The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  But there was one man in the courtroom, unseen by Jake, who did not stand or cheer. This was Monsieur Tyran. After an unbelievable, and unforeseen, setback - which was the capture of his prey by the judicial system - things were now going precisely the way he wished them to go, and, actually, far better than he could have dreamed.

  To no one’s notice, he silently got up from his seat, and left the courtroom.

  La Famille Guerrier, 1783

  Chapter Ten

  The La Petite Princesse de Nantes left Saint-Domingue just in time to catch the north Atlantic storms. Estelle was miserable, sea-sick nearly every minute of the three-month journey. Guillaume and Papa seemed immune, as long as they were lying down, or on-deck and feeling the salt spray in their faces. Guillaume would spend long hours sitting in the bow, staring out to sea. She wished he would spend more time with her, alone and laid up in the cabin as she was. He would come down at night, and they would talk until Papa came down. Guillaume never talked around him. Papa noticed. He didn’t seem guilty or regretful, only thoughtful. He did not deign to try to say anything to him either.

  Papa would make Estelle eat and drink, which seemed like torture, especially after all the fresh food onboard was gone. The briny water, weevily hardtack and salted pork made her even more nauseous.

  Estelle understood the earth, the soil, and what grew upon it. She knew the rhythm of the seasons and the seeds. The ocean was a terrible mystery to her - there was no pattern that she could discern. She tried to talk to Guillaume about it. He understood her words, but he was comfortable with the sea, and found its mystery captivating. He missed Raphaël and Monsieur Pinceau terribly, and found the ocean a comfort.

  Finally, one morning, Estelle woke to the sound of gulls, men’s shouted voices, horses, and the creaking of wood and iron machinery. They had arrived in Nantes. There were no more waves, the river current was steady and familiar. Estelle dressed for the first time in months, and weakly made her way above decks. The light overwhelmed her, but the sun was weak in the sky, and it was cool.

  The sight of the city was something she would never forget. There was land close at hand to both starboard and port. But there was no ground to be seen. Everything was stone road, building or wall, wooden dock, platform, or house. What little was left over was of iron or twisted hemp. It was as if two far larger vessels of man were to her right and left, rather than earth bank and river island. Ships were everywhere, of all size and description - ocean and river traders, warships and pleasure craft. There were more white people than even in Le Cap. This intimidated Estelle, and she wondered how race and status would be accorded here, and whether it would be in her favor.

  Soon the ship was towed to dock, built out from an industrialized island south of the city center. Across the river to the east was a huge castle. To the north laid walls, docks, buildings, canals and more rivers - flowing from the north and joining the Loire. The small family packed their things, and took a decrepit, shaky ferry to the city proper. Féroce received directions from a policeman to the commissariat, took their two sea chests and put one on each shoulder as if they were down pillows. “Stay close,” he said to the twins, and off they went. They walked east across the city to the huge, squat castle, the Château des Ducs de Bretagne. It was a mile and a half of docks, warehouses, buildings, stacked goods and docked ocean-going sail ships - which eventually changed to river barges as the water became shallower to the east. Even with Féroce carrying the two great chests, the children had to hop and skip to keep up with his pace. When they finally arrived, Papa showed a letter to a well-dressed guard at the drawbridge. The guard disappeared, returned, and escorted them inside the castle.

  The gatehouse opened into a huge, flat, sandy-colored bailey. Thin, long, elegant Mannerist keeps stood against the walls. There was a small orchard and garden interrupting the sand of the bailey, giving the castle an even grander feel. Papa stacked the chests on the ground. “Stay here!” he barked, as he followed the guard through the gatehouse.

  Estelle and Guillaume sat on the chests, cold, hungry and bored. Less than an hour later, Féroce emerged. His brow was furrowed and his lips pursed. He walked quickly to the chests, “Follow me,” he said, as he shouldered their belongings and crossed to the drawbridge.

  “Is everything right and well, Papa?” asked Estelle.

  “Nantes is full of idiots.”

  Estelle counted to ten before she spoke again, “Where are we going then?”

