Ruth''s Journey Refugees WHEN AUGUSTIN PRESENTED the solemn, beautiful child to his wife, the angels held their breath until Solange smiled. Such a smile! Augustin would have given his life for that smile. "You are perfect," Solange said. "Aren''t you." The child nodded gravely. After due consideration Solange said, "We shall name you Ruth." Solange had never wanted a baby. She accepted her duty to bear children (as it was Augustin''s failed duty to initiate them), and with enough wet nurses and servants to cope with infant disagreeableness, Solange would rear the heirs the Forniers and Escarlettes expected.
But as a child, while her sisters happily advised, reproved, and dressed blank-eyed porcelain dolls, Solange dressed and advised only herself. She thought her sisters too willingly accepted Eve''s portion of that primordial curse. Ruth was perfect: old enough to care for herself and appreciate her betters without asking too much of them. Malleable and willing, Ruth brightened Solange''s days. She wasn''t the precious, awful burden an Escarlette baby would be. If Ruth disappointed, there were buyers. Solange dressed Ruth as her sisters had dressed their dolls. Although lace was scarce, Ruth''s hems were fringed with Antwerp''s finest.
Ruth''s pretty silk cap was as lustrous brown as the child''s eyes. Since Ruth spoke French, Solange supposed her family had included house servants. Solange never asked: her Ruth was born, as if in her own bed, the day Solange named her. One quiet evening, before Solange closed the shutters against the night air, a pensive Ruth sat at the window overlooking the city. In that dim, forgiving light, she was a small black African as mysterious as that savage continent and just as assured as one of its queens. "Ruth, chérie!" "Oui, madame!" Instantly so agreeable, so grateful to be Solange''s companion. Ruth admired those characteristics Solange most admired in herself. Ruth accompanied her mistress to the balls and theater, curling up somewhere until Solange was ready to go home.
Assuaging Solange''s grave loneliness, Ruth sat silently on the floor pressed against her mistress''s legs. Sometimes Solange thought the child could see through her heart to the Saint-Malo seashore she loved: the rocky beaches and impregnable seawall protecting its citizens from winter storms. With Ruth, Solange could drop her guard. She could be afraid. She could weep. She could even indulge the weak woman''s prayer that somehow, no matter what, everything would turn out all right. She read fashionable novels. Like the sensitive young novelists, Solange understood what had been lost in this modern 19th century was more precious than what remained, that human civilization had passed its high point, that today was no different from yesterday, that her soul was scuffed and diminished by banal people, banal conversation, and the myriad offenses of life.
The daily privations of a besieged city were no less banal for being fatal. Captain Fornier was stationed at Fort Vilier, the largest of the forts ringing the city. The insurgents often tried and as often, with terrible losses, failed to penetrate the French forts'' interlocking cannon fire. Sometimes Captain Fornier stayed at the fort, sometimes at home. The flavor of his bitterness lingered after he departed. Solange would have comforted Augustin if she could without surrendering anything important. Nothing in Saint-Domingue was solid. Everything teetered on its last legs or was already half swallowed by the island''s dusty vines.
There''d be no French fleet fighting their way through the British squadron. No reinforcements, no more cannon or muskets or rations or powder or ball. Without a murmur the Pearl of the Antilles faded into myth. Patriotic dodderers urged uncompromising warfare while Napoleon''s soldiers deserted to the rebels or tried to survive another day. As their dominion shrank, the French declared carnival: a spate of balls, theatrical performances, concerts, and assignations defied the rebels at the gate. Military bands serenaded General Rochambeau''s Creole mistresses, and a popular ballad celebrated his ability to drink lesser men under the table. American ships that slipped through the blockade sold cargoes of cigars and champagne and departed with desperate military dispatches and Rochambeau''s booty. Smoke rolled in from the countryside to choke the city until dusk, when it was dispersed by the sea breeze and the hum of clouds of mosquitoes.
