Master of the Crossroads - Madison Smartt Bell [329]
From the start their progress was painfully slow, since the roads were boggy from the rains. Every half-hour, it seemed, Maillart was obliged to dismount the black dragoons he’d brought along as an escort and help them cut brush to lay across some muddy slough so that the narrow wheels of the carriage might pass over without miring. Each delay fretted him; he was delighted to have been of use, but as eager for his own part in the affair to be finished. With Toussaint still unfindable, he’d left Le Cap on his own authority, and was uneasy about the situation in the town. The rumors of trouble had not been invented for the sake of Bertrand Cigny.
When they creaked into the Arnaud compound, late that afternoon, Maillart was somehow unsurprised to find Joseph Flaville already there, standing by his horse in a cluster of other riders, as if they too had just arrived or were departing. A tour of inspection, doubtless, to ensure that Arnaud’s field hands were faithful in their service. The captain saluted and turned smartly to hand Isabelle down from the carriage. Flaville swept off his hat and bowed to the ladies. Maillart felt Isabelle’s fingers flutter expressively over his palm. Flaville was offering his arm to help Nanon down the carriage step.
Claudine Arnaud had appeared on the low porch of the Arnaud grand’case, and Isabelle, with a contrived little cry of pleasure, went tripping across the yard toward her. Nanon followed; a footman lugging their portmanteaux brought up the rear.
Maillart turned to Flaville. He felt nothing of what he’d expected to feel. No trace of the nausea which had assailed him when he’d first learned the situation, no anger, no real resentment, but only curiosity. He knew that Flaville had attended that savage ceremony at Bois Cayman where the first revolt of the slaves was planned. He’d been a co-conspirator with Boukman, had presided over the sack and burning of plantations and massacre of their inhabitants, had no doubt painted his naked flanks with the blood of slaughtered whites. In the eight years since, he’d evolved into a capable, even an honorable officer, and if his dependability were ever in doubt, Maillart believed, that was only because his ferocity for the freedom of his people superseded every other loyalty. How all these qualities could coexist in the same individual was truly a subject for wonder.
“Have you got word?” Maillart said. “Rigaud’s in rebellion.”
Flaville folded his arms over his uniform tunic. “When?”
“We learned of it yesterday,” said Maillart. “He’s refused obedience to the General-in-Chief—no fighting yet, that I know of.”
“And Toussaint?”
“Invisible.” Maillart shrugged. “Introuvable. Or he was when I left Le Cap. Are you stopping here for the night?”
“I think not,” said Flaville. “We were bound for Limbé, and by what you tell me, I think we ought to get there that much faster.”
He swung his leg over the saddle and saluted. “Thank you for the news,” he said, and led the other riders out.
Maillart was wearier than he’d recognized, his legs rubbery from the day’s ride. He walked up the steps to the gallery and dropped onto a chair. The wind that came before the rain was shivering all the trees, and the guinea fowl pecking and scratching in the yard began to scatter. It made the captain feel hungry to look at them.
Isabelle came out of the house and handed him a glass of limeade laced with rum. He tasted gratefully, cleared his throat. She remained standing, near his side, looking out over the darkening compound. The captain was moved, by her grace