The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  “Britain’s war debt forced new taxes. New taxes fomented rebellion in the Colonies. France intervened in the conflict to exact her revenge on Britain.”

  “And, that time, we won.” Roquer was intense in his sentiment - even more than a half-century after the fact.

  “And America was born of French blood,” and Jake bowed to the Frenchman, who bowed back.

  “But, in the process, France accrued even more war debt - which, in turn, fomented our own Revolution.”

  Jake nodded, “1754 changed everything. Our world is still fully a product of that year. Napoleon, German nationalism, American expansion - all of it has its roots in 1754. Mankind has still not recovered from that terrible year, if ever we will.”

  Roquer continued, “As you probably know, the British started that war with a sneak attack, seizing almost the entire French merchant fleet. Every ship owned by the Traversier family was taken, Priam Paul was captured, and the Cross ripped from his neck by a British captain of savage renown. Priam Paul was stranded somewhere in the islands of the north Atlantic.”

  They reached the second story - far more intimate but no less exquisite. It was the private quarters of the family, not a space for entertaining. The paintings of lesser-known family members, or lesser known painters, would customarily be placed here.

  Roquer smiled and indicated a direction, “Traversier, like France, had experienced setbacks but was not defeated. The wealth of the family sustained them easily through the war. Priam Paul finally returned to joyous celebration in 1758. Although the Cross and the fleet were gone, Priam Paul was possessed of boundless enthusiasm for restoring the family fortunes. He even sired a son, who was born the next year. When the war ended in 1763, much was sold or mortgaged to purchase another ship, and to fill the hold with goods. Philippine had no premonitions of doom for her husband this time. There was nothing but good expectations of their return of wealth and status.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It becomes more so, Monsieur. Priam Paul did not return. The ship did not return. No man from the voyage was ever seen again. They vanished as if plucked from the ocean by God himself. The sea is fickle, not to mention some who sail upon it.”

  Roquer stopped in front of two paintings. To Jake’s shock, he recognized the painter - the late Jacque-Louis David, the titan of Neoclassicism. He was the most influential and important artist of his time. Having a David was akin to having a Rembrandt or a Michelangelo. These two paintings should have been in the Louvre - or at least downstairs. They dwarfed everything in the collection, in importance and in value.

  “You have two Davids.”

  “Several more, actually. He was a frequent visitor here, Monsieur David.”

  But Jake was already lost in the study of the two works. They were both of the same man, and only a few years apart. In the first, he was in his early twenties. One could only see hardness in his visage. His eyes were igneous, his body lean. He was dressed in the plain, but very fine, style of the bourgeois Third Estate, in the years just prior to the Revolution. Jake was reminded of Jules César, except this more-modern Traversier had a quality which Jules lacked. This man was both hard and desperate: his ambition had an edge, a darkness - a yearning. Jules César had nothing to prove. This man did.

  Monsieur Roquer continued, “Priam Paul and Philippine had one child: this man, Xavier. Look closely. Do you see it, Monsieur?” Roquer had a mischievous look on his face, as if he very much wanted Jake to know what he was talking about.

  “Yes, he is almost a young Jules César.”

  Roquer nearly shouted in his excitement, “Indeed! Well done!” he rocked once on his heels and continued, “Xavier was cut from a very old bolt of Traversier cloth, as if Jules had come back from the dead, and created the issue himself. He was hard as stone, smart as drill, and willful. Almost single-handedly, he restored the fortunes of the family to its former glory. By some cosmic accident, the Cross of Nantes even made its last appearance to this man, some say to bless him as the last of his line, before disappearing again - perhaps, this time, forever.”

  And with that, Roquer took three steps, and stood in front of the second painting of Xavier. Jake was shocked. The man was older in the second painting, but truly not by much. But now he looked utterly spent. His eyes showed the abyss, as if they had stared into hell, and saw the purity of its hatred.

  “It is said,” Roquer nearly whispered, “Xavier always chose the perfect course of action. I have frequently wondered how someone with this ability could change from the man in the first painting, to him of the second.”

