The Stone that the Builder Refused

by Madison Smartt Bell

  It was past noon when they reached Thibodet, and the grand’case was deserted. All work appeared to have stopped in the coffee groves. A few people tended their provision grounds, while the rest simply rested somewhere in the shade. Few adult men were in evidence, but the women and children drifted over the property as if unconcerned by the chatter of muskets just one ridge away.

  Tocquet found Merbillay behind the grand’case, stirring an iron cauldron of gros bouillon. Gros-Jean and Bazau dipped up gourdfuls right away, not waiting for any invitation. Oblivious to the glance Merbillay fired in their direction, they sat crosslegged on the ground to eat.

  “Koté madamn mwen?” Tocquet asked. Where is my wife?

  Merbillay inclined her handsome head and scraped the sides of the iron cookpot with a long wooden spoon. Her youngest, Marielle, clung to her skirts and peeped, smiling shyly at Tocquet.

  “Li pati pou Sancey, ak tout blan sa yo,” Merbillay said, noncommittally. She has gone to Sancey, with all the other whites.

  Tocquet nodded and scooped up a gourd of stew. He ate slowly, squatting on the ground by the others, and stopped before his hunger was wholly satisfied, so as to remain alert. The three of them got fresh horses, saddled up and rode on. At Sancey the situation was the same: the plantation drained of able-bodied men, the grand’case deserted but for servants. These latter were able to tell Tocquet that Elise and the other whites from Thibodet had indeed passed through earlier in the day. With Suzanne Louverture and some of her relatives, they’d gone further south, in the direction of Périsse.

  At first Placide had been afraid that Bel Argent would be altogether too much horse of him, though to ride him was an honor he would never have declined. But with half an hour in the saddle, on the road from Sancey to Thibodet, he and the white stallion reached an understanding, and Placide knew that he would manage. He savored the impression he made on General Christophe by materializing in the midst of the mountain skirmishing, on his father’s best-known mount. But despite his excitement, the elation of action, Placide could see that Christophe was in a bad way—both he and his men demoralized by their defeat at the seemingly impregnable post of Morne à Boispins. Though they were still delaying the French, though Christophe swore through his teeth he would defeat them, Placide concluded that Doctor Hébert was right: the line above Ennery could not hold for long.

  The whites of the grand’case had already departed by the time Placide and Guiaou rode back into the main compound of Thibodet. He would have liked to continue on their trail to Sancey—to kiss his mother, take Isaac’s hand one time before the battle Isaac would not share. But the family was probably already on the move, retreating from Sancey to some place of greater safety, farther south.

  Guiaou had led them on the way up from Gonaives, but on their return Placide took the lead; he had taken care to note the landmarks, and now he turned through every crossroads without a fault. A dry wind swirled over the lowlands north of Gonaives, stirring white dust out of the raket and baroron, coating the two riders and their horses. Placide set a moderate pace, so as not to overtire Bel Argent. They entered Gonaives at a steady trot.

  Toussaint had just returned himself, from an inspection of posts along the Ester River to the south. Placide found him on the second-story porch at headquarters, in council with Vernet, Magny, and Monpoint. He stood at attention to make his report and remained in that posture until his father put him at ease with a nod.

  “So.” Toussaint’s hand floated over the map; he glanced up to catch Vernet’s eye. “General Hardy is advancing on Ennery even as we speak. If, as it seems, Christophe cannot hold him, he may arrive to threaten us here. But another column is coming through the mountains”—his forefinger traced the main road from Pilboreau down to Gonaives— “commanded by Desfourneaux, and perhaps also by Leclerc himself.” He sat back, holding Vernet’s eyes. “These two forces may combine against you. It looks likely that they will.”

  “Oui, mon général.”

  “You will repel them. I leave you two battalions of the Seventh Demibrigade, a squadron of cavalry and what militia has been mustered—let that be sufficient to destroy these blancs who come to take our liberty. But if by any chance you cannot hold, burn Gonaives and retreat along this line into the Cahos.”

  “Oui, mon général.” Vernet saluted, turned smartly away. His bootheels clattered down the stairs. Toussaint turned to Monpoint and Magny.

