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By Root 2415 0

to judge from his dour muttering through his broken nose, while Cyprien seemed simply to have hardened. Daspir looked a little less touched by it all. There was a softness in his cheeks and mouth, a concupiscent expression that reminded Maillart of Michel Arnaud as a younger man, ten years ago, before the slaves revolted. Yet in Daspir’s eyes there was a cool steeliness of regard that ill matched the rest of his expression. Puzzling, but Maillart liked him best of the three. Despite his sprained shoulder he rode the lines willingly, managing his horse with his left hand—and he was an excellent horseman.

They kept their movements comfortably out of range of the fort, though still within view of it. It was a glad thing to ride away from the pestilent smoke of the corpses smoldering in the ravine below Petite Rivière. From within the fort a couple of horns and a drum regaled them with the popular airs of the French Revolution; if he listened closely Maillart thought he could make out the thin whine of a violin as well. Cyprien and Paltre seemed positively offended by this choice of music, while Daspir was merely perplexed. The three of them, guided by Maillart, spent much of their time scouting for a better position for Pétion’s guns. Lacroix was resolved that a steady bombardment would be the best solution to the siege, but the most opportune spots from which to launch shells were all covered by the small new earthwork the defenders had hastily erected. Though the blacks in the larger fort were conserving ammunition, fire from the little redoubt was extremely vigorous whenever a French uniform came within range. With a borrowed spyglass, Maillart studied the work and reported to Lacroix that it had been well surrounded by trenches, in the same style as the main fort.

Then, around noon on March 22, another still, hot day of siege, a cannon barrage erupted from the woods east of the redoubt. Lacroix jumped out from under the square of canvas where he’d been sheltering from the midday sun, and shaded his eyes to stare toward the fort.

“We have no troops in that direction,” he said and turned to Maillart and Daspir, who were standing by. “What did you see up there this morning?”

“Nothing,” said Maillart, who had indeed seen nothing unusual when he’d reconnoitered the area a little after dawn. But in less than five minutes a rider came pounding in to announce the arrival of General Rochambeau.

At this news, Lacroix grinned at first. “Why, if he can silence the cannon they’ve got there—” Then his face changed. “No, but he will try to rush the trenches. I know him.” He turned to Maillart. “Go and stop him.”

In seconds Maillart and Daspir were in the saddle, bearing orders for Rochambeau to sustain his cannonade but not to risk an infantry assault. Maillart had got the idea right away. Twice already the French had fallen into just this trap, and tales of Rochambeau’s recklessness had percolated all through the army; some grumbled that if he’d been more temperate at Fort Liberté, the burning of Le Cap would have been avoided.

But now as they rode too hastily across Hardy’s front lines, the main fort did open fire on them, so they were forced to take a longish detour under cover of the woods. The horses were slowed almost to a walk to weave a way between the trees, and yet the cover seemed too thin, with grapeshot snapping branches all around them. From further off the artillery battle continued to resound, then suddenly fell silent. Maillart and Daspir broke cover and cantered the last quarter-mile in a dread whistling silence. With all that they arrived too late; Rochambeau had already launched his charge.

Guizot was crouching in the undergrowth, shoulder to shoulder with Sergeant Aloyse, trembling like a terrier from excitement, anger, and nerves. After a closer look at the enemy’s armament, Rochambeau had countermanded his first order and decided to commence with his own artillery. It took some time to bring the seven cannon they’d dragged across the Cahos mountain range to bear, and Guizot had trouble restraining his men,