'Will you die as bravely as my father, sire?'
Christophe frowned at her, then gave a booming laugh. 'When the time comes, mademoiselle. But I am not going to die. I have been betrayed before. I have been chased into the forest before. But then, then I did not have La Ferriere. And I did not have Matt.'
'Then you had the undyi
ng love of your people,' Gislane
said, very quietly.
Christophe's head turned. 'Old woman, you have served your purpose. Remember that.'
She would not lower her eyes. 'As you have served yours, Henry Christophe.'
'Eh? Eh? My purpose is to make this pack of lazy niggers into a nation. That is my task. Destiny gave me that task.'
'Destiny commanded you to be a legend, Henry,' Gislane said, still speaking quietly. 'You are that, and in your own lifetime. Destiny required that your people be given an example, a man always to remember. You will always be remembered. La Ferriere will always be remembered. Sans Souci will always be remembered.'
'Bah,' Christophe shouted. 'La Ferriere will stand, forever.
'As will your memory, Henry. But the girl was right, just now. She said you know only fighting, bloodshed, warfare. Your people want peace. And you cannot give them that. You can only give them your memory, for when next they have to fight.'
He glared at her, then threw down his knife, pushed back his chair. 'You are a stupid old woman. And she . . .' He flung out his hand, pointing at Cartarette. 'She wishes only to avenge herself. I know not how you have put up with them this time, Matt. They should be flogged.' He got up. 'Come with me.'
He left the room, and Dick raised his eyebrows at the women before following. Christophe stalked across the courtyard and into the maproom. 'Out,' he bawled at the clerks waiting there. 'Get out. You are all spies, all revolutionaries. Out.'
The men glanced at each other, at Dick, and then sidled from the room. Dick closed the door.
'They think I am finished,' Christophe said. 'Even the
mamaloi.
There is faith for you. Do you think I am finished, Dick?'
‘I
will defend La Ferriere for you, sire.'
'That is no answer.' He frowned at the white man. 'Or is it, indeed, your answer?' He smiled. 'A thousand men, for a hundred days. Therefore, as we are less than five hundred men, we should be able to withstand a siege for two hundred days. Am I right?'
'You are right, sire.'
'But even two hundred days will be insufficient, if my enemies are left to conspire against me. No, no. We must use the citadel as a rallying point for the people who remain faithful to me. There will be many thousands of those. We will despatch messengers, to every part of the country. Yes. We will negotiate with Boyer. We will . . .' The frown was back. 'You do not believe the people will rally to me?'
'I do not know, sire.'
Christophe walked to the window to look at the courtyard; his entire body seemed to freeze, until his arm slowly came up. 'But what is that? I told La Chat to rest my men.'
Dick ran to the door. The entire garrison was lined up, under arms. Behind them waited the women and the children. His own serving girls were there. And Cartarette?
She stood in the doorway, watching the preparations. Watching Colonel La Chat marching across the courtyard towards him.
'What is the meaning of this parade. Colonel?' Dick demanded. 'You are under no orders to leave the fortress.'
'The men wish to leave, General.'
'Leave? Where can they be as safe as in La Ferriere?'
'There is no safety here, General. We cannot withstand the nation.'
'The nation?' Christophe bellowed, joining Dick in the doorway. 'A few conspirators, who have turned the heads of the people. We will soon deal with them, Colonel. Then, then, will I remember those who have been faithful to me.'
'My apologies, sire,' La Chat said. 'The
m
amaloi
has told us you will not rule again.'
'You'd listen to the ramblings of an old woman?'
'She is the
mamaloi,
sire. You have believed her, long enough.'
'Too long,' Christophe shouted. 'Too long. Where is she?'
'She prays, sire,' La Chat said. 'The men believe her.'
'And you?'
'I believe her also,' La Chat faced Dick. 'You have commanded us, faithfully and well, these past four years, General Warner. We invite you to accompany us. We have been offered a place in the army of General Boyer in the reuniting of Haiti. We would march under your command.'
Dick frowned at him. Here was loyalty. But where was
his
loyalty? 'You'd desert your Emperor?'
'He will rule no more,' La Chat repeated. 'My men will not wait.'
'Go with them, Dick,' Christophe said. 'You have served we, faithfully and well, these past six years. I release you from your allegiance.'
Dick hesitated, looked across the courtyard at Cartarette. She was looking at him, but he could not tell the expression in her eyes; at this distance. Yet did she still wear nothing more than her housegown. She had never doubted his decision.
'You saved my life, my reason, my dignity, sire,' he said.
‘I
will serve you while you live.'
'Aye,' Christophe said. 'Would I had but a hundred more like you, Dick. Well, La Chat? What are you waiting for?'
The Colonel hesitated, then turned on his heel and marched back to his men. He mounted, and the dragoons mounted with him; the Colonel raised his arm, and the regiment moved forward; the women and children with their dogs and chickens, walked behind.
Dick felt a thickness in his throat he had never known before. It was all so dignified. They had not turned on Christophe, and murdered him, as true revolutionaries might have done. They had simply marched away from him. He did not dare look at the Emperor.
'A thousand men,' Christophe said. 'For a hundred days. Well then, Dick, two men for fifty thousand days. We shall die of old age.' He was looking at Cartarette. 'But there are also two women.'
He left the doorway, strode across the courtyard. Through the opened gateway, the sound of the horses picking their way down the hillside still rose to them. Dick had heard it often before, coming the other way. Now he wondered at the absence of booted feet, striking the wooden floors surrounding the walls.
