The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  It would never happen.

  Estelle knew she would never leave Saint-Domingue. This island, and the hard men upon it, were her lot. So far they had wanted nothing to do with her.

  Then something unexpected happened - France went to war with Britain.

  And Saint-Domingue decided to raise a unit of volunteers to send off with their colonial regiments. A motley assemblage of whites, blacks, coloreds, freemen and slaves answered the call - including Papa, who was given sergeant’s stripes. Marching to their ships, they were a wonder to behold. Estelle wondered how anyone could possibly stand against them.

  That was years ago. Many of them had died, but not Papa, who could not die, who was larger than death and life, and could not be bested by normal means.

  And then poor Maman, ripped from her home as a child and sold into slavery, a victim of rape, the chain and the whip, unable to acclimatize, mad and sick from the heat, finally passed from the earth with a quiet celebration of thankfulness, responsibility and love. And there was Guillaume, the toe-stubbing firebrand, who now realized he was simply a thing of flesh and feeling on the earth - one who loved his mother.

  A breeze blew through the window, and it was soft and cool.

  Guillaume spoke, “I’m going back to Le Cap.”

  Estelle wanted to scream and hit him. Instead, she replied calmly, “We have some pressing matters we must attend to first.”

  “Such as?”

  “We must bury Maman.”

  “Do not the priests do such things?”

  “Perhaps they would. But no one attends church in this family except for me.”

  “You still attend church? I did not know.”

  “I do not think anyone in Le Cap will help us, Guillaume. I think we must put Maman on a cart, and go see Father Jozef.” Father Jozef was from the United Netherlands, a priest for the slaves at Quartier-Morin, the largest plantation outside Le Cap.

  To Estelle’s astonishment, Guillaume did not argue. Instead, he turned and held her. “I love you, Estelle.”

  Estelle broke in an instant, wailing and completely despondent. She was taken with her emotion, thought of nothing and had no control, but soon the moment passed to the pressing responsibilities of the present.

  Estelle bundled her mother in her sheets and blankets, as Guillaume hitched the horse. Both of them carried Maman, who weighed but little, to the back of the cart and placed her there. It was less than three miles to Quartier-Morin, and away they went.

  They arrived at Quartier-Marin without incident. They were stopped a quarter of a mile within the plantation by a slave overseer on horseback. He was concerned at their trespass, but was cordial enough after they explained why they were there. When Father Jozef was summoned and met them on the road, he was far less hospitable. “You should have gone to Le Cap,” he said, “I have neither the time nor the coin for this.”

  “Father,” said Estelle patiently, “We do not require your money. As for your time-”

  “My flock is the cane slaves of Saint-Domingue. Do you have any idea how indescribably horrid is the life of a cane slave? Did your father tell you? The one who retrieves them from the hills, to be returned to torture, and sometimes death?”

  Estelle grabbed a handful of fabric from the top of her brother’s trousers. If he attacked the priest with words or actions, they accomplished nothing. But Guillaume did not move. Estelle smiled, and spoke again to Father Jozef, “I understand, Father. But we are all here together, united in worldly flesh and in Christ. There are likewise some tragedies that unite us all. As we mourn the death of cane slaves, we mourn the death of any man or woman, being of equal value to God. As, recently, myself and my brother mourn the death of our mother, leaving us alone until our father returns to us from war.”

  Father Jozef teared, “My goodness, child. And such words I offer you. I am so sorry.” Father Jozef put a hand on Estelle’s cheek. “Forgive me, I am here for you.”

  And he was. Guillaume, Estelle, the Father and two slaves dug a grave for Maman. She was then buried in a proper Christian sacrament. Estelle cried again, but Guillaume did not. They ate with the Father, and slept on the floor of the church. But later that night, Estelle woke up in a panic, with her heart beating out of her chest.

  She pushed her brother awake, “Guillaume!”

  He woke, “What is it?”

  “What if Papa returns, and we are not there?”

