And Hell Followed

by Mark Scott

  Chapter Three

  Martin strolled out onto Courageous' forecastle. Sprawling before him was the infamous island nation of Haiti. From the harbor's channel entrance, some two miles offshore, the place seemed peaceful enough. The blue-green mountains faded into dust brown hills that wrapped around the harbor. Lying at the bottom of this geographical bowl was the capital city of Port Au Prince. The details of the city and land were still invisible from Martin's vantage point. It appeared as any other Caribbean island with the mountains wearing crowns of towering cumulus clouds while thin and tattered blue-gray clouds glided swiftly beneath them, casting fleeting shadows across the land below.

  Chief Carter joined Martin. "Marti, when we are secured in port I'll come get ya and take ya on a little tour of this lovely piece of real estate. I assure you that it will be an eye opener." said the Chief as he slapped Martin on the back. Martin just gave the Chief a half smile and watched as the cutter slowly, almost cautiously motored into the port. An hour later the Courageous was moored on a dilapidated quay wall in Port au Prince.

  Martin stood on Courageous' quarterdeck, staring out at the decrepit waterfront of the Haitian capital. A heavy clanging sound of metal striking metal signaled the hatch behind Martin was being opened. He stepped out of the way. The heavy door swung open and out stepped a smiling Chief Roberts. Martin immediately noticed that the Chief was wearing civilian clothes. The Chief had lost his military bearing, wearing an old white tee shirt with a bonefish silk-screened on the back. The tee shirt hung loosely over a faded and somewhat tattered pair of olive drab shorts, obviously old military fatigues that had been turned into shorts. He wore a kind of flip flops that Floridians call "slaps". With his customary slap on the back the Chief called out merrily, "C'mon Marti.

  Let's go!" The two men walked across the cutter's gangway and stepped onto the quay wall. Almost immediately they were set upon by a spinning, shrieking mob of children all of whom were yelling, "Sayloh Mohn! Sayloh Mohn!"

  The children wore tattered clothes and all were barefoot. Some had crusty noses.

  Every one of them were touching and hugging the two men. Martin recoiled in revulsion at their filth and at the possibility of disease. The Chief, however, had no such concerns.

  He obviously loved these children. The tall white American towered over the crowd of black children. He took turns spinning them around. One little girl stood off to the side watching all the fun. Martin saw her and guessed her age to be four or five. The small child wore a dirty white dress patterned with faded pink butterflies. She stood there smiling. The Chief strode over to her and placed her upon his shoulders. Then Chief Roberts handed the little girl a handful of candy and she tossed it to the other children who scrambled for it giggling and laughing with delight. The Chief put her down and pressed a five dollar bill, along with some candy, into her dirty little hand. Then the Chief bent over and gingerly kissed her on her cheek. The little girl and the other children scampered off into the mean streets of Port au Prince.

  The Chief and the reporter strolled down the sidewalk. Everywhere people hustled. Sidewalk vendors with exotic food called out to them. The Chief spoke in a low voice to Martin, "Don't eat or drink anything Marti."

  "Don't worry Chief....I wasn't planning on it.", replied Martin sarcastically. Martin was appalled at the conditions that he found himself in. People sat behind boxes of food.

  There was fruit being sold as well as rice, vegetables and meat of some kind. The vendor's hands were in perpetual motion as they fanned away the hordes of flies that swarmed the food. Some people hawked a kind of homemade drink that was sold in old soda bottles. Martin became nervous when he noticed that all eyes were on himself and the Chief. The two Americans approached a long single storied building painted a faded orange with turquoise trim.

  "This is the Iron Market Marti.", called the Chief over the chorus of street noise. "It's the cultural center of Port au Prince." They stepped through a wide doorway and into a dark open interior. The place reminded Martin of some of the flea markets back home. Inside the building shafts of light entered through the deteriorating roof and pierced the darkness to reveal the shadowy forms of many people. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness Martin could see that there were still more vendors standing behind rows of wooden tables. Dozens of voices called out to the men. "Americohns ovah here! Ovah here Americohns!" The two Americans wound their way through the throngs of people, making their way to the opposite side of the building. The Chief stopped. Leaning towards Martin so that he could be heard the Chief said, "Time to distract them long enough to get out of here without being robbed." Martin was more than a little panicked as he tried to process what the Chief had just said when the Chief thrust his hands into his cargo pockets and produced two handfuls of cigarette packs. Then, to Martin's astonishment he tossed them into the air and yelled "Vive le Haiti!" The crowd around them squealed like children as they scrambled for the cigarettes. The two men pushed their way through the pressing throng of people. Looking down at two men crawling after the same pack of cigarettes, Martin was mortified and panicked by what he saw. One man grabbed the pack of cigarettes from the other, who then grabbed a large piece of concrete off the floor and began bashing the other man's head with it. The victim fell to the ground semiconscious and releasing his prize. The aggressor grabbed the cigarette pack and leaped to his feet holding the pack victoriously over his head, completely unconcerned with the wounded man at his feet.

