“What!” a voice shouted from below. “You would abandon your general?” Another swarm of musket balls tore through the trees. Placide looked wildly from side to side. Toussaint had disappeared during the French breakthrough. But now, below, the men were rallying, and again the grenadiers came marching forward. Toussaint, still on foot, appeared by the right shoulder of Placide’s horse. The cane he’d held in his right hand was now replaced by his sword.
“Go back and find Doctor Hébert,” he hissed. “Take him behind the second entrenchment.”
“I won’t abandon you!” Placide said hotly, as if in answer to the rallying cry that had risen from farther down the ravine. Toussaint smacked him sharply on the thigh with the flat of his sword.
“Do not think to disobey!” he snapped. “Find the blanc doctor and keep him safe, and keep him working on our wounded—already they begin to fall. That doctor will be worth more lives than any one man fighting here.”
“Oui, mon général,” Placide choked. Toussaint, inexplicably, grinned up at him, then gave the horse a sword whack across the buttocks as Placide wheeled away.
Paul, who had been dozing on his donkey-load of bandages, came alert the instant the first shots sounded on the hill a hundred yards above. In seconds the deep quiet of the moonlit night was exploded into shouts and gunfire. What! You would abandon your general? Fontelle and Paulette wrapped their arms around each other, and Caco pressed into the flank of Paul’s donkey, his big eyes bright. Just ahead of them, the column of grenadiers seemed to buckle, collapse on itself. What a fool he had been to bring Paul here, the doctor thought. They would be overrun by the French within minutes. But the column soon stiffened, then lashed forward again.
Placide broke out of the brush and rode toward them. “Come,” he said shortly and beckoned as he passed, scarcely slowing his horse at all. The doctor, willing enough, swung aboard his mule and waited for the others to climb on their donkeys. He followed them and Placide, bringing up the rear. Placide led them to the bottom of the gorge, then to the first entrenchment, where after a moment of muttering some logs were dragged clear for them to pass. The field hands manning this position reached up to brush Placide’s boots and trouser legs as he rode through, their smiles shining in the moonlight—it must feel like great good luck to these people to touch a son of Toussaint Louverture.
Around a tight turn of the gorge, the second entrenchment had been dug; one came upon it very suddenly. Here again the defenders opened the works gladly for Placide.
“We have arrived,” Placide said, and when the doctor looked at him inquiringly, “The Governor-General has ordered that you prepare for the wounded here.”
The doctor scanned the area and concluded the place was well chosen for the purpose. He began to unload the donkeys onto a humped sand-bank above the rushing stream, an area partly sheltered by the overhang of the southern cliff and by the trunks of several huge palms that were still standing. He set Paul and Caco to digging a fire pit. There was a kettle in one of the packs; Paulette drew water from the stream and set it on the fire. Someone came back from the trench to complain about the light, but the doctor and Placide both argued that since the battle was already joined, the need for concealment was past.
Fontelle crumbled disinfectant herbs into the kettle, while the doctor laid out the tools of his trade: knives, pincers, the short-bladed surgical saw. Placide rode forward to the upper trench, then back again to their position. On Morne Barade, the deeper throats of cannon had joined their voices to the chorus of gunfire. The doctor walked to the lip of the second entrenchment and peered up—at just the right angle he could see around the curve to the bloom of muzzle flashes on the dark curve of the hill. Paul, who’d followed, stood at his side, trembling like a terrier. Mute, the doctor put an arm over his shoulder and led him back to the others.
By the time the water had come to a boil, the wounded had begun to dribble in. Soon they were pouring. The area of the makeshift hospital was throbbing with the sound of half-swallowed screams, as the doctor rooted balls out of torn flesh, or in the worse case sawed off a shattered limb. He used Fontelle and Paulette to hold down his patients whenever such help was necessary. As often as he might he sent Paul and Caco away, to scavenge more firewood—the fighting had not come any nearer, and Placide came back from time to time to tell them that Toussaint’s line was holding, perhaps even advancing on the French position at the height of the hill.
