And workmen began on the list, the very day she landed in drydock. Her restoration continued, little by little, as Xavier poured every spare livre into the ship. He angered a whole new host of tradesmen when blacksmiths appeared on his rolls. His hired men were hastily trained to perform a handful of tasks. Soon they were churning out the accoutrements of slavery - chains, cuffs, stanchions and fasteners - as well as needed items for the ship. Xavier sent the Nantes police on another round of peacekeeping. In return, he painted their commissariat and repaired a roof leak.
Soon the work was finished, and the sloop was slid back into the water, fully repaired. Jérôme Charles Olivier came to watch like a proud parent. Xavier still stung from the insulting price he paid for the ship. He was amazed that Olivier had the infernal gall to come at all. Yet there he was, and, to all intents and purposes, acting like he had actually helped Xavier in some way, instead of swindling him. His delight over the repairs was ecstatic and genuine. Xavier realized the man had a gift: a selective and highly-subjective memory, combined with concrete self-righteousness. If the man now believed he was the hidden instrument behind Xavier’s success, there was no convincing him otherwise. Xavier put on the warmest smile he could muster, “Thank you, Monsieur. Thank you for everything.”
Olivier teared. He actually teared, “God speed, Xavier. Restore your house to its rightful glory.”
“With your help, Monsieur, anything is possible.”
It was the perfect thing to say.
Olivier looked at him like a son for the rest of his days, and helped him in any way he could. He endlessly repeated the story of how he helped the Traversier family get on its feet. Everyone thought Xavier saw him as the father he never had. Xavier absolutely despised him, and deplored his cheating of a fellow Freemason. In time, the Traversier family became so rich that no one really believed Olivier anymore, and his stories became a joke he unknowingly told upon himself. But in that moment, Xavier had to take the injustice in stride.
On its banks lie fertilized fields, and the river eats its share of dung. The feculence sinks into nothingness within its depths, unable to change the nature of its host in the slightest way.
His mother came to him, smug and imperious. “I would tell you, my son, to return bearing your shield or upon it. But you are quite precious to me, and I would have you return regardless.”
Xavier did not believe her. If he did return an abject failure, Madame would not be so tender. “Thank you, Madame,” he said.
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
“Return home soon.”
“I will not. It will be a long journey.”
She teared, and suddenly flung herself upon him. He patted her on the back. He resented her sudden affection, but said nothing. He was not cruel, and only wanted the moment to pass.
“Everyone who leaves for the sea comes back a different man - when they return at all,” she said softly.
“I am touched by your concern.” He wasn’t. “Thank you for your kindness.” It was not kindness, but selfishness, he suspected. “But I have planned this for years, and there is no turning back now. Do you understand?”
She nodded. There was more small talk, then they left each other’s company. He deeply distrusted her, and suspected her love was wholly conditional, but appreciated the abatement of her contempt.
Xavier had never been to sea. He had placed himself in a position where his entire life’s work hinged upon performance of duties he had never performed before - which was ridiculous, if not hazardous. Xavier found himself overwhelmed at the realization. Xavier did not like to be comforted, however, he rather enjoyed the surety of hard truth. Therefore, he sought out l’Oublié, who only spoke hard truths, being incapable of anything else.
L’Oublié saw the look on his face, and spoke before Xavier could frame a question, “Monsieur,” he said, “if the ship encounters a storm, and it sinks, and we two find ourselves alone on the beach of a faraway island, will it break your spirit? Or will you find a way back to France, purchase another ship, fill it with cargo and sail out again?”
Xavier did not take the question lightly. He considered the sweat and blood he had put into this journey. “I think I have enough strength to do this one more time. It will be much easier, after all,” he said.
“Then there is nothing to fear. We are prepared for the worst.”
“Would not death be the worst case?”
“No. Death would be a blessing,” he said, and meant it.
So it went with l’Oublié.
Xavier heard his truth, and was therefore fortified and continued on. He slept well that night, and left with l’Oublié for the docks the next morning.