  “He wouldn’t notice - until you weren’t there to make his breakfast.”

  “Guillaume, do not vex me. If Papa returns, no one will be home. What if he goes off looking for us, worried over our state.”

  “Then he goes off looking for us.”

  “No. No, we must return at once.”

  “It is the middle of the night.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Estelle, it is not feasible.”

  “I don’t care. We must return.”

  “Estelle, you will get our horse bit by a snake. Then we will have to walk, and we will get bitten as well.”

  Estelle cried in the corner of the church.

  A few minutes later, Guillaume hitched the horse. Father Jozef heard the commotion, came out and gave them food, and some good torches of pitch and resin.

  After thanking the Father, they soon headed home.

  Papa was not there.

  In the morning, Estelle made them breakfast.

  “Estelle,” said Guillaume, “you must return with me to Le Cap.”

  “No, I have to be here for when Father returns.”

  “The first place he will go searching, if he doesn’t find us here, is the Pinceau residence in Le Cap.”

  “But you don’t know that.”

  “Then leave him a note.”

  “He can’t read.”

  “He takes the notes to the priests in Le Cap.”

  “But what if he lights a fire to cook, and uses the note as tinder?”

  “He’s terrifically clever, our Papa. He would not do such a thing.”

  “But he might.”

  “Estelle, listen to me. I am going to Le Cap. I am not staying here. If Papa does not return, I am never, ever coming back.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Estelle, just come with me.”

  Estelle realized there was nothing she could do to change his mind. “I will stay here for Papa,” she said.

  “You can tend the gardens of the estate, and have any seeds you wish to plant.”

  “It isn’t the gardens. I-I have to stay here for Papa.”

  “I will not visit here. We have no family friends, no relatives, and even our neighbors shun us, for Maman was crazy and Papa was cruel. You will be completely alone, do you understand that, Estelle?”

  “Please don’t leave me here all alone.”

  “Come with me. You will be the daughter that Monsieur never had. You will be welcomed like family. You will forget that we were ever tied to these people in any way.”

  Estelle darkened. “Honor thy father and mother.”

  “Come with me,” he replied gently.

  “They are our parents. They made us. We are who we are. We cannot be anything else, we cannot change in this manner. I am staying here because this is the Guerrier residence, I am a Guerrier, and it is my home. It is where Papa will return.”

  Guillaume sighed, and looked sad. “Goodbye, Estelle.”

  She could tell by his voice that he very much would have wanted her to come with him. They held each other.

  “What if something happens to you?” he said.

  “Nothing will happen to me, Guillaume. I’ll be fine. Enjoy your time with Raphaël.”

  Guillaume nodded, they said their goodbyes, and he left.

  Estelle spent the next day on the kitchen floor, sobbing and terrified.

  The next day she cooked and cleaned, and drew water from their well.

  The next day she tended the garden, and hitched their mule, named Abruti. She went out looking
for wood and kindling, for she had no money to buy charcoal. Abruti needed to eat as well, and all of the plants she tended were for her. There were no other animals at the Guerrier residence, not even a cat or dog. Perhaps it was because Papa was never home, and Maman had given up.

  They had animals when they lived in the mountains at Champ-Élevé – even goats, chickens, and sheep. At Champ-Élevé, Maman sometimes helped Estelle in the gardens, where she proved to have every bit the grower’s mettle of her daughter. With the animals, Maman was even better.

  When Estelle returned from feeding Abruti and finding tinder, she tended the garden. She had found her routine. Days and weeks passed. Sometimes the fruits and vegetables ripened just as the last crop was harvested, but sometimes they didn’t. When they didn’t, she would become hungry if there wasn’t anything left over from the last crop.

  One day she hitched the cart, and headed to the ocean. The coastal rocks outside the city were always filled with dark African men, mostly poor freemen who were hungry. She joined them. They adopted her on the spot, and soon became her Uncles. They were very kind to her and showed her how to fish. It was very important to them that she respect Agwé, the Vodoun loa who rules over the sea. Estelle would always throw a bit of fish back for Agwé. Afterwards, she would pray the rosary. After a time, her Uncles began to pray it with her.

