Then fortune provided even more clarity.
As we tacked southeast toward our goal, I noticed a peaked volcanic rock two miles offshore of Martinique. It was shaggy with shrub and reared almost six hundred feet out of the sea. Its summit came to a point, and its entire architecture was quite imposing, the monolith visible for miles. It overlooked the sea-lanes toward the island of Saint-Lucia to the south. We kept well clear in case there were fringing reefs.
“The Gibraltar of the Caribbean,” I commented idly.
“Or the prick of Agwe, the god of the sea,” Jubal said.
“If so, he must be looking at Ezili,” Antoine joined in.
“More like a diamond, Yankee,” our bearded captain replied. “Look at it sparkle in the sun.”
For a minute I let that comment pass by, and then suddenly it jarred my slow brain. “Diamond?” I sat straighter, looking at the rock.
“From the facets of the cliffs. Le Diamant, that’s what the French call it. It can look like one in bright light, after a rain.”
“That rock is called the Diamond?”
“Didn’t I just say so?”
I felt a chill. Ezili had prophesized that the diamond would be right in front of me. “Are you sure?”
“Read the chart, American.”
My luck had turned. “Are there caves in that rock?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised. But I don’t know anyone who goes there, unless they want cactus and gull guano. No water, and no worth. Now Martinique, in contrast, has a resource. Most beautiful women in the world. One of them captured Bonaparte, I understand.”
“Joséphine, his wife.”
“Yes, the crafty Creole. Must have been a prize.”
“Actually, he was poor, and she was desperate,” I said with the authority of knowing them both. “Her first husband had just been guillotined. Social climbers the pair, and they calculate like an abacus. Made for each other, I suppose. Joséphine is six years older but understood Paris society. She is pretty, or perhaps I should say charismatic, though her teeth are bad.”
“It must not be her teeth he was interested in.”
“She was the more worldly of the two, at least in the beginning. She netted his ambition like a fish.”
“And now she sits on top of the world. You can’t tell me, Gage, that the whole stinking mess of life isn’t chance piled on circumstance, multiplied by calculation, and divided by luck. There’re a thousand women ashore lovelier than Joséphine, I’ll wager, but what does it matter when God rolls his dice?”
“I’m looking for just one woman. My own wife, stolen by another man.”
“Ja, now there’s trouble. Ran away from you, eh? And you’re asking for more trouble to land with these blacks. Slaves from Haiti? Your reception will be torches and pitchforks.”
I’d been pondering that. “We need to camp quietly, not parade into port. How much do you want for your longboat there and some fishing line?” For expenses, Dessalines had given me some money looted from Cap-François.
Being a Dutchman, Captain Van Luven named a price double the craft’s real worth. You can be fleeced in New York or shaven in Amsterdam.
“Done,” I said, since it wasn’t my coin. “And food?”
That was triple.
“Done again. Work in close at dusk, and then we’ll launch your longboat. The blacks will put me ashore.”
“And what about us, Ethan?” Jubal asked.
“I anoint you free fishermen, plying your trade around Diamond Rock. That may be where Toussaint L’Ouverture, the Black Spartacus himself, told us to go.”
I landed on Martinique armed, but not with something as conspicuous and primitive as a spear. My work at negotiating the evacuation of Cap-François resulted in the rebels awarding me a pistol, powder, ball, officer’s sword, a dagger sheathed under my coat in the small of my back, and a tiny gambling pistol tucked up one sleeve. If I discovered a blunderbuss on this new island, I’d buy that, too. I expected I might have to shoot my way to success.
My little company came ashore by moonlight on a beach of sand as fine and white as sugar. It glowed, the lapping water phosphorescent. We slept by the sigh of the sea as the Dutch vessel tacked for Cartagena. The next morning I directed Jubal and his team to make a secret camp and discreetly scout Diamond Rock, fishing to supplement the provisions we’d purchased from the sharp-fingered Dutchman.
