October 1777, St Germain-en-Laye,
Northern France
I stepped off the ship behind the captain. The sun was high, but it was not as hot as home; there was a sharp wind from the sea that seemed to cut through me. After nearly two months aboard ship, dry land felt strange; hard and unmoving under my feet. In my hand held tight was the tiny pebble from the river at home, the only thing left of my old life.
I had spent half a year as a slave. I knew I had been lucky in many respects. I had not worked on a sugar plantation, forced to cut cane from first light, or in the refineries that burned night and day. I never had to wear shackles or chains and I had a bed to sleep on, rather than the floor. But I knew every second, every moment of every day that I was not free. I tried looking for my family, and heard only bad news or no news. I looked for Merle, but she was long gone.
I had given up thinking my father would send for me. I had given up on everything. I learned to keep my mouth shut and my face blank.
The man at the customs office waved his quill pen towards me as he spoke to the captain. “This boy is yours?”
The captain nodded. “I am delivering him to the Marquis Alexandre Antoine Davy de la Pailleterie.”
The customs officer stood up and looked at me. I was at least a head and shoulders taller than him. And I was taller than Captain Langlois. For the first time in half a year I drew myself up as tall as I could and looked a man straight in the eyes. I was more than their equal. Very soon I would be Comte Thomas-Alexandre Dumas Davy de la Pailleterie, and no one would own me ever again.
I took the coach to the address my father had given me. I remembered him telling me about his castle, his land, but instead of a sprawling estate I arrived at a tall gleaming whitewashed house in a new town west of Paris. There were four floors, with windows either side on each one. My father was waiting for me in front of the shiny black door, but at first I barely recognised him. He looked much older than I remembered, paler skinned now and dressed in such fine clothes. I kept my face, just as I had done as a slave, stony still.
“Thomas-Alexandre!” There was a kind of catch in his voice. “You cannot know how much I have missed you.”
I nodded, like the footman I had been to Captain Langlois. I would not give him any credit for saving me.
“Come, come, my boy! I have so much to show you – not the castle, no.” He put a finger to his lips as if he was about to tell a secret. “I have mortgaged it! I thought you and I would do better with... Come, let me show you.”
He led me to the stables at the back of the house. That was what he had meant, then, I thought, when he had said there was money here in France; there had been no money, only land he had been able to sell... As we came to the stables, though, my attention was seized by the sight of a magnificent grey horse, saddled and ready. “He is yours, my boy. All yours. I do believe you have earned him. His name is Gunsmoke.”
I hate to admit it, but my father close to won me over with money. It wasn’t only the horse, who moved like a dream; it was the clothes, the fine jacket, the embroidered waistcoat and the black leather riding boots, so shiny I could see my face in them.
In my time as a slave, and then on the boat, I had imagined the things I would say to him. The curses I would bring down on his head. Now, seeing him so keen to please, I felt almost sorry for him. I could not help it. I threw my arms round him. He was, after all, the only family I had.
Father took me to Paris, a few hours away by coach, and showed me off. We visited the theatre, the shops. He bought me a fine sword with a silk tassel to hang from my belt. I must admit it felt good in my hand, light as driftwood and gleaming when it caught the light. I wished I could have shown it to my friends back on the beach at Jeremie. They would never have believed their eyes.
Father promised to enrol me in a military academy, where I would learn how to use it properly, and he kept his promise. I was due to start at La Boissiere in a matter of days.
“Only the best for my son,” he said, rather too loudly, as we entered the large building that housed the academy in the centre of town. “They only teach the children of the crème de la crème, the very best of society!”
I wished the ground would swallow me up. Not that I didn’t want the chance to learn swordsmanship and better horsemanship, but I wasn’t so sure about the other classes. The only lessons I had ever had before were with my father; I was not looking forward to comparing what Latin and Greek he had taught me to the other boys. And we were also supposed to learn dancing!
Worst of all, I could not help noticing that apart from being at least a foot taller than most of the boys, and darker skinned to boot, I was a good couple of years older too. I could be sure of besting any of them in a fight, but I would stick out like a palm tree on a bare hill.
La Boissiere was an exceptional building of white plaster, gleaming and new. We walked through a pale painted hall, where boys looked at me sideways under their white-powdered wigs. I dearly hoped I would not have to wear one of those things. Father introduced me to the master of the academy – a round man with glasses balanced on his nose. His lip curled when he saw me, and I wondered if they wanted me here at all.
“You are Thomas-Alexandre?” the master said. I nodded, then Father left and I was hurried to the Salle d’Epée, which I gathered was the fencing class.
More sulky wealthy boys, dressed almost as flashily as myself, stood around the walls of the room and regarded me as if I were the dirt on their shoe. I tried to stand tall. The fencing teacher clapped his hands for attention and I have to admit I stared.
