Honor Bound

by Robert N. Macomber

  Woodgerd read my mind. “Yes, I wondered about that, too. Turns out that before he converted, Aubrac used to be a dokte feuilles, an herbal healer. He says that after a storm there usually is a ceremony of thanks and everyone gets drunk on this rotgut rum they call clarin. Aubrac will remove his stripes, act like a common guard, and slip into the hounfour, the voudou temple at the north end of the fort. Once there, he’ll add enough bouga juice to the clarin jugs to make the Bizangos get sick. He says an hour at the most till they slow down. The locals have a quaint little name for the process: bouga mange moun—the poison toad eats the people.”

  I remembered that initial feeling of pleasant lethargy, just before the terror hit me—realizing my body was paralyzed and slowing down to die, eating me from the inside, and there was nothing I could do. I shuddered as an involuntary gasp escaped me.

  “Yes, well, that’ll be very effective. Now let’s discuss how we get inside the fort, what we do once there, and how we escape this place afterward.”

  Woodgerd used a pencil to diagram the fort on our only piece of dry paper, while Rork held our sole lantern. I asked questions about Sokolov’s senior staff and their locations, the aerial craft’s supplies, and the location of Luke and the hostage. Rork inquired about the guards’ weaponry, ready ammunition storage, and watch routine. Aubrac made suggestions to our list of targets.

  An hour later, we had the plan.

  ***

  It was an interesting study of faces gathered around me. The Americans looked grimly eager to get the deed done. Absalom gazed at nothing and mouthed a prayer—the twenty-third psalm, I believe. The lone Russian, alias a Frenchman, was clearly dubious as he digested what he heard. The Haitian fellows, except for sergeants Aubrac and Yablonowski, showed obvious fear and confusion. The two Haitian sergeants sat there in quiet resignation. I could just imagine what was in their minds: nothing good ever comes from dealing with blancs.

  I kept my description of the plan of attack simple. At nine o’clock, about an hour after sundown, Aubrac would climb over the northern outer wall, creep through the fortress’s farm field, slip into the adjacent voudou temple, and taint the Bizangos’ clarin. At exactly ten o’clock, after the bouga potion worked its evil, Aubrac would silently use a cane knife on the throat of the Bizango manning the nearest guard post. He would then signal the rest of us waiting outside the wall with the call of the nocturnal goatsucker bird. On my cue, Aubrac demonstrated the distinctive whippoorwill-like sound.

  Upon this signal that the coast was clear, we would scale the wall and enter the fort. Three Haitian soldiers would remain behind at the observation point on the mountainside and act as sharpshooters, waiting to open fire until they heard any gunshots, then concentrate their shots on the nearest Hotchkiss gun. I had no illusions about their marksmanship, but thought their fire might add to the enemy’s confusion.

  Once the main body of our tiny band was inside, we would separate into two elements. Woodgerd would lead a force to rescue Mr. Vanderburg from the livestock barn at the northeast corner of the compound. Once Vanderburg was liberated, Woodgerd’s men would provide cover for the rest of us by killing the Bizangos at the voudou temple and blockading those in their barracks, located nearby. His faction would consist of Aubrac, Rork, Yablonowski, and the four remaining Haitian soldiers.

  I would lead the second force, consisting of Absalom, Cynda, Dan Horloft, and Corny Rathburn. We would run south through the compound, past the huge airship barn, and rescue Luke at Sokolov’s bungalow, located at the southern end of the place. Once that was accomplished, we would secure the main gate of the fort, and hold it until Sokolov’s men counterattacked, then we’d rejoin Woodgerd’s group. Weapons for my group were in short supply, so scavenging the enemy’s would be critical. Fortunately, both Dan and Corny knew muskets, but young Absalom was ignorant of that skill. He would carry a cane knife.

  I asked Woodgerd to describe Sokolov’s leadership hierarchy.

  “Sokolov spends his evenings in his quarters, directly inside the south inner wall. His number-two man is a sadistic Prussian colonel named von Danzig who hates blacks, got kicked out of German Cameroon for abusing them. He’ll be drunk on schnapps in his room, just outside the south inner wall, by that time of night. I was the number-three man and my little home away from home was next to Danzig’s. The number-four man is a pouffy French naval engineering staff officer, Commandante Philippe Dru, who is in charge of the technical work—the bombs, hydrogen, metalworking, goldbeater’s skin. He may be attending the voudou celebration at the north end. He’s attracted to that sort of thing.”

