The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  Estelle had told him they had buried her. “What do you mean by ‘get Maman?”

  He looked at her with a mixture of disappointment and contempt. She was shocked, and wondered what she had done wrong.

  ***

  The cart ride was unbearable. Soon they passed the gates of Quartier-Morin. The overseers galloped to them, one after the other, to challenge the trespass. But as soon as they were close enough to see Féroce Guerrier at the reins, they simply waved and rode off. Guillaume had calmed. He was actually completely calm, even lost in concentration or a daydream. Estelle felt sick to her stomach.

  They came to the church. “Where is she?” asked Papa.

  “Papa-”

  “WHERE IS SHE?” screamed her father.

  Estelle sobbed.

  “WHERE IS SHE?” he yelled even louder.

  “Over there!” she pointed.

  “WHERE? SHOW ME!” he screamed.

  Hysterical, Estelle left the bench and walked to her mother’s grave, where her name was scratched on a wooden cross.

  “What does that say?” he asked harshly, pointing at the cross.

  “It says her name.”

  “Move. Go back to the cart.”

  Estelle went back to the cart just as Father Jozef came out of the church with his two helpers. Estelle couldn’t look him in the eye. “What are you doing here?” he asked of Papa.

  Papa grabbed a spade and began to dig.

  “What are you doing? Stop that at once!”

  “And who is going to stop me? You? If you took this shovel with both hands, but I did not let go and we struggled for it, how long would it take for you to run out of breath and let go?” Papa said, grinning.

  “This is outrageous. Do you honestly think you can come here and begin digging on holy ground?”

  “Frankly, I do,” grinned Papa.

  Father turned to his helpers, “Let’s go.” The Father walked away, and soon the three of them were left alone once more.

  Estelle was astounded at how little authority Father seemed to have over Papa. Most people were very respectful and even afraid of Father Jozef, who was a strong and forceful presence. In any case, no one returned, neither Father Jozef or anyone else.

  As the hole was dug deeper, the stench of rot became more apparent. Estelle was sickened, horrified that the smell emanated from her Maman, who was being disturbed in her eternal rest. Papa sweated in the heat, but his pace did not slow. Soon Maman’s wrapped body was thrown up from the pit, to land unceremoniously on the ground. The sheets and blankets of her burial shroud were stained brown from mud and putrefaction. Papa soon emerged from the hole. He wiped his hands together, then threw her body over his shoulder, walked it to the cart, and tossed it in back. The smell was overwhelming. He sat back on the bench, took the reins, and, with a quick “tsk-tsk”, Abruti turned the cart.

  But they did not go north, back to Le Cap. They headed south. Guillaume said nothing. He had not spoken for hours. Papa seemed immune to the smell. He looked around at the scenery, occasionally becoming animated when he saw a rare animal or a pretty sight. “Look at the caiman!” he would say, excited, as if he had never been cross a day in his life.

  A little less than fifteen miles south of Le Cap, the foothills started to rise from the river valleys. The cart headed up into the mountains. It was the road to Milot - the way to Champ-Élevé. Papa gave the reins to Estelle, for Abruti did not really know Guillaume. He walked behind the cart, giving it a push when needed. Sometimes he talked with Maman, “Remember this tree? I don’t know where all the leaves went on the east side of it. Although it is still gorgeous, isn’t it?”

  They made camp in the late afternoon and started a good, smoky fire to ward off the insects. The next day there was no breakfast.

  They were past Milot in the late afternoon. It was a small town, and there were not many people about, mostly coffee slaves doing errands. Estelle recognized some of them, who gave them a wide berth. The Guerriers carried bad mojo, as the Vodoun Mambos would say, and today they also brought a bad smell.

  Two hours later they were past Champ-Élevé. Papa engaged the brake on the cart, placed rocks behind the wheels, and unhitched Abruti. He tied Maman to the mule’s back, and, wordlessly, they all began to hike up the hill.

