Free All Souls' Rising by Madison Smartt Bell

drew in his plummy lips and tightened them to a white line. Unhurriedly, the Sieur Maltrot tilted some of the viscous coffee syrup into his mouth.
    “In the west, the news is a touch more interesting,” he said. “A touch more hopeful, I’ll declare. Despite the late catastrophes at Port-au-Prince…”
    Bayon de Libertat shifted in his chair; one corner of his mouth drew down like a cramp. “I can scarce credit how the Chevalier Mauduit was used there…”
    “You may believe it,” said the Sieur Maltrot. His tongue flicked in and out with snakelike speed. “I have it from a witness in the town. They tore him limb from limb like Furies in the street and Madame Martin, a white woman , if you please, cut off his balls herself with a knife and carried them to her house for a trophy.”
    In the ensuing speechlessness, an insect thrummed loudly under the porch boards. From the cane fields came a dispirited chorus of song measured out by whip cracks. Maltrot sipped from his syrupy cup.
    “I hear but I cannot believe,” said Bayon de Libertat eventually. “What sort of creature must she be?”
    “A harpy,” said the Sieur Maltrot. “Think no more of her—she is a mere beast. What is encouraging is that the colored men are negotiating with Hanus de Jumecourt at Croix les Bouquets.”
    “I’m charmed,” said Arnaud, acidly. “To what end?”
    “They’re royalists, essentially,” said Maltrot. “We have that much in common. They share our interests—to a point. And the point is to turn the Pompons Rouges back out of Port-au-Prince.”
    “But at what price?” Arnaud reached for his cane where it balanced against the railing and laid it sideways across his lap.
    “Naturally,” said the Sieur Maltrot, “enforcement of the May fifteenth decree.”
    “But that’s disgusting,” Arnaud shouted, leaning forward across the cane. “I won’t have the law dictated to me by sons of our slaves. No decent white man will.”
    The Sieur Maltrot snapped erect in his chair, gathering his feet below. “Calm yourself,” he said, and stared Arnaud down till he seemed to have subsided. Bayon de Libertat was startled at how quickly his foppish mannerisms had fallen from him. “You must understand,” he continued, “it’s not the decent white men you have to consider, but the indecent ones. Praloto and his renegade troops, the Port-au-Prince canaille . Recall that since Mauduit’s unlucky end, that town is lost to us entirely. At least the mulattoes are willing to wear the white cockade, and why? Because, whatever else, they’re men of property .”
    “Mauduit would not permit them to wear the pompon blanc ,” said Arnaud. “‘Let them wear yellow,’ he said, ‘as they are yellow men,’ and he was right.”
    “The course of events has discovered defects in the judgment of our late friend Mauduit,” the Sieur Maltrot said. “Do you not think so? These mistakes we would be well advised to amend.”
    Arnaud crossed and uncrossed his legs. “The May fifteenth decree,” he pronounced, “is a work of anarchy, abominable. And unenforceable as well, may God be thanked.”
    “Of course,” said the Sieur Maltrot. “You and Governor Blanchelande are of one mind, to be sure. So far. But what will Blanchelande say if the Pompons Rouges chase him out of Le Cap too? You won’t even be able to reach a harbor if that happens. Where will you sell your sugar then?” Maltrot picked up his cup again and began to eat his own coffee-stained sugar with a tiny spoon.
    “That’s most unlikely,” Arnaud said. “There’s been no trouble in Le Cap, not of that kind. There’ll be none till the Colonial Assembly meets.”
    “Yes, and then there’ll be trouble enough for all,” said the Sieur Maltrot. “I prophesy. Are you not weary of these idiotic legislators yet?”
    “Exhausted,” Arnaud said, rocking back in his chair, “ absolument .” He rolled the cane on his upper thighs, like a baker rolling out yeasty