Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [281]
Doctor Hébert sprang awake at first light, with the unpleasantly startled feeling familiar to him since the killings at Petite Rivière. He lay face down, palms flat on the mat, until his heartbeat slowed. Under his hands was the softness of the earth he’d broken to bury his weapons. At last he sat up and sniffed the damp air. The chatter of crows came from beyond the parapets. He wished for coffee, uselessly. Rations were already short. General Vernet had not been able to supply them with the quantity of water expected. And the night before, Dessalines had returned to the fort in a towering rage. A French advance had crossed the river near Verrettes and cut him off before he could reach Plassac; he’d been unable to resupply from the powder magazine there, and feared the French might have discovered it.
Amidst the crow talk began the thin scrape of a violin tuning. The doctor wished the man would desist. His head ached slightly, for want of coffee. He got up, though, and walked toward the sound. The naturalist Descourtilz squatted by the wall, talking to the violinist. Dessalines had brought in an odd assortment of Toussaint’s musicians the night before: two trumpeters, a drummer, and the violinist—white men all. It seemed that Toussaint had abandoned his whole orchestra on some plantation nearby, in the hurry of his march north. The others had tried to get away to the coast, but these four had stayed behind, to be scooped up by Dessalines.
The doctor knew the violinist, from Toussaint’s fêtes at Le Cap. What was his name? Gaston, possibly. He nodded, rendered a thin smile. Bienvenu also looked on, fascinated, as Gaston scraped his bow across the strings. The other musicians lay sprawled and snoring beside their instruments on the ground.
“Look there.” Descourtilz tilted his chin toward one of the embrasures. The doctor peered along the cannon barrel. Tucked in the river’s bend, below the fort, was a long column of French soldiers marching toward the trees that screened the town of Petite Rivière. The doctor felt a certain chill. He took his face away from the embrasure, lips formed in a silent whistle.
“Yes,” said Descourtilz. “That looks to be an entire division.”
“I think you’re right,” said the doctor. “Most likely they are maneuvering to attack from the direction of the town.”
“A pity Dessalines has come.” The naturalist looked pale and shaky. “He’ll murder us before he’ll see us rescued.”
The doctor shook his head as he glanced at Gaston. Better to leave such thoughts unvoiced. If the violinist was alarmed at Descourtilz’s remark he did not show it, but went on scraping out some melancholy air, under Bienvenu’s rapt gaze.
“Come,” the doctor said to Bienvenu. “Let us build up the fire.” There were some wounded men to be tended, from the engagement with Debelle a few days before. His own head wound needed its dressing changed also, though now it was nearly closed. Descourtilz might lend some assistance and take his mind off his fretting. But Descourtilz was staring at the powder magazine.
“Christ,” said the naturalist. “Now what does he mean to do?”
Dessalines was striding up toward the magazine, a blazing torch in his right hand. Lamartinière and Magny walked on either side of him. The few hundred soldiers of the garrison followed, like iron dust drawn by a magnet.
Dessalines