“But who will make the case for him?” Antonio cried, looking disgruntled.
“I will,” said Laïza.
“Has he lived among us? Does he know our needs, our desires?”
“He has not lived among us,” admitted Laïza, “but he has lived with the whites, and studied them closely. And yes, he knows our needs and desires—we have only one, do we not? Freedom, and nothing more.”
“Let him begin by freeing his own three hundred slaves, then!” said Antonio, scornfully.
Georges answered him. “It has already been done, this very morning.”
“Yes, yes!” shouted several men in the crowd. “We free now; M’sieur Georges has freed us!”
Antonio persisted. “He is too attached to the whites.”
Georges shook his head. “Those ties were severed this morning as well, in full view of most of you.”
“But,” said Antonio stubbornly, “he loves a white woman!”
“Ah,” said Georges, “there is another victory for men of color, for the white woman loves me, too.”
“He will betray us,” Antonio warned the crowd, “the moment the whites offer her to him as a wife.”
“If they did offer her, I would refuse,” rejoined Georges coolly. “I wish to have her by her own free will alone. I want no one to give her to me.”
Antonio opened his mouth to protest again, but cries of “Vive Georges! Hurrah for our leader!” erupted, drowning his voice completely. Georges now signaled that he wished to speak, and the crowd grew quiet.
“My friends,” he said, “the day is breaking, and it is time for us to part. Thursday is a holiday, and on that day you shall all celebrate as free men. I shall be here on that day, on this very spot, at eight o’clock in the evening. I shall put myself at your head, and we will march on Port Louis.”
“Yes! Yes!” all the voices cried.
“One word more,” Georges continued. “If we should discover a proven traitor among us, let us resolve now that he shall be speedily put to death. Do you agree to this arrangement?”
“Yes! Yes!” roared the crowd. “Death to traitors!”
“Good,” said Georges. He turned to Laïza. “How many men do we have?”
“We are ten thousand strong.”
“I have directed my men to give each of you four piastres,” said Georges, addressing the crowd again, “so that you may each buy a weapon before Thursday evening. Until then!” Saluting the multitude, he left the same way he had come. His three hundred former slaves each opened a sack of gold and began to distribute the promised sums among the men.
The display had cost Georges Munier two hundred thousand francs, but he was a millionaire several times over; and, besides, he would have sacrificed his entire fortune to ensure the success of the project he had desired for so long. Finally, it was about to begin. The gauntlet had been thrown down at last.
XX
THE RENDEZVOUS
Georges returned home in a surprisingly tranquil mood. He was one of those men whom inaction kills, and whom struggle only makes stronger. He occupied himself by planning what he would do in case of an ambush, mapping out an escape route through the Great Woods in which he had spent so much time as a young boy, and whose murmur and immensity, combined with the murmur and immensity of the sea, had made him the dreamy child we first met.
The unexpectedness and danger of the situation sat heaviest on the shoulders of poor Pierre Munier. For fourteen years the sole desire of his heart had been to see his children once more, and now that wish had been fulfilled. But their coming had turned his predictable life into an unending nightmare of worry: One son was the captain of a slave ship, forever at odds with both the elements and the law; the other, an ideological dreamer, struggling with prejudice and mankind as a whole—both of them fighting against the strongest forces in the world, and either liable at any moment to be crushed in the tempest. Chained by a lifetime habit of passive obedience, he now watched his sons march toward the abyss, powerless to hold them back. His only consolation lay in the words he repeated to himself, over and over: “At least I may be certain of one thing—that I shall die along with them.”
Georges’s fate would be determined very soon; only two days separated him from the catastrophic event that would make him another Toussaint L’Ouverture—or another Pétion. The young man’s only regret during this time was that he had had no way to communicate with Sara for two full days, but it would have been imprudent to send to town for his regular messenger, Miko-Miko. Nevertheless, he was reassured by the conviction that she was as certain of his love as he was of hers. There are some souls who need only exchange one glance—one word—to understand each other completely, and to know that they may trust the other absolutely.
From time to time Georges would smile to himself at the thought of the great act of vengeance he was preparing to wreak on the society of île de France, and of the magnificent reward that would finally be his. He imagined what he would say at his next meeting with Sara: I have not seen you in eight days, but in that brief time the face of the island has been changed as irrevocably as if a volcano had erupted. God himself tried to destroy everything with a hurricane, and he failed. I, on the other hand, desired to sweep away men, laws, and prejudice, all in one violent storm—and it seems that I am more powerful than God, for I have succeeded.
Socially and politically dangerous situations, such as the one to which Georges was now exposing himself, hold a certain feeling of intoxication that will always draw conspirators and fuel their conspiracies. It cannot be denied that man’s strongest motivation is pride. We are human beings—sons of original sin—and what greater thrill can we seek than the renewal of the struggle between Satan and God, between Jupiter and the Titans? True, Satan was defeated and cast out of heaven, and the Titan Enceladus was buried forever beneath Mount Etna. But it is also true that whenever Enceladus turns in his grave, he moves a mountain, and that Satan, exiled, became the king of hell.
