Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [212]
Leclerc stood up, brushing his tight trouser leg reflexively. The orderly put away his brush and blacking and set himself to disassembling the tent. Daspir studied the high gloss on the Captain-General’s boots. Despite his ironizing with Cyprien, he thought that Leclerc had shown himself to be something more than a mere popinjay these last few days. He had been energetic, determined, and decisive. It seemed to Daspir that the farther Leclerc traveled from his lady wife, the more these qualities strengthened in him. It might be that he deserved to win his own prize.
General Desfourneaux stooped slightly, bringing his ear to Leclerc’s lips. Daspir was too far off to hear Leclerc’s words or Desfourneaux’s response. They’d all marched south with Desfourneaux, from Le Cap by way of Limbé, and had met with no more than harassment on this route. The worst they’d seen was sniping and skirmishing from irregulars led by Sylla in the mountains of Plaisance, and those men had not stood for long against the organized French troops. But General Hardy’s division, moving westward along the mountain range from Dondon to Marmelade, had fought some hard engagements with the retreating rebel Christophe—the victory at Morne à Boispins being especially prodigious, according to Hardy’s reports, which Leclerc certainly gave full credit.
Now Christophe had been pushed away to the heights of Bayonet, some distance to the southeast of their position, while Hardy had the day before joined Leclerc and Desfourneaux here at the crossroads of Ennery. And at the same time, according to the strategy which Daspir and Cyprien had agreed was very well conceived, General Rochambeau was moving to cut off any retreat south from Gonaives. So indeed they might sup well in Gonaives tonight, with the rebellion ended and the rebel Toussaint either captured or killed.
“Captain Daspir, come to me, please.” Leclerc was beckoning with his left hand as he spoke.
Daspir crossed the space between them and brought himself smartly to attention.
“If you wish, you may ride with the advance guard this morning.”
“It is my honor.” Daspir saluted and went at a half-trot to find his horse.
An hour later he was riding down the main road toward Gonaives, content to have stolen a march on Cyprien, who remained with the main body of the troops. The descent was gentle, and the Ennery River purled quietly to their right. Daspir was lulled by the warmth of the sun on his back; at this early hour the heat had not yet become painful. His stomach was pleasantly full of avocado and orange, and he felt confident for the day’s action. When he looked at the river he recalled the image of the little Negro officer astride his warhorse, on the far side of that other stream, north of Limbé. With a little more luck he’d be as near to him today, or nearer. For surely Toussaint would be trapped today at Gonaives—no choice for him except death or surrender or to throw himself into the sea.
The downward slope fell into a trough, then began to rise, just slightly, on the other side. The river was very near on their right, while the road turned sharply around the steep flank of a jungle mountain. All was calm and quiet except for the tramp of marching feet, intermittent birdsong, and the rippling of water over stones of the riverbed. Afterward Daspir could not be certain if he’d felt that electric shock in his spine before the shooting started, but something moved him to stretch out along the neck of his horse, so that the volley passed harmless over him.
Others had not been so fortunate; when Daspir straightened he saw a dozen foot soldiers laid low on the curve of the road. There was more shooting, dead ahead of them. The advance guard had walked into an ambush. Daspir drew his sword, but he could not immediately see the enemy; the firing to his left came out of