  Night was about to fall when they reached Maman’s waterfall and lagoon. Estelle was tired, Guillaume’s breath came in ragged tufts. Papa was still as fresh as when he got off the cart. He gently took Maman’s body and swam her out to the middle of the lagoon, then returned and stood on the muddy bank. Her body floated on the water, making a slow, lazy spin with the waterfall’s current.

  Papa looked out over the lagoon, and spoke to his wife, “It is not the forest of Ards, but I know you loved this place,” he said quietly. Her body, right at that moment, began to sink. Papa nodded, then used the water of the pool to clean himself and Abruti.

  They made a fire on the ridge of the lagoon. Papa did not say anything until Estelle and Guillaume were almost asleep. “I cannot believe you buried her on a sugar plantation. What on earth were you thinking? What if I had not come home?” Papa shook his head, and looked back into the fire. Estelle was ashamed and did not know why. Guillaume was silent and calm, just as he had been for the last day - and half of the one before that.

  They were up early the next day. They ate in Milot and continued. Downhill was much faster, and soon they were back in Le Cap, at the large, crowded harbor. Féroce pulled the cart to a magnificent three-masted merchantman, still being loaded with sugar, named La Petite Princesse de Nantes. Féroce was ebullient and grinning with the men on the docks, “Buy a cart and mule for two livres? One-time chance for a steal, mon ami.”

  In minutes, half the street stood around Féroce, laughing and talking. Soon Papa sold his cart and horse - for more than two livres - and they were aboard the ship. Three long hours later, she moved away from the dock. Féroce and Guillaume were almost mirror images of calm thoughtfulness as the ship was towed into the bay. Soon, her sails were unfurled, and they were finally away.

  It was then - when no sane Captain would have turned the ship around - when Guillaume made his move. He launched at full speed across the deck, and jumped over the side. The plan was perfect: Papa could not follow without Estelle going to France alone. It would have been masterful, save Féroce caught him by the ankle as he jumped. “You think me a fool, boy. I knew your plan before you did.” As the sailors chuckled mirthfully, he pinned Guillaume to the deck. Guillaume was then like a feral animal, his prior calm gone as he snarled and screamed. “Have the sailors laugh at me, will you?” hissed Féroce quietly, as he pulled Guillaume into the air, and slammed him into the door leading below. Guillaume, hammered against the wood over and over, reached down and opened the door to prevent further injury. Féroce carried him down the hall and threw him against their cabin door, forcing Guillaume to open it once more, then tossed him against the bulkhead inside. When Guillaume hit the floor, he pinned him there. He tied his ankles together and his hands behind his back. A sack went over his head.

  He gave Guillaume the thrashing of his life - with his belt, his hands and his feet. Neither was Guillaume prepared to bear the beating, being soft and accustomed to a sedentary, interior life. It was a long, drawn-out affair, designed to break his spirit. “Did that feel good?” Féroce snarled, “I bet you liked that one, didn’t you, fat man?” Guillaume was screaming in agony at the top of his lungs, and could not answer.

  As Féroce was leaving, Guillaume finally spoke, “I hope you die, and go straight to hell,” he said, through the sack, and still tied.

  Féroce smiled, “You and ten-thousand redcoats. But the ten-thousand and one of you have merde luck and worse aim, so I’d come to terms with your lot, if I were you.”

  Féroce took a bottle of Champagne, and went above decks. The sailors were not laughing. They had snickered at first, when one heard the screams and told the others - but the beating had lasted too l
ong. Even a sailor wasn’t whipped for such a time.

  Estelle stood where her father had left her. Her eyes were downcast, she was in a dark mood.

  Féroce grinned at the sailors, “Are you lads ready for a show?” They grinned weakly, not sure what he meant, but certainly not about to gainsay him.

  Féroce went to the bow, and poured the champagne into the water for Agwé. He began to dance and sing, to gain his blessing and protection for the journey.

  Féroce was accustomed and knowledgeable in the ways of men, yet his actions were mostly objectionable to those onboard. But Féroce knew what he was doing. He was purposefully confrontational. He was forcing every man-jack among them to either accept him or confront him, and acceptance was obeisance. Féroce was marking his territory - he was in charge and it was going to be his way.

