Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [288]
Dessalines grinned, and over his shoulder Maillart noticed a miserable quartet of white musicians sweating out one of his favorite martial airs, and unbelievably he thought he got a glimpse of Doctor Hébert flashing from the cover of one ajoupa to another, a roll of bandage trailing from his arm. He most definitely saw Dessalines, himself, lower a flame to a touch hole. Mitraille snapped the slender trunks of half the little trees on their hilltop. One of the musketeers dropped to the ground, clutching his knee.
“Retreat!” Maillart saw to it someone helped the wounded man away. There was no hope for this position once cannon had been brought to bear on it, though it might be worth trying to return with their own artillery.
Mitraille still raked the main battlefield below the fort. Returning, Maillart saw Daspir’s horse shot out from under him. He rode in. Daspir was pinned, one leg caught under his saddle and the horse’s withers, trying to pry himself loose with his sword. As Maillart reached him, the horse rolled away. Daspir’s leg must not have been too badly hurt, for he was able to scramble up behind with a little assist from Maillart’s arm.
Excellent, Maillart thought, now I own two of these reckless puppies. He looked around but did not see Paltre. To the left of the field, the new black irregulars were enthusiastically bayoneting those of Leclerc’s troops too bewildered by the mitraille to resist in an organized way. In fact, the whole situation was fast becoming desperate. General Dugua, bleeding in two places, was being carried off the field on a stretcher. Pamphile de Lacroix had joined Leclerc, and Maillart spurred his horse in that direction. Behind, Daspir lurched off-center, then quickly regained his balance, pressing his chest into Maillart’s back.
Morisset had made it a point of honor for Placide to carry the flag he’d captured in that last raid on Gonaives into all subsequent engagements. Sawed short for the purpose, the flagstaff could be seated securely in a long scabbard strapped to the saddle, leaving Placide’s hands free to shoot or strike. In the first charge of that morning, he’d fired no shot and struck no blow, though he’d ridden down several of the bolting French troopers, and maybe they’d been killed by the hooves of his horse, or finished off by others riding behind him.
When the column of fresh troops appeared from the west, Morisset had pulled his cavalry out of the battle; they rode to the shelter of the woods beyond the town to rest their horses. Placide got down and walked his mount to cool for half an hour before he let it drink. This reflexive action calmed him as much as it did his horse. He unfastened the red headcloth Guiaou had given him, mopped off his face with it, and folded it in a triangle to put in his pocket. The electric thrill of the fight still ran all through the guardsmen; the grove was heavy with the odor of their anger and sweat, mingling with the hot smell of the horses.
Only one squadron of cavalry had entered the first charge; the second, commanded by Monpoint, waited in reserve. The two commanders watched the second French advance on the fort from the cover of the trees.
“Which one is Leclerc?” Monpoint asked Morisset, but neither man had ever seen the French general.
“There,” said Placide, pointing to where Leclerc had just stepped out of the ranks, to initiate the charge. Morisset grunted an acknowledgment. He shaded his eyes to squint at Leclerc where he stood with Dugua, directing the battle.
Somehow the sight of Leclerc drained Placide