Such thoughts as these could never be understood by poor Pierre Munier. Where Georges was able to sleep deeply and peacefully with his window half open, his pistol hanging from the headboard and his naked saber underneath his pillow, Pierre Munier could not rest at all. He armed five or six trustworthy Negroes and posted them all around the house while he himself stood guard on the Moka road, protecting his beloved son from any possible surprise attack.
The night passed quietly; blacks, when they hatch a plot, are known to be scrupulous secret keepers. They are not civilized enough, poor devils, to know the full extent of what their treason might mean.
The next day passed just as the previous night had, and that night it was the same. Nothing occurred that might lead Georges to believe that he had been betrayed. Only a few hours, now, separated him from his goal.
Laïza came at nine o’clock the next morning, and Georges immediately asked that he be admitted so they could speak privately. In general, nothing was altered. The rebels’ feelings had not changed; if anything, they had intensified as a result of Georges’s generosity. The plan was set; all ten thousand conspirators would gather, armed and ready, on the Lataniers riverbank at nine o’clock that night. At ten o’clock the insurrection would begin.
While Georges was still conferring with Laïza about the attitude of the men and their chances of success in the perilous enterprise they were about to undertake, he happened to glance out the window and see the distant figure of Miko-Miko approaching the house, his bamboo baskets slung over his shoulders as always. Hoping he might carry some message from Sara, whom Georges had not seen since the day of the races, the young man could not restrain himself from opening the window and signaling the honest Chinese merchant to quicken his pace. Laïza moved to withdraw, but Georges asked him to stay; there was still more they needed to discuss.
As Georges had thought, Miko-Miko had not come to Moka of his own accord. Immediately upon being ushered into the room, he drew from his pocket a daintily folded note,
addressed in a beautiful hand with the single name “Georges.” The young man’s heart beat violently at the mere sight of the letter; he took it from Miko-Miko’s hand, and retired to the relative privacy near the window to peruse its contents. The note was, of course, from Sara, and it read as follows:
My dearest friend,
Go to Lord William Murray’s house at two o’clock this afternoon, and you will learn things that I dare not tell you, for they make me so happy. After you leave him, come to me. I will wait for you in our pavilion.
Your Sara
Georges reread the letter twice. He was quite confused as to what this double rendezvous might mean. What could Lord Murray possibly have to tell him that could make Sara so happy? And how could he hope to present himself at the house of M. de Malmédie, in the broad daylight of three o’clock and in plain sight of everyone?
Miko-Miko might have a few answers. Calling the merchant to his side, Georges asked him to explain the letter—but as it turned out, he knew nothing except that Mademoiselle Sara had sent Bijou to fetch him (he had not recognized him at first; as it transpired, during his fight with Télémaque the poor devil had lost a part of his nose, which was already very flat); that he had followed Bijou to the Malmédie pavilion where Sara waited, and that she had given him a piece of gold and asked him to carry a note to Georges.
Still, the young man peppered him with questions. Had Sara written the letter in Miko-Miko’s presence, or had she done it alone? Had she appeared sad or joyful? Yes, was the answer; she had written it while he stood in front of her. No, there had been no one else in the room. And her face, as far as he could tell, had expressed nothing but the most perfect serenity and happiness.
As Georges continued to question the peddler, a horse could be heard approaching the house at full gallop. The rider turned out to be a messenger clad in the governor’s livery. He was ushered to Georges’s chamber directly and handed over a letter from Lord Murray, which read:
My dear fellow traveler,
Since I last saw you, I have been very much occupied on your behalf; I flatter myself that I have had a bit of success in the arrangement of your little business.
Please be so good as to meet me at my home this afternoon at two o’clock, when I shall, I hope, have some good news for you.
Your friend,
Lord W. Murray.
The two letters coincided perfectly. Despite the risk, Georges resolved that he must keep the double rendezvous with Lord Murray and Sara—that it would be an act of near-cowardice not to—despite the danger he would no doubt invite by venturing into Port Louis, and especially by going to the governor’s house. The young man’s pride was at stake; furthermore, it was all the more important that he go, since Sara and Lord William were the only two people on the island upon whom he felt he could completely depend: the one for love, and the other for friendship.
Turning to the governor’s messenger, he sent his respects to milord and said that he would meet him at the appointed time. This done, he sat down and began a letter to Sara. Let us peer over his shoulder, now, and see what he wrote:
Dearest Sara,
Let me first bless you for your sweet letter! It is the first I have received from you and, though it is brief, it tells me everything I need to know—that you have not forgotten me; that you still love me; and that you are mine, just as I am yours. I will go to Lord Murray’s house at the time you have instructed me. Will you be there, too? You have not said so. Alas, my dear, the only truly happy news I can imagine would come from your lips, and it would be that I am to be your husband. Everything I have done, and everything I will do, shall be solely to make this desire a reality.
Stay faithful and strong, my dear Sara, as I shall. Our mutual happiness may seem very near to you, but I fear we must still endure terrible trials before we reach that sacred day.
Still, I believe in my heart that there is nothing in this world that can overcome the combined strength of fierce determination and deep, devoted love.