  Woodgerd stopped for comments. No one made any, but I remembered Roche and Billot had been talking about a man named Dru just before their angry exchange in Russian on the boat. So Roche knew more than he was letting on, even now.

  “All right, that’s it for the whites working for Sokolov. There are three Haitian officers in his private army. Doctor Pierre Baptiste is a nasty little bastard. He’s in charge of obtaining and keeping the typhus clothing, and the fort’s food and medical needs. He dabbles in voudou, so he’ll probably be with Dru at the north end. Captain Jacques Bois, not so affectionately nicknamed ‘the black weasel’ by the troops, and Captain Artimis Joseph, nicknamed ‘the white snake,’ lead the Bizangos. They are what’s called bourreaux, which means executioners, and they are ruthless. They’ll definitely be in the ceremony at the north end. Let’s hope they drink lots of Aubrac’s potion.”

  Woodgerd paused, then added, “I think they’ll have a minimal guard force on tonight, because of the celebration. Two men at the main gate, and maybe eight of the twenty-one outer wall posts manned, with only one man in each. That means about forty of them at the temple or in the barracks, mostly at the temple—away from their rifles, which are kept at the armory. If we do this quickly and quietly at first, then use extreme violence once an alarm is sounded, we will win. Do not show any of them the slightest bit of mercy—they’ll use it to kill you.”

  Roche posed the question to me, “We are killing the Bizangos, but what of Sokolov?”

  This wasn’t the time or place for timidity. “Kill him on sight.”

  Roche frowned. “Well, if it would not be too much trouble, Commander, I would like to have a conversation with Sokolov. I had occasion to work against a friend of his, one Alexandr Ul’yanov, a minor revolutionary leader who attempted to kill our tsar this last year. Ul’yanov is no longer a problem, but I believe that Sokolov has information about Ul’yanov’s colleagues that would be very useful to the Okhrana. I promise not to linger too long with him, since our time will be short.”

  “Very well, you can have him.”

  Roche nodded. “I appreciate your consideration, sir. One last point, Commander—what of the machine itself?”

  I looked him in the eye and lied. “Dan and I will be in charge of destroying it. Right afterward, we all leave over the north wall.”

  The Russian spy allowed the trace of a smile.

  “Then all of our goals will all be accomplished, Commander Wake. You have my compliments, sir, on an excellent plan.”

  ***

  At sundown we commenced, with Aubrac leading the way down the slippery slope to the river. In his macoute, a burlap Haitian shoulder bag, he carried gourds of bouga poison.

  The three youngest Haitian soldiers were chosen to remain on the mountainside as sharpshooters. They solemnly bid us goodbye. Dan grumbled aloud that they’d probably run at the first chance. Yablonowski spun around and confronted him.

  “You think Haitian soldiers cannot fight, Mr. Horloft? You are very wrong. I invite you to go to the graves of fifty thousand of Napoleon’s finest soldiers at Cap Haitien, and ask them what they think of Haitian soldiers.”

  Dan looked at him hard for a moment, then nodded. “Point taken, Sergeant. I apologize. I’m sure your men will fight well.”

  Keeping our weap
ons dry while crossing the river was no easy task, especially for the men carrying the more vulnerable powder muskets. We stepped stone to stone, using our outstretched hands to balance ourselves. Several fell waist-deep into the water, but scrambled back up with the help of the others.

  The few guards we could see on the walls had their attention drawn inward toward the voudou gathering. Drums heralding the upcoming ceremony had been pounding for hours, the tempo steadily increasing, and now we could hear shouting and laughing—they had begun to broach the clarin. We needed to hurry our pace. Once we arrived at the far side of the river, we crept along the bank, directly under the outer wall and not thirty feet from the muzzle of that Hotchkiss. At the northern end of the fort, we halted and huddled in the bushes as Aubrac dashed off in the darkness toward the wall.

  So far, we were exactly on time and in position. Before setting out, I’d made sure Aubrac’s watch—borrowed from Corny—was wound and calibrated to mine. We waited. I checked the time. It was nine forty-five by my watch in the moonless starlight. I took a breath. The first part was done. Next would be Aubrac’s bird call.

