The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  The island was uninhabited until Europeans realized it boasted a deep-water harbor, and it bore their marks rather than that of the African. There were small, quaint buildings dotting the scrubby hills, and occasionally a glimpse of color from flowering bougainvilleas, acacias and silk-cotton trees. Rounding the southern end, a series of docks came into view overlooked by a gigantic, squat fort perforated by gun hole slits. A grand, three-masted barque and a brigantine were both at harbor. A small line of nearly-naked human beings, with impenetrable jet-black skin, waited to board the barque. They were seemingly immune to the sun, which would have quickly incapacitated a European in similar undress. Xavier peered out through his telescoping glass, and let Vaux bring the boat in and rendezvous with the tugs. There didn’t seem to be many white people at all. In fact, he realized all the Europeans were sailors from the ships. Instead, a host of blacks in European clothes ran the docks, all of whom acted, walked and gestured as if they had lived all their lives in Paris.

  The Nooit Sterven soon found herself sliding into dock. As she laid down four anchors, blacks in European clothes - speaking perfect French, no less - tied them down to the long, well-made dock. Soon the gangplank was lowered. To his astonishment, Xavier saw another group of blacks - both men and women, and dressed in the latest French styles - saunter up to the plank, talking gaily amongst themselves. Well-dressed black servants, or perhaps slaves, held cloth umbrellas over their heads.

  As they came closer, Xavier noticed something peculiar. The skin tone of the well-dressed crowd was not the jet-black of the African, but rather different shades of brown. They were easily distinguishable both by color, and by their sharper features, from the blacks holding the umbrellas. He realized they were Métis, the Mixed, also called gens de couleur libre - free people of color. It appeared to Xavier that Gorée was run by the Métis.

  “Permission to come aboard, Captain!” said one of the Métis in a friendly voice.

  “Granted, of course. You are most welcome, Mesdames et Messieurs.”

  As they walked up the gangplank, Xavier shot a look at Avenir, Vaux and Deschenes. All of them looked confused. “Clear the deck,” Xavier said softly.

  Vaux turned, and issued commands. The crew vacated the deck without complaint, despite knowing below decks was a sweltering, hideous oven.

  Xavier spoke again, as calmly as he could, “Help l’Oublié bring up the sample chests, if you please. Not the beads - the linen samples.” L’Oublié and the Captains disappeared as Xavier crossed to his visitors and bowed.

  They bowed and curtsied in return.

  “You are most welcome aboard,” he said to them, “My name is Xavier Traversier, of the Traversier of Nantes. My family’s ships came to these shores quite often in the past, but I fear we are the first since 1754. I have in my possession a notarized and sealed copy of our family’s renewed license to engage in the slave trade. In 1632, we were duly licensed by the Throne of France to buy, sell and transport slaves, as legal independent agents beholden to no colonial price restrictions. You will see that this condition is effective in perpetuity.” Xavier offered his paperwork, and one of them graciously took it to peruse.

  There was a quick discussion amongst them. Soon one of the women stepped forward, “Bonjour, Monsieur. My name is Mademoiselle Anne Pépin. We welcome your family back to Senegal.”

  Xavier bowed deeply once again, and tried to hide his surprise that a woman, and a colored woman at that, was representing the slave traders of Gorée. He noticed the three sample chests of linen had been brought on deck by l’Oublié and his captains. He motioned, and they were carried to him.

  Anne stepped forward, “Are these some of your goods, Monsieur?”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle. If I could present?” Xavier said as he swiveled them open.

  The group bent down over them. One of the men smiled, “What is that wonderful smell?”

  “Lavender oil, Monsieur. The cloth is linen, and not favored by the moths, but one cannot be too careful.”

  “Lavender oil.”

