Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [206]
He found no smile in Toussaint’s face, not even a hidden one. His father’s feathered bicorne had been dropped on the ground, and dust caked in the sweat on the red cloth that bound his head. Toussaint’s eyes shot over Placide’s shoulder, off into the recess of pale desert, with its thorny scrub withering under the white ball of afternoon sun.
“We are masters of a graveyard,” Toussaint said in a low tone. “I cannot number our losses today, no more than I can count the deaths among the enemy.” He covered Placide’s left hand with his right. The dry warmth was somewhat comforting, despite the words. “Nor we nor the enemy wins this day. No one wins at war.”
Fort de Joux, France
November 1802
October 27, 1802
I have received your letter of 26 Vendémiaire, concerning the State prisoner Toussaint Louverture. The First Consul has charged me to let you know that you answer for his person with your head. I have no need to add anything to an order so formal and so definite. ToussaintLouverture has no right to any regard beyond that which humanity demands. Hypocrisy is a vice as familiar to him as honor and loyalty are to yourself . . .
Baille felt himself flush, though not from the compliment the Minister of Marine had strained into his warning. The paper rattled in his hand. It was the wind, the draft that sucked around the edges of his casement, guttered the pale flames on his hearth and the weaker one of the candle he had lit to assist the faint light of this wintry day. He flattened the sheet onto the table; it stuck with dampness to his palm.
“You will have noticed yourself that he seeks to deceive you, and you were effectively deceived, when you admitted one of his satellites, disguised as a doctor, into his presence . . .”
But that was not me! Baille slapped back from the table, the letter still pinned under the meat of his hand. Still, he knew the reply to any excuse that he might make: You are answerable for his person with your head. He pressed his free hand to his jowl. Dormoy had been no satellite of Toussaint, but a mere curiosity seeker—Baille, and others after him, had taken pains to assure themselves of that. And it was Colomier, not Commandant Baille, who had been imposed upon in that affair. But the answerable head did certainly belong to Baille.
You must not stop at the steps you have already taken to assure yourselfthat he has neither money, nor jewels. You must search everywhereto assure yourself of that; be certain that he has not hidden or buried anything in his prison. Take away his watch, if he enjoys the use of it; you may furnish him one of those wooden clocks, of the cheapest price, which will serve as well to indicate the passage of time. If he is ill, the health officer best known to you should see him and care for him—only him, only when it is altogether necessary, and only in your presence . . .
Shrinking from the pettiness of the instructions, Baille shifted on his splintery wooden chair, to loosen the band of his belt, which cut into his belly. His bowels were uneasy, though not from illness, he thought, only nerves. The business of Dormoy, foolish and inconsequential as it might have been, had conveyed this trouble both to him and to his captive. His head was heavy on his neck, and ached a little, behind the eyes. He leaned forward again, into the pressure of his belt, read on.
The only means Toussaint might have had to see his lot ameliorated would have been to cast off his dissimulation. His personal interests, the religious sentiments with which he ought to be penetrated, to expiate all the evil he has done, imposed upon him the duty of truth; but he is far estranged from fulfilling this duty, and by his continual dissimulation, he . . .
Baille revolved his head toward the window. They expected results from him, then, the Minister of Marine Decrès, and the First Consul whose mere mouthpiece the minister was—expected him to succeed where Bonaparte’s best interrogator had failed. If Caffarelli, with all his famous subtlety, could not winkle an honest confession