  But, unfortunately, that’s not what we heard.

  33

  Bèlantre Mwem Zanmis, a ou Rèv Move . . .

  Forteresse des Nyajs

  Montay San, Northern Haiti

  Wednesday, 5 September 1888

  9:57 p.m.

  First came a muffled scream, coming from the area where Aubrac was last seen. Then, close by us, we heard a graveled voice I knew instantly. It chuckled sarcastically as it spoke. The words I could not decipher exactly, but the tone was unmistakably sinister.

  “Bèlantre mwen zanmis, a ou rèv move—men li se anpil, anpil, reyèl . . .”

  Woodgerd knew what it meant and muttered an oath. Cynda stifled a cry of fear as half a dozen rifle bolts were rammed shut around us in the dark. Yablonowski translated what the voice had told us.

  “It is Lieutenant Laurent. He says, ‘Welcome, my friends, to your bad dream—but it is very, very, real.’ We are captured, Commander.”

  I could hear movement all around us, a platoon at least. There was no avenue of escape. No probability of effective defense. Lamentably, Rork and I were quite familiar with the scenario. Our only chance lay in subterfuge.

  To Rork and Woodgerd I quickly whispered, “Hide your weapons under this bush. We’ll steal theirs once we get inside. Rork, don’t use the spike until we’re inside and I give the word.”

  Seconds after I dropped my Merwin-Hulbert pistol and Spencer shotgun and kicked them under the bush, hands grabbed me roughly, shoving me into a line formed by my comrades. Someone lit a lantern and a face loomed up, inches from mine—Laurent, gloating over his conquest.

  “Ah, ha! Le laj blanc fou . . . poukisa ou pa renmen mwen pwas bèls a l’citadelle? Tan sa-a pa se sove!”

  I could smell rum on Laurent’s breath, his words slurred into gibberish. I wondered if Aubrac had gotten to the clarin jugs before he was caught. No, probably not. No such luck.

  “What’s he saying to me, Sergeant?”

  “He called you the big white fool, Commander. And then he asked why you didn’t like his pretty beans at the Citadelle. He says this time there is no escape.”

  My friends said nothing when they heard that comment, but I could feel their thoughts as we were pushed forward along the wall, back toward the river. I’d failed them again.

  To increase his overconfidence, I gave Laurent a crestfallen look, not hard to do in the circumstances. Then I said to Sergeant Yablonowski, “Please tell Lieutenant Laurent the following: You have won the affair, sir. But how did you know where we would be?”

  Laurent’s gloating response was interspersed with more chuckles. Yablonowski’s face was lined with grief as he told us what Laurent said: “Those two soldier boys you sent as messengers to Cap Haitien. The bourreaux had a conversation with them. It was easy then to find you on Montay San. We sat near you in the jungle the whole time and heard your plan. The bourreaux had a conversation with Aubrac, also, just a few minutes ago, at the wall. He told us everything. The bourreaux will soon have a conversation with you. But do not worry, it will not require much of your time.”

  At the main gate I saw that the guard posts were fully manned. Sokolov had known we were out there, all right. It had been a well-laid trap. Once inside the outer wall, we were led past some small dwellings that Woodgerd identified as the white staff quarters, including the one he’d fled days earlier. Then we were through the inner wall and halted between Sokolov’s bungalow on the right and the armory on our left. Directly in front of us rose the aerial warship’s edifice, enormous and menacing in the flickering glow of the lanterns scattered about.

  Laurent’s men arranged us in a tight formation. I could smell rum on them, too. Standing ten yards away, some of the Bizangos watched the goings-on. They were distinguishable from Laurent’s men by their neat appearance in blue fatigue working uniforms and the modern rifles—Laurent’s were dressed in ragged national army issue and carried muskets. The Bizangos exuded confidence and discipline.

  The timing for our uprising would be crucial—we had to overcome Laurent’s men while they still had us in their custody. Once we were transferred to the Bizangos, it would be too late. I doubted if in our weakened physical state we could fight them in close-quarters combat.

