All Souls' Rising (52 page)

The ford was passable as she had said, and they crossed it with no difficulty and doubled back on the opposite shore, riding back toward the Spanish town of Dajabón, which they reached just at dusk. The place was without much to recommend it, but both officers were unsure of their next direction. Vaublanc was rather wary of going deeper into Spanish lands while wearing their French uniforms. He thought they might change to civilian dress here in Dajabón, which was a smugglers’ town, but Captain Maillart was loath to go in disguise, if only because he pictured a fine scene when he would dramatically cast off his French coat in the presence of grateful Spanish officers.

They debated this matter for a few moments with no result, then Vaublanc suggested they refresh themselves at the tavern. Better in funds than the captain, Vaublanc ordered drinks for them, and returned to their rickety table with two cups of
tafia
.

“They have no wine at present,” Vaublanc said. “Nor ever have had any, I suspect.”

“I’m glad enough of whatever I can get,” Maillart said, losing no time in warming his inwards with a good gulp from the brim.

He had taken care to seat himself against the wall, and now Vaublanc also hitched his chair around, so that they sat side by side, surveying the room together. Two men were lying on the floor, asleep or drunk or dead perhaps, and three mulatto women were draped against the rough-hewn counter, turbaned heads tilted like flamingos’. A drunken white man kept trying to insert his fingers into the bodice of one of these ladies who as often slapped his hand away. In the corner opposite their own, some black men and a couple of whites were playing dice around a larger table.

“Our troubles are over,” Vaublanc said.

“What do you say?”

Following the other’s gesture, Captain Maillart took note of a white man leaning back into the corner, arms folded across his chest, frowning over the game as it seemed, though it didn’t appear he’d placed a bet. His long greasy black hair was pulled tightly back to the nape of his neck, and his throat was roughened with a week’s dark growth of beard. He wore a white shirt of coarse cloth, loose in the belly and the sleeves and stained with many days of sweat and dirt.

“It’s Xavier Tocquet, look there—” Then Vaublanc was on his feet and speaking louder. “Xavier, well met—” He halted suddenly. Tocquet had jerked upright, away from the wall, and was just slipping a hand into his bloused shirt belly…Captain Maillart laid a hand on his own pistol grip, concealing his movement beneath the table.

“Wait, man,” Vaublanc said. “You know me.”

“Of course,” Tocquet said. “Only you took me by surprise.” He revealed his hands again on the tabletop, each empty. “Come on, then, and bring your drinks.”

The men made space for them to draw up their stools, and Tocquet with a gesture invited them to join in the dice game.

“I fear I’ve played my stake already,” the captain said, demurring.

Vaublanc put up a coin, and watched the play sidelong as he explained their situation to Tocquet.

“Well, your moment is propitious,” Tocquet said when he had done. “Though I’d counsel you to keep clear of San Domingo City for the moment…go instead to San Raphael. They are fitting out new regiments there—to invade you,” he smiled, showing the tips of his teeth, “or for you to invade them, would it be?
Comme vous voulez
. In any case they will be glad to find white officers.”

“
Parfait
,” Vaublanc said, smiling fixedly as one of the black men gathered in the coin he had staked. Tocquet reached into his shirt again, took out three slim black cheroots and offered them to the French officers.

“
Merci bien
,” said Captain Maillart, leaning toward the candle flame. Inhaling, he coughed on the strong smoke. “
Mais…un moment
. You’re suggesting I command nigger troops?”

Across the table, two of the black men grew quiet and watchful—Maillart wondered if they’d reacted to the sudden stiffness of his tone or if they understood his French.

“I am suggesting that you serve under a nigger general,” Tocquet said with a slightly contemptuous bite. He turned to Vaublanc. “You might have known the man—Toussaint Bréda. He had been coachman and
commandeur
at Haut du Cap, on the lands of the Comte de Noé.”

“I might know him by sight, perhaps,” Vaublanc said. “I certainly did not know he was so elevated…but didn’t he sign one of those absurd letters that were sent in from the plain?”

“That I can’t say. But he is a general officer now,” Tocquet said, “in the Spanish army. Supposing I had a taste for the military life, which I do
not
, I had sooner serve under him than any of your Spanish boobies. I tell you this because you asked.” His dark eyes snapped toward Captain Maillart. “Of course, you may do as you like, and be damned to you.”

The captain swallowed. He felt too foolishly disoriented to follow up the challenge. “I meant you no offense,” he said haltingly. “You see I am a stranger in this place…and to these times.”

“As are we all.” Tocquet reached out his hand; the captain grasped it. “I do not take offense so easily,” Tocquet said. “Good luck to you, whatever you choose.”

