The Stone that the Builder Refused

by Madison Smartt Bell

  Guiaou crouched and with a quick snap of both hands struck fire into the fuse he had laid. How fast the powder trail burned back! For an instant he could not take his eyes away. Then he hurled himself out through the doorway, both arms stretched for a loop of hanging vine.

  That gargoyle black hunched on the lintel jumped to his feet, swung a musket across his hip and fired from that position. Guizot saw the muzzle flash, a spear-point blaze, but the hip shot did no damage. The black jumped up and down on the lintel, howling at them helplessly; he did not seem to think of recharging his weapon. Sergeant Aloyse had reached the bank and was already beginning to climb toward the stone door twenty feet above him. Higher still, at the top of the bank, a pair of cannon were firing down into the ravine—Rochambeau’s cannon, Guizot realized, dropping mitraille and explosive shells among the retreating rebels.

  He found a toehold in the rock, caught hold of a protruding root, and hauled himself up. Aloyse kicked a cupful of shale and dirt down into his face. Guizot shook his head, looked up again and saw a second black hunkered in the doorway, cradling something in his hands that bloomed into a fierce incandescent glow.

  Then the black came hurtling out of the doorway, all his limbs spread wide, like a flying squirrel. Guizot did not see where he landed. In the instant that he understood what the burning powder trail foretold, he clutched at Aloyse’s heel and cried a warning, but the sergeant kicked free and climbed out of his reach. Guizot dropped eight feet to the gravel, rolling across his wounded arm, and came up running as the blast threw the whole cliff up into the sky. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw a broken cannon wheel spinning down amid smaller bits of debris and Sergeant Aloyse’s cartwheeling body and a great coffinsized piece of stone that might have been a doorpost, all drifting down in a strangely retarded motion as if they weighed no more than feathers. He scrambled back, under a shower of pebbles and dirt, to the place where the sergeant had landed. The ringing of his ears shut out all other sound. He pulled up the sergeant’s head by the pigtail; his face was all awash in blood. Guizot snatched the sling from around his neck and used it to mop Aloyse’s face, but the sergeant swiped his hand away and sat up, coughing. His right hand pinched the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he’d been no worse than stunned. Guizot swung the sergeant’s arm over his shoulder and raised him to his feet.

  The momentum of the French charge had already breached the third entrenchment, and it appeared that the rebels were now in full flight. Rochambeau did a dance of rage below the tremendous gash the exploded magazine had opened in the wall of the ravine. He tore off his shako, hurled it down, kicked it away from him, then ran to jump on it. Breathless now, he stooped to pick it up, and while he knocked out the dents and brushed off the dirt, he kept urging his men forward with quick sharp jerks of his jaw.

  The doctor was standing, stretching his back and watching the sun’s rim push above the ridge line to the east, when he saw Guiaou and Guerrier launch themselves from that stone doorway and land rolling on the gravel floor of the ravine. Within the vacant doorway something burned almost as bright as the sun and then with a deafening, flattening boom the whole cliff blew up, scattering tree trunks, boulders, tubes of cannon, the shattered bodies of the French artillerymen. The doctor came to himself plastered belly-down on the gravel, eye to eye with Fontelle and Paulette, who’d had the same reaction as he. When he got to his feet, he saw that the French charge had already slammed into the third entrenchment.

  “Retreat!” That was Placide’s voice, echoing an order. The doctor looked about for Toussaint, but only found Guiaou and Guerrier, flying back to get their horses. He set Paulette and Fontelle to loading the donkeys. For the last two hours he had been sending the walking wounded down the ravine in the direction of Périsse, but those who couldn’t walk would have to be left where they were, and some of their supplies would be abandoned too; there was no more time. The doctor saw Paulette and Fontelle mounted and scrambled up onto his mule.

