As we sailed around Diamond Rock, we learned about the legendary battle that took place there in 1805 between the British Navy and the French Spanish flotilla. Although Napoleon had been a mighty power sweeping Europe in those years, he had not performed as well in the ocean. However, after 17 months of siege, the tour guide told us, the French Commander Villeneuve managed to get back the contended rock. It was then that Samuel Hood had the black rebels executed in exchange for a few of his own men.

“And to this day” -- he said -- “British ships still salute the ‘ship of stone’, as they consider the rock to be their sister still on service in the Royal Navy. Today access is barred, you can only circumnavigate the rock, which is home to many sea birds, and it has been protected since 1994.”

Back in Fort-de-France, I did not think much of this story. We had a delicious lunch of local sea food and enjoyed the scenery from the harbour. Later in the afternoon, my husband and I made up our minds for a stroll in the local and rather lonesome graveyard. Many of the graves were hardly signposted and it was difficult to read the names on the tombstones, when indeed there were any. However, one of the tombs caught my attention because it was somewhat isolated from the others, which were laid out in rows. I went near to read the name of its occupier.

“Here lies the iguana woman.”

I pointed out the odd sentence to John. He shrugged.

When we met George, our guide, again he looked somewhat puzzled. “Oh! That’s an old story.” “Who was the iguana woman?”

George looked at me for a while. I waited.

“It’s another legend. It was a native woman, the sister of one of the rebels Hood handed over to Villeneuve.”

“Why is she called the iguana woman?”

“Tradition or superstition, I guess. It was rumoured she could shapeshift into all sorts of animals, and the iguana was her pet...”

“The iguana woman,” I repeated again, as if this would help me come closer to her story. Before I could ask any more questions, George said:

“Maybe you can find out more about her in the Schoelcher library. You read French, don’t you?”

I nodded, as George opened the door of his jeep and told us to jump in: we were off to the South for our trip along the island coast; if we were lucky, we would be able to watch dolphins.

The morning after I headed to the local library, while John walked uphill with George.

He shook his head when I announced I would go to the library to learn about the iguana woman on such a bright, sunny day. But there I was, taken in the net of an unknown creole woman that had lived two centuries ago.

The library assistant was a kind, middle-aged man. He wore his pince-nez on the tip of his nose. Only his grey hair gave away the fact he was no longer young, yet his skin was still exceptionally taut. When I asked for books about the Anglo-French battle at Diamond Rock, he produced a pile of volumes, the most complete account of the history of the island from 1762 to 1815.

I sat at one of the desks near the window and learned about the sugar cane plantation system, and how Martinique had been the battleground of the rivalries between the French and the British, who took it several times: first in 1762-1763, then, in 1794, when Napoleon abolished slavery in all the French empire. Yet, the British not only had the upper hand in Martinique but also maintained the old slave system. There was a brief interlude of slavery abolition, but in 1802 Napoleon, allegedly influenced by his wife Josephine, who had been raised on a plantation on the island, re-introduced slavery. In 1804, the British Royal Navy Commander Samuel Hood fortified Diamond Rock, and for seventeen months he and his one hundred twenty men kept it, and barred access to the bay, so that the French and their allies bombed and sieged the Rock to regain control of the area, which they eventually managed to do.

I leafed through the pages, scanning and skimming in search of “the iguana woman”. Nowhere was she mentioned. Hood and Villeneuve, the General in charge of the French flotilla joined forces in the repression of slave rebels that reclaimed freedom and equal rights for all.

In a tiny footnote, I found the following reference:

“Legend encroaches upon history. One of the British officers was found dead and covered in iguana blood, apparently because of a supernatural curse, according to local folklore.”

I read on. Nothing about her.

I left the library empty-handed.

John and George would not be back until tea time, so I decided to walk through the alleys of Fort-de-France. Among tropical fruit stalls on display, a tiny door on a pink façade caught my eye. I drew nearer. There was a sign in French and English. I went in.

It took me a while to adjust my sight to the gloom inside. I could smell mould. The room was spacious. At the far end, an arc let the gaze wander into yet another big room full of bookshelves.

“Madame, est que je peux vous aider?”

“Oui, Je voudrais…”

The man switched to English: “You are English! Glad to see a fellow-citizen here… please, make yourself comfortable, and browse as much as you like.”

I wandered through the aisle and scanned the book stacks: so many volumes, hardly catalogued, were grouped by themes. I approached the local history section. Mr Davidson, the antiquarian, gave me a chair, and I settled among heaps of books and old manuscripts. Mr Davidson looked at me from afar. After watching me for a good while, he came over and said: “What are you looking for? Is there anything I can help you with?”

