The Emerald Storm

Chapter 22

No one takes my advice, including my wife. This may be because of my tendency to fall into political tangles, military brawls, debt, and ill-considered romantic affairs, but still-did Astiza have any inclination to honor and obey my admonition not to go upstairs in her desperation to gain information about our son? Apparently not. Posted on the balcony that fronted Rochambeau’s office and bedchamber were sentries with muskets and bayonets. Somewhere beyond those closed doors were Astiza, two men I despised, and a grandfather clock imported from Breguet that was ticking remorselessly toward my rendezvous with Jubal.

I’d make no progress on finding Montezuma’s hoard without fleeing to Dessalines and the rebels, and no progress toward regaining my son and the confidence of my wife without keeping close to Martel and Rochambeau.

But what if I could retrieve my bride from General Rochambeau, castrating the bastard in the process? What if I could capture Leon Martel and take him with us into the mountains? No doubt he’d be a worthy prize to bring to the Negro general. Maybe I’d have the pleasure of trying to mock-drown the renegade policeman just as he’d drowned me in Paris. A warm-up before black rebels invented even more hideous tortures? I was weaponless in a house with a hundred French officers, but doesn’t fortune reward the bold?

Yes, I’d capture Martel, retrieve Astiza, castrate Rochambeau, flee to Dessalines, find the treasure, get the emerald, and somewhere along the way rescue my son.

I hurried back to the library, swung the bookcase open once more, and made my way down the private passageway to the pantry. The same servant as before intercepted me.

“Monsieur? It’s not yet time for Jubal.”

“I need to get upstairs first, but the main way is guarded.”

“Strictly forbidden during celebrations. General Rochambeau entertains in private.”

“My wife is up there.”

He looked sympathetic. “The general can be very seductive.”

“No, she’s captive against her will.” I doubted this was entirely true, but I needed his help. “A husband has rights.”

“And Rochambeau has sentries, does he not? It is impossible.”

“I need you to get me up a secret way behind the guards. There must be a servants’ stair.”

“Also guarded.” He hesitated, however. He knew an alternative.

“Then we flee with Jubal to help liberate Haiti,” I promised. “No one will know your role until victory, when you’ll be a hero.”

He frowned. “If they suspect, they’ll feed me to their dogs.”

“If we succeed, there soon will be no more dogs, and no more French. No more whips, and no more manacles.”

He swallowed, taking courage. “We’ve a hoist to bring food above. The idea came from your own president, Jefferson. A sea captain brought drawings from Virginia. Perhaps you can fit inside.”

I clapped his shoulder. “Good man. Rochambeau is probably drunk, and his men half-asleep. I’ll find her without a peep, and we’ll slip away as silently as deer.” Or bury some steel in the general’s head, but why alarm my new confederate?

As the slave turned to lead me, I slipped a kitchen cleaver into my breeches beneath the back of my coat. I realized how naked I felt unarmed, which had been my state since escaping the pirates of Tripoli. I must commission another rifle, but no time for that now.

The contraption the slave proposed to hoist me in was like a cupboard, and it took some grunting and flexing to fold myself in. Lord, it’s a nuisance getting older, and my mid-thirties is a stiff march from my teens. It didn’t help that I had the cleaver blade to be wary of. I took care not to cut a slice out of myself.

“When the hoist stops, climb out,” the slave instructed. “If they find you in the dumbwaiter, they’ll stick you like a pig with bayonets so as not to disturb the party with gunshots.”

“Saves powder, too.” I saluted from where I lay curled. “Don’t worry, I don’t intend to disturb the festivities a whit. I’ll slink about like a ghost.”

“Just don’t become one, monsieur.”

A door closed, and I was in darkness. Then with a lurch I felt myself ascending, helpless as a goose folded into an oven. I just prayed that Astiza wasn’t gaily descending the stairs, looking for me, as I rose to look for her.