  “See that your men and the horses are ready. We move within the half-hour.”

  Monpoint and Magny saluted and withdrew. Placide, now alone with Toussaint, cocked his head to peer at the map.

  “What of General Boudet and his force?” he said. Like others around the Gonaives headquarters, Placide had heard the rumors that Boudet meant to close on Gonaives from the direction of Port-au-Prince.

  “Boudet will not reach Gonaives. Boudet will not get so far as Saint Marc. Dessalines stands in his way, and Dessalines will keep him in his bottle.” Toussaint’s hand passed over his mouth, carrying away the smile. “Our business today is with Rochambeau.” He flicked the map with a yellowed fingernail. “He means to march down out of the Central Plateau and reach the Savane Désolée, just here.”

  Toussaint leaned back, fixed Placide with his gaze. “If he succeeds?”

  Placide gulped back a renegade heartbeat. He swallowed twice before he spoke. “He will occupy the road to Ester and cut our communications. We shall be caught between his force and the other columns advancing from Le Cap and Ennery.”

  Toussaint smiled openly. “So they desire. So they suppose. But Rochambeau will not reach the southern road. We will meet him here, in the Ravine à Couleuvre.”

  “Can we hold him there?” Placide blurted.

  “We can destroy him in that place, and we will do it. We must do it. After Rochambeau has been wiped out, we will return here to support Vernet and finish all these blancs who are coming down from the north.”

  He measured Placide with his eye. “Fé konfyans, fils-moin. We will not fail. I have prepared for a long time to meet the invader in this ravine.” His fingernail tapped the ink checkmark that indicated the height of Morne Barade. “But to succeed, we must reach this position before night.”

  “And if Rochambeau should come there first?”

  Toussaint did not reply at once. His eyes half closed; his hand slipped beneath the skirt of his coat to finger the beads of the rosary attached to his belt. Placide listened to the click of wooden skulls: one, two, three. He had been fascinated with that rosary as a boy, during that distant time he and his brothers had been living with their mother on the Central Plateau, seeing their father very seldom, when he came to them between his battles. It had seemed to Placide that the rosary grew longer with each of his father’s absences. Toussaint’s parted lips breathed out his silent prayers. Papa, Placide thought to say.

  “Mon général,” he said aloud. “If Rochambeau should arrive before us?”

  “Fé konfyans BonDyé.” Toussaint stood up. “Put your trust in God— He will not permit that to happen.”

  Sancey was all astir when the refugees from Thibodet arrived. Suzanne Louverture moved quietly, quickly, efficiently through that turmoil. Her glance acknowledged the white women and their children with no sign of surprise. A couple of servants were carrying small bundles out of the house, while Saint-Jean scurried back and forth through the open doorway, generally getting himself underfoot. Toussaint’s sister, Madame Chancy, stood beside her two daughters; small portmanteaus waited at their feet. Beside these ladies was Isaac, no longer wearing his dress uniform, but more simply attired in canvas trousers and a loose white shirt. It was plain enough to Elise that none of them would be staying here.

  Mireille squirmed on her bosom, reaching for Zabeth, who was, however, sufficiently burdened by her own infant. Sophie tugged free from Elise’s other hand, and with Robert she scampered up the steps to peer in the tall windows of the Sancey grand’case. Elise opened her mouth to reprov
e her. But just then Suzanne came out of the house and turned to lock the front door with a large iron key. The children, abashed, crept down the steps to rejoin their mothers.

  Silently, Elise regathered herself. She’d hoped for a respite in this place, a pause, even if they did not stay. If she’d yielded to Xavier’s importunings, she might even now be . . . where? It came to her, with a palpitation, that Xavier might have waited too long for his own purposes, might well have been caught in the fighting in the hills or on the plateau.

  But now Isabelle had drawn her own iron key from her bodice and was brandishing it at Suzanne Louverture. Her voice was distinctly too loud when she spoke, and her hand trembled, holding out the key.

  “Scarcely a month, Madame Louverture, since I locked the door of my house at Le Cap with this. And from that house, the lock survives, but all the rest is ashes. And on whose order was—”

  “Isabelle!” Elise shifted the baby to her opposite arm and moved to quell her friend. “Be silent!”