  The followers of Vodoun believed a great god created the universe, but the Great Creator was unapproachable by man. One gained the attention of the creator through his subservient loa spirits. Estelle told them about Christ, wholly man and wholly God, and how he came to Earth to die for the reconciliation of Creator and created. They were appreciative, having never heard the story of Christ in such a way, and would pray to him, from then on, as Loa-Pappy.

  Estelle was never hungry again.

  ***

  The room was unrecognizable as a place where humans slept. The bed was gone. A chalk line separated a four-foot by twenty-foot section of the room, and included the interior door. This small section was heaped with blankets and clothes, combs, belts and hose - and whatever lead soldiers were not being used. The rest of the room was dedicated to the game. Heaps of dirt had been brought in. The dirt was covered in painted moss, and bits of twigs and leaves made to look like miniature trees. The landscape was dotted with homemade toy houses, little fields and plows, lead horses and carriage - and hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers, complete with regimental colors, signalmen, musicians, supply carriages and mounted officers. The walls were covered in tacked-up papers, scrawled with rules and equations. In fact, papers were strewn about everywhere. Gambling dice were in cups, which rested in small throw boxes.

  The boys constantly searched for any knowledge that would help them. They had both fired muskets and pistols, waved about polearms and swords, and tried to run horses at a gallop. They had spent time observing ships, and frequently asked their officers about cannon and shot. They had made their own lead soldiers with clay molds, but, admittedly, the ones Monsieur Pinceau purchased always looked better. When the game’s rules needed to be updated or changed, the house would rock with loud argument. When the battles came down to the wire, or when one boy surprised another with a devastating move, the house would shake with mercurial, titanic anger. The servants were confused, when they were not frightened. Monsieur Pinceau loved every minute of it. The boys came down for breakfast and for dinner every night, and they always had something to talk about.

  Monsieur Pinceau realized that Raphaël’s health was all he really cared about. One day he freed all his house slaves, and put them on generous salary, and didn’t really know why. A few weeks later, Marie-Lynn, a housemaid, meekly came to him in his study, and subtly hinted that perhaps he could be so generous with his field slaves.

  He could not.

  But a week later, he sent a message to his three plantations that all of his slaves were now indentured servants working for their freedom. After ten years of labor, a slave would be freed. Better work equaled less time spent in bondage. Laziness, or dereliction of duty, would result in fines and more time. Unfortunately, if cane slaves survived three years it was a minor miracle, but hope springs eternal. As proof of his intentions, all slaves who had already earned their freedom were placed on salary - mostly overseers and cooks, and those who had been taught a trade.

  Monsieur fielded all sorts of complaints over this edict, from his field supervisors to his neighbors. He fell into a mild depression over it, shocked at the intensity of contention regarding his breech with custom.

  The complaints from his supervisors slowed and stopped. After the harvest, he learned that the sugar output was seven percent higher than it had ever been before. His neighbors did not emulate him, but they now respected him, as some sort of financial wizard who made something work that they could never attempt. Monsieur Pinceau also came to talk to his dead wife nearly every day, as if she was in the same room with him. It gave him great happiness to do so.

  Life was good.

  Then, one day in January of 1783, Féroce Guerrier knocked on the door and was shown into the foyer. Monsieur Pinceau had forgotten that he had even existed at all. Féroce didn’t look a day older, but his eyes were different - fiery, even commanding. For some reason, his presence gave Monsieur Pinceau great unease. “Monsieur Guerrier, you are most welcome.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur. It is good to be back. Although I am leaving this afternoon.”

  “I see. Where are you going?”

  “To France.”

  “This afternoon?”

  “The opportunity presented itself, and there is no time like the present.”

  “I see. Well, perhaps we can give you a good lunch before you go.”

  “I’m afraid my chests and my daughter are waiting on the street. Where is my son?”

