Finally, they came to an elegant four-story villa surrounded by manicured grounds and a tall fence of wrought-iron spears. Féroce turned to his son, “This is the home of Monsieur Pinceau. Mind your manners.”
“Yes, Papa,” said Guillaume. He had actually been taught a bit of good manners, for Féroce had taken the time to learn, considering the knowledge of etiquette to be essential for advancement. Unfortunately, Guillaume was usually taught in a harsh manner, and during dinner. When called to meals, he usually felt anxious and fearful rather than hungry.
They parked and braked the cart on the street, opened the wrought iron gates, and crossed to the high wooden doors. Soon they were admitted by the butler, and stood inside.
The foyer was dark and cool. The ceiling was two stories high, and was ringed by a balcony, accessed by a wall-hugging, balustraded staircase. The house slaves looked upon them with curiosity. Race was every bit as important in Saint-Domingue as wealth or title. At the very bottom of the social ladder were full African blacks, perhaps better described as the mud upon which the ladder rested. Whites were sand castles, sculpted by a master, to be admired and enjoyed until the waves of disease and climate swept them away. Sand castles cannot inherit what they build, and white women hardly ever stepped foot on the island. In no time, another group came to equal the whites. The true nobles who claimed ownership of Saint-Domingue became the mixes, the gens de couleur libre, the free people of color. Le Cap may have been mostly white, but the more south one traveled in Saint-Domingue, the more colored those in power became. The lowest noble caste, the metaphorical barons, were the Mulâtre, half-black and half-white, usually the freed offspring of a master and a slave. Next came the dukes of Saint-Domingue, the Quarteron, which Monsieur Pinceau happened to be, who were one-quarter black. Further up were the kings and queens, the Métis - one-eighth black. There were names for every mix in between. Marabou were five-eighths black, Griffe were three-quarters, and Sacatra were seven-eighths. But high, high above them all were the archangels: the Mamelouk - one-sixteenth black. They were legally white, but black enough to be claimed by the coloreds. They were therefore perfect. They could pass in any city in Europe. They could withstand the sun and climate of the tropics. They were as beautiful, smart and creative as the whites, and as strong, spiritual and musical as the blacks - at least according to the mores of Saint-Domingue. Mankind ever seeks to separate cream from milk, then creams from creams, and then label and grade the layers. The ways of Saint-Domingue were different from other places, but only in its means of separation.
This tidy arrangement found itself sullied due to one simple fact: nearly nine out of ten people in Saint-Domingue were pure black African slaves. Everyone else, of any label, was a hopelessly small minority.
In any case, Féroce was obviously part black, but the young man with him looked white. Could that be his son, could he be one of the legendary Mamelouk? The answer was yes, and, of course, this was precisely why Féroce brought his son to the meeting. Guillaume and Estelle were his greatest achievements and elevated his status with the landowning gens de couleur. Estelle did not like Le Cap, nor dusty cart rides away from her gardens. Guillaume was fearless and adventurous like his father, albeit more introverted. Guillaume was therefore here, and Estelle was not.
Monsieur Pinceau looked over them unseen from the second-story balcony. He had wide African features, but his skin was the color of leather. His hair was slightly less curly than a true black, but was even a lighter color than his skin and was streaked with grey. Looking down, he saw Féroce was everything he was rumored to be. He radiated capacity for violence, control, and a soldierly good-humor. Guillaume was obviously a Mamelouk, and the same age as his beloved only son, Raphaël.
Raphaël was all that was left of his wife, Adèle. She was a gorgeous, lithe Métis. Perhaps the French blood was too predominated, for she was claimed by the Summer sickness a few years ago. Monsieur walked down the stairs, capturing their attention, “Monsieur Guerrier, welcome to my home, and thank you for coming.”
“It is my pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Monsieur Pinceau,” said Féroce, as he bowed.
“And who do we have here?” Monsieur said, as he smiled at Guillaume. Guillaume smiled back.
“This is my son, Guillaume.”
Guillaume bowed, “It is an honor to meet you, Monsieur.”
“I am enchanted. You will be happy to know that you will not have to listen to the adults converse.”
