Another Saigon - part 1 - the story of a martyr

Written in English, this is the first part, with 7 chapters, of a historical, evengelical Vietnam-based novel. "Another Saigon" is based on the heroic life of the missionary Joseph Marchand Du, who martyred in Hue in 1835.

1. Another Saigon
Though historically based, this novel is a work of fiction.
Prologue
The first sign of autumn had just shown itself on the breathtaking beaches of Tiên Sa, Tourane.
A mild moist mist enveloped the whole bay, like a white gentle gown that complimented so well
a sleeping beauty. After all, Tiên Sa meant descending fairies in Vietnamese.
It was the first of September 1858. Two years after the start of the second Opium War, one year
after the execution of two Spanish missionaries, and 23 years after the torture of Father Jean
Marchet, who would survive the neglection of time to be canonized by a pope as recently as
1988.
For the admiral of the so-called Punitive Army, this veil of mist came at just the perfect time, as
if the Lord himself had sanctioned the expedition. Bang! With the day-break sun-rays, the
curtains would be raised and to the shock and awe of those Annamese ashore, the looming of
Nemesis and El Cano, side by side, like a giant gong, with their red-hot screw-powdered 62
guns, eager to thrust, in the most sadistic way possible, into the virgin flesh of this fairy land.
Because that was exactly what this humble, belittled race of Mongoloid did to the revered and
lofty Father Jean Marchet, who was accused of blessing the rebellious enemies of the great
Emperor, and confusing his people with that damned Bible.
That autumn morning, two hours after the summons were taken ashore and got nothing but
silence, the admiral ordered the ally—an intimidating formation of one 50-gun frigate, two 12-
gun corvettes, five steam gunboats, five steam transports, one despatch vessel, one thousand
French marine infantry, five hundred and fifty Spanish infantry and four hundred and fifty Filipino
Tagals—to bombard the five impressive forts of the Nguyen monarchy along the Sơn Trà
Peninsula, which the admiral himself admitted being good enough to sink an entire navy
division, provided the soldiers were well-trained and -drilled.
But the resistance was feeble, non-existent, from just a small garrison.
As if the defenders already knew what would come their way and already got a plan. In fact, it
was a siege plan that they would carry out to perfection and force the ally to evacuate off
Tourane on March 22, 1860.
The French admiral had a few words with his Spanish counterpart while their army—rocked by
cholera but still advancing towards Saigon—marched southwards in the deep turquoise blue of
the Gulf of Tonkin.
“So what’s the Motherland’s plan?”
“We could sweep away this entire empire of the illusioned, arrogant Nguyễn in just one month.
But his Majesty, the great king of kings, had other ideas”.
“Hmm… it seems those ideas of his Highness are too exciting for you to hold back from me?”

2. “He said to conquer them, actually, to humiliate them very, very slowly. Give them exactly one
hundred stabbing, heart-breaking, brain-racking defeats!”
“Because that’s what they did to Father, with the Bá Đao torture?”
“Yes. One hundred cuts to his flesh! The brave martyr soldiered through the bloody oriental form
of crucifixion, before he went down”.
True to the admiral’s words, the French ever since played a cat and mouse game with the
terrified Nguyễn Dynasty, led by the embarrassing king Tự Đức. First they took Saigon and the
three Eastern provinces. Then they forced the King to give up the other three Western provinces
in the Mekong Delta. They conquered the rich, populous South Vietnam with little to no fight.
Such was the humiliation that their general Phan Thanh Giản, a seasoned, battle-hardened
soldier who rarely put his reputation on the line, retired to save any dignity left in him.
The Hue royals hoped that the French had got what they wanted and would leave them alone.
But deep inside they knew the imperialist cat would never stop. In another humiliating attempt to
cling to their sovereignty, the puppet regime secretly funded the Chinese mercenaries of Black
Flags, so they—with their interests diminished by the presence of the French—would fight the
colonists for them.
But this gave the French the perfect excuse to attack Hue itself. On August 15, 1883, the
French fleet arrived in Thuận An, the Seagate that led to the Hue capitol. With King Tự Đức
already dead and sending his royal court to chaos with no clear heir apparent, another
concessive treaty was soon reached, admitting the loss of Bình Thuận and the whole Northern
Vietnam. The mouse now had just a few poor central provinces to cling to and cover its private
parts.
What a strip tease game it had been!
The nail on the coffin finally came on June 6, 1884, with the Patenotre Treaty declaring Vietnam
a French protectorate. It was in all a total of 26 years of harassment, and probably 100
humiliating defeats were exactly what the Nguyễn monarchy got.
But the torture was not over yet. When they began to rule, the French chopped the country into
three parts: Annam, Tonkin and Cochinchina.
Maybe because Father Jean Marchet cursed them, when they did exactly that to his already
battered, murdered body.
Another Saigon
Though historically based, this novel is a work of fiction.
Chapter 1
CONFESSION OF A MISSIONARY
I don’t read the Bible every day.

3. It may be the temptation of disdain and conceit. The allure of rebelling against any
status quo. The reluctance to conform to norms and etiquette. Or simply, the laziness to
think deeper, trying to find new meanings and revelations in those sterile time-worn
words.
After all, did Father Jeune not call me a man of mediocre attributes?
But he could not stop me from joining the Paris Evangelical Missionary Society, towards
the end of November 1828, leaving my preparatory years at Orsans and Besancon
behind. Because, like I said to him in the following letter—quoting the scholar Gamaliel
himself as he preached to the skeptical Jews—no-one can deter you from a God-made
scheme.
Not even the prospect—I was taught that it was an honor and grace to die for the cross
—of martyrdom, as I walked by the under-construction Martyr’s Hall, on my baptizing
initial days at the renowned community.
There were no relics yet except some letters and testimonies. On the tombstone that
carved the names of early martyrs, dating back as far as the 17th century, a new one
had just popped up a few days ago: Gabriel-Taurin Dufresse. The place was Chengdu,
China.
But let’s get back to my admission, my non-obsession with the Bible. It’s not that I’m
trying to start a new Catholic school, a post-Protestantism, or even Satanism.
Simply put, I’ve got something better to read. Every midnight exactly, under a candle
and alone in the chapel, with no-one but Christ himself. And maybe sometimes, The
Other.
There in the untarnished thrill of solitude, I would recite St. Margaret Mary Alacoque’s
words
The first special grace I think I received was on the Feast of St. John the Evangelist.
Our Lord made me rest for several hours on His sacred breast.
After that I saw this divine Heart as on a throne of flames, more brilliant than the sun
and transparent as crystal. It had its adorable wound and was encircled with a crown of
thorns, which signified the pricks our sins caused Him.
It was surmounted by a cross which signified that, from the first moment of His
Incarnation, that is, from the time this Sacred Heart was formed, the cross was planted
in It; that It was filled, from the very first moment, with all the bitterness, humiliations,
poverty, sorrow, and contempt His sacred humanity would have to suffer during the
whole course of His life and during His holy Passion.
He made me understand that the ardent desire He had of being loved by men and of
drawing them from the path of perdition into which Satan was hurrying them in great

