Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [120]
“Bréda,” he said, and pointed to the gate.
Isaac turned his head to look. To Daspir the unfamiliar word seemed fraught with some significance. Was this the hedge from which he’d plucked his orange yesterday? Or had that been nearer to Limbé? He could not tell, but would have gladly had another.
The doctor reined up his horse and dropped back in the line to ride beside Daspir. “Habitation Bréda is also a property of the Comte de Noé,” he said. “Toussaint was coachman there, and commandeur, before he rose to his present estate. They called him Toussaint Bréda in those days. And of course the boys spent their early childhood there.”
“Is it so?” Cyprien said carelessly.
The doctor shrugged. “That Bréda has been preserved from the burning bodes well for our intention, I believe.” He gave his horse a flick of his heel and rode forward to rejoin Placide and Isaac.
The sun was lost behind the mountains by the time they had reached the next intact citrus hedge, this one on the opposite side of the road from Bréda. A scrolled iron gate was closed between the posts. Cyprien rode up and rang the bars with the pommel of his saber.
“We bring dispatches from the Captain-General Leclerc to Toussaint Louverture!”
At that, two men clothed in a green livery appeared from behind the gateposts. Neither spoke, but one of them unlocked the gate with an enormous key, and together they dragged its two halves open. Cyprien sheathed his blade and led the party through.
The long drive ran between cane fields on either side. These were lowlands, the most fertile part of the Northern Plain, and Daspir thought he could smell the rich loam beneath the green scent of the cane, which stood dense and well above man height. There was not the slightest hint of smoke.
The drive was surfaced with a gravel so tightly compact that the horseshoes clacked as if on cobblestone. Their flag hung limp against its staff in the damp air. As they rode through the rapidly thickening twilight, Daspir became aware that large numbers of barefoot, bare-chested black men were filtering silently through the cane fields on either side of the drive, shadowing the movement of the riders. There seemed to be some hundreds of them, though it was difficult to estimate their numbers as they slipped in and out of the cane, and every man of them carried a long coutelas. Of course it was merely an implement of their work—these must be field hands, coming in from an ordinary day in the cane, and yet their silence was eerie. Daspir glanced over his shoulder and saw that the gate behind them was shut.
The driveway terminated in a flat oval below the gallery of the Héricourt grand’case. The horsemen circled counterclockwise and, with a jingle of harness, halted below the steps. Though there was still a fair amount of light in the sky, servants were lighting the lamps on the gallery, whose rail was twined with purple bougainvillea. An amazingly tall and spindly black man appeared at the head of the stairs. The doctor hailed him.
“Monchè Mars Plaisir!” he said. “We are looking for the Governor-General Toussaint.”
The tall man spread his spidery hands. “L’ap soti,” he said.
The doctor slipped down from his horse.
“Who is that fellow?” Cyprien said, looking down on him.
“Mars Plaisir? He is Toussaint’s personal valet.”
“What does he say? Is Toussaint here?”
“ ‘He has gone out,’ ” the doctor quoted. “That’s what he said.”
“That’s useful,” said Cyprien.
The doctor shrugged. “With time and patience we may learn more,” he said. “We’ll stop the night here, in any case.”
Indeed, Mars Plaisir was already leading Placide and Isaac into the house, a long arm draped over each of their shoulders. Isabelle followed them, with her children, through the front door of the house. Daspir dismounted. Several grooms had appeared to take charge of the horses.
“Come,” said the doctor. “Let us go into the garden.”
Both Daspir and Cyprien followed him around the corner of the house. A flagstone path wound through a great luxuriance of closely planted trees and flowers, many