“I think I have not ever been to San Raphael,” Vaublanc said.

Tocquet toyed with the frayed brim of the large hat that lay on the table near his drinking cup. “I will be going there myself before long, though not directly,” he said, showing his thin smile. “I have business with the quartermaster there—I and my companions…” he glanced at the two black men who had grown wary when the captain first spoke. “I might offer you an escort if you wish it—if you are not in too great haste.”

Vaublanc looked toward Captain Maillart, who hitched his shoulders uncertainly.

“Where have you left your horses?” Tocquet said.

Vaublanc flipped his hand over casually. “Just there, outside the door.”

Tocquet clicked his tongue. “You are carefree…there is a stable on the next street which would be much more trustworthy.”

O
UTSIDE THE INN IT WAS COMPLETELY DARK
and beneath a sickle moon a small wind gently combed the palm crowns. On the opposite side of the street two dirty white men were fighting empty-handed, but they were so incapacitated by drink they could scarce find each other with their fists. Captain Maillart was much relieved to find the horses still where they had left them. He and Vaublanc unhitched the animals and walked toward the stable which Tocquet had recommended to them.

“Will we go and offer our services to this black general then?” the captain said.

“I think we will,” Vaublanc said. “I’m a stranger to these times as much as you, but Tocquet always falls on his feet, wherever the moment may drop him.”

“I can well believe that,” said Captain Maillart. “What was the name of this black fellow, Toussaint? Toussaint what?”

“I don’t recall,” Vaublanc said, cheerfully enough. “What does it matter?”

Chapter Thirty-Two

T
HE NIGHT WAS THICKENED BY THE CLOUDS
circling the ring of hills that shelved in Habitation Thibodet, and toward dawn it rained but only a little. Lying in the sag of his roped bed, Doctor Hébert was vaguely aware of the thickening of raindrops on the roof, as he drowsed between consciousness and dream. The light sound lulled him and he slept more deeply. When he woke again it was good daylight and the housemaid Zabeth was setting a tray with coffee on the floor beside the bed, turning her shy smile from him as she did so.

The doctor dressed, taking sips of coffee from the demitasse. On the gallery, Zabeth served him another cup, some bread and a jam made from mango. The doctor peeled a banana and ate half of it. Presently Delsart joined him and without speaking helped himself to coffee.

A mass of rain cloud crawled easterly over the hills like a great gray caterpillar, toward the peaks of the Cibao mountains, which were sheathed in a pale fog. To the west, the sun had shot the dissipating vapors with white light. The doctor finished his banana and folded the peel on his plate.

“
Comment allez-vous aujour d’hui?
” he inquired of Delsart.

“
Pas mal, pas mal
…”

In fact it did appear that the
gérant
’s health had taken a turn for the better. The sores on his face had healed to pinkish patches of new skin. The doctor had him under a mercury treatment for the pox, and had frightened him away from the quarters by telling him that if he did not altogether abstain from venery, an amputation would certainly be necessary to save his life. He had also contrived to limit Delsart to a pint of tafia a day. If altogether deprived of rum, the
gérant
began to hallucinate and turned completely useless.

“You’ll go to the coffee again today?”

“
Ouais, bien sûr
,” Delsart said. He brushed a crumb from his cheek and stood up, reaching for his tattered hat. The doctor got up also, nodding to Delsart, and walked down the path to the infirmary.

This building he had caused to be erected as soon as Maillart’s party had left the plantation, overriding Delsart’s complaints about the loss of
main-d’oeuvre
. Delsart had maintained that the institution of a hospital would only lead to more malingering, but in fact, the opposite seemed to hold: after a few days of treatment and recuperation, the ill or injured performed much better than before, and the morale of the whole
atelier
seemed boosted. Besides, the infirmary was far from luxurious, nothing more than a rectangular shelter built on the model of the slave cabins, but about three times their size. One wall had been left open to the air, with palmiste blinds that could be lowered in case of a blowing rain.

Today, the blinds were rolled up to the eaves. The doctor had ordered the making of six rope beds similar to the one he used in the
grand’case
, but only two of them were occupied at present. At least two other women, erstwhile inamorata of Delsart, were sick with the pox, but the doctor could spare no mercury for them. Delsart was essential; he’d have been helpless in the management of the plantation without the
gérant
’s aid. Unfortunately, Toussaint’s repertory as a
dokté-feuilles
had included no specifics for venereal diseases.

