Moyse, he breathed. But the one-eyed face in the mirror lost the aspect of his adopted nephew and hardened into the stiff gaze of Ghede. Baron Samedi, Baron Cimetière, Baron Lacroix . . . by all these names Toussaint had known him. He relaxed and released himself to follow the dark angel beneath the water of his own death.
Instead he found himself looking out through the tunnel of Ghede’s one eye. He heard the whine of mosquito song as he passed through the vortex. Then on a gust of a warm wind he was flying up and over the cape; he caught a glimpse of Fort Picolet upside down and the waves beating on the seawall below the Batterie Circulaire as his insect body went tumbling toward the windows of the Governor’s house at Le Cap. The mosquito voice hummed in his ear the story of Moyse’s namesake Moses, whom the Lord did not leave to cross the Jordan in his body; never was Moses to enter the land whose promise his life’s labor had realized . . . Then darkness. The room where he emerged looked curtained all in black. There were clouds of mosquitoes besides the one in which Ghede was incorporated, and Moyse was among them after all— also Macandal and Boukman and Dieudonné and Blanc Cassenave and Joseph Flaville and all the hundreds on hundreds of others who had passed through the mirror before Toussaint, remaining, invisible, just on the other side of the world we see. Pauline Leclerc batted her fine little hands at the mosquitoes, irritably, ineffectually. Her voice was small and dull in the close room.
“Leave the curtains shut. The night air is noxious, especially to an invalid.”
But he could not tell whom she addressed; she seemed to be alone in the room. The bed she sat beside was illuminated by white wax tapers fixed to each of its four posts. Amid the four flames the Captain-General Leclerc writhed feverishly in the sheets which would become his cerements. The mosquito lit on his pale, waxy throat. Pauline wept wretchedly at the bedside; Toussaint felt a touch of surprise that this accomplished courtesan could feel so much at the loss of one little husband. Leclerc twitched and shuddered as the mosquito’s needle-snout probed into his gullet for a final drop of blood. Pauline sobbed—could she be only acting? Then the blood was found, and all the thirst of the Invisibles joined in the frail machine of this one mosquito to share its winy taste.
Part Three
LA CRÊTE À PIERROT
February–March 1802
Vainqueurs partout, nous ne possédions rien au delà de nos fusils. L’ennemi ne tint nulle part, et pourtant il ne cessa pas d’être maître du pays.
—Lieutenant Moreau de Jonnes
Though victorious everywhere, we possessed nothing but our guns. The enemy did not hold out anywhere, and yet remained the master of the country.
21
At the center of the dawn bustle of the French camp at Ennery, Captain-General Leclerc positioned himself on a camp stool by the rolled flaps of his tent door, and extended first one foot, then the other, that his orderly might brush and polish his elegant high-topped boots. Cyprien and Daspir watched him at a little distance. Leclerc, who was perusing his dispatches, affected to ignore both the staff officers nearer to him and the orderly busy at his feet.
“That makes a week or better that he has not taken off his boots,” Daspir remarked, as he sliced into one of the perfectly ripe avocados he’d managed to acquire from a passing marchande an hour earlier. He’d slept uneasily and awakened before daylight, his unrest channeled into hunger. During his several trips through these mountains he’d learned that the market women traveled before dawn, and today he’d put the knowledge to good use.
“You don’t think he removes them when alone in his tent?” Cyprien sniffed.
“But no—our general is too much the man of honor.” Daspir popped the seed from his avocado and bit into the yellow-green flesh, his top teeth scraping the inside of the peel.
“Or too much governed by his pride,” said Cyprien. “Well, perhaps he does sleep in his boots—if not, his orderly would betray him.”
“It must be desperately uncomfortable,” Daspir said. “To wear one’s boots both night and day.”
“I think there are a good many soldiers in our command who would be glad to suffer so.”
“Well yes,” said Daspir. “I won’t dispute you there.” In fact, several supply ships had gone astray from the main fleet, one carrying a cargo of new boots, and for that reason a good number of the French soldiers marched in broken shoes, and a few went barefoot.
