The Crimson Gardenia and Other Tales of Adventure

by Rex Beach

  I

  A round moon flooded the thickets with gold and inky shadows. The nightwas hot, poisonous with the scent of blossoms and of rotting tropicvegetation. It was that breathless, overpowering period between theseasons when the trades were fitful, before the rains had come. From theCaribbean rose the whisper of a dying surf, slower and fainter than therespirations of a sick man; in the north the bearded, wrinkled Haytianhills lifted their scowling faces. They were trackless, mysterious,darker even than the history of the island.

  Beneath a thatched roof set upon four posts was a table, spread withfood, and on it a candle burned steadily. No wind came out of the hotdarkness; the flame rose straight and unwavering. Under a similarthatched shed, a short distance away, a group of soldiers were busyaround a smoldering cook-fire. There were other huts inside the jungleclearing, through the dilapidated walls of which issued rays of lightand men's voices.

  Petithomme Laguerre, colonel of tirailleurs, in the army of theRepublic, wiped the fat of a roasted pig from his lips with the back ofhis hand. Using his thumb-nail as a knife-blade, he loosened a splinterfrom the edge of the rickety wooden table, fashioned it into atoothpick, then laid himself back in a grass hammock. He had expected tofind rum in the house of Julien Rameau, but either there had been noneor his brave soldiers had happened upon it; at any rate, supper had beena dry meal--only one of several disappointments of the day. The sack ofthe village had not been at all satisfactory to the colonel; one yellowwoman dead, a few prisoners, and some smoldering ruins--surely there wasno profit in such business.

  Reclining at ease, he allowed himself to admire his uniform, a splendidcreation of blue and gold which had put him to much pains and expense.It had arrived from Port au Prince barely in time to be of service inthe campaign. As for the shoes, they were not so satisfactory. Shoes ofany sort, in fact, cramped Colonel Petithomme Laguerre's feet, and wererefinements of fashion to which he had never fully accustomed himself.He wore them religiously, in public, for a colonel who would be ageneral must observe the niceties of military deportment, even in theHaytian army, but now he kicked them off and exposed his naked yellowsoles gratefully.

  On three sides of the clearing were thickets of guava and coffee trees,long since gone wild. A ruined wall along the beach road, a pair ofbleaching gate-posts, a moldering house foundation, showed that this hadonce been the site of a considerable estate.

  These mute testimonials to the glories of the French occupation arecommon in Hayti, but since the blacks rose under Toussaint l'Ouverturethey have been steadily disappearing; the greedy fingers of the junglehave destroyed them bit by bit; what were once farms and gardens are nowthickets and groves; in place of stately houses there are now nothingbut miserable hovels. Cities of brick and stone have been replaced bysqualid villages of board and corrugated iron, peopled by ashrill-voiced, quarreling race over which, in grim mockery, floats thebanner of the Black Republic inscribed with the motto, "Liberty,Equality, Fraternity."

  Once Hayti was called the "Jewel of the Antilles" and boasted its"Little Paris of the West," but when the black men rose to power itbecame a place of evil reputation, a land behind a veil, where allthings are possible and most things come to pass. In place of monasterybells there sounds the midnight mutter of voodoo drums; the priest hasbeen succeeded by the "papaloi," the worship of the Virgin has changedto that of the serpent. Instead of the sacramental bread and wine mendrink the blood of the white cock, and, so it is whispered, eat theflesh of "the goat without horns."

  As he picked his teeth, Colonel Petithomme Laguerre turned his eyes tothe right, peering idly into the shadows of a tamarind-tree, thebranches of which overtopped the hut. Suspended from one of these was aninert shape, mottled with yellow patches where the moonbeams filteredthrough the leaves. It stirred, swayed, turned slowly, resolving itselfinto the figure of an old man. He was hanging by the wrists to a rawhiderope; his toes were lightly touching the earth.

  "So! Now that Monsieur Rameau has had time to think, perhaps he willspeak," said the colonel.

  A sigh, it was scarcely a groan, answered.

