The Dark Secret of Josephine

by Dennis Wheatley

  That he was right became evident during the next half hour. A small group of the braver negroes attempted to rush one of the windows, and were driven off with severe losses. But apart from that no concerted action was taken; the others kept up only a desultory fire at the faint blurs of light that indicated the loopholes in the shutters.

  The garrison, intently watching the black shadows that contrasted so strongly with the silver moonlight, fired at every movement they saw, or thought they saw, among the oleanders, bougainvillaeas and hibiscus. Occasionally a sharp cry told them that they had scored a hit, but another hour dragged by without the besiegers losing heart and abandoning the confict, as it was still hoped they would.

  Just after half-past four one of the snipers sent a well-aimed shot through one of the loopholes. It laid open Théodule’s cheek and smashed some of his back teeth. Amanda left Roger’s side to do what she could for the wounded negro footman, and by the time she returned to her post the moon had gone down behind the palms.

  Starlight still lit the drive, although more faintly, and the attackers took advantage of the dimness to creep up closer to the house. Ten minutes later a dozen of them made a dash for the front door. Roger dropped one but de Bouçicault’s musket misfired, and once the group had reached the porch it was too close to the house for fire to be brought upon it from any of the windows. With heavy staves, an axe and musket butts the negroes beat frantically on the door, striving to break it in. They might have succeeded had it not been for Dan and his little party up on the roof. At the sounds of the commotion they ran to the front parapet and, leaning over, began to fire down on the attackers, Two of them were hit and the remainder panicked, flung away most of the things they were wielding and bolted for the bushes.

  Again there was a long spell of relative quiet, until Eloi came from the back of the house to tell his master that he felt sure he smelt smoke, and thought that some of the outbuildings had been set on fire.

  With an anxious glance at Roger, de Bouçicault muttered: ‘Although I made no mention of it, that they might try to smoke us out is the one thing I feared.’ Then he hurried off to investigate.

  It transpired that the maize store was ablaze, but between it and the house was sandwiched the laundry, and de Bouçicault felt that if they could well douse the roof and walls of the latter with water there would be a good chance of preventing the fire from spreading to the main building. Swiftly, he set about organising two fire fighting squads.

  The task of the party on the roof was an easy one, for they had only to carry buckets of water from the big cisterns up there and throw their contents down on to the lower level of the laundry; but to reach the walls of its interior the party below had to get out of the end window looking on to the terrace and either pass buckets, or run with them, the half-dozen yards to its entrance. Short as the distance was, it meant temporary exposure to the bullets of any of the attackers who might have posted themselves in positions from which they could enfilade the terrace; so de Bouçicault transferred four of the defenders to first-floor windows at the back of the house to form a covering party, then led the ground floor fire fighting squad in person.

  There ensued a short, sharp battle. Twice de Bouçicault, Kilick and two negro grooms succeeded in getting buckets into the laundry. Shots spattered round them, and others in reply from the first floor windows whistled over their heads. Then, at the third sortie, one of the grooms went down, shot through the leg. Dropping their buckets, the others picked him up and got him back into the house, but while helping to do so de Bouçicault was hit in the side.

  A few minutes later, sweat pouring down his face he staggered into the main hall and gasped to Roger: ‘Come with me, please. I want a word with you in private.’

  ‘Obediently Roger followed him into a small room in which he had been used to deal with the business of the estate. Slumping into a chair, he said jerkily: ‘We’ll have to give up. They hit two of us. If we don’t they’ll pick us off piecemeal. I fear I’m done for.’

  ‘Don’t say that!’ exclaimed Roger, turning towards the door. ‘I’ll get Doctor Fergusson.’

  De Bouçicault stayed him with an impatient gesture. ‘No good! One of those black devils got me through the innards. Listen, Monsieur. I have little time left. Tell my wife—if you ever get to Mole St. Nicholas—how I died. But that’s the rub. They’ve got the better of us. Your chances of getting there now are not worth ten sous.’

