Master of the Crossroads - Madison Smartt Bell [341]
In the morning, the doctor changed the dressing on Maillart’s wounded thigh, and, having admonished the captain to rest his leg, set out to learn the news of the town. From Pascal, he learned that Roume and Toussaint were at odds since last night’s interview, not only over the war with Rigaud, which all Roume’s influence could not seem to arrest, but also over Toussaint’s dealings with the North American Republic.
For some months, Toussaint had had his own representative in Philadelphia, on some mission whose details had never quite come to light, and more recently the American president had sent Edward Stevens to Le Cap in the role of consul. Roume was especially piqued, by Pascal’s account, that Stevens was delegated to wait upon Toussaint rather than himself, and that the trade agreement with the Americans had apparently been broken by General Maitland—when France and Britain were still at war!
By Pascal’s account, there was no formal treaty—nothing for which Toussaint might later be called to account—but instead a discreet understanding that Toussaint would prevent French privateers from troubling American shipping in the waters of Saint Domingue. For their part, the Americans would let pass any French ship which carried Toussaint’s safe-conduct.
“You may imagine, Roume was absolutely frothing,” Pascal explained. “Toussaint’s own safe-conduct—as if he were a king.”
“I see,” said the doctor. “Then again, such transactions are best judged by their results.”
“You are right.” Pascal drew out his watch and opened the lid. “But why should we not go down to the port? There is a ship just in from Philadelphia, which should be unloading still.”
Indeed, when they turned the corner by the Customs House onto the waterfront, they found a great-bellied merchantman with the American colors snapping at the masthead. Gangs of porters were lugging long shallow packing cases down the gangplank—so heavy that two men were needed to heft each case.
“Muskets,” said Pascal. “American made, of the first quality. Two thousand, six hundred and eighty of them—I saw the bill of lading myself. Of course there are casks of powder to match. And by way of a compliment, the ship will leave her ballast here.”
“Oh?” said the doctor.
“The ballast is lead,” said Pascal. “To be remolded into musket balls.”
“Of course,” said the doctor. “Why did I need to ask?” In fact the only aspect which mildly surprised him was the port of call. Since the withdrawal of the English there had been a steady stream of American ships delivering muskets, powder and shot to Gonaives.
In the afternoon, when the doctor waited upon Toussaint at the Governor’s house, he found the general busy examining a group of white children, scions of the landowners on the northern plain, who were supposed to have been preparing for their first communion. Toussaint was not pleased with their performance, did not find their answers ready or confident enough. They must study their catechism much harder, he admonished them as he sent them out, for he meant to see them again, on Sunday at the church.
It struck the doctor that if Toussaint had leisure to preoccupy himself with devotional matters, the time might be right for him to ask leave to travel to Vallière. Approaching with his hat in his hand, he put the question.
“No,” Toussaint said at once. “No, I shall want you here.” He tilted his head to peer out the window at the angle of the sun. “It is already Friday, and you would be absent for four days at least—No, I cannot spare you, now.