4. numbers, had caused Him to fix upon this plan of manifesting His Heart to men,
together with all Its treasures of love, mercy, grace, sanctification and salvation
There have been numerous other God encounters throughout history.
“I saw an angel close by, on my left side, in bodily form… He was not tall, but very
beautiful, and… I saw him pierce my heart with a long golden spear, and at the same
time I felt a great pain… which made me give a great sigh. The pain was so great that I
could not help but moan. And yet it was a delightful pain, because it filled me with such
a love for God…”
– Saint Teresa of Ávila (1515–1582)
“I saw that I was caught up into a great spiritual bliss, and in that bliss I was shown by
God Himself… the presence of God was before me in a great light that surrounded
me… I found myself no longer myself, for I was in God.”
– Saint John of the Cross (1542–1591)
“I saw Him in the garden, where He had knelt down to pray. His face was full of sorrow,
and His whole body was trembling as though in great agony… In that moment, I felt His
presence so near to me that I could not bear it. I was overwhelmed, and yet, I felt so
completely immersed in His love, that I knew there was no place in the world I would
rather be.”
– Blessed Anne Catherine Emmerich (1774–1824)
While this list rings true and authentic—the blessed lambs in the end all became saints
or devotees—none compares to St. Margaret’s vision of the Sacred Pierced Heart, in
terms of raw powers. This is indeed The Second Manifestation.
Though her vision is too sweet not to relive and empower myself—the symbolic thorn
crown and piercing cross have been haunting the Christian mind the world over—I have
my personal reason to immerse in the light.
I have seen almost the same thing. Only, I’m right inside the heart.
Only, it’s dark and cold; like a pitfall, like a tomb trap, or simply, like hell.
I’m inside the heart and I know it’s bleeding, because it’s been pierced through. But is
that the Holy Cross really, like she said?
A voice whispers to me that it’s the rod of The Other—repulsive and depletive,
aggressive and manipulative, destructive and annihilative.
What I’ve been seeing is not the Sacred Heart of Jesus, but the Cursed Will of Satan
himself.

5. At Besancon, one of the older cathedrals in France with its large nave between two
aisles dating back to the 11 century, I excelled at the study of Satanology, the oldest
branch of Theology.
In two years they taught me everything about the serpent, or so they claimed.
Satan’s will is best expressed in his 5 ‘I will’, book Isa 14:13-14
“I will ascend to heaven” (13a)
“I will raise my throne above the stars of God (13b)
"I will sit enthroned on the mount of the assembly on the utmost heights of the sacred
mountain” (13c)
"I will ascend above the tops of the clouds" (14a)
"I will make myself like the Most High" (14b)
His character is best described in his 5 names.
The name “Satan” (Heb. Satan, Grk. Satanas) literally means adversary or enemy.The
name “Devil” (diabolos, Eng. diabolical) means slanderer. He is known as the “Serpent”
because of his sly and crafty character. He is called “Accuser of the brethren” because
he opposes believers before God. He is called the “Father of lies” because he is a
deceiver and the originator of lies.
Towards the end of the course, we were asked to write an essay about Satan. I still
remember my concluding line.
“If I was Satan—which I hope should materialize only as a last resort—I must be having
a good laugh. While those church scholars enslave themselves to dead Bible scripts,
I’m a living thing. You can’t give me names because with every sunrise I acquire a new
identity. You can’t trace my actions because at every sunset, I cook up a new plot. If
even I myself don’t know what I’m up to, what seed of evil is to sprout to life within and
herein at this very moment, then how can you, the intellectual pretender, know it? You
very much pretend to know me just as you pretend to know God”.
The essay did not only earn me a rare A grade in Theology. It prompted my acceptance
into the exclusive, authoritative Paris Missionary Society.
There among the close-knit elites of the French church, tightly bonded to the very
almighty Vatican itself, I was enrolled in even more rigorous training. While they refused
to teach us exorcism—believing a missionary should rather lead by example and grace
than power—they did encourage the apprentices to study historical cases of Satanic
possession.

6. There was the Possession of the Ursuline Nuns of Loudun from 1634 to 1637. A group
of nuns in Loudun, France, claimed to be possessed by demons, and the town's priest,
Urbain Grandier, was accused of witchcraft and summoning Satan. The exorcisms were
carried out in front of a public audience, and the event was surrounded by scandal and
intrigue.
There was the Salem Witch Trials back in 1693 and as far away as Salem,
Massachusetts of the New World. Some women were accused of witchcraft and alleged
to have made pacts with the Devil. The entire town was engulfed in paranoia, and
several were executed.
There was the Exorcism of George Lukins, just recently in 1778 and within the Old
Continent. The Englishman was said to be possessed by several demons, displaying
extreme convulsions and speaking in multiple voices during his exorcism.
Many, many more cases and the funny thing is, they all claimed to have Satan himself
involved. This time I wrote an article—entitled The Real Reason Why Folks Fake
Satanic Possession—and sent it to the Missionary Monthly.
The punch line was something like this, “If God only reveals himself to The Chosen, so
does Satan. And in the case of Satan, The Chosen—as intuition beckons me—would
very likely choose to keep silent about it. Then how come there have been so many
claims of Satanic possession? Could there be any explanation but human nature’s
craving for attention?”
The article was well received and I was enlisted in the toughest front of the missionary
battlefield at the moment. I had been chosen for King Minh Mạng ‘s An Nam, according
to a short, cold notice from the Archbishop himself.
Shortly after that, on the fourth of April, in the 1829 year of our Lord, I was made priest.
On the twelfth of May of the same year, I boarded an ocean liner at Nantes and set out
for our Macau Missionary Center.
Another Saigon
Chapter 3
Cape Verde

7. Oh, poor old man your horse will die
And we say so, and we know so
We'll hoist him up to the main yardarm
We'll hoist him up to the main yardarm
Towards the end of my first month aboard the Voltaire, my resistance to the Ocean
broke. Like a poorly-made boat that gives in to pressure and starts to leak, I could no
longer keep myself to myself.
It is the irresistible, reciprocal power of the Ocean. She dissolves you to the same
saline liquid, that is slightly basic, with low freezing point and high density, no matter
where you come from—the Thames Head limestone springs or the Source-Seine
Burgundy wine region.
I started to talk a bit too much and laughed a bit too loud. I said hello to captain Louis
Moreau, who still did nothing but stroll up and down the corridors, and even patted the
cabin boys on the bottom, pretending I too wanted it.
After my morning prayer service and breakfast, I would stay in the smoking room to
play a few chess games with Richard Irvine, one of my loyal seven believers. I would
usually win only a game or two out of five against him, who had proudly unveiled
himself as an investigation reporter for The Times, but it did not matter much.
The Ocean blurs your boundaries. She reduces your rugged, jagged ego to harmless
pebbles, maybe even robs you of your spine—the reason why you are a proud Homo
Erectus—and drags you to the humiliating low of a purposeless, worthless jellyfish.
I still did my own reflective recitation every midnight—St.Margaret’s authenticity being
the only possible island for this poor, almost lost soul of a missionary to take refuge—
even though my vision of the Sacred Heart continued to corrupt, with the cross taking
the form of the Voltaire’s mainmast itself. I also saw an opening in the heart, a crack or
a door maybe, which yielded some obscure, impure beams of light.
Only recently did it occur to me that my intuitive inclination towards the female saint,
rather than the obvious Jesus Christ or another one of the Trinity, might be no

