Brian glanced at his watch.
"Are we still good on time?" Oliver asked. "There's not much more to tell and I promise you'll understand the reason for all this history lesson once I tie things together."
"We have at least forty-five minutes left before we need to head out."
"You'll be on your way with time to spare," he promised, returning to the story. Brian and Nicole were ready for more; despite learning about Christopher Columbus like every other schoolchild, neither had heard about his mutinous crew. This was an interesting tale.
"Despite the animosity between Columbus and Martin Pinzon, he needed the man on his side. The brothers not only owned the Nina and Pinta, they also were investors in the venture. If Martin returned to Spain and got to Queen Isabel before Columbus did, his account of the situation could make the admiral look very bad indeed. Columbus was already planning another voyage and he needed Isabel - and Martin Pinzon too - in his camp.
"Columbus built a small structure at Bariay to commemorate his discovery of Cuba and that it was now a Spanish possession, thanks to him. On December 5th, he and Vicente Pinzon sailed the Nina and the Santa Maria east in the same direction the Pinta had gone two weeks earlier. They landed on the northern shore of an island Columbus named Insula Hispana and likewise claimed for Spain. Before long they began preparing for the long journey home. They set sail on Christmas Eve, but the lucky Black Cross failed him. On a gorgeous starry night and after a drunken holiday celebration, everyone - Columbus included - inexplicably went off to bed, leaving the ship in the hands of a fourteen-year-old mate. The currents carried the Santa Maria into the shallows and it ran aground. Columbus roused his men, but instead of helping save the ship, they abandoned him, taking a longboat and sailing a mile away to the Nina, where Vicente Pinzon refused to allow them to board.
"The deserters returned to face an angry Columbus on a ship that was listing severely. They tried unsuccessfully to move it off the reef, finally enlisting help from friendly Indians, salvaging everything and then watching it sink. The admiral considered how things might look to the folks back home, so he created a false report for the king and queen. In the new version of events there was no youthful hand guiding the doomed ship, no invisible reef, no slumbering captain and crew and no drunken holiday celebration. Instead, Columbus had issued orders that his disloyal crew deliberately disobeyed. His men weighed anchor and caused the ship to sink, but amazingly it turned out for the best. In fact, it was divine intervention, according to Columbus's fanciful story. He hadn't intended to stay in any one place for long, but now he took time to build a fortress in honor of Spain and its rulers. Thanks to the shipwreck he spent extra time with the natives, converted them to Christianity and saved their souls from eternal damnation. What a blessing that disastrous shipwreck turned out to be, in the fiction the admiral created!
"The Nina turned back and joined them, and its crew helped build the fortress that Columbus named La Navidad - the Nativity - in honor of his Christmas Day shipwreck. When it was time to go home, he left thirty-nine crewmen to occupy the fort and sailed away in the Nina. A few days later they spied the Pinta, which they had assumed was lost at sea. The captains had a heated exchange, Columbus's journal reflects, and the admiral accused Martin of insubordination. Things eventually must have been smoothed over because within a couple of weeks the Nina and Pinta sailed back across the Atlantic to Spain. Columbus seems to have convinced the Pinzon brothers to go along with his account of how the Santa Maria was lost, and the queen ultimately funded more expeditions.
"I'm sure you're wondering by now if there's any possible reason I told you all this background," Oliver said. "At last we reach the end of the story. When he deserted Columbus before the shipwreck, Martin Pinzon had sailed the Pinta east to the island that Columbus called Insula Hispana. Today it's Hispaniola and it's shared by Haiti and the Dominican Republic. The Santa Maria was wrecked there, somewhere off the coast of the modern city of Cap-Haitien, Haiti. An archaeologist recently claimed to have found the wreckage, although according to Columbus's logbook most of the ship's hull and deck material were used to build the fortress of La Navidad, so I have my doubts about whether there's much of anything left of his flagship.