“Chevalier!” The master waved the fencing teacher over. My mouth had fallen open. Here was a man, not quite as dark skinned as I was, but who, from his features, must have shared the same parentage – black and white – as me. The first such man I had seen in this building, and he was not a servant but a teacher of these wealthy white boys.
“This,” the master went on, “is the Chevalier St George. You may have heard of him, he is the foremost swordsman in all France.”
The Chevalier nodded a bow. “In all Europe, sir, I think you’ll find, and my title was a gift from our king...” He looked me up and down. “You are the new pupil? American, I think?”
“Saint-Domingue...”
“Well, well,” the Chevalier said, and the master took his leave. “Take your place, young man, show me what you can do.”
“Now?” I said, suddenly terrified. I realised all the boys in the room were watching.
The Chevalier took my hand and led me to the centre of the room and put up his sword.
“En garde!” He may have been a head shorter than me, and he may have had a face covered in powder and rouge, but he was fast – a blur of velvet and silver buckles. I parried, blocked – steel struck steel – and in seconds I was disarmed, my sword clattering to the ground. I hoped my face did not betray how surprised I felt – I had been told moments ago he was the finest swordsman in all Europe, and I felt ashamed to have underestimated him so badly on account of his appearance.
“Young sir,” the fencing master said. “You are not as good as you think you are.”
The other boys laughed.
The Chevalier waved them to be quiet and smiled, a kind smile. “You must be faster. Trust the blade.”
I nodded, bent to pick up my weapon. “Again, sir,” I told him. “Let me try again.” I readied my blade, feeling the weight of it. It was not as heavy as Father’s cavalry sabre, but thinner and lighter. I took up position. The fencing master looked hard at me, and then he turned to the class.
“You see this student?” He pointed towards me; I felt a flush of embarrassment. “He is tall and well built. There is some natural talent, but the épée?”
He signalled me to him and took my sword out of my hand. I wished the ground would swallow me up. “This is not his weapon.” He made a face to the class, then looked hard at me. I was reminded of how Captain Langlois had looked me over and tried very hard not to think about it. The fencing master walked across the room and picked up a different weapon. It was larger, curved, a tassel of blue silk hung from the handle. “You might prefer a sabre I think?”
I blinked, nodded, and took the weapon. It was like Father’s, only without the spots of rust. It felt familiar, comfortable. I turned it over in my hand and smiled. I would not make it easy for my teacher.
He bowed to me and I bowed back. I forgot about the other boys and tried to think only of the coming fight, that this sabre was somehow a part of my body.
“En garde!” he said again, putting up his blade, and came at me lightning-fast. Our blades clashed. He attacked. I blocked, and blocked again, and this time, when I felt the blade sing as I attacked, he stepped back. I had him. But then he was on me again, and even though I blocked and blocked, with a flick of his wrist he disarmed me again. My weapon crashed to the floor.
This time the boys watching did not laugh. But I felt just as stupid.
The Chevalier looked at me and his eyes bore into mine like needles. “You will see me after classes. No excuses. No lateness.”
That afternoon when the other boys left for home or games by the river, I went to the gymnasium, where the Chevalier was waiting for me. How he managed to look down his nose at me when I towered over him I do not know. I expect it came from knowing his skill with a blade surpassed any other man in Europe. I took a deep breath and hoped he could not see I was a little afraid of him.
“Young comte,” he said, and I could tell from his voice he was mocking me. He must have seen the frown on my face as he handed me the sabre. “Listen to me, young man. You have the capability and the promise to make a swordsman of the highest skill.”
I did not know what to say. I was struck dumb. I had come ready for more humiliation.
“Like you, I came from the islands. Like you, I am a product of the new France. Like me, you have more skill with a sword than your entire class. But your life will be twice, maybe three times, as hard as any of theirs.”
I went to speak but he put out his hand to stop me.
“For men like us, people of colour, it matters not whether we are counts or lords or knights. There will always be someone in our way, someone telling other people we are never good enough. They call us Americans, but they don’t believe we should be free.”
I nodded. I knew he was right. Even in my fine clothes, there were always a few who would mock me in the street, stare at me as I passed. I knew that none of my classmates, the elegant sons of dukes and earls and princes, had ever wanted for anything. None of them had ever spent any time as a slave.
The Chevalier went on. “So you will train three times as hard. With me, after class. Swords, épées, sabres, everything. You will be ten times as good as everyone else. And you will fight with grace and with honour at all times. In order to let that anger go, you will work and work and work until no one can best you. Are we clear?”
I could not conceal my enthusiasm. “Yes, sir!” I said, and saluted the Chevalier in the old style, sweeping off my hat and bowing like a musketeer from a storybook.
He smiled, then in one quick flowing movement threw me an épée so narrow and thin it might be a needle, and took the position, knees bent, his own sword in front of him.
“First of all, I teach you to disarm your opponent,” he said. “Watch carefully. Believe me, young man, it could save your life one day.”
His voice was fierce now, as he barked the order. “En garde!”