We were met by the genial priest and shown into a cool and spacious study. I thought, looking about me at the plain un-painted shelves laden with works in many languages, at the littered working-desk, a typewriter on a side table and a large crucifix upon a white wall, that here, probably, was the headquarters of Rome in its battle against African superstition, an advance post of Christianity all but hemmed in by the forces of ancient and evil gods.
* * *
When dusk fell Smith andI, with Father Ambrose, were in the garden. I looked into the crimson sunset and wondered what the new dawn would bring. With dramatic suddenness, the sky became a mirror of glorious colour —light jade, deep purple and a shell-like pink—all merging as I watched into an inverted casket of blue velvet, holding a million diamonds. A queenly moon rode in that serene heaven.
“It is time we went in,” said Father Ambrose.
Back in the study, now electrically lighted, for there was a small Kohler engine installed in the garage, I stood staring at Smith and he stared at me. We were heavily sun-burned, yet, except in the dusk, no man, I think, could have been deceived by our substitutes, two trustworthy lads selected by the priest who, wearing our clothes, had gone back in the consul’s car and would sleep in his compound that night. It was hoped, in this way, to lead spies to believe that we had returned to Port au Prince.
Smith wore an ill-fitting drill suit and a straw hat. I was similarly attired, except that I boasted a scarlet pullover beneath my jacket. My own headgear was a pith helmet of sorts.
“How many spare rounds in your belt?” Smith snapped.
“Twelve.”
He nodded grimly.
“More would be useless.”
As he began to load his pipe. Father Ambrose closed gauze shutters before the windows.
“The light attracts many nocturnal insects,” he explained; “some are beautiful, but others are unpleasant.”
Smith lighted his pipe and standing by the desk took from his pocket two objects. One was the green snake lent to us by the priest: the other was a jewel in the form of a seven-pointed star.
“This is the amulet from Barton’s collection,” he said, “to which I referred. Father.”
Father Ambrose changed his glasses and sitting down
“The snake emblem, as I have told you,” he said, “denotes a shepherd,
Smith laughed.
“The same has been said of many pieces in Barton’s collection! But I may take it that these tokens will pass?”
“I have little doubt of that, but grave doubt of my wisdom in countenancing this thing. Both are emblems of Damballa, the serpent god, and are anti-Christ, like the swastika. However, I have promised and I do my part. I have shown you the way to the spot where the donkeys are tethered, and when we have sampled a glass each of my rum cordial—a very special honour, I assure you—I fear you must set out.”
We sampled his rum cordial in the lamp-lit room, a book-lined oasis in a Haitian jungle, and anxiously he gave us final advice, unwittingly displaying, as he did so, a vast knowledge of this country in which he was absorbed. Finally, glancing at a clock upon his desk: “It is time that you started,” he said.”! should like to give you my blessing.”
A queer dignity invested the stout priest, as laying down his vast calabash pipe on a tray, he stood up. Although neither Smith nor I were communicants of his Church we knelt as though prompted by one instinct whilst, his deep voice lending authority to the Latin, he blessed our journey.
Five minutes later we had groped our way to the end of a narrow lane which bordered the bottom of the priest’s garden, where scarcely visible lizards shot phantomesque from before our advancing feet. The lanterns of fire-flies seemed to guide us. Two well-kept, patient donkeys were tethered there, saddled and ready, but unattended. As we tightened a strap here and there, and presently mounted: “This end of the business has been perfectly handled,” said Smith. “Barton is dining with the American Consul tonight as arranged, but amongst the servants there will almost certainly be one spy, and our absence will be reported.”
We ambled out onto the road that led up to the mountain; others, mostly on foot, were making in the same direction. And as though our joining that mysterious procession had been the signal, from before us, in the high forests, from behind us in the valleys, from all around—the drums began.
“After dark,” said Smith in a low voice, “Haiti reverts to its ancient gods.”
But we had jogged onward and upward for many miles talking in low tones before we came to the beginning of the most perilous road I remembered ever to have seen,
It skirted sheer precipices, and I doubt if two riders could have passed upon it. But this way the dark figures were going and none were coming back. I could see it ahead, a silver thread picked out by the moon, ant-like humans moving along it. In a sort of rocky bay Smith reined up.
“We have three hours yet,” he said. “I want to listen to the drums.”
We stayed there listening to the drums for five, seven, ten minutes. It was a language strange to me. Messages and responses merged into one confused throbbing; that throbbing which had haunted my nights, kept me wakeful when I should have been sleeping. Figures afoot, figures mounted, passed by the little belt of shade in which we lingered—all bound for the secret meeting place on the crest of the mountain. Some of the pilgrims carried lanterns; some carried torches. Presently: “I am in the news,” said Smith in a low voice, “but I can gather no more. You see, I know what may be termed my ‘signature tune’.”
Then, mounted on a mule, clearly outlined against the pearly moon, a figure rode slowly by. Apart from a sensation of lowered temperature, it was impossible to mistake the angular figure ~ impossible to mistake the profile.
It was Dr. Fu Manchu.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE SONG OF DAMBALLA
“Smith,” I whispered, “did you see? Did you see? It wasDr. Fu Manchu.”
“I saw.”
“I could have shot him!”
“That would have been a tactical blunder. But apparently he did not see
“Six or eight thick-set fellows seemed to be preceding and as many to be following him.”
“His Burmese bodyguard.”
“But what does this mean? That the Voodoo ceremony is organized by Fu Manchu? That we are walking into a trap?”
“Somehow I don’t think so, Kerrigan, although I admit I may be wrong. But the presence of Fu Manchu in person rather confirms the theory on which I am acting.”
The eerie throbbing of the drums was now unbroken, a sort of evil pulse as of a secret world awakening. Figures, mostly on foot, singly and in groups passed the shadowed bay in the rocks which shielded us. Sometimes, but rarely, a mounted man or woman went by.
“Surely, Smith,” I said, “we should have kept him in view?”
“That would have been too dangerous. Moreover, it is reasonable to assume that he is bound for the same destination as ourselves. Great caution is indicated. We carry our lives in our hands, although I have not failed to take suitable steps to prevent the worst befalling. I may add that I don’t like the look of the mountain path which now lies before us, but nevertheless we must push on.”
We resumed our journey along a path cut from the face of a sheer precipice, a path which at no point was more than ten feet wide and at many, less. No wall or parapet was present, and the donkeys. Smith’s leading, after