"The important thing here is the Black Cross. It was on the ship that Christmas Eve when the wreck happened, and records clearly indicate everything was removed from the Santa Maria within a few days. That means the cross was taken off the ship too, and I'm certain Columbus carried it to safety. To him it would have been the most important thing on the ship - a gift from the queen herself - and it was intended to bring good luck. Here's my theory: the cross is never mentioned again because Columbus didn't take it back to Spain. Columbus deliberately left the Black Cross at the fortress of La Navidad to bring good fortune to the crewmen who were staying behind. He never says another word about the relic in his logbook because he didn't have it any longer."
Brian interjected, "So the search begins at La Navidad?"
"Yes and no. He built the fort, left men there and sailed back to Spain. Creating that colony was the key ingredient in his plan to get funding for a second voyage. The queen would want him to return with provisions for her loyal subjects and to continue his quest for the fabled riches of the New World. And his plan worked better than he could have imagined. She gave him a massive expedition with more than a thousand men and seventeen ships. Isabel wanted a permanent Spanish colony, but when he arrived at La Navidad in November 1493, the fortress had been burned to the ground and the thirty-nine colonists were dead, probably murdered by hostile Carib Indians. Five hundred years later, no one knows exactly where the site of La Navidad is."
"And that's why you asked me to go to Haiti? You want me to see what I can find out about La Navidad and the cross?"
"Even more than that. I'm hoping you can find the relic and bring it back."
Nicole had been patient up to this point. "I have what should be an obvious question. Why Brian? Why don't you just go yourself?"
Oliver looked down at his hands dejectedly. "I'd do it if I could. I have a health issue - something I don't like to talk about ..."
She stopped him immediately. "I'm so sorry! I had no idea. There's no need to say anything more. I shouldn't have asked."
And I shouldn't have lied, Oliver thought. But then again, Brian was the adventurer in this equation. He always seemed to have that yearning for intrigue and mystery. Better he goes than I.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A few days later Oliver Toussaint waited at the streetcar stop on St. Charles Avenue. Nattily attired in a pin-striped suit, bright bow tie and starched white shirt, he held a leather briefcase in one hand and an umbrella in the other, just in case. He rode the trolley to the Quarter every weekday unless it was pouring. Although he never spoke to anyone on board, he enjoyed watching the hodgepodge of passengers getting on and off as the car clacked along, its bell dinging at every stop. He loved this old city, and even though he'd traveled this route a thousand times, he still enjoyed the scenery. There's no place like New Orleans, he thought with a satisfied smile. This was home and it was wonderful.
He had a practical reason for riding the streetcar. Parking was scarce and expensive in the Quarter, and he wasn't willing to fork out several hundred dollars a month for a slot. There was no need for a car anyway. He and his assistant, Betty, were at the shop most of the day and he had lunch somewhere close by, sometimes with friends but often alone. Finding good food in the French Quarter wasn't ever a problem, and if he had to go further away, there was a taxi on every corner.
The driver clanged the bell several times as he stopped his car at the end of the line, where Carondelet Street ran into Canal. Oliver got off, crossed the wide avenue and entered the Quarter on Royal Street. As he walked the familiar route, he enumerated today's to-do items in his mind, oblivious to things around him. He was almost to the gallery when he looked up. There she is! He saw the old woman a block ahead of him and heading in
the same direction he was. She was wearing a long black dress and a wide-brimmed hat. Moving slowly, she relied on a long stick for balance.
"Madam! Madam!" he shouted, picking up his pace. She either couldn't hear him or didn't intend to stop. He quickly caught up with her, stepping into the street and ahead to avoid startling her.
"May I speak with you for a moment?"
Eyes glued on the sidewalk, she walked on as though she hadn't heard him.
He touched her sleeve gently and jumped when she jerked back her arm.
"Leave me alone," she hissed, never looking his way.
He ventured into uncharted territory. "Justine, I know who you are." He wasn't certain of that at all, but it struck a nerve.
She stopped and looked up with fiery eyes. She spat an answer. "You think you know who I am, do you? Leave me alone, Oliver Toussaint. You will learn nothing from me."