8. coincidence. You need a woman’s favor to fight another woman. And even if you quote
all the male sea gods of the world—Poseidon, Oceanus, Neptune, Enki, Njord—I will
still say the Ocean is a woman. It is her lust, as vast and deep as her own waters, that
gives her that feminine trait of insatiability.
You have to be at sea to know the feeling, the exclamation and then escalation, of
shouts or even howls, aboard a ship when she, after weeks and weeks of sea-faring,
finally slows down to dock aground a port or wharf.
That divine and benign word has only one syllable, “Land! Land ahoy!”
And land it truly was! The dark outlines of an archipelago upon the horizon, then the
jagged brownish basalt cliffs, the vibrant pliant vegetation, and finally, the open
welcoming arms of a peaceful, primeval wharf—as if she had been waiting for ages as
a faithful, grateful wife—confirmed to everyone aboard the Voltaire, who by now had
gathered in the forward, with some even fastening themselves to the bow while others
clinging to the pilot house for a better view of what was looming ahead, that they
were landing at last. It was only their second stopover after Lisbon, with six more to
expect from a grueling, sickening 6-month sea voyage that would cross the Atlantic,
the Indian and finally the Pacific ocean.
But with the anchoring of the fashionable steam ship—from the port side since we
were still in the Northern hemisphere, as a sailor labored to explain why the starboard
anchor was not the choice—came also the disheartening news, that no one but the
captain and several officers were allowed ashore. And this time, the order came with
no explanation, nothing but the segregation, between those who had a mission in the
exotic, even erotic tropical Praia and those who did not.
Such was the disappointment that the Chef’s promise—that we would have coconut
drinks for one week and date desserts for one month—sounded more like propaganda
than culinary bonanza. For some people though, including my Amari the lonely boiler
stoker, a forty-eight-hour rest was more than enough. In fact, he was already having a
whale of time at the bar, where rum, beer and liquor could be consumed at a much
cheaper price than on shore, with no duties to pay. And with Richard the reflective

9. detective already joining him, I saw no reason why I was still here on the upper deck.
Yes, the tropical Cape Verde sun was nice; the Praia Bay—dotted with fishing and
sailing boats, or maybe just fishing sailing boats—was as calm as a Citeaux nunnery;
while Praia itself, a Portugal settlement that graced the basalt rocks of a dormant
volcano, elevated by the Atlantic Ocean herself a couple of million years ago, was as
shy as a Zulu boy at his circumcision ceremony. For a moment I thought of God’s grace,
but the thought was too fleeting—even quicker than a herring jumping off the water I
guess—to justify my continued presence in the deserted part of the Voltaire.
As I joined Amari and Richard at a reserved table in the smoking room —a collection of
Renaissance Arts that ran almost the length of the promenade deck—the debate was
already reaching a boiling point. It was so heated I could imagine steam coming out of
their nostrils, enlarged to their maximum to accommodate the discharge. I was a bit
alarmed at the situation; what on earth was going on between my two believers?
Fortunately, a solution seemed to have been agreed upon, since Amari was pushing his
5-franc silver coin—the newly-circulated currency in celebration of King Louis-Phillipe
himself—to the middle of the marble-clad table, and so was Richard.
“I say, in the witness of Father Jean Marchet, that that Baltimore Clipper that is docking
in Port Praia now is a slave ship, that does nothing but slave trade!” says the Algeria-
born black crew in solemnity.
“I say, in the witness of Father Jean Marchet, that that Baltimore Clipper that is docking
in Port Praia now is a pirate ship, disguised as a slaver!” says the gentleman from
Liverpool, with no less solemnity.
I looked at them both and I could not help but laugh out loud. I said, trying to mimic the
same solemnity of them both, “I say, in the spirit of the Slave Trade Act 1807, any
slave trade ship should be treated as pirates. So what is the point here, gentlemen?”
And with that verdict, I returned them silver coins to their hard-working owners. I also
knew by now what they were talking about. So that small, sleek, two-masted sail ship
that docked just a distance from our Voltaire was the famous Baltimore Clipper, well-

10. known for her speed and balance that even the British Royal Navy could barely keep
up with.
But this particular Clipper in Port Praia, which had docked for at least a week they said,
looked different. Her sharp V-shaped hull was typical, but it also sparkled in the rising
sun, to an extent some passengers—maybe in the midst of reading Stevenson’s
‘Treasure Island’ or something similar— thought it was pure gold. But a sailor told me
the schooner was simply ‘copper-bottomed’, to protect the hull from shipworms,
barnacles or other marine growth, hence the superior speed. And it was this ‘copper
sheathing’ that sparked the debate between my two loyal believers.
Amari believed she must be a slave trade ship, or ‘slaver’. They did not mind the
expensive material because they had the money, and they wanted to outsail both the
pirates and the Navy.
Richard—with the imagination of a mind so keen on investigation—believed she used
to be a slave ship, but then captured and coppered by the pirates. They still traded
slaves though for profit and as a ‘cover’.
He probably had his story all set, as he said with evident eloquence, “The islands have
always been a slave hub. But less known is the fact that pirates love them too”.
Gulping his Martinique rum, Richard looked around the smoking room, which was at its
most crowded probably since the departure at Nantes, and very slowly, even coldly
delivered his punchline, “Do you not know, that James Kelly was here? James Gilliam
the buccaneer, William Kidd’s bucko, hanged on July 12, 1701”. Then without waiting
for our question, he went on, “The year was 1683. He was still on a slave ship 3 years
before that, in 1680. Captain Yankee captured the slave ship and turned him into
another pirate. But he then teamed up with Cook and sailed to Cape Verde on two
captured French merchants”.
Amari seemed uninterested, or he simply had drunk too much whisky. I was only half
interested, perhaps. But Richard was a self-inspired storyteller. He went on, “It was
here on the sparsely inhabited archipelago that they dumped their old French

11. merchants for a Danish ship, which they came to call ‘Bachelor’s Delight’, after they
had traded with a slaver for some African women”.
Richard paused and signaled the steward for another bottle of rum. I thought it was
about time I could say something, “So that was the reason they did not allow us
ashore, for fear of pirates?” But the journalist laughed, “No, Father. I think it was more
about slavery activities. Actually, I know it was about slave trade. Do you not know
that all the cabin boys, here on the glamorous and prestigious Voltaire, were bought
from slavers?”
Now this was really something. The drunk Amari could not even raise his eyebrows,
but I did roll my eyes, “And you think they went ashore this morning to fetch some new
boys?”
“They did not need to go too far. They could just drop in at that Baltimore Clipper, and
do their shopping in the lower deck. You will see new faces on the ship, first thing in
the morning, Father”.
Amari, who I thought had bypassed the conversation so far, surprisingly lifted his
stooped head and asked me, with his deep, dark voice now even distorted by the
liquor, “Father, what does the Bible say… regarding this pirate practice?”
I did not need to search my memory, because I already thought of a verse as I prepared
for tomorrow’s prayer service—planning is a good missionary virtue—so I said to him,
“You desire and do not have, so you murder. You covet and cannot obtain, so you fight
and quarrel. You do not have, because you do not ask”.
“So all I need to do is ask?”
“Yes, the right person, at the right time!”
And with his half smile, or smirk I did not know, Amari the just and robust stoker
dropped to the marble-clad table and dozed off, while Richard the investigator was