Meanwhile, a two-hour hike down the shoreline took me to a plantation, its lane, and then a road, and I soon hailed a passing cane wagon and begged a ride. The slave teamster had no objection to my company. When we came to the first village, I paid two francs to switch to a swifter and more respectable carriage, explaining I was a French-speaking American dropped rather abruptly by a Dutch vessel fleeing a British frigate. I said I was making my way to Fort-de-France to discuss business opportunities that had arisen with renewed European war, and showed my papers from Rochambeau.
Since the United States made good money selling to belligerents on all sides, this explanation was readily accepted. By day’s end I was in the island’s capital, a place immeasurably gayer, more prosperous, and crowded than Cap-François. Some Haitian refugees had come here, and inns were crowded. Nonetheless, I bought my way into the best hotel, had a bath and the finest meal since I’d left Paris, and sent word to the island’s Government House that I was an American trade representative with French papers requesting to see Governor Michel Lambeau. There I would inquire about beautiful but distressed Greek Egyptian females accompanied by a disreputable roach of a man who thieved other men’s belongings and kept small children in bondage. If Martel was a criminal, why not get French help in tracking him down?
I’d settle accounts, and then search Diamond Rock.
A letter came directing me to call on the governor at half-past ten, and I brushed out my coat and trousers as best I could. But when I came onto the dazzling street, palms waving in the breeze, I was quickly accosted by a tall, thick, ruggedly built European with tropic tan whose eyes darted as watchfully as a reptile’s. He was dressed in dour black, was poorly shaven, and had teeth the color of rancid butter. His smell made me instinctively pull away.
He gripped my wrist and hand with both of his own, a fierce familiarity I didn’t expect, his smile broad but not friendly. “It’s Ethan Gage, is it not?”
“Do I know you, monsieur?”
“We met in Paris.”
I looked him warily up and down.
“In Nitot’s jewelry shop. You knocked me over and broke the nose of my employer.”
That got my pulse up. My other hand went to the butt of a pistol. “And you missed me with your shot, if I recall. I’ve found it works well to practice; otherwise, the target survives to possibly shoot back.”
The rascal leaned close. “Perhaps we’ll test that someday.”
“I warn you, I’ve the protection of the governors of Saint-Domingue and Martinique.”
“Rochambeau has capitulated.”
“But not Lambeau, here.”
He shrugged. “I’m not here to harm you, but involving officialdom would complicate our cooperation at this stage. My employer wishes to extend an earlier invitation.” He’d not dropped my hand. “There’s no need to draw your weapon, and even less choice since I have friends who at this very moment are aiming at your head. They’d shoot you down before you cocked a hammer.”
I resisted the temptation to glance about, trying to look calm even though I was sweating. “Your employer is the scoundrel Martel?”
“The French patriot, Leon Martel.”
“A sharp, a rogue, and a ruffian.”
“Ambitious, expedient, and bright. He’s been waiting for you, and invites you to dine with him at his château in Trois-Îlets.”
“That gutter thief has a château?”
“Friends in high places, including Lambeau. And he has a woman and child he thinks you’d like to meet. So much simpler than audiences with governors that raise awkward quest
ions.”
So I didn’t have to find Satan, but merely wait on him at tea. “He’s imprisoned my wife and son?”
“Au contraire, he’s their host. While they’re grateful for his hospitality, they’re also quite impatient for your arrival. Everyone needs you to start.”
“Start what?”
“Find what we’re all seeking together. So we can all take what we need.” He finally dropped my arm. “One thing we can agree on. You’re as greedy as us.”
Chapter 34
We walked with two of his companions past the massive basalt walls of Fort-de-France and down to a dock with ferry. Once aboard, brawny black oarsmen rowed us across the wide harbor to the village of Trois-Îlets, which looks northeast to the rest of Martinique. My escort, who introduced himself as the Raven—spies, apparently, get to adopt dramatic nicknames—said that Joséphine had grown up in this suburb and that some of the island’s finest families lived there. “They’ve been urging their native daughter to explain to her husband the necessity of sustaining slavery, and believe she’s had some success.”
