched, and I scampered up the beach to answer nature’s urgent call at the edge of the scrub. A gush of waste and seawater came out of me, the filthy torrent leaving me shaking. And there it was, spattered with shit, the stone I’d arguably sacrificed my wife and happiness for: the wretched emerald.
Cursed indeed.
I looked out to sea. Somewhere on that reef was the treasure of an ancient empire, and I’d leave it to Jubal whether to lead Haitians back someday to dive if they dared. Salvage when the sea was smooth sapphire and angry gods were remote. I couldn’t bear it anymore.
And my own stone? I was sorely tempted to kick it away or bury it in the sand. Its beauty was bitter reproach. But then I thought of my boy, motherless now, and his father with no trade but gambling and adventure. What kind of upbringing could I give him?
Life doesn’t stop, and he had all of his ahead. If Astiza was truly gone, I was his sole parent now and would have to decide what to do next. Maybe Philadelphia, and Quakers, to help put sense into him that I didn’t have. Maybe he’d absorb Franklin’s wisdom when I had not. I owed him time, and hope.
Or maybe a school in London, where I’d be closer to my enemies.
So, grimacing, I wiped the damnable stone off and pocketed it, too, determined to sell it as a trust for my son.
I must remain destitute myself to remind me of the dross of dreams. I must commit to something larger than my own retirement.
I had to find grim meaning out of disaster.
So I limped to make reunion with Jubal and Harry.
“Papa!” No cry gladdened my heart more, that at last he seemed to recognize and need me. He clung like a little monkey, sobbing for reasons he didn’t fully understand himself. Finally he asked, which he must, “Where’s Mama?”
There was no corpse. I’d seen the diving bell, and other jetsam. Yet there could be no reasonable hope, either. “Swimming, Horus.” I hadn’t the heart to tell him what must be true.
“She’s not coming?”
I sighed. “I hope she’s saved herself somewhere else. We’ll pray for that, you and me, because she’d like that.”
“I’m cold, and scared of the ocean.”
“We’re safe for now, and tomorrow we’ll find help.”
“I miss Mama.”
“Me, too, more than I believed possible.” And so we wept, united by tragedy. “I’ve missed you, more than you know.”
We slept as best we could, the wind slowly dying in the night, and by the next morning the sun was bright and birds were flying above a ravaged forest. The sea had settled a great deal, and thankfully sucked the bodies back out of sight. Of Jubal’s remaining comrades, including Antoine, we saw no sign.
So I’d killed them, too.
I still trembled lest the sea give up Astiza. So long as it didn’t, there was the cruelest kind of hope. I knew she must be dead, so why did my heart deny it? Because there was something magical about her I’d sensed when digging her out from that first cannon-shattered room in Alexandria. I couldn’t imagine the world without her light. I’d watched her drown, yet didn’t have the instinctual sense of loss I would have expected. We’d ended, but I didn’t feel it. I needed a body and didn’t have one.
“Where are we?” Jubal asked.
I looked inland. A huge mountain rose in the haze, its top smoking. “Perhaps Montserrat. I think we should walk the coast, looking for a settlement or a boat. Antigua is not far, and from there we can get passage home.”
“I found some plantain and coconut. You hungry, boy?”
Harry’s gaze was a million miles away, but not his appetite. “Yes.”
So that was it. I’d been married and apparently widowed in less than a year, and as stripped to my core as it was possible to be. My survival was the worst punishment I could imagine. I would see her, suspended in that last green swell, the rest of my life. And yet her spirit still inhabited us.
Why did I feel nagging hope?
I looked down at Harry. How, what, when would I tell him?
Yet I was surprised by his expression. He looked more determined than devastated. “Let’s look for Mama while we walk.” Did he share my instinct?
I swallowed. “Yes.” And not find her lifeless body, I prayed.
We started trudging down the beach. I told Jubal how he could decide whether to come back for the treasure. “Astiza said it was cursed, but maybe only for some of us.”
“I’ll ask Cecile Fatiman. She’ll decide what to do.”
“Be careful. I think Ezili misled me.”
“She’s a jealous goddess.”
“What will you do next, Jubal?”
“Try to rebuild my country. And you, Ethan?”
I was silent, looking east at the watery horizon as we hiked. “Martel said he was sent to betray me by the leader of the French. I was an errand boy manipulated into a fatal quest.”
“So you must flee to America?”
“I thought that, at first. But Britain, I think, to establish my boy in a good school. I need to make him a future. It’s the one country that has the resources to stand up to the French. The English have flooded the Continent with gold and spies to undermine Bonaparte’s dictatorship. Which suggests, Jubal, my real task.”
“Which is?”
“Revenge. It’s the only meaning I can think of. I’m going back to France.”
“Harry needs a father, Ethan.”
“He’ll have one. But first there’s one task I owe the world.”
“You must forget the world.”
“No. I’m going to hunt down and kill Napoleon Bonaparte.”
Historical Note
As with other Ethan Gage novels, the primary historical events in this novel are true. Haiti’s expulsion of the French in 1803 concluded the first successful slave revolt in world history, and (although France did not recognize the country’s independence until 1825) represented creation of the world’s first black republic. The revolt’s success haunted slave-owning aristocracies for decades, including the South before the American Civil War.