  His face suddenly worked convulsively, then he was seized with a violent fit of coughing. After spewing up some blood into his handkerchief, he made a great effort, leaned forward, took from a drawer in his desk a small bottle filled with a pinkish liquid, and went on:

  ‘Unless the wind changes the fire will spread to the house. You will be tempted to surrender. Put the thought from you. I am thinking of the women. These fiends will not only violate them; they will mutilate them most horribly afterwards. I know; I have seen what they have done toothers.’

  Again a fit of coughing choked him. Then he handed the bottle to Roger and gasped: ‘There is wine in the dining-room. Put this in it. Use any pretext to make them drink. In your place I would take some myself. It is a quick poison. By it you can save them from … from … Should things become hopeless, do not hesitate, I beg. This … this is a duty you owe to those you love.’

  15

  The Choice of Evils

  De Bouçicault had barely finished laying this terrible charge upon Roger when he was gripped by another convulsion. A hideous rattling noise issued from his throat and a few moments later he slumped forward dead.

  No one could accuse Roger of lack of courage, but for once he had gone white to the lips, and could feel himself trembling. Reason told him that de Bouçicault was right, but his every instinct made him cringe from the thought and he doubted if he could possibly bring himself to do this awful thing. With shaking hands he propped the dead man up in the chair, drew an antimacassar over his distorted face, and limped slowly from the room.

  It was now nearly half-past five and dawn not far off. As usual at that hour the wind had dropped, but a light breeze from the sea still fanned the flames of the burning maize store; and there was good reason to assume that the negroes had deliberately chosen that building to start a fire in because it was on the seaward side of the house. With the abandoning of the attempt to get buckets of water along to the laundry the shooting had ceased; so in the early morning stillness Roger could now actually hear the crackling of the flames as they ate into the old rafters.

  As soon as the others learned of de Bouçicault’s death, by an unspoken but unanimous consent they looked to Roger as their new leader, and the responsibility weighed with crushing heaviness upon him. Had he been strong and well he could as a last resort have led a desperate sortie, hoping that some of them might break through with the women, then turn and make a stand while they ran on to hide themselves in the woods; but, crippled as he was, that was out of the question. He put the idea to Fergusson, suggesting that he or Dan should act as leader, but immediately Amanda and Georgina heard of it they refused to leave without him.

  All he could do then was to send more men up to the roof to aid the fire-fighting party there, in the hope that if enough water was poured down on to the laundry that might yet check the advance of the fire. But the flames from the maize store were now leaping high and casting a new lurid light upon the scene. By it the attackers were able to see and snipe at the fire-fighters. Kilick was again wounded, this time in the hand, and shortly afterwards Ovid, de Bouçicault’s mulatto valet, was shot through the head; so these casualties, and the caution the others now had to exercise, nullified the extra help that had been sent up to them.

  Soon after Kilick came down to have his hand bound up, flames burst through the laundry roof as if it had been a lid clamped down upon a seething volcano. In a matter of moments the main building caught fire and smoke began to drift through the house.

  Sick with distress, Roger made his
way to the dining-room. Taking a large jug he poured two bottles of wine into it, then the poison. Setting the jug on the table he placed nearby it a glass apiece for each of the survivors. But when he got back to the hall he could not yet bring himself to tell any of the others what he had done.

  Unnoticed by him while he had been preparing the deadly brew, dawn had come. As he peered out through one of the loopholes at the side of the front door his heart sank afresh. Some way down the drive a body of at least a hundred negro soldiers stood casually leaning on their muskets and evidently awaiting orders. Reinforcements had arrived, so the last hope had gone of persuading the others to try a breakout instead of taking the terrible alternative.

  As he watched, a tall negro in a plumed cocked hat signed to one of the soldiers to go forward. The man held something white. Next moment as he walked towards the house he raised it above his head, and Roger saw that it was a flag of truce. With trembling fingers he set about unbarring the door.

