A moment later, only from the corner of his eye, he saw l’Oublié reappear. His hand came up - he was handing Xavier something. Xavier forced his face to remain neutral, and turned.
He found that l’Oublié had given him an ax, and held one himself. Xavier tried to study the other crewmen without looking around. From what he could tell, they looked impressed. He then spoke so others could hear, and infused his voice with as much confidence as he could, “Let’s go,” he said.
L’Oublié nodded, and they both entered the hold.
The hold.
My God, this is hell. This is hell on earth.
Black limbs flailed in the abyss, white eyes and teeth blinked in and out of the darkness. Hundreds of voices screamed from the nothingness, buffeting him, like a blow from a board made of human bones.
Xavier realized what he had to do. The solution was radical and uncivilized. It was so radical, and so uncivilized, he feared if the action were performed he would lose l’Oublié. He could not, regardless of what happened. He turned to him. “I would not ask you to stay - or participate, if you decide to stay,” he said to him.
“I will stay, and help.”
Xavier nodded. So be it. “We need one who is not afraid to die.”
L’Oublié nodded, and walked down the ranks of the Africans. He grabbed one of them, and from Xavier’s viewpoint it looked as if he reached down into a pit of writhing snakes. The chosen man was pulled out as far as his chains allowed. His face was an angry, fearless snarl. He was the perfect choice.
Xavier strode over quickly, and struck before he could think upon his actions. He swung hard with the butt end of the ax – a blunt club - and it hit the African’s right forearm. He felt, and heard, the bone break. Suddenly the man’s arm wobbled like a rope, as if there was no bone inside of it at all. The man tensed for a long moment, then screamed with a full throat in unfathomable agony. Xavier unlocked his cuffs. “Now his legs!” shouted Xavier over the din.
L’Oublié pulled the man out further, and Xavier gave out a furious yell, propelled by sudden unbidden fury, and swung the butt of the ax into the man’s leg. The blow was weak and worthless. Xavier swung again – but still it did nothing. He felt l’Oublié’s hand on his shoulder, and he stopped himself. Only now could he see the man’s leg was bent and shattered, as he continued to scream in terror and pain. Xavier wondered why he had seen no effect from his actions. Xavier unlocked the ankle cuffs from the man’s quivering legs. Soon he was free, only now too damaged and traumatized to move against them.
Xavier grabbed an extra wrist chain, which had hung from the hooks on the mast going up into the deck. He threw one cuff of the chains over a deck beam, so both cuffs now swung in front of his face. “Hold him up!”
L’Oublié dragged the man over, and duly held him up. Xavier clamped the chains on his wrists, and L’Oublié released him. The man now hung limply from the beam, his knees slightly bent, the top of his feet resting on the ground.
Xavier stepped on the bottom flange of the ax blade and pulled the wood haft free of it. He turned to the man, and found his prior anger had returned ten-fold. “Encule toi, jean-foutre!” he snarled as he swung the thick, wooden ax haft with both hands, striking the man’s arms - again and again and again. L’Oublié moved behind the African and beat his legs with hard, swift strikes. No blows fell on the man’s head, and none on his torso. Everywhere else, every bone in his body, was soon shattered into gravel. The muscles of his legs and arms were shredded, his veins pulverized, his tissue ripped. By all rights, he should have been dead in only minutes from an arterial hemorrhage somewhere inside his broken body. But instead, he would live for days, and die in absolute torment. He would moan, and scream, and beg for death. The stench and corruption of gangrene would claim him, finally, as he drifted in and out of consciousness. In the meantime, he would hang from the bones of the ship and suffer, to exist only pour encourager les autres.
Xavier finally stopped swinging. He was out of breath, and realized he was sobbing hysterically. The man screamed hoarsely, on then off as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He must have been screaming through the entire ordeal, but Xavier had only now become aware of it. He turned to go.
“Not yet,” said l’Oublié, in an even voice.
