I had worn MacGuffin’s sword, having lost my own. It was perhaps a dangerous thing to carry in that camp, lest someone should recognize it—but it was my hope that someone would. I studied Connor’s face. “Look familiar?”
“I did not say that. May I ask where you acquired such a thing?”
“There’s a trade in curios inside Jacmel as well as out. Say, ain’t it time we shoved off?”
With our hats tucked under our arms so’s we wouldn’t mess up our hair, we strolled over to Toussaint’s headquarters. An old black man in a crimson velvet suit took our hats and gloves and accepted with barely a glance the carte de visite that Connor gave him. I doubted he could have seen past his nose anyway, he held it so high. He sniffed because I had no card, but he nodded when I told him my name.
We followed him through the house to the back garden, where brass-helmeted dragoons clicked their boot heels and the major domo or whoever the old man was pounded on the step with his silver-mounted ebony stick and announced us to no one in particular. His duty done, he bowed to his knees and went back indoors to sneer at the next batch of visitors.
Beyond the dragoons, in a large sort of arbor where a small band honked and tootled its way through what I guessed were the latest dances, the mostly black officers and their mostly black ladies mostly ignored us. An occasional white or mulatto face spared us a glance and sometimes a smirk before turning elegantly away. I was about to ask Connor how long I’d have to stay before I could make a polite exit when the colonel from Dessalines’ board of inquiry approached us with an expectant half-smile.
“Bonsoir, m’sieurs,” he said, resplendent in his well-cut uniform and a wig as sleek and white as ermine. He was a handsome version of Dessalines, with the same wooly side-whiskers and closely trimmed mustache, but with much less of the general’s lurking fury. “M’sieur Graves de la Marine des États-Unis, n’est-ce pas? I trust I find you recovered from your recent tribulation.”
“Mais oui, monsieur. Merci beaucoup,” said I, straightening up from making my leg. I wondered which tribulation he meant: my imprisonment or my time in front of Dessalines. “It was as nothing. But I beg the colonel will forgive me, as he has me at a disadvantage. We were never introduced.”
“It is I who must beg forgiveness. Allow me to name myself: I am chef de brigade Henri Christophe, of the first and second demi-brigades and commander of the forces in and around Le Cap. I beg you will forgive the impertinent questions regarding the information you so kindly delivered from”—he hesitated just a fraction, glancing at Connor— “our friend inside Jacmel.”
“I have heard a great deal of the colonel and am most honored to make his acquaintance,” I said, bowing again. “May I name Monsieur Connor?”
“This Connor and I have the acquaintance.”
They eyed each other like a couple of tomcats squaring off.
A white lady fluttered her fan at us, and then turned it just so and minced at Connor.
“Ah, Mr. Connor,” said Christophe, giving the lady the barest of bows, “it would seem Madame Bréde desires your attentions.”
His words needed no translation. Connor met the lady’s eyes and smiled, murmuring apologies to us as he withdrew.
“She has the pox, alas,” said Christophe, watching them go off together. “I hope they become very well acquainted.” He took me by the elbow and threaded me through the crowd till we came to the punch bowl. “You will pardon my unseemly curiosity, sir, but what is it you have heard of me?”
“Of your victories in the field, naturally. And the executions at Le Cap, and also the affair of the Englishman Rainsford, of course. The newspapers were filled with it.”
“But yes, Capitaine Rainsford.” He ladled me out a glass of sanguinaire, a spiced wine punch with chunks of paw-paw and oranges in it. “About a year ago he presented himself as an American, and then had quite a bit of difficulty explaining himself when we found out he was no such thing. Not that he was in any real danger, of course—if he’d been French I’d have shot him out of hand, but the English enjoy certain protections here, despite their attempts to bring back the ancien régime. He disappointed me. I had liked him . . . One tells you and your former masters apart with difficulty, if you will forgive my saying so.”
“Not at all, sir. People are the same all over, I find. We, for instance, have difficulty telling the French and the gens de couleur apart, much less all the other color gradations. Nègre, sacatra, griffe, marabou, mulâtre, quarteron and sang-mêlée—I can’t remember them all. We can’t tell the difference, and I am ignorant as to what all the fuss is about. Such an eye it must take to detect such minute differences!”
