Georges

by Alexandre Dumas

  In the middle of the second pass around the track Virginia was neck and neck with Restoration, while Jester was only one length behind them. Antrim still trailed by seven or eight paces, but as his rider used neither whip nor spurs the crowd assumed that he was only waiting for the right moment to make up the distance.

  Just as they reached the bridge, Restoration stepped on a pebble. Horse and rider went tumbling to the ground; Colonel Draper, still in the stirrups, urged his mount to stand, and the animal half rose with a great effort, then fell once more. The noble creature had broken a leg.

  The three remaining competitors continued to race. Jester had taken the lead, with Virginia two lengths behind him and Antrim alongside her. Virginia began to lose ground as the hill grew steeper, while Jester retained the lead and Antrim, without any visible effort, began to gain on him. By the time they reached the Dreaper mark Antrim was only one length behind his rival. Henri de Malmédie, already feeling that victory was his, broke out the whip. The crowd, twenty-five thousand strong, began to cheer enthusiastically, waving their handkerchiefs and shouting encouragement to the racers.

  The stranger, leaning over his stallion’s neck, seemed to whisper a few words in Arabic—and suddenly Antrim, as if he had understood, redoubled his speed. They were a scant twenty-five paces from the finish line, just passing the first set of stands. Jester was barely a head in front of Antrim, and it was only now that the mysterious rider, seeing that he had no time to lose, lightly touched his spurs to Antrim’s flanks. Rising in the stirrups, he threw back the hood of his burnoose.

  “Monsieur Henri de Malmédie!” he shouted to his rival. “I return one insult for the two you have dealt me—but I trust you will find this one is worth both of yours!” With that, Georges—for indeed it was he—raised his arm and bloodied Henri de Malmédie’s face with a lash of his whip.

  Then, digging his spurs into Antrim’s flanks, he surged across the finish line, winning the race by a full two lengths. Instead of stopping to claim his prize, however, he continued at a gallop and, to the amazement of the crowd, disappeared into the woods surrounding the Malartic tomb.

  Georges was right: In exchange for the two insults dealt him by M. de Malmédie, he had just returned a single—but public, terrible, and bloody—insult of his own. It would decide his entire future, for it was not only the provocation of a rival; it was a declaration of war against all whites.

  Georges found himself inexorably and irresistibly drawn to face the prejudice that he had come so far to seek, and they would fight man-to-man, like two mortal enemies.

  XVIII

  LAÏZA

  Georges had returned to his father’s house in Moka and was in the room he had had furnished for himself, contemplating the position he had now put himself in, when a servant knocked and said a black man was asking to see him. Thinking, naturally, that Henri de Malmédie had sent a message, he requested that the visitor be admitted.

  At his first sight of the new arrival, Georges knew he had been mistaken—he had a vague recollection of having met this man somewhere before, but he could not say where.

  “You don’t recognize me, monsieur?” asked the Negro, after a moment.

  “No,” admitted Georges, “but we have met already, haven’t we?”

  The man nodded. “Twice.”

  “But where?”

  “First at the rivière Noire, when you saved the young woman. The second time was—”

  “Yes,” interrupted Georges, “now I remember! And the second time?”

  “The second time,” continued the black man, “was when you gave us our freedom. My name is Laïza, and my brother is called Nazim.”

  “Where is your brother now?”

  “During our slavery, his only desire was to return home to Anjouan. Now that he is free, thanks to you, he has gotten his wish. He has left île de France and should be with our father even now. Let me thank you again, on his behalf.”

  “And you?” asked Georges. “You remain here, even though you are a free man? Strange.”

  The Negro smiled. “You will soon understand my reasons for that.”

  “Well?” Georges asked, interested despite himself.

  “I am the son of a chief,” Laïza began. “Half Zanzibarian, half Arab. I was not born to be a slave.”

  Georges smiled involuntarily at the other man’s pride, seemingly unconscious of the fact that it was younger brother to his own.

