THE VOODOO SWAMP
Often enough my memory has recaptured that moment in Paul Harley’s
office, when Harley, myself, and the tall Spaniard stood looking down at
the bat wing lying upon the blotting pad.
My brilliant friend at times displayed a sort of prescience, of which
I may have occasion to speak later, but I, together with the rest of
pur-blind humanity, am commonly immune from the prophetic instinct.
Therefore I chronicle the fact for what it may be worth, that as I gazed
with a sort of disgust at the exhibit lying upon the table I became
possessed of a conviction, which had no logical basis, that a door had
been opened through which I should step into a new avenue of being; I
felt myself to stand upon the threshold of things strange and terrible,
but withal alluring. Perhaps it is true that in the great crises of life
the inner eye becomes momentarily opened.
With intense curiosity I awaited the Colonel’s next words, but, a
cigarette held nervously between his fingers, he stood staring at
Harley, and it was the latter who broke that peculiar silence which had
fallen upon us.
“The wing of a bat,” he murmured, then touched it gingerly. “Of what
kind of bat, Colonel Menendez? Surely not a British species?”
“But emphatically not a British species,” replied the Spaniard. “Yet
even so the matter would be strange.”
“I am all anxiety to learn the remainder of your story, Colonel
Menendez.”
“Good. Your interest comforts me very greatly, Mr. Harley. But when
first I came, you led me to suppose that you were departing from
London?”
“Such, at the time, was my intention, sir.” Paul Harley smiled slightly.
“Accompanied by my friend, Mr. Knox, I had proposed to indulge in a
fortnight’s fishing upon the Norfolk Broads.”
“Fishing?”
“Yes.”
“A peaceful occupation, Mr. Harley, and a great rest-cure for one who
like yourself moves much amid the fiercer passions of life. You were
about to make holiday?”
Paul Harley nodded.
“It is cruel of me to intrude upon such plans,” continued Colonel
Menendez, dexterously rolling his cigarette around between his fingers.
“Yet because of my urgent need I dare to do so. Would yourself and your
friend honour me with your company at Cray’s Folly for a few days? I
can promise you good entertainment, although I regret that there is no
fishing; but it may chance that there will be other and more exciting
sport.”
Harley glanced at me significantly.
“Do I understand you to mean, Colonel Menendez,” he asked, “that you
have reason to believe that this conspiracy directed against you is
about to come to a head?”
Colonel Menendez nodded, at the same time bringing his hand down sharply
upon the table.
“Mr. Harley,” he replied, his high, thin voice sunken almost to a
whisper, “Wednesday night is the night of the full moon.”
“The full moon?”
“It is at the full moon that the danger comes.”
Paul Harley stood up, and watched by the Spanish colonel paced slowly
across the office. At the outer door he paused and turned.
“Colonel Menendez,” he said, “that you would willingly waste the time of
a busy man I do not for a moment believe, therefore I shall ask you as
briefly as possible to state your case in detail. When I have heard it,
if it appears to me that any good purpose can be served by my friend
and myself coming to Cray’s Folly I feel sure that he will be happy to
accept your proffered hospitality.”
“If I am likely to be of the slightest use I shall be delighted,” said
I, which indeed was perfectly true.
Whilst I had willingly agreed to accompany Harley to Norfolk I had
none of his passion for the piscatorial art, and the promise of novel
excitement held out by Colonel Menendez appealed to me more keenly than
the lazy days upon the roads which Harley loved.
“Gentlemen”--the Colonel bowed profoundly--“I am honoured and delighted.
When you shall have heard my story I know what your decision will be.”
He resumed his seat, and began, it seemed almost automatically, to roll
a fresh cigarette.
“I am all attention,” declared Harley, and his glance strayed again in a
wondering fashion to the bat wing lying on his table.
“I will speak briefly,” resumed our visitor, “and any details which
may seem to you to be important can be discussed later when you are
my guests. You must know then that I first became acquainted with the
significance belonging to the term ‘Bat Wing’ and to the object itself
some twenty years ago.”
“But surely,” interrupted Harley, incredulously, “you are not going
to tell me that the menace of which you complain is of twenty years’
standing?”
“At your express request, Mr. Harley,” returned the Colonel a trifle
brusquely, “I am dealing with possibilities which are remote, because
in your own words it is sometimes the remote which proves to be the
intimate. It was then rather more than twenty years ago, at a time when
great political changes were taking place in the West Indies, that my
business interests, which are mainly concerned with sugar, carried me
to one of the smaller islands which had formerly been under--my
jurisdiction, do you say? Here I had a house and estate, and here in the
past I had experienced much trouble with the natives.