  "Miser that you are!" impatiently exclaimed the colonel. "Your money cando you no good now. Is it not better to part with it easily than to rotin a government prison? You understand, the jails are full; manymulattoes like you will be shot to make room."

  "There is no--money," faintly came the voice of the prisoner. "Myneighbors will tell you that I am poor."

  Both men spoke in the creole patois of the island.

  "Not much, perhaps, but a little, eh? Just a little, let us say."

  "Why should I lie? There is none."

  "Bah! It seems you are stubborn. Congo, bring the boy!" Laguerre spokegruffly.

  A man emerged from the shadows at the base of the tree and slouchedforward. He was a negro soldier, and, with musket and machete, shuffledpast the corner of the hut in the direction of the other houses, pausingas the colonel said:

  "But wait! There is a girl, too, I believe."

  "Yes, monsieur. The wife of Floreal."

  "Good! Bring them both."

  Some moments later imploring voices rose, a shrill entreaty in a woman'stones, then Congo and another tirailleur appeared; driving ahead of thema youth and a girl. The prisoners' arms were bound behind them, andalthough the girl was weeping, the boy said little. He stepped forwardinto the candle-light and stared defiantly at the blue-and-gold officer.

  Floreal Rameau was a slim mulatto, perhaps twenty years old; his lipswere thin and sensitive, his nose prominent, his eyes brilliant andfearless. They gleamed now with all the vindictiveness of a serpent,until that hanging figure in the shadows just outside turned slowly anda straying moonbeam lit the face of his father; then a new expressionleaped into them. Floreal's chin fell, he swayed uncertainly upon hislegs.

  "Monsieur--what is this?" he said, faintly.

  The girl cowered at his back.

  "Your father persists in lying," explained Laguerre.

  "What do you--wish him to say?"

  "A little thing. His money can be of no further use to him."

  "Money?" Floreal voiced the word vacantly. He turned to his wife,saying, "Monsieur le Colonel asks for money. We have none."

  The girl nodded, her lips moved, but no sound issued; she also wasstaring, horror-stricken, into the shadows of the tamarind-tree. Herarms, bound as they were, threw the outlines of her ripe young bosominto prominent relief and showed her to be round and supple; she waslighter in color even than Floreal. A little scar just below her lefteye stood out, dull brown, upon her yellow cheek.

  Laguerre now saw her plainly for the first time, and shook off hisindolence. He swung his legs from the hammock and sat up. Something inthe intensity of his regard brought her gaze away from the figure ofPapa Rameau. She saw a large, thick-necked, full-bodied black, of boldand brutal feature, whose determined eyes had become bloodshot fromstaring through dust and sun. He wore a mustache, and a little pointedwoolly patch beneath his lower lip. Involuntarily the girl recoiled.

  "Um-m! So!" The barefoot colonel rose and, stepping forward, took herface in his harsh palm, turning it up for scrutiny. His roving glanceappraised her fully. "Your name is--"

  "Pierrine!"

  "To be sure. Well then, my little Pierrine, you will tell me about this,eh?"

  "I know nothing," she stammered. "Floreal speaks the truth, monsieur.What does it mean--all this? We are good people; we harm nobody. Everyone here was happy until the--blacks rose. Then there was fightingand--this morning you came. It was terrible! Mamma Cleomelie isdead--the soldiers shot her. Why do you hang Papa Julien?"

  Floreal broke in, hysterically: "Yes, monsieur, he is an old man. Punishme if you will, but my father--he is old. See! He is barely alive. Theseriches you speak about are imaginary. We have fields, cattle, aschooner; take them for the Republic, but, monsieur, my father hasinjured no one."

  Petithomme Laguerre reseated himself in the hammock and swung himselfidly, his bare soles scuffing the
hard earthen floor; he continued toeye Pierrine.

