Master of the Crossroads - Madison Smartt Bell [41]
“He’s representative, you see,” Laveaux said. “I must send them to post barefoot, like slaves.”
“Have you much illness?”
“Fortunately no,” Laveaux replied. “The men are well acclimated now—those who survive. The problem is rather starvation. We are dangerously low on both powder and shot. Nothing comes from France, not so much as a word. I write to plead my case, protest my loyalty . . . I would do as well to throw the letters on the fire and hope the smoke might be seen in Paris.”
“And the commissioners?” Maillart said. “Sonthonax can procure you no supplies?”
“Both he and Polverel are recalled to France,” Laveaux said. “The change in government, you know—they must answer for their excesses.” He snorted and spread his arms wide. “I am the highest French authority in all this land!”
The sentinel turned and looked at him strangely, tattered mustachios fluttering in the strong northwest wind from the sea. Laveaux sobered and dropped his arms. He studied a small lizard walking a crevice of mortar in the wall, as if perhaps he’d make a snatch for it.
“Truth,” he said. “I will not surrender. I will retreat from hill to hill still fighting. Albeit soon with muskets used as clubs.”
“Listen.” Maillart’s throat worked; he swallowed a portion of his shame. Below the rampart he saw Alsé holding his own horse: French uniform in the left saddlebag, Spanish in the right. Himself in mufti, uncommitted. The horse itself was a stunted specimen, raised on short commons and hard work. Maillart had turned his coat for the death of a king. It seemed foolish now, unconvincing. His connections to the aristocracy of the ancien régime were far more tenuous than those of Laveaux, who looked at him now, attentively.
“When I—when I . . . left Le Cap,” Maillart swallowed again with some difficulty.
“Yes, man, go on.”
“I entered Spanish service.” It was said. The words came more readily now. “Since then I have been under orders of one of the black chiefs, he who is known generally as Toussaint Louverture—perhaps you may have heard of him.”
Laveaux looked peculiarly interested. “Not only that, but I have tried to send him various messages—through l’Abbé Delahaye. Tell me, do you bring an answer?”
“No—I don’t know—not exactly,” Maillart stuttered. “I don’t know anything about that . . . but it would be like him to open communication on several lines at once. I am to tell you that he would be . . . receptive.”
“Receptive.” Laveaux’s regard was fixed.
“He now commands four thousand troops, or a little more—not the largest force in the interior, yet others might join him were he to change sides. His men are well trained and well disciplined. I myself—”
“Of course, of course,” Laveaux said. “What does he ask?”
Maillart looked over the rampart. Tocquet stood smoking, beside the horse, a tendril of smoke curling up from his straw hat. How painful the sight, the odor, must be to Laveaux in his deprivation. Maillart was grateful that he himself had never really taken to the habit.
“I can only convey him your proposals,” Maillart said. “But . . .”
“In your opinion?”
“He would wish to retain his rank.”
“Which is?”
“In the Spanish service, maréchal du camp.”
“But certainly, or no, a promotion even,” Laveaux said. “Beyond that? You understand there is no money to be offered . . .”
“I believe that none would be asked. Only liberty—general liberty, for all the former slaves.”
“My friend—” Laveaux seized Maillart’s hand in both his own. “C’est assuré.”
Suddenly the two men were hugging and thumping each other on the back. Maillart’s throat constricted, his eyes pricked, he felt himself relieved of his guilt, pardoned for the news he’d brought. He had always liked Laveaux, in spite of politics. But for a moment he broke the embrace and leaned over the wall, frightening the lizard, to call down to Tocquet.
“Xavier, come up quickly, and if you please, bring your cigars.”
Tocquet and Laveaux struck an amiable acquaintance, which rather surprised Maillart, who had known his traveling companion