Plotting in Pirate Seas | Page 7

Cuban a good judge of men. He knew native races. He knew--what the
white man generally ignores or forgets--that between the various black
races are mental differences as wide as between races of other color. He
knew that the Ewe negro is no more like the Riff in character, than the
phlegmatic Dutchman resembles the passionate Italian. If a black, to
what race did this boy belong? Was he a black, at all?
The bright sun threw no reflected lights on the boy's skin, the texture of
which was darker than that of a mulatto, and had a dead, opaque look,
lacking the golden glow of mulatto skin. The lad's hair showed little
hint of Bantu ancestry and his feet were small. True, all this might
betoken any of the Creole combinations common in Haiti, but the
Cuban was not satisfied. If the skin had been stained, now----
"Boy!" he called.
Stuart looked around.
"Here are some coppers for you."
The boy slouched toward him, extended his hand negligently and the

Cuban dropped some three-centime pieces into it.
Stuart mumbled some words of thanks, imitating, as far as he could, the
Haitian dialect, but, despite his desire to act the part, feeling awkward
in receiving charity.
Manuel watched him closely, then, abruptly, bade him go on ahead.
The scrutiny had increased his uneasiness.
This self-appointed guide was no negro, no mulatto, of that Manuel
was sure. The money had been received without that wide answering
grin of pleasure characteristic in almost all negro types. Moreover, the
palms of the boy's hands were the same color as the rest of his skin.
The Cuban knew well that a certain dirty pallor is always evident on
the palms of the hands of even the blackest negroes.
The boy's reference to the "Citadel of the Black Emperor" showed that
he was aware of this secret meeting of conspirators.
This was grave.
More, he was disguised.
This was graver still.
Was this boy, too, afraid of Haiti, that savage land at the doors of
America; that abode where magic, superstition and even cannibalism
still lurk in the forests; that barbarous republic where the white man is
despised and hated, and the black man dominates? That land where the
only civilizing force for a century has been a handful of American
marines!
That this boy was disguised suggested that he was in fear for his life;
but, if so, why was he there? How did he come to know the pass-word
of the conspiracy? For what mysterious reason did he offer himself as a
guide to the haunted place of meeting?
Who was this boy?

Manuel turned into the Café de l'Opéra, a tumble-down frame shack
with a corrugated iron roof, to order a cooling drink and to puzzle out
this utterly baffling mystery.
The Cuban's first impulse was to flee. Had anything less imperious than
this all-important meeting been before him, Manuel would have made
his escape without a moment's delay.
Cap Haitien is no place for a white man who has fallen under suspicion.
Of the four gateways into Haiti it is the most dangerous. In Jacamal, a
white man may be left alone, so long as he does not incur the enmity of
the blacks; in Gonaive the foreign holders of concessions may protect
him; in Port-au-Prince, the capital, he is safeguarded by the potent arm
of the American marines; but, in the country districts back of Cap
Haitien, the carrion buzzards may be the only witnesses of his fate. And,
to that back country, the Cuban must go. All this, Manuel knew, and he
was a shrewd enough man to dare to be afraid.
Stuart squatted in the shadow of the building while the Cuban sipped
from his glass. Thus, each doubting the other, and each fearing the
other, they gazed over the busy desolation of Cap Haitien, a town
unlike any other on earth.
Save for a small and recently rebuilt section in the heart of the
town--which boasted some 10,000 inhabitants--flimsy frame houses
rose in white poverty upon the ruins of what was once known as "the
little Paris of the West Indies." Of the massive buildings of a century
ago, not one remained whole. The great earthquake of 1842 did much
toward their destruction; the orgy of loot and plunder which followed,
did more; but the chiefest of all agents of demolition was the black
man's rule.
The spacious residences were never rebuilt, the fallen aqueducts were
left in ruins, the boulevards fell into disrepair and guinea-grass rioted
through the cracked pavements. Back of the town the plantations were
neglected, the great houses fallen, while the present owners lived
contentedly in the little huts which once had been built for slaves. The
ruthless hands of time, weather and the jungle