The Emerald Storm (17 page)

I looked down on his woolly head, glistening in the wet. “You mean Dessalines, who trades with the United States for weapons.”

“The Washington of our revolution. Yes, Jubal knows.”

“You’re a soldier for the other side?” The last men I would consider for that role were human camels.

“It’s the rare black man in Cap-François who doesn’t serve two, three, or more masters. It’s necessary for survival, yes? The
mambo
Cecile Fatiman foresaw that a white man is coming who knows our hero Toussaint L’Ouverture. Is this true?”

“Yes. But who is Cecile Fatiman?”

“The wise witch who preached our revolt a dozen years ago in the Bois Caïman, the Alligator Wood. That’s where it all started.”

“You mean the war?”

“She danced with the rebel Boukman and slit the black pig for blood. I saw the slave frenzy with my own eyes, because I’d already slain my master and become a Maroon who hid in the jungle. Cecile is led by the voodoo spirit Ezili Danto, the seductress who knows all. Our
mambo
prophesized that an American would come, and here you are.”

I was still trying to get straight the complex history. “What happened to Boukman?”

“His head was put on a pike. His revolt, though, goes on.”

Here was opportunity with broad shoulders. I was in an odd position for negotiation, but also felt a glimmer of hope. “I
was
the last to see Toussaint L’Ouverture alive.”

“And he told you something, no? This is what Cecile sees.”

“He told my wife. She’s a bit of a priestess herself.”

“The dead Toussaint now waits for us in Africa with all our loved ones and ancestors. If we fall in battle, we go to L’Ouverture. Dessalines promises that.”

“I envy such conviction.”

“We rely on it, which is why we will win. Did you know that our soldiers are so inspired that they put their arms into the muzzles of the French cannon? What do you think of that?”

“That it’s as risky as it is bold.” When it comes to faith, I’m wary to a fault.

“When the cannon fire, their souls fly to our homeland. Then the comrades who are left hack the cannoneers to pieces.”

“I admire such courage. Although I’m cautious about self-sacrifice, unless there’s a real need. Not cowardly, exactly, but prudent. It just seems practical to preserve oneself for another day.” My self-assessment fell short of being ennobling, I suppose.

“No one knows if the next day will come. You are an instrument of Fa, monsieur, our spirit of fate, but you are also in grave danger. Men have heard these prophecies and might be jealous or fearful. So you need Jubal. Bad men will send Death against you, the dark
loa
we call Baron Samedi. Or seek to make you a zombi.”

“What’s a zombi?” We’d now circuited a block, as if I couldn’t decide where to go. I was wet as a sponge, but I must say the conversation was more interesting than dinner at a planter’s house.

Jubal ignored my question. “Dessalines will meet you, Monsieur Gage, if you can bring him something worth knowing.”

“I hope to inspect the French lines.”

“We blacks have
built
the French lines. You must do better than that. You are to speak to the French? Then keep your ears open, and perhaps we will keep our eyes open for you.”

For an escaped slave, this fellow was quicker than a clerk. I wondered at his background. “It’s true I saw L’Ouverture, and it’s also true I may help the rebel cause. But my wife and I are looking for our kidnapped son, a three-year-old named Horus.”

“I could keep an eye out for him.”

“His mother would be grateful.”

“For her, I would look even harder.”

“How about a swarthy man named Leon Martel. Heavy-jawed, with the look of a weasel?”

“I haven’t seen him. The French do not invite me to their parties.”

“Martel is a renegade policeman. Cruel, like Rochambeau.”

“But I may have
heard
of him, because the black man hear everything.”

“You have?” I bounced on his shoulders.

“I will ask,” he said enigmatically. Now he changed direction to finish crossing the street.

By a gunner’s ramrod, what else did this creature know? “And I want to learn island legends that might help you and me.”

That stopped him. “What legends?”

“About treasure recovered by escaped Maroons that was hidden, lost, and awaits rediscovery by the right cause.”

“If I knew about treasure, would I carry you?” He laughed. “No, Jubal knows no legends. Maybe Cecile does. Listen, we need the key to Cap-François, not old stories. Bring that, and I will take you to Dessalines and Cecile Fatiman. Then we will help find your son.” He finally set me on the opposite boardwalk, dripping as if I’d fallen into a river, my boots still clean. “These are cruel commanders you’ve come to, Ethan Gage. After a dozen years of war there is no mercy. Take care to recognize who is your friend, and who is your enemy.”

