BY MICHAEL LLOYD GRAY
This is an excerpt from a novel-in-progress. Copyright rests with the author.
DONOVAN QUICKLY reached the stream they had crossed on the way down. He filled his canteen and then the realization hit him: he had killed a man. And he had done it without delay or deliberation as though it were part of the normal course of things. A man who perhaps had simply been peeing by the side of the road. But a government soldier — Haitian army. And so, a threat to the people of Les Cayes. A threat to the rebels and Gilles and Michel.
But still a man, a person. The thought was overpowering for a moment, and he slipped to a knee and dropped his carbine and was suspended like that for a few more moments, on one knee, a hand touching the ground to prevent himself from falling over — like an injured football player. He expected to vomit but did not.
After a bit, he managed to pick up his carbine and stand again, his legs a little shaky, his hands sweaty, his throat suddenly dry. He gulped water from his canteen and looked back, toward where he had just been, but there were only trees. He slung his canteen strap over his shoulder again and then remembered to check his carbine. The clip was empty, and he replaced it with a full one and slipped the empty clip into a back pocket. The rebels would probably have use for it.
And he truly was one of them now — a rebel.
He had killed a soldier.
He was now a soldier.
But there was no time to linger and debate it and so as he hiked, he said a prayer for the dead soldiers and for himself, too, and then he let it go as best he could, which was slow at first. Spilt milk was what Gilles had called it. It was more than that. Far more than that. But he accepted that Gilles was right that they must not let it slow them down or deter them. It was a harsh business he was now in, and it had few rules, and it would do no good to stop and debate the morality of it. And Gilles had been right about another thing: when it came down to killing another man before he killed you, the decision was easier to make than it sounded.
It was instinct and not intellect.
And so he kept walking.
A few hours later one of the rebel sentries stepped from behind a tree and greeted him with a smile that quickly fell apart when he looked past Donovan and did not see Michel and Gilles. The man did not say anything as he waved him on.
Donovan walked into the rebel camp and knew he must find Michel’s second in command, but he did not know who that was and so he first found Michel’s son.
“I don’t know your name,” he said to the boy.
“Jean-Paul. Where is my father?”
“Gilles and some men took him to Les Cayes. Your father was wounded.”
Jean-Paul looked down at the ground a moment and then back up at him.
“Is he dead?”
“No. Gilles says he will live. They are taking him to the hospital and then a safe house.”
“How did it happen?” Jean-Paul said.
“There were soldiers. At the little road in the foothills. There was a fight and Michel was wounded — in the leg.”
“Did you kill the soldiers?” Jean-Paul said.
“Yes, we did, Jean-Paul.” Donovan was suddenly thankful he had not gone across the road into the tree line to see the man he had killed. He did not need the man’s face following him.
“And Gilles says my father will live?”
“Yes. But one of the soldiers got away. He’ll warn the rest.”
“You must speak to Christophe,” Jean-Paul said. “Christophe will know what to do.”
***
“I do not know what to do,” Christophe said.
That surprised Donovan, but he nodded and studied Christophe’s face a moment. The man was perhaps 40. His skin was lighter than Michel’s and he had hair—curly dark hair. The look on his face reflected indecision, but also fear.
“What would Michel do?” Donovan said.
“He would ask Gilles.”
Donovan nodded again.
“But Gilles isn’t here. You’re here, Christophe.”
“I simply do not know what to do, Donovan.”
Donovan looked around the camp: many of the rebels sat around talking. Most were not yet aware of what had happened to Michel. And now it was clear that Christophe was a bit paralyzed with fear and would be little or no help.
“What would you like to do, Christophe?”
Christophe looked away.
“I do not know.”
Donovan finally reached over and patted Christophe’s elbow.
“We’ll figure this out together, Christophe. Have the men been fed?”
“Not yet.”
“Why don’t you see to that.”
“Yes. Thank you, Donovan.”
Donovan walked among the men and many of them looked up at him and smiled as he passed by. Others napped. It had become clear to him that this wasn’t 300 Spartans at the pass of Thermopylae.
