The Emerald Storm (20 page)

“Ethan, every race believes the spirit helps the flesh.”

“And the flesh is fortified by spirits.” I poured us a measure of punch. “It’s getting dark, and I think religion is best discussed in bed.”

“Or is bed your religion?”

“I daresay such a religion would be more practical, or at least more comfortable, than the more conventional ones. I’ll also suggest that if people napped more, the world would be a calmer place. One problem with Napoleon is that he never gets enough sleep. I’ll bet Rochambeau and Dessalines have the same problem. A colonel told me the general has nightmares.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“So are the Haitian
loa
like the Catholic saints?”

“To a degree. But I think Ezeli is the black Isis, the equivalent of Mary, Venus, Aphrodite, or Freya.” Astiza moved to where we slept and lay down as if posing for a painting, bare shoulder in candlelight and the rest undulating like a serpent, making me think of anything but religion. I not only wanted to find my boy, I wanted to make another one. Or girl. Get back the emerald, retire in peace, and protect them all.

“And I think Ezeli is you.”

T
he Government House was transformed for Rochambeau’s ball.

Gone were the slovenly belongings of tired officers, replaced with pungent cascades of tropical flowers and garlands of oleander, a plant imported from Africa that I’d smelled in the ravines of the Holy Land. The marble was mopped bright, and the hardwood floors gleamed from fresh oiling. The reception hall, where the dancing would take place, dazzled from what seemed a thousand candles. Crystal and armor caught the light. Battle standards reminded us of martial glory. Rochambeau clearly put more energy into festivity than war.

The guests were equally radiant. The officers were in full dress uniform, swords clinking as they turned so the sheaths bumped and rattled like discordant chimes. Their uniforms were blue, their sashes red, their frogging silver or gold, their breeches white, and their boots polished to almost shave by. Civilian gentlemen wore fashionable tailed jackets, and servants sweated in embroidered French waistcoats, their woolly hair powdered white under tricorn hats.

The women outshone all. There are lovely ladies everywhere, but that night in Cap-François embedded pulchritude in memory, if only because the beauty seemed ephemeral and the gaiety forced, given the desperate military situation. Impending fever, the bayonet, and rape were the unspoken, uninvited guests to our party, and gave the ball poignancy.

The women’s gowns were as sumptuous as they were daring, décolletage picked out by brilliant necklaces. Necks were highlighted by hair piled high. Skin tones ranged from the carefully protected alabaster of ladies recently arrived from Europe to the tan of the creoles to the dusk of the mulattos; no truly black women were in attendance except servants. Such were the color castes of Saint-Domingue. The mixed-race damsels had special beauty, I thought, as if the gods rewarded the sin of master and slave with heavenly grace. Their complexions were flawless, lips full, and their eyes offered the dark depths and promises of a houri. Astiza was still special, but here she had true competition. The swirl of fabric, skin, perfume, and dazzling smiles put all of us men in something of a fever. We were hot and constricted in our uniforms and suit coats, while the women seemed as bright and light as woodland nymphs.

Astiza and I began to circulate, and I saw Rochambeau in the center, greeting each couple and assessing each woman as boldly as if he were in a whorehouse. I was amazed some husband hadn’t already shot him, but of course murder would mean a firing squad.

I also remembered something Franklin had written in his books of aphorisms.
He that displays too often his wife and his wallet is in danger of having them both borrowed.
Once again, I feared he was speaking of me.

Astiza saw me scowling and squeezed my forearm, radiating her own smile like a beam of light. “Remember, we’re here to learn about Harry,” she whispered. “You’re a diplomat, in control of every expression.”

“Just don’t be alone with the general. Soldiers shield him from answering for his appetites.”

“Then stay with me.”

But I couldn’t, entirely. There was a regimental orchestra, and as the music started there was a roulette of changing partners as we danced. Three officers in turn twirled Astiza on the floor, and then Rochambeau swooped to grasp her arm, quickstepping with surprising grace for such a squat posture. He got firm hold of her in the waltz, that dance the older generation views as scandalous. His right hand drifted down to the swell of her hip and buttocks and gripped for purchase, and his nose aimed at her bosom. Grinning like a conquistador with Inca loot, he danced past with skill I couldn’t match. The bastard was probably a good fencer, too, so I disliked him even more, deciding his stature was distinctly toadlike.