Xavier understood, and nodded. He noticed that the hold had quieted. He heard crying and moaning, but it seemed to be out of fear and resignation. The terrifying atmosphere of anger, madness and rebellion had dissipated. Xavier had traded his soul in order to reestablish order and control, and had successfully done so.
Finally, the pair of them left for the deck. Xavier was too emotionally exhausted to be surprised when he saw that his men waited for him with water, towels and clean clothes. He did notice, however, that both l’Oublié and himself were covered in blood, defecation, vomit, human tissue and sweat. He washed himself, changed his clothes, was vaguely aware of moving to his cabin, and was soon asleep in his rack. It was one of the few times, for the rest of his life, that he would sleep without nightmares. For most of his future nights, he would dream of the horrific hold, the fearless African, and, especially, his own malevolent actions. Xavier found it odd that such a short incident, within minutes its decision made and outcome achieved, would have such a lasting impact on his life.
Leaders do not lose their temper - ever. Xavier also knew that violence and brutality were not the natural tools of the bourgeoise. He knew that proper leadership only used such techniques with extreme caution, if at all. The smell of blood travels far, and violence never works in half-measure. He knew from history that a leadership style involving extreme violence was highly effective, but could also become volatile and self-destructive. Xavier wanted nothing to do with such savagery, and had his sights set much higher. The foundations of an empire must be laid on stone, not on magma. As a result, after what he did in the hold, he made a conscious effort to lower his voice with the crew. He did not yell, or even move quickly. He even tried to smile, whenever it made sense. The crew had to know that what happened in the hold had nothing - absolutely nothing - to do with them, nor would anything like it ever happen to them without equal cause. His men were his brothers and business associates. The Africans in the hold were cargo. One bad apple, however expensive, was sacrificed for the good of the barrel, nothing more. With human beings, such things were not contemplated. The crew was human, the hold was not. For good business to continue, it was the way it had to be.
It was the perfect thing to do. Morale drastically improved all the way around, even in the hold.
Thirty-three days after debarking from Gorée they were within sight of the Lesser Antilles. Their luck did not hold.
Xavier was on the bow, enjoying the wind and practicing navigation with the sextant, when he heard a voice waft down from the crow’s nest high above the deck, “A ship due north at twelve miles, Monsieur. A three-mast frigate, full-rigged for windward.”
Xavier moved closer amidships. L’Oublié and his captains joined him in seconds. Xavier yelled up to the crow’s nest, “What is her heading?”
“She has just changed to south-southwest, running four points to the wind or closer.”
Deschenes nodded, “An intercept course.”
Xavier yelled up again, “What are her colors?”
“She flies none, Monsieur. None at all.”
It was a pirate.
She was already rigged for windward. Square sails were for running with the wind. The pirate had triangular sails on all masts, ready for a windward pursuit. The Nooit Sterven was as maneuverable as an osprey with an itch, could sail in a shallow bathtub, and was perfect, and fast, for running with the winds and currents of the trade routes. She was, however, nowhere near as effective as a three-mast frigate in the closer points. The sloop was good prey, and the pirate was pursuing her in a good direction - for the pirate. The Nooit Sterven was not without defenses. She had a few cannons, and plenty of small arms, and a good, big crew. But she was also
no match for the frigate, in any way whatsoever.
Xavier forced himself to calm. Which one of his captains would know the most about this situation, their geography? He searched his memory. It would be Vaux. “Where are we, Monsieur Vaux? In regard to escaping this pirate?”
Vaux shrugged, equally calm, his overbearing manner now completely gone, “To the north and west lies Barbados, and Grenada to the south and west. Both are British. To the far south and west are Trinidad and Tobago - Spanish both. Below that is jungle - savage and pristine. The vast Orinoco delta, in what is called Nueva Grenada.”
A British governor might know this pirate ship’s captain by his Christian name - or even be related. A Spanish port might confiscate the slaves, for Xavier had no authority to bring such cargo into a Spanish port. There was nothing for it.
The Orinoco.
If they made it to the veins of the gigantic delta, they could sail upriver. If they chose a shallow offshoot of the mighty Orinoco, the frigate could not follow.
