To Liberty! the Adventures of Thomas-Alexandre Dumas
Page 2
“Not Merle!” My voice shook. But Papa simply nodded.
I thought then that perhaps I should mount up and ride my horse back out of town and home again. I was nearly fourteen, I could ride and shoot and knew when you should pick and plant coffee.
What had I been thinking! I was sleepwalking! Of course Merle would not be coming. The boat to France took six weeks and she might hate it, might jump overboard and drown. But I had been trying my best not to think about it. I had known Merle for half my life; she was as much a part of me as my arm.
“Thomas!” Papa’s voice snapped me back to attention. I sniffed. I knew my lip was trembling. Then he leaned down. He was a tall man and he put his hand on my shoulder. “I know this is hard, my boy,” he said. “I know what she means to you, but it must be done. We sail tomorrow. There will be other horses in France. Finer ones.” He looked at me then too, and I blinked and wiped my face. “Good lad,” he said and patted my shoulder. “Be brave.” He smiled.
I felt like my throat had closed up tight. I blinked again.
“Harden your heart,” Papa said. “Be a man.” I tried to nod. But I was thinking, if this is what it felt like being a man, I would rather be a horse.
I went to Merle, brushed her and combed out her mane one last time. She snorted and nudged me with her head. I threw my arms round her neck and hugged her tight, and she rested the weight of her head against me.
“Courage,” I whispered, then I put my eye right up to hers. “Remember me, my friend.” I hoped she would.
Across the street I saw a boy – smaller, skinnier and darker skinned than me – cross the road towards the docks, pushing a trolley piled high with trunks. He dodged a cart and the trunks fell. I thought to run and help him, but at once a large white man waded into the road and beat him hard with a long stick. I could hear the sound of the stick cracking against the boy’s back but he did not cry out. Not once.
I thanked my stars I was born free.
Chapter Four
That night Papa stayed up late. I woke up once and realised he was not in the room we shared. I was worried then, and got out of bed, put on my good jacket and trousers and crept to the top of the stairs. In the saloon down below, all the men except the waiters were white. I heard Papa first; he was at a card table playing with a man wearing shiny buttons. I could tell Papa had drunk too much, and it did not look like the game was going his way. I watched as he stood up, angry, pushing the table over and swearing the very worst words. Papa pulled out his cavalry sword, and for a moment I thought there would be a duel.
“Papa!” I could not help shouting. He looked up and saw me, and I felt worse than ever. My papa was more than drunk. His shirt was stained and he swayed as he walked. I went over and he leaned on me.
The man with the buttons was smirking. Up close he reminded me of Pierre Despard, the boy on the beach.
“Monsieur Delisle!” he said sharply. “I trust you will find the money you owe me before your boat sails?”
Papa almost growled. “Do you doubt me?”
I led him away. I did not like to remind Papa that we had no money apart from what had come from the sale of the horses. Papa had promised we would be rich in France. But France was still six weeks away.
Before he fell into bed I asked about my brothers and sister, about Charles and Petit Antoine and Berthe. “Will they be on the boat tomorrow, Papa?” I said.
“Non,” he said and rolled over, pulling the blanket over his head. “They have gone to the coffee factor to cover the debts.”
My stomach swooped into my boots.
Debts? I’d had no idea. But before I could take it in, Papa had already begun to snore.
In the morning I was still angry. My whole family had gone. Merle and the little ones... Would they end up like that boy in the street? Beaten for nothing? Slaves forever? Berthe was too clever to get hit so hard, but Charles? How would he survive? I shut my eyes tight. I blinked again.
Papa asked for coffee and I fetched it slower than a turtle waddling up the beach. I came back up and slammed it down next to him. Papa was still suffering from the drink but I didn’t care.
“You sold them!” I could not stay silent. “You sold Merle and you sold my brothers and sister!”
He was not moved by my fury. He opened the shutters and tilted his face up to catch the warm sun as if my words were nothing. “Be quiet, Thomas. I am your father,” he said without looking at me. “If you want to become a count, you will do as I say.”