  Sixty yards lower in the ravine, Monpoint had opened a gap in his line of cavalry for the passage of Toussaint’s surviving troops, and the doctor kept his exhausted eyes forward as he passed through, behind the two women. No use to look back at the legless men lying on the strand, stretching out their hands to him, or anyone else who passed. The regular troops were marching in reasonably good order, but the retreat of the field hands looked more like a rout. The doctor was too tired now to feel fear, and with the rising sun warm between his shoulder blades he even dozed off a time or two as the mule took him rocking down the gorge. But when they’d emerged into the cactus-scattered desert near Habitation Périsse, he roused himself and looked back once and saw how the sky was speckled with dark vulture’s wings, spiraling and beginning to settle beneath the bushy palm crowns sprouting from Ravine à Couleuvre.

  When Placide overtook Toussaint at Périsse, his father had already dismounted, beside a tall cactus hedge that lined the road which led through Marie Louise. Toussaint was whipping the air with his cane and shouting at Magny to stop the flight of the field hands, turn them, bring them back. The regular troops had already rallied here, and Labarre and several other junior officers were drawing them back up into their ranks.

  “Listen.” Toussaint let his cane fall into the pale dust and snatched a musket from Guerrier. “Listen to me. We have no retreat. Don’t look behind you—we are in the desert, the sea at our back. What the enemy brings is death undying. They will send us as zombi into the fields again. Will you accept that?”

  “Never!” It was Monpoint’s voice ringing out. “We will defeat them here or die.”

  Toussaint nodded, brandishing the musket. Labarre and Magny took up the cry; Placide heard it tearing out of his own throat: “Victoire ou la mort!” By the third time all the men were shouting it: Victory or death!

  “Good,” said Toussaint. “They are coming.”

  It had been cold through the night on Morne Barade, though Guizot had not felt it much in the midst of all the fighting. Now, in the low desert they had entered, there was a dry, suffocating heat, and the sun burned out of a cloudless sky, inhuman empty blue. Guizot marched at the head of his company, just behind Rochambeau’s vanguard. The general’s black shako, a little scuffed from its recent mistreatment, bobbed at the head of the line. A steady tattoo of drums encouraged them. Guizot’s tongue rasped over dry lips. He’d drunk from the stream before they left it, but in this heat one was sweated dry again in less than a half-hour. Sergeant Aloyse pegged along at his right, snuffling with the effort, blood crumbs blackened around his nostrils. His nose had been broken, no worse than that.

  Despite his exhaustion, Guizot’s heart was high. Except for a high cactus hedge on their right, this was open country, level and flat; a Negro army would never stand against them here, and what did it matter to lose the powder magazine if the enemy army could be destroyed? And the enemy was in sight, just ahead, standing with a steadfastness Guizot would not have expected.

  “Ready! Aim! Fire!” Rochambeau himself gave those commands. The forward rank knelt to recharge muskets; Guizot ordered his own men to fire. There at the front of the enemy line was that same little man with the feathered bicorne, flourishing a musket now as he directed the enemy musketeers—

  “En avant!”

  The French were charging, bayonets lowered, and Guizot ran with them, just behind the first line, his drawn sword at the ready and his eye fixed on the feathers of that bicorne, the red plume floating high above the rest. Kill that man and the battle was won. Capture him and the bet was won. Capture him and the war was won . . . But after the first shock, Guizot lost sight of him. The enemy was holding. Then, finally, yielding a little under the pressure of the bayonets. The French advance sped to the pace of a run; it seemed as if the enemy had broken, but still Guizot could not relocate that red feather, will-of-a-wisp that his quarry was. In his excitement he’d outrun his company, except for Aloyse; the two of them were now abreast of Rochambeau’s advance guard. Then
came another shock, from the left this time, and Guizot realized they’d been flanked. The blacks were pushing toward them; Guizot parried a bayonet with his sword, ducked, stabbed underneath the musket barrel, spun through and away. And now again the French advance was moving.

  With the enemy advance guard barely forty yards away, Toussaint had turned to whisper to Placide. “Go with Monpoint,” he said. “Take Guiaou with you. The rest of the cavalry is there behind that hedge. Monpoint will hold them in reserve to break the French line when the time is right.”

  Placide squeezed his heels into the flanks of his horse. Guiaou was cantering on his right, while Guerrier remained in the infantry line, beside Toussaint. Monpoint had ranged his horsemen on the Marie Louise road, covered by a cactus hedge nearly twelve feet high. He did not take any action at first, but sat his horse quietly, watching the infantry clash.