  “To Angers.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Estelle made sure there was at least an equal count of ten between her questions, for she had many and she didn’t want to annoy Papa. The answers came slowly. Papa had a magic letter to become a policeman in France. But the Prefect of Nantes needed an officer who could read and write so Papa was not qualified. They were therefore going to Angers on a barge, being cheaper than a coach, but still taking most of their remaining coin. Angers was fifteen leagues away, nearly forty-five king’s miles, and the journey would last several days. Estelle had much to say regarding all of this, but wisely kept it to herself - at least for the nonce.

  Soon they were at the docks again. There were many barges; most offering flat, open decks stacked with goods. To their astonishment, the best barge, which was covered with a canvass roof - and even had a sail mast that swiveled up and down to pass under bridges - charged the same price for the journey as everyone else. It had a crew of three, whom Papa confronted, “Why do you charge the same price for a better, faster barge?” he asked, suspicious.

  The young captain shrugged, “We are going upriver with or without you. Our tent is to protect the goods, the sail to speed their transit. The price assures we get your coin, instead of another barge. We are a Traversier ship, Monsieur. Neither guild nor prelate determine our price. We could undercut the other barges if we wished, but have no need.”

  “Merde,” said Féroce, “Good enough for me.” He turned to the twins. “Get aboard.”

  Within minutes, the sailors gave them wine, cheese and bread, and soon all three were fast asleep.

  The trip was uneventful, but beautiful. Everything was so different. The Loire valley had but few plants and trees in common with Saint-Domingue, and once out of Nantes, there were no colored people or blacks at all.

  To travel upstream, huge ropes pointed taut from the barge to oxen crews on the bank, who towed them against the current. Their craft was so fast it overcame other barges. Cries of “Slack your lines!” made the slower barge loose and hold their cables, to sink underwater until the Traversier ship could pass.

  Estelle kept wondering why the situation in Angers would be any different than Nantes. Her father could not make the same mistake twice, they would then be completely penniless. Her curiosity had to wait until night, when everyone was asleep. “Papa?” she asked.

  He woke and replied, “What’s wrong?”

  “Do you remember the house on the river?”

  “Which one?”

  “Remember the bargeman, the first mate? The one with the blonde hair-”

  “Robert Alain Verne.”

  “Yes. He said the monks planted Lebanese cedars all along the banks, and he pointed one out to us. The house was-”

  “The house after the cedar was a quarter mile downstream from it on the right-bank. It was painted blue with guède and lime, but was decrepit.”

  “No one could remember that, Papa, except for you. You remember everything.”

  “Why is the house so important to you now?”

  “There is really no reason at all for the Prefect of Angers to know that the Prefect of Nantes did not want you.”

  Féroce did not reply.

  “Anjou is quite beautiful, is it not, Papa? I mean to say, if you had known how beautiful was the land of Anjou, this would have been your first choice for your appointment. Not Nantes.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I can read and write.”

  “Can you?”

&n
bsp; “Yes, I can. Perhaps I can write all of your reports, at least until I teach you to do it yourself. With such a memory as yours, and with such dedication as you possess, Papa, you would be an asset to Angers.”

  “I should hope so,” he grumbled.

  It was a long journey. Guillaume did not speak. The sailors were busy. Estelle had a long time to subtly work on her father, and she made sure there were many talks, expressing the same ideas in different ways.

  Soon they turned off the Loire onto the Maine. Nearly every roof was tiled in black slate, and sometimes even bricked the walls. The city of Angers was called the Black City, for it was completely roofed and half-constructed of the dull, ebony slate. The Château d'Angers, the gigantic, squat castle on a ridge high above the Loire, was wholly constructed of it - layer upon layer of flat, black stone and mortar. On the cool sunny day they arrived, they walked up to the gigantic black fortress on the plateau over the river. The inner keep was enclosed by high walls set with no less than seventeen towers.

