He glanced once more at his younger son, now safe under the watchful eye of the blue-clad black and clapping with pride for his father, and proceeded with the mulatto corps down the same road previously taken by the regulars and the national guard. “Télémaque, take care of my son!” were his departing words to the Negro man in blue.
The line of defenders had broken into three parts. To the left, the Fanfaron bastion faced out to sea, armed with eighteen cannons. The entrenchment proper stood at the center with twenty-four guns, and the Dumas battery—protected by only six guns—was on the right. The vanquishing enemy, likewise divided into three columns, soon abandoned the first two points in order to focus on the third and weakest, which was defended only by members of the national guard. Instead of being intimidated by the sight of the compact but mighty force advancing on them with the terrible regular discipline of the English military, the brave young men of the Dumas dashed eagerly to their posts and fought with the skill and accuracy of seasoned veterans. The English troops, though surprised by such resistance, doubled their efforts to conquer the unexpected strength of the foe. The little battery then managed a feat worthy of a juggler astonishing his audience with trick upon trick, each more dazzling than the last, by increasing its volleys still further, firing with such rapidity that the meticulously arranged British ranks began to show signs of disorder. The enemy having now come within the range of light weaponry, musket shot began to fly. Stunned to see their numbers dropping so precipitously, besieged from all sides, the enemy began to retreat.
The regulars and the national guard battalion, acting on the captain-general’s orders, had come to the aid of the Dumas battery. They charged, bayonets raised, attacking the enemy’s flanks while the battery’s cannon fire continued to thunder overhead. The regulars executed the maneuver with their customary precision, cutting through the right side of the English ranks and adding to their confusion—but the national guard battalion, commanded by M. de Malmédie, made a critical error. Instead of acting in tandem with the regulars and advancing on the left flank, they attacked from the front, forcing the Dumas to stop its cannon fire. The British took advantage of the lull to turn on the national guard. They stood their ground courageously at first, but they were vastly outnumbered and lost so many men that they were soon forced to give way. The English troops moved forward on the nationals’ right; their superior numbers and experience easily overwhelmed the defenders. The enemy was advancing like a rising tide, seemingly unstoppable, when all at once the cry of “France! France!” rang out behind them. A deafening fusillade of musket fire burst out and was followed by profound silence.
A rumble of movement had begun in the enemy’s rear lines and spread quickly forward. The British fell like ripe wheat before an onrush of bayonets. They were surrounded, besieged from all sides, and in less than ten minutes the new attackers had hacked a bloody path through their ranks to free the unfortunate battalion. The reinforcements then wheeled around to the left and attacked the enemy’s flank. M. de Malmédie ordered his men to act in conjunction with their rescuers and they, too, moved rapidly against the British. The Dumas battery, now free to resume firing, lost no time in joining the triple barrage and showered the enemy anew with shot. The French victory was secure.
M. de Malmédie threw a relieved glance at the liberators and then cringed, loath to owe his safety to such men. Indeed, it was the black corps, commanded by Pierre Munier. Seeing the British rear flank exposed, he had immediately ordered his three hundred men to attack. Pierre Munier had executed the maneuver with the skill of a general and the bravery of a soldier and was now fighting at the very front of the action, his tall figure drawn up to its full height, his head bare, eyes flashing and hair whipped by the wind. He was fearless—daring—superb! His voice rang out above the mêlée, crying, “Forward! Forward! Take the flag!” His men followed him unhesitatingly as he plunged into the midst of the disordered English troops. He disappeared from view, reappeared, vanished again—and finally rose, uniform disheveled and face bloody, but holding the British flag aloft.
The general, fearing that some trap might still befall the French troops, gave orders to sound the retreat. The regulars, leading the English prisoners, were the first to depart. The national guard followed them bearing the bodies of the dead, and the corps of blacks, with the captured flag, brought up the rear.
The entire population of Port Louis had heard of the victory by then. They swarmed to the port in droves to welcome the combatants. Naïvely imagining that the English had been beaten so soundly that they would not return, they cheered deliriously for the returning troops. The triumph was so unexpected and so fantastic that they were nearly drunk with happiness and pride. Everyone was triumphant; everyone was victorious. They had been prepared to fight, but not to win so gloriously. Old and young, men, women, and children all vowed that they would always fight to the death to defend their island—excellent promises made in good faith, no doubt, but promises that would not have been worth much if another English regiment had shown up just then!
