Tale of the Thunderbolt (27 page)

Ahn-Kha showed him one of the quarrels, also tipped with a metal point like Post's pikes. “See the wooden flutes? They will splinter in the wound. The quarrels are lacquered to keep the sap inside fresh.”

“You're sure?”

“We shot a wild pig with one,” Ahn-Kha said. “We dug inside, found half the shaft. The rest of the head shattered into splinters.”

“How's it shoot?”

“Try.”

Valentine lifted its weight with an effort. He tried to aim at a tree, but the weight of the crossbow defeated him.

Ahn-Kha snorted. “Try this.” The Grog knelt into a three-point stance, and Valentine put the crossbow across his friend's back. Sighting on the tree was a good deal easier with a quarter ton of tripod. He tried the trigger.

The crossbow had more recoil than he'd thought, though it pulled forward rather than back into his shoulder. The quarrel spun oddly in flight; Valentine had only shot bows on occasion as a youth. The shaft buried itself into the tree trunk with a resounding
thwack.

“We have four crossbows, and something even more interesting.” Ahn-Kha threw a blanket off a lump on the ground, revealing something that looked like an old-fashioned cannon. Ahn-Kha unfolded a bipod at the nozzle, poured a measured amount of gunpowder in the muzzle, and tamped it down with a metal rod. Four wooden fins flared from the tip.

“It's a harpoon gun. Better range than the crossbows. The shaft might go clean through, but the fins will break off. We use loose-grain powder for this. The tight stuff launched it too fast — it didn't aim right.”

“Seems a hell of a load to tote.”

“The harpoon isn't the only thing it fires. We can load the head with explosives. It makes a good grenade thrower. I've designed one- and three-pound loads. We may find a use for them.”

“We might at that,” Valentine agreed.

He joined Jacques Monte-Cristi next. The guerrilla leader had an elongated face and deep hollows at his temples, as if a giant had grabbed his head as an infant and pulled his physiognomy into a new face. Gray frosted his shorn hair, and his eyes never rested. He had the lean, suspicious look that Valentine remembered from his years in the Wolves: that of a man who spent much of his time walking into danger.

“Have you heard from the others?” Valentine said. The French tripped off his tongue more easily with constant practice.

“My men reported that they are on the move. They will attack in the night the garrisons north and south of our route, and screen our movement into the central mountains.”

“Rations?” Valentine had been asking the same questions for weeks, then offering advice until he got the answers he wanted. Now it was a matter of routine.

“Each man has two days, and we have a further two days on packhorses.”

“Let's take a walk.”

Valentine took a turn through Monte-Cristi's campsite. Two hundred armed men, aided by thirty “pioneers” who carried extra supplies and tended to the pack animals, were gathered in chattering groups. Valentine expected more tension on this, the morning of the expedition. Instead he heard singing, joking, and laughter from the clustered men. There was little formal command structure to Monte-Cristi's “regiment”; some of the guerrilla leaders had eighty men under them — some commanded a dozen. Valentine knew the names of only the leaders, and the men under them were a nameless mass, though he knew many faces by now.

They looked at Valentine as he passed through, smiling and nodding. He caught a word in Creole and smiled as he silently translated it. Valentine had heard a few men call him “Scar,” and it seemed that the moniker had become general.

“How did you become responsible for all this?” Valentine asked after they had passed through the men.

“My ‘sacred knives'? Pure obstinacy, Captain. It is not well known, but I am Santo Domingan.”

“Why shouldn't it be well known?”

“The two sides of the island have bitter feelings going back before the Kur.”

“I see. How did you end up on this side of the line?”

Monte-Cristi walked him out of the village and up the hillside and found a shady tree. They sat on the ground side by side and looked down at the lounging soldiers in the village. War, as always, was endless stretches of waiting. Fingernail-sized wildflowers bloomed in the morning sun.

