Master of the Crossroads - Madison Smartt Bell [80]
Pinchon suddenly released the doctor, pushing him sharply forward. With a frog-like leap, Pinchon cleared the breakwater; a crackle of gunfire from the sloops came almost simultaneously with the splash. The doctor fell on his hands and knees, skinning the butts of his palms as he pitched down. The others of Belair’s squad had also taken cover behind the knee-high wall. The doctor peeped over and saw two sloops putting out on the still water, manned by more Frenchmen, some of whom were firing muskets at the shore, while others reached out to haul the water-logged Pinchon aboard their vessels. There were a few moments of cursing and wild rounds whining, but soon enough the little sailboats were out of range and the shooting stopped.
Somewhat belatedly, the doctor followed Belair’s advice and walked back up to the casernes. Maillart was sitting alone in the mess hall, sipping the dregs of a cup of coffee with a sour expression on his face.
“What’s become of the Spaniards?” the doctor inquired.
“It appears that Toussaint has ordered them shot,” Maillart said.
The doctor sat down heavily and began rubbing his scalp, where a sunburn was peeling.
“It appears that our compatriots had come up from Saint Marc as emissaries of the English,” Maillart said, “who are expected in force here sometime before noon. The English mean to take over Gonaives in order to control the Upper Artibonite valley more effectively—this with the consent of the Spanish, I might add. There was some compact concluded at Santo Domingo City. Toussaint finds himself in a very bad humor about all these developments—his Spanish commanders, if you can imagine it, did not take him into their complete confidence.”
“Ah,” the doctor said glumly.
“This coffee is cold—ill brewed as well.” Maillart drew back the cup as if he meant to dash it against the wall, then changed his mind and set it on the table. He stood up. “No use to brood,” he said. “We are good republicans now, after all.” He dropped his hand on the doctor’s shoulder as he moved toward the door. “Bon courage—aux armes—vive la France.”
Outside, men were clearing away the bodies of the Spaniards, who had been shot against the side wall of the casernes. Toussaint had ordered the cannon of the fort dragged out and brought to bear on the road from the south.
The English arrived in the forenoon, also followed by a flight of vultures. “Trahison,” Toussaint hissed between his teeth, when he saw the redcoats coming into focus through the dust, apparently still resentful that his Spanish superiors had not let him into their new compact with the English. All in all, there had been betrayal enough to go round everywhere, the doctor thought, but was prudent enough to keep this notion to himself. Besides, his own glands were humming, and he doubted he could speak without a tremble in his voice.
He sat his horse between Maillart and Vaublanc, who both held their hands grimly on their saber hilts. The smell of horse sweat was sharp and acrid, and the light and the color seemed brighter than was usual. The English kept coming, so near the doctor could see their faces. He had no plan. When he looked over his shoulder he saw the Spanish colors still flying over Toussaint’s line. At that moment Toussaint dropped his arm and a volley of grapeshot raked the front line of the English.
“Vive la France!” Many voices took up the cry when Toussaint uttered it, as the cavalry charge swept out from behind the cannon. The doctor’s horse moved out with the others, which he had somehow not foreseen. He had no saber, though his pistols were primed—but he did not mean to harm anyone, unless he came under direct attack. Both his hands were knotted in his horse’s mane. He watched Maillart, a half-length ahead, chop down a British grenadier who’d raised a bayonet