Master of the Crossroads

by Madison Smartt Bell

  At the bottom of the ravine, the trees closed over them; they moved on through thick, damp darkness, silent but for the whirring insects and the sigh of horses’ breath. It was warmer here, and the road underfoot was damp and plashy, and there were a few mosquitoes, whose whine and sting would rouse the doctor from the doze into which he kept drifting. Just behind him in the dark, he thought he heard the rasp of Maillart’s snore.

  Then for some reason the horses bunched up, jostling each other as they clustered. The doctor raised his head from a nod, as someone at the head of the column struck a light, revealing for an instant the great bole of a tree knocked down across the trail. At Toussaint’s hissed order the light was extinguished. But immediately there flared up a great silent bloom of red and orange light, and the doctor’s mare let out a hideously human-sounding scream as she reared and bucked. He was airborne before he heard the roar of the cannon and explosion of the shell. He seemed to float for a long time, and in his trajectory he saw a man struck dead in the saddle, his horse falling with him as he went down. Then the earth struck him all across the back like a barn door, knocking the wind so completely from him that he was paralyzed, though hooves were lashing dangerously near him as the panicked horses reared and milled amid the blaze and racket and the reek of blood and smoke. When he heard more shrapnel tearing overhead, he managed a painful inhalation, rolled over and wormed his way to shelter in the flank of a downed horse, whose hindquarters were still twitching though the animal was dead.

  Above the trail, the trees were full of fiery light, and the doctor caught a glimpse of his mare running full tilt into the middle distance—his long gun still scabbarded by the saddle, he recalled with sudden distress. But his pistols were in his belt, and his coat pocket was full of spare cartridges. He drew a pistol and crept up the bell of the horse’s ribcage. His free hand, groping, came back to him sticky with warm blood. A dead man was flung backward over the horse’s tail. All around them came isolated cracks of muskets, and the doctor trained his pistol on the firelight, but there was no target; the enemy was not visible. He seemed to feel a nudge at his side, perhaps a last expiring twitch of the dead horse. A shot would be useless, would only call attention to himself.

  He slipped down to a better-covered position below the horse’s belly. On the other side of him from that fresh cadaver was another living body, which exuded calm, like the form of a peaceful sleeper. The doctor turned on his hip and found himself looking into Toussaint’s eyes, glittering with the red firelight, below the tight crease of his headcloth. He remembered the warning nudge he had felt. Toussaint held a pistol in one hand and a dagger and the other, but he seemed to have drawn the same conclusion that at present these weapons were best left unused.

  In the first dim light of the dawn they found only two men dead, though several others were lightly wounded by shell fragments. Three horses had been killed or crippled and two more run away. They doubled on the mounts that remained to them. The doctor took charge of Maillart’s horse and let the captain ride behind him, for Maillart had been wounded slightly in the great muscle of his thigh.

  “Now who’s to be credited with that ambush?” Maillart said, grunting as the rough trail jostled his injury. “I suppose it’s obvious enough. The Rigaudins have small hope of victory on the battlefield here.”

  “So they naturally turn to assassination.” The doctor completed his thought.

  “Naturally,” Maillart agreed, and after a moment, “I suppose that won’t be last of them either.”

  Toussaint, perhaps moved by similar reasoning, had changed the direction of his march. That day they set up a discreet command post in a cleft of the Cahos Mountains. He had divided his army in two. Moyse had gone to the relief of Maurepas at Port-de-Paix, while Clervaux, a mulatto officer still loyal to Toussaint, was taking the direct route to Môle Saint Nicolas. Both divisions were supported by throngs of field hands that Toussaint had hastily rearmed and brought along in his train.

  Moyse, in a vigorous assault, relieved the siege of Port-de-Paix, and drove the Rigaudins back to Jean Rabel. In the aftermath of this engagement, Maurepas bound his prisoners across cannon mouths and blew them out to sea with grapeshot volleys; though the style of execution might seem savage, it had been introduced to the colony, a couple of years earlier, by the eminently civilized British General Maitland. Clervaux’s advance, meanwhile, was delayed by the resistance of Bombarde, but artillery and assault reduced the post. Moyse broke the last Rigaudin bands at Jean Rabel, and their remnants went into hiding in the mountains. Moyse advanced westward along the Côtes de Fer, meeting little opposition now, meaning to converge with Clervaux at Le Môle.