"How do you know my name?" he asked in surprise.
"I know many things," she whispered. "For your own well-being, leave me alone." She turned away.
"You are Justine Quantin, aren't you?"
She jerked her body around so abruptly that it startled him. Her face was etched in fury. She raised her stick and held it toward him as she hissed, "You have no idea what you're doing. I may be old, but I still have my wits. Do not open a door you cannot close. This is your last chance; I will not warn you again. Leave me alone."
Despite his excitement at finding her after all this time, he let her walk away. He was a native New Orleanian. Every family had secrets - his certainly did - but as a child he'd been taught to have a healthy respect for the Creoles. Many of them still practiced voodoo today and he was certain that old woman was one of them.
Her words had bothered him. More than that, it was her countenance. He had seen the face of evil before, but he'd never witnessed the pure malevolence that blazed in those old eyes. Of all people, Oliver should have been ready for her, but instead he came away from the encounter rattled and a little afraid. He felt as though he'd met the devil himself today.
He wanted to tell Brian about meeting her. Calling her Justine Quantin had made an impression on her, but other than the feeling of dread he couldn't shake off, there really wasn't anything more to say. What he really wanted was to hear Brian's voice - to hear him say he was okay. Haiti truly was a frightening place but if he had admitted that, Nicole would never have let Brian go. He rationalized that it was worth the risk, but after his encounter he was having second thoughts. Brian was a friend, not a pawn in some voodoo ritual, yet that was the situation Oliver had sent him into. And Haiti might not even be the most dangerous part of Brian's trip at all.
He called Brian's cellphone. There was one ring followed by a series of clicks and beeps. In a moment Brian answered, every word followed by hollow echoes.
"Where are you?" Oliver asked, relaxing once he heard his voice.
"Just got off the plane in the Port-au-Prince airport. I'm surprised my phone works. I didn't expect a signal until I got to the hotel."
"I'll make this brief. I want to tell you something that just happened." He told Brian about seeing the old woman and her reaction when he asked if she was the same person whose 1927 marriage certificate he'd found. "She was furious. She warned me not to open a door I couldn't close. She said I had no idea what I was doing. To tell you the truth, it was unsettling."
"Did you follow her to see where she lives?"
"I didn't, I'm ashamed to say. Her demeanor was chilling; there's something so evil about her it's palpable. I promised if I saw her, I'd follow her, but I left her alone instead. Something spooked me - she knew my name. I asked her how and she said there were many things she knew. Here's my take - she's a Creole and a voodoo witch. I'm certain of it. It's just a feeling, but when you've grown up here, you learn to accept certain very strange things as being true."
He signed off by telling Brian to be very careful. "Haiti's a dangerous place," he reminded his friend, "and voodoo's something very real."
Brian was surprised that Oliver had called her a witch. He was one of the most down-to-earth, no-nonsense, pragmatic people Brian knew, a man who didn't toss out opinions flippantly. He truly thinks she's evil, not like a criminal is evil, but like a person with the devil in her soul.
CHAPTER EIGHT
If you go six hundred and fifty miles north from Miami, you'll be in Atlanta. If you go six hundred and fifty miles southeast, you'll have gone the same distance but you're in Haiti - a vastly different place. Atlanta's a bustling, prosperous, safe American city while Haiti is one of the most impoverished and dangerous countries in the world. In the past hundred years, dictators were overthrown by military juntas who were in turn overthrown by more dictators.
The United States government warns Americans not to go to Haiti. Foreign visitors are often kidnapped, even on the busy highway heading from the capital's airport to the city center, and taxi drivers cannot be trusted. US Embassy staff in the capital are required to travel in armored vehicles. The State Department calls Haiti's capital, Port-au-Prince, "a high-risk environment with violent crime, kidnappings and general lawlessness."
