A Dishonorable Few (The Honor Series)

by Robert N. Macomber

  He was surprised about how easy it had been, really. He had chosen the village of Colline Pauvre, on the Bay of Henne, on the north shore of Haiti’s Golfe des Gonaives from its position on the chart. He found the entrance deep and without dangerous reefs. Coming into the strange bay, he had asked for the headman, who turned out to be some local thug named Henri Muret, who luckily spoke some English and Spanish.

  Within seconds he knew Muret was the kind of man he could deal with. Within two hours he had “an arrangement,” as Muret termed it, allowing him to use the little village as a base of operations in return for a share of the cargo obtained. They could even handle larger sales of the stolen merchandise to factors in the bigger town to the east. And Muret did not want to know details of the piracy operation, only the results, which was just fine with the renegade gringo.

  His plan was simple. Steam out into the shipping lanes of the Windward Passage in the night, in the pre-dawn light make the capture, and in the morning race back. By noon they would be back at the village, offloading the items that were of value for resale. The ex-American deduced that he could keep this little operation going for about a month, before he would have to move on. But in the meantime, it would be very profitable.

  And they would start that very night.

  ***

  The morning found Canton with the end of Haiti’s northern pincer, Cap Foux, on their starboard bow, distant ten miles. The Windward Passage was living up to its name—the breeze was roaring through from the east northeast—but they were slogging upwind and making good speed with the sails assisting the engine.

  The rising sun was made blood red by the smoke that covered the eastern horizon from the farmers’ slash-and-burn fires ashore on the Haitian mainland. The red disk rising up looked ominous, a celestial sign commented on by the deck watch.

  Wake was at the starboard waist watching it too, when the cry came down from aloft.

  “Deck there! I think there’s some sort of wreckage a mile on the port bow.”

  He walked aft and took the proffered binoculars while Custen used the telescope. Wake focused on the dark spot among the waves but couldn’t make it out. Was it really wreckage, or deck cargo that had washed overboard?

  “Deck there! Sail to port. Looks to be a brig, five miles off, southbound. Another sail on the port bow, five miles, schooner rig, northbound.”

  They were in one of the most crowded shipping lanes in the Western Hemisphere, and Wake realized that as the sun rose and visibility increased there would be plenty of sightings. As if reading his thoughts, the lookout added two more sailing ships as Custen shook his head and reported, “It’s wreckage, sir. I can see it now.”

  His evaluation was confirmed by the lookout a moment later. Wake ordered Canton to be steered to the debris, the lookouts to be tripled, and all hands to watch for survivors. Walking forward in his nervousness, he came upon Rork standing by the mainmast. The bosun, who had already called for the coxswain to ready his boat crew, was also eyeing the flotsam.

  “Not a good sight for a sailorman to see, sir. I’ve a nasty feeling in me gut about this. Nasty indeed.”

  “Your Irish intuition hoisting a signal again, Rork?” asked Wake. Though he often joked with his friend about his Gaelic sense of forewarning, he always paid attention when Rork gave voice to it.

  “Aye, sir. I can feel it in me blood, I can. ’Tis chilled like the Mull o’ Killarney right now, sir. Aye, we’ll find bad things in that wreckage, or I’m not a son o’ the Sainted Isle.”

  His prediction came true ten minutes later when they hove to next to the wreckage, which turned out to be the ship’s boat from the Connie Kate, port of Nassau. The boat was swamped, holes having been cut through the floorboards and hull, and part of the bow was charred. Other debris was scattered nearby, the Canton’s cutter investigating each piece for a sign to indicate what had happened. The sailors were already speculating that it was no accident or storm that caused it, but Symons the pirate. Wake kept his opinion quiet, waiting for proof.

  When they found two bodies, one headless and the other with a large hole in the chest, both in relatively fresh condition in the warm tropical waters, they knew for certain. El Gringo Loco had been right there, and not long ago.

  Wake went to his cabin and examined the chart, accompanied by Custen and Connery.

  “All right, gentlemen. It’s got to be Cuba or Haiti. Which do you think?”

  Custen leaned over the chart, shaking his head. “Not Cuba. That’s a rugged lee shore. The only harbor close to the Windward Passage is at Caimanera, on the Bay of Guantanamo, and that’s more than a hundred miles from here. Those bodies are fresh, not more than four or five hours at the very most, sir. No, my bet’s on Haiti.”

  “The Spanish Navy would be aware of them at Caimanera or Santiago, anyway, David,” added Connery. He ran a finger around the giant body of water that Haiti bordered on three sides, “But where the hell in Haiti is he? He could be anywhere in this Gonaives Gulf.”

  “This northern peninsula, I think. Probably along the shoreline,” said Custen placing his hand on Haiti’s northern pincer. “I’m not familiar with it, though. Never been there, have you, John?”

  “Me? No. And neither has anyone I know. No reason to go there and a lot of bad stories—African witchcraft and such,” answered Connery.

