Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [409]
“Governor, I am sent by General Christophe to say that he awaits your orders.”
“I never want to hear that name,” Toussaint rapped out. At the sound of his voice, Bel Argent bunched his legs and tried another buck that Daspir had more trouble containing. His tone was so sharp that Robillard’s immovable expression buckled for a moment, but then Toussaint softened slightly: “I am glad to see you, Colonel Robillard,” he said, “though I have no answer to give you on the subject of your mission.”
Robillard’s horse fell into step beside Toussaint’s, and the two men continued toward Haut du Cap, talking in a tone too low for Daspir to make out what they said. They seemed to have assumed the head of the whole procession. Daspir looked back and saw a horseman with a red head cloth riding on him. Though it had almost completely healed since La Crête à Pierrot, his shoulder gave a painful throb. Daspir thought his flinch was only mental—was almost completely sure it did not show. And Placide was holding out an empty hand to him.
“La paix,” Placide said. Peace.
Daspir put a quick, hard grip on the hand he’d offered, but Placide returned no pressure. This was the style of handclasp he’d lately learned from Guiaou and Guerrier and others like them. Let the Frenchman make of it what he would. In fact, Captain Daspir smiled at him quite warmly.
Then Isaac rode up and leaned half out of his saddle to give Daspir his full embrace. Placide watched the white hands settle either side of his brother’s spine. Bel Argent’s dark eye rolled toward him. That his father should see an enemy astride his favorite horse and not swipe his head off with his long sword—it was then Placide had realized the surrender was truly inevitable.
He pulled the red cloth from his head and folded it in a careful triangle and put it into his pocket for some other day—the future that Toussaint might still secretly be planning. The French tricolor he’d snatched from Daspir’s hands at Gonaives still rode on its shortened stave in the holster by his boot, and beside the holster hung the silver helmet of the guard. Since Guiaou had given it to him, Placide had preferred the headcloth in every fight, for protection and for inspiration too. He would not look at Guiaou now, but loosened and raised the helmet and buried his whole head inside.
As they returned through Haut du Cap, the whole of the Sixth, with Clairvaux himself, turned out to salute them with cheers and musket shots and hats tossed in the air. Half an hour later, when they reached the gate of Le Cap itself, the same military honors were rendered them. There were even cannons firing salutes from a couple of the ships out in the harbor, quite as though Toussaint were entering in triumph.
In the second rank of the riders, Daspir could not help but feel a little disregarded. He caught Guizot’s eye in hope of encouragement, but Guizot seemed to have suffered a similar drop in his own spirits. Only when he saw Paltre among the onlookers crowding the gateway did Daspir feel moved to some display of bravado.
“You see, we have brought him in at the last!” Rag-headed Negro . . . In fact, the yellow madras binding Toussaint’s head was what led them through the gate. Daspir would have liked to flourish his sword, but settled for a big sweep of his hat. Paltre looked more flabbergasted than impressed. He stood with his mouth open, massaging the bridge of his twice-broken nose. Then, as if struck by some other thought, he twisted and ducked away through the thickening crowd.
Daspir shot another glance at Guizot, who did no more than shrug. Well, Paltre had been queer in recent days, ever since his quarrel with the doctor. Let it pass. And this entry was a triumph, never mind whose. Daspir pressed Bel Argent with his knees and urged him forward through the cheering crowd,