  “Yes, Monsieur. It is especially important for wool. Not so much for linen, as I have said. The linen is of the highest quality. As you can see, there are three different patterns of fabric. Every pattern has multiple color schemes using white, red, blue, yellow, green, and orange. It has a density of one-hundred-fifty thread count, which I realize seems low for other types of fabric. I can assure you, however, that linen at this thread count is far more durable and longer lasting than wool or cotton of nearly any grade – and will let air pass far more effectively. It will last decades, regardless of use, and will only get softer with age. The dye used was of the highest concentration and the colors will not fade. The chests are also for sale. They are made of oak and brass, with leather seals so as to preserve the linen. They, too, are of highest quality, and are nearly waterproof.”

  Mademoiselle Pépin spoke, “Why did you not sell this cloth in France? It is certainly of high quality, and would have fetched a good price if you had taken it to Paris. The journey would have been profitable and much safer.”

  She was right. “Mademoiselle, I am taking great risk for great gain. And I intend to develop relationships that will help me achieve my goals. I am a Traversier of Nantes, as I have said. We do nothing in small measure. We are a great mercantile house, and Paris is too near for our adventurous spirit.”

  She nodded. “On Gorée, the ocean winds dissipate the vapors of Africa. You will be quite safe here. There are quarters for your crew upon land, if you wish.”

  “I am sure your offer will be much appreciated.”

  “There are also quarters for you and your officers, as well.”

  “Again, I thank you, and accept.”

  “I am having a gathering tonight, a salon. It is more of a soirée than a ball. I would like to extend an invitation to you and your officers.”

  “We would then require your forbearance, for our wardrobe is somewhat limited, but we are honored to attend, of course.”

  “Excellent.” And with that Mademoiselle turned with a swish of her gown and headed to the gangplank. As soon as the other traders noticed, they too hastily turned and left the ship.

  Vaux snarled a whisper once they were gone, “What the foutre merde?”

  Xavier spoke softly, “At the party, all of you will be on your best behavior - as if this soirée takes place at the Château des Ducs de Bretagne.”

  Xavier heard a humble chorus of “Oui, Monsieur.” He issued his command without hesitation. He no longer worried so much about being obeyed.

  He was not as surprised as his men at the trader’s behavior. It was the French way - acquaintance, friendship and bond, then coin and contract. Anything else was bad manners. Xavier had been ill-mannered too many times in the past because he was desperate and lacked time. He could not afford to do so now.

  ***

  Mademoiselle possessed the most imposing house on Gorée. It was large, but very simply made and adorned. L’Oublié remained in the grand foyer, and Xavier did not see him for most of the night. The aristocracy of French Senegal came together for the night, eager for news and for company. Most were gens de couleur but there were a few other whites, one the well-dressed, bewigged nobleman named Stanislas de Boufflers, the governor of Senegal. In the salon, songs were song, instruments played, poetry and monologues recited. Xavier was inundated with questions about the latest styles and trends of Europe, and found himself to be a woeful herald of such things, having the soul of a businessman and not an aesthete. Avenir and Deschenes luckily picked up the slack in his line, and both proved to be quite popular and charming.

  Vaux was buttoned-up tight for most of the night, and Xavier worried that his demeanor might affect some aspect of their purpose. But mid-way through the night, a young colored girl of remarkable beauty played Mozart on the violin. Vaux then stepped forward, causing Xavier to inhale and hold his breath. He asked if there was a cello available, and, if so, could he possibly engage th
e young mademoiselle in a duet? The cello was duly produced, and Vaux proved to be quite a capable musician, much to everyone’s surprise, since he brought no instruments on board the ship.

  Mademoiselle flitted in and out of Xavier’s company the entire night, as if she juggled him. Her manner was flirtatious and friendly, a masterful coquette - engendering attraction and admiration, while still keeping him at a close, but comfortable, distance. She juggled others, and he intuited that she was probably the governor’s lover, from subtle clues regarding her manner with him. Indeed, everyone liked the governor, who was a capable and honest administrator by all accounts. The soirée ended too soon, and Xavier and his captains were taken to rooms in a spacious guesthouse next door.

