“I cannot give this man to you,” Accompong said at last. His thick lips pressed together briefly, but he met Grey’s eye. “He is dead.”
The shock hit Grey like a musket ball. A thump that knocked him off balance, and the sickening knowledge of irrevocable damage done.
“How?” he said, short and sharp. “What happened to him?”
The clearing was still silent. Accompong stared at the ground in front of him. After a long moment, a sigh, a whisper, drifted from the crowd.
“Zombie.”
“Where?” he barked. “Where is he? Bring him to me. Now!”
The crowd shrank away from the hut, and a sort of moan ran through them. Women snatched up their children, pushed back so hastily that they stepped on the feet of their companions. The door opened.
“Anda!” said a voice from inside. “Walk,” it meant, in Spanish. Grey’s numbed mind had barely registered this when the darkness inside the hut changed, and a form appeared at the door.
It was Rodrigo. But then again—it wasn’t. The glowing skin had gone pale and muddy, almost waxen. The firm, soft mouth hung loose, and the eyes—oh, God, the eyes! They were sunken, glassy, and showed no comprehension, no movement, not the least sense of awareness. They were a dead man’s eyes. And yet . . . he walked.
This was the worst of all. Gone was every trace of Rodrigo’s springy grace, his elegance. This creature moved stiffly, shambling, feet dragging, almost lurching from foot to foot. Its clothing hung upon its bones like a scarecrow’s rags, smeared with clay and stained with dreadful liquids. The odor of putrefaction reached Grey’s nostrils, and he gagged.
“Alto,” said the voice, softly, and Rodrigo stopped abruptly, arms hanging like a marionette’s. Grey looked up, then, at the hut. A tall, dark man stood in the doorway, burning eyes fixed on Grey.
The sun was all but down; the clearing lay in deep shadow, and Grey felt a convulsive shiver go through him. He lifted his chin and, ignoring the horrid thing standing stiff before him, addressed the tall man.
“Who are you, sir?”
“Call me Ishmael,” said the man, in an odd, lilting accent. He stepped out of the hut, and Grey was conscious of a general shrinking, everyone pulling away from the man, as though he suffered from some deadly contagion. Grey wanted to step back, too, but didn’t.
“You did . . . this?” Grey asked, flicking a hand at the remnant of Rodrigo.
“I was paid to do it, yes.” Ishmael’s eyes flicked toward Accompong, then back to Grey.
“And Governor Warren—you were paid to kill him as well, were you? By this man?” A brief nod at Rodrigo; he could not bear to look directly at him.
The zombies think they’re dead, and so does everyone else.
A frown drew Ishmael’s brows together, and with the change of expression, Grey noticed that the man’s face was scarred, with apparent deliberation, long channels cut in cheeks and forehead. He shook his head.
“No. This”—he nodded at Rodrigo—“paid me to bring my zombies. He says to me that he wishes to terrify a man. And zombies will do that,” he added, with a wolfish smile. “But when I brought them into the room and the buckra turned to flee, this one”—the flick of a hand toward Rodrigo—“he sprang upon him and stabbed him. The man fell dead, and Rodrigo then ordered me”—his tone of voice made it clear what he thought of anyone ordering him to do anything—“to make my zombies feed upon him.” He shrugged. “Why not? He was dead.”
Grey swung round to Captain Accompong, who had sat silently through this testimony.
“And then you paid this—this—”
“Houngan,” Ishmael put in helpfully.
“—to do that?!” He pointed at Rodrigo, and his voice shook with outraged horror.
“Justice,” said Accompong, with simple dignity. “Don’t you think so?”
Grey found himself temporarily bereft of speech. While he groped for something possible to say, the headman turned to a lieutenant and said, “Bring the other one.”
“The other—” Grey began, but before he could speak further, there was another stir among the crowd, and from one of the huts, a maroon emerged, leading another man by a rope around his neck. The man was wild-eyed and filthy, his hands bound behind him, but his clothes had originally been very fine. Grey shook his head, trying to dispel the remnants of horror that clung to his mind.
“Captain Cresswell, I presume?” he said.
“Save me!” the man panted, and collapsed on his knees at Grey’s feet. “I beg you, sir—whoever you are—save me!”
Grey rubbed a hand wearily over his face and looked down at the erstwhile superintendent, then at Accompong.
“Does he need saving?” he asked. “I don’t want to—I know what he’s done—but it is my duty.”
Accompong pursed his lips, thinking.
“You know what he is, you say. If I give him to you—what would you do with him?”
At least there was an answer to that one.
“Charge him with his crimes, and send him to England for trial. If he is convicted, he would be imprisoned—or possibly hang. What would happen to him here?” he asked curiously.
Accompong turned his head, looking thoughtfully at the houngan, who grinned unpleasantly.
“No!” gasped Cresswell. “No, please! Don’t let him take me! I can’t—I can’t—oh, GOD!” He glanced, appalled, at the stiff figure of Rodrigo, then fell face first onto the ground at Grey’s feet, weeping convulsively.
Numbed with shock, Grey thought for an instant that it would probably resolve the rebellion . . . but no. Cresswell couldn’t, and neither could he.
“Right,” said Grey, and swallowed before turning to Accompong. “He is an Englishman, and as I said, it’s my duty to see that he’s subject to English laws. I must therefore ask that you give him into my custody—and take my word that I will see he receives justice. Our sort of justice,” he added, giving the evil look back to the houngan.
“And if I don’t?” Accompong asked, blinking genially at him.
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to fight you for him,” Grey said. “But I’m bloody tired and I really don’t want to.” Accompong laughed at this, and Grey followed swiftly up with, “I will, of course, appoint a new superintendent—and given the importance of the office, I will bring the new superintendent here, so that you may meet him and approve of him.”
“If I don’t approve?”
“There are a bloody lot of Englishmen on Jamaica,” Grey said, impatient. “You’re bound to like one of them.”
Accompong laughed out loud, his little round belly jiggling under his coat.
“I like you, Colonel,” he said. “You want to be superintendent?”
Grey suppressed the natural answer to this and instead said, “Alas, I have a duty to the army which prevents my accepting the offer, amazingly generous though it is.” He coughed. “You have my word that I will find you a suitable candidate, though.”
The tall lieutenant who stood behind Captain Accompong lifted his voice and said something skeptical in a patois that Grey didn’t understand—but from the man’s attitude, his glance at Cresswell, and the murmur of agreement that greeted his remark, he had no trouble in deducing what had been said.
What is the word of an Englishman worth?
Grey gave Cresswell, groveling and sniveling at his feet, a look of profound disfavor. It would serve the man right if—then he caught the faint reek of corruption wafting from Rodrigo’s still form, and shuddered. No, nobody deserved that.
Putting aside the question of Cresswell’s fate for the moment, Grey turned to the question that had been in the forefront of his mind since he’d come in sight of that first curl of smoke.