What! You would abandon your general? Guiaou knew the voice that raised that cry—an officer of grenadiers named Labarre. Red flashes of anger pulsed behind his eyes. Magny was shouting orders from some other point, and Toussaint also was nearby, spanking men’s legs with his sword’s flat to urge them forward into the line. Guiaou felt his horse beginning to crab. He loosened the reins and stilled the animal with a soothing hand. Always, whenever firing began, Guiaou allowed himself a moment of stillness, for his head to sink backward, compress into a tight ball at the stem of his neck, just where the red cloth he’d put on for the fight was so tightly knotted. Then the noise of guns settled into a rhythm like drums, and behind his head Guiaou could feel the nearness of the spirit Agwé rolling him into battle like a wave. The words that tumbled from his mouth belonged to a song he’d heard in the south, sung by soldiers of Dessalines.
A l’assò, grenadyé!
Sa ki mouri, sé pa zafè ou
Nanpwen maman
Nanpwen papa
Sa ki mouri, sé pa zafè ou!
Guiaou looked to his right, found Guerrier sitting his own horse. He wished that Couachy were alive and with them. But Guerrier was a good companion. Tonight they would have the chance to kill some blancs, certainly, and so Couachy’s spirit might be nourished. The platoon of grenadiers Labarre marched past them had now taken up the song.
Grenadiers, to the assault!
Those who die are none of your business
We have no mother
We have no father
Those who die are none of your business!
It was Labarre leading the song now. Guiaou looked where he was leading his men. His action flowered in his head. He motioned to Guerrier, then urged his horse out through the screen of trees, onto the open brow of the hill, where at forty yards’ distance a massed square of French infantry bristled with bayonets like a cactus.
Guiaou leaned toward Guerrier and grinned. “Their bullets are dust. N’alé!”
He drew his coutelas as they charged the square. A whistling of bullets screamed by his ears, the path of each ball bending to avoid him. The horse’s mane streamed back in his face. Guerrier was sitting bolt upright with his musket couched like a tilting lance. The muzzle flared, then the bayonet picked a Frenchman out of the square and flung him backward, gutted like a fish. Guiaou’s coutelas was splitting heads—one, two—they wheeled their horses away. Labarre was behind them now, leading his men toward the outcropping Guiaou had noticed a moment earlier, above where the French had made their square, but he had not yet reached it. The grenadiers had stopped the song to put all their effort into this dash.
“N’alé!” Guiaou howled again. Let’s go! He and Guerrier drove their horses again into the French. Guiaou’s eyes fixed on the blade of his coutelas. All sound stopped. The blade flashed in the moonlight, lowered, rose blood-darkened, dull. This time when they wheeled away, Labarre’s platoon had reached the ledge and were pouring fire down on the French square. Guiaou and Guerrier rode into shelter of the trees and turned their horses, breathless. Guiaou’s thought surfaced long enough to wonder where Toussaint was now and if he had seen their action. Then it sank back. In the well behind his head the shadow of Couachy was smiling. And now, Magny was sending more men at a charge up the grade on the French square, which shuddered now under Labarre’s constant fire.
A l’assò, grenadyé!
Sa ki mouri, sé pa zafè ou
Nanpwen maman
Nanpwen papa
Sa ki mouri, sé pa zafè ou!
&
nbsp; A volley from the charging men was quickly returned by the French. Then the two lines crunched together, struggling hand to hand. Guiaou dismounted, just for a moment, to wipe his coutelas on the grass.
Blood-soaked nearly to his shoulders, Doctor Hébert paused in his surgery and climbed over the sand bank to rinse his hands in the cold flow of the stream. Fontelle and Paulette were just above him, laying down a man who’d had his arm sawed off below the elbow. To the doctor’s left were arrayed the bodies of four men who’d not survived their operations, their faces covered with scraps of cloth. He looked the other way, toward the fire pit where Paul huddled, firelight flashing on his still face. Caco sat by him, leaning into his shoulder. The doctor thought he saw in Paul’s regard the same numb vacancy the boy had shown when they’d recovered him from the streets of Le Cap, where he’d been altogether lost for a stretch of months, till Paulette recognized him by chance and Fontelle took him in. That must be why he’d yielded to Paul’s foolish pleading to come along with him this morning—he’d wanted to keep the boy near him, not risk losing him again. Perhaps Nanon had understood as much, before the doctor knew his motive. At any rate she’d bowed her head before his choice, as was usually her way.
