23

Mother of the Twins

Pointe Picolet

Near Cap Haitien

North coast of Haiti

Monday, 20 August 1888

I will take the liberty to pause here and praise the men of the Albury family of Man O War Cay in the Abaco Islands of the northern Bahamas, who created Delilah in 1864. That I am alive to share this account is because of them. Delilah was the toughest ship I’ve ever seen, the epitome of the shipbuilders’ art.

She was completely destroyed, of course, by the rock bastions of Haiti, but not before she performed the impossible. A miracle if ever there was one.

***

Rork was at the helm. I stood beside him, scrutinizing the folded chart in my hands for the thousandth time, trying to perceive some new bit of wisdom that would help me figure our position. I remember checking my pocket watch for the time, to measure the period until our next tack.

There were two sets of eyes on lookout: Absalom at the foremast and Dan next to him, clinging to the port foreshrouds as our ship fought the seas. Corny was below in the gyrating galley, washing the dishes with Cynda after the evening meal. Billot and Claire were seated on the windward side of the cabin top, trying to displace their seaborne fears by shouting into each other’s ears above the wind about their favorite Paris theaters. As usual, Roche stood alone aft, hanging on to the mainsheet and staring off to windward.

Spray filled the dark air, rigging moaned, the hull rumbled, and the sails’ leaches rattled as we lurched, slid, and rolled our way through the seas. Looking back on it, I do seem to remember a brief inkling that the seas had changed direction and were choppier. Sitting here in the comfort of my bungalow at Patricio Island writing this narrative, I now know those waves were reverberating off the rocks. But at the time, I couldn’t complete that deduction, for that was the moment when it all happened. By the grace of God, no one was in the forward cabin when we hit.

My first realization was the crack of thick timbers breaking.

At the same instant, I and everyone around me were propelled forward through the air as the entire rig—masts, topmasts, gaffs, stays, shrouds, sails, sheets, halyards, blocks, crosstrees—flew apart and descended upon us. The schooner did not stop at first impact, but drove up and over a line of boulders in the water. She was still moving when the rock wall of a cliff stopped her with dead finality. Delilah shuddered for a fleeting moment as her bow crushed into the cliff, then she fell away onto her starboard side.

Under the pile of ripped canvas, tangled rigging, and splintered spars, I gradually came to my senses and saw I was wrapped around the twisted deadeyes of the starboard foreshrouds. A few feet away, Rork was similarly draped around the stump of the foremast. He wasn’t moving.

Delilah’s body convulsed violently as her transom was hit by more waves. Every few seconds the deck would jolt, then cant over even more. The extent of my vision within this mound of debris was perhaps six feet. Beyond that I could hear but not see. The sounds were horrifying in the dark.

The unremitting thunder of surf and shrieks of shredding wood overwhelmed my brain, making it useless to help me grasp the situation. In an attempt to disengage myself, I moved my left leg. Pain spread itself like fire throughout my body. I lay there, terror heaving my chest, and tried to assess what to do next. A larger wave staggered the hull, which crunched sickeningly for a second, then fell even farther over. That left leg, independent of my brain’s command now, fell off the gunwale and hung in space. My mind and senses went blank.

How long I lay there, I do not know.

Ultimately, my unconsciousness was pierced by human sound. I heard voices out there, somewhere beyond my vision. Proving that I still lived, those words imprinted themselves in my mind to this very day.

A boy nearby yelled, “Granpapa! Batoo fraka! Batoo fraka avèk blancs! ”

I caught some of it. Batoo . . . like bateau?—“a boat.” Avec blancs?—“with whites.” Someone was speaking French? I was trying to process that when someone else, an older man farther away, shouted in panic, “Mwem Bondye! Voye chèche èd. Rele houngan!”

That particular lingo was beyond me. But I was lucid enough to realize that somehow during my oblivion, Delilah had remained intact long enough for a band of natives to make their way down through the jagged cliff wall to the wreck.

Under the command of an elder, several young men were climbing aboard to see if anyone was alive. One of them, holding a torch with flames whipping about in the wind, leaned over me, shaking my shoulders. I woke to see a wild black face in the dark, inches from mine.

“Ou vivan?”

It sounded French, like the other, and I interpreted it as his asking if I was actually alive. I made the mistake of trying to answer likewise in French and implored him to send for help.

“Appelez . . . aide . . .”