  ‘In Heaven’s name, what are you about?’ exclaimed Amanda.

  ‘They are offering us a parley,’ he replied, ‘and I am going out to meet them.’

  ‘Have you become crazed?’ she cried. ‘They will tear you limb from limb. Monsieur de Bouçicault knew these wretches well. He told me that he would sooner take the risk of sporting with a hungry shark than place his trust in them.’

  ‘No matter,’ replied Roger curtly. ‘It is a risk which I must run.’

  As he resumed the unbarring of the door Amanda stepped forward to fling her arms about him. Dan, sweating and smoke begrimed, had just come down the wide staircase to report. Roger, with his bright blue eyes hard as agates, called to him.

  ‘Quick, Dan! Hold your mistress. It is imperative that she should not be permitted to thwart me at his moment.’

  After a second’s hesitation Dan ran forward, gripped Amanda by the shoulders and drew her back, The other women were acting as loaders in other rooms. Old Eloi was getting a fresh supply of powder from under the stairs and Fergusson was guarding a door at the extreme back of the hall, which gave on to the terrace. Taking up his crutches Roger swung himself swiftly along to the doctor and in a low voice told him about the poisoned wine. As he returned, swirls of smoke were curling like the tentacles of a giant octopus across the lofty hall. Pausing before Amanda he said in a now gentle voice:

  ‘My love. You may be right; but what I am about to do offers the only chance for all of us. Should your fears for me prove justified I beg you to promise me one thing. It is that you should do your utmost to persuade the others to drink the wine that I have left prepared in the dining-room, and to drink of it yourself.’

  The sudden distension of her eyes showed her realisation that it was no ordinary glass of wine to which he referred. Slowly she nodded, then murmured: ‘You are right, my sweet. It is the easier way. May God protect you and bring you back to me.’

  Old Eloi had seen that it was Roger’s intention to go out; so now he completed the unfastening of the door, drew a deep breath, and opened it.

  With his home-made crutches tapping sharply on the stone steps Roger swung himself down them. The soldier with the flag of truce had by now approached to within twenty yards of the house. Halting he called out in a rich voice: ‘General Toussaint l’Ouverture would speak with you.’

  ‘Lead on,’ replied Roger, and as the man turned he followed him down the drive.

  On seeing him approach, the negro officer with the plumed hat left his men and came to meet him. When they were within two yards of one another both came to a standstill. Roger eyed the General with anxious speculation, striving to learn something of his character from his face. It was long and thin with a sensitive mouth, high forehead, and deep-set intelligent eyes. He was tall, bony and his gaudy uniform with its enormous gold epaulettes hung loosely upon him. After a moment he asked in the lisping Créole French that all the negroes used:

  ‘Are you the owner of this house?’

  ‘No,’ replied Roger. ‘I have been here only as a guest for the past two weeks, after having escaped from pirates, by whom I had the misfortune to be captured.’

  ‘What is your name, and when you were captured upon what were you engaged?’

  ‘I am an Englishman named Brook, and I was on my way to take up the Governorship of Martinique.’

  The negro’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Then you are a person of importance?’

  Roger had swiftly seized upon the opening given him, and added quickly: ‘Apart from those permanently resident in the house, all the inmates are British; and among them is the Countess of St. Ermins, a lady who has far greater influence and wealth then myself.’

  The General nodded. ‘I had heard that there were women here. That is one reason why I offered you a parley. I am averse to making war on women, whatever their nationality.’

  ‘Do you mean that you are willing to grant them a safe conduct to Mole St. Nicholas?’ asked Roger with a sudden surge of hope.

  ‘To that I cannot agree. But I am anxious to have the house so that I may lodge my wounded in it, and that will be out of the question if it is allowed to burn down. If you will at once vacate it I will give you reasonable terms.’

  ‘What are they?’ Roger enquired, striving to keep his anxiety out of his voice.

