Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [275]
“Ou pa vlé viré ak moin?” Ghede asked her. You don’t want to dance with me?
“Non, merci.” Nanon curtsied. No, thank you. Her knees felt watery as she rose, but Fontelle and Cléo had come to support her on either side. Ghede did not seem dissatisfied. He nodded to her and crouched again over his plate.
Fontelle and Cléo guided Nanon toward the opening of the tonnelle, their hands warm on her elbows, arms close round her waist.
“If it’s not his time,” Moustique said as she passed, “Ghede won’t take him.”
Though the stars had barely begun to dim when Nanon emerged from the tonnelle, Arnaud’s grand’case was alight. Tocquet had come out of the case and with the help of Bazau and Gros-Jean was hustling packs onto mules. Arnaud was busy hitching a wagon. One by one the older children stumbled out of the case and sleep-walked to new resting places in the straw spread on the wagon bed, between the few barrels of rum Arnaud’s remaining hands had loaded. Zabeth and Marie-Noelle settled in the straw with their infants; Nanon lifted Gabriel and François in to ride with them.
By the time the sun was hot overhead, the Northern Plain had begun to burn, all across the cane fields from the coast. The smoke grew heavy, and the sea breeze carried it across the road, thick with flakes of ash and hot cinders. The travelers masked their faces with dampened cloths. People began to come streaming out of the cane, in flight from the smoke and fire. Tocquet and Arnaud quizzed a few of these as they crossed the way and learned that Christophe was advancing along the coast road from Terrier Rouge, driving Boyer back toward the gate of Le Cap. They were fighting plantation to plantation across the whole plain too.
After a muttered consultation, Arnaud and Tocquet picked up the pace. The road they traveled converged at Le Cap with the road by which Boyer was retreating, and if Boyer was really routed, they would do well to get there before him—before Christophe had sealed the entrance to the town.
Claudine drove the wagon, eyes fixed on the edge of the sky, holding the team at a steady trot. The road was rough, and the smaller children began to whine at the jolting. Nanon and Isabelle and Elise rode close by the wagon. Tocquet and Bazau trotted in the rear, keeping an eye on the road behind, while Arnaud and Gros-Jean cantered ahead to reconnoiter. Until they reached Haut du Cap, no one interfered with them. They were in sight of Le Cap’s first defensive earthwork when a large armed band swarmed across the road.
At the sight of them, Arnaud felt his resolve harden. Now the danger assumed a material form, his terror was gone. He was thrilled, even, at the rushing return of his confidence—his self, as he’d been accustomed to know it. Though they’d been riding hard for an hour, there was still a reserve left in his horse. He could empty his pistol, then ride on wielding his coutelas till he had broken through or been killed. But the wagon and the women would not make it through.
Arnaud reined up, and Gros-Jean beside him. The man who seemed to lead the band was missing his right ear. A faded brand of the fleur de lys on his left cheek marked him as a thief, most likely, or a runaway.
“You are Michel Arnaud,” he said. “We know you.”
“Wi Wi, nou rekonnen’l,” came other voices. Arnaud heard his name move through the band. Arnaud felt a little surprised, for his face was covered to the eyeballs in a dampened kerchief to filter the smoke. He was intensely grateful not to be afraid. Nor did he feel the blind, consuming anger which had often carried him through such moments, only a near-indifferent calm. He studied the first man who had spoken, but could not recognize him. That did not mean that he might not have lopped off that ear with his own knife, or planted the brand on that face with his own iron, long ago in the time of slavery.
A few French sentries showed themselves within the earthwork. They meant to do nothing,