  “And the steamer smoke would have been hidden in the smoke from the fields!” exclaimed Custen suddenly as he pounded the table. “Damn! That’s why we didn’t see anything to the east. They blended in. They could do that every day. Dash out for a victim, dash back in to their hideout right after. Haiti’s always had a smoky horizon because of the farmers burning off land.”

  “Exactly,” concurred Wake, intrigued to see his officers’ examination of the facts. “All of which makes it a perfect place for the likes of Symons and his gang of cutthroats, doesn’t it, gentlemen?”

  The two officers agreed. It was so simple. Why didn’t they think of it before when in Jamaica?

  “Very good, gentlemen. Mr. Custen, alter course to starboard,” ordered Wake. “Steam due east and let’s examine that coast right now.”

  Connery raised an eyebrow. “Ah, sir. What about your direct orders to return as soon as possible to the nearest American port? You’re already facing a court-martial, sir. I think that adding a charge of failure to follow the direct order from the secretary of the navy would not help your cause any. Now, it might be better for you if we report this information when we get to—”

  “No, John. Thanks for thinking of me, but my career is probably done anyway and we need to do this right now. It’s the right thing to do, and even the leadership in Washington should recognize that.”

  “I hope you’re right, sir,” said a dubious Custen. “I hope to hell you’re right.”

  ***

  It was the easiest one they had ever gotten. Came right up on her from behind in the dark. Two minutes and it was all over. Main cargo was a shipment of farming tools and turpentine barrels, but the real catch was in the after hold. Bajo found four large cases of British Enfield rifles and two cases of Armstrong pistols, all with ammunition. It would be worth a fortune.

  By the time the sun tried to penetrate the haze to the east, they were already back in Haitian waters. By ten in the morning they were at the rickety dock and the gringo was sitting in what passed for the local bar with the headman, describing the cargo he had to offer. Muret was impressed. The factors in Gonaives would pay dearly for this treasure and he would arrange it all. The warlords in the northern part of the country would salivate once they heard the weapons were available for purchase. When he said it was a very apropos cargo for Haiti, the white man asked why.

  Muret explained to the ex-Americain that Haiti had no real central government, that the last national leader they had had was General Fabre Geffard. Geffard
had controlled Haiti from 1859 until 1867 and was the first in generations to open the country to trade. He finally had gotten recognition by the United States in 1864—sixty years after independence—and had regularized relations again with the Vatican, which had been severed for some time. Money had started to flow from foreigners again.

  Muret went on to relate how Geffard had restored the republican form of government, built schools, and started to export crops—then made a big mistake. He reduced the size of the army in 1867, and three months later a barracks revolt deposed him. Since then no one had been in charge and the warlords had divided up the country, and hundreds had been killed everywhere. Anarchy reigned. Now, two years later, the only thing left of the hard work of Geffard was in the name of the country: the Republic of Haiti.

  And even that had become a jest among the people, Muret said. It was now known jokingly as La République de Mort. The Republic of Death.

  The gringo took another gulp of rum and leered at the short, dark man across from him at the table. “Muret, this sounds like the perfect home for a man like me. Now, how is it that you say El Gringo Loco in this Haitian lingo of yours? That’s what they called me in Spanish.”

  Muret studied the white man, feeling uneasy. That the man behaved oddly was obvious, but he showed signs of being crazy too. And now he was asking how to actually say it? Oh well, he thought. The money is real.

  “The closest would be Le Blanc Fou,” said Muret. He watched the man’s reaction closely as he explained, “It means the crazy white man.”

  “Le Blanc Fou—a catchy sound. Spread the word that that is my name,” replied the renegade pirate, laughing at the surprised look on Muret’s face as he added, “Oh yes, mon ami. I’m gonna like it here just fine.”

  39

  La Sorcellerie Noire

  The factors in Gonaives were most definitely interested, asking Muret detailed questions about the items for sale, the proposed price, and how to effect the transfer—none of which he answered, of course, for this involved far more than the art of the deal. It involved his life.

  If he handled this correctly, he would make more money than he had ever seen, and Le Blanc Fou had promised him that there was more, far more, to be had. If he was not careful, though, the warlords would come, kill him, and take the guns without ever paying a centime.

  Later that day, a worse than usual thunderstorm came through the area from the mountains to the north, the winds rising quickly and the waves out to sea becoming dangerously high. Diana had anchored off the beach, her crew closely watching the wind direction. If it came out of the south they would weigh anchor and get away from the leeward shore. Muret braved the weather and reported to Le Blanc aboard the anchored steamer that he would go to meet the factors again that very night, bringing a sample part from one of the weapons. The deal should be concluded within a week, future transactions taking less time.

  In the pitching cabin the pirate considered the information and nodded his head, agreeing to send a part of one of the Enfields. He also decided he would stay at the village that night instead of raiding out to sea, and that the guns would stay aboard, not ashore under guard as Muret suggested.

  “Muret, they’ll be safe here on this ship. And should anyone approach in the night, ami, they will receive a demonstration of the effectiveness of the rifles. Comprenez-vous?”

  “Completely, monsieur,” said Muret, more than a little sick from the motion of the steamer at anchor. “I understand completely.”