The dumbwaiter stopped, and I pushed to get out. The cabinet door, I realized too late, was latched from the other side. I was locked in. No doubt my fellow conspirator hadn’t remembered that. Or had he, and I’d squeezed myself into a trap?

I considered signaling to go down again, but I had no way to do so. With no better course I wedged my feet against the hoist and pushed against the door. Wood groaned but didn’t give.

It was hot, and short of air.

So I shrank into myself as much as I could, planted my boots, and launched against the door. The latch snapped with a crack, splinters flew, and my momentum carried me out onto a wood-plank hallway. I landed with a whoof and a clump.

So much for creeping.

“C’est quoi?” One of the sentries, not as sleepy as I’d hoped, was trotting my way. I rolled to one side and, when he rounded the corner, tripped him and sprang. He fell, musket clattering, and I jumped on top of him and brought the handle of the cleaver down on his temple. He stilled. I’d no desire to murder, just to get my wife away from the lecher in chief. Unfortunately, the other guard likely heard the noise. Time to hurry!

I sprang up, got my bearings from our earlier visit to Rochambeau’s office, and trotted to what I guessed was the bedroom door, gripping the cleaver while realizing I should have grabbed the musket. The speed of events was confusing me, and it didn’t help I was lubricated with rum punch. Ah, well. The kitchen utensil was a bit like my familiar tomahawk. Why hadn’t I ordered a new one of those, too?

Well, because I was married and a father, quietly retired, a squire of sleepy scholarship and prudent investment.

Rochambeau’s chamber was unlocked. I slipped inside and looked for my wife. I’d only seconds before the next sentry followed me. The bedroom was dim, a single candle, tropical moonlight falling through open French doors. And there on a bed behind gauze mosquito curtains, a woman rode our Casanova commander. Her back was arched, breasts high, hair tumbling to her splayed buttocks, the man beneath her grunting as she made soft cries.

Astiza! It was as if a lance went in.

I knew she was desperate to get news of Harry. But to be betrayed so soon in our marriage, and humiliated so completely, a gaping cuckold, cut me to the quick. I mentally cursed the awful dilemma Martel’s scheme had put me in, and the desperation my wife had been driven to. Rochambeau must suffer!

So I lifted the cleaver and charged. With a savage tug I ripped the bed curtain down and reached for Astiza’s dark hair to heave her off the commander. She screamed.

Rochambeau looked at me in amazement. The cleaver gleamed.

And then I realized I was not yanking on Astiza at all.

It was one of the bastard’s other seductions, her chest flushed, mouth open in confusion and fear, twisting her neck to relieve my grasp on her hair.

Where was my wife?

Behind me the door of the chamber crashed open and a sentry burst in. “Stop right there! Who are you?” His musket came up, the bayonet aimed at our frozen menage a trois.

“Don’t shoot me, you idiot!” General Rochambeau cried.

I released the tart and shoved her down at the general, who was reaching for a pistol on a nightstand. Damnation, where was my wife? I sprang for the French doors and the balcony before there was a bang, and a musket ball hummed by my neck. I was in it now!

“It’s the American!” Rochambeau cried. “He’s an assassin!”

Well, I had failed in that role since I’d entirely forgotten to cleave the bastard’s head. I whirled around and hurled the weapon at him, the blade spinning as the couple ducked and the woman shrieked. The cleaver embedded itself in a bedpost. Then I vaulted the stone railing of the balcony outside, above the garden. As I did, Rochambeau’s pistol fired, and this time something hot grazed my ear, stinging like fire.

I fell into darkness, my body crashing into shrubbery and damp soil, deliberately rolling so I didn’t break a leg. Then I bounced up, gasping. My ear had been cut by the ball but, other than bleeding, it seemed intact. I was scratched, dirty, and bewildered. If his paramour wasn’t Astiza, where the devil had she gone?

And where was Leon Martel?

What a stew. I listened to the chorus of cries as the ball erupted into panic at the gunshots. There were shouts, oaths, and the rasp of drawn swords.

I’d turned a cotillion into a hornet’s nest.