Love and Honor

by Harry Samkange

  3

  The CHEVALIER D'ARGENTOLLE

  BOOK ONE LOVE AND HONOR by H.M. SAMKANGE

  Outskirts Press, Inc. Denver, Colorado

  This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book. The Chevalier D’Argentolle Book One Love and Honor All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2011 H.M. Samkange v4.0 r1.2

  Cover Photo © 2011 JupiterImages Corporation. All rights reserved - used with permission.

  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Outskirts Press, Inc. http://www.outskirtspress.com

  ISBN: 978-1-4327-5312-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011911662

  Outskirts Press and the “OP” logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  For my father, who taught me how to read and gave me the gift of storytelling; and for my mother, who encouraged it. And for Shar, Austen, and Tosh, who continue, each day, to feed my imagination.

  I. Contents

  The CHEVALIER D'ARGENTOLLE.. 2

  BOOK ONE LOVE AND HONOR by H.M. SAMKANGE.. 2

  Outskirts Press, Inc. Denver, Colorado. 2

  II. Discoveries. 7

  * 12

  III. Alliance. 27

  * 42

  IV. Runaway Horses. 46

  * 62

  ** 71

  *** 76

  **** 79

  V. Breath Against Breath. 84

  VI. Recovery. 96

  * 99

  ** 131

  *** 132

  **** 136

  *****. 138

  VII. Casus Belli 139

  * 141

  ** 146

  *** 160

  **** 161

  *****. 165

  VIII. Beaux Gestes. 172

  IX. Decisions of Import 187

  * 200

  ** 204

  *** 211

  X. The Dirk and the Sword. 226

  * 232

  ** 236

  *** 249

  **** 253

  *****. 264

  ******. 278

  *******. 285

  XI. Running the Gauntlet 288

  * 293

  ** 298

  *** 307

  XII. First Encounter 312

  * 320

  ** 325

  *** 329

  **** 341

  XIII. Victory’s Hard Price. 350

  * 363

  ** 371

  XIV. A Settling of Accounts. 379

  * 388

  ** 398

  *** 402

  XV. In the Bosom of the Divine. 414

  XVI. Epilogue - No Coin for the Ferryman. 425

  XVII. APPENDIX.. 428

  II. Discoveries

  “There he is! Shoot him by God! I promised the hounds they’d feast on his black hide before the sun sets and I always keep faith with my dogs!” Mordu laughed, guiding his horse into the high cane in pursuit of his quarry. The other two riders, Tibohio and Quinot, both raised their muskets to attempt a shot, but the fugitive disappeared again into the green sea of high waving cane. Mordu whistled to encourage the pack of barking hounds, the dogs darting through the field in pursuit; panting with the effort needed to flush out their human quarry in the sweltering tropical heat.

  The sighting was the first real glimpse of the runaway that the three man posse had achieved after a full morning of pursuit. They’d left their plantation before dawn, as soon as the alarm had sounded that a valuable piece of human property was missing, but for much of the early morning the fugitive had eluded them, running north toward la Petite Anse and the sea instead of south into the mountainous jungles as they had expected. It had taken them several hours to discover their mistake, but when they had finally doubled back on the river close to noon, the dogs had picked up the scent and now they were at last closing in on their quarry; confident they would soon bring him to ground.

  Most who ran would have already been captured by now, but the man they chased was both strong and cunning. This was his third attempt at running. The first attempt had cost him fifty lashes, after which salt had been rubbed into the open wounds to teach him a proper lesson. The second failed attempt had cost him the added penalty of his left foot, which had been severed above the ankle with an axe to preclude another attempt at escape. The fact that he now ran again with only a wooden stump as terminus for his leg, was all the proof needed for Monsieur Petitfleur, his owner, to declare him a lost cause. Though the normal object of a pursuit was to return the human property intact, this one was to be made an example of as a warning to the rest. The dogs and winged scavengers would dine on his corpse. Only the head would be brought back to be placed on a stake in the middle of the enslaved quarters, so that all would know the inevitable price of flight or rebellion.

  “To the left, Quinot! Flush him out toward the road and away from that line of trees!” Mordu shouted at the thickset foreman. Quinot nodded, firing his musket to frighten the fugitive as ordered, spurring his horse to force a path through the high sugar cane -- the sweet liquid gold contained in the thick sectioned sheaths a prize so valuable that ‘civilized’ Frenchmen, who believed in a universal God of peace and mercy, spared no effort to capture, murder, enslave and debase their fellow men in pursuit of the riches it could bring.

  “The dogs have his scent now. It won’t be long until he’s flushed out into the open. I’ll go along the road to make sure he doesn’t make it to the woods,” Tibohio shouted, his free flowing hair spilling down past his shoulder blades. Mordu nodded, always trusting the instincts of the olive-skinned man-tracker with black hair and eyes, who was known as the ‘Indian’ because his make-up was said to contain some part of every human cultural strain on Hispaniola, though no one was really sure of his true origins. Even Tibohio himself didn’t know, having been abandoned at birth and raised in an orphanage by French nuns.