  Riau had been sent with Moyse, but after Port-de-Paix was retaken, he returned to Toussaint’s headquarters in the Cahos. He had nothing to say about the battles he’d just fought, but he was leading the doctor’s mare behind his own horse. The mare had the same trappings she’d worn when she bolted, and even the long gun was still in the scabbard, though its pouch of cartridges was empty. The rifle had been left out in the rain, so that its lock was stiff with rust, but the doctor took it apart and cleaned and oiled it until it moved smoothly once again. It seemed unlikely that in the present situation he would face attack, so long as Toussaint chose to direct the campaign from the Cahos, but still he felt more secure when the long gun was near at hand.

  The Rigaudins at Le Môle held out for a week’s time under a steady barrage from Moyse’s cannon, but there was no hope for them against the reunited forces of Moyse and Clervaux—ten thousand regularly trained troops, plus an indeterminate number of freshly armed cultivators, completely surrounding the town (by land). Le Môle was also blockaded by a few French ships at sea, but the two chief officers loaded a canoe with as much of the local treasury as it would float, and on a night when clouds hid the moon they discreetly paddled out through the blockade and eventually made their way to the south. The day after their escape, Moyse and Clervaux took over Le Môle, putting to the sword all those who had obviously taken Rigaud’s part. Toussaint’s partisans, including the aged Monsieur Monot (who’d survived a month of very rough treatment), were set free from the prison.

  On September twenty-fifth, Toussaint came to Le Môle in person, and published a proclamation which denounced Rigaud for raising armed rebellion in the south and for sending his agents everywhere else to spread sedition. Rigaud’s principle (according to Toussaint) was that the mulattoes were the only true natives of Saint Domingue (since France belonged to the whites and Africa to the blacks)—yet the blacks still ought to support Rigaud rather than Toussaint, for Toussaint had always favored the white masters who had long been the cruelest enemies of the blacks, and who certainly meant to restore slavery . . . To all this Toussaint rejoined that blacks and whites had been created to love one another—the very existence of mulattoes proved this point. No, it was Rigaud who despised the black race, believing his own to be superior; Rigaud’s unwillingness to obey a black (Toussaint) had caused the whole rebellion! Did Rigaud accuse Toussaint of scheming to exterminate the mulattoes? One had only to look at the number of colored men and officers in Toussaint’s own army to know this calumny was false.

  Doctor Hébert, who took a peculiarly interested view of the situation, could confirm that Toussaint’s reprisals on the western peninsula, while heavy, were not indiscriminate. No women or children were harmed at his order. When Monsieur Monot reclaimed his house and possessions, his delicious housekeeper Agathe was also returned to him, intact. Toussaint’s proclamation was papered all over the town, and nailed to trees as the army progressed from Le Môle back eastward across the peninsula. It was true that a fair number of colored men and officers remained incorporated in Toussaint’s force. It was equally true (as the doctor silently observed) that the colored prisoners of the northwest campaign had been handed over to the field hands who followed in Toussaint’s train; barefoot, half naked, half starved and stumbling, they were subjected to all sorts of mistr
eatment from their captors, as the army moved down to Le Cap.

  Michel Arnaud, who had come into Le Cap with a load of his sugar, rose early on a Sunday morning, meaning to escort his wife to morning mass. They had the use of the Cigny house in the absence of the owners, and it was not a very long walk from there to the white church on the hill. In the first yellowing light of the morning, it was still reasonably cool, with a salt breeze blowing in from the harbor, and gulls hanging on the wind overhead. Arnaud adjusted his step to that of Claudine, whose fingers rested lightly on the crook of his arm. There was a balance between them, something like contentment. Together they climbed the spiral path, but the white church at the top was empty, and no bell rang.

  Claudine pressed his forearm and released it; he could sense her uneasiness, though she did not speak. Detached from each other, they walked down over the broken ground toward the cluster of houses behind the church. Arnaud’s spine prickled as he passed the palm panels enclosing the hûnfor. The lakou was just beginning to stir as they reached it; all seemed as usual except that there was no sign of Fontelle or her children or any other paler face.