  ‘With one exception, I am willing to grant you your lives. The exception is the man who shot my officer when you were first called on to surrender. For his callous act it is just that he should die.’

  ‘It was Monsieur de Bouçicault, and he is already dead. What are your intentions with regard to the rest of us?’

  ‘I mean to hold you as hostages. In view of your quality it may be possible for me to arrange to exchange you for some of my people whom the British have taken prisoner; but I can make no promise about that.’

  ‘Does your promise of protection apply to the coloured servants in the house as well as to my own party?’

  ‘Theirs is a mistaken loyalty, but I admire honest devotion to any cause. They may go free. I will give orders that they are not to be molested, and shall hope that in due course they will realise where lie the true interests of their race.’

  ‘Should you fail to arrange an exchange, what is to happen to us?’

  The deep-set eyes of the tall negro smouldered with a sudden glow that betrayed his fanaticism. ‘You will remain in captivity until I have driven every white man out of this island, then I will send you anywhere you wish.’

  Roger took mental note that the French terrorists had caught a tartar in making such a powerful personality as this negro General their ally, and that by secretly supporting him the Spaniards in the eastern end of the island were paving the way for the cutting of their own throats. But at the moment he was far more concerned with the fate of himself and his friends. To become the prisoners of a horde of bloody-thirsty negroes, perhaps for an indefinite period, was a prospect that would have filled anyone with dismay. Yet it meant life—if General Toussaint’s word could be relied upon.

  De Bouçicault, Roger felt sure, would have maintained that the offer was a trap, simply designed to get them out of the house before it was burnt down, and that remained a terrible possibility. But during their conversation he had formed the impression that the General was an honest man, so decided that if he could get him to commit himself as deeply as possible, he would take that risk. Holding out his hand, he said:

  ‘Will you give me your solemn pledge to carry out the terms you offer, and give me your hand upon it?’

  A sudden smile lit the lean dark face of the negro, as he replied: ‘Monsieur, it is a rare thing for a white man to offer his hand to a black. I am very glad now that news of the trouble here caused me to leave the main body of my troops during the night with a small reinforcement. I take your hand gladly and you may rely upon my word:’ Then his long bony fingers closed upon Roger’s in a powerful grip.

  Greatly relieved by this firm reassurance, Roger returned to the house, while General Toussai
nt set about organising his men to fight the fire. As Roger and his party had arrived entirely destitute of belongings, de Bouçicault had made their lack good as far as he could from the wardrobe of his wife and daughters and himself; so now those of them who were in a condition to do so ran upstairs and hastily packed small portmanteaux with a variety of things which might make their captivity slightly more endurable. Roger, meanwhile, threw away the poisoned wine; then, choking from the smoke, he and his party went out to the General, who sent its white members under guard down to the small lodge at the entrance of the long palm-lined drive.

  There, the wife of the old lodge-keeper knocked up a scratch meal for them; after which they sat about grouped round the porch of the lodge wearied out by the night’s fears and activities, yet with minds too harassed by the uncertainties of their future to escape for more than short periods into fitful sleep.

  At about ten o’clock the General rode up accompanied by a solitary A.D.C. Reining in, he called to Roger. The fire has been got under, and I must now rejoin the main body of my troops. I have made Lieutenant Charlemange responsible for your safety. Obey his orders and no harm will come to you.’

  Somewhat over an hour later a heavy travelling coach lumbered down the drive which, together with the horses that drew it, had evidently been taken from de Bouçicault’s stable. Out of it clambered a young negro officer who had only one arm, and half a dozen soldiers. The officer gave the group outside the lodge an unfriendly stare, and announced sharply:

  ‘I am Lieutenant Charlemange. The women and wounded will ride in the coach. The rest of you will walk.’

  The girls, Tom and Roger entered the roomy vehicle, the other men fell in behind it with the squad of soldiers bringing up the rear, Lieutenant Charlemange clambered up on to the box and they set off.