“And you are the American, monsieur?”

It was a planter’s wife, with beauty and figure that would normally enchant me. I bowed and extended my arms, but as we made a great wheel on the parquet floor I kept looking past my partner to Astiza, determined not to lose her as I’d lost Harry. Rochambeau had lowered his paw halfway to her thigh, and she was whispering some confidence into his ear that had him leering. I longed to pour rum down his breeches and set it on fire.

“Excuse me.” I broke off to have some punch. I wasn’t used to this business of having a wife other men desired, and it put me in a foul mood. I felt half guilty for planning to go over to Dessalines, betraying every couple around me, but half vengeful, too. Rochambeau had grasped my wife as France and the other European powers had grasped the islands of the Caribbean and the labor of Africa. I understood the wrath of the rebels.

Were we close to Harry and the stone at all?

I was brooding about my dilemmas and unjust fate when Astiza suddenly appeared from the dance floor, face flush, neck shiny, tendrils of hair escaping to stick to her temples. She pushed me hard back into the shadows. “He’s here!”

“Who?” I’d almost spilled my drink. She had fire in her eye.

“Leon Martel. He slipped up to me after the music stopped and said the general was inviting me to a private audience upstairs.”

“The devil he did!”

“The policeman is Rochambeau’s pimp.”

“Good God. Smith said he played that role as criminal. So where’s Harry?”

“I couldn’t ask him, Ethan. I don’t think he recognized me from Nitot’s jewelry store; everything happened there too quickly. He just does the general’s propositioning for him. He
did
have the arrogance to introduce himself; I almost swooned before giving a false name. He’ll learn soon enough who I am from Rochambeau. And he
would
recognize you, since you were caught and tortured. You have to stay out of sight.”

“Out of sight? I have to skewer the bastard!”

“Not yet. We’ve got to learn where Horus is.”

“It’s a trap. The only reason to get you upstairs is to rape or capture you.”

“They don’t know who I am, I tell you. Rochambeau simply hopes for sex. Martel panders. I’ve got to learn what I can.”

“No, it’s too dangerous. . . .”

“He’s coming.” She glanced over her shoulder, and indeed, I saw Martel threading through the crowd toward my wife, swarthy as a storm cloud, feral as a fox. He had the smug bearing of a favored courtier, of a man who delighted in hobnobbing with his betters. I have the same vanity.

“Promise me you’ll not risk ascending the staircase.”

“Wait inside the library and let me learn what I can,” she replied. “Then we’ll decide what to do about Rochambeau’s invitation.” Another shove, and I backed reluctantly through the doorway.

I fumbled at my waist, frustrated. I’d deliberately come to Saint-Domingue without a weapon to dissuade suspicion. Now I longed for one to kill Leon Martel.

When he spoke to my wife, the kidnapper had an unpleasant rasp to his voice that I recognized over the music, even though I’d no idea what was being said. Was he really a procurer for the French commander? How had the renegade ingratiated himself into the garrison here? What if I called him out at this moment, sword to sword? Maybe Colonel Aucoin and the other officers would join me against this upstart and demand that he produce Harry!

As I stewed, a black servant annoyingly tugged my sleeve. “Monsieur, a messenger for you in the kitchen.”

“I’m busy.”

“Pardon, but he says he’s ready to carry again.” The Negro looked at me intently.

At first I didn’t understand, but then I did.

Jubal. Of all the worst times!

“Can it wait?”

“Please. It’s safe, but urgent.”

Things were happening too fast. Heart hammering, hating the idea of leaving my wife to lechers, I reluctantly followed the slave. Surely she’d not go upstairs to Rochambeau . . . except she was entirely too self-sufficient, which is why I loved her.

“Here, monsieur.” To my surprise, a shelf of books rotated and I stepped into a passageway. It wasn’t secret, but rather a hidden corridor to bring refreshments to private meetings in the library. In twenty paces another door led us into the pantry, with the clatter of the kitchen beyond. Black cooks were singing as they worked, while butlers shouted orders and curses. Hams and fowl hung from the pantry ceiling, jars of pickled preserves lined the shelves, and barrels of flour and meat crowded the floor. It was a hoard of food in the midst of a siege. A few miles away a vast dark army loomed, waiting to liberate all the servants working here. What must the blacks think of nights like this?

