of double doors, with separate shutter doors on the outside. The imported furnishings were suitable for a rich aristo's Paris maison; settees, chairs and draperies in expensive moire silks, elegantly carved night-tables, card tables, and chairs, lamp stands… with no windows facing the Nor'east Trades, the room had stayed pristine, despite being rifled.
'Garcon chef up here, vite!' Hainaut barked.
A younger, scrawnier noir trotted into the chamber, the leader's assistant, the sous-chef d'equipage. 'Oui, bas?' he asked.
'Run tell your chef that all this goes downstairs to my master's bedchamber. Second-best from the other front room, move in here, for me. I'll take this room, comprendre:''
'Uhh,' this one answered, scratching his pate. 'Too fast…'
'Dammit!' Hainaut snapped impatiently, seizing the man by his arm to lead him to the other bed-chamber, shoving him inside. 'Furnishings of here, move to grand chamber. Furnishings in chambre grande you move below, comprendre, hein? Du verdammte dreckig Monstrositat?' he swore, unconsciously falling back on the bastard German of his youth.
'Exchange, oui, bas?' the Black supposed, in a sullen voice.
'Oui, damn you… exchange.'
'Ah, mais oui… rapidement!' the slave beamed.
'Go do it, then… rapidement' Hainaut disgustedly sneered.
He strode back to the grand bed-chamber to savour his new digs, fanning with his hat some more, walking out on the wide balcony, where tall trees shaded him from the morning sun, where woven cane chaises and side-tables awaited, and a spectacular view presented itself. And he could have sworn that the temperature dropped a quick ten degrees or more, in obedience to the Trade winds.
He tipped trash from a cane chair and sat down, thinking it was a mortal pity that his grand new bed-chamber could never be used for sport, but his master was… touchy, when it came to seeing his aide taking pleasures under his very nose, while his own tastes were so… outre. Darker recollections made Hainaut shiver. His master taking pleasure was not something he would ever wish to see; things best left in the dark, in prison cellars, with the younger, weaker, and frailer girls, the better. Mon Dieu, merde alors! Hainaut silently quailed, as some of the work gang came up to begin moving things around at his bidding.
Well, with his naval salary and Le Maitre's now-and-then admiring largesse, he could hire a tiny but elegant pied-a-terre room in one of the better harbour lodgings for sport. And his off-duty, moment-of-arising view would be splendid, at any rate.
Guadeloupe was nearly two islands, pinched in to a narrow causeway just north and west of Pointe-a-Pitre's environs that linked Grande-Terre, on which he stood, and Basse-Terre. Grande-Terre ran East-West, low and lushly verdant despite its exposure to the Nor'east Trades, all the way to Pointe des Chateaux and the farther islet of Desirade where dark Atlantic rollers met the turquoise Caribbean.
Basse-Terre ran North-South, also incredibly green but mountainous, dominated by the peak of the dormant volcano La Soufriere, tilled as orderly as terrace farms round Marseilles, its shore fringed with a series of neat little villages and white-sand beach hamlets along its eastern, windward shore across the great harbour in which he stood.
Petit-Bourg, Ste.-Marie, where Christopher Columbus was reputed to have first landed, Capesterre Belle-Eau south of there, before the coastline curved about Sou'west, hiding Trois Rivieres, the Vieux Fort, and the other, lee-side harbour of Basse-Terre.
So beautiful, Hainaut marvelled, so pleasingly alien, for once. After the bleakness of the rocky, wave-punched coasts of Europe; Biscay waters, Baltic, the German Sea, or Le Maitres beloved Channel ports in Brittany, even the softer Mediterranean or Italian shores, this was wondrous.
A grand view, he thought; it would have to suffice. And did Le Maitres plans spin out in even somewhat proper order, or yield success in half the measure he'd schemed, he would be worked so hard that a view might be all the satisfaction a harried aide might have.
Though it had taken a fair number of kicks and slaps, the house was ready for its new master's arrival. The jingle and rumble of the coach – and – four on the roundabout sand-shell drive brought out Hainaut, de Gougne, and the most docile, willing, and least threatening Blacks whom Hainaut had decided to employ. They had been sluiced down at the well in the back yard and hurriedly garbed in clean slop-clothing, to stand muster by the drive. Enticing aromas from the separate cooking shed wafted coach-ward, tall beeswax candles fluttered in the windows, and both closed lanthorns and open torches beamed welcoming cheer from the drive and the wide, deep veranda.
The coach rocked to a stop and an armed guard in the uniform of Naval Infantry leaped down from the boot to fold down the metal step and open the near-side door before springing to rigid attention, his musket unslung and held at Present Arms, his face a patient blank no matter that the senior passenger took half an hour to alight; and God help the man who innocently sprang to assist him!
The fingers of a left hand curled about the door frame, a brass tip on a stout ebony walking-stick, then a man's right boot emerged, blindly groping for the step, as someone grunted to shift his weight.
'Zut! Beurk! Ouf, aile! Merde alors! Horreur… une bete!' Weak cries of alarm sussurated from the aligned Blacks, who to a man crossed themselves or made warding signs against the Evil Eye, wailing 'Le Diable!' and making Hainaut turn to cuff or curse them to worshipful silence.
Le Maitre-Le Capitaine-in Paris and Toulon Le Hideux but never in his or his minion's hearing-alit at last, standing on his own feet, surveying the house front with a suspicious scowl.
Clump, shuffle, tick… clump, shuffle, tick on the firmly laid pavers of the sand-and-brick walk between the freshly pruned flowering bougainvillea, as Capitaine de Vaisseau Guillaume Choundas made a torturous way forward. His right foot in a regular high-topped boot almost demanded firm ground before the ham-strung left leg in an iron-braced-and-bound boot swished limply ahead, with the bright brass ferrule of the stout walking-stick swung out ahead for balance, to ring against the stones.
Guillaume Choundas's right sleeve was pinned up high under his heavily gilt epaulette, folded so it displayed gold buttons and wide oak-leaf embroidery, near where a sergeant would show chevrons. It was a full-dress coat more suited to a junior admiral, but very few in the Caribbean (or Europe, either) would dare to question his right to wear it. More gilt oak-leaf showed on the high red collar, and on the thighs of his dark blue breeches, too.
A large and elaborate bicorne hat slashed fore-and-aft atop his head, raked aggressively low over his eyes; eight centimeters of gold edge lace, loop and button and tassels gilt as well, with a tricolore cockade on one side, and blue-white-red egret plumes nodding above the crease. Below the hat, though…
Capitaine Choundas's face was half-covered with a stiffened silk mask that disguised a cruel, deep-scarred ruin, the result of a ghastly wound suffered long ago, a sword cut that had slashed upwards to slice one eye and his brow in half almost vertically, shattered the eye socket, chopped off one nostril and X-ed both lips to a horror worthy of an Hieronymous Bosch painting of a demon. The mask had been expanded lately to cover the nose completely, but there was no concealing the split lips that had healed in a rictus of rage.
'Welcome, mon Capitaine!' Hainaut exclaimed, stepping off the veranda to greet him and sweep an arm to encompass the house. 'All is ready for you, in your grand new lodgings! Supper will be served just as soon as you wish, m'sieur!'
'As I expected, cher Jules,' Choundas replied, almost registering pleasure for a glimmering moment, that just as quickly disappeared, 'given your zeal. Though I have not yet seen inside… hein?' he came close to almost making a jest. 'These dumb beasts are to be our house servants?' he concluded with a normal frown.