  “A Querimbo chief took me prisoner in battle, and sold me to a slave trader,” Laïza continued, without appearing to notice Georges’s expression. “It was he who sold me to Monsieur de Malmédie. I offered to buy back my freedom for twenty pounds’ worth of gold dust, but they would not believe a Negro could have that much, and refused. I tried to convince them at first, but after a while”—he shrugged—“something changed in my life, and I no longer thought of leaving.”

  “Perhaps Monsieur de Malmédie treated you well, as you deserved?” suggested Georges.

  Laïza shook his head. “No, it was not that. My brother Nazim was captured three years after me, and by a stroke of good fortune he was sold to the same master. But he lacked my reasons for wanting to stay; from the first moment he wanted only to escape. You know the rest, for it was you who saved him. I loved my brother as if he were my own child, monsieur. And you”—he crossed his palms on his chest and made a slight bow—“now I love you as a father. So! Let me explain the state of things; I think you will find it quite as interesting as we do. On this island, you see, there are eighty thousand men of color, and only twenty thousand whites.”

  “Yes—I’ve counted them already, myself,” said Georges, smiling.

  “I had wondered about that,” admitted Laïza. “Now, of these eighty thousand colored men, at least twenty thousand are capable of bearing arms, whereas the whites—even including the eight hundred English troops in the garrison—have four thousand men at most.”

  “I’m aware of that as well,” Georges said.

  “Surely you can guess the rest!”

  “Please explain it to me.”

  “We have resolved to be rid of the whites, monsieur. We have suffered enough! We have earned the right to avenge ourselves.”

  “And?” Georges prompted.

  “Everything is ready, except—” Laïza paused, then met Georges’s inquiring gaze. “We still need a leader, monsieur. Two men have been suggested, but neither of them is truly fit for such an undertaking.”

  “And who are these men?”

  “The first is Antonio the Malay.”

  A scornful smile flashed across Georges’s lips. “And the second?”

  Laïza inclined his head. “It is I.”

  “You?” Georges gazed steadily into the eyes of the other man, who was setting such a strange example of modesty for the whites by recognizing that he was not worthy of the position to which he had been elevated.

  “Yes,” the Negro replied. “But our venture requires only one leader, not two.”

  “Ah,” said Georges, nodding, and assuming that Laïza desired all of the power to himself.

  “One supreme and absolute commander, whose worth will never be called into question,” continued Laïza.

  “Well; and where will you find such a man?”

  “He has been found already,” said Laïza, fixing his eyes on Georges. “The question is whether or not he will accept the post.”

  “He would be risking his neck,” observed Georges.

  “No more than the rest of us!” Laïza exclaimed.

  “But what guarantee would you give him?”

  “The same one he will give us—the end of persecution and slavery; vengeance; and a future of liberty!”

  “What is your plan, then?”

  “Tomorrow, after the Yamsé festival, when the whites are tired from the day’s pleasures and, after watching the burning of the gouhn, have gone home, the Lascars will remain alone on the riverbanks. Then the rest of us will join them—Africans
, Malays, Malagasies, Malabars, Indians; everyone who has agreed to take part in the uprising. We will elect our leader then, and he will direct our movements after that.” He paused. “Simply say the word, monsieur, and you will be that leader.”

  “Who sent you here, to make this proposal?” Georges demanded.

  “No one, monsieur.”

  “It was your own idea to come?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what gave you this idea?”

  “You, yourself, monsieur.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It seems to me,” said Laïza, “that you cannot fulfill your own desires without helping us.”

  “My own desires?” Georges repeated. “What do you think I desire?”

  “To wed the Rose of the rivière Noire,” Laïza said simply. “What is more, you want to destroy Monsieur Henri de Malmédie. You wish to possess the one, and revenge yourself on the other—and we alone can offer you the means to do both of these things. They will never give her to you as a bride of their own accord, monsieur; nor will they allow young Monsieur de Malmédie to stand against you in a duel.”

  “Who told you I loved Sara?” Georges demanded.