  At this remove, Placide’s mind was clear and he could watch calmly. After the first exchange of volleys, the lines collided with bayonets—the French had a terrible skill with that weapon. There was a break in Toussaint’s line, and Placide heard Labarre’s voice shouting, “What! do you forget your vow! remember the Governor is among us!” Placide looked at Monpoint, nudged his horse forward, but Monpoint stayed him with a hand—it was too soon, and in fact Toussaint’s line had rallied.

  Placide calmed himself, forcing a deep breath; now he could see that Rochambeau had not deployed his men to take advantage of his superior numbers, and Toussaint must have seen that also: now two companies of chasseurs were flanking the French line on the left, moving quickly through the cover of the raket and baroron, then wheeling, doing tremendous damage with their fire before they charged. But the French were many. Too many—there looked to be two men to replace each man that fell, and Toussaint’s front line was yielding again; it seemed to buckle in the middle. Placide saw Toussaint return his musket to Guerrier. He’d recovered his cane; how had he found it? The cane’s tip whirled, and Toussaint’s mouth worked, but Placide could hear nothing—his ears still rang with the explosion of the powder magazine in the gorge. Toussaint was staring at Monpoint.

  “He means us to charge,” Placide said, and felt Guiaou move up beside him. Surely this must be the intended moment, and they must seize it, or be lost.

  He looked again for his father’s feathered hat but could not find it. Monpoint remained, fixed, rigid and mute, like the statue of a horseman. His eyes were glazed. Placide glanced at Guiaou, who looked hungry to ride—his nostrils flared almost as wide as those of his horse. Would the others follow if Placide and Guiaou undertook to charge? Would Toussaint then rebuke Placide for insubordination?

  Then he saw Toussaint running up from the infantry lines toward the hedge. He seemed to be empty-handed now, or no, he still had the cane. He moved at a quick bowlegged trot, with Guerrier loping along a step behind him. Two men broke out of the French line, one with a long, snaky pigtail, and tried to lay their hands on him. Toussaint’s hat spilled onto the ground, but he twisted away and continued. Guerrier knocked down the smaller Frenchman with his musket stock, dodged under the swinging arm of the other, and followed.

  Toussaint slapped his cane across Monpoint’s thigh, but Monpoint remained immobile.

  “Where is your heart?” Toussaint sputtered. “There’ll be no better chance than this. Let us see what the brave men of my guard can do— charge them! Charge them without delay.”

  Monpoint’s jaws worked—in the corners of his mouth appeared a little foam of spittle. Placide followed the line of his glazed stare. Behind the line of engagement, more and more French soldiers were spilling out of the ravine, hundreds upon hundreds of them, pooling like water spilled from an overset cup.

  “Victory or death, that was your sentence.” Toussaint swung the slender cane across Monpoint’s shoulders, so hard that it broke. “Well, if you will not ride, get down, and give your horse to me.”

  Guerrier appeared, proffering Toussaint’s bicorne hat, which he’d just rescued from the mêlée. Toussaint took it absently and held it in one hand against his knee. Monpoint’s head turned very slowly to face Toussaint. His left hand floated upward, with an equal slowness, as if some outside power lifted it.

  “Death, then,” his voice croaked. The left hand pointed to the French center. “I will go there to find my death.”

  “Find victory,” Toussaint said, but Monpoint had already spurred his horse away. Toussaint slashed his broken cane across the horse’s buttocks, then tossed it away. His hand rose to take the bridle of Placide’s horse, then sank down, empty. Victory or death! had risen to a scream among the cavalry, as the horses thundered out of the lane. The wind rushed into Placide’s eyes as he spurred forward among the rest, and the astonished faces of the French infantry turned toward him like pale flowers.

  Captain Guizot had been clubbed in the head one time too many these last few days . . . He knew it to be so, for the idea made him giddy, had him laughing out loud even as he grabbled in the dust for a tooth that the musket stock had just knocked out. Sergeant Aloyse caught hold of him and hauled him to his feet.

  “So close,” Guizot gabbled, through his half-hysterical giggling. “So close, I touched him with this hand.”