And Christophe was no Leonidas.
Hell, even Gilles wasn’t Leonidas.
But Gilles was competent and knew his business. And he wasn’t here. And if things went wrong in Les Cayes, maybe Gilles didn’t come back at all.
For a moment, he wondered whether the rebels would be willing to look to Jean-Paul to lead them since he was Michel’s son. But that seemed like a stretch. And he didn’t relish having command fall to a boy.
He sat down under a tree to contemplate it and Jean-Paul brought him a bowl of legim.
“Thanks, Jean-Paul. Do you want to sit with me?”
“Yes.”
“Please do.”
Jean-Paul sat down.
“Have you eaten, Jean-Paul?”
“I will, after everyone else does.”
“You sound like your father.”
“My father is truly OK?”
Donovan realized he wanted the details and the boy was likely fit to hear them.
“The bullet passed through the thigh cleanly, Gilles said. Did you know that Gilles once studied to be a doctor?”
“No, Donovan.”
“Well, apparently he did, as a younger man.”
“Gilles cared for my father?”
“He did. He bandaged the wound and gave him some morphine – no more pain, you see? Gilles says your father will not lose the leg and will walk again.”
“Where is my father now?”
“Gilles and some men took him to the hospital, to get the wound cleaned and stitched, I imagine. Then, I don’t know—a safe house somewhere. It’s a safe house because no one knows where it is except a few.”
“I see,” Jean-Paul said. “Did my father say anything about me?”
He looked at Jean-Paul and quickly lied:
“Yes — he did. I nearly forgot because this legim is so good. But your father told me to let you know he will be back very soon. He asked me to tell you to be brave.”
“I will.”
“And I will tell him so when I see him.”
“When will that be, Donovan?”
“I don’t know. But soon, I hope.”
***
After he ate, Donovan rested a few minutes and assessed things. What if Gilles didn’t return? And how would the soldiers in Les Cayes react? By now the soldier who had escaped had told them what had happened. What would they do? Until now they had shown little appetite to comb the hills after that first time beyond Bauzain, when many soldiers were killed.
But Gilles had said a new commander was coming. A man who might not be timid. And the soldiers would likely be angry now. Donovan wished he had killed that man, too. But then he thought, what difference would that have made? He would have done it if he could, but it wouldn’t have changed much. Michel would still be wounded and Gilles would still have to risk his life to take him into Les Cayes. And eventually the soldiers would know about the dead men. It would simply have been a matter of time.
Donovan tried to think like a soldier but that was not his training. And he could expect no real direction from Christophe. He got up and walked around the camp again. What did he know? Well, there were several sentries down from the camp. But that was put in place when things had been quiet and slow. Things were no longer quiet. And might speed up soon. He looked for Christophe.
“Christophe, will you be willing to send a few more men down the hill as sentries? Further down than now, I mean. We need more warning, just in case.”
“I can do that, Donovan.”
“Good, my friend.”
He watched Christophe gather a few men. They were laughing as they picked up their AKs and Donovan hoped that wasn’t a bad sign. He decided he should go with Christophe to make sure the sentries were placed as far down as he envisioned. As he feared, Christophe wanted to merely add them to sentries already in position, not far from camp.
“Farther down, Christophe, so we have plenty of warning if someone comes.”
Christophe clearly did not like the idea.
“Maybe we should move the camp, Donovan.”
Donovan was growing impatient.
“Christophe, where would you suggest we go?”
“Deeper in the hills?”
“But to where? Here we have a pretty good position. There’s only one way in and we can cover that pretty well. Gilles picked this spot because it’s good.”
“Gilles is not here.”
“But he will come back — tomorrow. He will expect us to be here.”
Christophe looked at his men, who also looked uncertain.
“OK, Donovan. We do it this way. But if Gilles does not come tomorrow, we must move.”
“Fine,” Donovan said. “But no fires tonight. And camp must be quiet.”
“Yes,” Christophe said. “Quiet as a mouse.”