  “I could see it, monsieur.”

  “You mistake yourself.”

  “No.” Laïza shook his head sadly. “One may deceive the eyes, but never the heart.”

  A faint smirk crossed Georges’s lips. “Ah. Are you to be my rival, then?”

  “No,” Laïza said again. “Only a man who has the hope of being loved himself can be a rival, and the Rose of the rivière Noire will never love the Lion of Anjouan.”

  “Are you not jealous?’

  “You saved her life, and it belongs to you. It is only right. I, alas, will not have the happiness of dying for her.” Laïza’s eyes met Georges’s. “But you must admit, monsieur, that I proved myself worthy of such an honor.”

  “Certainly, you are very brave,” murmured Georges. “But can we count on the others?”

  “I can only speak for myself,” said Laïza. “You will find me unfailingly constant, courageous, and loyal.”

  “You will obey me without question?”

  “Yes—in all things, monsieur.”

  “Even in what touches—” Georges stopped.

  “The Rose of the rivière Noire. Yes.” Laïza completed the sentence.

  “Where do you come by such devotion to me?” Georges asked, a bit wonderingly.

  “The Stag of Anjouan—my brother—would have died under the lash if you had not purchased his life,” replied Laïza simply. “And I—the Lion of Anjouan—would have spent the rest of my life in chains if you had not freed me. The lion is the strongest of animals, but also the most generous; and I am strong and generous as well. That is why I am called the Lion of Anjouan.” Crossing his arms on his chest, he met Georges’s gaze proudly.

  “Well.” Georges extended his hand to Laïza. “Give me one day, to make my decision.”

  “May I ask, monsieur, what will influence you to say yes or no?”

  Georges looked at him. “Today I insulted Henri de Malmédie. Grievously, unforgivably—and publicly.”

  “I know it. I was there.”

  “If he will consent to a duel with me, I need have no further dealings with you.”

  Laïza smiled. “And if he refuses to fight?”

  “Then I am at your disposal. Henri de Malmédie is known to be brave, though. He has fought two duels already, against other whites, of course; and he killed one of his opponents. He will have added a third insult to those he has already inflicted on me if he refuses to fight, and the die will thus be cast.”

  “Then you will surely be our leader,” said Laïza, “for Henri de Malmédie may be brave, but he will never fight a mulatto.”

  Georges frowned; Laïza had voiced his own hidden thoughts. “And yet,” he said, “how can a white man bear to live with the shame of having a mulatto’s scar on his face?”

  Just then Télémaque entered the room, clutching the ear Bijou had injured at the races. “Excuse me, sir, but that Dutch captain is here and wishing to speak with you.”

  “Captain Van den Broek?” Georges inquired.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well,” said Georges. He turned back to Laïza. “Wait for me here. I will return shortly—in fact, I may have an answer for you more quickly than I anticipated.”

  Leaving his chamber, he entered the drawing room and strode toward the waiting visitor with open arms.

  “Oho, my brother, so you recognize me!” said Jacques, clapping him warmly on the back.

  “Of course—and I’m delighted to see you, I must say; especially just now.”

  Jacques grinned. “You came awfully close to missing out on that particular pleasure this time, my dear fellow!”

  “Why?’

  “I must be off, and quickly. The new governor is too much of an old sea fox for my taste.”

  “Not a fox, my brother. A wolf, perhaps, or even a tiger!” said Georges. “He is none other than the famous Commodore William Murray, who used to command the Leicester.”

  “The Leicester, eh? I should have known!” exclaimed Jacques. “In that case, we have an old score to settle. Yes, I understand it perfectly now.”

  “What has happened?”

  “The governor came up to me after the races and complimented me on the beauty of my schooner. Very gracious, he was; nothing peculiar about it. But then he asked if he might have the honor of paying me a visit tomorrow.”

  “You think he suspects something?” Georges asked.

  “Yes, and I—like a fool—suspected nothing. I asked him on board for breakfast tomorrow, and he accepted.”

  “And?”