  After crossing the moat and being admitted into the bailey, the children were again left to their own devices. But the interior of Angers castle was quite different than that of Nantes. A wall divided the bailey in half, and an imposing gatehouse was set halfway down the wall. Beyond the gatehouse was the ancient keep, long hall and practice yard. On the children’s side of the wall, every space had been turned into an orchard or garden - even with herb and vegetable plots growing upon the ramparts of the walls. Féroce was taken to the Prefect of Police, Monsieur Bernier - his letter from Von Stedingk ensured no lesser a personage would be involved. Guillaume sat on the chests, transfixed by the soldiers and the spectacle. Estelle picked apronfuls of fruits and berries for them to eat, for Spring was upon them. No one seemed to mind. Sometimes the adults even smiled or winked at them as they passed.

  Finally, Papa walked out of the gatehouse with a uniformed officer, both of them smiling. The officer disappeared as Féroce crossed to the children.

  “What happened, Papa?” asked Estelle excitedly.

  “When I sat down in front of Monsieur Bernier’s desk, I repeated word-for-word everything he had said to me from our meeting, along with conversations I heard along the way to his office.”

  “That must have impressed him!”

  “I then described, in full detail, everything I had seen since entering the prefecture.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Monsieur Bernier is no idiot, I can tell you that. He was impressed to his brass buckles. I explained to him that it is fairly common for those who cannot read to develop such skills. And before he could say anything, I told him that you were teaching me to read and write, and would be writing my reports until I was skilled enough to do so myself.”

  “Are you now a policeman of Anjou, Papa?”

  “Of Anjou, but not of Angers.”

  Estelle jumped up and down, and clapped her hands. This was good news indeed.

  Guillaume slowly turned, and looked at Féroce with burning eyes, “Where are we then going, if we do not stay here?”

  Féroce said nothing for a moment, then spoke softly, “We are going to Saint-Florent-le-Vieil. There is but one officer there now, a Sergeant Durain. He is completely alone, but there is no crime at all - none on the left-bank from the Loire to the Vendée, they say.”

  Estelle smiled, “That is perhaps good and bad for you, Papa.”

  “Oh, I’ll be busy enough. The police are agents of the Throne, and the Throne regulates and preserves just about everything. I’ll be in charge of cataloging the fields and animals for tax purposes, as well as making sure enough grain is being produced to feed everyone. Although where we are going, there is far more latitude, being so far from Paris. Monsieur explained that Sergeant Durain is getting too old to ride around the countryside. As soon as I am fit and able, Durain will be pulled back to Angers for lighter duty.”

  Just then a black coach appeared, bearing the coat of arms of Anjou. It was enclosed with forward facing windows, and had an upholstered bench seat that could easily accommodate them. The driver jumped down, opened the door, and lowered the carriage steps. Féroce smiled, “This is us, in you go.”

  And in they went. Unfortunately, the coach only took them to the banks of the river. The bridges in Angers across the Maine would only bring them to the right-bank of the Loire. To get to the left-bank, they would need to barge downriver - which was thankfully much faster than upriver. The journey to Saint-Florent- le-Vieil was less than twenty-five miles, and they would be there before nightfall.

  ***

  The new Guerrier residence was in the countryside, a little place called L'Ouvrinière, part of the parish of Saint-Florent-le-Vieil, which was only ten square miles itself. It was a small but very quaint country house surrounded by young beeches and oaks. Estelle fell in love with it, and planned her beanstalks and trellises on the spot. Guillaume disappeared into the darkness of the forest and rarely returned. Papa was promptly gone, sometimes for days. He would return with boxes of chic clothes, hats, scarves, ties, and belts - all for him, all of highest quality - but had to be constantly reminded to fetch food and seed. Estelle mostly ate fish, as she waited for her shoots to break the soil. She caught perch during the day, and carp at night. A self-respecting Frenchman would have been up in arms at such a diet, but Estelle was easier to please, and was fine as long as there was a bit of oil and salt in the house. Fishing was regulated by the powers that be, and her Papa happened to be the local official in charge of enforcement. Despite this, she fished often and half-hoped he would see her. Papa finally purchased chickens and a nanny goat, which Estelle named Joliefille - then they had eggs, milk and chèvre butter - with cheese on the way. Guillaume would not eat, usually - or speak. He was a ghost.