He first approached the bed of a twenty-year-old Senegalese with a pair of nasty puncture wounds, one in the forearm and the other in his calf. This one had a tale of being knocked over and slashed by a boar in the jungle, but the doctor did not much credit it. He had learned the difference between knife wounds and tusk wounds, and he thought the injuries more likely came from a fight, though he saw no use in prosecuting the matter.

He changed the Senegalese’s leg bandage and applied a fresh poultice of herbs. While he was so engaged, Zabeth came from the kitchen shed and served the
tisane
he had ordered for the other patient, an elderly slave who was sick with the grippe. When the old woman had received her bowl, the doctor beckoned Zabeth over and watched as she redressed the Senegalese’s arm wound, nodding approvingly as he stroked his short beard to its point. He was pleased with Zabeth; the girl was quick and clean and gentle, and she had talent as a nurse.

A wind was blowing pleasantly from the west and by the time the doctor left the infirmary, the sky had cleared all around the horizon so that the jungled peaks of the eastern mountains were sharply etched against the bluing sky. Already it was beginning to be hot, but the breeze cooled the sweat that sprang on him as he proceeded. He walked through the
carrés
of cane, untended for the moment, and climbed the terraces of coffee trees toward the edge of the jungle.

The
atelier
had started on the highest terrace and the slaves were picking their way down. It was much easier work than cane, so today the singing was spontaneous. Delsart had not even bothered to carry a whip up the hill. The doctor exchanged a word or two with him. He selected a red pod from the basket of the slave Politte, cut the husk with his thumbnail and peeled it back. The coffee taste was fresh and lively in the opaque jelly stuff surrounding the seed, when he popped the bean into his mouth. There was something he heard, though, a beat behind the singing. The doctor made a cutting motion and Delsart called out for the singers to cease.

In the decline of the
gérant
’s voice, the doctor slowly turned his head from side to side, straining his ears, but there was nothing, only the sigh of the western breeze. Delsart looked at him curiously. The small oval leaves of the coffee trees fanned back, then righted themselves as the wind relaxed them.

“
C’etait rien
,” the doctor said, blinking his reply to Delsart’s shrug. The slaves took up their song again as the doctor walked back down the hill.

He crossed the main compound and entered the cane mill. The slave Barthelmy was in charge of two others who were cleaning and repairing the refinery gear, which had been left in sticky disarray since the last pressing. They were also supposed to go over the equipment necessary for the refinement of white sugar. Doctor Hébert had insisted that Delsart teach him this process, though in truth they were now too short-handed to work both cane and coffee simultaneously. Habitation Thibodet had fared much better than most plantations of the north, but many of the slaves had run away, if not murdered or abducted, so that they now commanded only two-thirds of the original workforce.

The poles of the disused
moulin de bêtes
swung down from the central turn-peg. Barthelmy was scrubbing the interlocked grooves of the cane press cylinders with a stiff brush. He stepped back as the doctor approached, and swung a pole to turn the press, exposing new-brightened metal. Doctor Hébert smiled at him and left the mill.

He went to the stable, saddled his horse, and rode out on the cattle trail behind the main compound. In a scabbard by his knee he carried a big
coutelas
which he used to chop the overgrowth from the path—weekly the jungle tried to take it back. Every so often he stopped to gather useful herbs. Allowing for these pauses, it took him nearly two hours to reach the area where the sheep were foraging.

Again in despite of Delsart’s protest, the doctor had diverted two slaves in their prime, Coffy and Jean-Simon, to serve as shepherds—that because he was quite distressed over the drastic diminution of the flock over the months that he’d been absent, since Thibodet had died. But today, no more of the sheep had been lost, and three new lambs were safely born.

Coffy and Jean-Simon seemed very glad to see him. He had brought them food, manioc flour and some dried peas that they could boil. But Coffy, especially, seemed distinctly ill at ease. He asked the doctor if he had brought his pistol. The doctor said that he had not.

He thought no more of this matter until, partway down the trail, he heard the drumming start again. It was faint and very distant, but unmistakable—no longer to be dismissed as an illusion, as he had done among the coffee trees. He thought for a moment, then doubled back on the trail and returned to his pair of herdsmen.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His tone was sharp. Coffy rested his stave on the ground and looked down at the dirt between his bare toes.

“How long since it began?” the doctor said.

“Only since this morning,” Jean-Simon muttered.

The doctor cocked his head again. He did not understand much about the drums, but this sound seemed fuller-throated, deeper, more like the drums of Biassou’s followers than the harsh dry rattling beat he had heard coming out of Jeannot’s camp once upon a time. Ought that to be a reassurance?

“We had better bring the sheep back into the corral,” he decided.