I slammed out of the inn and into the street. Merle was already gone. If she had still been there I would have leaped on her back and ridden like the wind back to Jeremie. I did not want to be a count. I did not want to go to France.
The boat we were to sail on was called the Glory. She was bigger than the biggest house I had ever seen. Up high in the forest of her masts – I counted three massive ones and two smaller – I saw a boy my age, walking barefoot along the yardarm as sure-footedly as I would have walked on solid ground. The idea of asking for a place on another boat flew into my head. I was good at climbing, I could make myself useful on a ship. At that moment I thought I would not be happy unless I was as far away from Papa as possible.
My papa. He was an idiot. The biggest idiot in all the island. In all France! I kicked a stone and it flew off the quay and plopped into the sea. I was being foolish, I knew. I would not be better off boarding some ship and sailing away to God-knows-where – either way I would be forced to leave my home behind. Maybe there would be some future for me in France after all.
At that moment Papa stood on the steps of the inn and shouted for me. For a few moments I hesitated. Where could I go? What could I do? I sighed, then made my way back through the traffic of men and horses and carts. I found Papa inside with the shiny-buttoned card player. He looked terrible. I could smell the rum in his sweat.
“Captain Langlois, this is Thomas-Alexandre,” Papa said tapping me on the shoulder. I stood up straight and nodded, the way I’d been taught.
Captain Langlois looked me up and down. I felt slightly uncomfortable. He looked at me in the same way the man who’d bought Merle had looked at her.
“Fourteen? Costs a lot to feed and water no doubt.” Captain Langlois didn’t speak to me but to Papa, who nodded. “Tall for his age.”
“I am fourteen next year, sir,” I added. I was proud of being tall. That morning it was perhaps the only thing I had got from Papa I was glad to have.
Captain Langlois smiled and nodded. “One thousand livres, you say?” Papa nodded. I looked at him; he could not meet my eyes. A terrible sense of foreboding began to creep into my gut.
“Six hundred, Antoine,” Captain Langlois said. “I am a businessman.”
Papa passed his hand across his face. “See here, Captain. I lost the money for the passage home last night. I cannot afford to go lower than eight hundred.” He pointed his finger, jabbing it at the tabletop. “I will, of course, redeem the boy once my inheritance...”
Captain Langlois waved him to stop. “I cannot wait for money that may or may not...”
Papa’s voice had an edge of despair. He was sweating. “The boy is my son!”
Captain Langlois put his hand out to shake Papa’s. “Eight hundred, then.”
Papa hesitated. Then the men shook hands.
I stood bolt upright as Captain Langlois counted out eight hundred livres in bank notes and handed them to Papa. Now I understood. He was selling me. He had just sold me.
He had sold the coffee farm, the house with its white-painted veranda and vegetable garden. He had sold my two little brothers and my one sister. His own flesh and blood. He had sold my horse.
I was burning with anger. I looked from one man to the other. Papa took me by both shoulders, kissed me on both cheeks. “Be brave,” he whispered. “I will send for you.” I tried to pull away but he gripped my shoulder tight. “I will send for you. And I will be a marquis and you, my son, will be a count.”
&nb
sp; He wiped his eyes. Was he crying? I hoped so. I wished I could have spat in his face, but my throat was dry as sand at midday.
My eyes were dry as well. I had no tears for this man. He did not deserve them.
I walked out of that inn with Captain Langlois and did not look back.
I was no longer free.
PART TWO
FRANCE
Chapter Five
October 1777, St Germain-en-Laye,
Northern France
I stepped off the ship behind the captain. The sun was high, but it was not as hot as home; there was a sharp wind from the sea that seemed to cut through me. After nearly two months aboard ship, dry land felt strange; hard and unmoving under my feet. In my hand held tight was the tiny pebble from the river at home, the only thing left of my old life.
