Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [165]
“Rochambeau has broken out of Grande Rivière,” Morisset said. “They say he has taken Saint Raphael—it is not certain.”
“Well, Sans-Souci held him there for many days,” Toussaint said. “What more?”
“The blanc general Hardy has attacked Christophe and driven him away from Dondon.”
Toussaint sat up. “Where is he now, Christophe?”
“At Marmelade,” Morisset said. “He means to regroup at Morne à Boispins, but it is not certain—it was not an orderly retreat.”
Toussaint glanced at the map. “Well,” he said. “If he can stand at Morne à Boispins I am content—that is a strong position.”
“Ça,” said Morisset, relaxing just slightly from the posture of stiff attention he had held since he’d halted before them. It is so.
There was more noise from below, scuffling, and a voice raised in protest. Morisset moved quickly into the stairwell, but in a moment he came backing out again, and the two men propelling him burst past, both of them looking the worse for long hard traveling. One looked almost comical in the tatters of his horizontally striped trousers, the other more imposing, if only for the ghastly scars down one side of his face. This second man wore a battered uniform of Toussaint’s honor guard.
“Pardon, mon général!” Morisset said from behind the newcomers. “It is Guiaou, as you can see for yourself, and he insists to bring his message in person.”
“Guiaou,” Toussaint said slowly, studying the scarred face. “Welcome to Guiaou, and . . . Guerrier.”
The man in the striped trousers smiled at the recognition, then made his face grave as he stiffened in his stance. Toussaint leaned forward on his elbows.
“What news of Santo Domingo?”
Guiaou swallowed. “The news is bad, mon général. We could not bring your letters to the général Paul. Also, Clervaux has welcomed the French soldiers at Santiago—he was charmed by the bishop Malveille, so we have heard.” Guiaou swallowed again. The rough channel of his scar glowed white. “Today we met many people running from Rochambeau over the plateau from Saint Raphael, and they say there is no one to fight his men if they come to Saint Michel de l’Attalaye.”
“Aï!” said Toussaint. “It is bad news you bring. What happened to my letters? Where is Couachy?”
“Dead, mon général,” Guiaou said. “We were betrayed to the Spanish militia—there was a French officer with them too.”
“They took both letters? The false and the true?”
“It is so, mon général.”
“Aï,” said Toussaint. “They will have given the false letter to my brother Paul, so he will accept the French, as Clervaux has done already.”
“It is so, mon général.”
“You have been a long time bringing this news.”
Guiaou shuddered through the length of his body, then pulled himself upright and hard. “We were hunted all through the Spanish country, mon général. That is why we could not come faster, because we had to hide by day and move by night. Also we did not know the way to the border after Couachy was dead.”
“Eh bien,” said Toussaint. “I see that you have done as well as you could, Guiaou. How did you come here from the border?”
“By Ravine à Couleuvre,” Guiaou said. “Then we came up the road from Lacroix.”
“Ravine à Couleuvre!” Toussaint was on his feet. “Has Rochambeau come so far?”
“No, mon général, he has not,” Guiaou said. “They say there is nothing to prevent him, but he has not yet come there. All was quiet today at Ravine à Couleuvre, the depot safe and the men at their posts.”
“Very well.” Toussaint laid both hands on Guiaou’s shoulders, then patted his unscarred cheek and let him go. “You have done your best, and not too badly.”
He turned to Morisset. “Take Guiaou and Guerrier and find them some food, and a place to rest.”
Morisset saluted and beckoned the other two toward the stairwell. He stood aside to let them pass, then followed them down. Toussaint had resumed his seat, turning his face away from the lamplight. Presently he reached under the flap of his coat and drew out a loop of the wooden skull rosary which hung from his belt. Placide watched his profile. Toussaint’s lips moved just slightly with his prayers, though