“When did you decide to become Captain Dumaine, Phillipe?”
“I didn’t decide to do anything, Artemus. I was forced to. To save you from yourself.”
“I don’t—”
“At the very least you have committed blasphemy, just by speaking with the child. And with the plans you made, you fell into coddling. If I had allowed you to reach her parents, that would be concealment. For you to stoop to these acts, she has obviously bewitched you in some way.”
“She is not evil, Phillipe…”
“You—” The archdeacon tried to stand too quickly, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. “You are a… let me calm down a moment. My heart feels like it might come out of my chest.” He took another sip from his cup and found it empty. “Monsieur Devoe, might I have another cup of this?”
“Yes, Archdeacon.” The little man retrieved the cup and returned with it a few moments later. Phillipe took a sip to resume his argument.
“You are a most gifted cleric, Artemus. But your heart makes you a fool. You are lucky that I stopped your demonic errand when I did. For you were headed towards the gallows, and I am implicated as well now. But by heavens, I couldn’t see my only… I am not loved, as you are. I have only you to spar with sometimes, and we… are we friends? I have never had one before, so I’m not sure.”
“Yes, Phillipe. We are friends.”
“Then you must forgive me for what I must do, my friend. For your own safety. Guards, please come.” Two mounted policemen came from the rear of the stables behind Father Reyes.
“Phillipe, what are you doing? This is not necessary.”
“Yes, it is, Artemus. Until the vicar general comes and I can be sure you are no longer under the sorceress’s influence.”
“So I am to be placed in jail, then?”
“No. Nothing that harsh. You will be confined within the renovated auction house.”
“But this is insane.”
“No more than what you were planning, my friend. I am just thankful that the guard who reported you held you in some regard. Otherwise—oh, I don’t even want to think about it. Guards, please take him away—and please be gentle with him. He’s only a danger to himself.”
The two mounted policemen escorted Father Reyes to a wagon waiting in front of the stable. They did not place him in irons (Artemus was grateful for that), but one sat beside him in the front, while the other rode behind on his own horse.
57
When Bruno went back to the bedroom, he saw a strange but not unexpected sight. Francois was holding Cassandra on his lap.
“We have to go, Francois. We can’t wait any longer. The sun’s going down, so we should be able to get away before they see us.” Francois didn’t seem to have heard him.
“I can’t go, Bruno. I can’t just leave her,” replied Francois. He looked strange to Bruno. His eyes were glassy and his movements lethargic, like a man who’d been drinking too much of the palm wine the slaves produced. “She can’t swim out with us, so I have to stay and protect her, Bruno.”
“You have lost your mind, you know. This is a trap, and you’ve fallen into it. How are you going to protect her?” Francois furrowed his brow as he thought about this and then looked frightened for a moment. But Cassandra wrapped her arms around his neck and looked Bruno in the eyes.
“He’ll keep me safe,” she said and placed a kiss on Francois’s cheek. Bruno saw the way the man’s eyes lit up, that it was like a type of poison subduing him, muddling his thoughts.
“I can’t leave her, Bruno.” Bruno could see he was lost.
“Okay. If that’s how you want it.” He backed out of the room and went down the stairs. He tied the meat around his neck, feeling since it was smoked it should be fine. The pistol would be useless once it got wet, and it was just something to add more weight. He climbed through the window on the back veranda, and waited almost half an hour, near the fallen tree. He wanted it to be dark, in case anyone was waiting in ambush. When the night descended, he swam underwater, only surfacing periodically to take in air. He did this until he was a good distance from the manor. All the markers they’d followed were there. The moon was out of the clouds and very bright when he got to the raft with Charles and his children.
“You’d best come with me, Charles,” he told the carpenter. “You can’t just sit here. The water level is going to drop in few days. I have a good place to hide while we wait.” He handed him the meat he was carrying. “You can put that with the rest of the food.” They paddled the raft half the night until they made it back to the big elm tree.
“Hey,” said Maurice. Then he looked puzzled. “Charles. What are you doing here? Where’s Francois?”
“I need to rest for a while,” said Bruno. “Then I’ll tell you the whole story.”
*
“They are going to kill him,” said Maurice, when Bruno finally told him. “That’s why I didn’t want to go back there.”
“He’s knows that, too,” said Bruno. “But it’s like he’s stuck inside some dream and can’t free himself.”
“Some of the slaves told me stories they heard from the ships when they worked on the docks,” said Charles. “The sailors talked of sea sirens who lured men away from the ship. They were always very beautiful, and when the men rowed out to them, they would drag them down to the depths.”
“It sounds like what’s happening to Francois. I couldn’t save him. If I’d stayed much longer, I would’ve been trapped, too.”