“I was in the Santo Domingo underground. And we were literally an underground. We lived in natural caves and tunnels. I was in the ‘cadre,' which I suppose meant officers. Mostly we exhorted others to join, and our men to stay. Eventually they hunted us down to our caves and blocked us up. Two times they went in after us. None ever came out to tell how strong we were. So they turned to words. The National Guard promised us good treatment if we would come out, and we refused. They tried to smoke us out with burning tires. There is not much gasoline on this island, but they even used that. Some died choking. Have you ever seen a body of a man who is air-poisoned?”

Valentine shook his head.

“We began to go hungry, and the next time they sent a prisoner in with food and more promises, I gave my men a choice. They could leave with honor — they had already been asked to endure more than any man could be expected to survive and remain sane — but I would stay and die. I asked only that they leave me their knives, so I would have something to remember them by as I stayed in the cave.”

“How many stayed?” Valentine asked.

“Very few, perhaps one in eight. And you know, I was glad. I felt that no man should have to die as we were, like some kind of vermin. Even if they marched them out to a firing squad, I thought that a better end.

“Those that remained . . . became ugly. We stayed alive in there seven months. No food but what we could catch, water that tasted like sulfur. They sealed the entrance and made the cave a tomb though we were not yet dead. We sickened and died. Some of the men took their own lives. We kept alive in ways that only one who has been through it before would understand. I kept up hope by looking for other exits, or seeing if we could enlarge the air holes to get out. We did find a cave with bats and we ate them, and I remember those days as you might remember one of the finest feasts of your life.

“So how am I alive and out, you are wondering? Some of the very men who left me their knives had slipped away, and came into the hills to get our bones. Our remains were to be relics in a secret monument to the resistance, you see. When they found us, I had to be pulled up and out. We were walking skeletons. Sadly, three more men sickened and died eating too much when we got out. But I still had their knives, and offered them back to their families. When I was well enough, we slipped into Haiti. My heart is weak and sometimes I think I am a little crazy, for all I dream of is those days in the darkness. I keep away the desire to return and die in that cave by fighting.”

“So you became a leader because you refused to give up? That's as good a way as any to become a hero.”

“But I do not deserve it. There are legends already about our ordeal. In Santo Domingo they say I turned my men into zombies, and ate them. Here in Haiti they say Baron Samedi came and brought us food from the other world, and anyone who has eaten it is never the same again. Both legends are part truth and part falsehood. Ever since then I have been Monte-Cristi, the one who lives for revenge for all those who died in the cave. I fear I will return to the cave, either in body or spirit. Both would mean the death of me.”

“Narcisse told me that you were the kind of man to fight to the last drop of your blood. Sounds like you came closer to doing it than anyone I've ever heard of.”

Monte-Cristi did not smile. He was the only Hispaniolan Valentine had met who did not smile at the slightest opportunity. “The men are interested in you, too. Your ship, the Grogs, the Jamaican pirates, they already say you are a white Toussaint-Louverture. A man of cunning alliances.”

“They say too much,” Valentine said. He thought of adding a platitude, like, ‘We all do what we can,' but decided it would be trite. The man sitting next to him was beyond aphorisms.

“I think someone looks for you,” Monte-Cristi said, pointing down the hill.

“Lieutenant Post. Thank you for the story . . . err . . . do you have a rank? Colonel, perhaps?”

“I am just Monte-Cristi. I would feel happier if I were Jacques to you.”

“Then I will always be David to you, sir.”

“Your other responsibilities await. I should get back to my men.”

They walked back down the hill. Valentine noticed that Monte-Cristi breathed heavily.

Post trotted up to him, showing no sign of wound or alcohol. “That bandy-legged fellow's back, sir,” Post said. “He's asking for you.”

“That ‘bandy-legged fellow' is going to keep us alive in the mountains, Post. His name is Cercado, and we're counting on him to get us to San José.”

“No offense, of course. He's just funny-looking, whatever he's good at.”

Valentine found the funny-looking man in question at the village well, drinking. He was short of stature, potbellied, and naked from the waist up and knees down. Tangled hair covered his head, shoulders, and even something of his face. He was a “roadwatcher,” the one with the most extensive network in central Hispaniola.