  An older white man in a crumpled linen suit emerged from a doorway and strode toward the armory. It was the man we’d seen earlier giving orders to the airship handlers. In the lantern light, I could see a hawk nose separating two piercing gray eyes set deep into a gaunt face. The gray in his eyes was so light-colored as to be almost white, presenting a manifestly frightening countenance.

  Sergei Alexandrovich Sokolov stopped when near us, executing a parade ground left turn. In a thick Slavic accent, he rumbled dismissively, “You are intruders, opponents of the people’s will, enemies of the revolutionary changes about to unfold. And you will be dealt with accordingly.”

  Cynda cried out, “You have my boy Luke here—I want to see him! Where is my boy?”

  “Your son has rejected the corrupt life you have chosen for him, madam. He is now a revolutionary in the service of the people. A warrior for the future good of mankind, when tyrants are finally deposed and slavery ended!”

  Cynda burst into tears. I put an arm around her, while surveying the positions of Laurent’s men and the Bizangos surrounding us. Rork glanced at me, an eyebrow raised in query as to the use of his spike. I responded by moving my eyes in the negative. Woodgerd, seeing our voiceless communications, distracted his former employer, by loudly stating, “Sokolov, stop the theatrics and just bring the kid over here so his mother can see him.”

  The reply was a contemptuous snarl. “You dare to speak! Your turn will be slow, Colonel. Traitors do not deserve quick mercy.”

  “An ironic statement coming from you, Professor,” commented Roche in that infuriatingly calm voice of his. “You, my dear Sergei Alexandrovich, are the ultimate traitor to your country, your motherland.”

  “Ah, Major Kaminski, or should I say Kukov? No, those were your old pseudonyms in Minsk and Moscow. I hear you are in Paris now and Roche is the current alias. Your French toadies must be quite flattered by that. How very kind of you to come way out here to Haiti so I can kill you for what you did to us in Saint Petersburg. It has really saved me a lot of bother tracking you down in Paris.”

  Sokolov turned to the rest of us. “Well, I have no more time for this small talk, for I am about to depart in my airship. Destiny awaits me. In the meantime, you will be attended to by Captain Bois and Captain Joseph.”

  He sneered. “They are at the armory this very moment, preparing a special welcome for their former commander—you, Colonel Woodgerd.”

  It was at this point that Laurent, who evidently understood more English than he’d previously let on, burst in
to maniacal laughter at our fate, all the while lasciviously eyeing Cynda. The perverted behavior set his subordinates to cackling, pointing at Woodgerd who, comprehending the situation, played the role of humiliated prisoner quite well, complete with disheartened expression. As Sokolov resumed his pace toward the armory, Laurent ridiculed Woodgerd in Creole, causing his mob even more mirth.

  The Bizangos weren’t joining in the hysterics, but were clearly enjoying their former leader’s disgrace. None of our enemies had their fingers on triggers, or even the rifles aimed. It’s difficult to be vigilant when slapping each other on the back and jeering your victims.

  I judged it the perfect time to end the party.

  “Now, Rork!”

  In far less time than it takes to read this paragraph, several things happened simultaneously to Laurent’s bemused minions. Later discussion with Rork clarified the blur of commotion. My Irish friend whipped off his fake hand and rammed the spike into the temple of Laurent’s soldier next to him, then into the chest of another. Woodgerd punched his escort in the throat, dropping him and moving onto another. I brought my foot into the groin of Laurent’s corporal, followed by my knee into his jaw when he doubled over. Dan and Corny jumped on their closest opponent and wrestled him down. Aubrac, wounded but ambulatory, threw himself against his guard, both falling in a heap. Roche performed a very deft pugilistic maneuver by hitting two men at once, using one fist for each. Yablonowski proved no slouch in battle either, knocking down a man and rallying his bewildered soldiers with orders in Creole.

  Seconds later the tables were turned on our enemies. Those of Laurent’s crew still upright immediately turned tail, their lieutenant in the lead. Having now armed ourselves with the abandoned muskets, we discharged them into the astonished audience of Bizangos, half of whom dropped their Lebel rifles in an attempt to flee.

  This gave us some real armament. Yablonowski wisely had his men continue to use the muskets, since they were trained somewhat with them. We foreigners gathered the French-made weapons—even Cynda and Absalom, who proved to be quick studies in working the bolts and firing—and proceeded to mark down the enemy as they dashed for cover.