The war that Gage experiences was but a chapter in a long series of Haitian invasions, revolutions, coups, foreign interventions, embargoes, and economic upheavals that, combined with natural disasters such as earthquakes and hurricanes, have conspired to keep Haiti the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. France demanded 90 million gold francs in compensation for lost property in return for recognizing Haitian independence, saddling the young nation with crippling loans it did not finish paying until 1947. While the American and French revolutions left the infrastructure of those nations relatively intact, Haiti was burdened by utter devastation at a time the Caribbean sugar economy was already in decline. Jean-Jacques Dessalines declared himself emperor in 1804, oversaw the massacre of more than three thousand surviving whites, and then was assassinated himself by black rivals in 1806. The nation temporarily split, rejoined, and has struggled to establish a stable political and economic system for much of its subsequent history. While a place of beauty and promise, it remains burdened with overpopulation, erosion, and disease.
The revolution’s culminating battle of Vertières outside what was then Cap-François, and today is known as Cap-Haïtien, took place generally as described. Ethan’s hydraulic diversion is fiction, however. The actual black assault was so valiant that French soldiers at one point actually did stop fighting to applaud their enemy’s courage, a very Gallic thing to do. The French still lost, and evacuated.
Toussaint L’Ouverture, the “Black Spartacus” or “Haiti’s George Washington,” preceded Dessalines as the revolt’s primary general. After negotiating with the French and retiring to his plantation, he was betrayed, seized in May of 1802, and imprisoned in the alpine Fortress de Joux near the French-Swiss border, a bleak and beautiful place visited by tourists today. There’s no record of an escape attempt engineered by a renegade American and his Greek Egyptian wife, aided by an early glider flight, so we’ll have to take Ethan’s word for that. Conventional history records that L’Ouverture died of illness on April 7, 1803.
Yellow fever played a decisive role in the slave war, and not only helped free Haiti but was instrumental in doubling the size of the United States. The havoc that mosquitoes wrought on Napoleon’s armies in Saint-Domingue left him with no troops to hold New Orleans and its vast Louisiana Territory, thus giving him the incentive to sell property extending from the Mississippi to the Rocky Mountains.
Many of the characters in this novel were real people, including aeronaut George Cayley, the spy Charles Frotté, Sir Sidney Smith, Antigua’s Lord Lovington, the French commander Rochambeau, General Dessalines, and mambo Cecile Fatiman. Many of the opinions ascribed to Napoleon are taken from statements recorded in history. The pessimistic appraisal of the Haitian revolution written by doomed General Charles Leclerc is quoted as he wrote it. The Palace of Saint-Cloud was as described, but was destroyed in 1870 during the Franco-Prussian war. Its site is now a park.
The treasure of Montezuma is a real legend, and treasure hunters have sought the lost wealth of Tenochtitlán for generations. Some speculate the Aztec hoard was lost at sea, while others contend it was carried north by refugee Indians and hidden in what is today the American Southwest. Among surviving Aztec relics are objects oddly resembling airplanes, with pilots, explaining the aerial passion of Leon Martel and inspiring modern speculation about what such figurines represented, or copied. Ancient astronauts? Or a delta design that has nothing to do with flying at all?
Certainly when Napoleon threatened invasion of Britain the English imagined attack by all kinds of weird contraptions, including an armada of balloons and a tunnel dug under the English Channel.
Diamond Rock, or Le Diamant, is real and has an underwater cave popular with experienced scuba divers. None have reported finding emeralds inside. The volcanic monolith was seized by the British early in 1804 and christened HMS Diamond Rock, shooting cannon at passing French ships and infuriating Napoleon. The British held out against numerous French counterattacks until June 3, 1805. Floating rum kegs were indeed used to “soften” the garrison.
Voodoo is a serious religious mix of African and Christian beliefs—not just witchcraft—and I have attempted some accuracy when recounting its spirits and ceremonies. The zombi belief is real.
A midwinter hurricane of the kind I describe would be seasonally unusual but not impossible: hurricanes have been recorded in every month in the Caribbean.
The bomb ketch was a common kind of warship; the “bombs bursting in air” of the American national anthem refers to mortars fired from British ships in the War of 1812. The “rockets red glare” refers to Congreve rockets that will
play a role in an upcoming Ethan Gage adventure.
Acknowledgments
For the commissioning of this book I must thank former HarperCollins editor Rakesh Satyal. This book’s perceptive editors are Maya Ziv and publisher Jonathan Burnham. Agent Andrew Stuart has nurtured the birth and continuation of this entire series; this is the fifth Ethan Gage adventure. As always, my appreciation to the entire hardworking Harper team, including publicist Heather Drucker, production editor David Koral, and foreign rights marketer Carolyn Bodkin. Once again my wife, Holly, served as muse, travel companion, and first reader for wayward Ethan. She’s still trying to straighten him, and me, out.
About the Author
WILLIAM DIETRICH is the author of eleven novels, including four previous Ethan Gage titles—Napoleon’s Pyramids, The Rosetta Key, The Dakota Cipher, and The Barbary Pirates. Dietrich is also a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist, historian, and naturalist. A winner of the PNBA Award for Nonfiction, he lives in Washington State.
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Also by William Dietrich
Fiction
Blood of the Reich
The Barbary Pirates
The Dakota Cipher
The Rosetta Key
Napoleon’s Pyramids
The Scourge of God
Hadrian’s Wall
Dark Winter
Getting Back
Ice Reich
Nonfiction
Green Fire
On Puget Sound
Natural Grace
Northwest Passage
The Emerald Storm Page 31