“How do I do that?”

“By how they treat your wife.”

“They’ll treat her correctly or pay with their lives.”

“You must treat her correctly, too, because you never know when she might be taken from you.”

“What does that mean?”

“To take care. Good-bye, now.”

“Wait! How will I find you again?”

“I talk with Dessalines. Then
I
will find
you
.”

I turned to go, both enlightened and mystified.

“Monsieur?” he said.

“Yes?”

“A franc, if you please.”

I gave him three.

Chapter 19

R
ochambeau was a famous name in the United States. As Lovington had recalled, the elder count led the French forces that helped Washington defeat Cornwallis at Yorktown, finally winning the American Revolution. His son had the good luck to inherit his father’s renown and the bad luck to inherit Leclerc’s sickened army, after that general succumbed to yellow fever. So far the second Rochambeau had shown more cruelty than initiative. He’d retreated to Cap-François and fortified his morale with women and drink.

I wasn’t surprised, then, that the invitation to call upon his headquarters was issued to both Mr. and Mrs. Gage. Word of Astiza’s exotic beauty had spread quickly around the city, and the notorious Rochambeau was likely contemplating a different kind of conquest to make up for his lack of victories on the battlefield. We had to let him think such corruption was possible, while not allowing it.

Certainly I recognized the danger. Plain women are more devoted, older ones more appreciative, but I, too, have an eye for beauty—it’s a fault of mine—and knew I had to defend the woman I’d married.

The French Government House was a two-story, white stone building flanked north and south by orderly landscaping meant to emphasize power. Now the complex betrayed physical and moral decay. Window sashes were peeling, flower beds had gone to weed, litter curled in corners, and four small cannon were aimed on the lawns as if this governor was as threatened by his own population as the rebel army. The building’s court and foyer were thick with French officers and military bustle, but their assembly was untidy in the way of men who are losing hope and discipline. Maps and papers were in heaps, swords and muskets leaned in disorderly tangles, and unwashed bottles and plates drew flies. Hats were off, coats thrown across furniture, and muddy tracks crisscrossed the floors.

Astiza and I had our papers inspected and then were escorted to the general’s office upstairs, the mahogany door opening to the scent of tobacco and cologne.

Rochambeau didn’t make a good first impression. He was a squat man with a round, soft, rather sullen face, reminding me of a stocky schoolhouse bully. His head was sunk between his shoulders, and a brown birthmark surrounded one eye so he looked punched. He received us in a hussar’s hot uniform, blue breeches and cavalry shirt with red collar and silk sash, the finery making him sweat. His plump torso was buttoned tight with rows of horizontal silver frogging that, to an American rifleman, would function mostly as tempting target. His shoulder epaulettes were sturdy enough to balance beer mugs on. The dress was gaudy, but I knew some women have a weakness for peacock display. He stood from his desk to inspect us, we wearing clothes similar to what we’d paraded on the Louvre iron bridge.

I glanced about; I have the habit of orienting myself because it’s useful to have an escape route when life becomes too exciting. Rochambeau’s office windows looked down across the gardens toward the port and its forest of ships, as if to remind where escape lay. A balcony extended next door to his private quarters. Heavy French curtains hung damp, too heavy to move in the breeze.

The general greeted me by name but came out around his desk to Astiza, bowing, kissing her hand, and simpering a compliment like a clumsy Casanova. His eyes were small and, I decided in predetermined distaste, piglike. Many women apparently considered him oddly handsome, given the allure that high birth and money brings, but I didn’t see it. Leclerc’s death, I suspected, had been disastrous for France in more ways that one. It had left their army to a man void of imagination for anything but reprisal and infidelity.

Of course, I was traveling under false pretenses myself, and Rochambeau could justifiably have me shot as a spy, should he learn my real mission. Here again, Astiza was useful. She’d donned the little pendant Bonaparte had given me at Saint-Cloud, a fine chain letting it fall to the swell of her breasts.

“I admire your jewelry, madame.”

“A gift from the first consul.” She blushed modestly.

