“That gutter thief has a chateau?”
“Friends in high places, including Lambeau. And he has a woman and child he thinks you’d like to meet. So much simpler than audiences with governors that raise awkward questions.”
So I didn’t have to find Satan, but merely wait on him at tea. “He’s imprisoned my wife and son?”
“Au contraire, he’s their host. While they’re grateful for his hospitality, they’re also quite impatient for your arrival. Everyone needs you to start.”
“Start what?”
“Find what we’re all seeking together. So we can all take what we need.” He finally dropped my arm. “One thing we can agree on. You’re as greedy as us.”
Chapter 34
We walked with two of his companions past the massive basalt walls of Fort-de-France and down to a dock with ferry. Once aboard, brawny black oarsmen rowed us across the wide harbor to the village of Trois-Ilets, which looks northeast to the rest of Martinique. My escort, who introduced himself as the Raven-spies, apparently, get to adopt dramatic nicknames-said that Josephine had grown up in this suburb and that some of the island’s finest families lived there. “They’ve been urging their native daughter to explain to her husband the necessity of sustaining slavery, and believe she’s had some success.”
“Yes, Bonaparte believes her. Which has meant slaughter in Saint-Domingue.”
Like Martel, this rogue favored black for his fashion, as did his poorly washed companions. The costume is damnably hot in the tropics, but looks appropriately intimidating. Raven seemed ridiculously pretentious to me, so I thought of him as Crow, and his escorts as Vulture and Buzzard. All three could use a preening.
“Martinique will never be allowed to become Haiti,” Crow said as we rowed. It was said with more hope than certitude. “Revolutionary fervor does not apply to the black man here.”
“Martinique’s slaves will decide that.”
“We make freedom more costly than servitude.”
“With torture and execution?”
“Violence, monsieur, is the price of prosperity.”
There was a carriage waiting. Crow gave me a little history of this island as we clopped into the lush vegetation of fig and gumbo trees, the road like a green tunnel that glowed with light. Martinique had developed in much the same way as Antigua, but with a French flavor. The abundant mountains and rainfall meant waterpower took the place of windmills here. Slaves, sugar, fever, and caste.
“Up that lane is where Josephine was raised.” He pointed.
“She’s quite the social climber, as able as Nelson’s Emma Hamilton.”
“Bred, born, and trained to it. There are no politics more cutthroat than island politics. I’m not surprised that a Creole and a Corsican rule Revolutionary France. Islanders are survivors.”
We went two miles beyond and came to a gracious chateau in the French style, not as imposing as Lord Lovington’s mansion on Antigua but with more grace. Artfully planted trees created a cascade of flowers on the periphery of lawns, and the place had the heady scent of hibiscus, orchids, and oleander. Cedars soared in back of eucalyptus and chestnut trees, everything swollen by the humid climate to gigantic size. Banana leaves were as wide as windmill paddles. Vines hung like cables on an opera stage. Bright as a convention of cardinals were the flame trees, a riot of red against the cream of the house. This was Astiza’s prison? It looked just like the place I’d dreamed of retiring to.
We dismounted and walked up a gravel drive. Then Crow stopped short, gesturing for me to wait, and a little figure ran out from the gardens. He spied us, stopped, considered, and hesitated like a fawn.
My heart lurched, and I fell to my knees to put us nearer in height. “Harry!” He looked skeptical, recognizing me and yet trying to file me with proper memories. “It’s Papa!” I was wounded to have to remind him.
“It’s all right, Horus,” Astiza called.
I looked past my son. She stood by a red anthurium, pretty as a flower in a white French dress. Her safety, and her beauty and poise, was a relief that was also startling. I’d expected my family to be manacled to a dungeon wall, but they looked turned out for an Italian holiday. Had they negotiated some weird parole? Harry finally came cautiously over to me, looking serious as only a three-year-old can look when something of uncertain gravity is going on. He studied me for any changes.
“I missed you, Harry. Are you all right?” Clearly he was, which was selfishly disappointing. I’d expected a blazing rescue of distraught prisoners.
“Mama said we had to wait for you. I want to go home.”
My God, how the heart can careen in one’s chest, crashing from rib to rib with longing and remorse. “I want to go home, too.” Wherever that was.
“Will you play with me? It’s boring here.”
“Of course I’ll play with you.” My voice caught as I spoke. “Can you show me your favorite place?”
“There’s a pond, with fishies.”
“Then let’s catch one.” I stood.
“One minute, Gage.” Two more of Martel’s ruffians appeared, and a gang surrounded me. I was humiliatingly relieved of pistols, sword, and knife while my son watched. Then they stepped back. “A few minutes, to demonstrate our goodwill,” Crow said. “But hurry. Martel is waiting.”
“I’ve been waiting for six months.”
“Don’t begin our partnership with a poor attitude.”
“Partnership!”
“Everything is different now.”
Different as twins, by my eye. This bunch were evil as the diab of the woods of Haiti, and uglier than zombis risen from the grave. The henchmen watched sourly as my family reunited. Astiza kissed me quickly and whispered, “I’m sorry, but I had to go to him,” while Harry pulled my leg with impatience. “I’ll explain more later,” she said.
The fish were skittish, so we made some boats out of leaves and set the flotilla sailing above the carp. Then Crow said, “Time,” and Astiza’s hand slipped from my fingers as if I were hot. “Make a bargain,” she murmured.
“Why didn’t you wait for me at the ball?”
“He promised me Horus. We knew you’d come. There were old stories from Martinique, so he told me it must end here.”
Then they led her away.
I stepped inside the mansion looking for a weapon to slay Leon Martel. But there was nothing, of course, and I was hopelessly outnumbered. I was ushered into a room by half a dozen bandits, and two women who I assumed must be the pimp’s whores were shown a back door. Had he raped my wife?
There sat Martel, smug as a cat with cream, his nose satisfyingly bent but the firm set of his features giving him an aura of command. This kidnapper of my wife and child smiled as if we were old friends, which was doubly annoying. I certainly didn’t trust him, and he was a fool if he trusted me.
Martel gestured to a chair. “Monsieur Gage, at last. It’s been far too long. Sit, sit, after your long journey. I confess I doubted your pugnacious reputation, and yet here you are, bright as a button and taut as a bow after the battle of Vertieres and the sack of Cap-Francois. Please, relax. You deserve it! Word is that you helped negotiate the city’s surrender, saving countless lives. It must be splendid being a hero.”
“A feeling you’ll never know.”
“Your manners.” He winced. “I had correspondence from our defeated army and was told you’re not shy about calling people unkind names. Even General Rochambeau, in front of his officers! It’s a wonder you haven’t been killed in a duel or shot by a firing squad.”
“Men have tried.”
“It’s much easier to be polite.”
“I only say what is true. If honesty offends you, you’ll be upset all day.”
