Drums of Dambala
94 pages
English

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94 pages
English

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Description

As Paul O’Donnell stood by the rail of the ship that had brought him to Haiti, the tiny rowboat putting him out from the shore was already carrying the first hints of the danger and tragedy lying in wait for him. Five minutes after landing he was enmeshed in a frightful web of political intrigue, fomented by voodoo fanaticism and unscrupulous ambition, led by the hatred and ferocity of a beautiful and diabolic woman, and roused to bloody action by the throbbing, jungle rhythm of the drums of Dambala, the voodoo Snake-God.

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Publié par
Date de parution 06 décembre 2018
Nombre de lectures 0
EAN13 9788829568291
Langue English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0012€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Drums of Dambala
by
H. Bedford-Jones

Altus Press • 2018
Copyright Information

© 2018 Altus Press

Publication History:
Drums of Dambala was originally published in 1932 by Covici, Friede, Inc.
“About the Author” originally appeared in November 16, 1929 issue of Argosy magazine (Vol. 208, No. 1). Copyright 1929 by The Frank A. Munsey Company. Copyright renewed in 1957 and assigned to Steeger Properties, LLC. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher.
CHAPTER I
LE SERPENT’S PROPHECY

IN THE early summer of the year 1801, an American brig was standing into the harbor of Cap François, more generally known as Le Cap. Behind her lay Tortuga, the isle of the buccaneers; around and ahead, as she forged in under the great height of Morne Rouge, lay the golden Hispaniola of song and story, whose old native name of Haiti was coming more into local usage.
Before the brig now opened out the marvelous vista of the city, rimmed about by mountains towering up black and green, with still other mountains behind lifting into the clouds. Burned to the ground only nine years previously, and literally drenched in blood, the old city had risen from its ashes in new glory.
On the quarterdeck of the brig stood her sole passenger, while bluff Captain Michaelson pointed out to him the various points of interest showing in the city ahead—the governor’s palace, the theatre, the shipping so thickly lining the quays, the temple of freedom in its little grove. The passenger listened with imperturbable air. He was dark, less than thirty years of age at a guess, and stood a full six feet. Heavy brows shaded heavy-lidded eyes; the lines ran strongly from brow to wide and firm lips, with finely carved nostrils above. When he smiled, merry lights danced in his blue eyes; for beneath those shaggy black brows, his eyes were blue, a light and sparkling blue. The contrast was severe and startling. It attracted attention on the instant. The high-boned features seemed at first glance intolerant, almost arrogant; but upon study of the man one divined how astonishingly great was his self-mastery, his restraint.
He ran his eye over the shipping in the harbor ahead, then broke in upon the captain’s discourse to point out a barge approaching them, a large craft of a dozen oars, carrying a number of soldiers.
“Port officers?” he asked laconically.
“Worse, Master O’Donnell. I remember now, I forgot to salute their cursed French flag in passing the forts.” The master shouted hasty orders at the mate and men, then caught the arm of O’Donnell. “One thing, sir! No talk of negroes or niggers; the word is offensive. These men are blacks, and very proud of it. They wish to be called blacks, as distinct from—”
“Thank you, sir,” and O’Donnell nodded quietly. “I fancy I’ll be able to handle them all right. What’s the matter?”
An exclamation broke from the skipper. In the stern of the approaching barge sat two resplendent officers wearing much gold lace, huge epaulets, and the enormous curved sabres which Napoleon’s Egyptian campaign had brought into fashion in the armies of France.
“You see the big chap on the larboard side? Has but one eye. That is Moyse himself; General Moyse, nephew of Toussaint Louverture. The most perfect devil unhung, a butcher, a very fiend incarnate! He’s capable of anything.”
“We’ll have no trouble,” said O’Donnell calmly. “Leave the talking to me.”
The skipper shrugged, with a hopeless air. The brig came into the wind with flapping canvas, and her gangway was rigged. The barge drew in alongside. The two officers mounted to her deck and strutted aft. The port captain and health officer was a small, alert black, dwarfed by the brawny general beside him, whose features beneath his large cockaded hat wore an expression of scowling ferocity, not lessened by the one empty, hideous eye-socket.
“You, captain!” broke out Moyse angrily, in the Creole patois of the island. “Do you know, citizen, that you passed the forts without a salute? Your American flag was not dipped to the glorious tricolor of France! You and your ship are under arrest—”
“One moment, citizen general,” intervened O’Donnell, using the same patois with surprising fluency. “I will do the answering here.”
Moyse surveyed him. “And who are you?”
