Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [242]
“No,” said Dessalines. “From tonight, we hold no prisoners. These two will follow all the rest.”
Lamartinière had turned to face him. “You will be answerable to the Governor-General if they are harmed,” he said. “As I will be.” He laid a hand on his sword grip. “As I am.”
“Ah,” the priest breathed. “Sabès and Gimont.”
“Who are they?” the doctor whispered.
The priest’s lips rustled at his ear. “Prisoners—hostages. Lamartinière brought them here when he came. They have been kept under guard apart from the rest. Gimont is a naval officer, Sabès an emissary—they brought messages to Port-au-Prince before Boudet landed his troops there, but Lamartinière took them captive and has held them till now . . .”
“And you know all this?”
“Dessalines sent them to confession this morning,” the priest muttered. “Now I know why.”
The doctor pressed his eye socket to the crack. Dessalines’s face was knotty and dark. His fingers fluttered on the lid of his snuffbox. But then he let out a short harsh laugh.
“Your respect for Old Toussaint has grown,” he said to Lamartinière, who faced him, vibrating with resolve. “Well, save your blade to kill the blancs. You may send this pair to Toussaint’s camp at Grand Cahos if he wants them so much—only get them out of my sight, and quickly.”
As Lamartinière loosened his grip from his sword pommel, Gimont, the naval officer, fell onto his knees, gasping. Sabès bore the shock of relief with less demonstration. A couple of Lamartinière’s men came up quickly to lead them away. But Dessalines had already turned to his men in the square. Though the doctor could not make out his words, they were received with loud shouting and wild brandishing of torches. Then the soldiers closed in and began to press the bound prisoners out of the square, toward the edge of town. More fifes shrilled, echoed by trumpeting conch shells, and many of the men began to thrust their torches into the eaves of the buildings that they passed. The drums had gone on beating the whole time.
“We can’t wait longer.” The priest pulled away from the door and moved toward the altar. “They will burn the church too before they are done. Let me take these women to Madame Dessalines—they won’t be molested if they aren’t caught with you.”
“What a comfort,” the doctor said drily. “Well, but you’re right.” He squeezed Paulette’s hand. Fontelle gave him a quick hard hug.
“If you can get to Nanon or Madame Tocquet—” He forced a smile. “Tell them I am waiting out this trouble at La Crête à Pierrot.”
“God defend you, then.” The priest made the sign of the cross. The alley behind the church was still calm when they came out. The priest led the two women quickly away; Bienvenu drew the doctor in the opposite direction, toward the fort.
“Wait,” the doctor said. “First I want to see if there is anyone at Massicot’s.”
Bienvenu tugged his elbow mutely; the doctor shook free. Bienvenu folded his arms, shook his head heavily three times, then followed him. They met no one on the way but white people scattering from their houses—apparently the local whites, as well as the captives from the plain, had been elected to the massacre. The back door of Massicot’s house burst open as they reached the fence.
“Thieves! Murderers! Stop!”
Fanfan the pig was squealing even more desperately than her master, for two men with coutelas had hemmed her into a fence corner. Massicot rushed up and threw himself on the back of one. Half a dozen others appeared and swarmed around them. The struggling men toppled, rolled on the ground. The doctor slipped a hand into his straw macoute and covered his pistol grip, but there was no clear shot, and in the shadow of the fence, no one had yet noticed him; he could watch everything that was happening as one observes a dream. Massicot’s greasy gray hair came loose from its queue—a big square hand had pulled it loose. “Fanf—” he started, and