  Martin pushed on through the crowd in a near panic. Somebody grabbed his shoulder.

  He spun and dropped his shoulder to free himself and hustled to catch up with the Chief.

  The men stepped through a narrow door in the rear of the market place and stepped out into the brilliant and scorching sun. The noise and commotion of the Iron Market faded behind them.

  "Son of a bitch Chief did you see that?" shrieked Martin.

  Chief Roberts nodded and spoke as they walked, "yeah...I'll tell ya after all these years of coming here I still haven't figured this place out. I mean it's really weird, these people can be so friendly and childlike but then suddenly they go off. I don't know...I just don't know. It's really scary...you've heard of voodoo right? Well this place is the freakin' voodoo capital of the world! I mean this is the home of voodoo! I've come to conclude that there are certain places in the world where evil reigns. I think this place is one of them." While the Chief spoke, Martin took stock of their surroundings and his unease grew even greater.

  The two Americans continued walking along a dusty path that ran beside a wide ditch.

  The water was black and putrid. Brown rafts of bubbles floated across its surface as the ditch's contents boiled and festered in the tropical sun. The stench was almost overpowering. Every now and then they would move over to one side to make room for someone approaching from the opposite direction. As the Haitians passed the Americans their heads would turn, watching the foreigners in near disbelief. Martin's unease was quickly melting into fear. After walking the path for over half an hour the ditch ended, emptying into a large lake of the same noxious liquid. Scattered across the banks were tiny shacks made of tarpaper, plywood and cardboard. Here and there narrow planks bridged the cesspool, just inches above its toxic surface. The men crossed over one such rickety structure. The Chief, leading the way, jokingly called back to Martin, "Don't fall in Marti!" The stench was so overwhelming that Martin thought that he might actually vomit. The Chief reached the opposite side and stopped. Martin walked up beside him.

  Chief Roberts spoke softly with an inflection that conveyed a deep compassion for the people here.

  "It's a sad place, huh Marti?"

  Looming over the hellish lagoon and its shantytown was a tall and steep hill. It was the city dump. Clouds of thin blue smoke issued forth from its bowels and drifted across it. Martin glanced up to the top of the mountain of garbage. He noticed a person standing tall and erect. Martin thought it strange that the figure seemed to wear a hooded ro
be.

  Something about the person made his skin crawl as they stood there, staring down at the filth below. Martin glanced around at the people picking through the trash on the mountain of garbage. When he looked back up at the top the strange specter had disappeared.

  "This, Mister Martin, is City Solei...the poorest and largest slum in the Western Hemisphere. Infant mortality is over seventy percent. The average life expectancy...forty years. That is if something else doesn't take ya out before that, like a hurricane or the Tan Tan Macquote."

  "The Tan Tan what?" Martin asked.

  "Baby Doc Duvalier was the dictator here. The Tan Tan were his secret police. A

  kind of a Haitian Gestapo. Every since Baby Doc's overthrow the Tan Tan work for the highest paying creep. They'll off you in a heartbeat and not even bat an eye."

  "Sweet", Martin replied dryly.

  The Chief and Martin slowly traversed the muddy narrow paths that served as streets.

  City Solei had no cars. The only means of transportation was walking. Everywhere women walked with their burdens on their heads. They even carried shifting, sloshing buckets of water in this manner. The only source of fresh water here was a single communal pump. Some women carried their water for a half mile or better. Chief Roberts explained to Martin that in the rainy season the poisons from the dump leached into the well water precipitating annual outbreaks of dysentery and cholera. The air around the wretched place was filled with an acrid haze from the many cooking fires. The fuel for these fires was not wood but rather garbage from the dump. Wood in City Solei was a precious commodity that was too valuable to burn. Lumber was used to build and to carve things to sell for a pittance to tourists. The smoke burned the throat and assaulted the eyes. Rounding a bend in the muddy trail the men stopped abruptly. There before them was the most macabre scene Martin had ever witnessed. A man lay dead beside a dead pig on the path's edge. Martin's American mind struggled to process what he was seeing. Martin was not afraid but rather, he was utterly bewildered. The scene, to the cultured eye of Paul Martin, seemed unreal.

