~ By Adeel Ahmed
Author’s note: The following is based on a true story about Thomas Dumas, the son of a black slave woman and a French noble father, thus making him of mixed racial heritage, just like his son, author Alexander Dumas. What makes Thomas Dumas incredible was the fact he was the highest ranking black person in the army of a European colonial power. He reached the rank of general and marched with Napoleon on his campaigns abroad.
***
“Another scimitar,” a French soldier announced, placing the weapon into Thomas’s hands. The desert sun reflected off the shining metal blade and onto the flaps of their tents near their barracks.
“Fine craftsmanship,” Thomas remarked. “They don’t have the technology we Europeans possess, but they are civilized compared to the other savages we have conquered.”
Thomas never knew he could respect an opponent so readily defeated. The French under their Corsican commander Napoleon’ barely lost any men, yet these Muslim Mamelukes lost countless soldiers. Yet it was the manner in which they were defeated that was most impressive. They were like him, men descended of slaves that became fierce warriors and leaders of men.
I have dark skin, yet these pale Frenchmen obey my command. I stand out among the rest. I earned this. Just like these Mamelukes.
The Mamelukes did not know how outmatched they were with their medieval blades and shields against the most modern weapons of war. Upon first contact, most armies would have simply broken and shattered. These warriors, however, were filled with bullets before they fell, and only stopped fighting when unable. Those behind them saw the fate of their comrades, yet still attacked. Even Napoleon commented upon their bravery.
But aside from their rise to power and valor in battle, he found little else in common with this strange breed of men. When he rose up through the revolution and that new era, it was these new ideals of Liberté, égalité, fraternité that he fought for, not the legalistic will of a god such as these Muslims worshipped. He was a product of the Enlightenment, while these Egyption Arabs were of an old guard with no place in this modern world. Even the Christians Copts of Egypt were unlike those of Europe, so exotic and Eastern in their forms of worship.
“General Dumas? Your commander wants to see you,” announced a messenger from the Bonaparte’s tent. Thomas enjoyed living among his men than always staying in his lavish lodgings since the conquest. He did not always know what to make of Napoleon. On one hand the Corsican leader loved luxury and pomp. Yet at the same time he would show incredible grit and steel.
Thomas allowed the youth to lead the way to his Napoleon’s headquarters. The two of them walked past a long line of tents, the sounds of female voices and laughter coming from the tents. These were prostitutes and camp followers providing pleasure and companionship to the troops.
Thomas shook his head. There was nothing wrong with a little release, but these soldiers he felt wasted so much potential with such frivolities. They tended to wonder aloud how he had managed to become a general, even with his dark skin holding him down. Although his father’s influence had helped him climb the ladder, his father was long dead and his climbing still have never been stopped. It was because he only took pleasure where he needed it. He himself had a wife and child, yet he never sought to bring them to the battle field nor replace them with harlots. Too much to do, too much distraction.
Thomas opened the flap to witness lavish accommodations, including a large king-sized bed, with mirrors and portraits upon the wall. Napoleon and a slender blonde-haired woman frantically put their clothes back on.
You’re losing your greatness, Napoleon. It’s still there. But it’s leaving you…slowly but surely, thought Thomas.
He reminded Thomas of a blade far too accustomed to it’s sheath.
“Go,” said Napoleon dropping gold coins into the harlot’s palm. “In the future, you will tell your children that you shared your bed with the greatest of men.”
The prostitute stuffed the coins into her bodice, sauntering out of the tent.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” queried Thomas.
“Ah, yes,” nodded Napoleon, pulling on his jacket. “You were impressive during yesterday’s battle. I thought when they charged us when we first took the city, that would be the end. Now a revolt. But you solved that, didn’t you? Knocking down the doors of the Al-Azhar mosque, mounted on your stallion, swinging your saber.”
“Once I saw them run fearlessly into musket fire, I knew something more personal would be needed to break their spirits. So it was the mosque I stormed.”
“There is something inspiring about higher belief these savages have, and how it marches them to battle. The star of destiny is in their hearts. But belief in any god is a crutch. I will not use this to light my way, but rather depend upon my own fire.”
Thomas said nothing. Simply awaiting his orders.
“Some French traders and their women were captured by Arab bandits. The Mamelukes that incited the riots had little to do with it. This band is working on its own.” Napoleon handed Thomas a stack of papers.
“There is a woman among the kidnapped. I don’t want to think about what is happening with her,” stated Thomas. Savage men would want their way with a white woman, to inflict the cruelty of their subjugation upon her as it was done to them.