“I do not disguise from you that I was unpopular, and on my return I
met with unmistakable signs of hostility. My native workmen were
insubordinate. In fact, it was the reports from my overseers which had
led me to visit the island. I made a tour of the place, believing it to
be necessary to my interests that I should get once more in touch
with negro feeling, since I had returned to my home in Cuba after the
upheavals in ‘98. Very well.
“The manager of my estate, a capable man, was of opinion that
there existed a secret organization amongst the native labourers
operating--you understand?--against my interests. He produced certain
evidences of this. They were not convincing; and all my enquiries and
examinations of certain inhabitants led to no definite results. Yet I
grew more and more to feel that enemies surrounded me.”
He paused to light his third cigarette, and whilst he did so I conjured
up a mental picture of his “examinations of certain inhabitants.” I
recalled hazily those stories of Spanish mismanagement and cruelty which
had directly led to United States interferences in the islands. But
whilst I could well believe that this man’s life had not been safe in
those bad old days in the West Indies, I found it difficult to suppose
that a native plot against his safety could have survived for more than
twenty years and have come to a climax in England. However, I realized
that there was more to follow, and presently, having lighted his
cigarette, the Colonel resumed:
“In the neighbourhood of the hacienda which had once been my official
residence there was a belt of low-lying pest country--you understand
pest country?--which was a hot-bed of poisonous diseases. It followed
the winding course of a nearly stagnant creek. From the earliest
times the Black Belt--it was so called--had been avoided by European
inhabitants, and indeed by the coloured population as well. Apart from
the malaria of the swampy ground it was infested with reptiles and with
poisonous insects of a greater variety and of a more venomous character
than I have ever known in any part of the world.
“I must explain that what I regarded as a weak point in my manager’s
theory was this: Whilst he held that the native labourers to a man were
linked together under some head, or guiding influence, he had never
succeeded in surprising anything in the nature of a negro meeting.
Indeed, he had prohibited all gatherings of this kind. His answer to
my criticism was a curious one. He declared that the members of this
mysterious society met and received their instructions at some place
within the poison area to which I have referred, believing themselves
there to be safe from European interference.
“For a long time I disputed this with poor Valera--for such was my
manager’s name; when one night as I was dismounting from my horse before
the veranda, having returned from a long ride around the estate, a shot
was fired from the border of the Black Belt which at one point crept up
dangerously close to the hacienda.
“The shot was a good one. I had caught my spur in the stirrup in
dismounting, and stumbled. Otherwise I must have been a dead man. The
bullet pierced the crown of my hat, only missing my skull by an inch or
less. The alarm was given. But no search-party could be mustered, do you
say?--which was prepared to explore the poison swamp--or so declared
my native servants. Valera, however, seized upon this incident to
illustrate his theory that there were those in the island who did not
hesitate to enter the Black Belt popularly supposed to cast up noxious
vapours at dusk of a sort fatal to any traveller.
“That night over our wine we discussed the situation, and he pointed
out to me that now was the hour to test his theory. Orders had evidently
been given for my assassination and the attempt had failed.
“‘There will be a meeting,’ said Valera, ‘to discuss the next move. And
it will take place to-morrow night!’
“I challenged him with a glance and I replied:
“‘To-morrow night is a full moon, and if you are agreeable we will make
a secret expedition into the swamp, and endeavour to find the clearing
which you say is there, and which you believe to be the rendezvous of
the conspirators.’
“Even in the light of the lamp I saw Valera turn pale, but he was a
Spaniard and a man of courage.
“‘I agree, señor,’ he replied. ‘If my information is correct we shall
find the way.’
“I must explain that the information to which he referred had been
supplied by a native girl who loved him. That this clearing was a
meeting-place she had denied. But she had admitted that it was possible
to obtain access to it, and had even described the path.” He paused.
“She died of a lingering sickness.”
Colonel Menendez spoke these last words with great deliberation and
treated each of us to a long and significant stare.
“Presently,” he added, “I will tell you what was nailed to the wall of
her hut on the night that she fell ill. But to continue my narrative.
On the following evening, suitably equipped, Valera and myself set out,
leaving by a side door and striking into the woods at a point east of
the hacienda, where, according to his information, a footpath existed,
which would lead us to the clearing we desired to visit. Of that
journey, gentlemen, I have most terrible memories.
“Imagine a dense and poisonous jungle, carpeted by rotten vegetation
in which one’s feet sank deeply and from which arose a visible and
stenching vapour. Imagine living things, slimy things, moving beneath
the tread, sometimes coiling about our riding boots, sometimes making
hissing sounds. Imagine places where the path was overgrown, and we must
thrust our way through bushes where great bloated spiders weaved
their webs, where clammy night things touched us as we passed, where
unfamiliar and venomous insects clung to our garments.