  The barking of the dogs became increasingly frantic as the pack closed quickly on their quarry. The riders and hounds were almost at the edge of the vast field of cane, the terrain changing to light bush and grass as they approached the road. Mordu fired his musket into the air to try and panic the runaway into a last and fatal mistake, hoping to force him to head for the seeming sanctuary of the trees. He knew that after several hours in the heat and the open sun, pushed to the point of exhaustion and with the dogs closing in, many who ran would be instinctively drawn to the shade and the dense cover of the woods, as their quarry was now.

  “He’s there!” Quinot shouted, seeing the wiry figure of a man darting from the cane and into the marshy brush along the road that led to the Cap. He raised his musket and fired, hitting the hobbled runaway in the back and downing him near the edge of the road. The dogs closed in, yelping as they came on. The runaway screamed in panic, trying his best to drag himself across the road and into the forest some fifty yards in front of him. His brief time of freedom, however, was brought to an end as the pack reached him at last, rending the rags of his clothes; cloth and then flesh coming away in bloody strips as the ravenous hounds began to devour him alive, oblivious to the man’s abject screams of agony and terror. The leader of the pack, a large white hound, chewed the runaway’s throat out to silence
his cries, ending the anguish of his enslaved life once and for all. Mordu led the other riders up to survey the gory handiwork of the dogs; pieces of human flesh and entrails strewn about the side of the road as the hungry pursuers began to growl and compete for the feast of the soft innards.

  “Go take the souvenir,” Mordu ordered Tibohio.

  Tibohio dismounted, unsheathing a large hunting knife from his side as he shouted at the dogs to make way for him. The pack leader growled menacingly as Tibohio approached the victim’s head, lifting its gore covered snout from the runaway’s chest cavity where it was greedily feasting on the dead man’s liver and heart. Tibohio paid it no attention at all, putting his foot on the black head and slicing down and through what remained of flesh and bone until the trophy of the severed head came away from the body, dripping blood onto the ground from the neck. He placed it above his shoulder as if he had grown an extra head, mimicking the terrified frozen rictus of death on the once handsome black face. The other riders exploded in laughter.

  “Hey that’s an improvement on your ugly mug,” the thick-faced Quinot declared, his wide grin exposing teeth black with rot. Tibohio bore the slight with ease. There were those much lower in the pecking order than he; the severed head in his hand confirming the truth of it. He spit at the dead face, the thick tobacco laced spittle clinging wetly to the open right eye; a gesture that earned the ready approval of his colleagues.

  “That’s for making us chase you in this damned heat,” he said, placing the head in a sack he had brought along especially for the purpose, tying it shut with a loop of rope and attaching it to the pommel of his saddle. He then mounted up, nodding to Mordu that the trophy was secure.

  “The Master will be pleased. We’ll let them finish, then we head back,” Mordu declared, nodding toward the still feasting pack of dogs as he nudged his horse away from the road and back toward the fields of cane.

  “What’s the hurry?” Quinot asked. “I say we take our time and enjoy ourselves in the Cap awhile before we return. We’ll never make it all the way to La Porte before nightfall anyway.”

  “You want a taste of the black whores in town do you? I thought you were banned from all the decent houses after you beat that last girl to death,” Tibohio laughed.

  “Oh, she cost me a pretty sou,” Quinot smiled back, rubbing the top of his right fist with the palm of his left hand in fond remembrance. “But the pleasure of feeling her bones crack under my fists while I took her was well worth it,” he boasted.

  “Shut it, the both of you,” Mordu interjected. “I’m in charge here and I say we’ll be on our way as soon as the dogs have finished their meal.”

  Tibohio raised his hand for silence, sitting up high in the saddle as he looked to the west, his senses on alert. They all turned to look in the direction he indicated, their attention drawn to the sight of a woman emerging in the distance from a cluster of mango trees near the road. She carried a basket on her head and wore one of the long sheath-like dresses preferred by the mulâtres and free blacks on the island.

  “There’s your bit of satisfaction right there,” Tibohio said, pointing toward the woman in the distance. Quinot flashed a wicked smile.

  “The road’s deserted. If we drag her into the high cane, who’s to be any wiser if we take our pleasure? If you’re worried about her talking, we can treat the dogs to another feast when we’re finished. No one’s likely to bother about two dead Nègres. Just to be on the safe side, we can take her head as well and bury it on our way back. We’ll burn her clothes also, so no one can identify the body.” Quinot explained, turning in his saddle to judge the general willingness of his colleagues to participate in the crime of opportunity he had just outlined for them. Tibohio seemed eager enough for the sport, but Mordu was more cautious, surveying the road up and down to make sure they would not be seen.