Xavier turned to Deschenes, “Here are my orders: we go south, to Venezuela. In the Orinoco delta, we find a southerly tributary too shallow for pursuit. Once we are upriver, we find an offshoot tributary, one that flows into the ocean at a more northern point. We sail down the northern tributary and exit the Orinoco far from where we entered - and hopefully the pirates haven’t seen our trick before.”
Xavier looked around. They all seemed to be in accord. L’Oublié gave him a subtle nod. Xavier continued, “Deschenes, you are the most experienced sailor. You are in command of the ship, until we reach the Orinoco. Once we do, you will hand over command to Avenir. He is our most experienced riverine captain. Deschenes, the ship is yours.”
Deschene turned immediately and yelled, “Prepare to jibe!”
The ship exploded into activity. Xavier walked calmly back to the bow, and picked up his sextant. L’Oublié soon joined him.
“L’Oublié, my plan is poor.”
“How so, Monsieur?”
“All of the delta tributaries of the Orinoco might be deep enough for our pursuer. If we do find shallows, we may hit a mud bar and become stuck there, or hurt the ship with the impact. If we sail upriver, we may not find another tributary leading north for weeks. Even if we do, the pirate might have good charts of the river. If he does, he will know where we will exit the delta before we do.”
L’Oublié shrugged. “Your plan was beyond my ken, Monsieur. I follow and obey, as do the rest.”
“I would say we need providence to smile upon us. But on our fell errand, perhaps we need the black luck of the devil.”
“Providence was never meant to smile, Monsieur. It burns us, so we remember the Winter, and freezes us, so we recall the sun. Perhaps luck is better, however black it may be.”
Xavier prayed for both.
They barely outran the pirate to the delta. The frigate was in full view, the Nooit Sterven nearly in range of her forward cannon, when Avenir changed course and headed directly into the mouth of an Orinoco tributary. It was not wide, perhaps two boat lengths from bank to bank. The frigate slowed and took fathom readings. The Nooit Sterven did not, and entered the river with foolhardy abandon. Soon they were surrounded by tall trees, and the river was as black as the skin of the slaves below decks. They couldn’t see much of anything past the next bend through the thick foliage. The trees were full of strange creatures - monkeys, birds, snakes - none of which they had ever seen before. The men began to fish, and pulled even stranger creatures from the water. The noises of the jungle were disconcerting and alien, especially at night. The insects were a plague upon them, the river being too narrow to avoid them. Vaux burned pitch and rope, an old sailor’s trick, to ward them off and save the crew from being eaten alive. Xavier didn’t know which was worse: choking on pitch or being sucked dry of blood.
They continued sailing up river. Avenir had a preternatural instinct for avoiding the ubiquitous mud bars, and finding the deepest part of the flow. Had he not been present, their journey would have already been over. Bringing him was the perfect thing to do.
It was only four days before they found a wide tributary angling north and east. They raced back to the Atlantic at high speed in the deeper water, and emerged into the ocean at a more northern exit. The pirate was nowhere to be seen. They promptly changed course due north. Most of the mosquito-eaten crew fell sick within days. Luckily, only the cook’s helper died of the sickness, and three of their cargo.
The crew, not to mention the slaves, was half-starved. Regardless, Xavier made a bold decision. He would not stop at the first slave port in Saint-Domingue, which was Jacmel. Jacmel was a coffee port and the demand would be far less than at a sugar port. Instead, he made the decision to sail to Port-Au-Prince, in the heart of cane country. Not only was Port-Au-Prince starving for slaves, she was a less popular destination than Cap Français, which was a superior city in every way a city could be.
Four weeks after sight of American land, they were finally towed into dock in Port-Au-Prince. There were two-hundred and twenty-nine slaves left from the original two-hundred and seventy-five. It could have been worse, but it could have been better. The port authorities came onboard and gave them good instructions. Soon the slaves were being unloaded into a local auction house, shore leave assignments were posted, and everyone had some real food in their bellies.