“Oh, foo,” said Christophe, sipping his punch. “I have heard of your quadroons and octaroons, and it is said that your people are as conscious of race as we are, if not more so. We have white men and mulattoes fighting alongside us, and the same can be said for André Rigaud, though he is a keening dog if ever there was one. And as far as telling the difference between the blacks and the mulattoes and the French, of course it is difficult, for we are all as French as the first Consul himself.”
“So you are, sir. Please forgive my stupidity,” I said.
“It is of no moment.”
“You are very kind, sir. But Captain Rainsford, now—I read an excerpt of his report in the papers. At least he was forthright in his admiration of your tactics. Is it true what he says, sir, that your infantrymen shoot and load so rapidly and conceal themselves so well that they are nearly immune to cavalry attack?”
“Yes, yes—how gracious you are to mention it. I have them run, and throw themselves down, and switch from their bellies to their backs, from van to rear, all while maintaining an impressive rate of fire. It’s astonishingly effective in the dense forests. My hussars are my particular pride, of course, gorgeous on parade, but between you, me, and the woodpile I confess that except along the coasts and a few of the valleys, even light cavalry is useless except as mounted infantry. Too damn many trees.”
“We have watched a squadron of hussars across the river by the hill near the water. Are they yours, colonel?”
“Indeed so. You noticed them, hein?”
“How could I not? But I ask for a particular reason. Captain Block wishes to mount a pair of twelve-pounders on the hill there to help dislodge Pétion. He is particularly concerned that a force remain before him to discourage any sorties from the fortress.”
“Yes, I know. General Dessalines has promised this, is it not so?”
“Indeed, sir. But Captain Block instructed me to take particular care to speak with the cavalry’s commander as further assurance that they will be there when the time comes.”
A faint displeasure crossed his face. He finished his punch and tossed the glass onto the table.
“It is not that Captain Block lacks faith in the general or the chef de brigade,” I added, “but only that things can change very quickly in battle, and he does not care to lose his guns and powder, and particularly not his gunners.”
He dabbed at his mustache with his handkerchief. “It will be as he wishes. On this I give my word.”
“The colonel’s word is sufficient, sir. I thank you on the captain’s behalf. I beg you will pardon me for speaking of such matters at a social occasion.”
“It is the ladies, I think, who have made such rules.” He smiled again, holding out his arm, and we walked some more. “But now you must tell me what you know of Lieutenant Juge. How fares he?”
“Lieutenant Juge! Except that he gallantly covered our escape, sir, I can’t tell you much, I’m afraid. For instance, I wasn’t certain of his rank until just this moment.”
“He did not tell it to you?”
“Er . . . he did, but not at first.”
“Yes, he is cautious that way. He does not reveal himself until he is sure to whom he speaks.”
I laughed. “He played a joke on me. He told me he was a major.”
“Ha ha! That is Juge
. No doubt he did it to avoid some unpleasant task, hein?”
“Exactly so.” I laughed again, imagining the look on Treadwell’s face was I to tell him about it.
“You ought to feel flattered that he condescended to joke with you. As it happens he is a particular favorite of Father Toussaint, who in fact is eager to discuss a certain matter with you.”
“Indeed, sir? But is the governor-general around at all?”
I had half imagined that the great man would be seated on a throne of human skulls, perhaps, or at least surrounded by a buzzing cloud of courtiers and toadies. It would need a glorious presence to outshine the splendid ladies and gentlemen posturing on the dance floor out beyond the trees, or sipping punch and conversing in loose groups, but I could see no one who fit the bill.
“No, not here, sir,” said Christophe, amused. “This is just the great circle. Everyone who is anyone may come here. But the small circle is exclusive. Follow me, will you not?”
