The War of Knives

by Broos Campbell

  He shrugged. “As long as Pétion has gold, you Americans will trade with him.”

  “This can’t be.” I wanted to tell him to shut up and be damned. “It’s illegal.”

  He slitted his eyes. “Well.” Again the shrug. “As for your navy, we have not seen it for a while. Weeks, I think.”

  “But I tell you the Croatoan is supposed to be blockading this port. American ships may only land at Le Cap and Port Républicain, and trade only with Toussaint.”

  His shrug grew wider. “We bought a ship to institute our own blockade, but the British stole it and imprisoned the crew. They said we meant to use this ship to invade Jamaica.”

  “But that makes no sense!”

  “Why should it make sense?” Unable to shrug any wider, he dropped his arms to his sides. “C’est la guerre.”

  I took another long look around the battleground. Commodore Gaswell wanted exact descriptions, positions, numbers, but—what with the way Joséphine was scratching her shoulder with a wicked-looking hind hoof—I didn’t guess I could break out a sextant and a box of watercolors to make a map with right at that particular moment. However, I could make a sketch in my head and commit it to paper later. I fetched out my little pocket compass and squatted down with it on my knee.

  “I bring your attention, if you please,” said Juge, pointing off to the right, “to the road from Léogâne.” He looked to see what I was doing, and frowned. “Why the compass?”

  “Sailors don’t always care where they’ve been or where they’re going, but they do insist on knowing where they are at any given moment. It’s a sort of mania with us.”

  He nodded knowingly. “It is the same with soldiers. I permit you to continue.”

  I took a few more bearings while Juge watched the road. I glanced over at it, but it was about as empty a road as I ever saw. I sighted on the main fort. “Juge,” I said, “tell me about the citadel, if you please.”

  He reached over my shoulder and adjusted the compass so it pointed at the largest fort. “This one, he is the Fort Beliotte. The one to the right is called the Fort du Gouvernement, although Pétion governs his operations from Beliotte. That nearly untouched one on the edge of the precipice, above where the River of Orange Trees enters the bay, he is the Fort de l’Hôpital.”

  “It’s good in you not to fire upon the hospital.”

  “We cannot conveniently reach it. And the edifice in the back, he is the prison. I have heard stories of that place.” He recommenced his watch on the road. “And close in under the prison is the anchorage.”

  “How deep is the anchorage?”

  “Deep.”

  “What about the bay?” Peter’s chart had been drawn from a captured French document. There was no telling how accurate its soundings were.

  He grinned. “The bay, she is deeper.”

  “How close can a ship come in?”

  “There is a wooden pier onto which the merchantmen discharge their cargoes.” He gave me a sidelong look. “Or they would discharge their cargoes there, if you did not have the bay so thoroughly bottled up.”

  I let that pass. Juge and I obviously would have different ideas about what a large ship was, and how deep was deep, but if a fat-bottomed merchantman could unlade directly onto a pier, I calculated it should be deep pretty close in to shore. If so, the Croatoan could come right up behind the forts and give ’em a good pasting. That would help shake the confidence Pétion’s men had in their commander.

  I stared out at the blue diamond of the bay. It was about two miles on a side, with its entrance to the sea forming the southeastern side of the diamond, and Pétion’s citadel at the northern angle. Cliffs lined the bay from Cap de Jacmel on the west and Cap Maréchaux on the east, but on the northwestern shore they gave way to a long strip of black sand beach. Breakers gleamed white against the western cliffs, where the bay lay open to the current and the prevailing winds from the east. It would be a nasty place to sail in anything more than light airs. The only useful part of the bay lay directly under the walls of the citadel. If I were Pétion, I’d line the bay side of the walls with every gun I could spare. But I wasn’t Pétion.

  Beyond the far left of Dessalines’ line rose a promontory overlooking the bay. Guns on its height would command both the citadel and the anchorage. Squinting at it against the sun, I thought I could make out a wall or two standing among the trees that crowded its summit, as if a fort had once stood there. I made a tube of my hands and peered at it. “Juge, have you a pocket telescope? I have left mine in my saddlebags.”