  In the second canvass, Xavier held the Cross of Nantes. David had purposefully painted the Cross in shadow, as if the sun itself had conspired to rob it of its beauty. But that was David. He would sacrifice his soul, if the loss would but illustrate his theme with slightly more finesse. The Cross was in shadow for a reason. Perhaps David meant its return brought Xavier no joy, no victory.

  “Determined as he was,” Roquer said, “Xavier died without an heir. He was the last of the true family, male or female. Nantes was rife with relatives and family offshoots, but Xavier was firm in his decision to give them nothing after his death. It was said that when the family fortunes were at their lowest, his relatives turned their back on him. In true Traversier-style defiance of Christian spirit, he gladly returned the favor.”

  “This painting is haunting.”

  “David is a master, is he not?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Before he died, Xavier ensured the survival of the business he had rebuilt nearly from nothing.”

  “And gave its ownership to the future Cross-bearer.”

  “Yes. Quite an odd request, especially from such a rational man.”

  “Where do you think the Cross is now, Monsieur?”

  “That is a question no one has ever asked me, believe it or not.”

  “I am stunned, Monsieur.”

  “No one thinks much of servants. Even the concierge of great empty houses.” Roquer stared up at the first David. “He was an interesting man, this Xavier. He traveled the world. He was elected to the Estates-General. He was a soldier, and fought against the Vendée.”

  The Vendée, again.

  Roquer moved to an empty doorway. “But he was unlucky in love. From his history, I suppose I could say, definitively, that no woman now has the Cross. At least, I could if there wasn’t one more painting to show you.”

  Jake moved to the open double doorway. Two handsome, carved, teak doors had been propped open, exposing a magnificent master bedroom. And dominating it all was another David.

  The work of Jacque-Louis David would live forever. Long after Jake was gone, crowds would stare at Oath of the Horatii or The Death of Marat. Napoleon would be forever remembered on David’s canvas, painted on his charger at the pass of Saint-Bernard or at his coronation. And yet, with works in the Louvre and in the halls of kings, it was here, in this bedroom, that Jake saw the true masterpiece of the greatest painter France had ever produced. It was of a young woman, still asleep in bed as rays of light illuminated her from the window above. She was covered in bedding and a simple shift. But, between her soft chestnut curls and her freckled chest lay the Cross of Nantes, throwing off a celebration of fire-colored sparks under rays of late morning light. But she - this woman - unlike the subjects in all the paintings to come before, rivaled her prize. She had the aura of an earthly angel, gentle and innocent but mischievous; a personality that easily translated to her sleeping form, either through the power of the subject or the forceful talent of the canvass’s creator.

  “David,” Jake whispered.

  “Yes, Monsieur Loring. David.”

  “She has the Cross.”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “It was painted in 1788. It is a room downstairs, near the servant’s quarters.”

  Sinead O’Broughlin might have been in her fifties in 1788. The young, freckle-faced girl in the painting m
ay have just had her eighteenth birthday. She was someone entirely different, someone completely unknown. And she wore the Cross in 1788. And was painted by David, in Nantes, at the Château Meilleur.

  “Who is she?” Jake nearly whispered.

  “We don’t know, Monsieur. No one does.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m afraid that I am, Monsieur.”

  “What is the name of the painting?”

  “It is called The Mystery of Nantes.”

  Xavier, 1786

  Chapter 18

  From the Journal of Priam Paul Traversier:

  Traversier has traditionally traded in the northern and western slave lands, as do most French traders. Occasionally, one must travel down the coast of Africa, trading with every tribe one can find, then - if unlucky - continue following the coast east, then south, in order to find enough slaves to fill a boat. It is seldom that one finds oneself in Angola with cargo space, but it can certainly happen.

