Love and Honor

by Harry Samkange

  “Extraordinary! What a magnificent animal! Splendid!” he declared enthusiastically, slapping his thigh with his riding crop.

  “Now that you’ve broken the stallion, you must try the mare,” the baron called out to him, applauding Nicolas’ success.

  Nicolas willingly complied, putting the dappled grey mount through its paces in the courtyard, finding her to be all that the baron had promised and a little more. At last Monsieur and Madame de Salvagnac said their farewells and mounted the carriage to go, the baron craning his head out of the carriage window to signal to Nicolas, who was still astride the grey mare, motioning him forward.

  “Tell me -- what did you say to the stallion to make him obey?” the baron asked. Nicolas leaned over the back of the mare and whispered in the baron’s ear. The baron laughed heartily, waving his goodbyes as the four-horse team started off.

  “Well, what did he say that could be so amusing?” the baronne inquired of her husband.

  “He said: ‘I told him, Monsieur, that if he did not embarrass me in front of my lady I would not embarrass him in front of his.’”

  The peals of the baronne’s laughter made a happy counterpoint to the steady thumping of the horses’ hooves as the coach made its way out of the courtyard and slowly receded into the distance.

  IX. Decisions of Import

  In the wake of the baron’s pair of splendid beaux gestes, the Marquis de Blaise duly affixed his signature to the marriage contract making Julienne Rocheforte de Salvagnac, in the eyes of the law, a Montferraud and Comtesse de Marbéville. All that remained was the religious ceremony to complete the sanctification of their marriage, and this took place in the Montferraud’s own chapel on New Year’s Eve in front of a small party of family and witnesses. A separate and much grander ceremony was planned for Paris sometime in late spring or early summer, where the entire occasion could be properly stage managed as the important social and political event that it was. Both families would then take up permanent residence in Paris, where they could begin to directly exploit the hoped-for fruits of the new alliance.

  Now that the Comte de Marbéville’s future had been settled, decisions also needed to be made for Nicolas. Was he destined for the church or the cavalry, and what was to be done about his budding relationship with the Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire? The resolution of these matters rested squarely on the gently rising and falling shoulders of the Marquis de Blaise as he rode side by side with Nicolas across the grounds of their estate. Reining in under the shade of a moss-encrusted old tree, the marquis took off his hat, fanning himself against the heat.

  “What an unusually warm New Year’s Day it’s turned out to be, don’t you think? I’ve a feeling this year will prove rather more eventful than last. You shall be fifteen in just over half a year. I think now is an opportune time to inform you of the decisions I’ve made with regard to your future,” the marquis said to Nicolas, who nodded his head in silent, anxious agreement.

  “I am dispatching you to Martinique for special training in swordsmanship, arms, and horsemanship. Francis will escort you and see to the particular introductions, as he is a patron of sorts of the place to which you are to be sent. I warn you the training will be tough, perhaps more than what even you are accustomed to, but I assure you that given the family’s current course it is necessary,” Blaise said. Nicolas nodded, considering his father’s words as he sat astride the grey mare that the baron had gifted him that he had named Aemilia.

  “Will I be gone long, Papa?” Nicolas inquired hesitantly, desirous of beginning his training but concerned that he might be separated from Sérolène for an extended period.

  “That depends upon your ability to absorb the instruction you will undertake and upon the availability of the ships that we require to take us to France,” the marquis said.

  “To France?” Nicolas asked.

  “Yes. I have decided that in the fall, you will attend the École Militaire in Paris,” the marquis said. Nicolas understood at once what that meant. The direction of his future had been determined for him. He was destined for the Army after all.

  “When do you think we’ll depart, Papa? And are the Salvagnacs coming as well?” Nicolas asked, barely able to contain his happiness.

  “No later than March, I hope. Three months should be enough to complete your new studies, but precisely when is anyone’s guess. I gather the fleet is rather busy off the coast of North America now, and so we must wait until fortune should choose to smile upon our efforts in the war and thereby provide us with suitable escort. The Salvagnacs are coming too…and your vicomtesse,” the marquis said, noting how Nicolas brightened at his last revelation.

  They walked their mounts to the top of a hill that gave them a pleasing overlook of much of the estate. The château was visible in the distance, the symmetry of its grounds and gardens a splendid view to behold even at the range of several miles. The rest of their view was dominated by the thousands of acres of sugar cane that comprised the majority of the estate’s crop and necessitated a small army of workers to till it. The marquis was the only cultivator who used no slave labor to work his fields. It made him a figure of scorn and hatred among many of the planters, who feared that he was undermining their way of life and encouraging other enslaved workers to revolt.

  “It’s beautiful isn’t it, Papa?” Nicolas said quietly, taking a sip of water from the pouch he carried.

  “Yes it is. It could be a paradise on earth, and instead it’s become a living hell of corruption and barbarity. That is what slavery makes of things my boy, and why I have decided to sell all my holdings here when we return to France,” the marquis said, looking in the direction of some of the field hands, their figures like insects in the distance. Nicolas was shocked at his father’s declaration. The château and surrounding plantation was the only real home he’d ever known. He couldn’t bear to think of it being sold to someone else. Blaise looked toward his son, seeing the look of uncertainty on his young face.