As dangerous as the city itself is, there is a place inside it that is hell on earth. Over two hundred thousand people live in a vast slum called Cite Soleil. Many of its residents were fervent supporters of Jean-Bertrand Aristide, who briefly was president before being ousted in a coup. His supporters believe the United States was behind the overthrow of their beloved president. The United Nations has labeled the slum the most dangerous place on earth, and particularly for Americans it’s a thousand times riskier.
Brian had decided to ask President Harrison for help even before Nicole insisted upon it. She read the State Department's travel warning and flatly told him unless the president could get embassy people to guard him, he was crazy to even think about going. He made the call and Harry had put him in touch with a helpful lady at State who promised to make his trip as safe as possible. It wasn't typical for a private citizen to be afforded protection by the embassy, but the president had created a way to make it possible. He asked Brian to meet with the ambassador and convey some private information to him. The meeting was sufficient reason for the president to put his friend under the protective wing of the American government in Port-au-Prince. In his satchel, Brian carried a sealed envelope from the president of the United States that he would deliver to the ambassador tomorrow morning at ten.
The American Airlines 737 banked to the right for the descent into Toussaint Louverture International Airport in Port-au-Prince. When he saw it emblazoned on the terminal building, it struck him that this man's first name was also Oliver's last. He'd never asked Oliver where his ancestors were from, but now he wondered if there was a connection to Haiti.
The customs and immigration area was divided into lanes with stanchions and chains. There were several hundred people crammed into the dirty, oppressively hot room and the smells associated with a teeming mass of third-world humanity were indescribable. Brian found it difficult to advance in line; the minute someone in front of him stepped forward, two or three people from another lane would cut into his, pushing and shoving. He finally resorted to the same behavior and at last he was next to see the immigration officer. He felt a slight tug on his rolling suitcase and turned around just as a teenaged boy pulled his iPad from the outer pocket. He grinned at Brian, showing the whitest teeth he'd ever seen, and disappeared into the melee.
"Come, come!" the officer shouted, waving Brian to his window. "You next!"
"Someone stole my iPad!" he cried as he handed over his documents.
"Happen all de time," the officer said disinterestedly as he stamped Brian's form and passport. "Americans got too much damn stuff anyway." He handed the papers back and Brian looked behind him into the crowd, hoping to spot the culprit. "Move along," the officer said curtly. "He gone."
How can he be gone? The kid’s somewhere in this room and this is a secured government ar
ea. He must come out sometime. I’ll just wait for him. As soon as he had those thoughts, he realized how ridiculous they were. He had no idea what the boy looked like or what he'd been wearing. Everything had happened in a flash and he should consider himself lucky it hadn't been the MacBook Air in his backpack. That thought gave him a chill - he shrugged out of his pack, checked it over and made sure it hadn't been touched. Everything that really mattered was in that bag and everything was intact. He used his phone to disable the iPad so the little bastard wouldn't be able to access it.
The customs man waved him through without a glance. He walked through a set of dirty glass doors into the arrivals area, a much larger room crammed with even more people waiting for friends or relatives. A dozen men ran to him, yelling, "Taxi, taxi, sir! Clean taxi with air-conditioning!"
He ignored them and looked for the man he was supposed to meet. He saw a tall African-American guy maybe in his thirties holding a sign with Brian's name on it. He was dressed in a Panama hat, white linen shirt and khaki shorts and he looked like a tourist. Brian waved at him and pushed his way through the crowd, keeping his backpack and suitcase close.
"Tom Lambert, US Embassy," the man said, extending his hand. "Call me Tom, please. Welcome to Haiti, Mr. Sadler. Let me help you with your bags."
"I'm Brian. I don't think I got as great a welcome to Haiti as I'd hoped. Some kid stole my iPad while I was in the immigration line. I reported it to the officer and he couldn't have cared less. He made some comment about Americans having too much stuff anyway."
"It's unfortunate that you got an early taste of how things can go here. From the minute you set foot in this country until the minute you leave, you're struck by the contrast between how beautiful the countryside is while how incredibly impoverished the people are. I'm from Chicago and I grew up in a pretty rough area on the South Side, but it was heaven compared to this place."
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