“We are masters of a graveyard,” Toussaint said in a low tone. “I cannot number our losses today, no more than I can count the deaths among the enemy.” He covered Placide’s left hand with his right. The dry warmth was somewhat comforting, despite the words. “Nor we nor the enemy wins this day. No one wins at war.”
Fort de Joux, France
November 1802
October 27, 1802
I have received your letter of 26 Vendémiaire, concerning the State prisoner Toussaint Louverture. The First Consul has charged me to let you know that you answer for his person with your head. I have no need to add anything to an order so formal and so definite. ToussaintLouverture has no right to any regard beyond that which humanity demands. Hypocrisy is a vice as familiar to him as honor and loyalty are to yourself . . .
Baille felt himself flush, though not from the compliment the Minister of Marine had strained into his warning. The paper rattled in his hand. It was the wind, the draft that sucked around the edges of his casement, guttered the pale flames on his hearth and the weaker one of the candle he had lit to assist the faint light of this wintry day. He flattened the sheet onto the table; it stuck with dampness to his palm.
“You will have noticed yourself that he seeks to deceive you, and you were effectively deceived, when you admitted one of his satellites, disguised as a doctor, into his presence . . .”
But that was not me! Baille slapped back from the table, the letter still pinned under the meat of his hand. Still, he knew the reply to any excuse that he might make: You are answerable for his person with your head. He pressed his free hand to his jowl. Dormoy had been no satellite of Toussaint, but a mere curiosity seeker—Baille, and others after him, had taken pains to assure themselves of that. And it was Colomier, not Commandant Baille, who had been imposed upon in that affair. But the answerable head did certainly belong to Baille.
You must not stop at the steps you have already taken to assure yourselfthat he has neither money, nor jewels. You must search everywhereto assure yourself of that; be certain that he has not hidden or buried anything in his prison. Take away his watch, if he enjoys the use of it; you may furnish him one of those wooden clocks, of the cheapest price, which will serve as well to indicate the passage of time. If he is ill, the health officer best known to you should see him and care for him—only him, only when it is altogether necessary, and only in your presence . . .
Shrinking from the pettiness of the instructions, Baille shifted on his splintery wooden chair, to loosen the band of his belt, which cut into his belly. His bowels were uneasy, though not from illness, he thought, only nerves. The business of Dormoy, foolish and inconsequential as it might have been, had conveyed this trouble both to him and to his captive. His head was heavy on his neck, and ached a little, behind the eyes. He leaned forward again, into the pressure of his belt, read on.
The only means Toussaint might have had to see his lot ameliorated would have been to cast off his dissimulation. His personal interests, the religious sentiments with which he ought to be penetrated, to expiate all the evil he has done, imposed upon him the duty of truth; but he is far estranged from fulfilling this duty, and by his continual dissimulation, he . . .
Baille revolved his head toward the window. They expected results from him, then, the Minister of Marine Decrès, and the First Consul whose mere mouthpiece the minister was—expected him to succeed where Bonaparte’s best interrogator had failed. If Caffarelli, with all his famous subtlety, could not winkle an honest confession out of Toussaint—then how was Baille meant to do better than the expert, with such a program of small humiliations and annoyances? Well, he must be sterner than before, and yet he hoped he might stop short of cruelty; he had no taste for that. And though Toussaint was a puzzling figure, sometimes even alarming to Baille in his peculiar inscrutability, he could not quite see in him the author of great evil which the letter described. Still, he must not disobey. He saw above all that he would henceforth be accountable for the slight leniencies and small comforts he had so far allowed.
I presume that you have already separated him from all that might have anything to do with a uniform. “Toussaint” is his name; it is the sole appellation which should be given him . . . When he boasts of having been a general, he does nothing but recall his crimes, his hideous conduct, and his tyranny over Europeans. So he only deserves the most profound contempt for his ridiculous pride.
I salute you . . .
Baille released the letter; the edges of the sweat dampened sheet curled toward the center. He turned his face to the window again. Beyond, the last redness of the sun blazed on the ice of the opposite peak. Very soon the dark and deeper cold would follow.