Beyond a grand latticework archway, which was woven with blossoms and guarded by a matched pair of brutes dressed as grenadiers, milled a group of ladies and gentlemen even more resplendent than their less-favored counterparts outside the archway. It was difficult to tell the colors of some of the uniforms, so covered were they in gold and silver lace. The men’s gorgeous epaulets tugged at their shoulders, and the ladies’ breasts thrust and jiggled at the fronts of their diaphanous gowns. The gowns must have been copied from the latest dolls from Paris, I guessed, for I’d never seen their like before. And such a daring profusion of décolletage and slender bare arms!
Mess sergeants in fancy dress came to light the lamps. No formal supper was in sight, but as more soldiers began to set dishes on the tables, there was a general rush in their direction. Heedless of order or sex, and without waiting for forks or even plates in some cases, the inner circle sat themselves and began gulping down food as fast as they could.
“Our timing is excellent,” said Christophe. “Come.”
I caught sight of a little black man in the shadow of a calaba tree, gumming something out of a gourd bowl and gazing at the glittering soldiers and gauzy ladies. A bowl of uncut fruit and a loaf of bread sat on a cloth by his side. Someone had dressed him up in a gaudy uniform complete with a broad sky-blue sash over his right shoulder. There were stars on the sash and a forest of gold lace on his collar and cuffs, but no epaulets, no sign of rank.
“One moment, please, Colonel Christophe,” said I. “I’ve just seen someone to whom I should say hello. We rode together for a short time.”
“You ‘rode together’?” said Christophe with an amused look. “So you know him already?”
“Sure, he’s Grandfather Chatterbox. An odd duck, but he seems to know people, and Juge dotes on him. Bonswa, Gran-pè Bavard,” I said, sidestepping a startled grenadier and bowing deeply. “Kouman ou ye?”
“M’ byen wi,” he answered. “I’m fine. I am expecting you. No, leave him be,” he said to the grenadier, who had placed a paw on my shoulder. The old man put a hand across his mouth as if hiding a smile.
“I am very sorry to say I left Juge in Pétion’s care,” I said, “but he insisted on covering my retreat.”
The hand dropped, and he wasn’t smiling. “Ah Pétion, he was a friend of mine.” He made a rude noise after he spoke. He had no teeth in his upper jaw and his lips hung loose, rendering his mouth admirably suited to the purpose. Then his sad old face lit up in a smile. “So! You didn’t waste the time you spent with my protégé. You speak Creole even worse than you speak French!”
I took that as a joke, as my French was a damn sight more elegant than my English. “Monsieur is too kind,” I said.
“But Juge, he thrived when you saw him last?”
“Li pa pli mal,” I said, meaning that Juge was well. As the idiom literally meant that Juge was no worse, I added, “Tout bagay byen,” but the old man nodded to indicate that he’d understood the first time. “Pétion seemed most careful to preserve his life,” I continued. “Perhaps he intends to use him to bargain with Father Toussaint. Me he considered useless, or perhaps damaging to hold, considering my government’s attitude toward Rigaud. No doubt he is relieved I am gone.”
The old man set down his calabash of soup. “No, you’re not useless. If he is relieved at your absence, it is because it has placed you in front of me to speak in his favor.”
“Oh no, sir, hardly in his favor.”
“Then to present him as less than despicable.” He took up his vial of black and white corn kernels and shook it, examining the effect. “So, what do you think of Pétion’s chances?”
I glanced at Christophe, who smiled behind his hand but offered no help.
“Well,” I said, “I think his chances are not good. The only thing that could save him is if Toussaint were to lift the siege.”
The intensity of the old man’s reaction startled me. “Sa ki lans coeur gnannc, se couteau seul ki comain,” he snarled, meaning that what was in his heart could only be cut out with a knife. “No, the city must fall. Everyone in it must die. It will be so.” He shook his corn kernels some more while he calmed down.
The splendiferous ladies and gentlemen who had finished with their dinner stared at us anxiously. Christophe looked up into the darkening sky, as if he had spotted something up there of great interest.
Me, I was scared. No—not scared, I realized, but awed. The old man had a power of dignity that bordered on the supernatural, as when he’d shut me up with a gesture on the road from Léogâne. “M’ regrèt sa, gran-pè,” I said. “I don’t know what I said wrong, but I’m sorry for it. If I could help Juge, I would.”