“I was at the graveyard yesterday and came across an unkempt lonely grave: it belongs to “the iguana woman”. I asked the tour guide, and he directed me to the library where I could not learn anything about her. I only know her dates of birth and death, from the tombstone: she was only fifteen when she died. Apart from that, nothing. Do you know her story? Can you help me to find out the details?”

“I am afraid I can’t personally, but I know somebody who might help you…”

***

The room where the priest welcomed his guests was laden with icons of Catholic saints, religious paraphernalia, crucifixes, and strange images I had never seen before. White candles

were burning all around. I sat on the flowery sofa with Mr Davidson. He had arranged the meeting with the local priest who performed Quimbois rituals for his clients and was the last descendant of the most famous priest of the island back in the nineteenth century. If there was anybody who could help me, there he was, Mr. Davidson reassured me.

The last client, a young woman wearing an orange madras, came out crying. A plump lady gestured for me to go in, it was my turn. I looked at Mr. Davidson. He just nodded to encourage me.

The priest looked so ordinary and yet ancient that he read my expression and said: “Not quite what you expected Mrs?” He pointed out a comfortable chair in front of his desk, where all sorts of objects, from bones to feathers to stones and little statues, crowded together. He smiled, a huge gap in his teeth. I smiled back and explained my interest in the “iguana woman.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I saw her tombstone and was moved. I don’t know why.”

He looked into my eyes for a long moment. Then he said: “I will help you. I am the last in my line, I do not have any children and that story may be buried with me if I don’t tell you.”

He stood up and opened a cabinet behind his desk. He handed me an envelope which looked old and yellowish. “Careful,” he said, “my great grandfather and the iguana woman herself wrote these letters for my grandfather, my father and myself. They wanted to preserve a trace of what had happened.”

I opened the envelope slowly, lest it may fall apart. Inside I found some sheets of paper covered with longhand writing. Ink bloats and time had made the handwriting difficult to read in some spots.

“My great grandfather was the iguana woman’s godfather and initiated her in the Quimbois tradition. We usually don’t speak about these matters with strangers, but you asked me for help, and I want the truth to be known, once I am no longer alive.”

I nodded.

“Read them and bring them back when you are done.”

“Can I take pictures?”

“Certainly, you can, but remember only telling the story once I am in my grave. It shouldn’t take too long.” He grinned and shook my hands with energy. I thanked him.

When I went out, Mr. Davidson was waiting for me.

***

After dinner with John, I snuggled in the couch in our hotel room and prepared to read the papers a Martinique priest, a free black man, had written two centuries ago.

“Notes from the life of Malika J., known to some as ‘the iguana woman’”, dated 1st January 1806. While reading, I translated it into English as best as I could:

Malika J. was born in Saint Pierre in 1790 from a freed slave woman, Marie Comba, and her master, Monsieur Dubois, owner of the most extensive sugar cane plantation on the island. Her mother had also a son, Gaston, whose father had been a slave too. Gaston was only two years older than Malika.

Her mother entrusted them to me on her deathbed, and I took it upon me to raise them and to be their godfather. Gaston and Malika loved each other dearly, as two siblings could ever love one another. I still remember their ingenious pranks the moment I was busy with the preparation of ointments.

Gaston turned into an eager young man, formed his own family at 14 and went on to become a rebel, intending to kick the foreign invaders out of Martinique.

As a child, Malika was lively and gay and always asked me puzzling questions. I realised early on she was intelligent and set out to teach her about all the herbs and healing remedies. As she grew up, she helped me with the preparation of concoctions and brews. At age 14, she was ready to be initiated into our tradition, and I officiated at the ritual that made her into a séanceuse. She became a healer in her own right and everybody in the neighbourhood asked for her advice when I was not around. She was the most affectionate of girls and gave me reasons to be proud. I also taught her to read and write French. She kept a cat and a dog as pets, but her favourite and inseparable companion was a green iguana, until the end.

When the British captured our island and negotiated with the French to impose their own jurisdiction in 1794, the Revolution had spread throughout the Leeward Islands. Everywhere, slaves rebelled and fought for their freedom: “Vive libre ou mourir” was their motto. In the same year the French abolished slavery everywhere in the empire, but because Martinique was under British protection, here slavery went on undisturbed.

Malika grew up skilled and beautiful and was not long before she attracted the attention of men, both coloured and white. The fateful event of her life happened when she went to the market one early morning in June and met the gaze of a young British officer, who happened to be stationed in the market square with his men to ensure that no uprisings would follow the gathering, for at that time the authorities had forbidden all informal and formal group rendez-vous, lest a riot should break.