Donovan nodded. At least he had bought some time.
***
There was some grumbling about the lack of fires, but that night the rebels ate legim and tchaka and fruit and that seemed to improve their outlooks as they sat in the dark in clumps and talked quietly among themselves. Donovan sat with Jean-Paul and Christophe. After Jean-Paul went off to sleep, he produced what was left of the bottle of Rhum Barbancourt. He took a swig and handed it to Christophe, who did the same.
“We finish the rum for Gilles,” Donovan said with a laugh, hoping to perk up Christophe, who was nearly sullen. “But he’ll scold us for it.”
“Gilles is very busy now,” Christophe said. “And he can get more rum in Les Cayes.”
“I doubt he’s thinking much about that now.”
“No. But if he does not come back tomorrow, we must move.”
“But to where, Christophe? You have a place picked out?”
“No. But the men will grow restless if we stay here. They know the soldiers will come now because of what happened.”
“They have to find us first.”
“Maybe that is hard to do,” Christophe said, “if we keep moving.”
“You become a moving target, Christophe. Here, there’s one way in. They have to come one way, uphill, and much of it is in the open. We have cover. It’s like Gettysburg, actually.”
“I don’t know Gettysburg, Donovan.”
“The American Civil War. A huge battle. The south soldiers attacked the north soldiers, but it was open ground and uphill. They got slaughtered. It was pretty brave, though.”
“How many men fighting, at Gettysburg?” Christophe said.
“Thousands. I think I read more than twelve thousand made that charge. But thousands were killed, too.”
“How many soldiers will come here?”
“I don’t know. Not twelve thousand. And maybe they don’t know where to find us. And Gilles—he’ll know what to do.“
“If he comes back, Donovan.”
“How long will you wait tomorrow, Christophe?”
“Until afternoon. Then we must move.”
“You’re certain?”
“No.”
“Have some rum, Christophe.”
“I will, thank-you.”
***
Donovan did not sleep well and woke up with the dawn. He had dreamed of the road and the shooting and the man he had killed and after he had a drink from his canteen, he took a sip of what was left from the rum bottle. He looked for his carbine and saw it still leaning against the trunk of a tree. He realized it was becoming instinctual to know where his weapon was. He also realized it was not so wise to lean it against a tree. He knew Gilles would have lectured him on that.
Jean-Paul brought him legim and avocado.
“Is there any more herring, Jean-Paul?”
“All gone. You want more legim?”
“No. I think we must conserve food now. Have you eaten, Jean-Paul?”
“Of course.”
“Really?”
Jean-Paul looked away.
“I will now.”
“Be sure that you do — please,” Donovan said.
“You do not need to say please when it is an order,” Jean-Paul said.
Donovan wanted to tell him that it was not an order because he was not a soldier, but he didn’t think Jean-Paul would accept that.
“There is food left for you, Jean-Paul?”
“Yes, we have food. I will go eat.”
“Thanks, my friend.”
Donovan picked up his carbine and decided to walk down the slope to see how the sentries were doing. At the first station, they were still sleeping. He woke them gently and they looked embarrassed.
“What would Christophe say?”
“We have not seen Christophe since yesterday,” one of them said.
“You’ll see him today,” Donovan said. “One of you should go to camp and bring back food.”
They both smiled and one of them jumped up and sprinted toward camp.
“I’m going farther down, to the next station. Please don’t shoot me when I come back.”
Donovan added a smile and the man smiled too.
“A joke,” the man said.
“Yes. Much of all this is a joke.”
At the next station, Donovan was pleasantly surprised to see the men were all up and alert. But they were hungry, too, and he sent one up the slope for food.
“Tell your comrade at the next station not to shoot you by mistake,” Donovan called after the man and the other men all laughed.
“Thank-you, father,” one of the men said.
“Don’t call me father. I’ll send Christophe later to check on you.”
“You will have to find Christophe first,” one of the men said and the others laughed.