In the midst of the general approbation, special attention was paid to the English flag and its captor. Exclamations of praise and applause were lavished on Pierre Munier, whose men crowed and boasted in response while their leader, resuming the role of humble mulatto, shyly answered the many questions hurled at him. Jacques watched proudly, his gun with its bloodstained bayonet resting beside him, while Georges—who had escaped from Télémaque’s vigilant gaze—clutched his father’s hand and tried to hold back tears of joy.
M. de Malmédie stood a few paces away from the blacks, his once fine clothing tattered and dusty. He, too, was surrounded by his family, but their congratulations were for escaping with his life, not for his brilliant military feats. Flushing with embarrassment, he loudly demanded what had become of his son Henri and the black attendant, Bijou. They pushed through the crowd to meet him; the boy threw himself into his father’s arms, while the servant heaped compliments on his master.
Just then someone approached to tell Pierre Munier that a Negro who had fought under him and been seriously wounded was at the point of death, and had asked to see his leader. Pierre Munier looked around for Jacques, hoping that the boy would hold the flag for him—but Jacques had found the Malgache dog again, and he was absorbed in a game with the animal. Georges followed his father’s gaze, then held out his hand. “Give me the flag, Father,” he said. “I’ll keep it for you.”
Pierre Munier smiled and embraced his son affectionately, kissing him on the forehead and pressing the flag into his hands. Georges held it upright with difficulty, bracing it against his thin chest, and Munier hurried away to comfort his brave comrade at the moment of death. Georges remained alone with the flag, basking in the remembrance of his father’s glory. His wandering gaze came to rest on the child with the frilled collar, and disdain replaced the pride in his eyes. The other boy stared back at Georges with envy, wondering how it was that his own father had not also managed to capture a flag. Concluding that the only way to obtain such a trophy was to take someone else’s, he moved menacingly toward Georges. The young mulatto sensed his intention immediately, but stood his ground.
“Give that to me,” said Henri.
“What?”
“The flag.”
“It isn’t yours,” retorted Georges. “It belongs to my father.”
“So what? I want it.”
“You can’t have it.”
The boy with the frilled collar reached out to seize the flag. Georges turned even paler than usual and took a step backward. His opponent, with the arrogance of a spoiled child used to being given everything he desires, lunged forward and grabbed hold of the flagpole. “I want it, I tell you!” he cried shrilly.
“And I tell you that you can’t have it,” Georges repeated, pushing the other boy with one hand and clutching the flag in the other.
“How dare you touch me, you dirty mulatto!” Henri shrieked. “I’ll show you!” He
drew his little sword and gashed Georges in the forehead before the other boy could defend himself. Blood trickled down the child’s face. He stared at Henri coldly.
“Coward,” was all he said.
Enraged, Henri was about to lash out again when Jacques sprang to his brother’s aid. He struck the tormentor a blow that sent him sprawling to the ground. Seizing the sword, Jacques broke it into pieces and spat on the fragments before tossing them dismissively at the other boy. It was now Henri’s turn to flush with humiliation, his pride wounded as deeply by Jacques’s fist as Georges’s brow had been by the sword.
The entire scene passed so quickly that neither M. de Malmédie nor Pierre Munier could prevent it. They noticed the altercation at the same moment and came running, Pierre Munier breathless and trembling, M. de Malmédie red with affronted rage. “Did you see what just happened?” the field officer choked out.
“Alas, yes, Monsieur de Malmédie,” said Pierre Munier. “Believe me, I would have prevented it if I had been here.”
“In your absence, your son has laid hands on mine!” de Malmédie shouted. “A mulatto’s son—daring to strike a white child!”
“I’m truly sorry, monsieur,” stammered Pierre Munier. “I beg your pardon for the offense.”
The little man puffed himself up. “Your apologies are insufficient, sir.”
“But—what more can I do?”
“What can you do?” M. de Malmédie repeated. “I’ll tell you—you can have the rascal flogged who dared to touch my Henri!”
“Have me flogged, eh?” Jacques picked up his gun, once more appearing older than his years. “Come on and try, Monsieur de Malmédie!”
“Jacques, hush!” hissed Pierre Munier.
