The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  Lafayette turned to speak in another direction. Out of respect, the crowd around Jake only softly whispered. Even the revolutionary general, who stood with him on the carriage, dared not interrupt such a man.

  Franck shook his head, “Amazing. He must be seventy-five years-old.”

  “He comes from a different era,” Jake replied.

  “We’ll never see his like again, will we?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Lafayette was living proof of why the word noble used to mean someone of high moral principles.

  Just then, a roar went up from the crowd. This time, it truly was a roar - animal, savage and bloodthirsty. Jake looked up to see an army of fists raised in the air. Beyond them was a tall, pale ghost of a man on horseback, carrying a huge, fifteen-foot-long flag on a twenty-foot pole. It was a red flag, bordered in black, with the words Liberty or Death stitched upon it. The sound of the crowd buffeted Jake. The noise was a battle scream, echoed by the buildings, reverberating in every direction.

  When Lafayette was Jake’s age, he was one year away from being a Major General in the Continental army. Now he spoke of slow change and evolution. There are tasks for water, and there are tasks for fire. There was a time for Lafayette’s soothing words, and a time for the red and black flag that presaged death and battle.

  Jake realized there was no more time for intellectual hand-wringing, argument, introspection or self-examination. He was on one side, and someone else was on the other. This was his time, this was his Revolution. He turned to his men, and shouted with a ferocity he did not know he possessed, “That’s the signal! Move out!”

  Some looked scared, others looked unconvinced, but nearly all were dragged in Jake’s direction, as if the force of his voice had chained them all together. Jake saw other columns of cockaded men as they also forced their way toward Rue de Charenton.

  Gunfire rang out up ahead. Shouts and screams followed, more gunfire, then more shouts. The difference between civilian and combatant became more apparent. The crowd streamed away from the intersection - Jake and his fellow revolutionaries moved toward it.

  Jake reached Charenton. Now half the people were wearing cockades; every combination of red, white, blue, green and gold abounded. There were students from other schools, local youths, workers, toughs and refugees. Off to the side, Jake saw a knot of roughed-up, unarmed Paris National Guard in torn uniforms, bent over one of their comrades laid upon the ground. He was perhaps thirty, a handsome, dark-haired man with a mustache. His tunic was open, exposing a white shirt hopelessly soaked in blood. The man looked more irritated than anything else, although the expressions on his fellow soldiers’ faces were far direr.

  The panorama was wholly surreal.

  In Jake’s thoughts and fantasies, soldiers were always faceless animated statues, or lifelike mannequins. They didn’t show emotion, they weren’t unique, they didn’t look irritated when they were shot.

  And then they were past. He heard a fellow student, Cyril, laugh gaily at the sight of the dying soldier, then cheers and jeers from others. Jake found it shocking that they had such a reaction. Jake could have turned around and said something, but he needed a few seconds to gather himself.

  They walked quickly, still surrounded by quite a crowd, although the rebel columns had moved in several directions after entering Rue de Charenton. Some of the store and tavern owners had their doors cracked to sell mugs of watered-down wine to thirsty passers-by. Jake turned, walked backwards, and counted his troop. There were exactly twenty students. He didn’t know whether he’d lost the rest to cowardice, ideology or geography, but he’d misplaced over a third of his command. But there were easily thirty of the recruited refugees. To his best estimate, Jake commanded over fifty men.

  The memorized address of The Society’s waiting supply carts was less than a thousand feet away and closing. Within minutes, they would be armed, and therefore traitors and rebels according to any legal standard. The Throne would have to use force to dislodge them from the streets of Paris. Tens of thousands of troops might be arrayed against them. Even if Jake survived, he still might be maimed or captured. There were few crimes as serious as armed sedition. The punishment was usually death.

  Jake only felt pressured and anxious. Somehow all of this didn’t seem as exciting as it once did.