Trust in my love, Sara. I promise you, I will not disappoint you.
Your Georges.
Georges folded the note and gave it to Miko-Miko along with the sort of generous remuneration that such a faithful servant deserved. The merchant slung his baskets across his shoulders again and set out for Port Louis, leaving the young man alone with Laïza—who had heard almost all, and understood everything—once more.
“You are going into town, then?” asked the Negro.
“Yes.”
“It is unwise,” said Laïza.
“I know, but I must go all the same. I would be a coward in my own eyes if I did not.”
Laïza nodded. “Go, then. But if you are not at the rivère des Lataniers at ten o’clock—”
“Then you may assume that I am a prisoner, or dead. You shall march either to set me free, or to avenge my death.”
“Yes,” said Laïza. “You may count on us.”
The two men, who instinctively understood each other so well that a gesture or a handshake was all they needed to communicate, now parted without exchanging another word.
It was ten o’clock, and a servant knocked on the door to ask if Georges would be joining his father for breakfast. The young man went to the table as calmly as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Pierre Munier looked at him with fatherly concern, but the untroubled expression on Georges’s face reassured him.
“Well, my dear boy,” Pierre said. “Seeing so many messengers come to you, I feared they brought you some evil news—but you are so at ease, I believe I was mistaken—God be praised.”
“Quite so, Father,” Georges said. “All is well. The revolt is still set for this evening at ten o’clock. The messengers you saw brought me two letters—one from the governor, who wishes to see me this afternoon, and the other from my dearest Sara, assuring me of her love.”
Pierre Munier sat in astonished silence. This was the first time Georges had spoken to him either of the planned Negro insurrection or his friendship with the governor. He had heard whispers of both, though, and it shook him deeply to receive confirmation that his beloved son was treading so dangerous a path. He opened his mouth to speak, but Georges stopped him.
“Father,” he said, smiling, “surely you remember the day fourteen years ago, when you performed with such valor, coming to the rescue of the volunteers and capturing the enemy flag, only to have it torn from your hands by Monsieur de Malmédie. That day you were heroic in the face of danger—great, noble, sublime—as indeed you always are. I swore then that one day I would make the world more just. The time has now come, and I will not renounce that oath. God shall judge who is to be the slave, and who the master; he will decide between the weak and the strong, between the martyrs and those who execute them. There is no turning back now.”
Pierre Munier, powerless in the face of such determination, could voice no objection. He seemed to shrink in on himself, as if the weight of the entire world had settled on his shoulders. Georges ordered the servant Ali to saddle his horse, then quietly finished his breakfast. Finally he stood to go. Pierre Munier rose from his chair, holding his arms out to his son. Georges stepped close to him, and took the old man’s head gently between his hands. His face, usually so inscrutable, bore an expression of filial love and tenderness he had never before allowed himself to show. He pressed his father’s venerable head to his brow, and kissed the white hair.
“Oh, my son, my son!” murmured Pierre Munier.
“Dear father!” Georges said. “You shall be respected in your old age, or I shall go to an early grave. Adieu!”
He strode quickly out of the room. With a groan of anguish, Pierre Munier sank back into his chair.
XXI
THE REFUSAL
Georges had ridden about two leagues from his father’s house when he overtook Miko-Miko, who was returning to Port Louis. Reining in his horse and signaling for the peddler to approach, he whispered a few words in the other man’s ear. Miko
-Miko nodded in understanding and continued on his way.
As he reached the foot of Mont Découverte, Georges began to encounter a few townspeople. He searched their faces, but detected nothing that might indicate that word of the planned revolt had leaked out. Satisfied, he rode on, crossing through the Negro camp and entering the city.
Port Louis was calm, the men in the streets preoccupied with their own affairs and seemingly free of worry. Merchant vessels lay quietly at anchor in the still waters of the harbor. The usual bunch of ne’er-do-wells idled at Pointe-aux-Blagueurs, and an American ship, arriving from Calcutta, had just dropped anchor in front of Chien-de-Plomb.
Still, Georges’s presence seemed to create a certain sensation—but he attributed it to the incident that had occurred at the races, and to the audacity he had shown, as a mulatto, in striking a white man. Several times groups of people stopped talking at his approach and stared at him as he passed, murmuring their astonishment that he had had the nerve to reappear in town. Georges’s only reply was to return their looks with one of his own so supremely disdainful that no one was able to hold his searing gaze—or, indeed, to ignore the carved handles of his double-barreled pistols, protruding from the holsters at his sides.
Georges paid particular attention to the soldiers and officers he encountered as he rode through the town—but their faces reflected only the tranquil boredom common to military men four thousand leagues from home. If they had been aware of the events planned for that evening, they would no doubt have worn airs of importance, even of anticipation—but they did not, and Georges’s mind was easy as he continued on his way.
Finally he arrived at the governor’s residence. Dismounting, he handed Antrim’s reins to Ali and instructed the servant to remain exactly where he was. Lord Murray had apparently ordered his doorman to admit M. Munier as soon as he arrived, and Georges was immediately ushered into the parlor.
Georges Page 23