The ship’s journey was a long one, and involved many people besides Xavier. Therefore, the dock was a jam of carts, and a carnival of sailors, family, well-wishers, stevedores, officials, and tax men. Xavier watched as the huge chests of linen were loaded onboard the sloop. The floor of the hold took a layer of chests, and a sturdy shelf above them took more. All in all, there would be around forty-thousand pounds of trade goods - the absolute limit, considering the weight of crew and other supplies necessary for the journey. With Xavier and l’Oublié stood Marc Marie-Florent Avenir – the riverman from Tours, and two new additions: Messieurs Vaux and Deschenes. Vaux was thin and tall, Deschenes was thick, but not short. Both were steely-eyed leaders. Vaux was fiery and loud, getting right in the faces of those who angered him. Deschenes never raised his voice. One heavy-lidded look would send even the most recalcitrant sailor scurrying. Both had captained slave voyages in partnership ventures in the past.
These five men – Xavier, l’Oublié, Avenir, Vaux and Deschenes - had been assembling crewmen for years. Over twice as many men as they needed would be boarding the sloop, and all of them were responsible and experienced sailors - along with the two riverine and two seagoing captains. No one knew why this was so arranged, except these five. A larger crew would only add tremendous expense to an already precious journey.
Xavier had thought long and hard about including Avenir. He had seen to it that Avenir’s thugs died a horrible death, and Avenir had watched it all happen. Since then, Avenir had given him no trouble at all, indeed he had expanded riverine trade threefold. Xavier had aided his efforts whenever possible, and had made him quite successful. This journey would make him more than just successful, it would make him rich - if everything went according to plan. But if Avenir did hold some kind of grudge, it might manifest on the journey, when Xavier could least counter an attack. Admittedly, Avenir was worth his weight in gold in a dozen different ways. Xavier had decided to include him. If Avenir was as smart as he had been up to this point, his presence would only help the overall chance of success.
The Farmer-Generals scoured the ship, and took inventory of everything going up the gangplank. They crawled over the Nooit Sterven like ants, cataloging everything. Xavier would owe some taxes before he left, and would pay others on his return. He would owe Taillon, a tax for military expenditure, now and later. There was an additional tax for slavers so the French fleet could patrol and maintain the trade routes. He would owe the Vingtième, five percent of net earnings, on his return, as well as the exorbitantly high Aides tax – a national tariff. Now and upon his return he owed a Traite tax – custom duties for the import or export of goods to and from France, or from one province to another. Upon his return, he owed the Nantes Octroi – a city tariff. He would also owe the Dîme: ten percent to the excremental clergy in a mandatory, nationwide tithe. Xavier was not Catholic, and did not attend mass, and still had to pay. There was a very good reason for this - the politically well-connected nobles, who received salaries for being the bishop of so-and-so, drank, whored and gambled in Paris and Versailles. God forbid if they had to budget or do actual work. Why do so, if there were men like Xavier to do it for them?
Slaves were expensive to acquire, therefore the trade goods carried to Africa were extremely valuable. Th
e ships themselves were precious. The journey was very long, and dangerous - and always deadly, for at least one or more. Because of this, slave expeditions were financed by multiple sources. Corporations, banks and individuals bought shares in the journey. Apart from the Traversiers of old, it was unheard of for any one person to finance an expedition, not even a sea captain with his own ship. But on this journey, that was exactly the case. The ship belonged wholly to the Traversier trust. Everything on the ship was paid for in full, or had been internally generated by Traversier subsidiaries. This was Xavier’s fortune to be made or lost.
He still could not afford insurance, however. His father had made the same gamble and lost, leaving the family deeply in debt to the financiers, until Xavier came along and paid the debts in full. Xavier had made sure that if he failed as spectacularly as his father, Madam would, at least, be in much better financial order than she had been after the last cataclysm. There would be no debt, at least.