Guillaume smiled and bowed. It was what he was taught to do if he did not know precisely what to say, or if an answer was not required.
Monsieur Pinceau took notice, and nodded his head in return, “To explain, young Monsieur, my son is upstairs with his toys, and happens to be exactly your age. I invite you to go upstairs, turn down the hall to your left, and then knock on the last door to your left.”
Guillaume said nothing for a second. Monsieur Pinceau’s son should have been called, they should have been introduced, then gone off together to play. This seemed odd.
But Féroce’s strong hand nudged him toward the stairs, and he was smart enough to take his cue. “Thank you, Monsieur Pinceau. I will do exactly that, and I thank you for your hospitality.” Guillaume went up the stairs, while Pinceau took Féroce into his downstairs study.
The upstairs was dark. It was unusual for a house in Le Cap to have interior rooms with no windows - most rooms in Le Cap seemed half outside, and some could only be accessed via doors on the windswept verandas. But the Pinceaus were wealthy and emulated Paris in their architecture as they pleased. Guillaume went down the dark hallway, and finally stood before the last door on the left. He listened, and heard nothing. He finally knocked.
“Come in,” came the voice of a young man.
Guillaume entered. The room was quite large, but held only a bed and wardrobe. Guillaume’s attention went immediately to what was scattered across the floor - miniature lead soldiers, horses and cannon arranged for battle, all perfectly and brilliantly painted.
Guillaume went to his knees for a closer look. They were the most interesting things he had ever seen. His paper soldiers were a joke, a ghost of these masterful miniatures. He recognized the well-painted uniforms: Musketeers of the Guard, the Régiment Royal-Suédois, artillery companies, dragoons, and cuirassiers.
“Don’t touch those,” said the voice.
Guillaume turned, and saw a boy lying in bed. He was pale, but obviously couleur, with African hair and features. He was short and thin, sweating and sickly. “Why not?” Guillaume replied.
“Because they are mine,” he said.
“You aren’t playing with them,” Guillaume retorted.
“But I do play with them. Why do you think they are scattered across the floor?”
“How do you play with them?”
“I have battles.”
“Who against who?”
“Last week, I had a battle of the Musketeers of the Guard against the Régiment Royal-Suédois, as you can plainly see.”
“Can I? Who won?”
“The Musketeers.”
Guillaume made a dismissive sound, “That plainly illustrates your total lack of knowledge of anything important.”
His comment was knee-jerk, a youthful and arrogant reaction. It was not designed to begin the argument of his life, profoundly alter his experience, and change nearly every aspect of his life, but that is precisely what it did.
Monsieur Pinceau and Féroce were soon interrupted by the sound of argument, as the boys’ yelling shook the walls. The men rushed upstairs. Féroce was horrified, even scared, at how his plan to bring Guillaume along had misfired. Monsieur Pinceau, on the other hand, felt rising excitement, and an optimism he didn’t dare believe. But when they opened the door to Raphaël’s room, the facts were plain to see. His boy, his beloved boy, who ate food only to lose weight, who was bedridden and doomed to die, who could not be helped by the best doctors in the new world or the old, was out of bed, standing, and sc
reaming at the top of his lungs at the godsend, young Guillaume Guerrier, who was trying his best to drown him out with counter arguments of his own.
Féroce managed a croak, “Guillaume, what have you done?” and the boy paled, and looked terrified.
Monsieur Pinceau had to salvage this situation, and quickly. He smiled, “Messieurs, over what do we argue?”
Raphaël spoke quickly and intensely, much to the delight of his father, “He says the Régiment Royal-Suédois could easily beat the Musketeers of the Guard.”
“Interesting,” said Monsieur Pinceau, “Over what terrain does this battle take place?”
The boys went silent.
Monsieur Pinceau shrugged, “Terrain is very important in battle, is it not, Monsieur Guerrier?”
Féroce nodded. He had no idea why Pinceau wasn’t tossing them both out the door, but he was smart enough to adjust his cannon fire on the spot, “Yes, terrain is extraordinarily important, Monsieur.”