“We proceeded onward for more than half an hour guided by the moonlight,
but this, although tropically brilliant, at some places scarcely
penetrated the thick vapour which arose from the jungle. In those days I
was a young and vigorous man; my companion was several years my senior;
and his sufferings were far greater than my own. But if the jungle was
horrible, worse was yet to come.
“Presently we stumbled upon an open space almost quite bare of
vegetation, a poisonous green carpet spread in the heart of the woods.
Here the vapour was more dense than ever, but I welcomed the sight of
open ground after the reptile-infested thicket. Alas! it was a snare, a
death-trap, a sort of morass, in which we sank up to our knees. Pah!
it was filthy--vile! And I became aware of great--lassitude, do you
say?--whilst Valera’s panting breath told that he had almost reached the
end of his resources.
“A faint breeze moved through the clearing and for a few moments we
were enabled to perceive one another more distinctly. I uttered an
exclamation of horror.
“My companion’s garments were a mass of strange-looking patches.
“Even as I noticed them I glanced rapidly down--and found myself in
similar condition. As I did so one of these patches upon the sleeve of
my tunic intruded coldly upon my bare wrist. At that I cried out aloud
in fear. Valera and I commenced what was literally a fight for life.
“Gentlemen, we were attacked by some kind of blood-red leeches, which
came out of the slime! In detaching them one detached patches of skin,
and they swarmed over our bodies like ants upon carrion.
“They penetrated beneath our garments, these swollen, lustful, unclean
things; and it was whilst we staggered on through the swamp in agony of
mind and body that we saw the light of many torches amid the trees ahead
of us, and in their smoky glare witnessed the flight of hundreds
of bats. The moonlight creeping dimly through the mist, and the
torchlight--how do you say?--enflaming the vegetation, created a scene
like that of Inferno, in which naked figures danced wildly, uttering
animal cries.
“Above the shrieking and howling, which rose and fell in a sort of
unholy chorus, I heard one long, wailing sound, repeated and repeated.
It was an African word. But I knew its meaning.
“It was ‘_Bat Wing_!’
“My doubts were dispersed. This was a meeting-place of
Devil-worshippers, or devotees of the cult of Voodoo! One man only could
I see clearly so as to remember him, a big negro employed upon one of
my estates. He seemed to be a sort of high priest or president of the
orgies. Attached to his arms were giant imitations of bat wings which he
moved grotesquely as if in flight. There were many women in the throng,
which numbered fully I should think a hundred people. But the final
collapse of my brave, unhappy Valera at this point brought home to me
the nature of the peril in which I stood.
“He lay at my feet, moving convulsively, and sinking ever deeper in
the swamp, red leeches moving slowly, slowly over his fast-disappearing
body.”
Colonel Menendez paused in his appalling narrative and wiped his moist
forehead with a silk handkerchief. Neither Harley nor I spoke. I knew
not if my friend believed the Spaniard’s story. For my own part I found
it difficult to do so. But that the narrator was deeply moved was a fact
beyond dispute.
He suddenly commenced again:
“My next recollection is of awakening in my own bed at the hacienda. I
had staggered back as far as the veranda, in raving delirium, and in the
grip of a strange fever which prostrated me for many months, and which
defied the knowledge of all the specialists who could be procured from
Cuba and the United States. My survival was due to an iron constitution;
but I have never been the same man. I was ordered to leave the West
Indies directly it became possible for me to be moved. I arranged my
affairs accordingly, and did not return for many years.
“Finally, however, I again took up my residence in Cuba, and for a time
all went well, and might have continued to do so, but for the following
incident. One night, being troubled by insomnia--sleeplessness--and the
heat, I walked out on to the balcony in front of my bedroom window. As
I did so, a figure which had been--you say lurking?--somewhere under the
veranda ran swiftly off; but not so swiftly that I failed to obtain a
glimpse of the uplifted face.
“It was the big negro! Although many years had elapsed since I had seen
him wearing the bat wings at those unholy rites, I knew him instantly.
“On a little table close behind me where I stood lay a loaded revolver.
I snatched it in a flash and fired shot after shot at the retreating
figure.”
Colonel Menendez shrugged his shoulders and selected a fresh cigarette
paper.
“Gentlemen,” he continued, “from that moment until this I have gone
in hourly peril of my life. Whether I hit my man or missed him, I have
never known to this day. If he lives or is dead I cannot say. But--” he
paused impressively--“I have told you of something that was nailed to
the hut of a certain native girl? Before she died I knew that it was a
death-token.
“On the morning after the episode which I have just related attached to
the main door of the hacienda was found that same token.”
“And it was??” said Harley, eagerly.
