Bullet’s and Toussaint’s eyes locked. In that moment, each man knew in their bones they’d met a lifelong enemy. Bullet suffered no sympathies for whites, gens de couloures, or Blacks he deemed loyal to the planter class. His judgement was swift, brutal, and final.

“Hang him.”

Toussaint quickly found a noose wrapped around his neck as two horsemen jumped off their mounts and ran to him without a second’s hesitation. A 3rd horseman dragged the struggling Toussaint by rope behind his steed to the large tree several yards from the porch they intended to hang him from.

Their progress was impeded suddenly by a swell of workers who had rushed forward. Hands grabbed at the rope, attempting to loosen it from his neck, while several of the largest workers stood shoulder to shoulder in an attempt to block the huge horse from advancing forward to reach the tree.

“Back! I will shoot the lot of you!” Bullet screamed. He turned and shouted toward the other mounted men, “Ready your rifles!”

Unbeknownst to Bullet, a small detachment had arrived to the area amid the scrum. As Bullet trained his rifle on his first would-be victim, a shot rang out, instantly quieting the crowd.

“I command you to stand down!”

None other than General Jean-Francois Papillon himself appeared between the henchmen, crowd, and tree. The horsemen lowered their weapons. Bullet’s face contorted in a mixture of rage and disgust.