Guillaume could only take so much. “Yes, but the courage and ferocity of the Swiss Guard has been legendary for centuries.”
Neither could Raphaël, “But the King’s Musketeers were the best, when France undoubtedly had the greatest military in the whole world.’
“Yes, yes,” said Pinceau, “but this answer is not day or night, nor yes and no. Over a hundred battles, the Musketeers would not always beat the Guard, and the Swiss would not always beat the Musketeers. Correct?”
They both nodded, thinking hard upon it.
“Both units are equally well-armored, but the Swiss would have an edge when it came to hand-to-hand combat, being better and heavier armed. Let us say the Musketeers would have the better odds during an exchange of muskets.”
Guillaume nodded, “Then the Swiss would have the edge in a forest.”
“But not in a field,” Raphaël said quickly.
“But not in a city,” Guillaume shot back.
“Unless it was a city like Le Cap, with long, wide streets,” offered Pinceau. “Please stay here, for a moment,” and off he disappeared.
Guillaume forgot his father’s prior look, and turned to him, “What do you think, Papa?”
Féroce had forgotten his prior feelings as well, “Well, they are both right tough outfits. I would want to know who had the best equipped and most skilled supply officers, and who had the most artillery. Cannon wins battles. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. In the modern age, it’s man’s tools that win the field. Grit alone is not enough. And a good supply train, with plenty of powder, clean water and good, hot meals.”
Both boys nodded - it was wisdom.
Monsieur Pinceau returned with paper, pen and quills, and a coin. He sat on the floor, and quickly lined up opposing Swiss and Musketeers, “They are at a distance, but closing. Each side has time for only one volley. Let us say that, at range, the Musketeers have a one-point advantage. Three flips of the coin. Two or more heads fells a Swiss, three tails levels a Musketeer.”
And then Monsieur paired up the lead figures, flipping the coin to determine the outcome of each pair, and tipping the loser to lay on its side.
When it came down to hand-to-hand for the miniatures, the boys started arguing again, this time over math. Pinceau offered the paper and ink when they needed to write down a particularly difficult equation, or some complex detail too hard to remember. Féroce was shocked to find Guillaume could both read and write, and knew basic math. He had no idea how he came to know such things. It would have surprised him even more to know that he had taught Estelle.
When the boys were utterly consumed with the numbers behind their mortal combat, Monsieur Pinceau stood and motioned to Féroce. Both men quietly left the room and shut the door. Féroce had no idea what to say and kept his mouth shut.
Monsieur Pinceau spoke softly, “My son is sickly, Monsieur. I have not seen him this well, and this long out of bed for over a year. I beg you, Monsieur, to allow a friendship to develop between your son and mine. I have already determined that you will help me in my business, as a partner performing what I cannot do, from now until the end of time. Now, let us allow our progeny to become brothers, for that is what God wishes them to be.”
“Uh, certainly, Monsieur,” said Féroce.
“And while he is here, I promise he will be fed, clothed, educated - all his needs will be met, as if he was my nephew. Let him spend the night, as a gesture of goodwill. He will be returned tomorrow, and will always be welcomed here, whether for a day, a night, both or forever.”
Féroce honestly did not care. The situation between the boys was of no account. He had the job. It was time to close the deal. “Of course, Monsieur,” he said politely, “Let us conclude our contract, and I will assemble my party and be headed south within forty-eight hours.”
Monsieur Pinceau offered a hand, which Féroce readily took, “Well and done, Monsieur Guerrier.”
From that day, Guillaume spent far more time in Le Cap than he did at home. Estelle missed him terribly. Maman did not seem to care, and Féroce was never home. When Guillaume did return, he was better-dressed and fatter, and usually brought a book for Estelle. His visits were never too long, for when he returned Maman and Papa suddenly did care that he was gone, and there were bitter arguments. To Estelle, these confrontations seemed to have no point but the exhibition of rancor. Perhaps Maman and Papa were tired of berating each other and, needing a change, found Guillaume’s return convenient.