12. again signaling the steward to bring him yet another well-established rum from the
Caribbean Martinique.
Another Saigon
Chapter 4
The ghost of a marooner
“Even in my prayer, I’m so tempted I’m unable to express myself” – Leendert Hasenbosch
Like I said my vision of the Sacred Heart continued to evolve. While it might not seem that
sacred at first—I was never sure it was the Lord’s message or a leakage from, well, The Other
—it was yet another version of the vision. This time, the heart was a bit unusual. It was
horizontal rather than vertical, the color being more of a brownish red. And instead of the cross,
I saw holes in the heart, a deep, dark, big one in the upper right quarter setting itself apart from
the rest.
For a while, the rugged, khaled heart—like a ruby stone against an illuminated, turquoise
backdrop—lay dormant. The thumping could barely be heard, the pumping barely visible, the
brownish hue rather than crimson red adding to its mortal look. Then suddenly the eruption
came about, and from that hole, or crater maybe, oozed a red-hot stream of blood. Or was it
blood really because it looked so thick, like casting foundry melted iron or simply, volcanic lava.
And the dream—I would avoid the word ‘night-mare’ because like I said in the previous chapter,
I was already struggling with the overwhelming femininity of everything in the vicinity—ended
there, because someone was waking me up.
“Father, father! Come with us!” I rubbed my eyes and there in the dim, opaque light of a copper
oil lantern were the imposing figures of Jacques Dupont, and two officers.
As we were outside on the upper deck, I looked up at the Big Dipper—it was Amari who taught
me this age-old sailing trick— and knew it was about midnight. A gust of moist trade wind
reminded me that we had just crossed the Equator a couple of days ago. And the absence of
the usual racket, a symphony of steam hissing, machine clunking, paddle wheel thumping and
water hull splashing, meant we had moored, somewhere in the South Atlantic, and offshore.
I was reluctant to follow them down the starboard ladder and onto the captain’s gig, but the sight
of Amari among a squad of six rowers was reassuring enough. The Engineer had said my
profession was in need; all I would have to do was to read something from the Bible about
forgiveness. Amari, on the other hand, was wanted for his strong arms. Why a night-time
landing and what this island could be were the pressing questions, but I would refrain from
asking them.

13. There was no moon, not even a crescent, but the starlight was enough to highlight the contours
of an island, lonesome and Asmodean. And as we rowed just a bit closer, we were struck by its
barrenness, some would even call it naked hideousness. There were only basaltic rocks and
debris, and I could even make out a crater, hopefully extinct, on the Eastern plateau, because
the peak was so flat. And it suddenly dawned on me, as flashbacks of my dream were
recollected, that this was nothing else but the heavenly, ebony Ascension Island.

It also became clear—as crystal-clear as the shallow coral tropical bay itself perhaps—why the
Voltaire officers were resorting to a stealth landing. Even though the exiled Napoleon Bonaparte
had died, in 1821, relations between France and Britain were still strained. After all, the reason why
the British garrisoned this remote island—almost halfway between the African and South American
shores and only discovered in 1501 by a Portuguese seafarer—was to make sure the French could
not do so, in view of its ‘proximity’ to St. Helena, where the once great emperor was isolated.
It was a single bank rowing formation—with three rowers on the left and three rowers on the right,
unsymmetrically positioned—under the navigation of the second mate, who sat at the bow with the
first mate, while the stern space was reserved for me and the Engineer himself. The second mate
was using his seasoned eyes and the narrowed lantern lighting, and probably the starry sky too, to
guide the long boat through shallow waters, with dangers being volcanic boulders rather than coral
reefs, because it seemed the corals here did not build reefs.
The quietness of the operation—there was no sounds except the darkish water being paddled by the
six oars, well-rhythmed even without the anthem beat of a sea shanty—made me focus on the
people themselves, the contrast between the toiling crew and their carefree officers, who had
probably been told to dress as formally as they could. Even in the moderate lights of three copper oil
lamp lanterns, their epaulets and insignias shined, their tailored coats cut authoritative figures on
both ends of the boat, with even me being adorned by my best white cassock. In contrast the crew,
due to tropical weather perhaps, opted for the bare torso, putting on just their baggy, sturdy trousers

14. and nothing else. And it was in this context that Amari’s godly build stole the limelight; he even
grinned cheekily as he caught my look, which lingered a bit too long on his primitive, ebony chest.
The South-easterly trade wind was helping us and a crescent pebble beach finally came into sight.
The landing spot must have been considered thoughtfully, maybe somewhere in the Northeast coast
of the 88-square-kilometer island, away from the main settlement called Georgetown, where the
patrolling British garrison built their barracks. The Engineer had pulled out an antique worn hand-
drawn map on one hand, and a glossy shiny expensive chronometer on the other. I knew he was
checking the longitude of the beach, with the map—what on earth do they need a priest for if they
are after some buried treasure—providing the guidance.
The moment I set foot on the barren coast—we had been wading a short distance through the
pristine, serene waters from the anchored boat—my aversion to the ocean was confirmed. Hostile as
the island might seem, it immediately renewed me, very much the same way Earth revived her giant
son Antaeus. I was back to my assured missionary self, probably feeling like Jonah when the huge
fish—why did the thing have to be a whale, as God had the luxury to create any fish for the purpose
—spat him out at last. Glancing back at the captain’s gig, and the Voltaire’s horrid, even toxic bulk in
the distance, I could not help but think I had left my carcasses behind.
It was well-known that islands like Ascension—the Azores archipelago and St. Helena automatically
coming to mind—came about thanks to the elevation of the Atlantic seabed. Like a woman indeed
the Ocean keeps teasing you with her secrets. What we saw here thanks to a starry melancholy sky,
with the highest peak to the South reaching somewhere under one thousand meters, was probably
just the tip of an iceberg. How big and deep was its submerged structure? And what if the conical
structure itself was just a fragment of something else, that even linked the Azores and St. Helena
together—both sharing volcanic origins themselves—to form an unseen and unsung entity whose
greatness superseded anything you ever saw on earth?
And did I tell you that I was never a fan of the Bible? No matter how many books it contains, the
Bible is just the tip of the Jesus mega-story, a pale decolorization of the Spirit, a stale degradation of
the Truth. I am not saying it is a worthless piece of literature—I learned quite a few chapters by heart
in fact—but you do not worship a book as if it was the Lord himself.
Which brought me to the dire situation I was in: what did the Chief Engineer really want? I already
knew which chapters to recite, Psalm 51 on forgiveness and Acts 1:6 on Christ’s ascension. But for
what? And for whom?
As if knowing my mind, Dupont the engineer came over and asked me, in his hippopotamus
monotonous tone.
“Father, how would you describe the color of this place?”
“Reddish brown, maybe. Or brownish red?”
“What is the French word for chestnut, then?”

15. “Oh, I see. It is marron, and the English derivation is maroon, the color”.
“The French word actually comes from the Italian marrone, which in turn is heir of the ancient Greek
maraon. However, the one that you will need to use, soon in the ritual, is marooner”.
“Pardon me, but is it not a different word, maroon as a verb, and marooner as a noun, as to
someone left to die alone on a desolate island?”
“Yes, it is. But do you not marvel at the coincidence? It was here on this maroon beach, a hundred
years ago, that a Dutch officer was marooned by his naval mates. Six months later they found his
diary, but not his bones”.
“Is the name not Leendert Hasenbosch?”
“Correct. Did you read his diary, Father?”
“No, not yet. I would love to, but it was never accessible to me”.
“I got one copy of ‘Sodomy Punished’. Suffice to say, the man was religious and he felt very guilty.
He begged God to forgive and save him, or end his miseries somehow. There was no water on the
island, as you can see”.
“So what are we going to do about him? Are you and the Voltaire on a mission too, somehow?”
“Ah, mission. I love that word. The poor soul is still here, waiting to be forgiven. Like I once said, I
have a relationship with the Sea. I was called upon to liberate him, by means of some rituals”.
“Could you be more specific, please?”
“The crew are building a shrine, can you see? We will make offerings to the Sea, thereby connecting
to her power. You will then read your Bible chapter, or chapters, so the poor soul no longer burdens
himself. I will finally read the mantra, to free him from his sufferings. Because this vast, beautiful
ocean is meant to be a happy place!”
The shrine had been built from beach pebbles and magma stones. An altar was erected which
looked out onto the sea and also the Milky Way—the new moon had long vanished, leaving the
galaxy to dominate the sky, like a sword of light. Amari had come back from the coral habitats with
something weighing over his right shoulder. A greenish emerald turtle, about half a meter long! He
grinned and said to his jubilant officers, “An egg-laying adult could grow to one and a half meters in
length and weigh no less than three hundred kilograms. But I guess this would suffice?”
The Chief Engineer nodded in approval. I hurriedly said to him, “Could I have a request, please?
Could you spare the life of the creature, because any bloodshed is not in the spirit of our canon law!”

