Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [36]
Therefore Maillart had tried to distract himself in a thirty-six-hour fling with a colored courtesan of his acquaintance. This woman, though beautiful and exquisitely skilled in her profession, had finally left him a feeling of shame. And it was generally uneasy around the town, with the constant rumors of an expedition coming from France. A turn in the countryside, Maillart had thought, might do him some good.
For the last hour the grade of plain had been gradually mounting, and the afternoon light reddened on their backs. A final twist of the road spilled them onto the main street of Ouanaminthe. All of a sudden they had an escort of barking dogs and scattering goats and small children running alongside the horses shouting “Toussaint! Toussaint! Papa Toussaint!” They’d recognized the fine horses and tall riders, the plumes and silver helmets each with the motto “Qui pourra en venir à bout?” But Toussaint was wont to send detachments of his guard hither and yon, to distract inquiring eyes from his own actual whereabouts.
Maillart was saddle-weary by now, and thirsty too, his throat caked with dust. But they did not stop in Ouanaminthe. Couachy led them straight to the Massacre River, where they forded, the horses going down to their withers, the setting sun blood-red on the calm water as it curved away to the west. They rode up a ravine on the other side and entered the Spanish town of Dajabón.
Toussaint was not here either, it turned out, but they found meager accommodations for themselves at an inn. The men stacked up, triple and quadruple and some sleeping on the floor. Thanks to his status as Toussaint’s aide-de-camp, Maillart had to share his room with only Couachy. A barrel of rum was quickly discovered, and some chickens commandeered for their supper. Maillart turned in and slept without dreams. At dawn they were riding again through a low pass eastward toward the Saint Yago River.
By midmorning they had reached the river valley and were riding eastward along the low bank. The mountains rose towering on either side, dark verdant peaks thrusting into the clouds. There were few signs of cultivation or even of habitation, except every so often a thread of smoke from a charcoal fire hidden on a jungled slope. Once, when they rounded a bend of the river onto a wide flat shoal of gravel, they came upon a dozen black women washing clothes. The laundresses must have come out from some maroon settlement nearby—there had been movement over the border, since Toussaint had claimed the Spanish side of the island for France. The women straightened from their work and stared after the riders, in a grave silence, without a smile or a wave. They and their families would be fugitives, Maillart thought, from Toussaint’s labor laws.
In the late afternoon their party was startled by a runaway horse rushing down the river toward them, on the opposite bank. The shoreline was too high and rocky to cross in this place, so there was nothing they could do but pull up and watch the spectacle. It was a splendid animal, however wild, a magnificent blue roan. The horse came down the far bank full tilt, punctuating its gallop with episodes of explosive bucking. Through it all the rider was fixed in the saddle, as tight as a barnacle—no daylight to find between his rump and the leather. He was in shirtsleeves, a white shirt open to the breastbone. When he came nearer, Maillart saw the yellow madras headcloth.
“My Christ,” he said, with a glance at Couachy. “It’s the Governor-General.”
Toussaint and his furious mount shot past them by a hundred yards or more. Then at last the run petered out and the exhausted roan collapsed into a walk. No choice now but to accept the rider. Toussaint turned the roan and brought it back up the bank