“Try an avocado?” Daspir said. “There are several, and I also managed a couple of oranges.”
“No thank you,” Cyprien replied. “I seldom have much appetite before a battle. Though I do hope we shall sup well tonight—in Gonaives.”
“Likewise,” said Daspir. He licked avocado paste from his fingers, letting the peel drop on the ground. “And may our commander pull off his boots this evening, and let his toes go free in the fresh air.”
“Yes,” said Cyprien. “It’s been a little longer than he wagered.”
What of their own wager, Daspir thought, but he said nothing of it. Cyprien was cynical on that subject, or the subject itself was cynical. And Daspir had no idea where Guizot or Paltre might be at that point. Dismissing the thought, he tore into the green peel of an orange, disclosing yellowish, juicy flesh.
Leclerc stood up, brushing his tight trouser leg reflexively. The orderly put away his brush and blacking and set himself to disassembling the tent. Daspir studied the high gloss on the Captain-General’s boots. Despite his ironizing with Cyprien, he thought that Leclerc had shown himself to be something more than a mere popinjay these last few days. He had been energetic, determined, and decisive. It seemed to Daspir that the farther Leclerc traveled from his lady wife, the more these qualities strengthened in him. It might be that he deserved to win his own prize.
General Desfourneaux stooped slightly, bringing his ear to Leclerc’s lips. Daspir was too far off to hear Leclerc’s words or Desfourneaux’s response. They’d all marched south with Desfourneaux, from Le Cap by way of Limbé, and had met with no more than harassment on this route. The worst they’d seen was sniping and skirmishing from irregulars led by Sylla in the mountains of Plaisance, and those men had not stood for long against the organized French troops. But General Hardy’s division, moving westward along the mountain range from Dondon to Marmelade, had fought some hard engagements with the retreating rebel Christophe—the victory at Morne à Boispins being especially prodigious, according to Hardy’s reports, which Leclerc certainly gave full credit.
Now Christophe had been pushed away to the heights of Bayonet, some distance to the southeast of their position, while Hardy had the day before joined Leclerc and Desfourneaux here at the crossroads of Ennery. And at the same time, according to the strategy which Daspir and Cyprien had agreed was very well conceived, General Rochambeau was moving to cut off any retreat south from Gonaives. So indeed they might sup well in Gonaives tonight, with the rebellion ended and the rebel Toussaint either captured or killed.
“Captain Daspir, come to me, please.” Leclerc was beckoning with his left hand as he spoke.
Daspir crossed the space between them and brought himself smartly to attention.
“If you wish, you may ride with the advance guard this morning.”
“It is my honor.” Daspir saluted and went at a half-trot to find his horse.
An hour later he was riding down the main road toward Gonaives, content to have stolen a march on Cyprien, who remained with the main body of the troops. The descent was gentle, and the Ennery River purled quietly to their right. Daspir was lulled by the warmth of the sun on his back; at this early hour the heat had not yet become painful. His stomach was pleasantly full of avocado and orange, and he felt confident for the day’s action. When he looked at the river he recalled the image of the little Negro officer astride his warhorse, on the far side of that other stream, north of Limbé. With a little more luck he’d be as near to him today, or nearer. For surely Toussaint would be trapped today at Gonaives—no choice for him except death or surrende
r or to throw himself into the sea.
The downward slope fell into a trough, then began to rise, just slightly, on the other side. The river was very near on their right, while the road turned sharply around the steep flank of a jungle mountain. All was calm and quiet except for the tramp of marching feet, intermittent birdsong, and the rippling of water over stones of the riverbed. Afterward Daspir could not be certain if he’d felt that electric shock in his spine before the shooting started, but something moved him to stretch out along the neck of his horse, so that the volley passed harmless over him.