  The man was a black man, a Haitian. He lay in the mud with his limbs grotesquely twisted beneath his torso. Wherever his body contacted the ground his ashen skin became deep purple. The man was lying face up so that Martin could see that his eyes were partially open. The eyeballs were shriveling and retreating into their sockets. A

  stream of blood, now cooked black by the cruel tropical sun, was caked around his nose.

  His mouth was opened wide as though his last mortal act was to scream in terror or pain.

  Fat green flies flew in and out of his mouth, no doubt the source of the maggots that were consuming this poor soul's flesh.

  Lying in the mud next to the dead man was the bloated and rotting carcass of a pig.

  The swine's pink skin was mottled with what appeared to be large areas of bruises, a sign that the process of decay was well under way. All four of the creature's legs projected stiffly into the air. The head was nearly severed. The pig also wore a swarming, buzzing shroud of flies. The stench of the corpses made Martin's stomach turn and lurch. He fought to keep from vomiting. Martin had never experienced the smell of human decay.

  It seared itself into his memory just as it does with every human being who is exposed to it. The smell was that of rotting flesh mixed with an aroma akin to body odor. It was the most horrid smell that Martin had ever known. He would never forget it.

  The Chief spotted a young man walking hurriedly past. Chief Roberts called to him and walked over to the man, gesturing towards the bodies and speaking in Creole. The Young Haitian retorted in a similar fashion and when he had finished the Chief said

  "Merci" as he slipped a five dollar bill into the young man's hand. The Haitian looked at the money. With a broad smile he took the Chief's large hand into both of his and enthusiastically shook it. The Chief then walked back to where Martin stood swooning.

  "Ya O.K. Marti?" asked the Chief in a sympathetic voice.

  "Ya, let's get the hell out of here." Marin choked.

  Martin walked quickly past the corpses staring straight ahead and holding his breath.

  The Chief spoke as they negotiated the narrow writhing path. "According to the fella I was talkin' to the locals stoned and hacked that man to death for stealing that pig."

  "Why in God's name don't they bury him?" inquired Martin in a greatly diminished voice.

  "Apparently both he and the pig are cursed. He stole that pig from some foreigners who own a large pig farm up that mountain over there. He said it's just outside a town called Peytonville. Some other guy stole a pig from there and brought it back here to City Solei. After eating it he and a whole lot of neighbors up and died. So the good citizens of the area assumed that the foreigners placed a curse on the neighborhood for stealing their pig. So when this guy came along they killed him and the pig in order to avoid another plague...least that's what that fella said." explained the Chief.

  "That's sweet... a curse! They killed a guy 'cause they thought he was cursed!"

  laughed Martin.

  "Oh yeah!" The Chief went on, "Don't forget man Voodoo is very much alive here.

  Even if you don't believe, they do and perception is reality. So here in Haiti curses and black magic and evil are all around."

  The two men found themselves caught in a torrential downpour. They began to run down the steep muddy path until it merged with the larger path that ran alongside the ditch. The large warm drops of tropical rain beat down harder and harder. The two Americans ran faster, their pace quickened when a bolt of lightning struck nearby. They ran until they came to the city streets of Port au Prince. They stood in the doorway of a derelict building and watched the rain fill the poorly drained streets with water. Stiff blasts of cool wind drove the rain down the roads in undulating sheets. In the midst of the torrents, a woman in a hooded robe walked past them, seeming unconcerned with the driving rain. She glanced at Martin as she passed. She was a beautiful woman, perhaps the most beautiful he had ever seen. She wore her hair short and possessed a hypnotic stare. Something about her made him very uneasy. She walked around the corner and disappeared.

  Once the rain subsided the Americans walked down the street until the Courageous came into view. She floated at her mooring glowing white in the dim light filtered through the last lingering clouds of the storm. The tiny ship represented America and the American ideals of liberty and safety. Martin noticed the flag, or the national ensign as the guardsmen called it. Old Glory snapped and popped as it waved proudly in the winds of a foreign storm. Martin walked up the gangway and stepped onto the quarterdeck. He felt an enormous sense of relief. For the first time in his life Martin had come to understand just how privileged he was to be an American citizen. Chief Roberts was right, Martin had received a unique and life altering education. Martin spoke with the Chief briefly before retiring to his room. He hung his soaked clothes up to dry before showering the grime of Port au Prince off of himself.

