Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [204]
“He means us to charge,” Placide said, and felt Guiaou move up beside him. Surely this must be the intended moment, and they must seize it, or be lost.
He looked again for his father’s feathered hat but could not find it. Monpoint remained, fixed, rigid and mute, like the statue of a horseman. His eyes were glazed. Placide glanced at Guiaou, who looked hungry to ride—his nostrils flared almost as wide as those of his horse. Would the others follow if Placide and Guiaou undertook to charge? Would Toussaint then rebuke Placide for insubordination?
Then he saw Toussaint running up from the infantry lines toward the hedge. He seemed to be empty-handed now, or no, he still had the cane. He moved at a quick bowlegged trot, with Guerrier loping along a step behind him. Two men broke out of the French line, one with a long, snaky pigtail, and tried to lay their hands on him. Toussaint’s hat spilled onto the ground, but he twisted away and continued. Guerrier knocked down the smaller Frenchman with his musket stock, dodged under the swinging arm of the other, and followed.
Toussaint slapped his cane across Monpoint’s thigh, but Monpoint remained immobile.
“Where is your heart?” Toussaint sputtered. “There’ll be no better chance than this. Let us see what the brave men of my guard can do— charge them! Charge them without delay.”
Monpoint’s jaws worked—in the corners of his mouth appeared a little foam of spittle. Placide followed the line of his glazed stare. Behind the line of engagement, more and more French soldiers were spilling out of the ravine, hundreds upon hundreds of them, pooling like water spilled from an overset cup.
“Victory or death, that was your sentence.” Toussaint swung the slender cane across Monpoint’s shoulders, so hard that it broke. “Well, if you will not ride, get down, and give your horse to me.”
Guerrier appeared, proffering Toussaint’s bicorne hat, which he’d just rescued from the mêlée. Toussaint took it absently and held it in one hand against his knee. Monpoint’s head turned very slowly to face Toussaint. His left hand floated upward, with an equal slowness, as if some outside power lifted it.
“Death, then,” his voice croaked. The left hand pointed to the French center. “I will go there to find my death.”
“Find victory,” Toussaint said, but Monpoint had already spurred his horse away. Toussaint slashed his broken cane across the horse’s buttocks, then tossed it away. His hand rose to take the bridle of Placide’s horse, then sank down, empty. Victory or death! had risen to a scream among the cavalry, as the horses thundered out of the lane. The wind rushed into Placide’s eyes as he spurred forward among the rest, and the astonished faces of the French infantry turned toward him like pale flowers.
Captain Guizot had been clubbed in the head one time too many these last few days . . . He knew it to be so, for the idea made him giddy, had him laughing out loud even as he grabbled in the dust for a tooth that the musket stock had just knocked out. Sergeant Aloyse caught hold of him and hauled him to his feet.
“So close,” Guizot gabbled, through his half-hysterical giggling. “So close, I touched him with this hand.”
Sergeant Aloyse gave him a shake so hard that his jaws clicked together. The chattering stopped. “Thank you,” Guizot said. He looked around for Rochambeau, wondering if his general had been witness to their near-successful exploit, but the black shako had withdrawn to the main body of French troops. The sergeant’s eyes had widened, and Guizot wrenched his shoulders free, turning to see