  “Upstairs, with Raphaël.”

  Féroce, without further ado, bounded up the stairs like a goat. Concerned, Monsieur Pinceau followed him. This was all happening too fast. Every second, Monsieur Pinceau realized how little he wanted Féroce to take Guillaume from the house. He had come to love the boy. As time passed, Guillaume’s anger and resentment had come to dissipate. As it did, a startling change came over him. Guillaume was actually quite tender-hearted and happy-spirited. The initial bellicosity in both boys had slowly given way, in good measure but not perfect measure, to mutual enthusiasm. When he saw them at meals, their excitement was contagious, and there was laughter, more and more as time went on.

  Féroce made the hallway and came before the door. He rapped twice, then opened it. Monsieur saw the boys inside, sitting in their miniature empire like surprised titans. Both of them had wide eyes, and Guillaume looked terrified. Féroce spoke, “This room stinks. Pigs live better than this,” he locked eyes with Guillaume and snorted, “You’ve gotten fat.”

  Raphaël stood, “Good afternoon, Monsieur.”

  “I believe it’s still morning. Are you Raphaël?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “Pleasure to meet you. Guillaume, stow your things. We’re leaving in three minutes.”

  Guillaume looked to Monsieur Pinceau as a son would look to a father - for protection. Monsieur’s heart broke, he was powerless – the boy’s true father was the one from whom Guillaume wished to be saved.

  Guerrier shrugged and grinned, “Get your things, or go with one set of clothes, I care not.”

  “I don’t want to go,” Guillaume answered quickly.

  “Guillaume,” said Féroce harshly, “police up your merde. Now.”

  Guillaume did not move. Fast as a cat, Féroce moved to Guillaume, picked him up, and moved quickly into the hallway and toward the stairs. In one moment, Monsieur Pinceau became aware of two things. He heard Guillaume’s protestations, pitiful and desperate, at the same time he looked down and saw an immense boot-print in the landscape of the little kingdom. Cracks radiated out from the depression across the countryside, things were broken, half of the soldiers were down. In one ac
tion, Féroce had managed to disrupt everything. Monsieur moved quickly to follow him, “Monsieur Guerrier, the boys are so happy together,” he said.

  “It appears that way, Monsieur.”

  “It would be no trouble to send him later.”

  “That would be an expense I do not wish to pay back.”

  “I will cheerfully pay it. It is of nothing.”

  “That is very generous,” Féroce stopped moving. He suddenly turned, scaring Monsieur Pinceau, who tried not to show his fear. “Monsieur Pinceau, through my actions, my family has...,” Féroce searched for the right word, “transcended Saint-Domingue. We are now headed home, back to the Fatherland.”

  Monsieur Pinceau tried to smile, “Good luck to you and your family. Safe journey.”

  “Thank you!” said Féroce, and he was out the door. Guillaume’s eyes went to the second story balcony, where Pinceau knew his horrified son now stood.

  “Goodbye,” said Guillaume, and the door shut.

  “Goodbye,” said Raphaël.

  Outside, Estelle sat on the cart. When Guillaume appeared, dragged by her father, he looked more distraught than even she had imagined. She prayed that he did not blame any of this on her. Soon they were on the cart, Papa sitting between them. He turned to Guillaume, “I don’t want to hear any of your braying and neighing. And I don’t want you jumping off the damné cart, either. Any sheep-straying from you, I will drag you to the mud, and put the flat of my hand to your arse. Do you understand?”

  Guillaume said nothing. Féroce lifted him by the shirt off his seat, “I said, ‘Do you understand?”

  “Yes, yes!” screamed Guillaume.

  “Don’t you yell at me, boy. I said, ‘Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Féroce threw him into his seat, then gently shook the reins. Abruti began to walk.

  Guillaume softly cried. Estelle noticed they were heading south, as if they were going home - not east toward the harbor. “Papa,” she said gently, “You are going home.”

  “No,” he replied, “We are going to get Maman.”