  Xavier did not bother getting undressed, but told l’Oublié to sleep. He sat in the foyer and waited. Soon, a well-dressed servant, or slave, opened the front door, and jumped when he saw Xavier. “Forgive me, Monsieur. You startled me,” he said, and Xavier nodded. “I was sent by Mademoiselle Pépin, to ask the favor of your company.”

  Xavier stood. “Certainly. I am at your service, Monsieur.”

  ***

  Xavier was shown inside the mansion. Mademoiselle’s home was still brightly lit, but everything had been cleaned and put away. There was no reason for anyone to be awake and oil to be burning, but that was indeed the case. Pairs of servants, or slaves, were standing like sentries at nearly every door.

  Xavier was shown to a breakfast nook near the kitchen, where Mademoiselle sat at a small table eating from a bowl of cubed fruit. She was alone in an intimate room - but with every single one of her servants posted as sentries throughout her house. It was intimate, but for her, safe and comfortable.

  Brava, thought Xavier, as he bowed to her. “I am summoned, Mademoiselle.”

  “Oh, do sit down. And please call me Anne.”

  “Anne, I would be honored if you addressed me as Xavier,” he said as he sat down.

  “Xavier then.” and she popped a forkful of fruit straight into his mouth, in a complete and total breach of etiquette. But it didn’t seem so, for some reason. It was perhaps the most intimate positive gesture that anyone had ever performed upon him, and it simply came off as friendly. The memory of it would return throughout his life, like flowers emerging in the Spring.

  Xavier chewed. It was sweet, flavorful, and moist - like the greater, more interesting cousin to the orange. “I don’t know what I am eating.”

  “It is called mango. Isn’t it wonderful? We shall eat it together.”

  Xavier took another forkful. “Was that mango as well?”

  “No. That was jujuber. Wait until you try the chocolate berries. They are not at all chocolate, that is just their name.” She did not even take a breath. “I would not assume your ignorance, Xavier, but, if you wish, I could tell you how business is now conducted on Gorée.”

  “I would be most appreciative, Anne.”

  “We do not trade in bars like savages, rather in livre. We are business people. You have goods to trade, we do as well. We have arachide, oil of arachide, gold, ivory and slaves. We do not deal in gomme arabique, nor would we attempt to trade it outside of the legal monopolies set up by the Throne. You will name your price for your goods, in specie or barter, and we will buy it - or we will not. If not, we bid you adieu, and, hopefully, we can welcome you back in the future.”

  Xavier was impressed. She obviously had business acumen. She was intelligent and polite, but in a way that no one would mistake for weakness. She also came off as honest and forthright. On top of everything, she showed breeding - she was from a good family, that was evident - but she obviously did not stand on ceremony. Xavier found himself bursting with questions he could not possibly ask without being terribly impolite.

  “You are married, of course. Do you have children?” she asked.

  “I am not married.”

  “Why, Monsieur Traversier, you are both handsome and wealthy. You must be entirely too busy for your own good.”

  “I am afraid that is the case. Perhaps we both are.”

  “Yes.” Mademoiselle scraped the bowl, “Both the cloth and the chests will sell well on the mainland. What do you wish for them?”

  And, suddenly, there it was.

  Numbers ran through Xavier’s head. Each chest held four linen bolts. Each bolt was fifty-four inches by fifty yards. There were two-hundred and twenty-eight chests in the hold. The Nooit Sterven could hold two-hundred and seventy-five slaves in an empty hold, if they were tamped in like musket balls. One chest and its four bolts would fetch one-hundred and seventy-five livres in Paris, or more. But he was not in Paris. They were easily worth double here - perhaps four-hundred livre per chest, or a cargo worth roughly ninety-one-thousand livre. It was doubtful that linens of such quality were common here. In fact, they were most likely unique. A good price for a slave in Africa was two-hundred-thirty livre. So that would get him nearly four-hundred slaves. At the outside, at a high price for slaves, it would get him two-hundred.

  “Anne,” Xavier said carefully, “We have two-hundred and twenty-eight chests, each containing four bolts, of identical quality and length, as the ones you have already inspected. We wish to trade for slaves, preferably but not necessarily male. I require two-hundred and seventy-five.”

