The Stone that the Builder Refused

by Madison Smartt Bell

  “But Antoine,” Nanon blurted. “Why did you leave him?”

  “He preferred to stay,” Fontelle said, though not quite meeting Nanon’s eyes. “He would not abandon all those wounded soldiers. But Bienvenu was always with him—and Toussaint would never let him come to harm.”

  Nanon’s heart constricted. Fontelle knew something that she did not want to say. And Toussaint was not protecting anyone at Petite Rivière today, if he was engaged in battle with Desfourneaux on the way to Marmelade . . . But Nanon swallowed the rest of her questions. Paulette was walking the rim of the ravine beside the road, one arm draped over Paul’s shoulder, and whispering in his ear. Whatever she might know, Nanon could tell from his expression that she was not saying anything to upset him, and it would be better to leave it so.

  Fontelle and Paulette rode on with the rest of them, but after the first excitement of their meeting, the pall seemed to deepen over them all. There was no talk. Tocquet wanted none, and his mood prevailed. Behind them a cloud bank had shut off the sun, dark rain clouds lowering on the heights of Limbé. Some part of the tension certainly came from the sullen charge of the air before rain. But instead of a downpour it was men who flowed around them with no warning—wild-looking men, though some wore shreds of uniform—they seemed to come from all directions, and pressed upon the riders from all sides. One of them snatched the bridle of Tocquet’s horse, but Tocquet knocked his arm away with the barrel of a long dragoon pistol that had suddenly appeared in his hand. He must have been waiting for his death all day, Nanon understood in a rush of recognition, scanning all points of the horizon to see from what quarter it would appear. Bazau and Gros-Jean had drawn their weapons too; Michau, the porter, had only a knife. They were four men against more than fifty.

  “Romain! Romain!” Elise was shouting as she rode down toward Tocquet. She had the quirk of riding in trousers, astride like a man, and with something of a man’s authority; she guided her mare with her left hand, while with her right she tore a paper out of her blouse and flagged it high above her head.

  “Mwen rélé Romain!” she said. “Where is Romain?”

  “M’la,” pronounced a guttural voice. I am here.

  The man who spoke was heavy-set, with a long torso and short legs, and heavily bearded. The matted hair of his head and beard was all teased into little russet points. He wore the rags of a colonel’s coat, and looked up at Elise with yellowish eyes.

  “You are Romain?” she panted. “Read this.”

  Romain took the paper from her hand, as if reluctantly, not shifting his eyes from her at first. Tocquet’s horse shied sideways, hooves skidding on the road as the hindquarters bunched. He pointed his pistol toward the sky as he reined the horse up. Romain now began to read, quite slowly, following the lines with a blunt fingertip.

  The woman who bears this letter is Madame Tocquet of Habitation Thibodet at Ennery. Respect my order to let her pass, with her husbandXavier Tocquet and anyone else who may accompany her.

  Signé

  TOUSSAINT LOUVERTURE

  Governor-General Saint Domingue

  “Well.” Romain looked from Elise to Tocquet, then back at Elise, whose blond hair had slipped down from under her hat. “You may pass, then.” He handed her back the folded paper; Elise tucked it back in the throat of her blouse.

  “Where are you going?” Romain said.

  “Le Cap,” Tocquet said, but Elise interrupted.

  “Tonight we stop at Habitation Arnaud,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Romain. “It is safe there. For one night. But maybe you should not stay longer. Le Cap, yes, maybe Le Cap will be better for you.”

  “Will you explain?” Tocquet said.

  Romain looked to the right and left. “Christophe is in the mountains,” he said. “At Pont Français and Sainte Suzanne and Haut Limbé and Grand Boucan and Vallière.” He raised one hand and slowly let it fall. “Christophe is in the mountains now, but tomorrow he may be in the plain.”

  “I see,” Tocquet said. “We’re grateful for your courtesy.”

  “Yes,” said Romain, and turned toward his men. “Bay tout moun-yo pasé,” he said in a louder voice. Let all these people pass.

  It was a full fifteen minutes before Tocquet said anything more at all, time enough for him to smoke all of one of his black cheroots and let the ash and last charred shreds of tobacco fall on the road behind. Then he turned in the saddle toward Elise.