At that time, Malika was open with me. She came home, passion stirring in her eyes, and when questioned, she did not hide that she was bewitched. A white man had cast a spell on her. I chided her for her forwardness and told her to forget the man. I knew she would not, so for a while I locked her up. But fate was stronger than my resolve.

One day, as Malika went about her chores, the British came to question me about Gaston’s involvement in a plot. I certainly denied I knew anything. I think the officer did not believe me and kept on asking questions to catch me off guard. When Malika dashed on the spot to see what was going on, I realised from both their faces, I was speaking to the very man she had seen at the market. He suddenly turned gentle and asked if she was my daughter. I said yes. He could not take his eyes off her. She stared back in surprise and then lowered her gaze. I sighed.

In the following days, the officer found many excuses to pay short visits. One day, as I was away dealing with a neighbour’s sick son, the officer came. I suspect things changed there and then, for Malika grew reserved and spoke little. Only much later, did I find confirmation of my suspicions in Malika’s account. She had written it for me to know the truth, as she called it, before taking her life, on the night of December 31st, 1805. Here is what happened in her own words.

I paused, here the handwriting was different, rounded and small. It was Malika J.’s last letter:

Dear Father,

As you read these words, I will have crossed over to the land of the dead. Maybe, I will find peace there. You have been an honourable and good father to me and taught me everything. I know I will give you great sorrow with this account, but I want you to know the truth, even if my shame is great.

The day Maurice Barnard snatched my heart I did not even know his name. I was choosing vegetables and fruits at the market, as I did every week. The moment his eyes alighted on me I felt a strange surge of confusion inside and since, I was then very inexperienced, I had no name for such strong sensation. In the following days, I learned that he was a British officer stationing on our island. He showed his interest, and came around a few times and spoke to you, I am sure you will remember him, for he inquired about Gaston and his involvement with the maroons.

What you don’t know is that we started dating secretly at night, outside of town, along a desolated stretch of beach. He was courteous and gallant. And as he told me about England and London and all the attractions of that far-away country, that he would show me one day, if only I was ready to leave this island with him, I dreamt wide awake of a place where I could satisfy my hunger for knowledge and life. Little did I think about the fact that I was a coloured woman, for when I was with him, I felt transported to other worlds.

Had I withdrawn then, I may have been still in time to avoid ruin and disgrace, but I was reckless and dauntless and wanted to believe that he could really love me.

In too short a time I became his lover, and we would meet in our secluded hut whenever he was off duty, and I was free from your supervision.

Dear Father,

How I regret not having listened to your advice, but it is too late now, and time is running out for us.

Over the long months of French siege, I was helping the English with provisions and nightly errands. I was intoxicated by the prospect of leaving the island and being the wife of an Englishman. Last night, before the defeat of the British at Diamond Rock, when the French surrounded and stormed the fortress, I was there, bringing what help I could with my healing skills.

At dawn, the British surrendered and after a long negotiation, His Majesty’s Commander Samuel Hood and French General Villeneuve reached an agreement, which has wreaked havoc and is the very end of our island. They agreed to join their forces to repress the islands’ rebels.

Hood demanded that a few British officials be set free, and in exchange he offered to execute the captured rebels that had been fighting for the freedom of Martinique from slavery and foreign rule.

The worst hour of my life came when I saw their faces, and Gaston among them. Maurice Bernard was put in charge of the execution. The rebels were made to stand in a row and Maurice was ready to order soldiers to charge their rifles.

Gaston looked at them with spite. When I realised what was happening, I entreated Maurice and fell on my knees in front of the whole Regiment. There was a moment of deep silence, a moment that felt so long to me and no doubt to the rebels, when Maurice looked back at me and appraised my face with cool detachment. Then, he turned slowly and ordered two guards to take me away from the site and lock me in his office. As the guards fetched me, I yelled, cried, cursed, kicked, to no avail. I threw a last glance at Gaston and the others and shouted at the top of my lungs: “Vive la liberté, Frères!”

I heard Maurice shout: “Charge!”

The booming of the rifles shattered the sky, my heart and my illusions. I wanted to take my life there and then, but a design of revenge has taken shape in my feverish mind. I have watched the soldiers shove away the dead bodies and throw them at sea.

Dear Father,

Forgive me, if you can.

Your loving and unworthy daughter,

Here the Quimboiser’s unstable handwriting concluded the account.

This was all she said. The morning after, they found Maurice Bernard’s corpse covered with iguana blood in his own office. As for Malika, she could not be found anywhere, except that her body washed ashore when the British had already set sail towards England.

I came across her letter the day after a fisherman found her body among the rocks. I buried her quickly and simply engraved on the tombstone the following words: “Here lies the iguana woman.” May the ancestors forgive her, and give her and Gaston peace.

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