  Now that young Rameau had brought himself to beg, he fell to his kneesand went on: "I swear to you that we are not traitors. Never have wespoken against the government. We are 'colored,' yes, but the blackpeople love us. They loved Cleomelie, my mother, whom the soldiers shot.That was murder. Monsieur--she would have harmed nobody. She was onlyfrightened." The suppliant's shoulders were heaving, his voice waschoked by emotion. "She is unburied. I appeal to your kind heart to letus go and bury her. We will be your servants for life. You wish money.Good! We will find it for you. I will work, I will steal, I will killfor this money you wish--I swear it. But old Julien, he is dying thereon the rope--"

  Floreal raised his tortured eyes to the black face above him, then hisbabbling tongue fell silent and he rose, interposing his body betweenPierrine and the colonel. It was evident that the latter had heardnothing whatever of the appeal, for he was still staring at the girl.

  Floreal strained until the rawhide thongs cut into his wrists, his bare,yellow toes gripping the hard earth like the claws of a cat until heseemed about to spring. Once he turned his head, curiously, fearfully,toward his young wife, then his blazing glance swung back to his captor.

  The silence roused Laguerre finally, and he rose. "Speak the truth," hecommanded, roughly, "otherwise you shall see your father dance abamboula while my soldiers drum on his ribs with the cocomacaque."

  "He is feeble; his bones are brittle," said the son, thickly.

  "As for you, my little Pierrine, you will come to my house; then, ifthese wicked men refuse to speak, perhaps you and I will reach anunderstanding." Laguerre grinned evilly.

  "Monsieur--!" With a furious curse Floreal flung himself in the path ofthe black man; the wife retreated in speechless dismay.

  Petithomme thrust young Rameau aside, crying, angrily: "You wish tolive, eh? Well, then, the truth. Otherwise--"

  "But--she? Pierrine?" panted Floreal, with a twist of his head in herdirection.

  "I may allow her to go free. Who can tell?" He led the girl out acrossthe moonlit clearing and to the largest house in the group. Hereappeared, making the door fast behind him, and returned, stretchinghimself in the hammock once more.

  "Now, Congo," he ordered, "let us see who will speak first." Taking apipe from his pocket, he filled it with the rank native tobacco andlighted it. The tirailleur he had addressed selected a four-foot club ofthe jointed cocomacaque wood, such as is used by the local police, andwith it smote the suspended figure heavily. Old Julien groaned, his soncried out. The brutality proceeded with deliberation, the body of oldJulien swung drunkenly, spinning, swaying, writhing in the moonlight.

  Floreal shrank away. Retreating until his back was against the table, heclutched its edge with his numb fingers for support. He was young, hehad seen little of the ferocious cruelty which characterized hiscountrymen; this was the first uprising against his color that he hadwitnessed. Every blow, which seemed directed at his own body, made himsuffer until he became almost as senseless as the figure of his father.

  His groping fingers finally touched the candle at his back; it wasburning low, and the blaze bit at them. With the pain there came athought, wild, fantastic; he shifted his position slightly until theflame licked at his bonds. Colonel Laguerre was in the shadow now,watching the torture with approval. Maximilien, the other soldier,rested unmoved upon his rifle. Floreal leaned backward, and shut histeeth; an agony ran through his veins. The odor of burning flesh rosefaintly to his nostrils.

  "Softly, Congo," directed the colonel, after a time. "Let him rest for amoment." Turning to the son he inquired, "Will you see him die ratherthan speak?"

  Floreal nodded silently; his face was distorted and wet with sweat.

  Laguerre rose with a curse. "Little pig! I will make your tongue wag ifI have to place you between planks and saw you in twain. But you shallhave time to think. Maximilien will guard you, and in the morning youwill guide me to the hiding-place. Meanwhile we will let the old manhang. I have an appetite for pleasanter things than this." He turnedtoward the house in which Pierrine was hidden, whereat Floreal strainedat his bonds, calling after him:

  "Laguerre! She is my wife--by the Church! My wife."

  Petithomme opened the door silently and disappeared.

  "Humph! The colonel amuses himself while I tickle the sides of thisyellow man," said Congo in some envy.