  “You impress me very much, Madame,” he said brightly. “And still one wonders how you came by such a safe-conduct.”

  It seemed to Nanon that Elise colored considerably; there was even a flush on the back of her neck. “Suffice it to say that it is a good thing for us all that I do have it.”

  Tocquet cocked one eyebrow at her, but at the same time he seemed to be swallowing a laugh. Certainly his humor was now lighter than before. “Yes, I think it is sufficient,” he said, then squeezed his horse’s flanks and rode a little way forward.

  In the event, it did not rain. The clouds broke up and through a rift in them a shaft of the declining sun stretched down to touch the green of the northern plain like a gilding finger. The cool breath of the evening serein carried them through the gateposts of Habitation Arnaud. There was a sudden stir in the grand’case, when they were spotted, and Cléo rushed off to look for Arnaud. The children slid down from their mounts and tottered around on rubbery legs, the smaller ones mingling with the small children of this place. Amid the flurry of arrival, Isabelle stood staring rather sourly at the chapel, where Moustique was garbling a service, before the sole audience of the rigidly upright Claudine.

  “What is this mummery?” Isabelle said. She must be blistered from the ride, Nanon thought, for her tone was very sharp.

  “He’s saying the mass for your late husband, Madame,” Arnaud said, with an equal sharpness at first, then breaking off in confusion. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I—I didn’t mean to tell you so . . .”

  “Oh,” said Isabelle, putting two fingers to her lower lip. “Oh.” Everyone seemed to have stopped to stare at her.

  “I never treated him well,” she said. “He was quite a dull man, I know, but never was unkind to me.”

  Elise reached out a hand to her, but Isabelle, for whatever reason, collapsed instead on Nanon’s bosom. She wept. Nanon, surprised at first, began to stroke her hair and murmur. Elise’s hand still hovered in the air, until, with a quick self-conscious movement, she drew it back. She was hurt, as her eyes showed, before she turned aside. Nanon would have liked to comfort her too, perhaps more than Isabelle, whose burst of emotion had surprised her—the snuffle of wet sobs on the bodice of her dress. She softened herself to draw it all in. She had sheltered in the Cigny house on several occasions, sometimes for quite long periods, so she’d had good opportunity to observe their married life. If not for Nanon’s intervention, Isabelle would have had to present Monsieur Cigny with Joseph Flaville’s bastard: black Gabriel. That affair had been kept the most deadly secret; as for her frequent liaisons with white men, Isabelle had barely observed the form of trying to conceal them.

  And yet one could not know another’s heart. Nanon and Doctor Hébert were not demonstrative, except when they were alone. At first she’d seen the doctor as a funny little fellow, harmless and easy enough to lead. By the time she’d discovered herself mistaken in that early judgment, she’d also realized that the doctor had strengths and advantages as a protector that no one could have guessed from a first impression. But the larger feeling had wanted a much longer time to take root and grow.

  Claudine had appeared, with dry whispers and a few frail caresses. She led Isabelle into the house and settled her on her own bed. Nanon stayed with her for most of an hour, until she fell asleep. It was nearly dark when she quietly returned to the gallery, where the others had gathered around, though there was just enough light for her to see bats flickering across the sky above the yard. Arnaud was debating some point with Tocquet, who stabbed the
tabletop with his finger as though it were a map.

  “But the rumor is impossible,” Arnaud said. “Christophe cannot be at Vallière and Pont Français at the same time—there’s the whole Northern Plain between.”

  “I’ll give you that,” said Tocquet. “He cannot be in six places at once, no matter what devil may possess him. But he may have raised irregulars in all those places, by riding the circuit or sending messengers—how many men did you say have disappeared from your place alone in the last days? And Christophe is only the emissary of Toussaint in the whole affair—”

  “Toussaint was soundly beaten at Ravine à Couleuvre,” Arnaud said.

  “He was not,” said Tocquet. “Leclerc may claim it, but I saw enough of it myself, and I know the outcome by certain report. Rochambeau was driven back to the ravine at the last, and he lost as many men as Toussaint did, if not more, and you know Toussaint has larger numbers to begin with. But the real point is that Toussaint will never be soundly beaten until his army is destroyed, and he got his army away whole from Ravine à Couleuvre.”

