Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [116]
The doctor caught his eye and pointed directly down the cliffside from the bend in the trail they were turning. “Picolet,” he said briefly. Daspir peered over the edge and saw the abandoned harbor fort, much of its masonry shattered by the cannonade of four days before. No more than a couple of French sentries were posted there now, for Christophe’s men had spiked the guns before their retreat, and tumbled them down from their carriages. And Leclerc had no reason, at this time, to prepare for any attack by sea.
At the point where the trail widened into a road, a trio of wizened old black women had appeared to spread over the ground wares to make Daspir’s mouth water: stalks of bananas and baskets of mango and avocado and more of the large green oranges. There were several live chickens trussed up, boucan-dried pork, and even a couple of ducks. Now Daspir understood the reason for the second donkey, for Isabelle bought enough to load the animal down. As they departed, Daspir fished in his purse—he meant to buy a single banana, but once the old woman had bitten the coin he offered, she grinned and gave him the whole stalk. Daspir broke open one of the fruits and gulped it so quickly he nearly choked—when he was done he remembered to share more of the bananas around the company, and chose a second one to eat more slowly.
They had been two hours on this expedition, and the sun was just past its meridian when they came again in view of the town. From the height they had a panoramic view of the fire-blackened ruin, with squads of soldiers worming through the streets like maggots at work on a rotting carcass. And they themselves had nowhere else to go . . . A gloom settled on them as they went down, and there was no more talk, not even from the parakeet.
Isabelle’s cook had stayed with the family, though all other servants but Michau had followed the army out of town. She had salvaged some of her iron pots from the wreckage, and when they returned to the shell of the Cigny house, she was stirring a big kettle over a fire, which proved to contain a stew of cornmeal and beans.
“Maïs moulin,” she explained to Daspir, with slightly forced good cheer. “It is popular among the people here. Well, we have brought a thing or two to increase the savor . . . You will dine with us, of course.”
“With pleasure,” Daspir was quick to say. In fact the smell from the kettle was very appealing, and it improved once Isabelle had diced in some tomatoes and peppers she’d bought on the way back, and added a ration of shredded dry pork. The men had swept clean the floor of what had been the downstairs parlor, and thatched over enough of the area to provide some shade. They ate sitting cross-legged on the stained tile, using banana leaves for plates. When they were done, with only the slightest tick of hesitation, Daspir brought out the last of his brandy and shared it round the group. When it was gone they curled up in the shade of the thatch and slept.
It was still full day when Daspir woke, with sweat pooling under his clothing on the tile.
“Come,” Isabelle said. It was she who had roused him. “We are going to bring our gift to Madame Leclerc.”
Daspir got up, aching in his hips and shoulders from having lain on the hard tile. The doctor was polishing his glasses on the tail of his soot-streaked shirt, while Cigny used his fingers to comb flakes of ash from his beard. Isabelle studied herself in a shard of mirror that Michau had fished out of the wreckage.
“Well, let us go,” she finally said.
Daspir had the honor of carrying the birdcage, while Cigny bore a basket of fruit Isabelle had selected from her purchases earlier in the day. They left the children in the care of Michau and the cook, but the doctor and Arnaud accompanied them.