“An American. My name is Paul O’Donnell.” As he spoke, O’Donnell produced a folded paper and opened it. “Who may you be, and what is your authority, citizen!”
“I?” Moyse drew himself up. “Moyse! General of the army of San Domingo, captain general of this district, nephew of our governor Toussaint Louverture!”
“Whose signature you doubtless know,” said O’Donnell, holding out the paper.
The general stared at it. He could not read, but he knew well that sprawling signature. He reached out to take the letter; O’Donnell calmly folded and pocketed it.
“This is not for you. It is for General Cristophe, who I believe is in command here at Le Cap.”
“He is my subordinate!” declared Moyse angrily. “I am captain general over the entire north district, do you understand? It’s nothing to me if you carry a letter from that old uncle of mine. You and your ship are under arrest, the cargo is confiscated—”
O’Donnell took a step forward. He tapped the gold-laced chest of the general with its tinkling medals, and stared into the one flaming, savage eye. His calm assurance checked the ire of the brawny black.
“Now, listen,” he said quietly. “Stop rattling your tongue, like a monkey shaking stones in a calabash; look at me, listen to me. You are not giving orders here. I am! Here is a letter from Toussaint Louverture, ordering that every courtesy and assistance be given me by all his officers and agents. The stores, munitions and other cargo of this ship are his property. Interfere with them or with me, and you will certainly suffer. And what is more—look at me! Now do you understand, citizen general?”
That an American should speak the patois so fluently was astonishing enough; but there was more. The scarred countenance of Moyse underwent a curious change as he met the direct, staring gaze of O’Donnell. He made a swift, furtive gesture which the American understood perfectly.
“You need not look at me like that,” he said sulkily, in a very altered tone. “I have not harmed you. I have only come aboard to welcome you to Le Cap. I will go ashore and tell Citizen Cristophe of your arrival. The port captain will take care of your ship.”
While bluff Captain Michaelson gaped in utter incredulity, Moyse turned and went over the side again into his barge, which departed at once. The little port captain, staring at O’Donnell with bulging eyes, swallowed hard and then made a brisk salute.
“All right, sar,” he said in English. “No more trouble. I take care of you, sar. Let me have the ship’s papers, cap’n. I pilot her in.”
He went to the wheel, accompanied by the mate, who gave sharp orders; the brig picked up way again. The astounded skipper plucked at O’Donnell’s sleeve.
“What the devil does it all mean? How did you settle him so quick, eh?”
O’Donnell’s rather harsh features relaxed. He glanced at the port captain with a whimsical smile, and the black grinned happily at him, in obvious relief.
“Partly the name of Louverture,” said O’Donnell, “and partly because they’re afraid of the evil eye. Better get your ship’s papers for that chap, cap’n. You’ll find all clear now.”
Not comprehending in the least, the seaman shrugged and turned away. O’Donnell looked over the rail at the retiring barge, then past the other shipping to the long quays and the paved plaisance or harbor walk where black soldiers loafed in the sunlight. He chuckled softly to himself as he took a cigar from his pocket and bit at it.
Blue eyes and black brows did not necessarily mean anything, but when properly used they meant everything. This peculiar mannerism had more than once been of the utmost use to O’Donnell. If, when he opened his eyes wide and stared at them, black folk credited him with having the evil eye, he was not slow to take advantage of the fact. The twist of character, or personality, causing this singular belief was past his explanation, but the effect was obvious enough.
Presently the brig was moored at the quay. The customs officers trooped aboard, and the mulatto heading them could read well enough. The ship’s papers, the name of Toussaint Louverture, quickly banished all formalities; throughout Haiti this name was a magic talisman. Toussaint was nominally governor in the name of the French Republic, but the French commissioners were absolutely powerless in the land, every iota of authority was centered in him and in his lieutenants, and it was rumored that he planned to become a king in name as well as in fact.
During the past nine years, Toussaint had risen from the position of a slave to that of a ruler more despotic than Bonaparte himself. His mere word was law, his power was unlimited, the military government he had instituted was absolute. His name was feared terribly, even by his savage lieutenants, themselves feared by all other men. During these years Toussaint had emerged from a literal sea of blood. Barbaric warfare, slaughter, flame and pitiless massacre had swept this entire island from end to end; yet in emerging from these years, Toussaint bore no stain of blood, no taint of cruelty. His justice was feared, but it was justice.
Arranging to send later for his luggage, O’Donnell left the brig and sauntered along the quays. He was in no haste to reach his destination, and wanted first to get a glimpse of the busy city, so totally d

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