  “I know you are astonished to hear it. But I assure you, it’s for the best. I don’t think this place will last another generation before it begins to collapse from the weight of its accumulated sins. The blacks will rise up as they must to gain their freedom, and those who remain who have enslaved them will then know what it is like to feel the lash…and worse,” Blaise said.

  Nicolas was taken aback by this bleak prognosis from his father. He’d never really considered the plight of the island’s enslaved blacks or their future. Though he pitied them in general, it never occurred to him that things could be any different, or that most people considered him kindred to them. Father is right. Why shouldn’t they fight? Nicolas thought to himself. I certainly would, were I in their place.

  “What will become of your workers, then?” Nicolas asked.

  “I shall offer to pay for passage to America for those that wish it or to any other possession, French or other, where they can maintain their freedom. It’s the least I can do after the risks they have taken for me,” Blaise said.

  “I don’t understand, Papa. Haven’t you been the one to take risks by freeing them and accepting other freemen as workers? In addition to the tax of manumission, you’ve also paid the taille and absorbed an unfair share of the corvée for them as well,” Nicolas said, clearly puzzled by his father’s answer. The marquis sighed at the necessity of having to explain to his son the realities of how the world really worked.

  “Yes, I have paid taxes and upkeep and done what I could to improve their dwellings, but they have paid far more. They cannot go into town or stray far from my lands for fear of vigilante reprisals against them. Though they are free, they are virtual prisoners here. Shall I relate to you the full horror of two of the families who tried to go the Cap to sell some of the produce from their small plots? Suffice it to say that they never got that far. The men and two young boys were found strung up in some trees along the road, tortured before they were hanged, their genitals cut off and placed in their mouths, t
heir bodies burned. The oldest boy was twelve. What they did to the women was unspeakable,” the marquis said with disgust.

  “Why were the criminals not found and brought to justice, Father?” Nicolas asked with indignation.

  “The perpetrators were justice, Nicolas. They were all members of the local police and judiciary, acting on behalf of the planters. That is what can be expected of His Majesty’s representatives here. That is what centuries of despotism breeds: contempt for humanity, life, the law – the only things that matter are privilege and rank and title. Honor, justice...these are merely words whose substance has long since been forgotten,” Blaise said with repugnance.

  “I’ve hidden myself away here too long, Nicolas. It’s time I went back and assumed my rightful place at court, no matter the risks. That is the only way I can help to bring about the changes we need. The future of France demands it. This creaking despotism must be smashed! The whole rotten edifice must be brought down until none of it remains!” Blaise thundered. Nicolas nodded, though for the first time in his life he was truly shocked by his father’s discourse.

  “I understand, Papa. I promise that whatever you decide, I’ll be ready to do as you ask when the time comes,” Nicolas said, feeling as if an important rite of passage had occurred. It was the first time they had spoken so directly and openly of such substantive affairs, the marquis treating him not as a child, but as a man. It prompted Nicolas to act as one and take his father into his own confidence.

  “Papa, I’d like to speak to you about something very important,” Nicolas began nervously.

  “Go on,” Blaise encouraged him.

  “I’m desperately in love with Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire and I believe her feelings to be equal to my own in every way. I would gladly do anything in my power if you should consent to a match between us and would agree to speak to Monsieur de Salvagnac on my behalf,” Nicolas said hurriedly, more nervous than he’d ever been in his life. He could barely endure the interval of silence that followed, fearing a negative reaction from his father that would doom his hopes entirely. Sitting astride his horse, which chewed lazily on the grass beneath it, he felt as if the direction of his entire life was now being determined for him, for good…or ill.

  “Of course you are. It’s quite obvious to anyone who cares to look that providence has intended you two for each other. I’ve already made up my mind to discuss it with Salvagnac. He’s due here in two days for us to settle some outstanding matters between us. I suppose we shall have to add your futures to our list as well,” Blaise said, the corners of his mouth turning up in a wry grin. Nicolas could scarcely believe his ears, or his immense good fortune.

  “Do you think he’ll agree to it, Papa?” Nicolas asked.

  “Not without extracting a suitable price. He’s a banker my boy, he’ll want to obtain the most value that he can get for his niece,” Blaise said, more honestly than perhaps Nicolas would have wished.

  “Come come now; no long faces -- have you forgotten who your father is? You need only do as I instruct and you shall have the thing you desire most. I know what Monsieur de Salvagnac values most dearly, and more importantly, what Madame de Salvagnac cannot resist. They will not refuse me, upon that you may be sure,” Blaise said reassuringly.

  “Now, Monsieur, since you wish to pay court like a man, let’s see if you can really ride like one!” Blaise challenged, whirling his horse about and galloping back down the trail toward their château. Nicolas laughed, quickly turning his grey mare and following in pursuit.

