Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [218]
“Quelle horreur.” The dull voice belonged to Isaac, who had joined Placide on the rock. What a horror. Placide said nothing. His brother had spoken in French, but the Creole word anmè unfolded itself in Placide’s mind: bitter. There was the bitterness of his father’s spirit at the destruction and death he had felt himself forced to order; now Placide felt he understood that better than before. But where was his father now?
He felt Isaac’s confusion too, and turned and wrapped an arm around his shoulder.
“It is well that you stay with our mother, after all,” he said.
Isaac nodded. “To the end, if it is bitter.” He returned the pressure of Placide’s arm. The choice of word placed them in the same spirit, closer than they had been at any time since the moment of their division. Placide recalled the internal rending he had felt that day in the headquarters of Gonaives. In his mind flashed an image of the building as it must be now, its blackened shell gnawed out by flame.
Isaac slipped out from under his arm and looked back toward the trees. “Come on,” he said. “Do you hear that?”
Placide, already following, did hear the shuffle of marching feet. There were three or four different trails that led to the summit of Granmorne. He recalled how the French had overtaken Saint-Jean without anyone knowing it till too late—he’d scarcely had time to think of it till now, his youngest brother in the hands of the enemy. His mother’s voice rose, though not in protest or anger; Placide could not make out the words. When he and Isaac came back into the grove, they found that General Vernet had come, leading the survivors of the Seventh Demibrigade up from the burning town below.
“Madame, the Governor-General is safe and well. He expects you now at Pont d’Ester—it’s likely he expects that you would be there already.”
“Yes,” said Suzanne. Her voice grew milder; her head lowered under its blue cloth. “We are ready to go to him, now we know where he is—”
But Placide was distracted by the sound of hoofbeats. Morisset was coming in, bringing his battered cavalry squadron along at a dull plod. The dust-caked silver helmets glimmered in the fading light. Morisset pulled his horse up at the edge of the trees. Placide was just moving toward him when he heard the sound of cheering from the town. French voices. The voices of blancs, Placide thought, with an unaccustomed thrust of resentment at that word. Blancs, exulting over another firepit they had captured.
Morisset’s helmet hung between his shoulder blades, the leather thong caught across his throat. His shallow features were turned to the wind. The sun was dropping below the horizon now, leaving trails of its red light to scar the clouds. The light from the fire in the town was stronger.
“That they should dare to cry victory after so much defeat.” A muscle jumped in Morisset’s jaw; his nostrils flared. Placide was near enough to hear his breathing.
“Let fifteen brave men come with me,” Morisset said. “We will still show them something.”
In an instant every man in the squadron had faced his horse back toward the town. Morisset, his face relaxing, detached half a dozen of them to remain as an escort for Madame Louverture. Then he raised a palm to stop Placide, who’d found his own horse and quickly mounted.
“Monchè, your bravery is admirable,” Morisset said. “But I must answer to the Governor for your safety.”
“But—” Placide stopped himself short. Obedience—first duty of the soldier. The swallowed argument lodged in his throat. Isaac was watching him from the ground, his expression difficult to read. Placide held in his horse, as the greater part of the squadron moved back onto the trail by which they’d just arrived. He looked at the backs of the men receding, the switching tails of the horses. A shimmer of their excitement washed over him; his heart still pounded.
“Kenbe sa.” It was the scarred one who spoke, the man who had brought the ill news from Santo Domingo