But was this worse? Wringing water from his hands, the doctor walked down to where his mule was tethered. A good thing at least that Caco was here too—the doctor felt that the two boys lent each other strength. In one of the mule’s saddlebags he found a stoppered gourd mostly full of rum. The rest of his supply was being used for anesthetic, but this much he’d conserved for his own encouragement. He drank, partly concealed by the mule’s shoulder, and savored the flush in his chest. There was some commotion below, at the third entrenchment. Then, to the doctor’s astonishment, Xavier Tocquet came striding up toward him, with Gros-Jean behind, leading both their horses.
“Salut, Antoine!” Tocquet said, sweeping off his hat. “I have been a long time coming to you.”
“But how could you know where to come?”
“I found Elise at Habitation Cocherelle, where she took refuge with Madame Louverture. Nanon is with them, and the others—all safe. That smells like rum you have there.”
The doctor relinquished the gourd. Tocquet tipped it high, lowered it, and passed it to Gros-Jean.
“And where is Bazau?” the doctor said. It was unknown to see the one without the other.
“I left him with the women,” Tocquet said. “It seemed better. Morisset is there, with most of a squadron of cavalry, but I wanted one of ours as well. They may all have to move quickly—I don’t like the odds of this battle.”
“How have you calculated?”
For a moment both men tilted their heads to the noise of musketry up the ravine. Now and then a human cry forced up above the shooting.
“What strength has Toussaint here?” Tocquet asked. “Two battalions and his cavalry?”
“He left a battalion with Vernet for the defense of Gonaives,” the doctor said. “Half the cavalry also.”
Tocquet let go a whistling breath. “Then he must be outnumbered five to one, or worse.”
“But there are a lot of field hands here, with their muskets they’ve brought out of hiding. There are many, too many to count. You must have passed through them on as you came up. And in the last hour, more and more of them have been going forward.”
“Is it so?” Tocquet looked up toward the second entrenchment. “But still, they are untrained men for the most part. How long can they hold against crack French troops of the line?”
“What choice have they?”
Tocquet laughed drily. “Death or slavery.” He passed back the gourd and the doctor drank.
“Do you believe that?”
“I believe I’d sooner Toussaint than Rochambeau,” Tocquet said. “Rochambeau’s approach is . . . a little brusque. If he’d held his fire at Fort Liberté, all we see now might have been avoided. But—no matter. Our families have already left Cocherelle, in fact—I hadn’t thought this position would hold so long.”
“It has been very well prepared, as you see.”
“And with good reason.” Tocquet pointed at a stone doorway set in the opposite bank; the outlines of the masonry plain enough in the moonlight.
“I wondered about that,” the doctor said. “What is it?”
“A magazine,” said Toussaint. “There’s a cave behind—Toussaint has been caching powder there these last two years. That’s where Rochambeau is going—he’s got a spy who told him where it is.”
“I see,” said the doctor. “I suppose that means this spot will be extremely well defended.”
“For as long as may be,” Tocquet said. “But where is Toussaint?”
The doctor gestured wordlessly up the ravine in the direction of the firing, then spotted a horseman riding their way. “But there is Placide,” he said. “No doubt he can take you to him.”
Placide had spent the first hours of the battle shuttling between the hospital and Toussaint’s post behind the front line, chafing at first to be held out of the action, then relaxing as he began to realize that what he was doing was of real use. On each trip down the ravine he guided the wounded to the doctor, and with each return he brought a fresh gang of field hands to be hurled into the charges. The waves of Magny’s charges did not stop. Just once, they’d barely gained the summit of Morne Barade, but the French had re-formed and finally thrown them back.
Placide led the wounded men down the ravine. At moments his mind returned to the image of his gun muzzle blazing into the chest of the French soldier. That fine chased pistol the First Consul had given him. How many paces that dead soldier had dashed on before he fell.
