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By Root 883 0

of a landing. The doctor came to a halt beside Bel Argent and cocked his head in the starlight. Toussaint stood on the lee side of his horse’s shoulder; he was so short that only the white feathers of his hat showed over Bel Argent’s mane, but the doctor could hear him muttering, and he heard the click of beads. After a puzzled moment he realized that Toussaint was saying the rosary, murmuring scraps of Latin in a throttled whisper: Pater Noster, Ave Maria. A repetition as each wooden bead clicked down the string. The doctor withdrew and walked back to his own horse. Maillart, who had already mounted, looked at him curiously, but the doctor only shook his head and stood staring out over the well of darkness that was the gorge.

Let God save all whom I love from harm, he thought. It was the only prayer he could bring to his mind, and it did not seem to have much authority.

They rode down from Morne Pilboreau through the switchbacks of the dry scrub-covered mountains, silent but for the slap of stirrup leathers and the occasional farting of a horse. The coastal plain was a white-dust-covered desert dotted with small shaley white collines, and at the height of one of these had been raised three spindly wooden crosses outside a rectangular frame of poles, whether for a church or hûnfor was uncertain. A woman in a white dress stood at the crest of the hill, looking no bigger than a toothpick doll; she turned her black face to track their descent, her white skirt whipping in the steady wind that came from the sea.

The morning mist had just fully lifted when they rode into Gonaives. A plume of white dust lay over half a mile’s worth of their back trail, and a trio of buzzards hung above the column as well, but the Spanish of the garrison were sluggish and off their guard, and in any case knew of nothing to fear from Toussaint Louverture, who found them entertaining a handful of French émigrés over a late breakfast of jerked beef and coffee. He and a number of his officers strode into the mess hall, their spurs jingling. the doctor and Maillart bringing up the rear.

There were six or seven of the French, costumed much in the manner of fugitive-slave hunters from the old maréchaussée, except for one who wore a black clerk’s coat and appeared vaguely familiar to the doctor. The recognition was mutual, for the man winked at him; when his eyes shifted uneasily to Toussaint, the doctor recognized Bruno Pinchon.

Peremptorily for him, Toussaint instructed Belair and Clervaux to escort the French émigrés from the room. Six of them rose with studiedly empty expressions; only Pinchon’s face betrayed obvious fear. He caught the doctor’s sleeve as he passed and drew him out of the room with the group.

In the sunlight outside the barracks, a squad of black soldiers fell in beside the French; the latter had not been disarmed, and now walked with their hands cocked over their pistol grips, except for Pinchon, who appeared to be unarmed, and who whispered urgently in the doctor’s ear.

“The pistol will be charged this time—will it not? But I know it.”

“What are you talking about?” the doctor said, distracted. The salt smell became stronger as they walked down toward the port, and the light was so bright and hot that he was forced to squint.

“It will be murder, man . . .” Pinchon clawed at the doctor’s forearm with both hands. “Help me, do something, can’t you? I haven’t even a pen knife.”

They had just come against the breakwater. There were no real ships at the moorings, only a few small coastal sloops. Charles Belair turned, cleared his throat, and addressed the doctor politely.

“It would be best for you to return to the casernes.”

At that, Pinchon ducked behind the doctor, seized his collar and with surprising strength began to drag him backward. “Au secours!” he kept screaming. “Sauvez-moi!”

The doctor was too startled to resist; the other Frenchmen had already fallen—not one had had time to get off a shot or even draw his weapon. He let himself be dragged along the harbor front, his muscles slack, stumbling in his backward steps.