“Yes, Bonaparte believes her. Which has meant slaughter in Saint-Domingue.”
Like Martel, this rogue favored black for his fashion, as did his poorly washed companions. The costume is damnably hot in the tropics, but looks appropriately intimidating. Raven seemed ridiculously pretentious to me, so I thought of him as Crow, and his escorts as Vulture and Buzzard. All three could use a preening.
“Martinique will never be allowed to become Haiti,” Crow said as we rowed. It was said with more hope than certitude. “Revolutionary fervor does not apply to the black man here.”
“Martinique’s slaves will decide that.”
“We make freedom more costly than servitude.”
“With torture and execution?”
“Violence, monsieur, is the price of prosperity.”
There was a carriage waiting. Crow gave me a little history of this island as we clopped into the lush vegetation of fig and gumbo trees, the road like a green tunnel that glowed with light. Martinique had developed in much the same way as Antigua, but with a French flavor. The abundant mountains and rainfall meant waterpower took the place of windmills here. Slaves, sugar, fever, and caste.
“Up that lane is where Joséphine was raised.” He pointed.
“She’s quite the social climber, as able as Nelson’s Emma Hamilton.”
“Bred, born, and trained to it. There are no politics more cutthroat than island politics. I’m not surprised that a Creole and a Corsican rule Revolutionary France. Islanders are survivors.”
We went two miles beyond and came to a gracious château in the French style, not as imposing as Lord Lovington’s mansion on Antigua but with more grace. Artfully planted trees created a cascade of flowers on the periphery of lawns, and the place had the heady scent of hibiscus, orchids, and oleander. Cedars soared in back of eucalyptus and chestnut trees, everything swollen by the humid climate to gigantic size. Banana leaves were as wide as windmill paddles. Vines hung like cables on an opera stage. Bright as a convention of cardinals were the flame trees, a riot of red against the cream of the house. This was Astiza’s prison? It looked just like the place I’d dreamed of retiring to.
We dismounted and walked up a gravel drive. Then Crow stopped short, gesturing for me to wait, and a little figure ran out from the gardens. He spied us, stopped, considered, and hesitated like a fawn.
My heart lurched, and I fell to my knees to put us nearer in height. “Harry!” He looked skeptical, recognizing me and yet trying to file me with proper memories. “It’s Papa!” I was wounded to have to remind him.
“It’s all right, Horus,” Astiza called.
I looked past my son. She stood by a red anthurium, pretty as a flower in a white French dress. Her safety, and her beauty and poise, was a relief that was also startling. I’d expected my family to be manacled to a dungeon wall, but they looked turned out for an Italian holiday. Had they negotiated some weird parole? Harry finally came cautiously over to me, looking serious as only a three-year-old can look when something of uncertain gravity is going on. He studied me for any changes.
“I missed you, Harry. Are you all right?” Clearly he was, which was selfishly disappointing. I’d expected a blazing rescue of distraught prisoners.
“Mama said we had to wait for you. I want to go home.”
My God, how the heart can careen in one’s chest, crashing from rib to rib with longing and remorse. “I want to go home, too.” Wherever that was.
“Will you play with me? It’s boring here.”
“Of course I’ll play with you.” My voice caught as I spoke. “Can you show me your favorite place?”
“There’s a pond, with fishies.”
“Then let’s catch one.” I stood.
“One minute, Gage.” Two more of Martel’s ruffians appeared, and a gang surrounded me. I was humiliatingly relieved of pistols, sword, and knife while my son watched. Then they stepped back. “A few minutes, to demonstrate our goodwill,” Crow said. “But hurry. Martel is waiting.”
“I’ve been waiting for six months.”
“Don’t begin our partnership with a poor attitude.”
“Partnership!”
“Everything is different now.”