He followed Christophe. The Emperor paused before the door to the commandant's house. 'If we are taken,' he said, 'you will be raped, and then murdered. Slowly. Why did you not go with them?'
'I have been raped before, sire,' Cartarette said.
He snorted. 'Where is the
mamaloi?
'She returned to her own chambers,' Cartarette said. 'Sire . . .' She flushed. She had never directly addressed him before, since the day he had sent her father to his execution.
'Well?'
'She but spoke the truth as she saw it.'
Christophe stamped through the curtained doorway. Dick ran at his heels, and Cartarette followed him, holding his arm as the curtain was thrown aside.
Gislane sat on her chair, facing them. The room was as gloomy as ever, the candles burned low.
'You have betrayed me,' Christophe shouted, his voice echoing. 'I will have you flogged.'
The woman did not reply.
'Oh, my God,' Cartarette said.
Christophe crossed the floor, slowly. He stretched out his hand, and then withdrew it again.
'Even she,' he said, 'has deserted me.'
'Or she waits for you,' Dick said. 'In her own heaven.'
Christophe glanced at him, and looked back at the woman. Once again his arm extended. This time he took the
mamaloi's
hand, and raised it to his lips, before letting it fall again. Then he turned on his heel and left the room.
Cartarette went closer. 'She is not marked,' she said.
'Gislane must have had sufficient poisons,' Dick said.
'She has told me she had been your father's lover,' Cartarette said. 'That she had been one of the leaders of the revolution here. That she had made you what you are.'
'All true,' Dick said. 'All true.'
'And now she is dead.' Cartarette sighed. 'She must have been very lonely, at the end. Will you bury her?'
'Aye. There are spades in the armoury.' He turned, and checked at the explosion.
'Oh, my God,' Cartarette said again.
Dick ran from the room, thrust the curtain aside, pounded across the courtyard into the commandant's house. He paused in the front room, inhaling the smell of cordite, gazed at the table; the covers were still set, Christophe's half-eaten meal still scattered. But in the centre of the table, there was a canvas sack, and to the sack was attached a note.
He pulled it free, opened it. 'Take your woman and leave this place,' Christophe had written. 'The money is for you. And remember me.'
He released the cord securing the bag, looked at the gold coin, heard Cartarette.
'There must be a thousand pounds,' she whispered.
'Ten thousand, more like.' He pulled open the door to the inner room, looked at the Emperor. Christophe lay on his side, the pistol still in his hand, his head a gaping wound. His jacket was open, the snapped cord he had worn around his neck trailed onto his lap, but there was no sign of the silver bullet. No doubt it was still lodged in his brain.
13
The Crisis
The music ballooned the length of the great withdrawing room on Hilltop, escaped the opened windows to cascade across the verandahs, flooded down the hill to the town and the slave village beyond, caressing the logies with its dying cadence. At the bottom of the hill the triple time was almost restful, lulling many a piccaninny to sleep.
Inside the Great House it drowned thought, obscured decency, left manners exposed, without reason, without objective. The ladies whirled, skirts held high in their right hands, left arms tight on their partners' waists, bodices sagging as shoulders and breasts glistened with perspiration, hair rapidly uncoiling itself in the frenzy of the gyrations. Men were no less abandoned, white-gloved fingers biting into taffeta waists, or naked arms, seeking every opportunity to let thigh brush thigh in the frenzy of the dance, smiling their sexual adoration into the equally smiling faces only inches away from their own.
The entire room became a vast emotional storm; it communicated itself even to those not dancing, seated in the chairs which had been pushed against the walls this night, or lounging beside them, the women with heads close together, fans fluttering, destroying reputations with effortless envy, the men, also mouth to ear, shrouded in tobacco smoke, building hopes and creating fantasies, exchanging experiences and perpetuating scandals. Even the servants seemed part of the evening, for the white-gowned girls waited in a cluster in the arch to the hall, trays laden with sangaree, ready to dart forward and refresh the overheated whit
e people the moment the
music stopped, conscious always of being under the disapproving scrutiny of Boscawen should they falter or slacken their efforts; his cane waited in the kitchens for any maid who caught his eye, for whatever reason.
'Eighteen thousand pounds?' Phyllis Kendrick gaped at Tony Hilton's smiling face. 'Why, 'tis a fortune.'
'Money, my dear Phyllis.' Tony brought her close to prevent her shoulder cannoning into a fellow dancer, held her there for a moment. 'Money is for spending.'
'But now . . . Toby says cane will never recover.'
'Oh, bah. Prices are affected by the uncertainty. No one knows what that pack of lunatics in Whitehall will do next. But once we have made it perfectly clear that we shall not submit to their blackmail, that we are capable of running our own affairs, that if pushed too far we will seek our own remedies, why, you'll see.'
The music was dying. He had arranged it so that they finished their last rotation in a corner by the doors to the verandah.
'But . . . eighteen thousand pounds,' she said again, allowing herself to be guided into the cool darkness. 'For an old building?'
'Cheaper than rebuilding. Most of the stand was still solid. You'll see tomorrow.'
She stood at the verandah rail, looked out at the darkness, and then at the twinkling lights of the town below them. 'A race meeting, on Hilltop. I attended one as a girl.'
'You told me.' He was behind her, leaning slightly forward so that he touched her. His hands rested on her shoulders, gently kneading the flesh.