He shrank back and yelled to his comrades, “Franse! Franse! ”

Then I remembered where I was and what Roche had said. “No, no! Américain, Américain! ”

That did the trick. He came close again and lifted the fore gaff off my left thigh, immediately alleviating the pain I felt there, then brushed the hair and blood from my eyes. He tapped his chest and said, “Mwen Adolfus. Kijan ou rele? ”

His name evidently was Aldolfus. I took it that he wanted to know mine. Not wanting to incite problems again by using my admittedly bad French, I parroted his phrase and said, “Mwen Peter.”

Two of them were huddled over Rork. By the light of Aldolfus’ torch, I could see my friend was covered in blood and still not moving. One of the Haitians used the word “mouri ” and shook his head sadly. The worst had happened. Rork was dead. After all we’d been through on five continents, my dearest friend died because I’d failed in seamanship on a routine voyage in our home region. My heart went still, emotion filling my eyes as I cried out, “Sean! Please Sean, get up. Dear Jesus, not him.”

Adolfus began throwing debris off me, hurried by another lurch of the hull. When the pile was cleared off, he pulled me along the deck to a section of planking that had been broken off. I was laid on it and from somewhere another man appeared. They lifted me up and a third man lashed me to the makeshift litter. Seconds later I was passed over the gunwale to other men on the rocks, who then gave me to still others, passing me up a line of men along a narrow path through a jumble of large rocks, up the cliff face.

Torches illuminated the area of the wreck below, allowing me to see others of my party being transported in a similar fashion. Coming up the path behind me I saw only three litters and tried to remember how many had been aboard. Was it eight? No, it was nine. None of bodies on the litters were moving. Instead, their heads rolled with the motion and limbs down hung limp. I rose on one elbow and searched for Cynda. By the flickering light I could tell which one was her by the blue cotton print dress. Her body lay inert, a clump of clothing on a board.

God help me, they were all dead. . . .

***

Adolfus put me down in a shallow cave, maybe twenty feet up the cliff from the wreck. Across the walls crude emblems were painted in white and blue; the graveled floor contained piles of papers, simple sketches of faces, and pieces of clothing. Scattered on the floor around me was a white powder in the vague shape of a cross. In a far corner, I saw a bottle surrounded with tiny lit candles, the kind one sees at Catholic churches. The candles cast a dim dreamlike gauzy light, illuminating facets in the rock, casting nervous shadows. It was an other-worldly scene.

Aldolfus gestured around the space and said, “Gròt Manman Jimos yo.”

I had no idea what he meant by that. “What did you say, Adolfus?”

He ignored me and left. I lay there, alone, still tied to the planking and unable to move. I called out, “Hello? Does anyone here speak English?”

From the shadows—the cave was deeper than I’d thought—came a woman’s voice, deeper than most, deliberate, with a patience about it, as a teacher would have.

“Adolfus said to you that this is the Cave of the Mother of Twins. Gròt Manman Jimos yo. People come here to get help with their troubled relationships. And yes, there are a few of us in Haiti who speak some English. Missionary school, when I was young.”

I craned my head around but could see no one. The voice was disembodied.

“Where are you? I can’t see you.”

“You do not need to see me, for you would not—you cannot—have the power to believe what you would see. I am the mambo, the woman shepherd, of these people. It has pleased Agwè, the loa of the sea, to save you. Therefore, our duty was clear. You will be safe for now.”

I couldn’t fathom her statement, or the strange words within, but then I wasn’t in a mystical state of mind. “Thank you for your help, madam. Will you please get someone to untie me?”

“Yes. They are coming now with the other blancs.”

I heard him before I saw him.

“Thank ye, lads, but me legs’re workin’ now an’ I can walk fine enough. Me shipmates’ll need yer help, though. Oh now, boyos, I can do it—let me walk.”

I felt my body literally inflate with joy. He looked dreadful, but Sean Rork was far from deceased as he peeked cautiously into the cave.

“Sweet Jesus, Mary, an’ Joseph! I was thinkin’ you were dead an’ washed away to sea. Peter Wake, you’ll be the death o’ me yet, scarin’ me such as that!”

Rork limped in to me, followed by a Haitian carrying our seabags and Dan Horloft on a litter carried by Aldolfus. When he saw me, Dan muttered, “Nice landfall, Peter.”

His short sarcasm struck straight to the core. Rork glared at him, but Dan was right. It was my fault.

Adolfus unlashed me as two other Haitians lugged in the litter carrying Cynda. When they put it down I saw her eyes were open. Tears blinded me. “Thank God above. Darling Cynda, where are you hurt?”

“Everywhere . . .” she croaked out. Moaning as she rolled over, she held out a hand, which I smothered in mine.