  Estelle looked over at the sailors, and saw some of them glanced at him, but nothing more. Papa was too strong to confront, too charismatic to outmaneuver. His feet were planted firm in savagery and civilization, black and white, jungle and city. He was intimidating and unknowable.

  When Estelle fished, she threw a bit of the catch back to appease her uncles, then told them about God. That was one thing. This was another. This was blasphemy and nonsense, and from her Papa, no less. And there was a part of her that very much wanted to punish him.

  Estelle took out her rosary, and began to pray in a loud voice that carried over the deck. Soon some of the sailors joined in. After the first glorious mystery, half the men on deck were praying along with her at the chorus couplets. After the second, all of them were. Soon her father stopped his ridiculous song and dance, and looked at her with an even, uncomprehending stare. In a few minutes, with a scratch of his head and a shrug, he went below decks. Estelle finished her rosary. The sailors smiled at her. She shyly smiled back.

  Her father commanded men. He intimidated them. He could enforce his personality upon them with his fists. But Estelle had just beaten him for the allegiance of the crew, and he wasn’t sure how she did it.

  silhouettes by EK Duncan

  Jake, 1832

  Chapter Nine

  The oldest and most defensible part of Paris was the Île de la Cité, the largest island in the middle of the Seine river. The ancient Frankish Merovingian kings had put everything there they didn’t want burned or stolen by the Vikings. The fortified royal residence, the Palais de la Cité, housed their monarchs from the late 800’s. The site was renovated and enlarged, and soon became quite grand. Five, six, seven stories of castle, tower and palace soared in grey stone and blue slate. The True Crown of Thorns, and a piece of the True Cross, taken by Crusaders, was placed in the new Sainte-Chapelle, a wonder of stained glass and arches - a forest of light, the most entrancing space ever created by man. On the eastern end, the awe-inspiring Notre Dame, the first Gothic cathedral, took the place of an earlier, less-impressive church. Businesses, residences and ministries populated the spaces between these palaces of royalty and God. By 1358, defense was less of a concern, and the Valois kings finally made a permanent move to the Louvre, downstream on the right-bank. When that happened, a concierge was placed in charge of the palace complex, which was therefore renamed the Conciergerie, and it became an administrative hub holding ministries, judicial courts, the former Parlement of Paris, and a prison.

  And that was where Jake currently found himself.

  Nearly all of the prisoners interned with Jake were brother rebels of the barricades. All awaited trial in the Cour d’Assises Spéciale, tribunals where the fate of the prisoners was determined by a majority decision of seven judges, rather than a jury. On appeal, they would be judged by nine.

  When first captured, Jake drifted in and out of consciousness for a full day. It took the better part of a month for the last of his headaches to subside. It still hurt to breathe, even when the headaches were gone. He was depressed and mournful, and achingly regretful.

  Franck was dead.

  How much fault now rested on Jake’s shoulders for this horrendous tragedy? For an additional four days, Jake stayed in bed for no real reason. Finally, he was sent from the Salpêtrière hospital to the Conciergerie prison.

  Jake purchased a furnished cell, called a pistole, for 15 francs a month, which was costlier than a room at an inn. It was about the same size and style as his dorm room, just without sunlight or fresh air. He was allowed to roam the prisoner gallery and the men’s courtyard for several hours a day. He mostly slept for the first week, and only ventured out of his cell for meals. He was questioned peacefully and rationally, by a faceless ministry of detectives and officials; so often and for such lengths that it began to feel bellicose and illogical. The bureaucracy quickly produced reams of forms, statements, and reports regarding every aspect of his public being. During his second week, to preserve his sanity, he spent more time in the prisoner’s gallery. He found it chocked full of panicked strangers who planned fictional alibis and cooked excuses. At first, they all seemed rather pathetic. After a while, the ubiquitous terror seeped into Jake’s normally indomitable character.