58
The eye of the storm must have passed over because André noticed that the wind had shifted, and wasn’t pushing against them as much, but the rain still beat at them. Fatigue had begun to slow him down, so he gave a few desperate kicks and got a hand on the saddle horn. From this position, he was able to mount the horse. He realized his body might weigh the animal down, but it was better than sinking on his own. The horse’s survival instincts were what he was relying on. It didn’t seem to mind him on its back, or it was too focused on its destination to care. Either one of those ideas worked in André’s favor. He didn’t want to relax too much though because he needed to be prepared should the horse lose buoyancy and start to sink. This had been a crazy idea, but he didn’t want doubts to enter into it. He would either die with this creature or get lucky with it. There was something comforting about just trying to survive, versus a helpless submission. They made their way through the jungle without much difficulty and then came to the edge of the town. He could have jumped off at any time and taken refuge atop one of the structures still above water. That would eventually place him at the mercy of the slavers when the waters receded. He spotted a number of whites clinging to the rooftops. They would not welcome a slave into their midst. He had no misconception about that. Some even called to him. What they said he couldn’t really make out over the roar of the wind. Perhaps they were praising his ingenuity or his courage. He doubted that. More likely they wondered whose horse he had stolen, and what had he done with its owner.
The church bell tower was a good marker for where they were in the town. He kept clear of it though. He could see troopers situated at the top, along with priests from the chapel and anyone else who were able to make it to the structure. As always, there was no safe haven for a slave. He would live or die with this animal, rather than surrender his life to eventual retribution and death. Lucky thing he had not drawn closer to the tower, because one of the troopers, possibly recognizing the horse, took a shot at him. Thankfully the wind was too strong for it to get anywhere near him and it didn’t spook the horse, and they kept moving. He started to worry when the horse’s breathing started to change. Was this the end? Had his luck run out? Before there was an answer, the horse stopped and began to walk. They’d made it. He was on some part of the trail toward the mountains. The trees looked familiar. He slid from the horse’s back and sunk. His legs had lost their strength. He struggled until he realized he only had to stand up. He gained his footing and moved up into a copse of trees
at the edge of the water. He lay down and rested for few moments. They provided a small bit of shelter from the rain, but he was still worried with the way the wind could change and make his refuge a death trap. He looked back and thought to thank the horse for his life, then realized that he’d better secure the beast because he still needed it to make it back to the high camp. He was half way up the mountain when he saw Juliette’s horse, Josephine, tied to a tree next to some boulders along the trail.
59
Father Reyes spent the next week in the auction house. There were a number of shackles along the walls in the facility, but none was used on him. He was treated very well by the guards, who enjoyed his ritual of the morning blessing. They even came and had their meals with him so they could hear his humorous and unorthodox opinions. Everything that could be done to make him comfortable was accomplished, without releasing him.
The vicar general, Henri Dumont, arrived a week later. Unfortunately, he brought with him Father Guillaume Montaine. Dumont would be the judge for Nyira’s trial, and to the archdeacon’s dismay, Father Montaine was assigned as prosecutor. Phillipe was so distressed by this development he went to the auction house where Father Reyes was being held so that he might take counsel with his only friend.
“There is no to need to be distressed, Phillipe,” said Father Reyes, as he reclined on a cot near a barred window. “Perhaps vicar general Dumont is not aware of your diligent efforts in this matter.” The archdeacon stood up then—he had sat down on the cot as he spoke with Artemus.
“Yes. You’re right, Artemus. I will go and speak with Bishop Dumont. He surely is not aware of my excellent work on this case.” He hurried away, confident that some oversight had occurred that had assigned Father Montaine versus someone like him, who had intimate knowledge of this matter.
Earlier that afternoon, the vicar general had taken up all the offices in the cabildo and half of the chapel. He and Father Montaine were housing a large entourage to take care of the administrative duties involved in the coming proceedings. Phillipe entered the chapel and found that he no longer had his quarters. Father Montaine was installed in them. He had to knock on his own door to address the man.
“Yes,” said Father Montaine when he opened the door. He was a tall man with a rather regal air about him. He couldn’t help but look down upon the hunched, shriveled form of the archdeacon.
“I’m Archdeacon Phillipe Dominic,” said Phillipe, as if he needed to convince himself as well. “These are my quarters. I will need to retrieve my belongings—my clothes, my papers, and my books.”
“Oh. Yes,” replied Father Montaine. “They’ve been bundled up and sat in the office of the cabildo.” He turned and closed the door, leaving Phillipe to stand incredulous.
Phillipe’s belongings had actually been stored within the stables, as the newly restored cabildo had only room enough for the administrative staff of the vicar general. They had been placed inside an unused stall that had not been cleaned very well. A number of bundles from various other priests were piled one on top of the other, with horse dung sandwiched in between. Phillipe sorted out his items and Porthos, the groom, carried them back to the tented residence of the lowly deacons for him. More tents had been erected that housed two priests each. After he had established his living quarters, Phillipe walked back to the cabildo to seek an audience with the bishop.
He only got as far as his secretary, a tall, wiry-looking man.
“How may I help you?” said the secretary. He didn’t actually look at Phillipe when he limped in. He seemed to be at some very important task—that required most of his attention. Phillipe was angry all of a sudden, as if this whole affair had been contrived to bring him misery.
“I’m Archdeacon Phillipe Dominic!” cried the archdeacon. “I must speak to his excellency at once!”
The secretary didn’t appear the least impressed with Phillipe’s tone of urgency.