  Nanon had appeared, more calmly, from the other side, and at her touch Isabelle subsided.

  “Pardon,” Elise said to Suzanne. “I’m sure she means to wish you no misfortune—she is unsettled by her losses.”

  Isabelle’s breath came in quick, harsh pants. The hollow of her throat was pulsing. In all their friendship Elise had never seen her break this way. One never knew what straw would be too heavy. Nanon, a head taller than Isabelle, stood behind her, stroking the nape of her neck and her temples. She drew Isabelle’s head back to rest on her bosom.

  “Well,” said Suzanne. “I think we have all known the changing fortunes of our wars.” She touched Isabelle with a fingertip on her forehead, then raised her slack hand and folded the fingers over the key it held. “Take courage, Madame,” she said. “When these troubles are ended, you may yet build another house to hold the lock your key will open.”

  Ten dragoons of Toussaint’s honor guard were there to escort them, under command of Morisset. Horseback or riding donkeys, they all set out on the southbound trails. Morisset led them on byways Elise did not know, crooked paths that avoided the main road from Ennery down to Gonaives. Once their way was blocked for a few minutes by a long file of field hands who’d laid down their hoes for muskets and were heading at a dogtrot in the direction of the Savane Désolée.

  “The legacy of Sonthonax,” Isabelle said dully. Elise hushed her, with a glance at Suzanne; she knew that Toussaint had been as assiduous as the French commissioner Sonthonax in distributing muskets to the field hands, with the exhortation that these weapons were the fundamental instruments of freedom and must be kept ready for just such occasions as this.

  Suzanne, if she had heard this ironizing, did not react, and Isabelle consented to be silenced. Her episode of hysteria seemed to have passed and she was calm and upright in her saddle, though she looked pale and drawn. Isaac rode beside her, offering tidbits of conversation in the clear, correct French he had learned at the Collège de la Marche. Gradually, Isabelle began to soften under his polite attentions and her own awareness that, without even trying, she’d beguiled the boy.

  “Where is Saint-Jean?”

  The voice was Suzanne’s, from the head of their line. Isaac swiveled his head around—Elise looked too, but the youngest Louverture son was nowhere to be seen. The older children had been making a game of their progress for the last half-hour, giggling as they raced their donkeys in circles through the brush, but now the path had turned very near to the main road, and below them Elise thought she could hear the distant rattle of a military drum and the shuffle of marching feet. Sophie and Robert burst out of the bushes. Isaac repeated the question to them— “Where is Saint-Jean?”—and Robert pointed in the direction of the road.

  At once Isaac was off at a canter. Four of Morisset’s dragoons went after him. Suzanne had turned her donkey across the trail; her peeled stick pointed to the sky. “Isaac,” she called. “Isaac!”

  “Madame,” Morisset said. “My men will bring him back to you, but we must go on, and quickly. Those are French soldiers there on the road.”

  Suzanne fell into her place in the line. Morisset turned them inland, leaving the trail to go cross-country, inland, with one more dragoon remaining behind at the point of their departure. They rode through dense brush, raked by the dry thorns, till they gained another, higher pathway. The sound of the drum was no longer audible from the main road. Robert and Sophie had fallen silent; they did not try to leave the group. After forty minutes Isaac and the five cavalrymen overtook the others. There was no sign of Suzanne’s youngest son.

  “No one will harm him,” Isaac said. “He is the son of the Governor-General.” But the young man’s dark face looked drained of blood. Suzanne did not respond to what he’d said. Isabelle, who’d come very much to herself again, pressed her mare forward and reached out a hand to Madame Louverture, but Suzanne did not seem to see her. She faced forward, her eyes hard under the line of her blue headcloth, her face a mask.

  In the afternoon they reached Habitation Cocherelle, where the balance of Morisset’s squadron awaited them. Toussaint had passed that way an hour before, at the head of a battalion of grenadiers and more dragoons of his guard. He’d left word for the family to remain there till his next message might come.