It rained. Great crashing rains overflowed gutters and drove humans and dogs to shelter. Solange forbade Ruth to speak Creole. "We must cling to what civilization we can, yes?" When their cook ran off and Augustin could not secure another, Ruth made fish soups and fried plantain, while Solange perched on a tall stool, reading to her. High officers sent officers on desperate missions in order to comfort their widows. In Saint-Louis Square, General Rochambeau burned three Negroes alive. In an ironical moment he crucified others on the beach at Monticristi Bay. Every morning, Solange and Ruth strolled the oceanfront.
One morning, the quay was packed with chained Negroes. "Madame, we are loyal French colonial troops," one black man shouted. Why tell her? Ruth wanted to speak, so Solange hurried her along. Two frigates sailed out into a beautiful day on the bay, and at low tide, three mornings later, the wide white beach was littered with drowned Negroes. The flat, metallic smell of death set Solange to gasping. When Solange complained to Captain Fornier, his weary, tolerant smile was a stranger''s. "What else would you have us do with them, madame?" For the first time, Solange was afraid of her husband. The morning everything changed, Solange awoke to Ruth humming and the piquant odor of coffee.
Solange pushed the shutters open on a dejected straggle of soldiers below. What day was it? Would Augustin come home today? Would the rebels mount their final attack? Ruth said, "What does Madame wish?" What indeed? How could she be so discontented without intending anything? Solange touched the gold rim of her cobalt blue cup. These walls, the walls of her home, were brute unplastered stone. Shutters of some native wood were unpainted. Ruth''s eyes, like the delicate cup, were rich, complex, and beautiful. Solange said, "I have done nothing." Ruth might have said, "What ought you have done?" but she didn''t. "Like a silly amateur sailor I have drifted into very deep water.
" Ruth might have corrected this self-appraisal but didn''t. "We are in grave danger." Ruth smiled. The morning sun haloed her head. Ruth said, "Madame will attend General Rochambeau''s ball?" Solange Fornier was Charles Escarlette''s daughter, redoubtable and shrewd. Why was she reading sentimental novels? Ruth said, "The general''s ball will be held on a ship." "Does he mean to drown his guests?" Ruth''s face went blank. Had she known one of those doomed prisoners? Solange sipped her coffee.
At her impatient gesture, Ruth added sugar. A cobalt blue teacup on a rude plank table. Sugar. Coffee. La Sucarie du Jardin. The Pearl of the Antilles. The air was clear and cool. Had the insurgents burned everything flammable? Solange could smell the faintest hint of the island''s beguiling florescence.
How beautiful it all might have been! "Yes," Solange said. "What will I wear?" "Perhaps the green voile?" Solange put her finger to her chin. "Ruth, will you accompany me?" She curtsied. "As you wish." Solange frowned. "But what do you wish?" "I wish whatever Madame wishes." "Then tonight, you shall be my shield." "Madame?" "Yes, chérie.
The green voile would be best." When Augustin came home that afternoon, she surprised him with a kiss. He unbuckled his sword belt and sat heavily on the bed stretching his legs so Ruth could pull his boots off. "Poor dear Augustin ." His puzzled frown. "You aren''t cut out to be a soldier. I should have known ." "I am a soldier, an officer .
" "Yes, Augustin, I know. Your frock coat. It is in our sea trunk?" He shrugged. "I suppose. I haven''t seen it in months." "Make it presentable." "Are we going somewhere? The theater? Some ball or another? You know I detest these amusements." She touched his lips.
"We are leaving Saint-Domingue, dear husband." "I am a captain," he repeated stupidly. "Yes, my captain. Your honor is safe with me." Perhaps Augustin should have asked what and when and why, but he was exhausted and this was too complicated. He pulled off his uniform jacket. In socks and pantaloons he flopped back, grunted, and began snoring. He has aged, Solange thought-surprised by her husband''s lined, weary countenance.
She fled this too tender mood with self-reproach: why have I abdicated my responsibility? Why should a Fornier determine the future of an Escarlette? "Rest, my brave captain. Soon, our troubles will be over." No,.