They really were good men, Donovan believed, despite the utter lack of discipline, and he wished he had some rum to give them. After checking to see they still had water, he walked back to camp and sat under his tree and daydreamed for a bit. It was all he could think of to do, all there really was to do for now. This time he placed his carbine in the security of a crook of a tree trunk facing away from himself and camp.
***
Donovan had not seen Christophe since the night before. It was early afternoon and the deadline to move the camp was creeping closer. Where had Christophe gone? Was he cowardly enough to desert? He asked Jean-Paul, who also had not seen him and Donovan began to worry. When Christophe finally did appear, Donovan learned he had merely been scouting a few miles from the camp for somewhere to move the men. He felt bad that he had doubted Christophe, who was mostly just not a soldier instead of a coward. Christophe nodded when he returned and then settled under a tree for a short nap.
Donovan shouldered his carbine and stood there a moment, surveying the men in camp. Some napped and others checked weapons and even some cleaned them – a good sign that things had not yet completely fallen apart. He located Jean-Paul and made sure the boy had eaten something. Then he walked down to the first sentry post. One of the men was asleep but the other was alert and that was acceptable.
“Jean-Paul is bringing you food,” he said to the man. “Do you have water?”
“Plenty of water,” the man said, holding up his canteen and grinning.
If there was to be a fight, Donovan thought, these men would fight well enough. They had at Bauzain. The question was, how well would he fight? He already had, he reminded himself. That threshold had been crossed and he had survived it.
But Donovan also began to wonder whether it made sense to have this first sentry post since there was a second one much further down the slope. The second post would be the first to know if something was coming and then they would have to pull back to camp and take the men from the next post with them. The first post, he realized, had no real function anymore. It would have made more sense to move the first post’s sentries down to the second one and fortify it some more. He was learning and might yet make a proper soldier.
“Once you two eat,” he told the man, “you can go down to the next post.”
“Are we leaving this camp soon, father?”
“I don’t know.” Donovan decided not to make a big deal over being called father. “Do you need to hear this from Christophe?”
The man shook his head and grinned again.
“I do not need to hear too much from Christophe, father.”
Donovan walked down to the second post and was very happy to see Gilles there, talking with the men.
“I am told it was your idea to push sentries down here,” Gilles said. “Good thinking, my friend.”
Donovan offered a hand and smiled broadly as they shook.
“Can’t tell you how glad I am to see you, Gilles. Christophe wants to move the camp. I tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted.”
“So I am told,” Gilles said. “I’ll attend to that.”
“How’s Michel?”
“Safe,” Gilles said. “He will recover. But not for a while.”
Donovan felt weight slip off his shoulders.
“I prayed for him.”
“Even though you are not a priest?”
“Even though I’m not a priest. But a man can still pray.”
Gilles nodded, glanced at the four sentries, and frowned. He looked again at Donovan without saying anything. Donovan noticed the frown, wondered what it meant, knew it was likely not good, and something Gilles preferred to keep between the two of them for the time being.
“Be alert,” Gilles said to the sentries. “Now is not the time to nap. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” one of the four sentries said.
“No falling asleep,” Gilles said. “Not now.”
“We are awake,” the man said. “I can assure you.”
“I will come back very soon to check things here,” Gilles said. “Very soon. After I see Christophe.”
All four sentries nodded gravely and clutched their AKs firmly and Donovan thought it was all pretty ominous and a touch surreal, too. He waited as patiently as he could as they walked up the slope and out of earshot of the sentries.
“What’s wrong, Gilles? It’s the soldiers, isn’t it? They’re coming?”
“They were always going to be coming — eventually. But now, we have stirred a nest. What is that saying?”
“You must mean, stirred up a hornet’s nest, I guess.”
“Yes. Hornets.” Gilles stopped and looked at him. “There have been some developments, my friend.”
“Have the soldiers decided to give us medals and throw us a feast?”
Donovan smiled and Gilles couldn’t help but smile too.”
“It would be nice to think so,” Gilles said. “And I am happy you still have your sense of humor. But we have been betrayed instead. Someone told the soldiers where to look for us.”