Different as twins, by my eye. This bunch were evil as the diab of the woods of Haiti, and uglier than zombis risen from the grave. The henchmen watched sourly as my family reunited. Astiza kissed me quickly and whispered, “I’m sorry, but I had to go to him,” while Harry pulled my leg with impatience. “I’ll explain more later,” she said.
The fish were skittish, so we made some boats out of leaves and set the flotilla sailing above the carp. Then Crow said, “Time,” and Astiza’s hand slipped from my fingers as if I were hot. “Make a bargain,” she murmured.
“Why didn’t you wait for me at the ball?”
“He promised me Horus. We knew you’d come. There were old stories from Martinique, so he told me it must end here.”
Then they led her away.
I stepped inside the mansion looking for a weapon to slay Leon Martel. But there was nothing, of course, and I was hopelessly outnumbered. I was ushered into a room by half a dozen bandits, and two women who I assumed must be the pimp’s whores were shown a back door. Had he raped my wife?
There sat Martel, smug as a cat with cream, his nose satisfyingly bent but the firm set of his features giving him an aura of command. This kidnapper of my wife and child smiled as if we were old friends, which was doubly annoying. I certainly didn’t trust him, and he was a fool if he trusted me.
Martel gestured to a chair. “Monsieur Gage, at last. It’s been far too long. Sit, sit, after your long journey. I confess I doubted your pugnacious reputation, and yet here you are, bright as a button and taut as a bow after the battle of Vertières and the sack of Cap-François. Please, relax. You deserve it! Word is that you helped negotiate the city’s surrender, saving countless lives. It must be splendid being a hero.”
“A feeling you’ll never know.”
“Your manners.” He winced. “I had correspondence from our defeated army and was told you’re not shy about calling people unkind names. Even General Rochambeau, in front of his officers! It’s a wonder you haven’t been killed in a duel or shot by a firing squad.”
“Men have tried.”
“It’s much easier to be polite.”
“I only say what is true. If honesty offends you, you’ll be upset all day.”
Martel sadly shook his head. “We started poorly in Paris. I should have believed you were the ignorant half-wit you claimed instead of continuing to try to drown you, but my nose hurt very much.”
“From the size of it, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Despite that, I took splendid care of your son.”
“Care? As his jailer?”
“Am I? A better father to Horus than you, I contend. I’ve spent more time with him than you have his entire
life, and kept him closer and safer. Your wife, whom I’ve also treated with propriety, tells me you didn’t even know you’d spawned him, left him alone in a ship of Barbary pirates, and dawdled in Paris to play diplomat instead of giving him the security he deserves. Bastards get better treatment than your boy. You’re in my debt.”
A better father! How I longed to kill him. “Easier to be polite, Martel.” My voice had low menace.
He leaned back in his chair in a show of easy superiority, happy to turn his monstrosities around. “His mother elected to accompany me, rather than you, so there’s intelligence on that side of the family. We relaxed while waiting, researching history. Martinique is in the legends, you know. Now, here you are, no doubt with information that will leave everybody happy. You’ll get your family, I the treasure, and France the ancient aviation secrets of the Aztecs.”
He had the cheek that came from having me outnumbered a dozen to one, and I was half tempted to start my own war right there. But that would gain me nothing. I’d endure him until I didn’t have to. “How can I trust you?”
He spread his arms expansively, a gesture of generosity. “How can you not, when I’ve yet to kill you?”
“Let’s start with my emerald.”
“But of course.” He’d expected this, and the devil hauled it out with the aplomb of Catherine the Great, tossing it at my feet like a worthless pebble. “I’m not a thief, Monsieur Gage.”
“The hell you aren’t.”
“I only borrowed it to encourage our partnership.”
“Then return it like a borrower, if you want manners.”
At that we stared like rival lions. It’s amazing what the eyes can convey: contempt from Martel and hatred from me. Hatred and a stubborn determination that our “partnership” needed to be modified in the extreme. Starting now, or by God I’d throttle him then and there and punch in his throat, before his bullyboys could get me off him.
The Emerald Storm Page 24
