“No one knows if the next day will come. You are an instrument of Fa, monsieur, our spirit of fate, but you are also in grave danger. Men have heard these prophecies and might be jealous or fearful. So you need Jubal. Bad men will send Death against you, the dark loa we call Baron Samedi. Or seek to make you a zombi.”
“What’s a zombi?” We’d now circuited a block, as if I couldn’t decide where to go. I was wet as a sponge, but I must say the conversation was more interesting than dinner at a planter’s house.
Jubal ignored my question. “Dessalines will meet you, Monsieur Gage, if you can bring him something worth knowing.”
“I hope to inspect the French lines.”
“We blacks have built the French lines. You must do better than that. You are to speak to the French? Then keep your ears open, and perhaps we will keep our eyes open for you.”
For an escaped slave, this fellow was quicker than a clerk. I wondered at his background. “It’s true I saw L’Ouverture, and it’s also true I may help the rebel cause. But my wife and I are looking for our kidnapped son, a three-year-old named Horus.”
“I could keep an eye out for him.”
“His mother would be grateful.”
“For her, I would look even harder.”
“How about a swarthy man named Leon Martel. Heavy-jawed, with the look of a weasel?”
“I haven’t seen him. The French do not invite me to their parties.”
“Martel is a renegade policeman. Cruel, like Rochambeau.”
“But I may have heard of him, because the black man hear everything.”
“You have?” I bounced on his shoulders.
“I will ask,” he said enigmatically. Now he changed direction to finish crossing the street.
By a gunner’s ramrod, what else did this creature know? “And I want to learn island legends that might help you and me.”
That stopped him. “What legends?”
“About treasure recovered by escaped Maroons that was hidden, lost, and awaits rediscovery by the right cause.”
“If I knew about treasure, would I carry you?” He laughed. “No, Jubal knows no legends. Maybe Cecile does. Listen, we need the key to Cap-Francois, not old stories. Bring that, and I will take you to Dessalines and Cecile Fatiman. Then we will help find your son.” He finally set me on the opposite boardwalk, dripping as if I’d fallen into a river, my boots still clean. “These are cruel commanders you’ve come to, Ethan Gage. After a dozen years of war there is no mercy. Take care to recognize who is your friend, and who is your enemy.”
“How do I do that?”
“By how they treat your wife.”
“They’ll treat her correctly or pay with their lives.”
“You must treat her correctly, too, because you never know when she might be taken from you.”
“What does that mean?”
“To take care. Good-bye, now.”
“Wait! How will I find you again?”
“I talk with Dessalines. Then I will find you.”
I turned to go, both enlightened and mystified.
“Monsieur?” he said.
“Yes?”
“A franc, if you please.”
I gave him three.
Chapter 19
Rochambeau was a famous name in the United States. As Lovington had recalled, the elder count led the French forces that helped Washington defeat Cornwallis at Yorktown, finally winning the American Revolution. His son had the good luck to inherit his father’s renown and the bad luck to inherit Leclerc’s sickened army, after that general succumbed to yellow fever. So far the second Rochambeau had shown more cruelty than initiative. He’d retreated to Cap-Francois and fortified his morale with women and drink.
I wasn’t surprised, then, that the invitation to call upon his headquarters was issued to both Mr. and Mrs. Gage. Word of Astiza’s exotic beauty had spread quickly around the city, and the notorious Rochambeau was likely contemplating a different kind of conquest to make up for his lack of victories on the battlefield. We had to let him think such corruption was possible, while not allowing it.
Certainly I recognized the danger. Plain women are more devoted, older ones more appreciative, but I, too, have an eye for beauty-it’s a fault of mine-and knew I had to defend the woman I’d married.
The French Government House was a two-story, white stone building flanked north and south by orderly landscaping meant to emphasize power. Now the complex betrayed physical and moral decay. Window sashes were peeling, flower beds had gone to weed, litter curled in corners, and four small cannon were aimed on the lawns as if this governor was as threatened by his own population as the rebel army. The building’s court and foyer were thick with French officers and military bustle, but their assembly was untidy in the way of men who are losing hope and discipline. Maps and papers were in heaps, swords and muskets leaned in disorderly tangles, and unwashed bottles and plates drew flies. Hats were off, coats thrown across furniture, and muddy tracks crisscrossed the floors.
Astiza and I had our papers inspected and then were escorted to the general’s office upstairs, the mahogany door opening to the scent of tobacco and cologne.
Rochambeau didn’t make a good first impression. He was a squat man with a round, soft, rather sullen face, reminding me of a stocky schoolhouse bully. His head was sunk between his shoulders, and a brown birthmark surrounded one eye so he looked punched. He received us in a hussar’s hot uniform, blue breeches and cavalry shirt with red collar and silk sash, the finery making him sweat. His plump torso was buttoned tight with rows of horizontal silver frogging that, to an American rifleman, would function mostly as tempting target. His shoulder epaulettes were sturdy enough to balance beer mugs on. The dress was gaudy, but I knew some women have a weakness for peacock display. He stood from his desk to inspect us, we wearing clothes similar to what we’d paraded on the Louvre iron bridge.
I glanced about; I have the habit of orienting myself because it’s useful to have an escape route when life becomes too exciting. Rochambeau’s office windows looked down across the gardens toward the port and its forest of ships, as if to remind where escape lay. A balcony extended next door to his private quarters. Heavy French curtains hung damp, too heavy to move in the breeze.
The general greeted me by name but came out around his desk to Astiza, bowing, kissing her hand, and simpering a compliment like a clumsy Casanova. His eyes were small and, I decided in predetermined distaste, piglike. Many women apparently considered him oddly handsome, given the allure that high birth and money brings, but I didn’t see it. Leclerc’s death, I suspected, had been disastrous for France in more ways that one. It had left their army to a man void of imagination for anything but reprisal and infidelity.
Of course, I was traveling under false pretenses myself, and Rochambeau could justifiably have me shot as a spy, should he learn my real mission. Here again, Astiza was useful. She’d donned the little pendant Bonaparte had given me at Saint-Cloud, a fine chain letting it fall to the swell of her breasts.
“I admire your jewelry, madame.”
“A gift from the first consul.” She blushed modestly.
Rochambeau’s brows rose. “And this is for?”
“Persons he favors. It actually is in honor of my husband. Ethan is such an able diplomat.”
“Well.” The general sat back down, regarding us with new respect and, I sensed, suspicion. “I hope you appreciate the significance of that bauble.” Anyone close to Bonaparte had as many enemies as friends, I knew.
“I view it as protection,” she said calmly.
The general nodded uncertainly, beckoning us to sit. Then he tapped the forged papers I’d brought with the