“It was the wing of a bat!
“I am perhaps a hasty man. It is in my blood. I tore the unclean thing
from the panel and stamped it under my feet. No one of the servants
who had drawn my attention to its presence would consent to touch
it. Indeed, they all shrank from me as though I, too, were unclean. I
endeavoured to forget it. Who was I to be influenced by the threats of
natives?
“That night, just at the hour of sunset, a shot was fired at me from a
neighbouring clump of trees, only missing me I think by the fraction of
an inch. I realized that the peril was real, and was one against which I
could not fight.
“Permit me to be brief, gentlemen. Six attempts of various kinds
were made upon my life in Cuba. I crossed to the United States. In
Washington, the political capital of the country, an assassin gained
access to my hotel apartment and but for the fact that a friend chanced
to call me up on the telephone at that late hour of the night, thereby
awakening me, I should have received a knife in my heart. I saw the
knife in the dim light; I saw the shadowy figure. I leapt out on the
opposite side of the bed, seized a table-lamp which stood there, and
hurled it at my assailant.
“There was a crash, a stifled exclamation, shuffling, the door opened,
and my would-be assassin was gone. But I had learned something, and to
my old fears a new one was added.”
“What had you learned?” asked Harley, whose interest in the narrative
was displayed by the fact that his pipe had long since gone out.
“Vaguely, vaguely, you understand, for there was little light, I had
seen the face of the man. He wore some kind of black cloak doubtless
to conceal his movements. His silhouette resembled that of a bat. But,
gentlemen, he was neither a negro nor even a half-caste; he was of the
white races, to that I could swear.”
Colonel Menendez lighted the cigarette which he had been busily rolling,
and fixed his dark eyes upon Harley.
“You puzzle me, sir,” said the latter. “Do you wish me to believe that
this cult of Voodoo claims European or American devotees?”
“I wish you to believe,” returned the Colonel, “that although as
the result of the alarm which I gave the hotel was searched and the
Washington police exerted themselves to the utmost, no trace was ever
found of the man who had tried to murder me, except”--he extended a
long, yellow forefinger, and pointed to the wing of the bat lying upon
Harley’s table--“a bat wing was found pinned to my bedroom door.”
Silence fell for a while; an impressive silence. Truly this was the
strangest story to which I had ever listened.
“How long ago was that?” asked Harley.
“Only two years ago. At about the time that the great war terminated. I
came to Europe and believed that at last I had found security. I lived
for a time in London amidst a refreshing peace that was new to me. Then,
chancing to hear of a property in Surrey which was available, I leased
it for a period of years, installing--is it correct?--my cousin, Madame
de Stämer, as housekeeper. Madame, alas, is an invalid, but”--he kissed
his fingers--“a genius. She has with her, as companion, a very
charming English girl, Miss Val Beverley, the orphaned daughter of a
distinguished surgeon of Edinburg. Miss Beverley was with my cousin in
the hospital which she established in France during the war. If you will
honour me with your presence at Cray’s Folly to-morrow, gentlemen, you
will not lack congenial company, I can assure you.”
He raised his heavy eyebrows, looking interrogatively from Harley to
myself.
“For my own part,” said my friend, slowly, “I shall be delighted. What
do you say, Knox?”
“I also.”
“But,” continued Harley, “your presence here today, Colonel Menendez,
suggests to my mind that England has not proved so safe a haven as you
had anticipated?”
Colonel Menendez crossed the room and stood once more before the Burmese
cabinet, one hand resting upon his hip; a massive yet graceful figure.
“Mr. Harley,” he replied, “four days ago my butler, who is a Spaniard,
brought me--” He pointed to the bat wing lying upon the blotting pad.
“He had found it pinned to an oaken panel of the main entrance door.”
“Was it prior to this discovery, or after it,” asked Harley, “that you
detected the presence of someone lurking in the neighbourhood of the
house?”
“Before it.”
“And the burglarious entrance?”
“That took place rather less than a month ago. On the eve of the full
moon.”
Paul Harley stood up and relighted his pipe.
“There are quite a number of other details, Colonel,” he said, “which I
shall require you to place in my possession. Since I have determined
to visit Cray’s Folly, these can wait until my arrival. I particularly
refer to a remark concerning a neighbour of yours in Surrey.”
Colonel Menendez nodded, twirling his cigarette between his long, yellow
fingers.
“It is a delicate matter, gentlemen,” he confessed.
“I must take time to consider how I shall place it before you. But I may
count upon your arrival tomorrow?”
“Certainly. I am looking forward to the visit with keen interest.”
“It is important,” declared our visitor; “for on Wednesday is the full
moon, and the full moon is in some way associated with the sacrificial
rites of Voodoo.”