The Emerald Storm

Chapter 19

Rochambeau was a famous name in the United States. As Lovington had recalled, the elder count led the French forces that helped Washington defeat Cornwallis at Yorktown, finally winning the American Revolution. His son had the good luck to inherit his father’s renown and the bad luck to inherit Leclerc’s sickened army, after that general succumbed to yellow fever. So far the second Rochambeau had shown more cruelty than initiative. He’d retreated to Cap-Francois and fortified his morale with women and drink.

I wasn’t surprised, then, that the invitation to call upon his headquarters was issued to both Mr. and Mrs. Gage. Word of Astiza’s exotic beauty had spread quickly around the city, and the notorious Rochambeau was likely contemplating a different kind of conquest to make up for his lack of victories on the battlefield. We had to let him think such corruption was possible, while not allowing it.

Certainly I recognized the danger. Plain women are more devoted, older ones more appreciative, but I, too, have an eye for beauty-it’s a fault of mine-and knew I had to defend the woman I’d married.

The French Government House was a two-story, white stone building flanked north and south by orderly landscaping meant to emphasize power. Now the complex betrayed physical and moral decay. Window sashes were peeling, flower beds had gone to weed, litter curled in corners, and four small cannon were aimed on the lawns as if this governor was as threatened by his own population as the rebel army. The building’s court and foyer were thick with French officers and military bustle, but their assembly was untidy in the way of men who are losing hope and discipline. Maps and papers were in heaps, swords and muskets leaned in disorderly tangles, and unwashed bottles and plates drew flies. Hats were off, coats thrown across furniture, and muddy tracks crisscrossed the floors.

Astiza and I had our papers inspected and then were escorted to the general’s office upstairs, the mahogany door opening to the scent of tobacco and cologne.

Rochambeau didn’t make a good first impression. He was a squat man with a round, soft, rather sullen face, reminding me of a stocky schoolhouse bully. His head was sunk between his shoulders, and a brown birthmark surrounded one eye so he looked punched. He received us in a hussar’s hot uniform, blue breeches and cavalry shirt with red collar and silk sash, the finery making him sweat. His plump torso was buttoned tight with rows of horizontal silver frogging that, to an American rifleman, would function mostly as tempting target. His shoulder epaulettes were sturdy enough to balance beer mugs on. The dress was gaudy, but I knew some women have a weakness for peacock display. He stood from his desk to inspect us, we wearing clothes similar to what we’d paraded on the Louvre iron bridge.

I glanced about; I have the habit of orienting myself because it’s useful to have an escape route when life becomes too exciting. Rochambeau’s office windows looked down across the gardens toward the port and its forest of ships, as if to remind where escape lay. A balcony extended next door to his private quarters. Heavy French curtains hung damp, too heavy to move in the breeze.

The general greeted me by name but came out around his desk to Astiza, bowing, kissing her hand, and simpering a compliment like a clumsy Casanova. His eyes were small and, I decided in predetermined distaste, piglike. Many women apparently considered him oddly handsome, given the allure that high birth and money brings, but I didn’t see it. Leclerc’s death, I suspected, had been disastrous for France in more ways that one. It had left their army to a man void of imagination for anything but reprisal and infidelity.

Of course, I was traveling under false pretenses myself, and Rochambeau could justifiably have me shot as a spy, should he learn my real mission. Here again, Astiza was useful. She’d donned the little pendant Bonaparte had given me at Saint-Cloud, a fine chain letting it fall to the swell of her breasts.

“I admire your jewelry, madame.”

“A gift from the first consul.” She blushed modestly.

Rochambeau’s brows rose. “And this is for?”

“Persons he favors. It actually is in honor of my husband. Ethan is such an able diplomat.”

“Well.” The general sat back down, regarding us with new respect and, I sensed, suspicion. “I hope you appreciate the significance of that bauble.” Anyone close to Bonaparte had as many enemies as friends, I knew.

“I view it as protection,” she said calmly.

The general nodded uncertainly, beckoning us to sit. Then he tapped the forged papers I’d brought with the pretend signatures of American delegates Livingston and Monroe. “I appreciate your wish to understand our strategic position in the Americas, Gage, but unless I get reinforcements, anything you report will be obsolete. Louisiana has been sold, and the English are attacking everywhere. They’ve already taken Castries in Saint-Lucia and then Tobago, and are scooping up Dutch islands like walnuts in a barrel. Where is my navy? Hiding in French ports, as near as I can tell. If the British blockade, our position will be precarious indeed. The colony may become entirely black, which means, of course, entirely savage. Yet the remedy seems beyond our grasp.”