  Sergeant Aloyse gave him a shake so hard that his jaws clicked together. The chattering stopped. “Thank you,” Guizot said. He looked around for Rochambeau, wondering if his general had been witness to their near-successful exploit, but the black shako had withdrawn to the main body of French troops. The sergeant’s eyes had widened, and Guizot wrenched his shoulders free, turning to see whatever it was he saw. A squadron of enemy cavalry was howling down on their right flank from an opening in a cactus-hedged lane.

  “Get back!” The sergeant’s voice. He and Guizot made a bolt for their closest cover in the French advance guard, but this cover was not very good—the enemy foot soldiers, emboldened by the cavalry charge, were pressing harder with their bayonets. They were cut off. The charge had divided them from the main body of the French, left them pinned between two enemy forces, and already some of the troopers near Guizot and Aloyse were throwing down their weapons and raising empty hands for quarter.

  “We’d better run for it,” Aloyse grunted, and when Guizot peered doubtfully at the scrum of men and horses between them and the main French body, he added succinctly, “Better to die on the field than be captured by the savages—but you do as you like.”

  Guizot followed the sergeant’s desperate dash, dodging among the whipping hooves, leaping over fallen bodies. A black horseman with a grotesquely scarred face rode down on him, meaning to split his head with a coutelas. Guizot, bemused by the man’s strange and horrible aspect, got his sword up to parry just in time. The horseman circled for another cut, and as he did so a gap opened and Guizot plunged into it, following the sergeant’s flying pigtail. The French line parted to let them in, then closed behind them. His chest burning, Guizot fixed his sword point in the ground and bowed over the pommel, sucking for air, but before he could well get his breath the drums were beating a retreat and he had to move again. Incredibly, they were withdrawing, abandoning the field to this ragged Negro army, falling back to shelter in the mouth of the ravine.

  All that had taken place in that desperate charge was a bright, bewildering swirl to Placide. He was still in possession of all his weapons, and his sword arm was tremendously sore, so he thought that he must have acquitted himself decently. What he remembered best, most fondly, was that Toussaint had moved to hold him back from the battle, then changed his mind and let him go.

  A guard post had been set to observe the French where they huddled inside the mouth of the gorge. Placide rode back in the direction of Toussaint’s temporary command post, in the thin shade of a raket tree on Habitation Lacroix. Now, in the relative quiet, he was more aware of the ringing in his ears from the explosion of the magazine that morning, but the high whine only added to his exhilaration.

  As he rode in he passed some thirty disc
onsolate French prisoners sitting on the ground with their hands on their heads, under guard of Monpoint, who had after all survived the charge, and a couple other men of the guard. Toussaint was sitting behind his portable writing desk, opened on a section of log that served as a table. Doctor Hébert, grubby-faced and hollow-eyed, was writing something to his dictation. The shadows of pulpy, spined raket lay on his page.

  “Ah, my boy,” Toussaint said, looking up. “You come in good time to help me with my letters. The good doctor is weary, and also I must send him with our wounded to Petite Rivière. And I will soon be riding to Gonaives to see how the day has gone there.”

  “I will go with you,” Placide said.

  At Toussaint’s words, the doctor stood, nodded to Placide, then stumbled slightly as he moved away, toward where Fontelle and Paulette reclined on bandage bundles by their donkeys. Placide sat down in the place he had vacated.

  “No,” said Toussaint. “I would have you see to the safety of the family first.”

  “Of course, but where are they?” Placide said, with a pang, for he had not thought of his mother and brothers since the unimaginably distant morning before.

  “If it is the will of God, they have all gone to Pont d’Ester,” Toussaint said. “But soon I mean to send them to Grand Cahos.”

  Placide looked down at the paper the doctor had been copying; the letters swam under his eyes. Some reckoning of prisoners, lists of the dead. He looked up.

  “But we have beaten them, Papa—we are masters of the field. Have we not won?”

  He found no smile in Toussaint’s face, not even a hidden one. His father’s feathered bicorne had been dropped on the ground, and dust caked in the sweat on the red cloth that bound his head. Toussaint’s eyes shot over Placide’s shoulder, off into the recess of pale desert, with its thorny scrub withering under the white ball of afternoon sun.