  “As I was ashore ordering supplies for breakfast, I noticed signals coming from Mont Découverte. I thought, just maybe, they might have a little something to do with me. I climbed the hill myself, armed with my trusty spyglass, and—sure enough, there was a ship responding to those signals, about twenty miles out.”

  “It was the Leicester?”

  “No doubt about it. They’re hoping to trap me, but as you know, Jacques wasn’t born yesterday! The wind is in the southeast just now; the Leicester can’t enter the Port Louis harbor without hugging the coastline. At that rate, it will take twelve hours at least to reach île des Tonneliers. I’m going to use that time to escape—and I’ve come looking for you in the hope that I can persuade you to come with me.”

  “I! Why should I leave île de France?”

  “What the devil gave you the idea to slash that handsome fellow’s face with a whip? That wasn’t very polite of you, Georges.”

  “Didn’t you recognize him?”

  “Of course I did! Why do you think I bet a thousand louis against him? Fine stallion you’ve got there in Antrim, by the way.”

  “Jacques, it was Henri de Malmédie who, fourteen years ago, on the day of the battle”—Georges pushed the hair off his forehead, revealing his scar—“gave me this; don’t you remember?”

  “Blazes, I’d forgotten all about that! You do hold a grudge, my dear fellow! But, now, if I remember rightly, he paid dearly for that little piece of nastiness—a blow in the face in return for his saber cut.”

  “Yes,” said Georges. “True enough; and so I was prepared to forget, if not forgive, that offense—but then he dealt me a second.”

  “Which was?”

  “He refused to give me his cousin Sara’s hand in marriage.”

  Jacques burst out laughing. “You are a prize, my brother! A father and son raise an heiress for fourteen years, just like a chick in a coop, in order to make her fit for marriage to the boy. Then, at the very moment when she is plump and ready for slaughter, here you come like a poacher to snatch her for yourself! Come now! How could they do anything but refuse you—you and I mulattoes into the bargain!”

  “It was not simply that he refused to grant me Sara’s hand. He also threatened me with his cane.”r />
  “Ah! Well, there he was certainly wrong. Did you knock him down for it?”

  “No,” said Georges, laughing at this remark, so typical of his brother. “I demanded satisfaction.”

  “And he refused? Of course he would; we are mulattoes. We may fight the whites, but they never fight us,” mused Jacques.

  “I promised him that I would make him fight me.”

  “And that is why, at the racetrack, in full view of a thousand spectators—coram populo, as we used to say at the Collège Napoleon—you gave him a lash in the face with your whip. Well played, my brother. You almost succeeded.”

  “Almost! What do you mean, almost?”

  “I am sure he would have agreed to a duel then and there, but his friends talked him out of it. They said it was impossible—not one of them would agree to act as his second.”

  “Well, he may keep the mark of my whip on his face, then,” said Georges, scornfully, “and he is welcome to it.”

  “I’m afraid it isn’t as simple as that, Georges. They are planning something for you.”

  Georges knitted his brow. “Are they? And what might that be?”

  “Henri de Malmédie was so keen to fight you that, to calm him down, they had to promise him that they would arrange for eight or ten men to ambush you one day soon, on your way home from Port Louis, and stretch you on a ladder, and give you twenty-five lashes with a whip.”

  “The blackguards! That is a Negro’s punishment!”

  “And what are we mulattoes, my brother? White Negroes, nothing more.”

  “So Henri’s friends promised to punish me, eh? You’re sure of it?”

  “Yes, I was there,” said Jacques. “They took me for a brave and thoroughbred Dutchman; didn’t suspect me in the least.”

  Georges was silent for a moment. “Then my fate is decided,” he said at last.

  “So you’ll come away with me?”

  “No. I stay here.”

  Jacques took his brother by the shoulder. “Listen to me, Georges,” he said. “Take an old sea dog’s advice and leave with me today.”

  “It is impossible,” said Georges. “It would look as if I were running away. And there is something else—I love Sara.”