  Suzanne slipped down from her donkey, walked into the shade of a flamboyant tree, knelt in the dust, and folded her hands to pray. Isabelle took a few steps toward her, then stopped short. Elise and Nanon joined her. Behind them, Morisset was giving orders, deploying his men on all the approaches to the Cocherelle grand’case. Madame Chancy walked past the white women, but she too stopped before she reached Suzanne beneath the flamboyant. When Suzanne had finished her prayer, she rose and brushed the dirt from her skirt. She clasped Madame Chancy’s hand for a moment and then, expressionless, went into the grand’case to begin making it ready to receive the refugees.

  Elise sat on the Cocherelle gallery, with Mireille sleeping, finally, in her arms. She was exhausted beyond all reckoning, had not the will to rise and lay the baby down. Where would she lay her? Isabelle and Nanon and Zabeth were all scurrying through the house, following Suzanne Louverture’s directions, beating out mattresses, making beds, or organizing pallets. Isabelle had snapped completely out of her despondency, or buried it in this new bustle. Someone had lit a cookfire behind the house; the odor of simmering soupe joumoun mingled with the wood smoke. In these acts of dailiness Suzanne must find some shelter. Elise could not imagine what must be in her mind and heart. She remembered Saint-Jean as she’d last seen him, grinning as his donkey darted through the baroron. He’d disappear, then reappear, like Sophie and Robert. When had been the last time he’d crossed her field of vision? He’d disappeared, then failed to reappear. That simple. Remarkable as it was in this country, Elise herself had never lost a child. She had not paid enormous attention to Mireille—indeed the baby preferred Zabeth, to whom she was more accustomed—but now she snuggled her closer, as she let herself slip down toward a doze.

  A noise at the end of the Cocherelle drive roused her. Morisset’s sentries must have challenged someone. Silence, then Elise picked out three horsemen riding toward her out of the dusky lane. The tall figure riding the lead horse wore a familiar broad-brimmed hat.

  Elise ran down into the yard and clutched his stirrup. “Xavier,” she said. “Dear God, you are safe.”

  Tocquet smiled wearily through the dust that coated his face. “And you also,” he said. “And the children?”

  “All safe and well,” Elise said. “But for Saint-Jean—he was lost on the road. It was awful—one minute he was there and the next he was gone.”

  “He is found,” Tocquet said, and slipped down from his horse to stand beside her. “Fortunately or unfortunately, as you prefer. General Hardy has captured him.”

  “What ill luck for Suzanne.”

  “He won’t be harmed,” Tocquet said. “He is too valuable as a hostage. They’ll treat him kindly.�
��

  “Then Hardy’s men must have overrun Ennery altogether,” Elise said.

  “Parts of it,” Tocquet said. “It was all confusion when I passed. There was some fighting in the village, I think, and of course we were doing all we could to keep clear of it.”

  “How glad I am to see you,” Elise said.

  “Pareil,” said Tocquet. “I feel the same. It has been a long day tracking you down. And you too, little one.”

  Mireille had awakened, uncharacteristically calm. She raised her head from the crook of Elise’s elbow and looked at her father with wide, round eyes. Bazau and Gros-Jean had also dismounted. Gros-Jean approached, and with a cluck of his tongue he took the reins from Tocquet’s hand and led the horses away behind the Cocherelle grand’case.

  “Is that soupe joumoun I smell?” Tocquet said. He draped an arm over Elise’s shoulder; she rested her cheek on his collarbone. Mireille turned and closed her soft hand around Tocquet’s trailing forefinger. Together they began to stroll toward the house.

  “Isabelle and Nanon are with you, yes?” Tocquet said. “And Antoine?”

  “He was ordered to go with Toussaint, with the army—they seem to be thinking there will be a great battle.”

  Tocquet stopped short. “Where?”

  “It hasn’t been reported to me. You must ask Morisset, perhaps—he is here, with these guardsmen who are watching the house. I think they said Toussaint was bound for Ravine à Couleuvre when he left here this afternoon.”

  Abruptly Tocquet disengaged his arm. “That may be ill luck indeed,” he said. “I was afraid of it—and Ravine à Couleuvre is uncomfortably close by.”

  “What do you mean?” Elise reached for his hand; absently Tocquet returned the pressure, then let it fall as he fumbled for one of his cheroots.