Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [407]
Daspir resumed breathing. He let Bel Argent make two full-tilt circuits of the Champ de Mars, then brought him gradually to a canter, then a trot. He was riding Toussaint’s horse. Delighted, he rode the stallion through the stable gate, still snorting and picking his feet up high, and reined him to a stop before General Hardy.
“Excellent,” Hardy said. “Your abilities have not been exaggerated, Captain. You are to go with these gentlemen to Mornet—the Captain-General has a rendezvous there with Toussaint Louverture, but he is unable to be present.” Hardy smiled, a little ironically. “We wanted to see you well mounted, as the distance is considerable, and the hour already late.” He handed Daspir a sealed packet. “Here, take these dispatches; they are directed to Toussaint.”
Guizot was a member of their party, riding a distinctly less spirited horse, and also a handsome young black colonel, Robillard. Two squadrons of cavalry provided them with a rather heavy escort—and would certainly slow their pace. Bel Argent led the procession; Daspir felt no more than a passenger, till he was inspired to divert them all from the Rue Espagnole to the Rue Vaudreuil. As he’d passionately hoped, Isabelle Cigny was taking the air on her balcony, and Daspir greeted her with a great flourish of his hat. Isabelle smiled with what appeared to be genuine amazement. She fluttered her handkerchief, and Daspir thought she might have blown him a kiss, but just then Major Maillart appeared beside her on the balcony.
He rode on, forbidding himself to look back, fingering the bullet hole in his hat. But still—it was a triumph to sit where he now sat. He remembered his first glimpse of the white stallion, with Toussaint’s small, dark figure astride him, on the far side of the river at Limbé. And now— Daspir glanced at Guizot to see if he’d grasped the import of their situation. Guizot grinned back at him and even winked. Daspir replaced his hat, at a jaunty angle. Toussaint had come to terms with Leclerc, and now it looked very much as if they were going to bring him in.
In spite of everything, Placide felt his heart rising as they rode out of Marmelade, the guard almost its full two thousand strong and all their silver helmets gleaming in the rising sun. They held a brisk trot for most of the way, breaking the gait only when the grade up or down was too steep to sustain it. On the level ground on the plateau of Mornet, they broadened their line and swept into a canter, pennants streaming out behind them, then pulled up, none too sharply, before the pickets of the French advance guard there.
Leclerc was not present to receive them after all. In his place appeared General Fressinet, who made them much courtesy, inviting Toussaint and his officers to lunch in the grand’case of the habitation where he had made his camp, with a contingent of the Tenth Colonial Demibrigade and a smaller force of European soldiers. Placide sat on Toussaint’s right hand, between Isaac and his father, listening to Fressinet explain how the French had made their way across the Spanish side of the island with scarcely a battle to fight. And Fressinet also had dispatches which showed that the peace between England and France had definitely been concluded. Toussaint said little to this news, but nodded and massaged his jaw, as if his old wound pained him there. On the same excuse he ate