  “But there are defections from him everywhere,” Arnaud said. “Maurepas has submitted, with all the Ninth Demibrigade.”

  “Excellent,” said Tocquet. “Then we should be safe at Port-de-Paix, if we could get there.” He paused. “Well, Toussaint will be set back by that, no doubt, but he won’t be incapacitated. He was fighting today on the road from Marmelade. He has drawn Leclerc off, and most of his troops and his generals, to some concentration at Petite Rivière—which I’ll wager will prove to be a diversion. Meanwhile Toussaint has got around them all!—and is on his way north with who knows how many men.”

  As he spoke, Tocquet sketched lines of movement over the blank tabletop; Arnaud stared as if he saw the places inscribed there.

  “Between him and Christophe they may well sweep the plain, as I have no doubt is their intention,” Tocquet said. “There are not enough French troops between here and Limbé to make up a police force—you tell me yourself that Romain alone gives them more trouble than they can contain. Who commands at Le Cap, now that all Leclerc’s senior officers have marched to Petite Rivière?”

  “The mulatto,” Arnaud said with some faint air of derision. “Boyer.”

  “Ah.” Tocquet sat back, and touched a finger to his lower lip. “So . . . Boyer is not to be discounted. But I wonder if Leclerc may come to regret having introduced all these Rigaudins back into the field. Pétion, Villatte, Léveillé—not to mention Rigaud himself. There will be complications. And how many men can Boyer have left to his command? With so many marched off to the south? They may think they’ve drawn Toussaint tight in their bag, but you know that he is a clever old cat, and I think he has already slipped out of it.”

  “If you think Boyer is so feeble, why do you insist on going to Le Cap?” Arnaud said.

  “A fair question.” Tocquet laughed, rather hoarsely. Two dead stubs of his cheroots lay in a saucer by his hand. “I admit that during the recent misfortunes, Le Cap has lost much of its attraction. But it was Toussaint who suggested we go there, and I believe that he does not personally wish us harm. I think Toussaint is going to Le Cap himself, if he can, and I think he means to burn and murder his whole way there.” Again the dry laugh. “If you had a ship waiting on the Baie d’Acul, I’d suggest that we all sail for Jamaica. As it stands, Le Cap is our best resort. If Boyer holds it, well and good. If he does not, there are ships in the port. Or we may treat with Toussaint if there’s no way out.”

  Nanon looked at Tocquet in some surprise, then lowered her eyes. It was strange to think that he’d allow himself to be driven from the country. Arnaud had turned his face toward his wife, who sat in the shadows, her eyes glittering from the light of the candles on the table.

  “It is indifferent to me,” she said.

  Arnaud’s gaze wandered over the other faces. He looked uncertain, to Nanon, and somehow diminished. He had aged in the short time since she’d last seen him, a mere matter of weeks. Or not so much that, but a shade of the old man he might live to become was hidden somewhere behind the face he presented now.

  “We’ll sleep on it,” Arnaud said and lifted his glass of raw rum.

  Nanon slept soundly; she was never a restless sleeper, even when troubled, and even when there was such small comfort in their lodging. The house Arnaud had raised after the burning of his plantation in ninety-one had only one bedroom, and Isabelle recovered herself enough to refuse Claudine’s offer of her bed. All the people from Thibodet slept in a couple of cases by the chapel, near the little case inhabited by Moustique and Marie-Noelle and their children. There had been such evacuation from Habitation Arnaud that it was no trouble to find room for them. Elise grumbled a little, but under her breath. Isabelle was silent, the children subdued, Robert and Héloïse mute before the death of a father whom, Nanon reflected, they had scarcely known. All were drained from the long day’s ride. Nanon stretched out on a woven mat. She was briefly aware of Paul lying wakeful beside her. Then, the great dark.