“Ah. So now you see why I want you for the job.” Napoleon then began whispering into his ear.
A grin crawled over Thomas’s face as the general relayed orders.
“A smile, Thomas? I knew you would enjoy this.”
***
The crowd cleared out of his way as he rode through the streets, out into the countryside. Beside him was his general Napoleon upon his own stallion.
Finally they both arrived at the outskirts of the town.
“I’ll wait here, Thomas. You do what we agreed. Understand?”
Thomas nodded, riding forward.
As he rode toward the cave, the sounds of the city behind him grew more and more faint.
I’m alone, thought Thomas. But I’ve been alone since my father died. He helped me get this far. After that? It was all my skill. My mind. I can do this.
Thomas noticed a strange breeze flowing through the cave. He could feel the grains of desert sand striking his face, causing him to squint.
Thomas leapt off of his horse as he neared the cave’s entrance, pulling the package and lighting a torch from his saddle.
The entrance of the cave was dry, yet windy. Thomas noted the path within the cave, walking slowly down into the depths of the earth.
All of this is clever. A lot of work went into this, he thought observing the well-formed path and the rails made for comfort. The deeper he went down, the more it resembled a stairwell from a large home or even a castle.
“Who goes there?” snarled a voice in Arabic from below.
Thomas looked downward to see a brown bearded face peering up at him.
“A soldier of the French. I bring the ransom you desire,” replied Thomas.
“Your accent tells me as much. Drop the ransom here and then leave.”
“No. I want to see the hostages first,” demanded Thomas.
There was silence for a moment.
“They are down here. Come, slowly. Any sign of aggression, and we will execute the lot of them.”
Thomas stepped downwards. The cave grew brighter and brighter as a line of torches blazed upon the walls as if he were meeting dwarves out of childhood fairytales in some grand underground cavern home.
Soon he stepped into a clearing within the cave. Four bandits armed with scimitars stood around the centre of the cave. They surrounded three French prisoners, their faces scraggy and bearded. But one prisoner stood out to Thomas. A woman, her face streaked with dirt, her dress torn and filthy.
“Let me speak to the prisoners first. I must know if you kept your words,” said Thomas in Arabic to the captors.
What did they do to her? A woman around these wild men?
“Mademoiselle, tell me, how did they treat you?” asked Thomas in French, his tone seething. “Your answer determines my next course of action.”
“They didn’t let us bathe,” whimpered the woman.
“That’s not what I need to know. Did they beat you? Did they…touch you?”
“No. They were gentlemen in that way. They would look away from me when I relieved myself.”
“Let the hostages go. I will stay here with the ransom. You can count it as the four of you surround me,” declared Thomas. Suddenly he lost enthusiasm for what must come next.
One of the bandits, taller than the rest, motioned to his men. One of them stood the hostages up and cut their bonds.
“Yallah, yallah,” repeated a red-bearded captor as he pointed at the cave entrance. Without a word, the hostages rushed out.
“Napoleon must not think much of you to put you here,” remarked the tall one as his companion counted the currency. “We could kidnap you too, you know. Ransom you,”
“Are you planning to capture me?” inquired Thomas.
“No. Any self-respecting Arab has honour. Even criminals. No. You’re safe. It seems all the money is here. Leave now.”
Thomas drew his sword.
“You are no Mamelukes. You’re not trained and seasoned warriors. But you behaved as gentleman toward a woman you captured. You did not try to double-cross me. I’ll make sure you die quickly.”
The men broke down laughing.
“You’re a big man. For so are my friends. Me especially,” stated the largest of the bandits. “There are four of us, but one of you. Don’t embarrass yourself with this dishonour. Run.”
“You poor man. You don’t understand…” Thomas did not put any happiness in his words. His orders now turned to ashes in his heart. This is not what he was meant to do. This is not what he thought this mission was. But he would always do his duty.
The big man feigned turning away, then drew his scimitar. In the same motion he cut at Thomas.
This one has skill, to draw and strike at the same time, thought Thomas parrying the sword. He then thrust it into his opponent’s neck.
“Jahim! He killed Jahim!” cried the bearded bandit holding the money bag. His hand dropped toward his scimitar, along with the other remaining men.
With blinding speed, Thomas flicked his blade across the throat of the bearded man. As he collapsed upon the floor clutching his bleeding throat, Thomas thrust his sabre through the belly of the next closest one.
As the man groaned in pain, Thomas stabbed him in the inner thigh. The femoral artery would make sure he died quickly, unlike a horrible stomach wound. It was the least he could do.
Three opponents down with four strokes. May they die quickly and with honour.