By the next morning at dawn, all was ready. The oversized crew boarded and took position. None of them were drunk, and none were late. The tugboats rowed them deeper into the Loire and the ropes were cast off. The Loire took them into the Bay of Biscay, one of the most treacherous and feared waters in the world. The storms were horrendous, and not necessarily all in Winter. But that afternoon showed them only a heavy fog, and they plotted course southwest.
And finally, it happened.
L’Oublié came below decks and fetched Xavier. They both went topside. The fog had lifted and become a low ceiling. Xavier, confused, turned to l’Oublié, “I do not see, l’Oublié.”
“Precisely, Monsieur.”
And then Xavier realized why he had been fetched. They had lost sight of land. In every direction, there was nothing but the grey blue sea, darkened by the clouds.
Xavier moved to stand on the bow of the ship, and reflected. His father had much to say about this particular moment:
On the voyage, very soon after its beginning, there will come a time when you and your men are a world unto yourselves, when you lose all sight of God’s green earth. One must understand, in that very moment, that civilization, order, and morality are all illusions, and their lines can be crossed, or erased, at any time by you, your men or the people you encounter. At this point, nothing will force men to do anything, or change their course of action, except the artfully-worded promise of future reward or punishment, brute force, or subtle argument - each emanating from a leader’s words and actions.
You have left the world of women and polite society completely behind. There is no paperwork, no promise, no social castigation that props up the law of the town here, no indeed. At any point, for a number of reasons, the duties and responsibilities of civilization can be forgotten. Your ship, your life, your possessions, your honor, the very integrity of your body, all hang in the balance, completely dependent on your ability to reach down into your own soul, and summon a unique, unnamed power from deep within - a primal, masculine power, the only force that can hold a tribe of savage men to your willed purpose. A good leader will prevent his followers from realizing the illusory nature of regulations and control, his very presence will assure them that these things are very real and enforceable, and the only authority is his alone, and punishment awaits all transgressors – onboard, and perhaps even at home. All power, all rules, all purpose - and all of civilization, truthfully - hinge on one thing: the ability of a leader to convince loyal men to threaten violence on disloyal men, in order to perpetuate leadership and achieve the leader’s goals. It is this violence, and the threat of it, that underpins all of man’s achievements. There is nothing else, and it is a truth that only men can understand. The better the leader, the more he leads by threat of violence and not actual violence. This leader achieves more in terms of his goal - and does not have to spend energy overmuch in self-preservation. If leadership fails in this task, there is only chaos. Violence, to restore order, is always preferable to chaos. Threat of violence, to ensure order, is always preferable to actual violence.
Order is the paramount goal of leadership. Order produces fertile soil for teamwork. Men find purpose in teams, and revel in the excellence of their performance and how it adds to the goals of the brotherhood. Order can only come about through the hard work of a good leader.
As a group of followers becomes more intimate in size, so too grows the need to lead by example. There is nothing more intimate than a ship. A leader’s will, and force of personality, must be akin to Valencia steel - stainless, hard but flexible… and sharp.
So it began.
Xavier spent every waking hour learning everything there was to know of sailing. He was exhausted at the end of each day, but was determined not to be outworked by anyone, even the most seasoned hands. There was no time for rest. In a few months, and according to plan, he would captain his own vessel, and there was a world of knowledge to absorb and learn. It took years to become proficient at some of the ship’s trades - such as that of a sail master - but hopefully Xavier would know enough to be a captain and delegate to the true masters onboard.
They arrived in A Coruña a week later, topped-off on fresh supplies and water, and quickly departed. There was no need for anyone to become sick, not on this journey, and not this early.
As the days passed, warm days turned into hot ones. The sun was more intense, but did not burn for as long in the sky. Two weeks later, they entered the Spanish port of Santa Cruz de Tenerife to take on more supplies.
The next stop was Africa.
Xavier sought out l’Oublié. “I am nervous.”
L’Oublié shrugged.