  Maman Maig’ sat on a low stool beside an open doorway of a case, her vast darkness absorbing all the sun that fell upon her. Arnaud approached, somewhat hesitantly, the woman was so imposing.

  “Salwé.” That was Claudine’s voice, speaking from behind him. Maman Maig’ raised her head and returned the greeting. Excluded, Arnaud felt a flicker of irritation.

  “Koté Fontelle ak ti moun li?” he asked brusquely. Where are Fontelle and her children?

  “Solda yo mené yo nan prison.” Maman Maig’s reply was ready enough, though not especially friendly. The soldiers have taken them to prison.

  “Ki bo prison sa yé?” Claudine came up beside him as she spoke. What prison, where?

  “Nan La Fossette.”

  Maman Maig’ tilted her head back against the whitewashed wall of the case. They’d hear no more from her, for the moment. Arnaud released his breath, and Claudine coaxed him back down the path they’d come by.

  He might have thought it, thought of it sooner—why had he not thought of it? He knew that Christophe, in exercising the vigilance Toussaint had recommended to him, had incarcerated most of the colored people of Le Cap and the surrounding area, and that daily he executed a few who were thought to be tainted with conspiracy. Claudine had known too, or at any rate she had been exposed to the information, though often it was hard for Arnaud to tell just how far her attention penetrated.

  She seemed to understand the situation, though they said little to one another as they returned to the Cigny house. Aided by the servants, Arnaud hitched one of the wagons he’d used to haul the sugar. With Claudine beside him on the box, he drove toward La Fossette. As they came in view of the barracoons, there was a rattling volley of gunfire, ripping unevenly like the tearing of cloth. A squad of soldiers broke out of their formation, shouldering their muskets. From a little distance a lone officer watched them from his horse.

  Arnaud pulled up beside the barracoons, his face twisted in an expression of irony. In former times, he had arrived here in a much more elegant vehicle—to inspect fresh bossale slaves in whom he might be interested, before they were brought to the block. He would have them turn about at his order, and probe their features with the point of his cane. Now he set the cane’s tip in the damp sod and used it to balance his descent from the wagon box, then turned to assist Claudine.

  The members of the firing squad were dragging bodies over the soggy ground and tumbling them into a slow stream that bordered the swamp. Arnaud turned his face from them and walked toward the gate of the barracoons. From the buildings came the stench of human ordure and the musk of people too closely confined. A black sentry jumped up. Arnaud began speaking without breaking his stride.

  “You have some of my people here—”

  The guard stopped him with a bayonet—the point denting in the fabric of his coat. Arnaud’s temples pulsed, he could feel the flush of anger darkening his face. Claudine caught up and restrained him with soothing motions of her hand along his back. Arnaud’s hand was tight on the pommel of his cane; he wanted terribly to strike down the musket but knew he must not. Claudine drew him back, disengaging him from the point of the bayonet. The squad of soldiers had formed up to march back to the town. Arnaud called out and whirled his cane over his head. At first this action had no result, but then the mounted officer turned his horse and jogged toward them.

  Henri Christophe. An imposing figure, in the saddle as well as on foot. He had a natural air of dignity, which had served him well in former times, when he was headwaiter at the Hotel Couronne—an establishment which Arnaud had regularly patronized. He did his best now to keep any trace of that memory from showing in his expression. Christophe had been already a freeman when he used to show Arnaud to his table at the Couronne. He had been free since the 1770s, when he’d attended the American Revolution with the regiment of the Comte d’Estaing. Arnaud had been vehemently against the whole notion of including slaves or even black freemen (especially black freemen) on that mission. And now look at their trouble . . . but that was another thought he must not let betray itself on his face.

  “Ki sa ou vlé?” Christophe said, with no sign he particularly recognized whom he was talking to. “Blanc, you have no business here.”

  “I’m told that some of my people have been wrongfully imprisoned,” Arnaud said.

  “Your people,” Christophe said pointedly. “Yours?”