16. My words were not at all redundant, because one or two sailors had already picked up a beach
stone, ready for the joy of killing, to which their highest-ranked officer ordered, “No one hurts the
turtle!”
“Yes, sir” was the reply, which echoed through the rocky valley. But it would take a great deal of
amplification to reach the British patrols at the other end of the island, provided they were not
sleeping over their duties.
Another Saigon
Chapter 5
A truth unearthed
The green turtles, on which I later did a small research, are strange in many ways. Seafarers
claim they only come to the warm sandy beaches of the secluded island to lay eggs. The
moment they hatch and crawl their ways out of the sand hole, baby turtles instinctively run to the
sea, as if she was their mother. In some sense she is, because once they are received by a
wave and pulled offshore, they are safe—from gulls, ghost crabs, raccoons, dogs.
The ocean currents will take them even further away, and they will spend their toddling years
afloat and adrift, until they reach some good size, say of a silver plate. Only then are they ready
to come back ashore, where food is abundant, to complete their growth.
Which brings us back to Amari’s juvenile green turtle. That one was unusual, if not exceptional.
It might have hatched on the other side of the island, and might somehow be forsaken by the
currents to finally end up here, just a short distance from its birthplace and hundreds, if not
thousands, of kilometers away from its siblings.
And there it lay on the stone-made altar now, head and flippers pulled inwards, looking just like
another polished boulder. In fact, its bluish brown flat carapace fit the structure so well, as if
intended to be the very surface of the altar, to hold the offerings rather than be an offering itself.
I said to Dupont, “I thought it should be green like its name suggests: green turtle?”
“But Father, did you not say any bloodshed would be against God’s law?” said the Chief
Engineer with a wry smile.
“Oh, so green is the color of the blood, not the shell?”
“Exactly! Even Leendert managed to kill one, even though he could not overturn it”.
But there was no time to continue to dwell on the matter, as the crew members had formed two
straight lines leading to the altar. The first mate had always carried with him a mysterious
ornamented cedar trunk, which he now opened to the curiosity of us all. At first I thought the
object was a crosier, because it would be fitting for a ritual like this. Then I realized it looked

17. more like a cross. And yet, it was not a Catholic cross at all, because it had a loop at the top. So
it looked more like a key, or the T word surmounted by an oval ring. The material was probably
gilded wood; one side of the loop could have been an ancient mirror, made of polished gold,
silver, copper or bronze, which was after all no longer there. The other side of the loop—we
could see it now because the Chief Engineer had raised the ‘marine cross’ to the sky—had
some ancient scriptures and was graced with ruby and sapphire stones.
But there was no time to dwell on the meanings of the jewel piece, because Jacques Dupont—
his arms spread and his eyes fixed upon the distant Milky Way, as if he saw something that we
did not—had started to sing some strange hymn, in a language that was alien to everyone
present, even though we were an assembly of five nationalities at least.
Dua n Amun-Ra, neb nswt tawi
Sa ankh, di ankh, di was, di snb
Di neferu, di maat, di hetep
Di djed medu n ra
The verse kept looping, the engineer's voice rising, and as I thought it had reached its
crescendo, it managed to reach deeper—into his well-adorned body, into the volcanic
grains under his feet, even hollow earth maybe—for a new level of intensity and
insanity, as if he was trying, not to offer something to a God, but to revive someone, or
some entity, by giving it all the essential, instrumental energy. The ‘marine cross’, firm in
his raised left hand, looked as if it was more than just a symbol, and with its jeweled
loop facing the Milky Way, was probably trying to absorb all the lights from it. And then,
as abruptly as it had started, Dupont’s eccentric, even ethnic outburst came to a stop.
He gestured towards me and I knew what he meant.
I started with Psalm 51 as I had planned.
You are kind, God! Please have pity on me.
You are always merciful! Please wipe away my sins.
Wash me clean from all of my sin and guilt.
I know about my sins, and I cannot forget the burden of my guilt.
Wash me with a hyssop

until I am clean and whiter than snow.

18. Then I proceeded to address the marooner himself, or maybe—who knows what he
had been reduced to after a century of suffering and neglecting—itself.
Rise, Leendert Hasenbosch, rise out of your grave, wherever it is.
Rise, to the sky among the clouds, like Jesus The Holy.
Rise, from the burden of your sin, the guilt of sodomy.
You have punished yourself enough, now is the time to forgive.
I repeated the verse three times and glanced sideways at the Chief Engineer. He had
raised his left hand as a gesture for me to stop. He said to me, still in his
hippopotamus voice, “Enough, Father. Mr Hasenbosch is not listening to you. I have
brought his diary with me, which is not very long actually. The crew and I would leave
you alone to peruse the deceased’s writing. But make hastes, please, because we do
have to return to the Voltaire before dawn!”
The ‘green’ turtle had been turned upside down, its yellowish, private plastron
exposed, with the nine pieces of plastral bones and their joints, in vertical and
horizontal lines, very much resembling an old, but well-kept, treasure map. Assured
that their offering could no longer escape, the crew and their officers took a walk
along the beach, maybe trying to explore some inlets or caves where they could hide
their trespassing boat, should they need to land stealthily again in the future.
But one sailor in particular refused to join the pack. Who else but the lanky, randy
Amari?
“I was told to keep an eye on you”, he sat down beside me with his usual grin. “Some
beast or soldier may come by, who knows?”
“No, Amari”, said I with a knowing smile. “You want to read Leendert Hasenbosch’s
diary. I would share it with you, with pleasure, but could you tell me honestly, what
interests you so much?”
“The part about sodomy, if you don’t mind, Father”.
“Is that a confession?”
“If you don’t view it as a transgression, yes”.
“Sit there, and I will read aloud to you, OK? And do not ask questions because
Dupont said we do not have much time left”.
The diary, a copy of the translation from the original Dutch, started on May 5, 1724
and ended on October 14 of the same year. The entries were on a daily basis in the
beginning but as his energy and enthusiasm ran out, became fewer and farther
between. I ran through the expected initials, his accounts of building a tent on the