  “Bon sang! Yes, I have the pocket telescope. And the case clock and the four-poster bed as well! If your telescope is in your saddlebags, why do you not fetch him?”

  I took a look at Joséphine. She raised her head, staring at me as she chomped a mouthful of thorns into flinders. “Perhaps later. Tell me, is there a fort on that cliff over there?”

  He glanced impatiently away from the road. “There is.”

  “You have guns up there, of course?”

  “We do not.” He sneered. “The houngan has caused an hounfour to be built there.”

  “The what?”

  “The voudou apostates have built a temple there, in which to practice their black arts at night. This is why we have no artillery in such an excellent place for artillery. It is only at night, of course, but it would not do to leave cannons around when the loas possess their worshippers’ bodies. The papas and mamans lead them in worship of Damballah and Legba and many others.” He spat in the dust. “These names disgust me. There is only one Papa beyond Father Toussaint, and that is our beloved Savior, Jesus Christ.” He crossed himself. “You will hear their drums and screaming at night.”

  I stood up and shook out my legs. “Why don’t you stop it if you don’t like it?”

  “It is too ancient to stop.” He gave me an elbow in the ribs. “Besides, they are good fighters.”

  Connor appeared from the trees, buttoning his fly. He slapped me on the back. “Riding is like any other skill, eh? Painful until you develop the necessary calluses.” His accent was from someplace along the Tidewater region—Virginia or North Carolina perhaps—but his vocabulary came from somewhere else. A northern school for free blacks and runaway slaves, I guessed.

  I grinned. “Well, sir, I got plenty of calluses on my hands, but I never thought I’d need ’em on my stern.” I looked back at the trees. “Where’s Franklin gotten himself to?”

  “Gone to dig a hole, I suppose. He ain’t used to riding, and from the look on his face I didn’t think it friendly to inquire.” He stood with his left hand on his hip, his right foot up on a convenient rock and his right knee bent just so, with his right hand shading his eyes as he studied the arrangement of the artillery and the trenches below.

  Tricolors fluttered over the black army’s lines, but Tricolors dotted the mulatto’s positions as well. “I expect you got a bit of experience in the soldiering trade,” I said. “How do troops in the field know who to shoot at?”

  “Same as at sea. If it shoots at you, shoot back.”

  Franklin stepped out of the woods, clutching his desk to his chest.

  “Juge,” I said, reaching a decision. Neither Connor nor Franklin spoke French, so I calculated I could use that language without burdening them with things that weren’t their business. “I tell you in good faith what I am here to do. I am to make a survey of the terrain and your troops so I can tell my commodore what is needed. He also wants to know a good place to land a few large guns and the sailors to man them.”

  He smiled. “Then you must meet General Dessalines as soon as possible. But I doubt you will like him. I guarantee he will not like you.” He went back to watching the road.

  “Here,” said Connor, snapping his fingers. “What’s that he says about Dessalines?”

  “He says he ain’t too sociable, but I got to meet with him anyway.”

  “I have to meet with him, you mean. In the meantime I have need of you. Remem
ber your orders from the assistant consul.”

  I looked at him, Connor with his wide straw hat and his gleaming white shirt with the blood turning brown on the edge of his sleeve, and wondered what I would do if he snapped his fingers at me again. “The request of the assistant consul,” I said. “He’s outside of the chain of command. I work for Commodore Gaswell, sir, not Mr. Blair.”

  “Mr. Blair is the sort of man who would be happy to make you unhappy, was you to cross him.”

  He’ll be happy to do that whether I cross him or not, brother, I thought, but it wouldn’t do to sound unwilling. I said, “Yes, sir.”

  Juge put a hand on my arm. “Now that Mr. Connor has returned to us, I wish you, please, to explain the situation to him. Down there,” he said in his elegantly condescending schoolbook French, which I translated for Connor, and which Franklin dutifully transcribed in his letter book, “are ensconced the gens du couleur. The traitor—”

  “Wait, wait,” said Connor. “The John-de-who?”

  “Sorry, sir,” I said. “Gens du couleur means ‘persons of color.’ That’s what they call mulattoes—the coloreds—I mean the men who ain’t white nor black, if you’ll forgive my saying so.”