“Remedy?” I glanced about. His office had the usual masculine decoration of flags, standards, swords, firearms, and old halberds and pikes, as if they’d cleaned out the Bastille’s attic before tearing the prison down. There was also a purple velvet settee strewn with yellow silk pillows, and a sideboard with wines, brandies, and liqueurs with a set of fine crystal.

“The ultimate solution is to exterminate Saint-Domingue of its present Negro population, which has been infected with radical ideas, and bring in an entirely new and docile population from Africa. The novice slaves must be kept from reading or hearing anything, prohibited from meeting, and taught that disobedience results in indescribable pain. It’s no different than training a dog or breaking a horse.” He examined his rounded fingernails. “But to do that, I need a huge army, and our army has melted away with fever like frost before a sun. It’s as if God is against us, which I do not understand. Does he want the rule of pagan voodoo? Churches made of trees and swamps? Peasants growing yams instead of plantations growing sugar? We’ve had a Code Noir, the Black Code, which spelled out the rights of master and slave alike. The result was paradise. Now the Negro has chosen anarchy.”

“Maybe it wasn’t paradise for them.”

“It prohibited beating or execution at whim. And we’ve done them a favor by rescuing them from Africa. Under the Code Noir, all men had their place. The king himself helped draft it, when we had a king. But that was long ago, wasn’t it? Now Bonaparte is trying to restore calm by reinstating slavery, which is the only economy that ever made sense. But the blacks have become fanatics. So I’ve been left to fall back on my imagination to keep barbarism at bay. I’m a creative man in my own way, but I am misunderstood and little appreciated, even by my own officers.” He sighed, the very picture of self-sacrifice.

“Great men are not always recognized in their own time.” I figured flattery might prove more useful than truth.

“My primary concern is the protection of innocents such as your wife,” he continued, aiming a smile at Astiza. “I also work to fortify our morale with entertainments. There’s a ball tomorrow night; you both must come. Our worst defeat would be to give up civilization. So I work tirelessly to sustain normalcy, just as I work tirelessly to keep us safe from Dessalines, who has hanged and tortured more good Frenchmen that one can count.” He gave her a nod and a wink, the bastard. “We must not let him at our women.”

“I appreciate your gallantry,” my wife said, with such astonishing pretend sincerity that I appreciated again the ability of females to negotiate relationships with the skill of actresses. “I do hope you can keep us protected during our sojourn in Saint-Domingue, my dear vicomte.”

“You can be sure of it.” He picked up a pistol to fondle absently, and I could only hope it was unloaded. “The secret to dealing with the Negro is ruthlessness. Leclerc did his best to be stern, tying some of his captive to heavy flour sacks and throwing them into the harbor to drown, but that’s a waste of good bread. There was a point beyond which he would not go. I have no such scruples. I have hanged, I have shot, I have burned, and I have boiled. Have you ever watched men being boiled alive, Mrs. Gage?”

“Never.” She gave a little shudder. If anyone could wring secrets out of Rochambeau, I supposed, it would be Astiza. But I was damned if she’d do it near his bedroom. “How soldierly to carry it through,” she continued, as I shifted uncomfortably.

“It takes a certain hardness,” he boasted. “Many officers quail when the victims begin screaming. And yet the result on the rest of the blacks is salutary. If I could only torture and execute ten thousand, I could bring order to a million.”

“So it’s a kind of mercy,” Astiza said.

“Exactly!” His eyes kept falling to the swell of her breasts, as if some physical problem prevented his gaze from staying level with hers. Not that I blame him, I’ve had the same problem. “I locked a hundred of them in the hold of a ship and suffocated them with sulfur, and then made a hundred more hurl the bodies into the sea. Word of that got around the island, I daresay.”

“I should imagine.”

“My latest innovation has been man-eating dogs. I’ve used my own money to import them from the Spanish in Cuba. Now, no black army can stand against a French regiment in the open field, you can be sure. But every time we pursue the rebels into the jungle, an ambush ensues. It’s maddening, and my men are becoming timid. The dogs, however, smell and ravage the rebels and give my forces fair warning. I haven’t been in the engagements myself, but I’m told the beasts are truly terrifying in how they rip their victims to pieces.”

My God, he was madman and sadist. I was about to blurt honest revulsion when my wife responded first. “Horrifying,” Astiza said. “And clever.”

“It’s only for the protection of beauties such as yourself. Every monstrosity I invent is but a necessity to save France’s children.”