  ***

  They knew without doubt that they were on the right track, for when they went ashore to inquire if anyone at the village of Poisson Rouge had heard of a steamer coming into the area in the last day or two, they got a terrified look and nervously shaking heads in response. No one would admit to knowing anything, but their eyes gave them away. Wake was determined to examine every bay and river. Symons was close. The gunboat got under way again and steamed east, searching every beach, every indentation for signs of the pirates. By the afternoon they were approaching a high point of land and cautiously began to round it.

  The storm caught Canton without warning. It swept over the mountains, descending the slopes rapidly. One moment it was sunny as they steamed along the coast, ten minutes later it was cloudy, then it grew very dark very quickly. The wind coming down off the mountain was cold, dropping the temperature more than twenty degrees.

  Visibility shut down instantly and Wake, standing in his flailing oilskins on deck and holding onto the main shroud, gave the order to bear away from the coast and steer south. He didn’t want to be caught on a lee shore if the wind veered to the east or south.

  Wake took a bearing on the point of land, then went below to study the chart. Their departure from the coast was at Pointe Palmiste, he saw, just west of a bay called Henne. He decided that when the storm abated they would close the coast again and look into that bay. The chart said there were two villages there.

  The visibility was so bad that the transition to night was not apparent. Wake stayed on deck through the dog watches trying to get a feel for the weather. This was something more than an average tropical afternoon storm. It was not letting up, the wind from the north continuing unabated as the steamer hove to with her bow into the seas. Wake estimated his position as thirty miles off the Haitian coast.

  All night they steamed slowly ahead, keeping the bow into the waves, attempting to maintain their position. In the morning this will let up, hoped Wake as he tried to sit at the desk in his cabin. He surveyed the chart again in the swinging lantern light. He could feel it—in the morning they would find Symons.

  ***

  Muret came back early. At three in the morning the rain was still coming down as he was rowed out to the Diana and brought down into Le Blanc Fou’s cabin.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Muret? You look like you saw a ghost or something,” growled the white man as he poured rum from a bottle into a filthy glass. Muret’s eyes bulged in fear, knowing his report would anger Le Blanc, and in addition, the insane motion of the cabin was making him sick. He was afraid of the sea.

  “We have problems. Big problems . . .”

  “Well, then tell me about them! Don’t just stand there like an idiot and make me guess,” bellowed the blanc.

  “There is an American warship on this coast, not ten kilometers from here, searching for you. They asked at the village to the west of here, but no one told them anything, though everyone knows you are here.”

  “Son of a bitch!” A red fist smashed down on the table, capsizing the glass of rum. “Where’s the warship now?”

  “It disappeared in the storm. But there is another problem.” Muret hesitated, the anger of the man was more than he had thought. “Also a big problem.”

  “And what the hell would that be?”

  “The factor put out the news that you have weapons—good English weapons—to sell and that he would be the broker. The general in Cap Haitian was upset that he did not get the first exclusive opportunity to buy the guns. He said he has been insulted and will stop anyone else from buying them. That means Colonel Ceder of St. Marc, and the colonel in Gonaives.”

  “So? Who cares what the little bastard says, as long as his money’s good.”

  “There is more. The general in Cap Haitian has spread the word that Le Blanc Fou will die when the sun rises, that he has had the prètre gran voudou declare you a dead man. No one will work for you to carry the guns or do anything for you. I think the general will send men here to capture the guns.”

  “Oh, yeah? That I’d like to see. Now, what is this voudou thing about? One of your savage little African myths from days gone by?”

  Muret could tell the Americain did not understand. “It is very real. You have been sentenced to death.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to die? Did the black son of a bitch include
that in his proclamation?”

  “You will drown. Everyone believes in this here. No one here will associate with you.”

  “Then why the hell are you here, Muret?”

  “Because I am to die also,” muttered the Haitian.

  “So what do you suggest we do?” asked Le Blanc Fou as Bajo entered the cabin to see what was happening.

  “Get away from here at sunrise,” said Muret. “We can escape the American warship and the general’s men. Go to Miragoane in the southern peninsula of Haiti. I have contacts there. We can sell the guns easily through them.”

  The white man thought for a moment, then nodded and spoke to Bajo. “Weigh anchor an hour before dawn. We’ll steam due south . . .” he paused as he checked the chart, “. . . around the west end of Gonave island, then southeast into that port of Miragoane.”

  Bajo got up to get the ship prepared but stopped when his leader said, “And Bajo, get those rifles ready to use, just in case some Haitian general’s little army shows up before we leave.”

  “Yes, Jefe.”

  “Looks like you’re in the crew, Muret. I hope you like to kill people.” Le Blanc Fou grinned. “It’s what we do best.”

  Muret didn’t answer—he just looked at the white man’s wild eyes and wondered how he had gotten into this situation in the first place.

  Two hours later he was on deck watching his home village disappear in the rainy mist as the pirate steamer moved away from the land, headed to a part of the coast where he had never been and knew absolutely no one. It had been a necessary lie to the white man in order to get away from this place where Muret knew he would most certainly die, if not from the curse, then from the general’s men when they wouldn’t find the guns.