Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [285]
See to the fire, the doctor reminded himself, and the herbs and poultices and bandage rolls. Behind Bienvenu came the fresh wounded; there would be much work to do.
Captain Daspir was riding with Leclerc’s staff when they met Boudet’s division in near-complete rout by the black cavalry, a hundred yards below Petite Rivière. There passed a moment of sick confusion; then Daspir and Cyprien set themselves to rallying the fresh troops into squares, as the fleeing men took cover behind them. In fact the cavalry charge did not press them very hard once their lines were well formed, but retreated up the road west of the town.
“What is the meaning of this?” Leclerc was sputtering. “You yield before these unorganized savages?”
He was berating General Boudet, who came hopping toward him on one leg, supported by a lieutenant on his left, his hurt leg swinging, his face drawn and pale with pain.
“See for yourself,” Boudet said through his gritted teeth, and sank to a sitting position on a cartridge case. A surgeon knelt before him and began cutting away the blood-stained leather of his boot.
“Forward,” Leclerc ordered, trembling. Daspir and Cyprien joined the march, which proceeded south of Petite Rivière. In the ravines between the town and the river they discovered the putrefying corpses of several hundred slaughtered white civilians. Some of the men began to curse, others to vomit, but Daspir had no reaction left in him, after similar scenes at Saint Marc and elsewhere, although here the odor was most unpleasant and the corpses hopped with vultures and crawled with flies. He exchanged one stupefied glance with Cyprien and rode on. Presently they reached a new scene of carnage: hundreds of fresh-slain French soldiers carpeting the slope below La Crête à Pierrot.
Stunned silence obtained as the men moved into line. Above, the noonday sun was broiling. Within the fort, the French flag snapped on a long staff. Cries of mockery came from the walls. Daspir’s heart thumped uncomfortably against his ribs. His mouth was brassy; he took a sip of tepid water from his canteen. The black cavalrymen had also flown the tricolor, he remembered. A youth with a red headcloth had carried it into the charge.
Leclerc shook his head slightly as he surveyed the field, his small, delicate features stiff with anger. “We will avenge these men within the hour,” he said, then turned to Daspir and Cyprien. “Go back and bring up the ammunition wagons. Who commands in Boudet’s stead, Lacroix? Let him bring what men he finds able to the field.”
They left Leclerc conferring with General Dugua, who had assumed the wounded Debelle’s command. Their detour to avoid the ravine of the massacre brought them nearer to the dully smoldering ruins of the town. Cyprien covered his face with a scented handkerchief; Daspir simply tolerated his cough as they passed. He rode toward the supply wagons, but paused a moment to watch the surgeon working over Boudet’s foot. The general had had his toes shot away, it appeared, and he also had a nasty suppurating wound on one hand. Behind him, a weathered-looking officer with long mustaches and a major’s epaulettes was remolding a captain’s broken nose between his thumb and forefinger. Daspir took a second glance at the wounded captain and recognized the disfigured Paltre.
“My God, what has happened to you?” Daspir jumped down from his horse at once. Paltre made an effort to answer but could only spit out blood.
“Be still,” Maillart said and turned to Daspir. “It’s all from his nose, he won’t die of it. A friend of yours? He’s a lucky man,