  They were all going into combat once again. More precisely, their lawyers were going into combat. Only their lawyers would not be wounded or killed or suffer hardship. It was the defendant who would stand in proxy, and take all penalty and discomfort of battle for them. If the lawyer made a mistake, he would only shrug - but soon after, the defendant would be dead or shut behind bars. There was a powerlessness to this, a sense of being utterly outgunned and small. They were separated out from their battalions, forced to fight the might of judicial France as lonely individuals. Even the bravest men, who looked down the barrels of barking muskets, were breaking and willing to sell their principles for courtroom victory - or even leniency. Jake himself began to panic as the rebels went to trial. One after the other, all were judged guilty and received long sentences, often the rest of their life. One man, who was thought to have waved the red and black flag, received the penalty of death. Jake had clearly seen the man waving the flag - and it wasn’t him, it wasn’t even the right man! More and more, the trials were turning out to be a second rout.

  In spite of all of this, Jake had no desire to feel sorry for himself. At least he had a life. Franck did not. His family would never see him again - although Jake’s family might well never see him again, either. He had begun a letter to his father at least five times, and five times balled up the paper and burned it. Sometimes he wished his father to swoop in and save him, but that was childish. Jake was eighteen. He was a man. He had led men and women to their deaths. The court of France saw him as a man, and men should handle their own problems. Jake had, however, done absolutely nothing in this regard. He hadn’t looked at his case, sought representation, or even asked questions of the guards. Neither had anyone told him anything in regard to the process. Jake half-hoped that someday a guard would ask him who he was, Jake would tell him, and the guard would inform him that all records of his existence were lost and he was free to go. Considering the amount of paper generated by the system in regard to Jake’s case, it would take a citywide fire to destroy it all. Regardless, a part of Jake believed he could wish this scenario into concrete reality by simply ignoring his plight with studied indifference. Jake found himself questioning his sanity - his lack of industriousness already beyond any debate. He had completed only one letter during this entire process. It was to the Despres, Franck’s family, and he begged their forgiveness for what happened to Franck. He had not sent it.

  A part of Jake wished he would be sentenced to death. In his mind, the sentence would have nothing to do with sedition or rebellion, rather it would be an appropriate absolution for the death of his best friend, amongst others. He could forgive himself far more easily if he, too, was to die. Perhaps that explained much of his present behavior.

  Jake sat at his usual spot in the prison gallery next to the tailor Prospel, and the two brothers Joseph and Casimir Roussel, who had fought together at the Passage du Saumon barric
ade. Prospel knew a card game that could be played by four called Doppelkopf. It used a German deck with suits like bells, hearts, leaves and acorns. Instead of aces, there were daus. Obers and unters took the place of queens and jacks. There were bids, trumps, ansagen, absagen, kontra, keine and schwars. It was confusing, but they had nothing else to do.

  “Monsieur Loring?”

  Jake looked up, and saw a guard named Corporal Pechegru with another middle-aged man he did not recognize. This unknown man had a fat, round face with small, pudgy features, and unkempt, curly, brown hair. He was well and finely dressed, and had a thin, spry build that belied his cherubic face. Jake excused himself from the game, and went over to them. “Good morning, Corporal,” he said.

  The stranger bowed at the waist, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Loring. I am Adolphe Crémieux.”

  Jake bowed back, “Likewise, Monsieur.”

  The Corporal walked off, and left them alone. Jake, confused, turned back to Adolphe, who smiled, “I would be your lawyer, if you would have me.”

  “Are you qualified?”

  “Mildly so, I suppose.”

  “You say that as if you are abundantly qualified.”

  “I am. Could we walk as we converse.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Jake, as he motioned the direction to begin an amble, “Tell me of your qualifications, Monsieur.”

  “I was a lawyer in Nîmes for a time. I am now an advocate for the Court of Appeals.”

  “I haven’t lost or won my case. Why would I need an appeals lawyer?”

  “I have deigned to represent you now, and then, if need be.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am a Freemason, and a member of The Society. I was asked by a man you know as Citizen Bouche to help you. He is following your case very closely. You are highly placed in the movement, one of our splinter-group cell leaders, are you not?”