  Xavier, 1778

  Chapter Five

  Xavier opened his eyes. As his senses slowly returned, his first thought was that he was dying of thirst - right before every part of his body began to hurt. A sharp pain went through his head like an icepick. He thought he screamed, but only a low moan escaped his lips. After the pain subsided, he opened his eyes again. He was looking up at a ceiling of Gothic arches made of white Tuffeau limestone, which meant he was somewhere in the Loire valley. He was warm - uncomfortably hot, actually. He was covered in blankets. He couldn’t move a muscle. He remembered absolutely nothing.

  What on earth happened to me?

  Xavier searched his memory. An image coalesced in his mind, of him sitting on a library catwalk and reading his father’s memoirs. Astonishingly, he remembered the words with near exactitude:

  France is a centralized and ferociously well-ordered state. It is a nation subject to a King. The perception of the duties of the King has changed over the years. Nowadays, people look at the King as a father, the personification of national greatness responsible for providing safety and sustenance to all citizens. The King, and the ordered, centralized apparatus of state, have done precisely this, to the best of their ability, and their lavish lifestyles are now rewards for their beneficence. Opportunity has been virtually obliterated in favor of giving every subject a participative role that is determined at birth. Not only does the state regulate activity, but other stifling regulatory agencies have centuries of tradition, such as guilds. No one need think too much about the future - it was mapped out for all before they were born. I think that is why we are a nation consumed with the present. We enjoy the now - because we must. We enjoy performing the actions of now in a special and particular manner - for there is nothing else for us. We enjoy the senses of now and the details of now - it is the spirit of joie de vivre. But Traversier looks to the future. To hell with joie de vivre, I say faim de plus! We circumvent the idiocy of the centralized state, and seek opportunity. We resent being held back, and told what we can and cannot do. We demand that our own natural abilities, spirit and persistence determine our height of accomplishment - not our birth, and not our king.

  How could he remember his father’s word with such clarity, and nothing else? He remembered being deep in thought regarding those words, reading them over and over, and amending their ideas in his mind. His father’s words were well and good, but, in the end, France was an ordered state, and one had to obey the laws. Business regulations came from everywhere: Throne, police, the Parlements of nobles, the guilds and regional authorities. One could not simply become a cooper and make barrels. One had to be an apprentice to a guild master cooper, then advance up the ranks as a journeyman, and, finally, to become a master himself. If one did not have the opportunity to know a master cooper, one was not able to become a cooper at all.

  Within days of the disastrous Summer ball, Xavier began pouring over his family’s licenses and contracts, looking for any kind of loophole that would allow him to engage in some kind of business he could afford to begin.

  He focused on the two most promising documents. The first was a license for “Genèse de Gaul Traversier, and his direct descendants of every proper stripe” to engage in “trade over oceans of no nationality, and domestic riverine”, dated 1513, from the Marquis d’Auray, Queen Anne’s treasurer, when she was Archduchess of an independent Brittany. Brittany had an uneven, and sometimes bellicose, relationship with France. When they peacefully merged in 1532, King Francis the First of France was eager to make the transition smooth. He duly honored and modernized the torts of the Archduchy, leading to the second document. In it, the Archbishop of Reims, t
he Royal Archivist, “for now, and for all of time until the second coming of our Lord,” legalizes and endorses the license of 1513, “and whatever business, craft or trade be necessary for their fulfillment.”

  That was it. That was the loophole.

  Xavier was undoubtedly the true and proper heir of Traversier. He was therefore licensed to engage in ocean and riverine trade. More importantly, he was entitled to engage in any and all activities surrounding, abetting, enabling or secondary to that trade - by royal edict. If any business or activity helped fulfill the requirements of oceanic or riverine trade, he could legally engage in it. The only problem with starting these ventures would be angry competitors, used to their monopoly and protections - throwing rocks in his windows, smashing his machines, or burning down his factories in the night. Xavier would have to go about this in a careful and diligent manner.

  He did.