“Your valor is known in Paris, I can assure you, Vicomte. And if it’s not, we will celebrate it when we return.”

He nodded, expecting as much.

Why do butchers feel compelled to boast? The truth was that Rochambeau and Dessalines would each slit a million throats if it furthered their personal ambitions, and both would destroy the whole island before letting their own demise occur. Nor would they ever muster the courage to duel in an arena by themselves, preferring to sacrifice thousands of others to settle their hash. The man kept eyeing my wife, and I sourly decided he had the soft look of too many pastries and not enough marching.

“So you believe there’s a chance of victory?” I interjected, after clearing my throat.

“There’s always a chance, Monsieur Gage, and an obligation to make a valiant stand if there is not. Remember the Spartans at Thermopylae! I’m hoping God will still see the justice of our cause, and bless us against the forces of darkness.”

“I understand the blacks believe they have supernatural protection, too.”

“From African witchcraft. Their courage is quite baffling.” He glanced out his window again at the harbor, and the ships that could carry him away. “Well. I must plan my ball, and I’m eager that you grace it with your presence. You’ll promise me at least one dance, Madame Gage?”

“I would be flattered, General.” I swear she batted her eyes. Was she enjoying this charade? But no, I knew Astiza: her mind hadn’t strayed off her quest for little Harry for one second. “I do want to meet all your brave officers. And my husband is eager to study your strategic dispositions. He was involved in the siege of Acre in 1799, and has been a student of fortification ever since.”

This was complete nonsense, since that bit of epic bloodletting had taught me to stay away from sieges as much as possible. Yet she was playing her part to the hilt.

“Is he really?” The general looked at me speculatively.

“Perhaps he can lend your officers advice.”

“I’m an amateur savant,” I said modestly, “an electrician and explorer, but I flatter myself to have slight military expertise.” Yes, I can lie, too. “I was actually wondering if I could learn from your engineering. It’s to your credit that you’ve held off the rebels this long.”

He nodded cautiously. “I appreciate your curiosity. But, monsieur, you are a foreigner talking of military strategy. Secrets, if you will.”

“As Lafayette was a foreigner to Washington.”

“My husband is ever so good at keeping secrets.” Astiza leaned forward, giving him an eyeful. “And he might share some of his.”

“I don’t know if I have an escort to spare…”

“I, however, am not fond of riding around in the sun,” she added.

I saw where she was going. “And I’m uncomfortable leaving you alone in a new city, rife with tension,” I told her.

Rochambeau, who was not the brightest general ever to take the field, finally realized his opportunity. “But she is not alone! She is with me!”

“General, were my husband to go on tour, I’d be ever so grateful to wait for him here. I would feel safe, if it would not be too distracting.”

His pig eyes gleamed as if we’d poured slops in a trough. “How could you help but distract? Yet a gentleman can always spare time for a woman in need. I am an important man, yes; I may have to issue orders, but perhaps we can issue orders from the veranda while Monsieur Gage sees how expertly we have fortified this city. You and I can have rum punch and compare memories of Paris.”

“In the Paris of the Antilles,” she said sweetly.

“Alas, if only you could have seen it at the height of its glory!”

“Your courageous stand gives grandeur to what is left.”

“I have pledged my life in its defense.”

“I cannot imagine more capable company for my wife,” I put in, tired of this prattle. “And I don’t need an escort. I can poke about on my own.”

“And be shot by a startled sentry? No, I’m sure there’s a colonel or major downstairs who is unoccupied.” Rochambeau rifled through some papers as if reminding himself who served on his staff. “Enjoy my hospitality, make your diplomatic report, and critique our heroic defense.” He looked at me. “I’m aware you have quite the reputation as a warrior, Monsieur Gage, both on France’s side and against her.”

I’d fought with the British at Acre, as I’ve said, but as an American my expediency had let me also do errands for Napoleon. Sometimes it’s convenient to bounce about, though you do accumulate a great deal of misunderstanding.

“You’re a neutral capable of honest and blunt opinion,” Rochambeau went on. “I hope you’ll lend your critique to the barricades of Cap-Francois, as Lafayette and my father did at Yorktown.”

“I would be humbled to learn and teach. I marvel at your skill. I have an interest in writing; perhaps I can tell the world how you did it.”

He cocked his head as if I’d gone too far, but then looked at my wife’s chest again. “So. Let me arrange a tour while Astiza and I enjoy a view of the sea. That is the way home, madame. The sea.”