  Behind the eye of her dream, she was aware that it might have been the tale of Cigny’s murder that raised these images: details that Arnaud had kept from Isabelle, but which Nanon had heard him mutter to Tocquet. It did not matter. The dream eye glided over the ground as if on the soundless wings of an owl, over the ruin of Petite Rivière, which smoldered and fumed in its ashes. It was night, overcast or moonless, but the mild slope above the town was spotted with greenish-yellow lights the size of candle flames, each picking out the mangled carcass of a blanc, and there were hundreds of them strewn across the hill. The owl wings lumbered over the wet air. At first sight Nanon recognized the body of Antoine Hébert, though all its members had been scattered, and the head was gone. Only his glasses lay across a little stone, the witch fires gleaming on cracks of one shattered lens. Beyond the ditches, in the shadow of the fort’s wall, a pack of wild dogs waited: casques. They were huge and brindled, their heads dropped low beneath heavy shoulders, eyes red-glowing. The dogs were coming toward the bodies. Then the dream eye sheered away.

  Nanon sat up with an ugly jerk, wrenched upward in the swirl of a terrible scream. After a moment she could know the voice had not been her own, for the inside of the case was quiet. Paul breathed softly in sleep beside her, and no one else had stirred. Perhaps she’d dreamed it. She sat with one hand covering the pounding of her heart. It was very dark inside the close little room, but after a while she began to discern the outline of the curtained doorway. There was a different beat behind her heart, in time with it: a drum somewhere outside the case, sustaining a single steady stroke. When her heart had stilled, the drum continued.

  She got up then, picked her way over the other sleepers, and pushed out through the curtain. Above her was a pantheon of brilliant stars. The night air cooled the sick sweat of her dream. Bazau sat crosslegged by the doorway, a musket cradled across his knees. He nodded silently to Nanon as she passed.

  The drum had stopped, but not before she’d marked its direction. In starlight she walked behind the chapel, toward candles flickering deep in the bamboo, and entered the mouth of the tonnelle. Under the arched and woven stalks it was very dark, and the stars were hidden, but at the entrance of the hûnfor, four candles were placed on the cardinal points around Legba’s stones. Nanon stopped there, a hand to her throat.

  “Ou mêt antré.” It was Moustique’s voice. You may come in.

  Nanon stepped past the stones and candles. Here the space opened to the dome of stars. Before certain niches, other lamps were lit, but Nanon did not look at these too closely. Isidor sat near the drum, and Cléo and Fontelle were also attending. But Nanon’s attention went to Ghede, crouched like a cricket at the far edge of the peristyle, greedily scooping up rice and beans from a plate between his legs, with the help of a big wedge of cassava. The loa was incarnate in the body of Claudine Arnaud, but Claudine had never known such an appetite. She wore man’s clothes, black shirt and trousers, and her head was
tied up in a deep purple cloth, skewed to cover her left eye.

  Nanon stopped before Ghede, a few paces distant.

  “I dreamed my husband’s death,” she said.

  Ghede looked up. His open eye fixed her in her place.

  “Your sleep is a mirror,” Ghede said. “Sometimes, all you see there is your own fear.”

  “Let me keep him, Ghede,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. Then, after a pause, she said more steadily. “I would give all I own.”

  Ghede dropped his cassava on the plate and licked his fingers. With one long stride he closed the distance between them. Though the body he used was thin and angular, Ghede’s hips rolled in a fluid, boneless, lascivious motion, pelvis thrusting, out and in. Nanon remained motionless till this movement stopped.

  “Ou pa vlé viré ak moin?” Ghede asked her. You don’t want to dance with me?

  “Non, merci.” Nanon curtsied. No, thank you. Her knees felt watery as she rose, but Fontelle and Cléo had come to support her on either side. Ghede did not seem dissatisfied. He nodded to her and crouched again over his plate.

  Fontelle and Cléo guided Nanon toward the opening of the tonnelle, their hands warm on her elbows, arms close round her waist.

  “If it’s not his time,” Moustique said as she passed, “Ghede won’t take him.”

  Though the stars had barely begun to dim when Nanon emerged from the tonnelle, Arnaud’s grand’case was alight. Tocquet had come out of the case and with the help of Bazau and Gros-Jean was hustling packs onto mules. Arnaud was busy hitching a wagon. One by one the older children stumbled out of the case and sleep-walked to new resting places in the straw spread on the wagon bed, between the few barrels of rum Arnaud’s remaining hands had loaded. Zabeth and Marie-Noelle settled in the straw with their infants; Nanon lifted Gabriel and François in to ride with them.