“For what purpose?” he demanded, his voice very monotonal and dismissive. “The bishop is preparing for the witch trial.”
“I am the reason there is a trial!” cried Phillipe. “It was I who apprehended the creature!”
“Why should that matter to his excellency?”
“Because I… the prosecutor—”
“Father Montaine is the prosecutor, sir. He is in another office. This is the vicar general’s office.”
“But I thought…”
For some reason—at that moment—the archdeacon couldn’t say exactly what he thought.
“I’m very busy, sir,” said the secretary. “Please take your business to the prosecutor’s office at the other end of the building.”
The archdeacon turned and trudged out of the office. He was no longer feeling panicked, just confused. How was he going to let the bishop know that this was really his case, his chance?
By some administrative oversight, Father Reyes was released earlier that day, following the vicar general’s arrival. Phillipe had gone to the auction house to find that Artemus was no longer there. What had they done with Artemus?
There was a duty sergeant stationed in the office—the auction house had all the accessories of a jail, if not as many cells.
“When was Father Reyes released?” the archdeacon asked the burly, agitated soldier seated at the desk.
The sergeant thumbed through the paperwork piled in front of him. He let out a sigh as if he had already been put upon by a number of demanding priests that day.
“There is no record of such a person,” said the soldier.
“But there has to be!” cried the archdeacon, reaching for the pile of documents. The mounted police sergeant snatched them back.
“What crime has he committed, Father? Perhaps he has been moved to the regular stockade.”
“Ugh… blasphemy?”
The soldier frowned at the priest.
“Blasphemy is not an enforceable crime, Father. If it were, we would need a stockade covering the whole of Saint Domingue.”
“Yes. I see.” The archdeacon walked out of the building, not sure where he was supposed to go. What was he supposed to do now? What if Artemus had decided to hide from him? What had he been thinking to place his friend in such a precarious state?
Oh, Artemus! What have I brought us to? It has come to nothing! And where have you gone, my friend? Who will care enough to even offer me ridicule?
He went to the chapel to begin evening confession and found Artemus there.
“Artemus!” cried the archdeacon, and ran to embrace his friend. “You’re free. What—how—”
“They released me, Phillipe.”
“I was so afraid I wouldn’t see you again, that you had hidden yourself from me.”
“Why would I do such a thing?”
“Because I—“
“You didn’t do anything, Phillipe. Nothing happened.”
The archdeacon looked at his friend, confused, and then realized that Artemus was correct. Nothing had occurred. No blasphemy, no coddling, and no imprisonment. It was as if the girl’s trial had been created out of some anomaly that he was not attached to.
“I’m sorry, Artemus.”
“So am I, Phillipe.”
60
Once the waters receded, and the ground was solid enough to walk on, Bruno’s new camp set out for the trail leading into the mountains. He considered releasing the troopers but decided he would take advantage of the head start. Maurice helped carry one of the children. The little girl, Amelina, had attached herself to Bruno. She had noticed his mutilated hand and had taken to rubbing it and holding it.
“Does it hurt, Bruno?” she asked.
“Not anymore.”
“I think if I hold it and wish, they could come back.”
“I would like that very much. How long do you think it will take?” She crinkled her little nose in thought.
“A week?”
“You are truly a miracle worker!” he said and scooped her up for a hug. It suddenly occurred t
o him that he could very well have a daughter of his own somewhere. He decided not to say it out loud to anyone. Even to precious Amelina. It would be too much if something had truly happened to his beloved Juliette and the child. They passed a number of the drowned troopers on the way, and Amelina asked if the men were sleeping.
“Yes,” said Bruno. “They are tired after the storm.” He looked at Charles, to check his response to his answer.
“It’s as good as any,” Charles replied.
They moved quickly through the bush but slowed when they got closer to town.
“You might want to get your pistol ready, Charles,” suggested Bruno. The town looked deserted. Bruno knew that was because most of those who survived the storm had either taken to high ground on their property or climbed one of the remaining taller structures. All these people would be hostile to slaves traveling through the town. “I’ve followed this trail for a couple years now, Charles, and I never feel safe until I get to the end of it and away from where the mounted police might be.”
“I wish you had kept that other pistol you found,” replied Charles.
“Me too. But we have machetes. That will have to do for now.” Bruno put little Amelina down.
“We have to play a game, Amelina,” Bruno told her.
“What kind of game?” the little girl asked, with excitement in her eyes at the prospects.
“A quiet game,” said Bruno. “We want to see who can be the quietest.”
“I’m much quieter than Michel,” she said.
“Shhh,” whispered Bruno. “It starts now. You can’t say another word until we get to the mountains.” Thankfully her little brother had fallen asleep in his father’s arms, or this game might not work. He hoped they would not have to fight their way through this section, not with the children. They sent Maurice ahead with a machete, to scout for possible ambushes. Just as he feared, a mounted police unit rode past them in the bush. One of the last troopers in the procession stopped and started to move through the jungle toward their position. Charles held the pistol at the ready. Bruno had forgotten to ask the man if the powder was still dry. A captain called to the trooper:
Nyira and the Invisible Boy Page 25