One opponent remained.
The bandit had his scimitar drawn, his hands shaking.
A Mameluke would charge at me despite my work. These are no warriors. I’m not enjoying this, Napoleon. You promised me I would be killing men of violence, vicious cut-throats despoiling innocent French women. Not desperate men looking for money in the midst of hardship…
Thomas Dumas advanced upon his pathetic prey….
***
The great leaders waited in the outskirts of the city, watching the cave Thomas had entered. He noticed a figure slowly riding in their direction.
“Well? Is that him?” demanded Napoleon irritably.
“Yes, sir. That’s Dumas,” confirmed the soldier gazing through his looking glass.
It was then Bonaparte heard the Egyption crowd chanting his name, “Napoleon! Napoleon! Napoleon!”
He felt his heart grow warm upon the sound of those chants. This was his destiny. This was his name, a name that would echo throughout history.
“The woman is saying, ‘He may be an kuffar invader,” remarked a veiled woman in Arabic, “But look at him. How strong he is! Napoleon is so tall! Look at his shoulders!”
“He rides so well upon his horse, his sword flashing in the light!” cried a beardless youth, “Death to bandits. They harass us. I will support him in this!”
“He fought them all by himself. The great general! He fights at the front lines,” hollored a fat Egyptian.
““You soldier. You speak Arabic. What are they saying?” demanded Napoleon.
“They think Dumas is you,” remarked the soldier.
“What?” cried the great general, his face growing red. “Tell them who I am.”
The soldier began to point at Bonaparte and yelled in Arabic.
“Him?” blurted the veiled woman in disbelief. She said nothing else. Yet her eyes seemed amused.
“Oh…forgive me. Don’t hurt me,” said the beardless youth. He seemed flustered.
“You’re a liar,” scoffed the fat man.
Bonaparte motioned to the soldier, “What did he say?”
“He’s calling you a liar, sir,” translated the soldier frankly.
Napoleon pulled out his sword. He then threw it to the fat man. Motioning to his soldiers, he had them bring him another sabre.
“Pick up that sword, slovenly Egyption. I’m going to fight you!” bellowed Bonaparte. He turned to the veiled woman. “Tell that shrew to stop looking at me with those eyes or I’ll cut them out!”
But the woman was off running in the other direction before the translator could speak.
The fat man began to blubber incoherently. The translator himself did not understand a word. But Napoleon knew this man would understand even without a translator.
“Pick it up and fight me or let me cut you. Either way I will have satisfaction,” said Bonaparte
The fat Egyption lifted the sword and charged at the great general, swinging in a panic. Napoleon parried the blade to the side then thrust his sabre in between the ribs into the heart.
Napoleon pulled out his sabre as the portly Egyptian fell over.
They may have mistaken you for me, Thomas. But they said I fight on the front lines. This is true. I always have. You too, Thomas. That’s why we could work together. That’s why there cannot be two of us on top, thought Napoleon as they dragged the body away. The other Egyptians looked on in horror and admiration.
You never had to murder someone to gain respect, Thomas. All you do is show up. Only me. I had to fight in the front lines every time when I commanded my men for them to love me. You do it once and they love you.
Napoleon did not understand this feeling coming over him. Thomas carried out his orders as he intended. And yet he was coming to despise him for it.
“All taken care of, sir,” said Thomas as approached Napoleon. He handed the ransom money back to his commander.
“Good,” grunted Napoleon shortly.
“Is everything to your liking? You seem displeased,” Thomas observed, a note of concern creeping into his voice.
Napoleon nodded his head, but said nothing.
“Sir…?”
“You did well. As you always do, Thomas,” Napoleon finally replied, but could hide the bitterness seeping to the surface as he turned his back on his old friend and walked away.
***
HISTORICAL NOTE: After Thomas Dumas attempted to return to France, he was captured and imprisoned in the Kingdom of Naples. French forces under Napoleon eventually freed him, but he was partially paralyzed and blind from suspected poisoning in the dungeons. After he finally gained release in 1801, Dumas was not awarded his pension by the French government and struggled to support his family after his return to France. He repeatedly wrote to Napoleon, seeking back-pay and a new commission in the military, but to no avail. After he died in 1806, his family was plunged into even more desperate poverty, and his children could not get even a basic education. His wife begged the French government to gain her military widow’s pension, but her efforts proved in vain. His family blamed Napoleon’s hatred of Thomas for their hardships. Thomas’s son, Alexander Dumas, would eventually grow up to write The Count of Monte Cristo, The Three Musketeers and countless other works.