I had spent half a year as a slave. I knew I had been lucky in many respects. I had not worked on a sugar plantation, forced to cut cane from first light, or in the refineries that burned night and day. I never had to wear shackles or chains and I had a bed to sleep on, rather than the floor. But I knew every second, every moment of every day that I was not free. I tried looking for my family, and heard only bad news or no news. I looked for Merle, but she was long gone.
I had given up thinking my father would send for me. I had given up on everything. I learned to keep my mouth shut and my face blank.
The man at the customs office waved his quill pen towards me as he spoke to the captain. “This boy is yours?”
The captain nodded. “I am delivering him to the Marquis Alexandre Antoine Davy de la Pailleterie.”
The customs officer stood up and looked at me. I was at least a head and shoulders taller than him. And I was taller than Captain Langlois. For the first time in half a year I drew myself up as tall as I could and looked a man straight in the eyes. I was more than their equal. Very soon I would be Comte Thomas-Alexandre Dumas Davy de la Pailleterie, and no one would own me ever again.
I took the coach to the address my father had given me. I remembered him telling me about his castle, his land, but instead of a sprawling estate I arrived at a tall gleaming whitewashed house in a new town west of Paris. There were four floors, with windows either side on each one. My father was waiting for me in front of the shiny black door, but at first I barely recognised him. He looked much older than I remembered, paler skinned now and dressed in such fine clothes. I kept my face, just as I had done as a slave, stony still.
“Thomas-Alexandre!” There was a kind of catch in his voice. “You cannot know how much I have missed you.”
I nodded, like the footman I had been to Captain Langlois. I would not give him any credit for saving me.
“Come, come, my boy! I have so much to show you – not the castle, no.” He put a finger to his lips as if he was about to tell a secret. “I have mortgaged it! I thought you and I would do better with... Come, let me show you.”
He led me to the stables at the back of the house. That was what he had meant, then, I thought, when he had said there was money here in France; there had been no money, only land he had been able to sell... As we came to the stables, though, my attention was seized by the sight of a magnificent grey horse, saddled and ready. “He is yours, my boy. All yours. I do believe you have earned him. His name is Gunsmoke.”
I hate to admit it, but my father close to won me over with money. It wasn’t only the horse, who moved like a dream; it was the clothes, the fine jacket, the embroidered waistcoat and the black leather riding boots, so shiny I could see my face in them.
In my time as a slave, and then on the boat, I had imagined the things I would say to him. The curses I would bring down on his head. Now, seeing him so keen to please, I felt almost sorry for him. I could not help it. I threw my arms round him. He was, after all, the only family I had.
Father took me to Paris, a few hours away by coach, and showed me off. We visited the theatre, the shops. He bought me a fine sword with a silk tassel to hang from my belt. I must admit it felt good in my hand, light as driftwood and gleaming when it caught the light. I wished I could have shown it to my friends back on the beach at Jeremie. They would never have believed their eyes.
Father promised to enrol me in a military academy, where I would learn how to use it properly, and he kept his promise. I was due to start at La Boissiere in a matter of days.
“Only the best for my son,” he said, rather too loudly, as we entered the large building that housed the academy in the centre of town. “They only teach the children of the crème de la crème, the very best of society!”
I wished the ground would swallow me up. Not that I didn’t want the chance to learn swordsmanship and better horsemanship, but I wasn’t so sure about the other classes. The only lessons I had ever had before were with my father; I was not looking forward to comparing what Latin and Greek he had taught me to the other boys. And we were also supposed to learn dancing!
Worst of all, I could not help noticing that apart from being at least a foot taller than most of the boys, and darker skinned to boot, I was a good couple of years older too. I could be sure of besting any of them in a fight, but I would stick out like a palm tree on a bare hill.
La Boissiere was an exceptional building of white plaster, gleaming and new. We walked through a pale painted hall, where boys looked at me sideways under their white-powdered wigs. I dearly hoped I would not have to wear one of those things. Father introduced me to the master of the academy – a round man with glasses balanced on his nose. His lip curled when he saw me, and I wondered if they wanted me here at all.