Others had not been so fortunate; when Daspir straightened he saw a dozen foot soldiers laid low on the curve of the road. There was more shooting, dead ahead of them. The advance guard had walked into an ambush. Daspir drew his sword, but he could not immediately see the enemy; the firing to his left came out of a dense cover of trees. His horse carried him around the bend, and now he saw a barricade of logs across the road—from behind this obstacle more bullets poured. Daspir’s horse reared and wheeled. An enemy charge rolled down from the mountainside: a horde of screaming, whirling blacks that came out of the screen of trees with a sudden abandon that swept part of the advance guard into the river. Daspir’s horse stumbled on the bank. When he glanced down, he saw a dead man floating, the body catching between a pair of stones. Daspir looked dully at the leather straps crossed on the dead man’s back. His blood rushed past him down the river, thin threads dispersing in the water.
Then they were making a headlong retreat, thrown back against the main force marching up behind them. “What is the meaning of this disorder?” Leclerc was screaming, and Daspir stammered, “Mon général, their resistance is surprisingly stout,” but Leclerc was not paying any attention to him, had moved on to bellow at somebody else. Daspir took off his hat and looked at it and stuck his little finger into the bullet hole— the old one from their landing at the Baie d’Acul. Today no projectile had come so near to him—so far. He felt his confidence begin to return.
Cyprien shouted something indistinct to him, an order passed down from General Hardy. The survivors of the advance guard were re-forming, bolstered by troops from Desplanques’s brigade, and the drums were beating the charge. Daspir resumed his place in the van. Ahead, the men moved out at a smart trot, not wavering as they rounded the bend to confront the log barricade. With an effort, Daspir held himself straight in the saddle. The advance carried him against the logs, where he lashed with his sword against a black in tattered colonial uniform who was hacking toward his right leg with a cane knife. Infantrymen were climbing the logs. Daspir saw one fall backward, flung off as lightly as a forkful of straw by a bayonet thrust from an enormous black. But the French charge did not slacken; the men behind kept clambering over the bodies of those who’d fallen before them.
The mêlée had become general atop the barricade when Daspir felt the wind riffle his hair forward and realized he had lost his hat. The hat with its fortunate bullet hole—his talisman. He looked about wildly and saw it rolling on its edge toward the river. He was on the ground before he knew he’d dismounted, chasing the hat. A black sprang up before him, and Daspir unconsciously knocked him out of the way with his shoulder. The hat caught on a stick at the water’s edge, and Daspir swooped down and recovered it. Cyprien swirled past, shouting some admonition. Daspir caught his horse’s trailing reins and hauled himself back up into the saddle.
Mounted, he could see that the French charge had broken through the barricade and was pressing the retreating blacks south down the road, though not very hotly. A fair number of infantrymen had paused to drag the logs of the barricade clear of the roadway, rolling the timbers into the stream, which was now choked with bodies, both black and white. Daspir averted his eyes from that. But still he felt exhilarated when he overtook Cyprien.
“Nothing can hold back our French grenadiers,” he sang out gaily.
“No . . .” Cyprien looked a little pale. “But that was a wicked ambush—they reckon that we have lost three hundred men.”
After that Daspir found it harder to ignore the bodies strewn along the roadside. But soon enough they had marched past them all. The road straightened, emerging from the mountains into the dry open plain below. The enemy was a cloud of white dust half a mile ahead of them. The French army held a steady pace, but did not close the distance. Daspir checked that his hat was secure to his head and tipped his head back to look up at the vacant, cloudless blue of the sky. Then he fixed his eyes forward once again. He was hot now, from his exertion and the increase of the sun, and his throat was dry. There was no water in his reach, and the road had turned away from the river. The air he breathed felt thick and gritty in his throat.
Placide rode half a length behind Toussaint on the trail from Marie Louise to Granmorne. Though Toussaint did not look back at him, the image of his son’s bewildered face persisted. How could the boy understand the victory they’d won so desperately to be a loss for all concerned? Placide was patient, however; he asked no unnecessary questions, but waited for the answers to appear to his observation. Toussaint liked that very much in him; it was a trait they had in common.