  He arranged a meeting with the Mayor, the Vicomte de Chambarde, citing his friendship with Maurice Cœurfroid, and his status as the Traversier heir. Soon Xavier found his coach - which had undergone remodeling yet again - clattering through the city. The Mayor’s offices were in the old castle of the Archdukes, which dominated the southeast corner of the city. Its towers were gigantic obelisks of stone, a hundred feet high, thick and wide - nearly keeps in their own right. They were connected by equally impressive walls, and there was a drawbridge over a deep moat. Inside the castle walls, the bailey - the grounds - were considerably higher than the surrounding land, nearly as high as the towers themselves. The space was filled with stone buildings set against the walls, some built for defense, and others for administration and living. The Mayor’s offices were in the tall Mannerist keep against the north wall. Xavier arrived, gave a pourboire of a thick coin purse to the attendants, and gave strict instructions for the placement of his carriage.

  And in he went. Formalities and informalities were observed. The Mayor was young, in his thirties. To Xavier, he seemed well-mannered, well-educated and somewhat intelligent, albeit narrow-minded. He was good-looking, but not overly so. He was tall and thin, but, again, not overly so. He was dressed in brilliant blue silk, high heels, a powdered white wig and wore tasteful makeup.

  Xavier finally thought the time was right, “I would like you to see something. Could you indulge me, Monsieur?”

  The Mayor laughed nervously. “You wish me to travel?”

  “Only to your window, Monsieur Mayor,” said Xavier as he gestured.

  The Mayor cautiously moved to the window. “I see a coach.”

  “Look carefully.”

  “It is a well-made coach, older in design, with modern accoutrements and custom design work.”

  “Closer.”

  “A closer look? Yes, well… the horses are very fine. I… I’m afraid I am at a loss.”

  Xavier handed him a telescoping glass. It was a sailor’s tool - the Meilleur held several. The Mayor took it and looked again. “Perhaps the door,” offered Xavier.

  The Mayor laughed, “Is that-? Why yes, it has my family crest upon the door!”

  “Indeed, it does.”

  “How did that come about?”

  “Your crest is upon the coach because the coach is yours, Monsieur.”

  “Mine?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Are you bribing me, Monsieur Traversier?”

  “No, I do not engage in any unlawful activity, nor will I ever. It is simply a gift. It is a gift to celebrate the return of the Traversier family to Nantes, awarded to her Mayor.”

  “I see,” said the Mayor, pleased.

  “May I present several documents to you?”

  “Of course, Monsieur.”

  And Xavier duly presented his licenses to the Mayor, and explained that he now wished to lawfully engage in businesses relating to his future maritime enterprises. In Xavier’s mind, this was the riskiest part of the entire venture. He did not currently engage in any trade at all, so technically there were no trades he could engage in to support what did not exist.

  The Mayor was at a loss, but his mind went in a different direction. The gift of coach and horses was a staggering investment. If Xavier’s paperwork was in order, what exactly did he really want?

  It was simple. Xavier wished the Mayor’s legal blessing, in writing, of his current and completely legal enterprises - and a formal introduction to the Prelate of Police of Nantes.

  And the Mayor’s future friendship.

  Done.

  Xavier now had in his possession a modern document eliminating an ancient loophole. It was worth ten times the coach.

  The Prelate of Police sent an unenthusiastic introduction letter less than a week later. Xavier made an appointment to see him.

  The Prelate of Police was Monsieur Jacques Berlière, a man without title, but the grandson of the Marquis de Landerneau. He was stern, officious, clever, good-looking and tall. He seemed resentful at having to meet Xavier, but had no choice, being politically outmaneuvered. Xavier proceeded as if they were old friends. He showed Berlière his licenses and paperwork, and allowed the Mayor’s renewal of his entitlements to play protagonist, front and center.

  Xavier proceeded apace, but gave himself time to figure out the man. He liked him. Berlière was an honest and diligent sort who cared about his duties and his responsibilities.

  “Monsieur Berlière, it is important that you understand something.”

  Berlière sighed, “I am listening.”

  “I am an honest man, thinking in long-term fashion regarding the building of a business. I wish nothing more than to adhere completely to the letter and the spirit of the law.”