“You are Thomas-Alexandre?” the master said. I nodded, then Father left and I was hurried to the Salle d’Epée, which I gathered was the fencing class.
More sulky wealthy boys, dressed almost as flashily as myself, stood around the walls of the room and regarded me as if I were the dirt on their shoe. I tried to stand tall. The fencing teacher clapped his hands for attention and I have to admit I stared.
“Chevalier!” The master waved the fencing teacher over. My mouth had fallen open. Here was a man, not quite as dark skinned as I was, but who, from his features, must have shared the same parentage – black and white – as me. The first such man I had seen in this building, and he was not a servant but a teacher of these wealthy white boys.
“This,” the master went on, “is the Chevalier St George. You may have heard of him, he is the foremost swordsman in all France.”
The Chevalier nodded a bow. “In all Europe, sir, I think you’ll find, and my title was a gift from our king...” He looked me up and down. “You are the new pupil? American, I think?”
“Saint-Domingue...”
“Well, well,” the Chevalier said, and the master took his leave. “Take your place, young man, show me what you can do.”
“Now?” I said, suddenly terrified. I realised all the boys in the room were watching.
The Chevalier took my hand and led me to the centre of the room and put up his sword.
“En garde!” He may have been a head shorter than me, and he may have had a face covered in powder and rouge, but he was fast – a blur of velvet and silver buckles. I parried, blocked – steel struck steel – and in seconds I was disarmed, my sword clattering to the ground. I hoped my face did not betray how surprised I felt – I had been told moments ago he was the finest swordsman in all Europe, and I felt ashamed to have underestimated him so badly on account of his appearance.
“Young sir,” the fencing master said. “You are not as good as you think you are.”
The other boys laughed.
The Chevalier waved them to be quiet and smiled, a kind smile. “You must be faster. Trust the blade.”
I nodded, bent to pick up my weapon. “Again, sir,” I told him. “Let me try again.” I readied my blade, feeling the weight of it. It was not as heavy as Father’s cavalry sabre, but thinner and lighter. I took up position. The fencing master looked hard at me, and then he turned to the class.
He signalled me to him and took my sword out of my hand. I wished the ground would swallow me up. “This is not his weapon.” He made a face to the class, then looked hard at me. I was reminded of how Captain Langlois had looked me over and tried very hard not to think about it. The fencing master walked across the room and picked up a different weapon. It was larger, curved, a tassel of blue silk hung from the handle. “You might prefer a sabre I think?”
I blinked, nodded, and took the weapon. It was like Father’s, only without the spots of rust. It felt familiar, comfortable. I turned it over in my hand and smiled. I would not make it easy for my teacher.
He bowed to me and I bowed back. I forgot about the other boys and tried to think only of the coming fight, that this sabre was somehow a part of my body.
“En garde!” he said again, putting up his blade, and came at me lightning-fast. Our blades clashed. He attacked. I blocked, and blocked again, and this time, when I felt the blade sing as I attacked, he stepped back. I had him. But then he was on me again, and even though I blocked and blocked, with a flick of his wrist he disarmed me again. My weapon crashed to the floor.
This time the boys watching did not laugh. But I felt just as stupid.
The Chevalier looked at me and his eyes bore into mine like needles. “You will see me after classes. No excuses. No lateness.”
That afternoon when the other boys left for home or games by the river, I went to the gymnasium, where the Chevalier was waiting for me. How he managed to look down his nose at me when I towered over him I do not know. I expect it came from knowing his skill with a blade surpassed any other man in Europe. I took a deep breath and hoped he could not see I was a little afraid of him.
“Young comte,” he said, and I could tell from his voice he was mocking me. He must have seen the frown on my face as he handed me the sabre. “Listen to me, young man. You have the capability and the promise to make a swordsman of the highest skill.”