The slaves were sold in groups to various agents and planters of the area. The price was in livre, but would be paid in sugar. Xavier chose sugar because weight was more of a concern than volume. In a sturdier ship, he would have taken molasses. The lowest price they received was two-thousand livres per slave, but the highest wasn’t much more.
All in all, the expedition grossed nearly four-hundred-sixty thousand livres. That was nearly three-hundred tons - six-hundred thousand pounds – of sugar, far more than he could hope to put in his hold in ten journeys, much less one.
He filled his hold with forty-thousand pounds of sugar - as much as the Nooit Sterven could take - and restocked her with supplies. After a week of shore leave in Port-Au-Prince, they took the seventeen-day journey to Boston.
This was the tricky part.
***
The port authorities of Boston were paid the tariffs on the sugar, but it was not unloaded. A good schedule of rotating guards was put into place. The rest of the men were given shore leave, and told to keep their ears to the ground for certain information.
Xavier and his captains split up. They were looking for shipbuilders, ship owners, and dealers. Xavier had a proposal - an extremely risky one - and was solely relying on his instincts regarding personal character to see him through. His instincts were usually right, but this time they had to be dead-on.
Truthfully, Xavier and l’Oublié dawdled a bit. Boston was a storied city. It had played front and center in the American revolution, which had captured the imagination of the entire nation, and especially the Freemasons. Boston was a hard port town, but only near the docks - becoming exponentially more respectable with every footstep west. They went to the battlefield of Bunker Hill, the Old State House, arguably the birthplace of modern revolutionary ideology, and King Street, where civilians were killed by British redcoats - in an event known as the “incident” or the “massacre” depending on with whom one was speaking. In Xavier’s minor dealings, the Yankee seemed like an interesting character. He was completely unpretentious, religious, forthright, provincial, narrow-minded, and fanatically self-sufficient. The forthrightness tended to disappear as one moved higher up the ladder. Tongues became forked, words less trustworthy, and the mental knives sharper.
They found a handful of businessmen and met with them. Xavier didn’t like any of them. He remained patient and did no business.
One of the riggers, Éric Arthaud, said he had heard something interesting. Xavier and l’Oublié met with him in the captain’s quarters.
“What have you found, Monsieur Arthaud?”
“Well, I was in The Green Dragon
Tavern-”
“Why? You say that as if it were special.”
“It’s where the Freemasons meet,” said Arthaud, who was a Freemason in Nantes with Xavier. “Also, the Sons of Liberty.”
The Sons of Liberty was the secret society dedicated to overthrowing the British king prior to the revolution.
“Go on,” said Xavier.
“Anyway, I met a man named James Rodgers. He works for a man who goes by Boston Rag, or sometimes just Rag or Ragwany. We had an interesting conversation over oysters and stout.”
Xavier and l’Oublié looked at each other. Xavier turned to Arthaud, “Why those names? What do they mean?”
“Well, here is where it gets interesting, Monsieur. Rag was a trapper when he was young, out in New France, way up the Hudson river. The entire operation was captured by the Tuscarora Iroquois. The Tuscarora set about torturing them, something about testing their mettle as warriors, or some such. The other lads captured with him all broke and begged for their deliverance. The Iroquois promptly obliged them, if only by slitting their throats. Rag kept his mouth shut through it all. Boiling water, hot stones, and the laughing squaws with their wooden needles and knives.”
“What is a squaw?”
“I think it’s from a tribal word that means chatte. It means a native woman. James said one day, akin to any other, the Tuscarora cut Rag loose. They gave him magic beads, new deerskin clothes, a white feather for his hair, and just let him go. When they bid him adieu, they honored him, and called him Rahga Wahgeh Oowah Ryahkkeh Roskerah Kyehneh. It took me five minutes to get that right, but I insisted on learning it. It means ‘Chief of the White Warriors.’ He was the only one of his mates to survive.”
“Mon Dieu, what a story.” The experience and title were awe-inspiring. Xavier thought smart men should work hard to never earn either.
The Crimson Heirlooms Page 37