Estelle was always grateful for the books, but found her tastes were different than her brother. She implored him to bring her something she would like, perhaps poetry or a play. Guillaume could not understand her tastes and thought he was doing her a favor by ignoring her choices.
One day he brought her the oddest book. Half was composed of excerpts from the Bible and other great works written by philosophers, mathematicians and jurors. The other half, however, was composed of satirical essays – in fact, there was an essay to follow every excerpt. Each essay was in the writing style of the excerpt, only exaggerated to poke fun at each one. The essay authors all had fanciful names: Adelgunde, the Knight of the Rose-Cross, Aristobolus, the Sibyl.
The essays were poetic in nature although usually not in style - virtually incomprehensible on a literal level. They assumed much of the reader, that she was brilliant, witty and well-educated. Estelle realized the excerpts were there only to help the reader better understand the essays. These essay authors, whether Adelgunde or the Sibyl, were ferociously in love with irony, which made things interesting but much subtler. Whether the writers were making fun of someone ancient, contemporary or even Biblical, there were spiderwebs of ideas, images, poetry and parable.
The nature of the work was a mystery, but there were two clues.
Adèle was signed on the inside cover in a female cursive. In the same hand, much larger and on the cover itself, was written Johann Georg Hamann. Estelle suspected correctly that Hamann was the one who wrote all the essays under fanciful pen names, and someone had simply taken the time to put them together, include the objects of satire, and transcribe it all into French. Presumably this was Adèle, who deserved an Olympic laurel for the effort.
Estelle loved that book. She begged Guillaume to ask Monsieur Pinceau for a longer loan, and Monsieur promptly gifted it to her, unknowing of how it even came into his collection. It became Estelle’s most prized possession. She studied every word, and slowly began to understand.
Hamann was convinced man shouldn’t be too confident in his intellectualism. Even the best minds and ideas were hopelessly flawed. Mankind’s only hope was to put his faith in God, eschew fanaticism of any kind, and have great patience with people of different ideas, and even faiths. He skewered the confidence of most intellectuals - in Estelle’s opinion, rightfully so. But she was biased, very biased indeed, for she had developed a mash, a desperate crush, on Monsieur Hamann. It was silly, a flight of fancy, but sometimes she could think about him for hours. She imagined him as a handsome, young
man - who became more and more concrete in his features as time passed. Estelle couldn’t breathe when she thought about him. She would become utterly taken, as if by a fever.
Estelle had no idea why the world was not as in love with his ideas as she was. It was so clear to her that patience and faith, perhaps coupled with a love for creation, a joyful spirit and much laughter, was a good medicine for most ills. It was simple: society’s troubles came from the collective spiritual sickness of individuals. Man’s laws and punishments did not modify the human spirit. True transformation only came from individual’s internal decisions made of free will. Helping to incite change in others required a close relationship, love, and investment of time and energy – especially with others holding dissimilar beliefs. Only through one’s own example of action, and investment of love, do people notice other points of view. Anything else was a dangerous shortcut, it seemed to Estelle, when she dreamed of her conversations with the handsome Johann.
It took up a lot of her time, these talks.
Johann would sigh, and lean back against an imaginary tree and say something profound. Perhaps he would talk of finding himself in the body of a cane slave, and how difficult it would be to find happiness. But did wealth and freedom bring happiness? Could happiness come from outside one’s soul? Truly, he would say, even a landed duke could find himself joyless. But if the harder task were achieved, that of besting one’s own heart and surrendering to God, true joy could be found. True joy emanated from the heart and affected others. To Estelle, all of this was common sense - Christian, good and decent.
She would tell Johann that the greatest thing to which a human could aspire was to be incapable of evil toward her fellows - and that was the sum total of her aspirations… although that was a lie. She very much wanted to be married and have children as well, and with him, with Johann, who was nearly the opposite of every man she had ever met. Papa and Guillaume had some wonderful qualities, but sometimes being around them was akin to continually stubbing one’s toe on a steel block - unforgiving and painful. Estelle wanted a man who was like a warm blanket on a cold night. She wanted someone she could trust and love safely, and therefore beautifully.
The Crimson Heirlooms Page 16