  “‘Persons of color’ is the genteel phrase from Boston to Philadelphia,” said Connor. “I would not expect a sailor to know that, but I do expect you to know I’m perfectly aware of my blood, sir, nor am I ashamed of it.”

  “And why, sir, should you be ashamed of it?”

  “Precisely. Do not mince words on my account. I will thank you, sir, to translate everything exactly.”

  But I was ashamed of it, for my own sake not his, and I was ashamed of my shame. I was afraid of being found out—the way a sodomite must feel, I thought, before dismissing the comparison. A sodomite could be hanged only if he acted upon his nature, but even a hint of black blood could subject a man to humiliation and even death if he forgot for one second what he was.

  “Mr. Graves,” said Juge, smiling politely at Connor, “I do not trust your friend, so be careful, please, to translate exactly what I say and no more.”

  “Mais oui.”

  “Très bien. Tell him this: Even with what the smugglers bring in, the traitor Pétion is low on food and ammunition. Yet he refuses to yield to our attacks. Unfortunately for him, Henri Christophe has marched down with two demi-brigades from the north to join forces with General Dessalines under Father Toussaint.” A demi-brigade was a double regiment of foot and horse, about thirty-two hundred troops. “Together they most certainly will get results. I would suggest,” he said cheerfully, “that you avoid their company beyond your necessary interviews. Chef-de-Brigade Christophe is philosophical about the necessity of including whites in our plans, but Dessalines has a thirst for white men’s blood that years of the gallows and the firing squad have not slaked.”

  “Yes, yes, I know all that,” said Connor. “You ain’t leaving anything out, are you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “As you can quite clearly see,” Juge continued, “Pétion’s position is strong but ultimately hopeless. Father Toussaint admires his fortitude but is saddened by the misery that must be endured down there. I show you the situation exactly, that you may truthfully explain to Pétion just how hopeless it is to resist further. The shedding of French blood by Frenchmen is a terrible thing, but when Dessalines takes the town—as he most assuredly will—all in it will be put to the sword.” He stared at Connor as I translated, the round softness of his beardless face hardened by urgency. “We wish to avoid this. Pétion must be persuaded that surrender is his only option. Unless he wishes a return to the old order, he must join with us against the traitor Rigaud before France gathers an army of reconquest. He will not listen to us. We hope he will listen to you.”

  Connor nodded. “I will do what I can, sir.”

  “Listen here, Mr. Connor,” I said, “you ain’t planning on riding in to parley with Pétion, are you?”

  “Of course I am. Why else have I come?”

  “Ha ha!” said Juge, pointing down at the Léogâne road. “There! That is what I brought you to see.”

  Four green-coated chasseurs pounded down the road as fast as their laboring horses could carry them. They’d lost or thrown away their weapons and were making for the ford where the road crossed the Gosseline. Close on their heels rode eighteen—no, twenty—of Juge’s dragoons, leaning over their horse’s necks with their swords at the charge. Half a dozen riderless horses galloped alongside them, but they wore the green saddle blankets of the chasseurs.

  As the chasseurs splashed across the stream, a squadron of cuirassiers in gleaming steel breastplates sallied out of the hamlet. The black dragoons broke left, placing a spur of the hills between themselves and the heavy cavalry, and hooked off toward the plantation house in the east.

  A gun near the troublesome hamlet tried a ranging shot at the cuirassiers, and infantrymen appeared along the bluff. Caught between cannons and muskets, the cuirassiers gathered up the chasseurs and hightailed it back to town.

  “Over there at that habitation, my friends,” said Juge, pointing toward the plantation house, “Father Toussaint is pleased to make his katye jeneral, his headquarters. We ride there now.” He stepped to his horse—mounting, turning and moving off in an instant. Connor leaped to his saddle and followed. Franklin grabbed at his spectacles and desk as he jounced off.

  Did Joséphine wait for me to climb aboard? She did not. I hopped alongside her, one hand on the pommel and one foot in a stirrup as she shogged off down the trail. “Hi, devil! ’Vast hauling,” I cried. “Whoa, dammit! Whoa!” Then I tripped over my sword and fell headlong in the dirt.