“Good news?” Valentine asked. He had learned in previous conversations with the roadwatcher that most items in his brain were categorized as either “good news” or “bad news.” This valley was “bad news,” for there were troops under an active officer. Another mountainside was “good news,” because there were strawberries to eat and many honeycombs.

“Good news,” Cercado reported. “The soldiers in the garrisons think they are going to be attacked along the mountain roads. They've sent out many patrols where the Haitians have gathered. We could take elephants over the mountains, and it would not be known for days.”

“How about food reserves?”

“There could be much more, if you could let me go outside my personal network. And this business about putting caches everywhere — both north and south of the peaks — much of the effort will go to waste.”

“Tell them if it is not eaten in four days, they may have it back. We could be forced to turn aside, or even back, and I want that food available. Also, just in case word does get out and they find some of them, they might guess wrong about where we are going because of the supplies.”

Valentine missed his days on the
Thunderbolt.
Being on a ship eliminated many of the problems of food and drinking water, thanks to her available tonnage of stores. He was back to the days of commanding Wolves in the mountains, constantly worrying about how and where he would feed his men.

“You've done all that I asked and more. Take a meal and sleep while you can. We'll be setting off this afternoon.”

“I can sleep while walking. I shall find you on the south slope of the Nalga de Maco tonight. If you hear hollow-log drumming, that means bad news. Turn back.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“But you will hear no drums, I am sure. Our friends will cause too much trouble for that.”

Valentine made a noncommittal grunt.

 

The column was already ascending the mountainside when they heard the shots. Some trick of acoustics among the clouds and hills brought the faint popping sound of small-arms fire and deeper explosions from the garrison to the south, where Bayenne was making as much noise as possible. His feint against the garrison guarding one of the valley passages into Santo Domingo was crucial to drawing away whatever patrols might be out north of the garrison.

The raiding column moved with Ahn-Kha and his Grogs in the vanguard. Valentine hoped their unexpected presence would frighten, or at least confuse, any patrols they ran into. The heavier weapons, along with the sailors and marines of the
Thunderbolt,
followed behind, with Post in charge of making sure the main body did not lose contact with the Grogs. The Haitians were next with the packhorses, accompanied by a mounted force of Monte-Cristi's men watching the front, flanks and rear.

Valentine, astride a Haitian roan with a white blaze across its face, walked the animal along the marching column of Monte-Cristi's men. A runner from the forward column sought him out.

“Bad news, sir. The forward van ran into a patrol. They shot at each other — no one was hurt.”

Valentine said a prayer of thanks that the men Monte-Cristi chose for his runners spoke their Creole clearly enough for him to understand.

So the Santo Domingans were no fools. He had hoped their forces would pull in around the garrisons, fearing an all-out assault. Instead they were probing.

Hoofbeats behind announced the arrival of Monte-Cristi.

“We're found out already. The screening patrol Bayenne sent out missed them,” Valentine said.

“Do we turn back?”

Valentine fought the urge to swear. “They're your men, no matter what we decided about the command. The risk is greater now, but I say no. I won't make it an order, however. We can go with less. Detach a good number of men, fifty or sixty, under a capable officer. Have them chase that patrol south and make it look like we're a flanking maneuver to cut off the garrison's road. If they do cut it, so much the better.”

“And if they meet greater numbers in turn?”

“Then they run like hell for Bayenne or anywhere they think is safe. I want the Santo Domingans to do the bleeding, not us.”

“Agreed. Papa Legba said you were a man to be followed, despite your years. We go on.”

After a brief halt that allowed Monte-Cristi to organize the detachment, they got under way again. The column trudged steadily and slowly uphill. The sun vanished in a crimson explosion, then turned the sky over to the stars. With the night complicating matters, Post called frequent halts to allow the column to keep in a compact bunch. At every stop, the men ate some of their rations meant to last for two days, but Valentine left that to Monte-Cristi. He had been warned that the men preferred to carry their food in their stomachs instead of in their bags.