  Later that evening Martin laundered the clothes he had worn that day. He placed them, along with his Nike tennis shoes, into a garbage bag. Walking down to the quarterdeck he noticed a young Haitian man trying to sell the crew some wood carvings. Martin motioned for him to come over. Martin bought a hand carved walking stick for five dollars. Then, smiling, Martin handed the man his bag of clothes. The man looked into the bag and then at Martin. The young Haitian pointed to himself and nodded his head, "yes?"

  "Huh?" stuttered Martin. Then realizing what the man was trying to ask, Martin said, "Oh yes...for you." The Man grabbed Martin's hand and kissed it exclaiming,

  "Merci! Merci!" Then he walked down the quay wall and faded away into the Haitian twilight. Martin felt good about himself. Being a brash up and coming professional from a well to do family, Bruce Martin had invested little time in his fellow man. Even though this gesture of kindness and compassion was a small one, Martin felt the joy of giving and was genuinely happy for the young man. He wal
ked past the petty officer of the watch who was at his post. There were also a couple of seamen pulling guard duty, each armed with M-16s. As Martin strode by, all three men grinned an understanding smile at him. The next morning the Courageous was once more underway.

  It had been two days since the Courageous had departed Port au Prince. The day had come for Martin to leave the cutter. A helo had flown out to the Courageous from Opa Loka air station in Florida. Martin wondered through the narrow passageways saying as many goodbyes as he could but many crew members had fallen ill with a nasty flu, including the wounded Anderson. While the crew was in Haiti Anderson had passed away. The Courageous' crew was told that the injuries that he had received in the suicide bombing had so compromised his body, the flu turned quickly into an especially virulent form of pneumonia and he passed away soon after that. Martin walked out onto the flight deck and was approached by the X.O.

  "It was a pleasure working with you Bruce." said the X.O. "I wish to God things had been different. In twenty two years of service I have never lost a crew member. Now I've lost two." Martin could see the pain on the X.O.'s face. The officer continued, "The funerals will be out of state. We're going back into Port in about five more days so that anybody wanting to take leave and go to the funerals will be able to do so. I'll look forward to reading your articles. Take care of yourself."

  "Thank you for everything X.O. you guys are doin' a hell of a job out here. I can't put my finger on it but my journalistic instincts tell me that something significant happened on this patrol. I'm gonna look into what the hell that bomb was all about. Thanks again."

  said Martin, shaking the X.O.'s hand.

  Martin turned and walked towards the bright orange helicopter strapped to the flight deck. The whine of the turbines started and grew steadily louder as Martin climbed onto the aircraft and took his seat. He placed his gear in a net that hung on the helicopters bulkhead. He fastened his seat belt and put his headset on. He could hear the chatter between the pilot and the bridge. "All set back there?" asked the pilot. Martin responded with a simple "Yup."

  A deckhand in his bright yellow jacket with chemlights swinging from it suddenly appeared at the helo door. Martin could not tell who it was since his features were in a helmet and dark goggles. The crewman gave thumbs up to Martin as he slid the door closed. Martin felt his stomach flutter in response to the first moments of weightlessness as the aircraft left the Cutter's deck and banked hard to Starboard. Through a window across from him Martin could see the brilliant white ship shrinking from view. Soon, only the blue ocean rolled a thousand feet below.

  Martin was relieved to be going home. At the same time, however, Martin felt a sense of melancholy. Perhaps it was because he actually missed the guardsmen already, or, perhaps it was because he had enjoyed the rush of danger and the thrill of the unknown. Martin's intuitions and senses had been awakened from civilization induced dormancy.

  On the Cutter, especially in Haiti, Martin had been charged with life. Now, however, he was returning to the creature comforts that had reduced him to a gentleman. He was subdued as his mind tried to sort through a tangle of thoughts and emotions. After a while the dark blue ocean began to be interrupted with scatterings of turquoise from the shallows around reefs. The upper Keys soon came into view off to the left as the helicopter continued on its northerly course. Next the Florida mainland appeared.

  The sun was setting as a large burning pink ball. Beneath the aircraft spread the Everglades, half water, half land, shimmering in the setting sun. Flocks of white wading birds rose up from the green Saw grass and Cypress trees. The wetlands began to become fragmented by development. The thread of a road here, a sprawling development there, until the wilds completely disappeared beneath the concrete crypt of urban sprawl. The evening sky faded into a dark dreamy blue. The towering cumulus clouds of the Tropics were left hundreds of miles behind, replaced by the clouds of winter. These high wispy clouds were illuminated in varying shades of pink. Out the cockpit window Martin could see the City of Miami glowing in a dazzling display of white and green light. The helicopter dropped lower and lower as it approached Opa Locka. Finally Martin felt the wheels touchdown with a heavy thud. Bruce Martin was home.