  Seven

  “Dern ya, belay that,” I said, swatting at Joséphine with my hat. She plodded along behind me, poking me in the rear with her nose. At least she had quit trying to bite me. “Now look here, you old horse. I’m going to sit on this here stump. Go someplace where you’re wanted, why don’t you.” I sank onto the tree stump with a wince and tugged my boots off. I was footsore and saddlesore and just plain all around sore. I hadn’t been shot yet, but I guessed it was just dumb luck. Every soldier I’d asked for directions had merely glanced at my sea uniform and silently pointed me along the way.

  Joséphine slopped her broad tongue across my ear. I grabbed my hat before she could run off with it again.

  Across the road, two barefoot soldiers in mismatched uniforms and patched trousers stood sentry in front of a bullet-pocked farmhouse. A faded Tricolor drooped on a pole jutting out from a window on the upper floor. I had gathered that the house was where foreign officers were quartered, and I hoped to find Connor there. The long shadows of afternoon painted the whitewashed stone walls with pale gray stripes, a peacefulness that was belied by the constant background rumble of ten thousand men and horses and the popping of those damn cannons. I wouldn’t have minded if they fired constantly, but they didn’t. One or two would go off, and then a whole passel of them, and then they’d fall silent awhile. And just when I’d gotten used to that, up they’d start again.

  Lounging in the shade across the road from the house, half a dozen dirty colonial officers of the line passed a grass-wrapped carboy around. I was sure I could smell cider. I tugged my boots back on and hobbled over to them. “J’avoir soif, mes amis,” I said. “I’m so dry, my friends, I could drink a bottle by putting it up my breech. May I please have a drink?”

  They stared at me, some blankly, one with open hostility. The latter had a face that was all lip and nose. “You are thirsty?” he said in barely recognizable French. “So what do we care? Did you care all those years when I was thirsty?” He wrapped his lips around the neck of the jug and took a long swig. “Hah! This is good cider! And when we’re done with it, you’re welcome to shove it up your ass, just as you say. We wouldn’t want you to think we’re rude, after all, hein?” He looked around at his fellows, and most of them laughed.

  But the oldest one looked embarrassed. “Ase
, Jean-Claude,” he said in Creole. “Sa pa fè anyen.”

  “M bouke ak sa!” said Jean-Claude, tapping himself on the throat with the flat of his hand.

  “Ça suffit,” said the old one, switching back to French. “That’s enough. Le’m have a drink. He’s an ally, after all.”

  “Blòf!” said Jean-Claude. I recognized that word, anyway. It meant bullshit. “Y’old kiss-ass, he’s a gwo blan. A Yankee Doodle, too, though you can’t tell from his accent. Look at his pretty coat, so like a Frenchman’s—but his ass hangs out of his pantaloons, ha ha!” He picked up a handful of dust and threw it onto my feet. “You won’t be so proud when the niggers rise up on your plantations, hey little gason kanson? You’d better get away from here before I take it in mind to kill you. You’re lucky I’m too drunk to chase you!”

  The others muttered agreeable noises, and I retreated toward the house across the road. If Connor were inside, he’d have refreshments, surely. I was stupid not to have thought of it before. Joséphine stood quietly while I untied my carryall, but snapped at me when I tried for the saddlebags. I threw my bag over my shoulder and marched up to the house as if I knew where I was going. The sentries didn’t go so far as to salute me, but they did snap to attention. A good sign, I thought; now if only they understood my French.

  “Bonsoir, compagnons,” I said, “I’m looking for a Mr. Connor, an American mulâtre. Red hair, green eyes. Have you seen him? He has a black man with him, wears gold-rimmed spectacles. He was with an old man called Grandfather Chatterbox and an officer named Juge, don’t know his last name—well, thank you.” At the mention of Juge’s name, one of the soldiers tilted his head to indicate that I could mount the steps and enter.

  Inside, a little black man of about my size and probably three times my age, dressed in a faded but clean green suit and with a fleecy white wig on his head, introduced himself with a bow. “I, Bertrand,” he said in English, “will do for you ’ere in the billet of the foreign officers. You are Monsieur Graves, I believe.”