19. beach—in the hope that some passing ship would see him—and exploring the island,
how barren and dry the island was in all directions, how he managed to kill some
boobies and even turtles, how he had to waste a precious bucket of water to
extinguish the fire he himself caused to his tent…
On June 10 he made an important discovery.
Walking among the rocks near the biggest hill, I found a place where water ran out of
a hollow rock. The reader may imagine what inexpressible joy and satisfaction this
was to me in my deplorable condition. I was so thirsty I drank to excess, then rested
and drank again three or four times…
So God did listen to the marooner’s prayers. With water—he was able to bring
buckets of them back to his tent despite the steep, rocky route—his vitality was
restored. Unfortunately, with vitality and melancholy, lust was nourished. It first came
in the form of tormenting devils. And then, the devils were pinpointed to a specific
name.
Among the voices, I could distinguish that of one Andree Marsseroen, who I knew
very well… We were formerly soldiers together, and I know that he was a very
debauched person…
It was on June 20. Also in this entry, the horrid, contorted confession was made.
And I must also say this as a warning to the reader, that to my great sorrow now, I
was a sodomite, of which I am now too sensible; for he follows me everywhere and
will not let me be quiet, though I may be standing, sitting, lying or walking; nay, even
in my prayer, I am so tempted that I am unable to express myself…
On June 28, even the fountain he found deep into the interior of the island and up the
highest mountain dried out, due to scarcity of rainfall. This harsh weather went on and
he ate fowl eggs for water, before the inevitable degradation to drinking his own urine,
or even from a turtle’s bladder. Since they could not find his bones by the tent—the
ship was James and Mary, from Britain, and the time was January 1725—he could
have died somewhere among the magma rocks, with his bones broken from a fall and
his body dehydrated.
I finished the last line of the diary and looked up at Amari. We had never been this
close and I could feel the synergy between us. Was it mind and body, intellect and
intuition, or celibacy and debauchery? But there was no time to dwell on our symbiotic
or whatever relationship, because the Voltaire gang had come back, led by who else
but their all-knowing, all-pervading engineer. Before he returned to his assumed post
among the crew line, Amari said to me hastily, “It was not sodomy that got Leendert
marooned. It must be something with his bookkeeping for the Dutch ship!”

20. The rituals started again with Dupont’s feverish hymn singing. Then my reading from
the Bible, of Psalm 51, about forgiveness. I looked up at the Milky Way, the halo was
there, but how about a saint or any angel? Anyway, I went on with what I had in mind,
inspired by Amari’s bold prompt about the Dutch marooner’s behaviour.
Rise, Leendert Hasenbosch, rise out of your grave, wherever it is.
Rise, to the sky among the clouds, like Jesus The Holy.
You have punished yourself enough, now is the time to forgive.
But how can God forgive you, when you will not tell the truth? You lied to yourself and
to everyone.
Say, Leendert Hasenbosch, what was the true reason they marooned you? How
clever of you to make up all those things, devils tormenting and beating you!
And how ingenious of you to use sodomy as a distraction, from the real cause of your
punishment!
Say, book keeper of the VOC ship, how you manipulated the numbers, how much you
made from your fraud, and how you foolishly lavished all that on your male lover!
God did listen to you, that was why you were able to find that spring among the rocks.
But you lied and lied; your confession was false, your transgression unresolved.
I could have just gone on and on, but Dupont stepped up in front of me, and signalled
me to stop, “Enough, Father! The ghost has arrived!”
Following the engineer’s pointing finger, I saw Amari fall to the arms of his peers.
“Why did the poor soul choose him?” I asked myself. But there was no time to dwell
on the rhetorical question, because the emergency one was, “Is Amari OK?”
I rushed over and, out of my heartfelt worry for the Alegria-born black man, held him
probably too tight, even too close. But then his possessed eyes opened, and his
curved, beautiful lips said, “You are right, Father. I hereby confess, I committed
fraudulence!”
Another Saigon

21. Chapter 6
Rascal’s Little Secret
It was another beautiful morning on the Voltaire as the steamship headed for the
notorious Cape of Good Hope. It would, in the coming weeks, be a memorable,
miserable struggle even for an engine-powered liner like the Voltaire to round the
continent’s southernmost edge, against the turbulent southeast headwinds. But for now,
in the vicinity of St. Helena, which was inaccessible for a French property by July 1829,
the headwinds were still below the twenty-knot alarm, and the steamship, even though
slowed down considerably, was advancing at ease and in peace.
Today’s breakfast had been quite good—I was not asking for it but my bishop back in
Paris said they could afford my first-class fare for the sake of a missionary's image—
with smoked salmon and other delicacies, including oranges and apples. While he
cordially explained to me why the Norwegian salmo salar was an anadromous fish, the
good-looking, multilingual steward also reminded me to finish the fruit, or at least the
oranges. It was the Captain’s order, prescribed by the Surgeon perhaps, that everyone
aboard had to eat two oranges or lemons per day, as a new-found defense against the
horrible, despicable scurvy disease.
As usual, I had an appointment with Richard Irvine, the reporter from the Times who
seemed to be combining his honeymoon romance with an investigative article, for a few
games of chess in the smoking room. He had not arrived yet, but the steward, knowing
our routine well, had brought a chess set to the reserved table. The game proved a
good distraction, either from my uncertain future in An Nam—of which I knew nothing
but that I would work with my predecessors Gagelin and Cuenot—or from the
submerged complications aboard the Voltaire. The Ascension Island saga still weighed
upon me, with unresolved questions, and even doubts. Amari was soon back to his
usual self, but no one was sure if the possession was over. However, the black man
from Algiers said, “I can share this body with a marooner, no problem. When you get
home and walk into a bar, you always need some story to tell them right?”
While I put the pieces—made from African ivory and in the Regence style—in their
starting positions, my mind hovered from one topic to another. It finally perched on the
similarity of the chess board and a steamship’s hierarchy. The King is the captain of
course, the Queen the Chief Engineer, the Rooks the first and second mates, the pawns
the crew members, but who are the knights and bishops? The purser can not be a
horse, which as a chess piece is unpredictable and unstoppable. That leaves the Chef
and the Surgeon, but they too are boring stereotypes. Then Amari came to my mind.
Ahh! The quiet, mysterious boiler stoker and the engine mechanic should qualify for the

22. two knights. Finally, who are the two bishops, the ones with vision, the seers? But the
frivolous wandering mind stopped there, because Richard the lanky, classy gentleman
from Liverpool—is he not the white square bishop himself—had finally and timely
arrived.
We shook hands and Richard immediately made his usual move 1.e4 I replied with my
favorite 1…c6 We soon arrived at the closed Caro Kann. And also very soon I realized
the man was not there, he was not concentrating on the game. With my light square
bishop developed to g4 and pinning the White Knight at f3, balance was achieved. With
the thematic c5 pawn break, Black threatened to turn the table. Richard tried to hold on
to his central pawn at d4, which was impossible due to the absence of the Knight at f3.
He lost the pawn and with it, the game.
“Are you OK, my friend?” I asked, more concerned than worried because my believer
looked quite healthy.
“Sorry, Father. I can not take my mind off that article”, he said with very little apologetic
shade in his tone. “It thrilled me to such an extent, that I did not sleep enough last
night”.
“Oh, did it? Let me guess the title. Is it ‘A Wedding on the Ocean Liner Voltaire’?”
“No Father. It’s entitled ‘Little Known Lives on the Voltaire’, another report for the
Times”.
“Little Known Lives? Is it not an euphemism for secrets? So whose lives are they? Do I
have the honor to be included in the story?”
“I tried to, Father. Unfortunately, I got stuck. The missionary is a mystery, but who am I
to stalk a man of God?”
“No need for the hassle, my friend. Give me the papers. I shall fill in my part, enough of
chess for today!”
With no hesitation at all—as if he had been planning this trapping of the ‘bishop’—
Richard Irvine handed me his article drafts. I could tell his enthusiasm, even excitement
by the handwriting. And with a pleasure that bordered on feminine inquisitiveness, I
progressed through the private world of a well-paid investigative journalist.
*
**