“Franz!” he called. In the doorway appeared his senior corporal. “Go to the kitchen and take the prisoner Toussaint his evening ration. Take two men with you and leave them both without the door. The door must be locked while you are in the cell, and do not fail to lock every door along the corridor as you pass through it—both in entering and retiring.”
“That is as usual, sir,” Franz said. “You will not come?”
Insolence. “I will come later. I will choose my time. But tell them I will dine myself as soon as may be. Let them send me some warmed wine, if there is any potable, at once.”
Having eaten rapidly and heavily, Baille sent out with his dishes the order that he should not be disturbed. He undressed only partially and took to his couch. Some hours later, he woke with a start, heart pounding, bile rising in his throat. The buttons of his trousers gouged uncomfortably into the folds of flesh below his navel. The castle bell had just struck two, though he’d only heard the echo of that clanging. Outdoors there was the boot-scuffle sound of the changing of the guard.
Baille rose, dashed water on his face from the jug, smoothed back lank strands of hair on his head. He pulled on his own boots and shrugged into his coat. His heart still fluttered disagreeably, but he thought he might soon pass on this sensation to the prisoner.
Franz was unhappy to be roused at this hour; he obeyed, but sullenly. Tonight, Baille turned out two extra members of the guard. They tramped through the lower corridors, torches held high, splashing when they crossed the wobbly planks that bridged the standing water in the penultimate vault, skimmed over now with a skein of ice. Baille left two men outside the door, entering with Franz and one other.
Toussaint sat up in his bed, looking at them alertly, out of his silence; he showed no sign of confusion, though he did seem shriveled, with the thin blanket clutched around his shoulders. He wore his clothes to bed, even his coat, Baille noted with some disappointment. No doubt it was for greater warmth.
“Build up the fire,” he said to Franz. “For better light,” he added. As Franz moved toward the hearth, Baille turned, drawing the key from his waistcoat pocket to double-lock the door.
“You squander my firewood, with which you are of late so stingy,” Toussaint said. “What do you mean by this intrusion? It is hours yet before day.”
He knows the time, Baille thought, with or without a watch or a wooden clock. Of course Toussaint could hear the bells as plainly as anyone else in the castle.
“New orders,” Baille said. “You must be searched.”
Toussaint passed a spidery hand across his mouth. Were the fingers slightly trembling? No.
“For what?” he said. The crooked smile, thrusting out his long lower jaw. “I have perhaps concealed here some swords and pistols, a bronze cannon—why not a squadron of cavalry?” He swept his hand around the empty cell.
“Money. Jewelry,” Baille recited. “Perhaps some documents? I do not know what you may have retained, but you must understand, Ge—” he cut himself off. “You understand that orders must be followed.”
“Of course.”
“Get up then, please. No, leave the blanket.” Baille paused. “I must also ask you to disrobe.”
Toussaint stared at him strangely, his eyes glittering. He did not protest, but tu
rned to the wall; then, as if he’d changed his mind, faced Baille, staring rigidly at the commandant as he began to unfasten his garments.
“Search the bedding,” Baille said to Franz and the other guardsmen. “No, not like that. Shake out everything and turn the pallet. Yes, that’s better.” Meanwhile he watched Toussaint as he slipped out of the loose coat and brown peasant’s trousers supplied at Decrès’s suggestion. Under the soft round hat he wore even to bed, his head was bound in a yellow kerchief, which Baille had purchased for him after many requests.
“To the skin, if you please.”
Toussaint stared at Baille, disbelieving, then peeled off his culotte and stood nude.
“Examine that,” Baille said to Franz, who stirred the undergarment on the flagstones with the point of his bayonet. “And you, Ge—” He stopped again. “Toussaint” is his name; it is the sole appellation which should be given him . . . Franz would hear the strangled honorific, might report it.
“If you please, step nearer to the fire.”