Rochambeau’s brows rose. “And this is for?”

“Persons he favors. It actually is in honor of my husband. Ethan is such an able diplomat.”

“Well.” The general sat back down, regarding us with new respect and, I sensed, suspicion. “I hope you appreciate the significance of that bauble.” Anyone close to Bonaparte had as many enemies as friends, I knew.

“I view it as protection,” she said calmly.

The general nodded uncertainly, beckoning us to sit. Then he tapped the forged papers I’d brought with the pretend signatures of American delegates Livingston and Monroe. “I appreciate your wish to understand our strategic position in the Americas, Gage, but unless I get reinforcements, anything you report will be obsolete. Louisiana has been sold, and the English are attacking everywhere. They’ve already taken Castries in Saint-Lucia and then Tobago, and are scooping up Dutch islands like walnuts in a barrel. Where is my navy? Hiding in French ports, as near as I can tell. If the British blockade, our position will be precarious indeed. The colony may become entirely black, which means, of course, entirely savage. Yet the remedy seems beyond our grasp.”

“Remedy?” I glanced about. His office had the usual masculine decoration of flags, standards, swords, firearms, and old halberds and pikes, as if they’d cleaned out the Bastille’s attic before tearing the prison down. There was also a purple velvet settee strewn with yellow silk pillows, and a sideboard with wines, brandies, and liqueurs with a set of fine crystal.

“The ultimate solution is to exterminate Saint-Domingue of its present Negro population, which has been infected with radical ideas, and bring in an entirely new and docile population from Africa. The novice slaves must be kept from reading or hearing anything, prohibited from meeting, and taught that disobedience results in indescribable pain. It’s no different than training a dog or breaking a horse.” He examined his rounded fingernails. “But to do that, I need a huge army, and our army has melted away with fever like frost before a sun. It’s as if God is against us, which I do not understand. Does he want the rule of pagan voodoo? Churches made of trees and swamps? Peasants growing yams instead of plantations growing sugar? We’ve had a
Code Noir
, the Black Code, which spelled out the rights of master and slave alike. The result was paradise. Now the Negro has chosen anarchy.”

“Maybe it wasn’t paradise for them.”

“It prohibited beating or execution at whim. And we’ve done them a favor by rescuing them from Africa. Under the
Code Noir
, all men had their place. The king himself helped draft it, when we had a king. But that was long ago, wasn’t it? Now Bonaparte is trying to restore calm by reinstating slavery, which is the only economy that ever made sense. But the blacks have become fanatics. So I’ve been left to fall back on my imagination to keep barbarism at bay. I’m a creative man in my own way, but I am misunderstood and little appreciated, even by my own officers.” He sighed, the very picture of self-sacrifice.

“Great men are not always recognized in their own time.” I figured flattery might prove more useful than truth.

“My primary concern is the protection of innocents such as your wife,” he continued, aiming a smile at Astiza. “I also work to fortify our morale with entertainments. There’s a ball tomorrow night; you both must come. Our worst defeat would be to give up civilization. So I work tirelessly to sustain normalcy, just as I work tirelessly to keep us safe from Dessalines, who has hanged and tortured more good Frenchmen that one can count.” He gave her a nod and a wink, the bastard. “We must not let him at our women.”

“I appreciate your gallantry,” my wife said, with such astonishing pretend sincerity that I appreciated again the ability of females to negotiate relationships with the skill of actresses. “I
do
hope you can keep us protected during our sojourn in Saint-Domingue, my dear vicomte.”

“You can be sure of it.” He picked up a pistol to fondle absently, and I could only hope it was unloaded. “The secret to dealing with the Negro is ruthlessness. Leclerc did his best to be stern, tying some of his captive to heavy flour sacks and throwing them into the harbor to drown, but that’s a waste of good bread. There was a point beyond which he would not go. I have no such scruples. I have hanged, I have shot, I have burned, and I have boiled. Have you ever watched men being boiled alive, Mrs. Gage?”

“Never.” She gave a little shudder. If anyone could wring secrets out of Rochambeau, I supposed, it would be Astiza. But I was damned if she’d do it near his bedroom. “How soldierly to carry it through,” she continued, as I shifted uncomfortably.