  Mademoiselle looked off to one side for a moment. She turned back and smiled, “I’m sure we can accommodate you, Monsieur Traversier. And expect more of your business soon. Can we talk about lavender oil?”

  “Anne, we can talk of whatever your heart desires.”

  Jake, 1832

  Chapter 19

  The dinner was small, but magnificent. Duck breast in port reduction, harvest-ground rye bread - which tasted like something altogether different, steamed vegetables with black truffle parmesan sauce, and crepes with orange liqueur. Rosé champagne was served with the savories, and an exquisite Sauterne with the dessert. Jake retired to the parlor with Monsieur Roquer afterwards for Cognac and cigars.

  Despite some reservations, Jake told him his entire recent history, completely and truthfully, from his recruitment into The Society to the unusual court decision.

  Roquer was pensive, “You have become part of the story of this house.”

  “It seems so.”

  If you find it, will the Cross go to Monsieur Tyran, to The Society, or to you?”

  “Mon dieu, I just realized I never thought about it. I never thought it was up to me.”

  “None of this has crystalized in your mind as a reality as of yet, I think.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “Should I help you, or not?”

  “You phrase your question in an unusual way.”

  “I suppose, what I am asking is whether, according to your own mores and code - which we seem to share, is it beneficial for me to offer assistance to you?”

  “I see what you are saying now. You are asking if my cause is worthy. If I should truly pursue it, or consider it to be blackmail.”

  “Precisely.”

  Jake sat back in his chair and thought about it, “I have no idea, Monsieur Roquer.”

  “I say this gently to you, Monsieur Loring, for we are now friends, but you no longer have the luxury of unpremeditated action. Every step must be carefully considered. You must see events how you wish them to happen, and your subsequent measured actions to bring them about must arouse no suspicion.”

  “I have only partly done so. I must give myself over to this espionage completely.”

  “I think you are right, Monsieur Loring.”

  “To answer your question, yes, you should help me. The information I unearth will be filtered before I pass clues any further.”

  “Then, Monsieur Loring, you have my help.”

  After their talk, Jake was shown to his room.

  Jake’s bedroom was the size of most houses. It was the Chinoiserie, and all of the furniture and accoutrement were either imports from the Far East, or domestically produced in the distin
ctive Oriental styles. His sheets, sleeping clothes, slippers, and robe were all made of silk.

  He slept like the dead.

  The next morning, he woke up to breakfast in bed, with a grand fire already burning in the hearth, and the curtains elegantly tied back from the windows. He had the best coffee, butter, and bread of his life.

  Jake felt he could certainly get used to this life, but that was not his destiny. He could not stay here forever. But Tyran had told him to come here, so here he was. He was not dawdling, nor disobeying. He had found himself in the treasure cave of the Forty Thieves. He would attempt to find all possible clues that could aid him before leaving.

  Jake went downstairs after he dressed. The stairs led to the south-facing sitting room, with cathedral ceilings and floor to ceiling windows. There were game tables, comfortable chairs, and small, shelved tables for books, cards, and writing implements.

  And there was Monsieur Tyran.

  He sat in one of the chairs, reading the Le Breton newspaper. “Good morning,” he said, without looking up.

  Jake sat down, near him but not next to him.

  Monsieur Roquer came into the room with a smile, “Ah, I see I have come just in time. Monsieur Loring, may I introduce Monsieur Cale. We were expecting him months ago, and were overjoyed to see him appear today.”

  Jake bowed from his seat, “Monsieur Cale.”

  Roquer spoke to Tyran, “Monsieur Loring is recently graduated from Louis-le-Grand, and has come here for pleasure.”

  Tyran bowed from his chair, “Monsieur Loring. Have you been to Nantes before?”

  Jake could smell him: first bergamot and rosemary, then lavender. Perhaps under it was cardamom and geranium, and a hint of cedar. Jake could not remember any scent more pleasing. “No,” he replied, “I have never been to Nantes.”