  "I don't believe there is any money," Maximilien observed. "What? Am Iright?" He turned inquiringly to Floreal, but the latter had regainedhis former position, and the candle-flame was licking at his wrists. "Tobe sure! This is a waste of time. Make an end of the old man, Congo, andI will take the boy back to his prison. It is late and I am sleepy."

  The speaker approached his captive, his musket resting in the hollow ofhis arm, his machete hanging at his side. "So, now! Don't strain sobitterly," he laughed. "I tied those knots and they will not slip, for Ihave tied too many yellow men. To-morrow you will be shot, monsieur, andPierrine will be a widow, so why curse the colonel if he cheats you by afew hours?"

  Congo was examining his victim, and uttered an exclamation, at whichMaximilien paused, with a hand upon Floreal's shoulder.

  "Is he dead?"

  "The club was heavier than I thought," answered Congo.

  "He brought it upon himself. Well, the prison at Jacmel is full ofcolored people; this will leave room for one more--"

  Maximilien's words suddenly failed him, his thoughts were abruptlyhalted, for he found that in some unaccountable manner young Rameau'shands had become free and that the machete at his own side was slippingfrom its sheath. The phenomenon was unbelievable, it paralyzedMaximilien's intellect during that momentary pause which is required toreconcile the inconceivable with the imminent. It is doubtful if thetrooper fully realized what had befallen or that any danger threatened,for his mind was sluggish, and under Rameau's swift hands his soul hadbegun to tug at his body before his astonishment had disappeared. Theblade rasped out of its scabbard, whistled through its course, andMaximilien lurched forward to his knees.

  The sound of the blow, like that of an ax sunk into a rotten tree-trunk,surprised Congo. A shout burst from him; he raised the stout cudgelabove his head, for Floreal was upon him like the blurred image out of anightmare. The trooper shrieked affrightedly as the blade shearedthrough his shield and bit at his arm. He turned to flee, but his headwas round and bare, and it danced before the oncoming Floreal. Rameaucleft it, as he had learned to open a green cocoanut, with one stroke.On the hard earth, Maximilien was scratching and kicking as if to draghimself out of the welter in which he lay.

  Floreal cut down his father and received the limp figure in his arms. Ashe straightened it he heard a furious commotion from the camp-fire wherethe other tirailleurs were squatted. From the tail of his eye he sawthat they were reaching for their weapons. He heard Laguerre shouting inthe hut, then the crash of something overturned. As he rose from hisfather's body he heard a shot and saw the soldiers of the Republiccharging him. They were between him and Pierrine. He hesitated, thenslipped back into the shadow of the tamarind-tree, and out at the otherside; his cotton garments flickered briefly through the moonlight, thenthe thicket swallowed him. His pursuers paused and emptied their gunsblindly into the ink-black shadows where he had disappeared.

  As Floreal rose from his father's body he heard a shotand saw the soldiers of the Republic charging him.]

  When Colonel Laguerre arrived upon the scene they were still loading andfiring without aim, and he had some difficulty in restoring them toorder. Blood they were accustomed to, but blood of their own letting.This was very different. This was a blow at the government, at their ownestablished authority. Such an appalling loss of life seldom occurred toregular troops of the Republic; it was worse than a pitched battle withthe Dominicans, and it excited the troopers terribly.

  Perhaps he had been mistaken and there was no money, thought thecolonel, as he returned to his quarters after a time. Of course th
e girlstill remained, and he could soon force the truth from her, but she wasthe only source of information left now that Floreal had escaped, forLaguerre had noted carelessly that the body of Julien had hung too long.It was annoying to be deceived in this way, but perhaps the day had notbeen without some profit, after all, he mused.

  The road to the Dominican frontier was rough and wild. All Hayti wasaflame; every village was peopled by raging blacks who had risen againsttheir lighter-hued brethren. Among the fugitives who slunk along thewinding bridle-paths that once had been roads there was a mulatto youthof scarcely twenty, who carried a machete beneath his arm. In his eyesthere was a lurking horror; his wrists were bound with rags torn fromhis cotton shirt; he spoke but seldom, and when he did it was to cursethe name of Petithomme Laguerre.