Mass deportations of Haitian migrants in the Bahamas began almost a decade ago. The government urged Bahamian islanders to turn in migrants to authorities, and it didn’t take much persuasion. Many Bahamians, while complaining of historic discrimination against them by the white minority, nonetheless regard darker skinned Haitians as their inferiors.
25 June 1943: Off Little Farmers Cay
It was not unusual for Bahamians to row their boats up to anchored Haitian sloops and enquire about the cargo. Oftentimes they brought conch to barter, a delicacy much appreciated by Haitian sailors, or a bottle of Nassau rum. Usually they would come out a little earlier than this, Pierre thought, noting that the sun now floated just a thumb-width above the horizon.
The two Bahamians brought their skiff alongside the sloop and secured it to the standing rigging. “Can we come up top, mon?”
Pierre answered with a welcoming gesture, but his smile turned to suspicion when he saw that they carried those clubs the Dominicans use to hit balls, bates de beisbol.
Did they bring them to trade, or do they intend to menace us? Pierre made a mental calculation: Two men with bates, men bigger than himself, versus a man who struggled to breathe at the slightest exertion; his two cousins, good seaman but not really fighters; one 11-year-old boy, and Odelin, about whom he knew little.
The Bahamians leaned their bats against the boat’s crude fish cleaning table and shook hands with captain and crew, introducing themselves as Demont and Devon, cousins of course. As the strangers studied the boy, Pierre kept smiling despite the sickening feeling that washed over him.
“You look like you could climb a tree, boy,” the man called Demont said. Andre was shy and looked away. “I tink so, a real climber dat one,” Devon said, casually picking up his bat.
“Andre no speak English,” Pierre said. “First time in Bahamas, him.”
Demont, the bigger cousin and apparent leader, leaned over and took his bat in hand, too. He spoke: “Brother, we would like to borrow the boy for one hour or two. We got some damn high coconuts, and nobody roun’ here a climber like he a climber. We be back by an’ by with the boy and some conchs for da crew. Fair to me, you comin’ to our country like you do, you lend a hand.”
Pierre kept smiling. “I talk to this man, uncle of boy,” Pierre said gesturing to Duvalier.
Pierre turned to Duvalier and spoke in French casually, careful to mask his true emotions. “These two are child-fuckers. They say they want to borrow the boy to gather coconuts, but I know if the boy leaves this boat, we might never see him again. If we say no, they will make big trouble for us. Our mission might end here.”
Duvalier had already performed some mental calculations of his own. He had noted the handle of the big fileting knife showing above the edge of bucket next to the fish table. With the evolution of firearms, much of the fighting world had forgotten the skills associated with edged weaponry. Among the exceptions were the herding peoples of the world—and Duvalier’s real kin, the Tuareg, were herdsmen to the core of their being. The skills in question were not necessarily fancy blade work, just a knowledge instilled since childhood of the mechanics of butchering.
Duvalier played along, smiling as he talked, confident that the boy-fuckers knew no French. “Capitaine, please trust me. I will kill the big man first. Then you and the men must seize the other. Now, once I have nodded my approval, call the boy. When you say, ‘Go with these men, Andre,’ I will strike.”
Duvalier smiled and nodded. Pierre addressed the Bahamians. “No problem. The uncle say he like conch.”
Pierre walked over to the confused boy and led him in front of Demont and Devon. “Go with these men, Andre.” He shoved the boy at the smaller of the two, who stood a little to his right. He did not look at the man to left at all, but dove after the boy, whose collision had discombobulated the smaller Bahamian. He grabbed at the bat and hollered for his cousins.
Francois and Germaine hesitated for a half-second, mesmerized by sudden savagery. In a heartbeat, Duvalier had snatched the fileting knife and buried it into Demont’s eye until the tip struck the back of the inside of his skull. The bat dropped. The doomed man flailed. Duvalier gave the knife a mighty tug as Demont the would-be boy-fucker collapsed onto the deck. Duvalier pulled his head back by the chin and cut his throat.
