Dewey Lambdin - Havoc`s Sword

"I will do it… someday, Citizen," Hainaut eagerly vowed.

"Bon! For now, though, concentrate on British shipping. The Directory has disavowed our war on American trade as Victor Hugues's doing." Desfourneaux paused to shrug. "Perhaps in a few months, they will again be 'good prize,' who knows? The last packet that slipped through the blockade bore no news about an Anglo-American alliance, or an American declaration of war, so, for now, we will not take actions that goad the 'rustics' into taking hands with the 'Bloodies,' nor declaring open war. But some victories over the many small cutters and sloops of the British blockade would not go amiss, n'est-ce pas?"

"I am looking forward to them, Citizen Desfourneaux, and thank you, again, for your trust in me," Hainaut declared, knocking back his glass of wine in celebration, now that he knew (for the moment) where he stood in the Directory's estimation, and firmly vowing to himself that he would do nothing to lower that estimation; would indeed wreak such havoc on the British that the Directory raised their opinions of him, paving the way for even higher rank, and fame.

An intricate ormulu clock chimed on the marble-topped sideboard in Desfourneaux's pleasant office in the upper levels of the grim Fort Fleur d'Epee, and the man slapped his leather-bound workbooks shut in a fussily pleased fashion. Desfourneaux rose and poured both of their wineglasses full, again, gave Hainaut a playful little smile, and then crooked a finger to command him out onto the stone balcony overlooking the courtyard of the fort.

"Now that our business is at an end, Capitaine Hainaut, we will witness the end of another, less fortunate, bit of business. Do bring the bottle… this may take some time," Desfourneaux directed.

The fort's massive gates had been flung open to allow the townspeople and islanders inside. A battalion of the garrison stood rigid, under arms, as the tumbrils rolled into the large courtyard, drawn by artillery horses. The tall wooden wheels of the tumbrils groaned and clattered on the cobblestones, wobbling on their hubs; the un-greased axles keened dirge-like, and the fairly open-woven wicker frames atop the tumbrils' beds shook and trembled, in tune with the men and women who rode them, wide-eyed and refusing to believe, as the short line of big carts slowly rolled to the foot of the steps that led to the high wood platform, and the waiting guillotine.

The crowd began to titter and jeer, to cat-call and curse those people in the carts. The soldiers were allowed to raise their muskets and shake them in anger, too, as the taunts of the crowd built in rage and volume, as the first of the condemned were led or dragged aloft to the executioners, to answer for their crimes of treason, treachery, the betrayal of so many gallant officers, warrants, and beloved sailors lost with the convoy, and that hero of the Republic who had succumbed, not to superior force, but had been sold out to the despised British, for "Bloodies"' gold.

The heavy, slanted blade rose slowly, foot by agonising foot as if to draw things out for the mob's screaming pleasure, before the pincer-like release mechanism locked in place. The names, the crimes, the sentences were screeched out over the crowd roar, the lanyard was tautened, and then the blade flashed down to slam its great weight and its razor-sharp edge into the bottom of the blocks. And the heads of the criminals and traitors flew off, to land in the bushel-baskets, teeth in those harvested heads still chattering, lips still writhing with a final prayer or protest, eyes rolling like a slaughtered heifer's, and a gout, a fountain, an eruption of blood gushing outward as the hearts in those "shortened" bodies continued to beat in thudding terror for a moment or two, and members of the crowd howled and shrieked with glee, rushing to catch droplets on scraps of cloth for souvenirs.

Last came the arch-traitor, the one who had betrayed a paragon of the Revolution, his own master. Etienne de Gougne was hauled down from his tumbril, its last occupant, with his shirt open, and his neck bared. His long, Republican locks had been shorn at the nape so nothing would impede the blade. Hands bound behind his back, bound from chest to waist in old, cast-off naval ropes, too, de Gougne tried to struggle even so, thinly screaming his innocence, damning Choundas as a bitter, overly suspicious fool, which protests made the mob shout even louder, booing and laughing at his ridiculous desperation. There was a drum-roll that went on and on for what seemed like a whole minute after Etienne's head was locked in place. The mob liked suspense, those executioners knew. Finally…

Shisshh-thud!-"Hurrah!" and the entertainment was done. "Thus perish all who would spurn the superiority of our glorious Republic," Desfourneaux intoned, one hand lifted over the balcony balustrade like a church noble bestowing his general blessings. "Well, so much for that, Hainaut," he continued, turning amicable. "This puts an end to most of our spies and traitors, for now. Some few may have eluded us, but there is nothing like wholesale executions to run the rest into hiding, or ineffectiveness. We will get the rest eventually. I am nothing if not a patient man," he said with a supremely satisfied sniff, tossing off the rest of his glass of wine.

"I still can't believe that de Gougne, that timid little mouse, could have-" Hainaut dared to say.

"Guillaume Choundas was noted for his nose where spies and reactionaries were concerned," Desfourneaux interrupted. "If in little else of late. I am utterly convinced his instincts were correct. Choundas gone… de Gougne and his suspected collaborators gone? The end of a problem… chop! Ha ha!" Desfourneaux tittered.

Hainaut resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck to assure himself that his head was still attached, and would most likely remain where God intended it, for the nonce.

"You and Capitaine Recamier must dine with me tonight, Hainaut," Desfourneaux happily suggested. "Shall we say at eight, when the heat of the day is dissipated? I have appropriated Choundas's town mansion, so you know the way. I also sleep in your old bed-chamber. What tales it could tell, hein?" he said with a sly leer.

"Well…" Hainaut smirked, shrugging like a man of the world. "Executions, ah…" Desfourneaux frowned, lowering his voice to cordial intimacy. "For some reason they excite me, much as they did the amatory humours of the masses in Paris in the early days. Going at each other in the court balconies, the doorways of Place de Bastille. An affirmation of life in the face of death, perhaps? You are known as one familiar with this island's, ah… pleasures, Hainaut. Maybe you could recommend to me a lady, or ladies, amenable to an evening of dalliance. Clean, mind… no English Pox!" he blushingly quibbled. "Handsome, it goes without saying. Young and pretty, not too tawdry? Not as tender as those your old master preferred, Mon Dieu, non! You understand."

"Completely, Citizen," Hainaut replied, his smirk turning to a knowing leer. "Just the one as a mistress, or a new one each evening? Two, three at a time? French-born, Creole… part-White, or a swart tigress for a change of pace? On Guadeloupe, everything is for sale, anything is possible. And so willing to please, ah! But of course I can aid your search, Citizen!"

Hainaut had whore-mongered for Choundas when succulent prisoners or their tender daughters were unavailable; pimping for a Voice of the Directory could prove equally favourable to his cause. M. Desfourneaux at least had conventional tastes, he suspected, so the courtesans he'd already sampled would suit admirably.

And as long as he pimped, he might as well profit from it. A pact with madames and bordel owners, the girls themselves, could fill his own purse. He contemplated strumming them first, then escorting them to Desfourneaux "prepared for battle" so to speak-with what the British termed "battered buns"?-serving to Desfourneaux his "fresh-served" seconds might prove to be the drollest kind of geste. Overcharge him for island-made sheep-gut cundums…?