  “Afraid not,” Mordu said, looking east along the road.

  “Those three riders look to have spoiled your fun; gentleman too from the looks of them. We’d best be getting along before they start to ask questions about this mess here,” he advised, indicating the half-eaten remains of the man they had killed. The other riders shook their heads in disappointment, but Mordu would have none of it.

  “We’ve enough work yet left to be done and the sun still sits high in the sky. I’m sure she’ll be back this way another time and so will we. Then you can amuse yourselves as you like,” Mordu said with finality. It seemed enough to mollify Tibohio if not Quinot, but outnumbered as he was, there was nothing for it but to turn around and start the long ride back to the plantation. Tibohio whistled sharply to draw the attention of the sated pack, the white hound responding immediately to the call, the other dogs following its lead.

  “Come on then, we’re off,” Mordu ordered.

  The white hound licked its chops, crouching a final time to lap at the pooled blood near the corpse’s open neck before slinking off after the horsemen as they reversed their tracks. It turned its head once, its snout matted and red with human gore; sniffing at the approach of the riders who had unknowingly deterred its masters from committing yet another mortal sin. With a final menacing growl, the hound turned its head, slinking back into the forest of cane.

  *

  The thumping of satin-sheathed feet echoed down the long hallway of the château, the sound light and carefree like the spirit of the girl whose short quick strides propelled her along in headlong flight. She carried a shoe and a handful of skirt in each hand, her hem lifted shin-high as she ran, the sound oddly muted by the rhythmic swishing of her wide satin gown. Her face was beautiful, her skin fine and unmarked by any blemish, despite her young age.

  Darting from room to room, she hid behind furniture with childish delight, her grey-blue eyes flashing with enchantment as she kept a wary eye out for servants and family alike. Poking her head around a doorway to ensure that her path of escape was clear, she dashed up the long staircase at the end of the hallway, surprisingly fast in her voluminous skirts, her cheeks naturally rouged with the effort of her exertions. Reaching the first door on her right, she opened and closed it behind her with caution, listening intently at the keyhole before creeping quietly toward the second interior door which was left surprisingly ajar, allowing her to slip undetected into the refuge of the family library.

  Crossing the threshold to stand shoeless upon the thickly carpeted floor, she was surprised to find an unfamiliar figure sitting in one of the high-backed leather reading chairs that faced away from her and toward the central hearth. She froze momentarily in indecision, unsure of whether to proceed onward or turn back and relinquish her hard-won sanctuary. A fondness for books was not a trait shared amongst the other members of her household, with perhaps the single exception of her uncle. This fact, along with the room’s placement at the extremity of the château’s seldom used east wing, discouraged most of her family from ever making use of it, which was why it proved such an ideal place to hide herself away. It made the question of the stranger’s identity even more puzzling. Who is he, and how on earth should he come to find himself here, of all places? she wondered.

  She advanced resolutely into the room like a cat stalking a wayward mouse, until she was near enough to see the detail on the polished silver buttons of the stranger’s jacket and elegantly striped waistcoat. His right ankle rested above his left knee as he read, revealing the silver buckles and brightly colored red heels of his shoes. His stockings were pristine white and appeared to be of satin, as did the dark suit of clothes he wore which was tailored in the latest style. Shifting his position slightly, he returned his right foot to the floor, the suppleness of his movements revealing the subdued power and grace of his muscular form. She guessed his age at close to twenty, more from the strength of his build than the boyish character of his visage which was now revealed to her in profile. Despite her close proximity, he was so engrossed in his reading that he still appeared to be unaware of her presence. Is he purposefully attempting to ignore me
? she wondered, the heat of her rising temper beginning to show through the paleness of her flawless porcelain skin, until it flushed pink with expression. Well, whoever or whatever he is, he is not supposed to be here. I shall do my duty and make him aware of his trespass, she resolved. Just as she moved forward to speak he stood abruptly, turning around to bring himself face to face with her.

  His gaze pierced through her, rooting her in place. She wanted to protest, to make clear her indignation at both his presence and the intensity of his scrutiny, but her voice was oddly caught in her throat. She felt the blood rush to her face in embarrassment, her mouse suddenly transformed into a lion as they both stood in silence, observing each other across the space of only a few feet. He was taller than she expected, more than a head taller than she, with bronze-hued skin and the proud regard of a warrior. His cheekbones were firm, set evenly in an angular face whose strong nose pointed resolutely toward a delicate expressive mouth, which softened the effect of his proud jutting chin. Most remarkable, however, were his eyes, which were the most extraordinary color of green that she had ever seen. A thick mop of jet-black curls topped his forehead, lengthening into an elegantly beribboned queue in the back. Whoever he was, he was exceedingly handsome, so much so that had he been a woman she would have declared him beautiful.