“I’m sorry, Father, but I was right,” Jacques said stoutly. “M’sieur Henri attacked my brother with a saber when Georges had done nothing to him! That’s when I struck M’sieur Henri.”
“What? Attacked my Georges with a saber? Son, are you hurt?” Pierre Munier leaned anxiously toward the boy.
“It’s nothing, Father,” said Georges.
“It is not nothing,” cried Pierre Munier. “Your forehead is bleeding!” He looked up at M. de Malmédie. “Look; Jacques is telling the truth! Your son nearly killed my Georges!”
Faced with such incontrovertible evidence, M. de Malmédie turned to his son. “Well, Henri,” he said. “How did this happen?”
“It wasn’t my fault, Papa,” Henri protested. “I wanted the flag so I could give it to you, and the fool wouldn’t let me have it.”
M. de Malmédie turned on Georges. “And why did you refuse to give Henri the flag, you rascal?”
“It doesn’t belong to him, or to you,” Georges said calmly. “It is my father’s.”
M. de Malmédie heaved an exasperated sigh and turned back to his son. “And what happened next, Henri?”
“He wouldn’t give me the flag, so I tried to take it. That’s when this great beast ran up and hit me in the face.”
“That’s how it happened, eh?” said M. de Malmédie.
“Yes, Father.”
“He’s lying!” Jacques exclaimed. “I only touched him when I saw that my brother was bleeding! I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.”
“Silence, you good-for-nothing boy!” roared M. de Malmédie. He took a step toward Georges. “Give the flag to me.” The child retreated, clutching the flag more tightly. “Give me that flag,” repeated M. de Malmédie in a more threatening tone.
“Sir, it was I who captured that flag from the British,” murmured Pierre Munier.
“I’m aware of that—but I won’t have it known that a mulatto dared argue with me. Give me the flag, boy.”
“Sir—”
“I’m ordering you. Obey your commander.”
Pierre Munier felt the urge to reply, You are not my commander; you refused to let me fight under you, but the words died on his lips. His timidity once again overcame his courage, and he sighed. His heart swelling with mute indignation, he gently took the flag from Georges’s hands. The boy did not resist as Pierre Munier handed the flag to M. de Malmédie; the fat man turned and walked away without another word.
It was truly painful to see a man of such deep and noble character yield to so vulgar a bully, but so it was. Even worse, his actions surprised no one. The same sort of thing occurs every day in the colonies. Brought up from infancy to regard white men as a superior breed, Pierre Munier had allowed his proud spirit to be crushed without even attempting to resist. He was fearless under a hail of musket shot, but cowered when faced with the prejudices of the whites. It is as they say: The lion may attack a man, but will flee in terror at the cock’s crow.
Georges had remained stoic as his own blood ran down his cheek, but now he burst into tears, standing empty-handed before his father, who watched with inexpressible sadness. Jacques clenched his fists with fury and swore that someday he would get his revenge—on Henri, on M. de Malmédie, on all white men.
Just then a dust-covered messenger galloped past them on horseback, shouting that the British were descending from the Williams Plains and the Petite-Rivière, ten thousand strong. The watchtower at the summit of la Découverte signaled the arrival of yet another British squadron of five thousand, which had just dropped anchor in Grande-Rivière Bay. Finally the news came that the remnants of the army corps defeated that morning had now regrouped along the rivière des Lataniers and were ready to march again on Port Napoleon in tandem with the troops coming from Courtois Bay and le Réduit. The colonists knew it would be folly to resist such an overwhelming force, and the captain-general gave the order for the national guard and the volunteers to disband. He had the full authority of His Majesty, the Emperor Napoleon, he declared, and he would negotiate the city’s surrender with the British. The enemy was twenty-five thousand men strong, and the island had barely four thousand defenders. The men retreated reluctantly to their homes, leaving only the regulars to patrol the empty streets.
The surrender was accepted and signed early on the morning of December 3. At five o’clock, the paper changed hands. The British occupied the stockade that same day, and took possession of the city and its harbor the following morning.
Eight days later the French squadron departed the port at full sail but in captivity, taking with it the entire garrison. It was reminiscent of nothing so much as a father ousting his wayward sons from the family home. The islanders remained on the quay, watching sorrowfully until the last rippling flag was out of sight. Then a heavy silence fell over them. One by one they sighed and returned home—save for two men: Pierre Munier and his black slave Télémaque, who stood alone on the shore.