  Africa is hard to understand. Obviously, northern Africa is Mediterranean, her people look akin to Greeks or Arabs, and it might as well have been part of Europe until the coming of Islam. The endless Sahara prevented regular contact with the rest of the continent. In fact, the Sahel (or dry savanna) cultures south of the Sahara have had equal contact with Arabians, who are far to the east but can circumvent the Sahara by sea. Therefore, when we say Africa, we properly mean black Africa - Sub-Saharan and even Sub-Sahel Africa, if you will - not Mediterranean Africa, and not the Arabian and Semitic Africa of the far east and north. In this properly defined place - a vast, diverse, exotic place - there are simple things we take for granted that are simply not present. We Europeans engage in rapine, torture, slavery, cruelty, and unfairness - but we have values that decry these things, that lead to their condemnation, and, hopefully, their elimination someday, at least amongst Christians. None of these values are present in this Africa, and it is a bizarre and chilling thing. The African engages in rapine, torture, slavery, cruelty, and unfairness as if he were fulfilling the sermon on the mount. There is not a shred of refinement, or civilization. They do not have the wheel. There are no indigenous written languages. What little they have created on their own is invariably primitive, except for the complex rhythms of their music. Life is cheap, meaningless really, and cruelty is so common the African does not have a complaint or argument against it. There is no recognizable moral or ethical structure. The chiefs are only interested in being honored and respected by their fellows, and killing and enslaving their neighbors. They salivate over weapons and ornaments, like vain and deadly peacocks. This Africa is mostly just small tribes that have been at war with each other from time immemorial. The economy, whether that of kingdoms or petty chieftaincies, is wholly based on slave labor. There are elaborate caste systems and good interior trade routes. Empires are scattered few and far between, and are mostly found in the deep interior, and much further east. In the north and western regions, there abounds only chaos. Small tribes constantly war upon one another for slaves, resources and land.

  The African has no fascination with the sea, and there are no formal ports or fortifications except what Europeans have built for themselves to protect their interests. The vast majority of the continent’s inhabitants have never seen the ocean, and live inland. I have no idea why this is so, it makes no sense to a European, who lives and dies on the waterways. In any case, nearly all whites who have ventured into the jungle to investigate have perished from disease, violence, or other hardship. Tellings of events in the interior is gained only through hearsay. Amongst the dizzying number of tribes and ethnicities, they have an equal multitude of faiths and beliefs. There are two organized religions, one called Vodon and one called Bò. Vodon relies on the conjuring of minor spirits to ask favors of the heavens, through spirit possession of a medium. Bò has no modern equivalent. It is very African. Simply described as black magic witchcraft, it is full of curses and dark spells to cause harm.

  A form of currency has been adopted throughout the continent, for use between Europeans and Africans, called the “bar”. The bar represents the cost of a bar of iron, much as the pound represents a pound of silver. Both slaves and trade goods will be calculated in bars, and an equal barter is therefore arranged. A bedrock price for a slave is fifty bars. Never pay more than one-hundred bars. There are roughly four to five livres to a bar, so a slave costs anywhere from less than two-hundred-thirty livre to four-hundred and fifty livres.

  The native African traders are an interesting lot. They are mostly the chiefs of powerful coastal tribes – or inland tribes who have conquered to the coast. The cultures we have dealt with so far have been rather extroverted, and these traders are certainly a product of their upbringing. When one considers the African from the sole standpoint of interpersonal communication skills, one finds him on par with the European – or even his master. Never underestimate an African in this arena. They are camel traders par excellence. They can outtalk a Parisian fishmonger, and outhustle a Bretagne salt smuggler. Using every trick from disgust, anger, physical intimidation, threats, lies of poverty and need, inducing pity, feigning friendship or slight, they will drive the hardest bargain they can. The unwary and the unaware will leave with their ships half-full, and their expensive trade goods long gone. The African has a valuable commodity in the form of chattel slave labor. But one must never forget the European has goods of even greater value on the shores of Africa.