23. The Little-Known Lives on the Voltaire
By Richard Irvine
If you ask Rigging Rascal, a twelve-year-old black cabin boy aboard the ocean-going Voltaire,
what his life is like, he’ll fix you with a glare sharper than a sea breeze and reply, “What do you
know?”
Press him further—say, with a chocolate bar in hand—and he might relent, adding, “You just do
not know. While you gentlemen stroll along the decks, I live a vertical life.”
Rigging Rascal—his real name unknown, and why should it matter?—has been aboard the
Voltaire for only a month. Not long ago, he was sweating it out in the hold of a Baltimore Clipper,
the infamous slaver type, moored in Praia Bay, Cabo Verde.
A cabin boy starts at the very bottom of a sea-faring career. And if anyone takes “climbing the
social ladder” literally, it’s Rascal.
Each day, he scampers down to the orlop deck to fetch provisions or up to the crow’s nest,
where the barrelman scans the horizon. The boy practically lives on the rigging, making his
“vertical life” more than just a metaphor.
Rascal doesn’t know why it’s called the crow’s nest—“Nobody’s ever seen a crow there,” he
tells me—but the second mate, a teller of tall tales if ever there was one, would disagree. The
term, he insists, dates back to the Vikings, who carried caged ravens aboard their ships. In
times of poor visibility, a bird would be released, its flight guiding sailors toward the nearest
land.
Colorful tales like these abound on a vessel like the Voltaire, whose voyages span months and
oceans. The first mate, for instance, always steps aboard with his right foot, the one sporting a
tattoo of a pig. He claims the pig will guide him to shore should he ever find himself overboard—
a precaution, perhaps, against mutiny, which is less rare in the marine world than one might
hope.
Then there’s the rumor about Father Jean Marchet, the young Paris Society missionary whose
presence some say marks him as a Jonah—a harbinger of divine wrath. “Don’t stand too close,”
one sailor quipped, “or Hadad, the Sea God, might take you down with him!”
Anne Sophie, a wealthy merchant from Nantes traveling with her family, is another alleged
Jonah. Her crime? She speaks first to anyone she meets—a habit that sailors, ever
superstitious, claim tempts fate.
The Jonah myth is a favorite subject of the ship’s old timer, a weather-beaten Scandinavian who
swears he descends from a Viking captain. Over a gathering or in private, he’ll recount how
sailors, fearing divine wrath, tossed Jonah overboard. But his memory being what it is, he often
muddles in Norse mythology. “So,” he’ll say, “the frightened sailors throw Jonah overboard, and
Jormungandr, the great serpent, swallows him whole!”
The old timer himself is the protagonist of another story: The Old Timer’s Pet. It’s so popular it’s
been turned into a sea shanty, chanted with glee by the crew:

24. What will we do with the old timer’s pet? Early in the morning!
Shave his pubic with a rusty razor. Early in the morning!
Put him in the long boat with a traitor. Early in the morning!
The song goes on, with verses growing more scandalous by the hour, but the “pet” in question
turns out to be no animal. A little digging revealed it’s none other than a certain cabin boy
recently purchased from a Baltimore Clipper in Cabo Verde—our very own Rigging Rascal.
The Vertical Life
When I finally asked Rascal about his so-called vertical life, he regarded me with a mix of
suspicion and curiosity.
“So you prefer to be taken standing, upright?” I teased, aiming to crack his guarded exterior.
Rascal, in earnest surprise, replied, “Why? I’ve got Benson, haven’t I?”
Ah, Benson—the old timer himself, who, as it turns out, had taken the boy under his wing.
Whatever the arrangement, it seemed to offer Rascal some protection.
“Fine,” I said, handing over ten francs. “Tell me something they don’t know.”
With a mischievous grin, Rascal led me down through the labyrinthine decks of the Voltaire. We
descended past the main deck, through the lower deck, and finally into the dim, damp confines
of the orlop deck.
“Ben! Ben!” he called into the shadows. “Here’s your cheese.”
A moment later, a figure emerged—not a man, but a rat. A huge, bald creature that shuffled
toward us with a surprising lack of fear.
“This is Bennie,” Rascal said proudly, watching as the rat devoured the offering. “He’s mine, just
like I’m Benson’s.”
“Why not the ship’s cat, Black Tom?” I asked.
“Tom’s the Chief Engineer’s cat. That aloof bastard doesn’t let anyone near him.”
The boy spoke with such matter-of-fact ownership that I wasn’t sure whether to pity or admire
him. I handed him another five francs and left him alone with his rodent companion.
Climbing back up the rusty ladder, past the heaps of anchor cables and cargo crates, I emerged
into the relative brightness of the lower deck. As I made my way topside, Rascal’s words
echoed in my mind: “I live a vertical life.”
On the surface, the Voltaire is a marvel—gleaming wood and brass, luxurious smoking rooms,
and sumptuous dining halls. But below decks, life is as grimy as the coal that powers her.
Somewhere in that gap lies Rascal, neither entirely above nor wholly below, carving out a space
for himself in the vertical labyrinth of survival.

25. Perhaps that’s the secret of a life at sea: you can climb, you can descend, but you’ll always
remain somewhere in between.
For many are called, but few are chosen – Matthew 22:14
Another Saigon
Chapter 7
Another secret unveiled
Originally, there was no Cape of Good Hope. There was only the Cape of Storms.
But human beings, being human, have always tried to look at the brighter side of life. King John
II of Portugal changed it to Cape of Good Hope because of the prospect of marine trade with
India and the East.
The headwinds from the South East are getting stronger, with the imminent threat of turning into
a monstrous gale. But the Voltaire, almost with an iron will, pierces her way through the last
miles of the Atlantic waters before she meets with the Indian currents, a little south of The Cape.
My popularity as the man of God remains unchanged: only seven people attend my prayer
service on the upper deck early in the morning. Even though I came to know Amari and Richard
personally, there is not much we can talk about.
When I feel a friend is in need, I write a letter, either to my parents in Passavant or to my
childhood priest, Father Duene, who was kind enough to offer me encouraging words, before
my departure as a missionary. I also feel warmth every time I open the letter from my future
colleagues, Father Gagelin and Father Cuenot, under whom I shall work upon arriving in
Cochinchina.
As we approach Cape Town, the atmosphere on the Voltaire has shifted with the changing
climate. I am not sure if they are taking a dig at me, but the sailors start to call Tom, the only pet
cat allowed on board, Man in Black.
“That man in black, I shall bet five francs you can not get near and stroke him!” one sailor would
simply begin the tall tale.
“Unless you were someone of prestige, of course!” another would reply, mimicking the captain
as he strolls along the corridors with his hands clasped behind his back.
“When was the last time you saw our man in black perform his duties?”
“By duty, do you mean chasing those stinky, filthy rodents down the orlop? It is impossible, with
him busy sleeping in the smoking room all day long”.