“M’sieur Munier,” ventured the black at last, “we ought to climb that hill. We should still be able to see little m’sieurs Jacques and Georges from there.”
“You’re right, Télémaque—we can at least watch the ship a little longer, even if we can’t see them.” Pierre Munier climbed la Découverte with the eager agility of a young man, and watched the disappearing Bellone until darkness fell. He could not see his sons, of course—the distance, as he had predicted, was too great for that—but he could at least watch the ship that was carrying them away from him.
For it was true—Pierre Munier, at great emotional cost to himself, had broken up his family and sent his children to France under the protection of the brave General Decaen. They were bound for Paris, carrying letters of introduction to two or three of their father’s longtime business associates. Pierre Munier claimed that he was sending his boys to finish their education abroad, but in reality he had done it for fear of the violent hatred M. de Malmédie now bore against his family. The father was terrified for his sons; they might fall victim to the little man at any moment. It caused him great pain to part with his boys, but he could not bear the idea of their falling victim to the spite and venom of such a powerful man.
As for Henri de Malmédie, his mother was far too fond of him to allow such a separation. In an
y event, he needed no further education; he already knew the most important thing: Colored men, all colored men, were born to respect him, and to obey.
IV
FOURTEEN YEARS LATER
It was a happy day on île de France whenever a European ship was sighted in its harbor. Nearly everyone in the colony would turn out to greet the arriving vessel, hoping for news of distant relatives or friends—a letter, a portrait, even a loved one in the flesh, come home at last. These ships were the bridge, the ephemeral chain linking Europe and Africa, and the news of their approach inevitably spread around the island like wildfire, the cry “There is a ship in view!” echoing from the peak of Mont Découverte.
I speak of the peak of Mont Découverte because incoming vessels, seeking a westerly wind, were nearly always forced to pass Grand Port, skirting the coast a distance of two or three leagues, passing Quatre-Cocos, dodging between île Plate and Coin-de-Mire, circling the island to drop anchor in Port Louis after several hours, where waiting crowds pressed close on the quays. Since I have already told you of the anxiety with which everyone in île de France awaited news from Europe, it will not surprise you at all to hear of the excitement when, on a bright morning in late February 1824 around eleven o’clock, the Leicester, a pretty thirty-six-gun frigate, dropped anchor in Port Louis after first signaling its arrival at two o’clock the previous afternoon. Let us now make—or renew, rather—the acquaintance of two gentlemen on deck.
One was a fair, regular-featured man with blond hair and blue eyes, a little taller than average, who looked considerably younger than his forty years. At first glance he seemed a perfectly ordinary, agreeable fellow. His hands and feet were small and well formed, a trait thought to indicate good breeding, especially among the English; his voice carefully modulated, perhaps a bit flat in tone. His gaze seemed to wander aimlessly; from time to time he squinted and parted his lips to reveal two rows of pearly white teeth—an expression that might be taken for a nervous tic, but upon closer examination served instead as an opportunity for him to unobtrusively size up his surroundings. Upon first meeting him, shallow men tended to dismiss him out of hand, and he took pleasure in allowing them to do so—for he was, in fact, a man of great depth, intensely conscious of his own superiority, and his veiled demeanor was like a thousand-foot drop concealed by two inches of snow. He delighted in remaining silent when heated debate raged around him—that is, unless someone expressed an opinion different from his own. If that occurred, and if he believed he had found a worthy opponent, he attacked with lightning speed, eyes suddenly blazing, voice rising passionately as he argued point after point with clarity and eloquence. Otherwise he was content to keep quietly in the background. It was not that he lacked confidence—his pride in some things ran to excess—but he always, always conducted himself with rigid self-control. Though the effort often cost him dearly, his ironclad discipline never wavered. Every time a pointless suggestion, or a wrong idea, or an example of misguided vanity presented itself, the extreme refinement of his character quickly stifled any urge to utter a sarcastic remark or flash a mocking smile. Even when he could not entirely repress his irritation, he concealed the emotion with the habitual flicker of his eyes. He knew well that the best way to see and hear all that went on around him was to appear blind and deaf. He might even have wished to appear paralyzed in the manner of Sixtus Quintus, but this had proven too difficult even for him, and he had abandoned the effort.
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