Jean-Simon and Coffy both looked visibly relieved. The doctor stayed to see them organize the movement, but Jean-Simon had been training a little dog to drive the sheep, so they didn’t seem to require his help. Only each must carry one of the newborn lambs in his arms, because they were too small to make the pace. The doctor took the third lamb over his saddlebow and preceded the others down the trail.

As he rode, the drumming became less distinct behind him and, by the time he reached the main compound, he could no longer hear it at all. Going at a faster pace, he had arrived well in advance of the herdsmen and the few remaining sheep. It seemed useless to raise any alarm, but he could not quite think what to do. All was quiet in the compound now, with the work party resting in the quarters, waiting out the midday heat. This term of the old Code Noir was one the doctor scrupulously observed, which was one reason he was infinitely more popular with the
atelier
than Thibodet had been.

He stabled his horse, and since he did not know what else to do with the new lamb, he carried it with him into the office behind the cane mill. The lamb nudged bluntly into the doctor’s armpit, hunting the teat. He set it down on the floor, where it balanced on its bunched legs, heavy head swaying. The doctor took one of the heavy mold-spotted ledgers from a shelf and opened it across the desk. Of late he had taken over all account-keeping, which Delsart had reduced to a sad confusion. The doctor had rearranged affairs into three books: one for coffee, one for cane, a third for provisions and the livestock. Now he dipped a pen and recorded the new births, two ewe lambs and the little ram who had now drifted into a corner and stood bleating at the join of the walls.

It was very hot in the close brick room, although the large shutter had been thrown completely clear of the window. The doctor finished his entry and fanned the pages back. Delsart’s uncertain watery handwriting lay in webs across the sheets, translucent from his weak, diluted ink. The doctor raised his head, almost before he heard the sound, and then a woman’s voice broke into a crazy ululation somewhere in the quarters.

The doctor dropped his pen and rushed into the yard. Coffy and Jean-Simon were just coming in, the little dog yapping at the tails of the hot and dusty sheep. At the doctor’s sign, the two slaves hushed the barking. At the same time the woman’s wailing stopped and in that crisp passage of silence the doctor heard drumming again in the distant hills. Then the woman’s voice again took up the cry, her thread of terrorized notes interrupted now by lower hoarser voices which perhaps were trying to calm her. But all was confusion: looking down the trail the doctor saw the whole
atelier
swarming out of the cabins.

Delsart was coming around from the rear of the
grand’case
, rubbing his eyes wearily. Jean-Simon and Coffy stared at the doctor to see what he might do. Doctor Hébert waved them on to the corral—they turned from him and began herding the sheep through the gateposts.

“They’re coming!” It was that woman’s cracking voice, crying somewhere among the agitated slaves.

“Quiet, then,” the doctor said loudly, but no one seemed to notice him. Delsart had just come up. “It may be nothing,” the doctor said to the
gérant
. “They may well pass us by.”

Delsart frowned and spat to the side. The petals of a bloodshot flower had unfolded on the white of his left eye. “Whether they come or not, we had better do something or our blacks will all bolt.”

“To join them?” the doctor said.

“Not this crew,” said Delsart. “These are afraid…”

“All right,” the doctor said. “Get them together and bring them all up to the yard. Women and children, everyone. Break out the cane knives for the men as well.” The doctor started for the
grand’case
, then called back over his shoulder. “Bring beanpoles too. Beanpoles and twine.”

By the time Delsart had marshaled all the slaves into the compound, the doctor had opened the storeroom and taken out the powder and shot and what firearms there were: five rusting pistols (apart from his own), two old smooth-bore muskets, four bird guns and his own rifled piece. He rowed the weapons out on the gallery floor, while the crowd in the yard shuffled and breathed. The doctor straightened, laid a hand on the gallery rail as he drew breath into his tightening chest.

“There is nothing to fear,” he said loudly. “I don’t think we will be attacked. If we are,” he picked up a musket, “we will be ready.”

He tossed the musket to Delsart, who caught it one-handed, leaning forward to snatch it before it hit the ground. The doctor picked up the second musket and passed it butt-first to Jean-Simon.

“Only remember,” he said, raising his voice another notch. “There is nowhere to run. Here is the safest place for all of you.” He lifted his own rifle and thumped the stock on the gallery floorboards. “If we stand fast, they cannot overwhelm us—they will not even dare to try.”

He turned aside. The slaves were quiet at first, then came the muttering of whispered conversations. Delsart came creaking up the gallery steps. “Do you believe that?”

“No,” the doctor said. “I had to tell them something. You’d better start them making cartridges. Jean-Simon and Coffy, they are quick. Have the other men make pikes from the cane knives and the beanpoles.”