the defeated. The evacuation began in good order, demonstrating only the absurdity of what people try to save. They came to the quay lugging oil portraits of ugly ancestors, tarnished tureens, a pet goat, a trunk of theatrical costumes, cases of spirits, antique dueling pistols, hat boxes, silverware, fresh-baked loaves more than two feet long, voodoo carvings, silver crucifixes, and an ornamental saddle. Little ones clutched dolls and toy soldiers. Mothers peered into their own cleavage to double-check the safety of jewelry temporarily deposited there, and men patted jackets to confirm the presence of coin or currency. Rochambeau’s officers and English ensigns organized them into lines, weeding out the most ridiculous heirlooms (one family trundled a harpsichord down to water’s edge) and for a while the mood was of shared hardship and goodwill.
But as dusk fell and wine cellars were liberated, both French troops and civilians got drunk, and looting began in abandoned corners of the city. As the waiting rebel army saw disorder, black soldiers began filtering into Cap- Francois to join the pillage. Fires started and ignited panic. A queue quickly became a mob, some longboats swamped and had to be righted, and the last crammed French ship set sail so anxiously that it hit a reef and began to sink. Its occupants had to be offloaded to another English vessel.
I was amazed there was not more rape and murder, given the conflict’s history. At my advice, Dessalines kept a stern rein on his men to avoid a retaliatory bombardment from European ships. On board the vessels was chaos, as an escaping throng squeezed between guns, pushed into sail lockers, and tucked under longboats. Even madmen were evacuated from the city’s asylum and chained to a gunwale, raving in the confusion. Mothers sobbed, children wailed, dogs barked, and army officers climbed aboard with pet monkeys, macaws, and parrots. The vessels were so jammed that some of the baggage was heaved overboard by impatient sailors.
A few blacks fled as well as whites, some servants refusing to abandon their masters. And some whites and mulattos chose the risk of staying ashore. But the overwhelming effect of the surrender was a final division of the races. The ships, their decks crammed with pale faces, visibly settled in the water. Some quarterdecks were so crowded that the helmsman could scarcely turn the wheel. The vessels did not so much sail as lumber out of the crowded harbor.
On shore, the Paris of the Antilles, newly renamed Cap-Haitien, smoldered.
As night fell, the victors rejoiced and danced in the streets with that rhythmic energy I’d seen in the jungle. Burning homes threw lurid light on the celebration. There was a pungent smell of smoke, gunpowder from shots fired aloft in victory, rot from broken larders, and roast pig, goat, and chicken cooked in street bonfires. I saw a few white and mulatto faces, but they were rare and subdued, watching the slave army from the shadows with apprehension.
Impatient as I was, I knew better than to approach Dessalines at the height of his triumph; he was preoccupied with organizing a nation. I applied for an appointment at his convenience and remained at my inn, since there was no one left to collect rent. The general didn’t even enter the conquered city until November 30, 1803. I finally got to see him the following afternoon, where he reigned in the ballroom of Rochambeau’s Government House, looking weary but grimly powerful, the western half of Hispaniola finally his. He had a steady stream of visitors seeking promotion, trade, or redress of grievances. On a long table to one side of his desk, aides kept tally of what had been captured and lost. Officers bustled in and out on assignments to put Cap-Francois in order again, and newly appointed ministers began forming a permanent government. I realized I was witnessing something akin to the start of my own nation thirty years before. I should have taken notes, had I pen and paper. But no, I was impatient to find my family, not play historian.
“I congratulate the new Spartacus,” I greeted, after waiting more than an hour past my appointed time.
“I have exceeded L’Ouverture and shall crown myself emperor,” the general pronounced. “Napoleon himself could not stand before me.”
Napoleon was five thousand miles away, and Rochambeau had been no Caesar, but I knew better than to amend this self-assessment. I changed the subject. “I did what you asked to help win our victory, and now I can do even more for Haiti,” I said. “All governments need gold. Maybe I can find some.”
“Those legends you spoke of.”
“Lend me Jubal, Antoine, and a few companions, and I’ll search for the treasure of Montezuma. I’ll split with your regime and finally retire from public life.”
“You want my help to search for your wife and son.”
“Of course.”
“Then Haiti has given you sense, perhaps. Family is worth more than baubles.” This was a pronouncement, spoken loudly enough so that all in the hall could hear it. “Loyalty worth more than fear.”
I understood the need to express such sentiment. He was a new Moses for a new kind of country, but a bloody-handed Moses with a dozen years worth of enemies waiting for him to fall. Somehow he had to establish an ethic, and I didn’t envy his power or his responsibility. “Then I can have your men to go look for my loved ones and the relics that Maroons are rumored to have hidden away?”
“If my men will come back. You’ll look where?”
“Martinique, the loa told me. My enemy Leon Martel has gone there.”
“Perhaps we blacks will rise in Martinique next.”
“Let me have a look around first.”
He waved me away, our interview over. “You should be sailing already. Next!”
Part III
Chapter 33
T he ruler of France and his wife both came from island colonies. Bonaparte is Corsican, the real spelling of his name Italian, and his heritage is of Roman generals and Renaissance plotters. Martinique, the island of Josephine’s birth, childhood, and the place where I hoped to bargain for my wife and son, is languid paradise under the slow match of a volcano.
The island rears out of the Caribbean like an emerald dream, its northern half summiting in smoking Pelee. The isle is more dramatic upon approach than Antigua, Atlantic breakers crashing on its eastern coast and turquoise Caribbean shallows lapping its western beaches. Plantation homes climb lush slopes to make a checkerboard of white and green, and French ships huddle for protection from the British under the guns of lava- stoned Fort-de-France, on the island’s principle bay. After the horror of Haiti the island looked entirely serene from the sea, but I knew my little company of Negro warriors couldn’t simply spring ashore and ask for the address of Leon Martel. They’d freed themselves, and thus were the worst nightmare of the ruling whites on this island.
My black platoon included the cheerfully practical Jubal, the logical Antoine, and six other Negroes hungry for more adventure and a glimpse of Aztec gold. Excitement is addictive. We sailed from Cap-Francois with a Dutch trader looking for a hire that would keep him a safe distance from British forces assaulting his own nation’s islands. The Caribbean sugar isles changed flags as frequently as a courtesan changes clothes as rival fleets swept in and out on the trades, guns thundering and marines sweeping ashore.
Our vessel was the coastal lugger Nijmegen, with two masts, a small cabin that the captain, mate, and I slept in as segregated whites, and an open deck where Jubal’s comrades-once they got over seasickness-made a comfortable home under an awning rigged from a damaged sail. Captain Hans Van Luven was dubious about having a Negro cargo not in chains, but he soon discovered that my adventurers, who paid in advance with Dessalines’s captured coins, were better company than cranky Europeans. They were also willing to help tack, reef, and anchor.
“It’s as if they’re as human as the rest of us,” he marveled.
We were two weeks scudding down the Leeward Islands to Martinique at the northern end of the Windwards, anchoring each night in a different bay on a different island and avoiding any sail we spotted.
Now we were at an isle where French power was still intact.
Our plan was to round Cap Salomon south of Fort-de-France Bay and put ashore at one of the coves on Martinique’s southern coast. On the charts, a valley led from the village of Trois Rivieres north toward the main settlements, and I could skulk along this for more information before presenting myself to Governor Michel Lambeau with Rochambeau’s papers. Finding my wife shouldn’t be impossible. Astiza is the kind of woman who’s noticed,