26. “Even puffing on his cigar now and then, I have heard”.
“Really? I bet he could even preach in Scandinavian!”
Even though I was prepared—based on the experiences of my predecessors from the Society—
to deal with the alienation of the ship crew, I never thought they would turn this hostile.
Something fishy is going on. Or the sailors simply get nervous the closer they get to the haunted
sea, where the ghostly Flying Dutchman awaits them, with Captain Van Der Decken ever ready
to deliver the most cruel curses.
Richard’s article for the Times—he is among the most eager for the Voltaire to stop over at
Cape Town, so he could mail it back to London—draws my attention to Rigging Rascal. I have
seen him a couple of times, as he helps bring the food to the dining room, and his eyes always
attract me. They are lively and they never avoid your stare. Despite his slavery background, the
boy is not easily intimidated.
But maybe the reason I am drawn to Rascal is not my loneliness, which is amplified by the
Ocean’s erosive manners as I once said, but that I am trying to run away from something, or
someone. Whatever it is, when I saw him climbing down a mast this morning, I said, “Rascal,
how is your Bennie? I too want to see him”. And before he could say no, I placed the five-franc
coin in his hand.
Rascal looked me in the eyes and nodded.
“OK, he is a bit shy these days, but with a little patience, you will see him,” he said.
“Boy, you get there first and wait for me in the orlop okay?” I said. “It wouldn’t be good if the
sailors saw you with me.”
When I encountered Rascal again on the damp, dark deck, he placed his finger to his lips to
signal me to be quiet. I nodded in agreement.
As we waited for the creature to emerge for its meal, I gazed at the thin orphan and into my
soul. What connects us? Am I simply trying to fill the emptiness in my heart? I tried to
remember my latest dream, where I again had a vision of the Sacred Heart. In this vision, the
mainmast replaced the cross. There was a door in a dark area…
Finally, there was Bennie, his bald head moving as if he had detected a suspicious smell. Then,
realizing there was no feline threat nearby, he began to chew the piece of cheese that was
placed in front of his cave, a crevice between two powder crates.
“We can talk now, but do not speak too loudly,” said Rascal, his eyes beaming with joy as he
watched his pet devour the food.

27. “What happened?” I said. “He used to be quite bold right?”
“I will tell you what happened. But… what do you really want?”
“What do you really mean?”
“If you want to touch mine or have me touch yours, it will cost ten francs. However, you do not
seem interested, Father”.
“Then what do you think I want?”
“You are not listening to your body, but that is alright. I suppose you think I have another secret
about Bennie, and you want to find out?”
“Yes, I sense that something is happening aboard the ship, particularly here on the orlop deck,
in her belly.”
“This secret is huge. How about… ten francs?”
I could not help but chuckle, “If that is your final secret, then here are your ten francs”. I now
knew for sure that Rascal was not just another kid. He was a devil, albeit a reasonable one.
As he collected his prizes from my hand—two sparkling Louis-Philippe 5-franc coins—Rascal
looked up and pointed at the top crate of the pile. "Father, do you see that top crate? Does it not
look a bit different?”
Following his pointed finger, I noticed a partially uncovered wooden crate. This crate, the
innermost one, was made of a different type of wood and had an unusual hollow space, about
the size of an orange. The absence of any identifying information, such as a label or description,
added to my suspicion—nothing indicated it contained wheat flour or any dimensions like 40 x
20 x 20.
“It is another cabin,” the young boy whispered, lowering his voice as if he feared someone might
overhear. “Once, Black Tom, that stupid cat, chased my Bennie into that hole. I thought if I
moved the bottom crates, I might find a door. But why should I bother? Unless… Richard, the
reporter, is willing to pay me ten francs, perhaps?”
I could not help but exclaim, “Darn! The door! That is what I have been seeing, in my dreams!
The door!”
As excited as I was, I shuddered at the thought of moving all those crates—filled with flour, dried
meat, canned food; and suitcases and trunks belonging to passengers; along with ropes, sails,
and basic tools for ship maintenance; as well as blankets, sheets, and pillows for passenger

28. comfort—to one side so that the suspected door could be revealed. Maybe Rascal, that street-
smart cabin boy, was right. Why should it all fall on me? Why not let Richard help?
“You're right, Rascal,” I said, patting him on the bony shoulder. “That pile of crates is too much
for the two of us to handle. Besides, someone might come down. Richard and I will be back
here tonight at eleven. Will you wait for us?”
“Sure”, said the boy with a happy grin. “The chef must be swearing now. He told me he needed
a bag of wheat flour this morning. But it is another ten francs right? I could get into trouble, even
danger”.
“Here are my deposited 5 francs”, I said as I emptied my pocket. “But do not imagine another
secret alright, or I shall ask for it!”
“Ask for what?”
“Ask for it!” I said, measuring the temptation of human intimacy, something I had been trained to
do without, yet I couldn’t stop questioning it. I realized that my fondness for Rascal was purely
emotional—although I wondered if I was lying to myself again. In the end, I simply rubbed his
head and made my way up the vertical ladder, returning him to his normal duties.
I thought Richard would jump at the news I had for him—imagine a series of reports showcasing
various nautical secrets for the Times—but he simply said, “No, Father. As an experienced
investigative reporter, I know where to draw the line, and when your luck runs out. Besides, I
have my newlywed Clara”.
The words of Father Gagelin—whom I never met but held in great affection because we came
from the same diocese, Besançon—echoed in my ears: “Remember, my young friend, that we
are the bearers of the gospel. We are men of purpose, not family.” I said to Richard, whose
choice of family seemed as simple as an opening chess move, “Thanks anyway, my young
friend! I have blessed your marriage once, but I will continue to do so!”
When you are at sea, your balance—be it physical, emotional, or spiritual—is put to the test.
There are always things that rock you, sideways. Those are the words of Benson, the fortunate
old-timer himself. And in the end, after quite a few capsizing incidents maybe, you learn the art
of self-righting!
As I strolled along the promenade deck—the distinctive flat canopy of Cape Town had come
into view—I thought of the thousands of ships that were wrecked in these turbulent waters,
where the Atlantic and Indian oceans collided and wrestled like two ancient Titans. In the old-
timer’s words, a clash between St. Christopher and Jonah’s Whale, between kind heart and raw
power, between human will and God’s order.

29. Then out of the blue sky or sea, Amari appeared on the deck, still sweating from his boiler shift
but as godlike as ever. I had always thought I was attracted to him physically, but maybe I was
lying to myself again. Maybe I needed, even depended upon him more than I thought. Maybe
this meeting was no accident, but a forewarning, just like my dream.
“How are you, Amari?” I greeted him, unable to hide the gladness in my voice.
“I am fine. Before you cross that threshold and never go back, I want to give you a choice”, he
said, to my open-mouthed surprise.
“You know the door? And the cabin?”
“Yes, I was there before. He tried to offer me, my soul I mean, to the Apep. But I survived the
serpent”.
“The Chief Engineer?”
“Yes. He will try to do something similar to your soul. You will end up sacrificing yours because
you are a born martyr. But I want to offer you another path”.
“Tell me then”.
“Tonight, instead of walking into that hidden chapel—a hideous, genius trap—you could follow
me onto a stolen lifeboat. We shall have to row just a few miles to the shore”.
“Why the risk? The captain said everyone could go ashore tomorrow, as the ship arrives in the
port”.
“No, not everyone. After the incident at Ascension Island, he knew who I was”.
“So who are you, Amari?”
“You will remember it all, one day. But tonight, at eleven, if you want to join me in my escape,
come to my cabin and knock three times”.
“If not?”
“I still love you, Father. And believe in you”.
I was too shocked to say anything. Not so much because of the stoker’s bold plan as his
defenseless, remorseless declaration. When a man like him uses the word ‘love’, he means it,
with all the sinful connotations of humanity. Unlike that godlike love you encounter so often in
the Bible.