“Come with me to the captain’s meeting. I will be the least experienced man in the room, but what I order must be the way it will be.”
“As you wish, Monsieur.”
L’Oublié, Avenir, Deschenes, and Vaux met in Xavier’s quarters. A map of Africa was spread on the folding table, and all men peered at it.
Deschenes spoke first, “I have contacts on the coast starting in the three-river region east of Sherbro island.” Deschenes’s finger came to rest on a map point that was perhaps sixteen-hundred miles away from Tenerife. “But this is Africa, you understand. They might all be dead, I don’t know. But whatever tribe controls the region, they will have slaves for sale, that I warrant.”
Vaux nodded, “My contacts start further north. But the northern tribes know they are closer and more convenient - they can name their price. More reasonable prices begin when the coast turns due east, around the Cavalla river.” That was an additional four hundred miles from Sherbro. “At the Sanaga river, it becomes a buyer’s market.”
The Sanaga was over seven-hundred and fifty leagues distant - twenty-six hundred miles away, the distance from Paris to China.
Xavier’s eyes darted. Every day at sea demanded an impressive array of expenses: pay for the crew, food for their bellies, additional supplies, wear and tear on the sails - and an exponential increase in the chance of something going very wrong. The closer they sailed toward the coast, and the more times they did so, the more chances for sickness and death – for the very air of Africa was deadly. Xavier was reminded that, at embarkation, every coin he possessed was hidden in this cabin. The ship and its cargo represented ten years of hard work.
Ten years.
Xavier remembered his father’s journal. “What of Île de Gorée?”
Vaux made a face, “En enfer with Gorée.”
No one gainsaid him. Xavier spoke, “Why?”
Deschenes looked at Vaux, then turned to Xavier, “It is French, a crown holding, with a governor. They have developed close relationships with all of the chiefs on the local coast, and support them with weapons and such through trade. On Gorée, one might as well be in France. But that is not necessarily a good thing, as well you know.”
Vaux nearly shouted, “Gorée is price controls, meant to keep the sugar flowing, but benefitting no one.”
“Price controls for whom?”
> Deschenes answered, “For the colonists. There was a regular route between Gorée and the colonies. I don’t know if it exists anymore, or what state Gorée has found itself.”
“After the British occupation, you mean?”
Deschenes nodded, “Indeed. It is French once more, but...” he shrugged.
“Monsieur Vaux?”
“Only God knows, and he is silent to the sinner. It is close though, just under a thousand miles away.”
Only in Africa could a thousand miles be close. Xavier straightened, “Traversier is not subject to colonial price restrictions. We are beholden to none, and I have the paperwork to prove it.”
Avenir spoke, “Then one question remains. Can Gorée legally trade with non-colonials?”
There was no answer.
Xavier spoke, “We want nothing to do with the northernmost traders. Gorée is ten days to the south, and on the way to every other choice. We stop there, to top off supplies, if nothing else. Deschenes, plot a course for Gorée.”
“Oui, Monsieur,” he answered, and left the cabin. Xavier watched the other men very closely - but there was no need. There was no question of his authority or commands.
L’Oublié turned to Xavier, “Your angst availed you nothing, Monsieur.”
His words did not bother Xavier. L’Oublié could speak to him in such a manner if he wished, if no one else - and they were alone. “I’ll buy a pound of worry over an ounce of ill-fortune.”
“As you will, Monsieur.”
***
Ten days later, they came to Île de Gorée - an island just off the mainland, in a place called Senegal. Xavier was a different man now. He knew every task on board, was dark as leather and fit as a farmhand.
Looking out, Xavier realized the island was quite small, the entirety of it easily seen from the sea. It was comprised of low hills and sandy beaches. It was humid as an armpit after a day of picking grapes - only much, much hotter than one’s armpit could ever be. The heat was searing. The sun had an edge, it hurt wherever it touched - especially the ears and eyes.
The Crimson Heirlooms Page 34