“You would? Why is that?”
“Because I like him.”
“Because you like him. Is that reason enough? He’s black and you’re white.”
“My mother was Creole.”
He shrugged. “This means nothing.”
“He is my friend.”
He lifted his chin in a gesture that was part challenge, part warning. “Where are you from?”
“My home port is Baltimore, but I’m from—”
“Baltimore is in the Maryland, is it not?”
“Yes, but—”
“This Maryland is what you call a southern state, is it not?”
“In a sense, yes, but—”
“Do you own slaves?”
“Pa sifè non.”
He gave the crowd a droll look. “Of course he says, ‘Of course not.’” The ladies and gentlemen tittered. He looked back at me. “But you avail yourself of their labor, all the same. Who unloads your ships? Who harvests your wheat and tobacco? Who scrubs your kettles and serves your meat and hauls away the night soil? You don’t want the niggers around you, yet who else would do the things you won’t do for yourself?”
“Well, I—”
The ladies and gentlemen had drawn closer, clearly enjoying my discomfort. Some laughed outright. Christophe tugged on my arm, but I shook him off.
The old man waited, his tongue snaking along his parted lips. His head was too big for his body, I thought, and the teeth that lined his underslung lower jaw were brown and snaggled. I looked into the depths of his fathomless eyes and a pain shot through my heart.
“Nan dan-ou! At least we don’t shoot them out of cannons,” I said hotly. “No, and we don’t tie them up and fork them into the sea with bayonets, either! And Dessalines—he should be standing trial, not presiding over them!” I remembered Juge’s devotions, and guessed the old man might be Catholic, too. “Is this what Jesus said? ‘Do unto others as they do unto thee’?”
Christophe pulled on my arm in earnest, hissing, “Mon dieu, Graves, keep these thoughts to yourself,” but the old man held up his hand and Christophe’s mouth snapped shut.
“It is impossible to reign without terror,” said Grandfather Chatterbox. “Look at France. She is the very soul of civilization, yet how many thousands of thousands has she killed? The guillotine, the firing squad,
the garrote—what difference does it make in the end? None at all to the man most concerned, I’m certain. You should read my newspapers for the full story: Le Cap François and the Gazette officielle. Or my pamphlets, of course.”
“Your pamphlets!” I fell to one knee as I suddenly realized the grossness of my error. “Oh, good lord. Do you mean to tell me, sir, that you are Toussaint L’Ouverture himself?”
It was Grand-père Bavard’s turn to be surprised. “Of course! You knew that, surely?”
“I did not, sir. I thought you were just a harmless old—that is to say, I thought these people were humoring you.”
Echoed after a second by the courtiers, Toussaint laughed, loudly and suddenly and shortly. He made a curt gesture, palm upward. “On your feet. Bootlicking is a time-honored art, Monsieur Graves! Don’t acquire it. Sometimes I wish I could preside over my court the same way I do over my armies, with a pistol in my hand. But you, boy, are under my protection.”
He shook his vial of corn again, frowned at it, and then shook it some more. Finally he held it up, and the people around us applauded. The black kernels had risen to the top and the white kernels had sunk to the bottom.
“This is how it will be here, too,” he said, “make no mistake about that, Monsieur Graves. But in the meantime, there is a great deal of work to be done.” His eyes softened. “So. As for you, it is sufficient to know that a friend is in great peril of his life. A friend, I may add, who admires and trusts you. I send a man with you to fetch him out. Also, as I believe you mentioned to Christophe and Dessalines, one of your own agents is captive there—George Franklin, the black man with whom we traveled from Léogâne, yes? You must get him out lest Pétion realizes who he is and cuts his throat.”
“Oh, no, sir. Franklin is not an agent of my government.”
Toussaint winked. “Just as you say.”
“I crave the governor-general’s indulgence in this last matter, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t return to the citadel.” Dog me if I’d go back into that hellhole! “I must be here to coordinate the bombardment. This is very important, as the governor-general says.”
The War of Knives Page 24