With three men holding him, Devon’s eyes bulged in terror. Duvalier walked toward him, put the knife down, picked up the bat and, before the man could begin to plead, swung it down on his skull. The crew stepped back from the unconscious man. Duvalier dropped the bat, picked up the knife and slit Devon’s throat.
Duvalier was covered in blood. The deck was covered in blood. The captain was bent over gasping and coughing. The boy wailed in terror. Pierre’s cousins kneeled and prayed as loud as ever.
“Everybody stop! We must leave here at once,” Pierre gasped. “Francois to the anchor! Germaine and Andre to the sails! I will lash their skiff to the port side where it will be hidden from the island.”
Still breathing heavily himself, Duvalier spoke. “I have an idea for the bodies.”
“See to it,” Pierre said.
The sloops carry a collection of stones for use as hammers, anvils, conch tenderizers, nutcrackers, shell-breakers, fish clubs—the world’s oldest utility tool. They also carried at least one large needle and heavyweight thread to mend the patchwork sails. Duvalier fetched two medium stones. He sent Andre for the sewing kit.
Duvalier took up the fileting knife again and slit open the men’s stomachs. He pushed the stones into the viscera and stitched up the incision. They tossed the bodies overboard about four miles northwest of Little Farmers, set the skiff adrift and set about washing down the decks.
When they were done and had re-anchored on the bank away from land, Pierre gathered the crew at the helm. He embraced Duvalier in all his bloodiness. “This man Odelin Duvalier was a stranger but now he is our brother,” he said. “Andre, come give Odelin a big hug. Your new uncle is like the lion that slays the elephant.”
4 July 1943: Green Cay, Tongue of the Ocean
“You gotta be shitting me, Ernie. You want me to send this message:
“‘Man’s truest trials kill average men. Ejaculating tuna always synchronize after tipping over terribly. Amiable leaders seldom attack animals because existence matters. Imagine totally orange antiques.’
Bemused, Saxon put the open logbook down next to the radio set. “Ejaculating fucking tuna? You’re supposed to be some kind of a writer. Maybe if you worked at it, you’d come up with something that sounds like it makes sense.”
“Fuck off, Don. The only writing work I want to do on Pilar is to register your name in the log next to a poker debt. Ten to the hour and again at ten after, please. Send twice each time. The frequency is at the bottom.”
Steganography might as well have been the Greek word for silly writing. The wartime airwaves were chock-a-block with a score of belligerent intelligence services broadcasting goofy non-sequiturs to spies and partisans, both in Morse Code or plain language. Goofy, yes, but say a listener were to isolate the second letter of each word, Hemingway’s paragraph would read:
“Arrive July five. Meet next morn.”
3 July 1943: Great Bahama Bank, Exumas
The breeze blew 20 knots. Sipriz heeled on a broad reach, running along a chain of islands called The Exumas, which gave protection from ocean swell and thus made for smooth sailing. Francoise keep tension on the hardwood tiller, fighting the boat’s desire to round up into the wind. Duvalier and the captain reclined on the high side eating a sliced pineapple.
Duvalier shared his thoughts. “Albert, most of the Bahamians we have met so far have seemed like amiable people. How is it they could harbor such criminals as those last two?”
“You must remember, Odelin, that so far we have only visited the peoples of small islands. Haitian perverts can travel to a city or a distant village to satisfy their urges. Molesters of children here cannot do that, and for sure they cannot use the local boys, so they wait for Haitians to prey upon. They know all our boats carry a boy or two. It is similar when we carry women as passengers; some of the island men become angry when we refuse to sell the women into slavery.
“I will say this: Even the best of the Bahamians believe they are better than Haitians just because their skin is lighter in color.”
“Our employers believe the same thing, only much more fervently,” Duvalier said.
Pierre laughed. “Maybe so, but at least the Germans do not pay us in conch.”
Next: Pilar and Sirpriz arrive at Nassau. One of Hemingway’s crew is immobilized with ciguatera.