Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [283]
“There, there! is that Toussaint?” It was Captain Paltre who spoke, jockeying his horse up to Maillart’s.
The walls of the fort now swarmed with the enemy. Dessalines appeared on the rampart, brandishing a sword in one hand and a torch in the other. He’d stripped off coat and shirt to show his scars, but still wore a tall hat with fantastic plumes.
“It is Dessalines,” said Maillart, “but he will do.” He drew his pistol. A dozen shots were fired at the black general at the same time as his, all of them without effect. By the legs of Maillart’s dancing Eclair a couple of grenadiers, felled by mitraille, were trying to drag themselves backward, but the infantry line trampled them down as it moved ahead. Paltre galloped his horse to the rim of the first ditch, jumped down, and with a wide sweep of his arm skimmed his hat beyond all the earthworks, over the wall and into the fort.
“Follow me,” he called out hoarsely, and plunged into the ditch. Amazed, Maillart saw him emerge on the other side. He crossed the other ditches miraculously unharmed and pulled himself to the top of the wall. About thirty other grenadiers had followed him, making a wedge across the ditches. Maillart rode to the edge of the earthworks, undecided whether to join the assault on foot. On the rampart, Dessalines split a man’s head with his sword and at the same time jabbed his torch into the face of another soldier assailing him. Maillart loosed his reins to reload his pistol. Another grenadier reached the top of the wall and was pierced by ten bayonets at once. A black smashed Paltre in the face with a musket stock and Paltre crumpled over backward into the ditch. Another round of mitraille roared from the cannon. Maillart’s horse bucked and threw him.
He floundered on the edge of the ditch, fumbling to recover his pistol among the milling feet of the infantry. The charge had broken under the last round of mitraille. Paltre came swimming up from the ditch, his face pouring blood from a broken nose. Maillart caught the back of his collar and hauled him out. He stood, supporting Paltre with one hand, the unloaded pistol dangling from the other. All around him the ranks had been shattered into complete disorder.
From the walls a trumpet sounded, a drum rolled, and the gate swung open. Laying planks across the ditches, the blacks now charged the French with their bayonets. In the mêlée, Maillart’s horse brushed by him and he managed to catch the trailing reins. He mounted and dragged the half-stunned Paltre across the withers. Halfway down the slope the French had re-formed and returned to the charge, repelling the blacks, pursuing them again. Again they disappeared into the ditch, and this time the volley of mitraille did such terrible damage that the French could not rally.
Maillart saw General Boudet sitting on the ground, hands wrapped around the toe of his boot and blood streaming through the fingers. He rode toward the wounded general, but before he could reach him another horseman had caught him up and was carrying him out of the fray. Behind the retreat of their general, the French line completely shattered. Again the trumpet sounded from the walls, and this time it was answered from the forest to the west. Out of the trees came galloping several hundred horsemen of Toussaint’s honor guard, sabers shining in the full morning light.
Maillart recognized Morisset at the head of the cavalry, and he thought he saw Placide Louverture riding behind. He drew his own saber. But he was encumbered by his wounded passenger, and the French infantry had been stampeded completely by this fresh cavalry charge. Nothing for it but to ride to the rear, if there was any rear to ride to. Morisset’s horsemen pursued the French to the town and into the plain beyond it. For a few dreadful minutes Maillart believed that Boudet’s whole division was about to be completely destroyed. But then