  They were not there for very long when they received a group of three visitors. Estelle knew that this must have been planned in advance, and she was resentful that Papa did not tell her so she could receive them properly. Sergeant Durain was one - a likeable, forgetful old man who had nothing but good intentions for the world. The second was a fat, red-faced gentleman who was dressed like a plaid jay bird, who ended up to be the Mayor, Monsieur de Lefleaur. He was pleasant enough, but seemed full of poorly-disguised guile. But when Estelle saw the third visitor, she experienced the most strange and unique moment of her life.

  The third man was none other than Johann Georg Hamann, the German philosopher.

  But, of course, that could not be. Johann Georg Hamann was in his fifties, and her visitor was less than ten years her senior. He was not Hamann - only exactly alike the man she had always pictured in her daydreams. Estelle was dumbstruck, and she slowly fell, until her legs and hips rested on the ground. And it was him, Johann Georg Hamann, who ran to help her. The closer he approached, the more familiar he looked to her. His hair was blondish-brown, and tied with a black ribbon. He had a long, clean-shaven face, and a strong chin. His eyes were grey, and they twinkled with intelligence and good humor. He was slender and tall, and soon he was by her side. “My goodness!” he said, “Are you unwell?”

  She knew everything about him. There was nothing in him that was unfamiliar. He had to remember her - they had to have dreamed of each other. “Don’t you recognize me?” she burst out. He looked at her uncomprehendingly. “It’s me, it’s Estelle. Don’t you know my face?”

  “You are from Saint-Domingue, are you not?”

  “Yes! Yes, I am!” Estelle said excitedly.

  “Mademoiselle, nearly my entire life has been spent within a day’s ride of this very place. I am afraid you mistake me for someone else.”

  Estelle felt like a fool. She tried not to cry, “Well, that is all very well and good, but I am going to call you Johann for the rest of your life anyway.”

  He narrowed his eyes, amused, “Well, my name is properly Father Jonathan Courgeon, so at least it’s close.”

  “Close? They are practically the same!” Estelle said, her hopes rising once
again.

  He smiled kindly, and spoke gently, “Jonathan means ‘God has given.’ Johann means ‘God is merciful.”

  He was a priest. He had sworn oaths to God. To be anything but sisterly toward him would be an act against Christ and the church. It would put her soul in mortal jeopardy, insult her Father in heaven - and Estelle really did not care. She felt like kissing him.

  Guillaume made a brief appearance, and was punctiliously polite, but made a fast exit after introductions. Estelle did what she could for her three guests as they socialized with Papa. The wine was poor and watered, there was nothing to feed them except buttered perch with herbs and wild greens, but all three seemed appreciative and ate their fill. Estelle overheard Father Jonathan, “Monsieur Guerrier, I am at your disposal, truly. Transitions can be difficult, and you have come a long way. Please come and see me at any time, for any reason.” Féroce did not ask for help, but soon after he did start attending mass. If everyone went to mass, so did he. If everyone sacrificed chickens to the spirits, so did he. He was a law and order man.

  It was Estelle who went to visit Father Jonathan the next day. It was for a good cause, but she knew in her heart that there was only one reason - she simply wanted to see him. She went into the beautiful, white chapel of the abbey, and introduced herself to an older deacon, who ended up to be one Monsieur Falaise. He fetched Father Jonathan, and they sat down together on a pew near the narthex door. “Father Johann, I desperately need your help,” she said, once they were alone.

  He smiled at her promised nickname. “I am at your disposal, Mademoiselle.”

  “It is my brother, Guillaume. He rarely eats or speaks. He is wasting away from melancholia.”

  “He did not seem so,” he replied, but then thought better of it, “Why do you think this has come to be?”

  For some reason, in that moment, she felt like lying or distorting the truth. She shrugged off the feeling. He was a priest, a bearer of secrets. She would simply tell him what she thought. “My brother is handsome and smart - a Mamelouk, legally white. He attracted the favor of the powerful in Saint-Domingue. Before we came here, he might as well have been a young nobleman. He was stolen from a better life.”