Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [199]
Then as suddenly they found themselves receiving a charge from below, and actually, incredibly, were repulsed, driven backward pace by pace onto the open brow of Morne Barade—into confusion, over which Rochambeau’s hoarse voice soon prevailed. The men formed a square in time to meet a charge by cavalry, or no—it was only a pair of horsemen, whom Guizot watched with his mouth agape, astonished at their mad temerity. As the riders retreated, fire opened on the French from a ridge just opposite; men fell and there was another spasm of bewilderment while Rochambeau hastily rallied his artillerymen to bring cannon to bear on that position.
The rebel slaves were coming hard, charging up the hill, shouting some song in accents that sounded like French, though Guizot could decipher no word of it. Once, twice, the wave broke on the French square and receded, then on the third or fourth time it broke through and Guizot found himself in a welter of hand-to-hand fighting, managing the best he could with his one good arm, whipping his sword to bisect the darkness rushing down on him, until at last this charge was also broken and repulsed, and the French re-formed.
A lull. The snipers’ ridge had gone completely silent, shattered by the cannon. Guizot had no idea how long the struggle had lasted, though he did notice that the moon hung much lower over the gorge than before. Now, at last, the troops moved forward confidently. The rebel slaves who’d been charging them were breaking, fleeing down the hill, and with a rattle of their drums the French pressed on, wetting their boots and trouser legs as they splashed across the stream, then picking up their pace on the gravel floor of the ravine.
Rochambeau had come forward, a stout, compact figure, his black shako bobbing as he urged the men on, against the enemy cavalry which had formed to meet them here. No doubt of the general’s personal courage; he moved calmly, relaxed among his troops, indifferent to steady sniper fire that had begun to come down on them again, now from the northern wall of the gorge. On the opposite cliff, French cannon had begun to speak, exploding chaos among the cavalry that faced the foot soldiers in the ravine. Guizot, in the front line, caught sight of a little man on foot among the horses, small and bowlegged as a jockey, his face ugly as a frog’s. Guizot was so near he could see the tail of red kerchief that dangled from the little man’s feathered bicorne. Rag-head Negro. He was rooted to the spot in his squelching boots, as if fixed in his place by lightning, and when he first tried to speak, no sound emerged. The little man was directing the enemy movement with fluttering movements of a light cane, as if he were conductor of some opera.
Rochambeau was passing nearby, and Guizot clutched at his elbow. Annoyed, Rochambeau shook free, glaring as if he’d strike his captain.
“Mon général,” Guizot blurted at last. “Look there!—surely it is Toussaint Louverture.”
Rochambeau absorbed the message. “Can it be?” he said, staring, then turning to Noël Lory, who stood, reluctantly, beside him. When Lory nodded, Rochambeau’s arm swept down. “Capture him! Kill him! Either will do—forward, quickly. En avant!”
And Guizot rushed ahead with the others. He was near enough to see the wrinkles on the little black man’s face, and it even seemed that the other, facing him, wiped away a smile. Then with a cat’s agility he sprang into the saddle of a riderless horse that a cavalryman had just led up to him, and he was off, speeding up to a canter, jumping the bank of a palisaded ditch. All the cavalry had been swept away, like a curtain disclosing the array of sharpened stakes upon which Guizot was now charging, into a musket volley that rose from the trench behind.
He was knocked down in the first shock, and when he rose, he was no longer in the van. But the French charge had carried the position, though there was still some ugly fighting in the trench they had broken through. Guizot ran to overtake his company, chasing the wagging pigtail of Sergeant Aloyse. They