  Christophe’s horse snorted and tossed its head to shake off a fly. Arnaud took a step back from the burst of warm breath.

  “Ours—as it were—of the same family.” That was Claudine, moving up to stand beside him.

  Christophe studied her for a moment, in silence, his expression grave. Arnaud wondered just what he might be thinking. Claudine had a general notoriety in Le Cap as Madame Skin-Inside-Out—the white woman who went to the African temples.

  “Of your same family,” Christophe repeated finally. “What people might these be?”

  “The woman Fontelle, and her children.”

  “Who are also the children of Père Bonne-chance,” Claudine added.

  Christophe transferred the reins to his left hand and stroked his jawline with his right. The soldiers of the firing squad had formed in a wedge behind his horse, and waited with their musket butts resting on the ground. In the farther distance, Arnaud noticed three or four longeared black swine exploring the stream bank where the bodies had been rolled. His stomach turned. There was nothing, he knew, a hog would not eat.

  Christophe turned his head and called an order to the sentry at the gate. Presently Fontelle was brought out, with Paulette and her older sisters, Fanchette and Marie-Hélène. The older girls gave evidence of the charms which might move a priest to break his holy vows. In their present situation they would of course be targets of molestation, though there was no outward sign they had been harmed so far. From the second building, another guard produced Moustique. The boy was bruised around the mouth, and his hands were tied behind him with a straggling end of rope. The guard encouraged him forward with a couple of kicks to his rear.

  “You claim kinship with these people?” Christophe inquired. There was a trace of sarcasm in his tone. Arnaud looked past him. The pigs at the stream bed had begun to squeal and lunge at each other, disputing the spoil they’d found. Nearby, a couple of white egrets stood motionless, bone-white, indifferent. Arnaud’s tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth.

  “Yes,” Claudine said clearly. “Yes, we do.”

  “They are suspect in the rebellion of Rigaud,” Christophe announced. “If you are engaged with them, you too may be colored”—he smiled to underline his pun—“with the same suspicion. Ought I to let them go with you, or shut you up with them?”

  At his words, the men of the firing squad raised their muskets. Arnaud, with a turn of his wrist, cocked his cane against his upper arm, as if to parry
. He had no other weapon. It had become inadvisable for a civilian white man to go armed.

  “Take them, then.” Christophe seemed to lose interest in the whole question as he spoke. He turned his horse away and called an order to his men, who re-formed their ranks and began marching after him in the direction of the town.

  With numb hands, Arnaud helped Fontelle and her daughters climb into the wagon. The boards of the floor were bare. The provisions they’d bought for their return to the plain had been left at the Cigny house, but after what had just occurred, he was not much inclined to go back for them.

  “We must find some straw for the wagonbed,” Claudine said, “when we go back for our other things.” She was untying Moustique’s wrists. Freed, the boy rubbed his hands together disconsolately.

  “Eh? But no,” Arnaud said, with a glance at Christophe’s soldiers marching away toward the town gate. “I think it better not to return for anything, today.”

  “But we ought, if only for the straw.” Claudine looked from him to the women in the wagon.

  “Is their comfort so important?” Arnaud said. “I call them lucky to be alive.”

  “They can be hidden under the straw,” Claudine said patiently. “In case we should meet any incident on the road.”

  Arnaud reflected, as he climbed after her onto the wagon box, that she had experience in such matters which he himself lacked. At the price of her ring finger she’d brought a wagonload of white women out of the burning plain in ninety-one . . . As usual his imagination failed him on the threshold of this scene.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he said, and, clucking to his horses, he started the wagon for the town. Claudine sat rigidly erect beside him, and now and then he stole a glance at her, in between scanning the road and the horizon for anything that might threaten their passengers in the rear. The usual questions flickered through his mind—how had she brought herself to do those dreadful things she’d done when they were separated? What power drew her to the African dances? How did she reconcile her actions there with her Christian devotion and the prescriptions of Père Bonne-chance? But he had never voiced these questions to her, and did not do so now, because he feared that to ask them when she was calm as she seemed might overset her reason, because they would be overheard by Fontelle and her family, because (as he’d admit to himself in his moments of greatest honesty) he was afraid of the answers she might offer.