Another hundred field workers followed Placide as he led Tocquet and Gros-Jean up, their muskets rocking in their hands as they trotted along. Magny took them in hand when they came to the old almond tree where Toussaint was posted. As the men went forward, lifting their muskets to their shoulders now, they all took up the chant that rang down from above.
A l’assò, grenadyé
Sa ki mouri, sé pa zafè ou . . .
Toussaint was hunkered on his heels by the bole of the almond tree. He squinted up suspiciously when Tocquet greeted him.
“Good evening, General,” Tocquet said, and glanced at the lowering moon. “Perhaps I ought to say good morning. Or maybe it isn’t good at all. I bring you news of your enemy’s strength.”
“Di mwen,” Toussaint said. Tell me.
“I met Rochambeau some days ago at Saint Michel,” Tocquet said. “I conversed for an evening with one of his captains. He landed near two thousand men at Fort Liberté. Some, I suppose, are in garrison there, but I’d reckon from what I saw that he has come to you with most of that division.”
Toussaint stood up. He passed a hand across his face, then dropped his kerchiefed forehead into his palm. Tocquet drew out one of his cheroots.
“Don’t light that.” Toussaint raised his head sharply. “You know I do not abide tobacco. It is ill news that you bring.”
“I bring news of your family also,” Tocquet said. “They are safe, but on the move from Cocherelle into the mountains.”
Toussaint’s eyes fixed on Gros-Jean. “Sé lavérité l’ap di?”
“Yes,” said Gros-Jean. “I have seen with my own eyes—everything he says is true.”
“Let them go to Pont d’Ester,” Toussaint said, speaking equally to Tocquet and Gros-Jean. “Say that I will come there afterward, when I have done my duty here.”
As he spoke, fleeing men began to break through the post, field hands and regular troops together. Toussaint turned halfway toward Placide. Labarre came staggering up and sagged his weight against the almond trunk.
“My snipers are dead,” he gasped.
“All?” said Toussaint.
Labarre nodded, wheezing for breath. Guiaou and Guerrier rode up to the tree and turned their horses tightly.
“All killed by the cannons,” Labarre said. “The blanc soldiers ar
e coming. They are coming fast.”
Toussaint slapped his bicorne hat onto his head. “Re-form the troops on the floor of the ravine,” he told Magny, then snapped at Tocquet, “Go now, and bring my message to my wife.” At last to Placide: “Take these people down the gorge—and get the doctor behind the third entrenchment.”
Paulette splashed a little more rum against the clenched teeth of the patient, as the doctor probed in the top of his wounded thigh. Fontelle pressed the limb to stillness with both her knees. At last he straightened, the small of his back aching and clenched. Between his pincer tips was a musket ball, blunted against a bone. He passed the instrument to Paulette and held out his empty hands—Fontelle poured hot water over them. The sound of firing seemed suddenly to have come nearer, and now there were cries and confusion on the bank above them. The doctor peered toward Morne Barade. Tocquet, Placide, and Gros-Jean were just coming through the second entrenchment.
“They’ve broken through,” Tocquet said. “I think they’ve broken—” Though his visible agitation was slight, it was more than the doctor had ever seen in him. “You’d better get out of this, Antoine. The fighting has moved down to the bottom of the ravine.”
“Take Caco and Paul back to Nanon,” the doctor said.
“Yes, of course, and yourself with them,” said Tocquet. “Come along, will you? You’ll not be missed—they’re going to be routed here.”
The doctor hesitated, then shook his head. “I’m needed where I am.”
“You’re mad,” Tocquet said shortly. He looked to Fontelle and Paulette, who exchanged a brief glance.
“N’ap reté isit,” Fontelle said, wiping her hands on her apron. We’re staying here.
Tocquet shrugged. “As you like, then. Come Paul, come Caco!” He leaned forward suddenly, grasped the doctor by both shoulders, and gave him a little shake. “Save your own life, Antoine, if you can find the time.”
The doctor swung Paul up onto his donkey, squeezed his hands, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Caco had already scrambled up behind him, not waiting for assistance. The doctor watched them all ride down and around the next bend in the ravine. The moon was dropping low over the line of their departure. When they were gone, the doctor became aware that Placide was standing by him.
The Stone that the Builder Refused Page 43