  “Then I must ask you, Monsieur, what you are doing here? Honest men do not spend time in police stations if they do not have to.”

  “I am about to engage in the rope-making and sail-making businesses. Perhaps others, but those for now.”

  “Outside of the chartered businesses and guilds? You are about to make a lot of people angry.”

  “That is why I am here, Monsieur.”

  “Rest assured, Monsieur Traversier, that lawbreaking will not be tolerated in the city.”

  “I wish to stop it before it begins.”

  Berlière did not look happy. “I see.”

  “I think it would be beneficial if police were to meet with my competitors, and warn them.”

  Berlière’s face turned hard. “Be more specific.”

  “I was perfectly specific. That is all I want. I want my competitors to know that I am protected. I want to compete with them through the marketplace. I want the ship captains of Nantes to buy my merchandise instead of theirs, because of the quality and price of my goods in comparison. I want you to ensure that this can happen. I want your good attention to your lawful duties. I want law and order. I want a fair chance. Monsieur Berlière.”

  Berlière considered him. Xavier had something very potent moving in his favor - he was telling the absolute truth. Xavier wanted to bury the guilds, destroy his competition - but only by being better and cheaper. Berlière finally spoke, “You break my budget, and waste the time of my officers.”

  “No, no indeed. You will bill me for the extra time of your officers. They will do this outside their normal duties, for their customary salary plus one half, which I will gladly pay. In addition, simply as a token of respect and for my gratitude, I would like to make a gift to this station.”

  “To the station, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of what?”

  “Two mantel clocks. One for the squadron room, and one here in your office.”

  “Monsieur Traversier, you must understand something. I will never break the law for you.”

  “Monsieur Berlière, you must understand something as well. I am law-abiding. I need the law to be incorruptible, so I can rely upon it. As a lawful businessman, I want the police on my side, and protecting my interests.” Berlière said nothing, so Xavier continued, “If you addressed your ranks, and told them ev
erything we have discussed here, would there be anything to hide?”

  “What would I say to them?”

  Xavier considered this, then spoke hypothetically, “I spoke with a local businessman named Monsieur Traversier. He is worried that competing businesses may want to break the law in order to thwart him. He wishes us to make it clear to his competitors that this will not stand. To be clear, there has been no law-breaking as of yet. Monsieur has generously offered to pay us for the extra duty, and has donated two clocks to the station. Who would like to volunteer?”

  Berlière raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, and smiled. “I will say exactly that, at the next morrow meet with my officers.”

  “Thank you for your time.”

  And that was that - but only part of Xavier’s plan.

  He had created a timeline for the next ten years of action, carefully considered and mapped. He had fired his accountant, and nearly all of the servants, and those who stayed had additional duties relating to the business. The Meilleur was denuded of artifacts, only heirlooms, items of historical value, and true masterpieces remained. Both carriages were gone, and all of the horses but one, a gelding named Clop that Xavier cared for himself. The household diet was meager, and they had no budget for clothes. The Meilleur was freezing cold, and her grounds were being torn up and built upon. Xavier could not hire workers fast enough. He forced himself to hire only those he could count on, who would do their jobs when no one was looking over their shoulder.

  Apart from hiring, everything else revolved around flax and hemp. Neither crop was difficult to grow; in fact, they could fit within the wheat harvest and were good for the soil. But after harvest, both plants needed additional processing in order to be used. Flax processing was especially arduous. The plant was pulled whole from the roots, to preserve the longest fibers. The seeds were threshed and winnowed away, then the plant was soaked in tanks or pools, in a process called retting. This would separate out the individual fibers. Months later, the plants were dried and combed for the long fibers. The short fibers, seeds and other parts were used for linseed oil, tow and a pulp called shive used to make paper. The work was intensive, and the peasants performed it themselves – but only for extra money and when they had time. As a result, flax and hemp fiber, not to mention linen, were difficult to acquire without contacts.