Toussaint complied, his eyes remaining fixed on Baille’s. The commandant scanned him throat to toe. He was still fit for a man of his age, wiry, though he’d recently lost weight. Lumps of stone-gray cicatrice stood out on the velvet black of his skin—scars from the many battles which he claimed. His sex was shriveled in the cold. There was no place of concealment. But the cold affected him. Baille watched a shiver pass over the small, taut body. Well, let the victim tremble! But Toussaint breathed into the space behind his navel. Baille watched the small taut belly expand. The shiver stopped. His own breath steamed in the frosty air.
“Now turn around.”
Toussaint revolved. His shoulders were just slightly stooped. The legs a little bowed, the buttocks taut. There were no scars on his back. Well, he must have always faced his enemies.
“Trouvaille!” called out the other guardsman. A find! He flourished up something from a slit in the pallet. It sparkled warmly in the torchlight.
“You see?” said Baille, though more to Franz than to the guardsman who’d made this discovery. “Bring it to me.”
The guardsman stumped across the flagstones. What he presented was a single spur, chased and gilded, though the gilt had worn away from the place where the rowel turned and on the inside where it was shaped to curve around a boot heel. Baille fingered the chill metal, then glanced at Toussaint, who had turned, unbidden, to face him once more.
“With such a weapon I might overthrow my prison,” Toussaint said. “Would you deprive me of a souvenir?”
“Such are my orders.”
The spur clicked when Baille set it down on the table. He picked up the coat and turned out the pockets. The famous watch, but nothing more. He stroked the lining with his fingertips. Here was something—a rectangle of folded paper and the round shapes of a few coins. By what sleight of hand had he concealed these things when he was made to change his clothes? Baille felt his suspicion abruptly sharpen. He looked at Franz.
“Search the room, the cracks between the stones. Make certain there is nothing buried and no hiding place.”
Franz looked at him rather coolly, but turned away before Baille could be certain of any superciliousness in the look. He drew a short knife from his belt and began to probe the masonry joints on the wall behind the pallet. The other guardsman, at a grunt from Franz, crouched down and felt the edges of the paving stones, groping his way from the bed frame toward the hearth.
Baille returned to the coat, working the paper packet toward the slit in the lining at the back. He had to bend the papers slightly to pull them through. Conscious of Toussaint’s judgmental eye, Baille unstuck the several sheets from one another and spread them over the table. Three letters, crumpled and dirty at the corners, beginning to tear along the folds. The first from Captain-General Leclerc himself and the second from a General Brunet: We have, my dear general, some arrangements to make together which cannot be dealt with by letter, but which a conference of one hour would complete . . . Baille realized that this must be the last correspondence Toussaint had received before his deportation.
“Those documents are my property,” Toussaint said. “Moreover, they are evidence to be presented at my trial—proof of the duplicity which General Leclerc practiced against me.”
“Nonetheless, I am ordered to confiscate them,” Baille said. Without looking at the third letter, he folded the papers together again and slipped the packet into his pocket. Then he shook the few coins from their hiding place in the lining and stacked them on the table beside the watch and the spur. Toussaint watched him, but said nothing more. The firelight behind him blackened his silhouette. Baille turned away and walked to the wall opposite the hearth—the raw bedrock of the mountain itself. Might Toussaint have quarried some cache into this? It seemed unlikely. The stone was furrowed and wormholed with the damp that constantly seeped through it. Tonight the cold had hardened the moisture into crystals that fractured the light of the fire and the torches.
“Rien de plus,” Franz announced. There’s nothing more.
“No,” said Baille, as if he’d known this result ahead of time. He touched the rock wall with his forefinger, snapping a delicate stem of ice. Toussaint’s eyes felt hard in the center of his back. Baille turned to face him.
“Your kerchief also, if you please.”
Toussaint only stared at him. He seemed strangely composed, even in his nakedness. The castle bell struck three. Beyond the grille at the end of the cell, the voices of sentries exchanged their all’s well from post to post.
“Your kerchief must also be inspected,” said Baille. Toussaint looked frozen to the hearthstone. Baille took several steps toward him. So did Franz, from an opposing angle. But before they’d reached him, Toussaint ripped the yellow cloth from his head and shook it out in a circular flourish, as if to show it empty.