Emerging from the dark of a pantry corner was the large form I knew well.

“Jubal, you risk coming
here
?”

“I risk what my commander orders,” he said. “Dessalines has sent a patrol for you. It’s the best time to escape, with army officers preoccupied. While they drink and eat, we’ll climb the mountains, wading up a stream to throw off any dogs.”

“I can’t go tonight. We’re honored guests, ambassadors, and my wife has urgent business with Rochambeau.”

“There’s no choice if you wish to meet Dessalines. It must be on his schedule, not yours, lest he fear that you set a trap. We go in one hour.”

“An hour! What about our belongings?”

“Leave them. Take them back when we take the city.”

“My wife will not agree.”

“Leave her if you wish. Then, if you want her back, you’ll join us in storming the walls.”

By that time she’d be Rochambeau’s forced concubine, or worse. What wretched timing! “Things can’t happen that fast. I’m looking for my boy.”

“If you don’t come in an hour, you’ll never meet Dessalines, unless it is to hang from the gibbet with the other whites when he conquers Cap-François.”

Damnation. Yet I also knew Jubal was right: the ball was a perfect time to creep away from Cap-François. Could I persuade Astiza? “I have to ask my wife.”

“Command her. Then meet me in the park just beyond here in one hour. Don’t let yourself be followed.”

He melted into the shadows. For a moment I hesitated, frustrated, and then I realized that Jubal’s deadline was a partial solution to my problems. It meant Astiza and I must flee before her flirtation with the general went too far. I had an excuse to get her away! She had a mother’s instinct to stay close to her son, but the strategic thing to do—the fatherly calculation—was to throw in with L’Ouverture’s successor.

Wasn’t it?

I hurried back toward the celebration. The level of noise had risen as guests plumbed the punch. Dancers twirled faster but more tipsily. Laughter was a shriek. In the corners behind the pillars, couples were kissing. Officers without women stumbled drunkenly together, telling crude jokes.

I didn’t see Astiza.

Nor Rochambeau.

Nor Martel.

By the beard of Odin, was I too late?

I spied Aucoin, my earlier escort, and risked pushing through the crowd to him, betting Martel had left the ballroom. “Colonel!” I greeted.

“Ah, Monsieur Gage. So we fiddle while Rome burns.”

“Have you met my wife?”

“I wish to. I saw the two of you together earlier. She’s beautiful, Ethan.”

“Yes, but now I’m looking for her. It’s rather urgent we leave.”

“You may have to wait. I believe she ascended the stairs with an aide to our general named Leon Martel. Rather formidable in personality, and forbidding in appearance. He arrived a few months ago and has cast a spell on our commander.”

“Have you seen Martel with a young boy?”

“There are rumors of several boys, but they are just rumors.”

My jaw ached from its clenching. “I need to get a message to her.”

He put his hand on my shoulder. “Best not to disturb Rochambeau. It hurts, but politics comes first, no?”

“Fidelity first, Colonel. And honor.”

“Of course. But he has many soldiers; she is there, and you are here. Have a drink and wait as other husbands have waited.”

“The hell I will.”

“Or risk being ordered to a doomed patrol.”

Chapter 22

N
o one takes my advice, including my wife. This may be because of my tendency to fall into political tangles, military brawls, debt, and ill-considered romantic affairs, but still—did Astiza have
any
inclination to honor and obey my admonition not to go upstairs in her desperation to gain information about our son? Apparently not. Posted on the balcony that fronted Rochambeau’s office and bedchamber were sentries with muskets and bayonets. Somewhere beyond those closed doors were Astiza, two men I despised, and a grandfather clock imported from Breguet that was ticking remorselessly toward my rendezvous with Jubal.

I’d make no progress on finding Montezuma’s hoard without fleeing to Dessalines and the rebels, and no progress toward regaining my son and the confidence of my wife without keeping close to Martel and Rochambeau.

But what if I could retrieve my bride from General Rochambeau, castrating the bastard in the process? What if I could capture Leon Martel and take him with us into the mountains? No doubt he’d be a worthy prize to bring to the Negro general. Maybe I’d have the pleasure of trying to mock-drown the renegade policeman just as he’d drowned me in Paris. A warm-up before black rebels invented even more hideous tortures? I was weaponless in a house with a hundred French officers, but doesn’t fortune reward the bold?