Adolfus reported to the mambo in rapid Haitian, which elicited a lengthy reply, more like orders than conversation. Adolfus and the other Haitian men immediately headed out of the cave in response.

Corny Rathburn hobbled in, favoring his right arm, and sat by Cynda. “I’m afraid your dear lady broke my fall down in the galley, Peter. She’s got bad bruises and sprains, but no breaks, I think. I do apologize, Cynda, for being such an oaf.”

She sounded stronger. “Corny, you’re not an oaf. Thank you for carrying me out of the cabin. You hurt your arm?”

“Well, I do fear my drinking hand has been wounded. I’ll be limited to smaller glasses.”

He was rewarded with a faint giggle from Cynda. “Oh, Corny, you’re a saint, aren’t you? You’ve made me laugh in the midst of all this.”

Absalom entered, carrying the front end of a litter containing Roche. The Bahamian was bleeding heavily from his forehead, but walking with only a slight limp.

“Ab! Damned if you don’t amaze me,” exclaimed Dan. “I saw you fly through the air like a bird. You didn’t hit a rock?” He rubbed his knee. “I sure as hell did.”

“Yes, sir, I did. But I came to my senses in the water. I must have bounced off a rock and back into the sea. Praise the Lord.”

Rork took a breath, which I could see hurt him, and returned to his role as my number two in command, reporting, “Two didn’t make it, sir. Billot and Claire’re dead. Hit a big boulder on the port side. Roche made it, but he’s hurt bad. Ribs and legs, me’s thinkin’, by the sight o’ him.”

Roche hadn’t uttered a word to this point. He rolled to his side, facing me. Through gritted teeth he told me, “Claire . . . Henri . . . gone.”

“I know, Roche. I’m sorry. How bad are you?”

“I am here and alive . . . will walk. Just need a little time . . . to get . . . my strength back.”

Claire’s body was brought in on a makeshift litter. Massive head wound from the rocks. Horrific to see, but a mercifully quick death. One of the Haitian men covered Claire’s head with cloths from the pile on the floor. Billot was laid next to her. I forced myself to shake off my despair. There would be time for pity and accusation later. I needed to calculate what should be done now.

“The ship—did you get a look at her? What’s left to salvage?” I asked Rork.

“Hull and rig’re done for. Delilah’s skin and bones’re falling away fast. Maybe some provisions an’ belongin’s can be gotten out. I had them get your and my stuff out. By the way, sir—where the hell are we?”

“I don’t know exactly, but I think we’re close to Pointe Picolet.”

“Then where’s that damned lighthouse?” said Dan. “I was on lookout and didn’t see anything.”

The mambo’s eerie voice echoed out of the shadows, startling my cohorts.

“The lighthouse is right above us, on the top of the cliff. President Salomon had it built ten years ago to warn blanc sailors of this point of land. It is iron for strength, has the most modern light mechanism, and will last a long time. Salomon wants to modernize Haiti, you see. To encourage trade, to make us like the other countries. He is, of course, a foolish dreamer.”

“We didn’t see any light.”

A little laugh came back to me as she uttered, “But of course, monsieur. This is Haiti. Salomon’s lighthouse has not been lit for years. No need for it—we know the location of Pointe Picolet.”

She waited, then said, “It is time for you all to go. We have done what Agwè desires. You will be taken to the fort and turned over to the authorities. They will meet you there.”

I called out to the dark corner, “We must get the rest of our personal things from the ship first, madam. It won’t take long.”

The voice that replied was almost a snarl. I’d never heard a woman sound like that. “The contents of your ship belong to us now. Some will be returned to Agwè. Others will be given to the deserving. Do not come back to this place, Capitaine Wake. Yes, I know your name. You will go and take your dead with you. It is not for you to be here. Any of you, even the Bahama nwa.”

Absalom’s eyes widened and he said something to Corny, the two of them turning their attention to me. Sitting up by then, fully alert and vexed by the dramatics, I peered into the gloom from where the voice emanated. I still could not see her, though she must’ve been just outside the cast of the candles’ light, not more than fifteen feet away. “And just how do you know my name, madam?”

“Agwè knows your name and told me. Beware, Capitaine Wake, for the loa of the sea has told Kalfu, he who controls the crossroads, too. And Kalfu will be watching you closely while you are in this land of Haiti.”

I was about to ask for an explanation of all this Agwè, loa, and Kalfu business, who I supposed to be tribal chiefs or some sort, when Corny leaned over toward me, a worried look on his face.

“Don’t say a word, Peter. Just do as she says,” he whispered. “I’ll explain later. But we need to go. Now.”