Read Online All Souls' Rising by Madison Smartt Bell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Madison Smartt Bell
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Social Science, Historical, History, Haiti, Slavery, Caribbean & West Indies, Slave insurrections
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the coach to ask his way…”
“Oh, that fellow.” Arnaud gouged a heel into his horse’s flank and they trotted toward the next cane piece. “Some freethinker, I suppose, just out from France. He called himself a doctor.”
“No close connection then?” Bayon de Libertat said, and added mockingly, “A relative, perhaps?”
Arnaud glanced over his shoulder. “He was lost.” Again he faced toward the cane piece ahead, where the rise and fall of knives set up a painful intermittent flashing in the sun.
“You’re cutting early,” said Bayon de Libertat.
Arnaud grunted. “It’s twelve-month cane…fourteen, maybe.” He pulled up his horse and got down and went through a gap in the hedge to the first cane row. The horse lowered its head into a swirl of dangling reins, which Bayon de Libertat eyed disapprovingly. Arnaud said something curt to the slave nearest him, who chopped a six-inch section from a stalk of cane already felled and presented it to the master with his face turned away. Then he moved on down the row, raising his knife and swinging it down to cut each stalk as near the ground as possible.
Arnaud walked back toward the horses, peeling the section of cane with his penknife. He split off a wedge and offered it to Bayon de Libertat, who chewed it reflectively, looking wise and saying nothing. He thought this cane would only do for rum or very low grade sugar—then again, Arnaud did have his own distillery, he knew that.
“It’s been too dry, as everyone knows,” Arnaud said. He gathered the reins and swung back in the saddle; the horse stirred restively as his weight returned. Arnaud spoke defensively, as if he’d read the other’s mind. “Why, I’ve hardly been able to replant this year.” He waved his arm to the adjoining cane pieces. “Half this land is only in ratoons.”
“ Faut arroser ,” said Bayon de Libertat, shifting the bit of cane to the left side of his jaw where his good teeth matched each other.
“Of course,” Arnaud snapped. “But with what? When there’s no water in the stream itself, or next to none…”
Bayon de Libertat withdrew the splintered cane from his mouth and flicked it into the dirt beside the citron hedge. He kept his silence, looking away. Arnaud swung his horse’s head back toward the central buildings.
T HEY FOUND THE S IEUR M ALTROT sitting on the gallery with his legs stuck out before him and a damp cloth laid over his eyes. Bayon de Libertat took note of the white cockade on the bicorne hat he’d laid aside. The taste of sugar had brightened him slightly, never mind the quality. Arnaud clapped his hands and when his mulattress house servant appeared he ordered coffee. The Sieur Maltrot pulled the compress from his forehead and sat up to track the taut lifting of her hindquarters under the shift as she withdrew. He shot Arnaud a knowing glance, but the host’s expression gave him no encouragement. The pleasantries which followed were accordingly rather stiff.
Shortly the yellow woman came back with a coffee service and a dish of sliced papaya, overripe and almost deliquescent, interrupting the Sieur Maltrot’s string of observations on the weather. As she handed round the cups, his eyes stroked her from head to toe, lingering on the high arches of her feet and her long toes spreading on the plank floor. Bayon de Libertat also looked down. He rubbed the knuckles of the arthritic hand that lay in his lap like a broken-winged bird, and pulled on the fingers to ease their stiffness.
“ Bien ,” Arnaud said, as the woman left. “What news, gentlemen?” His eyes were on the Sieur Maltrot.
“Mostly bad,” Maltrot said cheerfully, stirring spoon after spoon of sugar into his cup. “Mostly bad. Why, Paris is a madhouse, as you’ve surely heard. They’ve made Ogé a hero in the theater, among other things, but let a colonial planter show himself in the streets and likely as not he’ll be stoned or hung.”
Arnaud
“Oh, that fellow.” Arnaud gouged a heel into his horse’s flank and they trotted toward the next cane piece. “Some freethinker, I suppose, just out from France. He called himself a doctor.”
“No close connection then?” Bayon de Libertat said, and added mockingly, “A relative, perhaps?”
Arnaud glanced over his shoulder. “He was lost.” Again he faced toward the cane piece ahead, where the rise and fall of knives set up a painful intermittent flashing in the sun.
“You’re cutting early,” said Bayon de Libertat.
Arnaud grunted. “It’s twelve-month cane…fourteen, maybe.” He pulled up his horse and got down and went through a gap in the hedge to the first cane row. The horse lowered its head into a swirl of dangling reins, which Bayon de Libertat eyed disapprovingly. Arnaud said something curt to the slave nearest him, who chopped a six-inch section from a stalk of cane already felled and presented it to the master with his face turned away. Then he moved on down the row, raising his knife and swinging it down to cut each stalk as near the ground as possible.
Arnaud walked back toward the horses, peeling the section of cane with his penknife. He split off a wedge and offered it to Bayon de Libertat, who chewed it reflectively, looking wise and saying nothing. He thought this cane would only do for rum or very low grade sugar—then again, Arnaud did have his own distillery, he knew that.
“It’s been too dry, as everyone knows,” Arnaud said. He gathered the reins and swung back in the saddle; the horse stirred restively as his weight returned. Arnaud spoke defensively, as if he’d read the other’s mind. “Why, I’ve hardly been able to replant this year.” He waved his arm to the adjoining cane pieces. “Half this land is only in ratoons.”
“ Faut arroser ,” said Bayon de Libertat, shifting the bit of cane to the left side of his jaw where his good teeth matched each other.
“Of course,” Arnaud snapped. “But with what? When there’s no water in the stream itself, or next to none…”
Bayon de Libertat withdrew the splintered cane from his mouth and flicked it into the dirt beside the citron hedge. He kept his silence, looking away. Arnaud swung his horse’s head back toward the central buildings.
T HEY FOUND THE S IEUR M ALTROT sitting on the gallery with his legs stuck out before him and a damp cloth laid over his eyes. Bayon de Libertat took note of the white cockade on the bicorne hat he’d laid aside. The taste of sugar had brightened him slightly, never mind the quality. Arnaud clapped his hands and when his mulattress house servant appeared he ordered coffee. The Sieur Maltrot pulled the compress from his forehead and sat up to track the taut lifting of her hindquarters under the shift as she withdrew. He shot Arnaud a knowing glance, but the host’s expression gave him no encouragement. The pleasantries which followed were accordingly rather stiff.
Shortly the yellow woman came back with a coffee service and a dish of sliced papaya, overripe and almost deliquescent, interrupting the Sieur Maltrot’s string of observations on the weather. As she handed round the cups, his eyes stroked her from head to toe, lingering on the high arches of her feet and her long toes spreading on the plank floor. Bayon de Libertat also looked down. He rubbed the knuckles of the arthritic hand that lay in his lap like a broken-winged bird, and pulled on the fingers to ease their stiffness.
“ Bien ,” Arnaud said, as the woman left. “What news, gentlemen?” His eyes were on the Sieur Maltrot.
“Mostly bad,” Maltrot said cheerfully, stirring spoon after spoon of sugar into his cup. “Mostly bad. Why, Paris is a madhouse, as you’ve surely heard. They’ve made Ogé a hero in the theater, among other things, but let a colonial planter show himself in the streets and likely as not he’ll be stoned or hung.”
Arnaud
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