Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [214]
Placide rode half a length behind Toussaint on the trail from Marie Louise to Granmorne. Though Toussaint did not look back at him, the image of his son’s bewildered face persisted. How could the boy understand the victory they’d won so desperately to be a loss for all concerned? Placide was patient, however; he asked no unnecessary questions, but waited for the answers to appear to his observation. Toussaint liked that very much in him; it was a trait they had in common.
And truly it had been a victory—it still was. At the least and worst, Toussaint had broken the trap set for him. The line of retreat was now open. But to be forced to retreat was galling, especially if Gonaives must be sacrificed—though the sacrifice of Gonaives had been part of his plan from the moment he’d decided to attack Rochambeau. And the loss of so many men was bitter. But none of that was enough to explain the dreadful hollowness he felt as they climbed the spiraling trail up Granmorne. The day was bright and clear, the air fresh on the mountain, where the heat subsided the higher they climbed. A hummingbird hovered at a bloom beside the trail. But all these things were at a distance from Toussaint, as if on the other side of the mirror. As soon as the fighting had ended that morning, he’d felt his head vacated by his sustaining spirit—a dangerous emptiness, which anything else might arrive to occupy.
“Halt! Who comes?”
Toussaint squinted up the trail. The silver helmets of his honor guardsmen flickered behind the leaves. He cleared his throat, but Placide was already answering.
“We are the guard of the Governor-General.”
At that, Toussaint masked a faint smile. The face of one of Morisset’s dragoons appeared in a frame of green branches. “Governor! Pardon— we could not see you clearly. Come up—your family is here and safe.”
“And Morisset?” Toussaint took his hand away from his mouth.
“He has gone to the help of Vernet at Gonaives, where the fighting is heavy. We have not been threatened here.”
Toussaint nudged his horse forward, ducking his head below the branches. Though the distance was considerable he could hear shooting and even some shouting voices coming from the direction of Gonaives. The town was still being defended, then. He felt the dark mood lift just slightly. Then they had come into a clearing, where Placide hurriedly slipped down to embrace his mother. Toussaint took in his Chancy nieces and their mother, and Isaac, who could not seem to meet his eyes. Most if not all of the inhabitants of the grand’case at Thibodet were there too, with all the white and mixed-blood children.
“Where is Saint-Jean?” he said. The harshness of his voice echoed the dread he’d carried up the mountain. Suzanne’s head lowered. Oddly, it was the gunrunner Tocquet who answered the question, he who’d come in the night with the news of Rochambeau’s strength, instead of anyone of Toussaint’s family.
“Governor, Saint-Jean was overtaken by a column of General Hardy’s division. I did not see him myself, but I have it on good authority that he is safely held by the French.”
Toussaint drove his knuckles against the pommel of his saddle; the skin split between them, but he felt no pain. “An evil mischance that he was taken,” he said.
“Father.” Isaac was looking frankly at him now. “The Captain-General has never mistreated me or Placide, nor any of his officers—surely they would show no discourtesy to our younger brother. Be confident they will return him safe, as they did us.”
“Ah, but the war is open now,” Toussaint said. He looked into Isaac’s darkening face, then away into the surrounding circle of trees. “Still, there is sense in what you say. We must make the best of it, and hope that your judgment is good.”
Tocquet spoke again. “I can bear out your son’s judgment, Governor. By what I heard, Saint-Jean has been put in the care of Madame Granville, the wife of his tutor, whom you know. So you may be comforted— he is with friends.”
“You are good to tell me so,” said Toussaint.
Tocquet pushed