Yet Baille was distracted by looking at his head, which, it seemed to him, he’d never before seen bare. The forehead was extremely high where the removed cloth revealed it, rising sharply to a bald and glossy bump protruding through tight knots of grizzled hair. When Baille looked again at Toussaint’s hands, they were busy with the kerchief, folding it diagonally over and over to compress it to a smaller, tighter triangle. Again he thought of some sleight of concealment. The packet of yellow finally disappeared in the pressure of Toussaint’s two hands, while Toussaint raved in a language Baille could not understand— “Madichon pou le general Leclerc! Madichon pou li! Tout sak pasé pou mal sé sou kont li! Men, l’ap mouri. L’ap mouri, mwen di, mwen wé, l’ap mouri nan pay nou. Li pa jamn soti nan Saint Domingue.”
“General,” Baille stuttered. Well, now he’d pronounced the title—too late to recall it, though he felt that Franz took note.
“General! Control yourself. These demonstrations do not become you.”
And Baille was struck by the extent of his own discomfort, embarrassment, even distress. After all, such a breakdown in the morale of the prisoner was surely what the new orders were intended to achieve. But Baille was positively unnerved to see it. He opened his mouth to say something more, then stopped. It was plain that Toussaint would not hear him. His jaws were clenched, the tendons stood out vibrating around his throat, and every fiber of his body exerted pressure on the wedge of cloth between his hands.
A curse upon the General Leclerc—curse him! Every evil thing that has happened is his doing. But he is dying—I say it, I see it. He is dying in our country—he will never leave Saint Domingue.
Baille gathered up the coins and the spur. He beckoned to his guards. Toussaint ignored them as they withdrew.
Nothing could be worse than the humiliation which I received from you today. You have stripped me from top to bottom to search me and see that I have no money, you have finally turned over all my linen and even searched into my pallet. Happily, you have found nothing: the ten quadruples that I turned over to you are mine, and it is I who so declare to you.
Toussaint paused, the quill t
ip poised over his paper. His ink well was nearly dry. The light was poor, though outside it was day. But day by day the sun was weaker and more distant and the hints of it that penetrated the grille that admitted air to his cell grew fainter, less convincing. He’d resumed his clothing, rebound the yellow cloth around his brow. But still the cold cut through to him, and the pain in his head was much worse. His letters squirmed across the page, awkwardly jammed against each other. He dipped the pen again and kept on scrawling.
You have taken my watch away from me along with twenty-two sols I had in my pocket; I warn you that all those objects belong to me, and you will have to account to me for them on the day they send me to the execution. You will remit the entirety to my wife and to my children.When a man is already unfortunate, one ought not to try to humiliate him or vex him without humanity or charity, without any consideration for him as a servant of the Republic, and they have taken every precaution and machination against me as if I were a great criminal. I have already told you, and I repeat to you again, I am an honest man and if I had no honor, I would not have served my country faithfully as I have done, and I would not be here either by the order of my government. I salute you—
—and Baille let the sheet drop from his hand with a grunt. Toussaint’s crabbed writing went out of focus as it fluttered to the table. The prick of conscience which the commandant had once felt had also lost its sharpness. At any rate, there’d be no more such letters. With this document, Baille had also confiscated Toussaint’s pen and paper. At the same time, he’d supervised another search, fruitless except to derange the prisoner a little further. Let him enjoy his silence as he might.
Toussaint shuddered under his thin blanket. The teeth that had been loosened by that spent cannonball long ago were rattling in his jaws, and the pain in his head was astonishing, a sensation so all-encompassing and pure that it transcended all division between pain and pleasure. Then, and suddenly, it stopped, and a flood of warmth welled up at him. He uncurled his rigid arms and legs and floated on the warm and buoyant surface of the fever. The frost was sparkling on the bare rock wall. Its crystals knitted themselves into a mirror. Toussaint looked toward it tranquilly, through the fog of his own breath. An element of his spirit left his body and went drifting toward the wall, but the reflection that returned to him was not his own.
The Stone that the Builder Refused Page 46