“Damn. Not good.”
“There is more.”
“It gets worse?”
“Have you ever heard of these things getting better?”
Donovan shrugged.
“I guess I was hoping for some red snapper and Prestige down on the beach.”
“Not in Les Cayes, Donovan. Not ever again in Les Cayes. The soldier who got away yesterday — he recognized you and I. So, if you ever decide to be a priest again, I suggest not in Les Cayes.”
“Good God.”
“Yes,” Gilles said. “A good God would be very useful about now.”
“Well, this will certainly vindicate Christophe.”
“It does not,” Gilles said. “You were right to advocate staying here, based on what you knew at the time. This is a good position. But now it has been compromised. Christophe could not know that, and his decision was based more on panic than strategy and information. But nonetheless — yes, now we must move.”
“When?”
“As soon as we can. Right away is not too soon. Now we go find Christophe and make him a hero.”
***
Donovan and Gilles sat under a tree and watched as the rebels slowly collected their weapons and possessions. They moved slowly. Christophe strolled among them, urging them to hurry.
“Christophe is finally embracing command,” Donovan said. “Better late than never, I suppose.”
“There is precious little commanding left,” Gilles said.
“What am I missing here?”
“This is just between us — for now.”
“Why don’t I like the sound of this?”
“I have been recalled,” Gilles said without emotion.
Donovan stared at him a moment, not quite understanding.
“Re-called? What does that mean?”
“I have been summoned to America.“
“By the CIA?”
“Well, not by the Boys Scouts. Yes, I am to report to Langley.”
Donovan watched the men packing.
“And what about these folks? And where do I go now, if you don’t mind me asking?
“You go with me,” Gilles said. “The rebels cease to be rebels for now and go home, to their towns and villages and farms – wherever they came from, they go back to.
“They just don’t know that yet.”
“I will tell them once they are on their feet and actually ready to move. We avoid more delays that way. And they are less likely to sit and debate it.”
“Does Christophe know?”
“No. But Christophe will be happy to go home. They all will. Without a true leader, for now it is safer that they stop being soldiers and pretend to just be villagers.”
“And I go with you?”
”You do. I just said so.”
“Where?”
“Cuba.”
“Cuba? You do know that Cuba is run by a guy named Fidel, right?”
“We will go to Guantanamo. Fidel does not run Guantanamo.”
“And how do we get to Guantanamo?”
“It is not so far, really. Just across the strait from Jeremie, and Jeremie is not so far from here.”
“Are we swimming to Cuba?”
“Fishing boat,” Gilles said. “It is already arranged. Or do you prefer to stay behind — go back to Les Cayes, perhaps?”
“I guess I’ve seen enough of Les Cayes. How do we get to Jeremie?”
“We walk, my friend.”
“How many miles is it?”
“Do not think in terms of how far it is,” Gilles said. “Think of it as an opportunity – an opportunity to avoid being shot by Baby Doc’s soldiers.”
“I’m warming up to a good hike, I guess. But do we really have to walk it?”
“It is safer that way. We must stay off the roads. They are looking for us.”
“What are our chances?”
“Good – if we can get out of here soon,” Gilles said. “We know where we are going, and the soldiers do not.“
“I could drink to that.”
Gilles pulled a bottle of Rhum Barbancourt from his pack.
“One for the road, Donovan.”
“Well, if we’re going to Cuba, better make it two.”
Donovan took a long pull of rum. It caught fire in his stomach and warmed him. For just the briefest moment, he forgot about the man he killed.
***
Michael Lloyd Gray’s stories have appeared in numerous publications. He’s the author of six published novels. The Armageddon Two-Step, winner of a Book Excellence Award, was released in December 2019. Well Deserved won the 2008 Sol Books Prose Series Prize and Not Famous Anymore garnered a support grant from the Elizabeth George Foundation in 2009. Exile on Kalamazoo Street was released in 2013. The Canary, which reveals the final days of Amelia Earhart, was released in 2011. King Biscuit, a Young Adult novel, was released in 2012.