And truly it had been a victory—it still was. At the least and worst, Toussaint had broken the trap set for him. The line of retreat was now open. But to be forced to retreat was galling, especially if Gonaives must be sacrificed—though the sacrifice of Gonaives had been part of his plan from the moment he’d decided to attack Rochambeau. And the loss of so many men was bitter. But none of that was enough to explain the dreadful hollowness he felt as they climbed the spiraling trail up Granmorne. The day was bright and clear, the air fresh on the mountain, where the heat subsided the higher they climbed. A hummingbird hovered at a bloom beside the trail. But all these things were at a distance from Toussaint, as if on the other side of the mirror. As soon as the fighting had ended that morning, he’d felt his head vacated by his sustaining spirit—a dangerous emptiness, which anything else might arrive to occupy.
“Halt! Who comes?”
Toussaint squinted up the trail. The silver helmets of his honor guardsmen flickered behind the leaves. He cleared his throat, but Placide was already answering.
“We are the guard of the Governor-General.”
At that, Toussaint masked a faint smile. The face of one of Morisset’s dragoons appeared in a frame of green branches. “Governor! Pardon— we could not see you clearly. Come up—your family is here and safe.”
“And Morisset?” Toussaint took his hand away from his mouth.
“He has gone to the help of Vernet at Gonaives, where the fighting is heavy. We have not been threatened here.”
Toussaint nudged his horse forward, ducking his head below the branches. Though the distance was considerable he could hear shooting and even some shouting voices coming from the direction of Gonaives. The town was still being defended, then. He felt the dark mood lift just slightly. Then they had come into a clearing, where Placide hurriedly slipped down to embrace his mother. Toussaint took in his Chancy nieces and their mother, and Isaac, who could not seem to meet his eyes. Most if not all of the inhabitants of the grand’case at Thibodet were there too, with all the white and mixed-blood children.
“Where is Saint-Jean?” he said. The harshness of his voice echoed the dread he’d carried up the mountain. Suzanne’s head lowered. Oddly, it was the gunrunner Tocquet who answered the question, he who’d come in the night with the news of Rochambeau’s strength, instead of anyone of Toussaint’s family.
“Governor, Saint-Jean was overtaken by a column of General Hardy’s division. I did not see him myself, but I have it on good authority that he is safely held by the French.”
Toussaint drove his knuckles against the pommel of his saddle; the skin split between them, but he felt no pain. “An evil mischance that he was taken,” he said.
“Father.” Isaac was looking frankly at him now. “The Captain-General has never mistreated me or Placide, nor any of his officers—surel
y they would show no discourtesy to our younger brother. Be confident they will return him safe, as they did us.”
“Ah, but the war is open now,” Toussaint said. He looked into Isaac’s darkening face, then away into the surrounding circle of trees. “Still, there is sense in what you say. We must make the best of it, and hope that your judgment is good.”
Tocquet spoke again. “I can bear out your son’s judgment, Governor. By what I heard, Saint-Jean has been put in the care of Madame Granville, the wife of his tutor, whom you know. So you may be comforted— he is with friends.”
“You are good to tell me so,” said Toussaint.
Tocquet pushed back his broad-brimmed hat and adjusted the leather thong that bound his hair at the back. “Out of your own goodness, will you tell us what has become of our friend Antoine Hébert?”
“He is safely on the road to Petite Rivière, with those of our wounded who can still walk.” Toussaint saw from the corner of his eye how the pretty quarteronne Nanon seemed to wilt at his words; Tocquet’s white woman moved to support her. “I do not hold him against his will, but you must know how urgently his skills are needed.”
He turned to Suzanne. “Madamn mwen, you must go now to Pont d’Ester, while I—”
“Wait.” Suzanne’s eyes flashed up at him from under her blue headcloth. “I will not go on so alone, and risk another mishap.”
“But I must return to Gonaives, if the fighting continues there.” Toussaint checked Placide with a glance, as Placide lifted his foot toward a stirrup. “No—stay here to protect your mother and the others.” Toussaint drew out his watch on its chain. “If I have not returned by three, you must bring them all to Pont d’Ester, where I will join you.” He glanced over the five dragoons that Morisset had left there. “Keep watch on the roads to the north. If you see French troops, you must go sooner.”
The Stone that the Builder Refused Page 47