  They rode hard for several miles, straining themselves and their horses to the limit to see who would be first to reach the gatepost that marked the carriage road leading up to the château. With less than a mile to go, the contest was all but decided, Aemilia truly being as swift as the baron had promised and an even better jumper, which allowed Nicolas to take shortcuts, leaping over hedges and streams that Blaise himself could not negotiate. Galloping close to the edge of the woods that marked the outside boundary of their estate, Nicolas approached the last stretch of open meadow with the finish line of the gateposts well in sight.

  Ahead of Nicolas was the main road to the château and victory. He would normally have galloped up swiftly to take it, but recent rains had left the road well-rutted and in questionable condition for the passage of horses and vehicles. Following the alternate path of a deep gulley that paralleled the road, he glanced back over his shoulder, noting with satisfaction that his father was still a considerable distance behind him.

  “Wheel!” Nicolas shouted, jerking the reins hard to the left, his horse narrowly avoiding a collision with an oncoming rider as Nicolas came up out of a muddy depression. Distracted by thoughts of victory and a successful appeal to the baron, he had almost run straight into disaster as he came out of the gully into the meadow, but the qualities of his mount and horsemanship had spared him a potentially dangerous fall. The outermost of the arriving horsemen however, who had been galloping hard and was not as skillful a rider as he, had not been so fortunate. Both the rider and his horse had taken a bad fall into the streambed, the rider remaining on the ground and in some visible degree of difficulty. The four other riders reined in immediately at the sight of their fallen comrade.

  “Foutre but you're a clumsy bastard! I’ll have you flayed for your careless stupidity!” the centermost rider shouted at Nicolas, motioning for two of the horsemen to dismount and provide aid to the rider who had fallen. By his dress and demeanor, Nicolas immediately marked the man who had given the orders as the leader of the other men.

  “It seems the clumsy fellow is over there,” Nicolas answered contemptuously, incensed at being talked to in such an insulting manner, especially on his own lands.

  “And if you do not learn to keep a civil tongue, you will join him shortly, minus that stinking ball of shit on your shoulders that I suppose in your case passes for a head,” Nicolas said hotly, his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to avenge the affront to his honor.

  The man was shocked at being berated by what he presumed to be a servant of some sort, in his passion, neglecting the obvious fact that servants on St. Domingue were not allowed to carry weapons, nor did they ride mounts worth more than the yearly output from an average plantation.

  “Quinot, Mordu, teach that gibbering monkey a lesson!” the man hissed, pointing his riding crop at Nicolas as he commanded his men into action. The thick-faced Quinot, decided of his own accord that his master meant the lesson to be a fatal one. Pulling his pistol from his belt, he cocked it, preparing it to fire.

  Nicolas, seeing the mortal danger he was in, acted at once, pivoting his mare in a tight arc to the right and drawing his sword in the same motion. Spurring Aemilia hard in the flanks, he drove the mare at the rider head on, knowing he needed to swallow the distance between them as quickly as possible before the man could aim and fire. In the seconds that it took Quinot to raise his arm and aim, Nicolas was already upon him, his rapier piercing him through the heart as Quinot’s dead hand fired into empty air.

  Unsure whether he should be attacked by the others, Nicolas remained in motion. Wheeling behind the dead gunman’s horse to extricate his blade, he leaned hard in the saddle to ensure his back presented less of a target from behind, turning hard left at the same time in order to take him back toward the leader of the group. Nicolas closed in on him as quickly as he had on the dead man, noting with contempt that the man, who had a sword, had drawn it. Nicolas easily parried his attempted thrust as he came into contact range, his blade slicing obliquely upward at the throat, the impetus of his mount providing additional force to the cut as his blade passed clean through the neck of his foe, exiting in a graceful arc well behind the man’s ear.

  For several seconds the rider and his detached head remained sitting upright, before the movement of the man’s mount caused the severed head to fall backward to the ground, its mouth still open, eyes wide-staring in death. The horse bolted, carrying the headless corpse with it as Nico
las wheeled again to confront the rider named Mordu, who had unslung his musket from its saddle sling and was attempting to prime it to fire. Nicolas charged straight toward him, thrusting across his body and down, the point of his blade piercing the man through his left eye and continuing onward through brain and tissue; a foot of steel exiting out the back of the man’s head. The lifeless corpse fell backward, musket still in hand, impaled to the earth by Nicolas’ sword.

  Finding himself now weaponless save for the small dagger he carried in his belt, Nicolas guided his mount to charge down the last man standing, an olive skinned man with black eyes and long black hair who stood near the fallen rider in a state of confused indecision. The skirmish, however, was already lost, the marquis arriving at the gallop, having spurred his own horse as hard as he could at the sound of the pistol shot. Reining in hard, the marquis surveyed the situation in astonishment. Three of the trespassing riders were dead, a fourth was held at bay by the threat of Aemilia’ s raised hooves, and the last, who looked to be a young man not much older than Nicolas, lay prostrate and unmoving upon the ground.