  Mostly we rely on past relationships and established prices. Occasionally our favored merchants die, or another tribe takes them as slaves, and the process must begin again. To forge a new relationship, first one must honor the chief. This involves gifts of beads and other ornamentation. The chief will take them whether he has slaves to sell or not. At some point, after being continually honored, the chief will open negotiation - if he has anyone or anything to sell. There are no guarantees. The African mostly wishes cloth, muskets, gunpowder, brassware, iron and beads. Do not take anything for granted: they are highly particular regarding what they will exchange. Gunpowder is always a reliable trade item, but doesn’t bring much in return anymore. Cannons were once a fool-proof barter item, but are now occasionally out of style, and not worth the expense - unless specifically requested. I believe, as time goes on and certain tribes become more powerful, that these traders will be more interested in luxury goods. Red and blue cloth is selling quite well right now, but their taste in these items can be fickle. It can sometimes be difficult judging African desire for goods without having the opportunity for much exposure to their cultural trends and ways. I no longer trade in beads, for once I was left with a large stock unsold - a Portuguese trader having inundated the region previously.

  Sometimes slaves are not close on hand in sufficient number, and the trader must go inland to buy more. If this happens, make sure they leave a hostage with the ship’s captain - preferably the trader’s son or wife. If a hostage is not secured, there is a good chance the trader will take one’s goods - and never be seen again. The hostages are called “pawns,” and the practice is well-known and perfectly accepted. Do not think it is insulting to ask. The African is usually far more sanguine in their manner than the European in regard to such practices.

  Unfortunately, we are forced to deal with these coastal traders once again, since Île de Gorée was captured by the British. It is said they are returning the island soon, but that does not help us now. The island provided a bit of order in an otherwise completely entropic enterprise. If it is ever resurrected, its conditions are far more preferable to trading on the mainland, although prices can be higher. Sometimes convenience and safety trump price. In Africa, this is always so.

  ***

  Trade sailed.

  It sailed on rivers and over oceans. Ships were, by far, the best way to get cargo from one place to another.

  But war killed ships. Weather sunk and battered them. Saltwater ate the wood of the hull. The nation’s boatyards worked as fast
as they could, but every aspect of their trade was bottlenecked. Most trees in the country were fiercely protected, and lumber was always at a premium. Masts came from the Baltics, and oak from the Illyrian coast - and every shipbuilding nation vied for their share. Even peripheral needs such as those for iron, steel, brass, leather and salt could sometimes not be met. There were places where ships could be had more easily, and less expensively, such as the United States, but foreign nationals had to establish credit or bring cold, hard coin for purchase - and, of course, compete with domestic needs.

  Xavier had agonized over this, and finally decided on a plan. He purchased an old Dutch sloop, christened the Nooit Sterven, for nine-thousand livres from a fellow Mason, Jérôme Charles Olivier. A sloop could travel in quite shallow water, and was known for being extraordinarily maneuverable. A sloop rig was at a disadvantage at anything past a broad reach, but they were greyhound-fast running with the winds. It was an ideal craft for the trade routes that followed such winds and the currents.

  The Nooit Sterven was built in 1761, and had seen better days. Xavier considered the price to be outright highway robbery. Xavier agreed to it, but had a forward-thinking condition placed in the contract: the ship would be drydocked, free of cost, in the Olivier yard, for as much time as need be in order for Xavier to repair the vessel and make her seaworthy once again. Conversely, if Xavier died whilst it was in drydock, ownership of the vessel would revert to Olivier, regardless of its status - which was good for Olivier.

  Just to get her out of water and in drydock, there had to be a massive bilge pumping, and quick plugs of her hull. There was a three-foot hole amidships, where the ocean had worn away the chemical surface and wood sheath that protected the hull. That part of the hull, and the rest of the sheath, would have to be replaced, and then resurfaced. It was said the British had started to use copper to sheath their hulls, instead of wood. All attempts in France had failed - the copper had somehow caused a disintegration of the iron bolts of the ship, through some yet-unknown reaction. Xavier decided on an oak sheath. It was the first decision to be made in a long list of needed repairs.