Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [43]
At evening, when the setting sun had cast a copper gleam across the ocean, they sailed round the point of Monte Christe and into the Baie de Mancenille. The spot was named, Guizot had heard, for a poisonous tree frequent on the shore, with a caustic sap which burned and blistered skin at the least touch. In the bay they saw for the first time a number of dug-out canoes and slightly larger wooden boats, some of the latter fitted out with trapezoidal sails, angled in the manner of Chinese junks. These must be fishermen out of Fort Liberté; of course they might also function as spies. But darkness covered them absolutely, almost the instant the last burning curve of the sun had dropped below the horizon, leaving only a flicker of firelight from one of the forts which covered the passage into the harbor of the town.
The ships swung at their anchors, moored well out from the shore. Guizot lay quietly in his hammock, his mind turning and turning in empty speculation as to what the next day would bring. He’d had little conversation with anyone during the day, for he was in the company of veterans now, not only his fellow officers but even the men directly under his command, and he felt that silence must be the best cover for his own innocence of war. He listened, but there had not been much to overhear; the soldiers were taciturn, looking to their equipment. In theory there was no battle to expect—in theory theirs was a peaceful mission, and yet the general assumption was that Toussaint Louverture was in rebellion and would be likely to oppose their landing. Of course there was no telling where Toussaint himself might be, behind the cliffs and heavy jungles that barred the coast.
Guizot had glimpsed a naval chart which showed the harbor: the shape of a broad-based wine decanter, with a short, narrow neck. The town itself, with its principal fort, lay at the bottom of this jug, while two others, Fort Labouque and the Fort de l’Anse, covered the narrow passage from opposite sides . . . Guizot lay in his hammock, listening to the snoring, inhaling the fog of human odor in the close space around him. Was that splash the sound of a paddle, or only a fish or a dolphin leaping? He was still thinking he would never sleep that night when the harsh clang of a bell awoke him.
At dawn the ships were sailing in close formation toward the harbor’s mouth. Guizot stood nervously on deck, without a function; he had nothing to do but keep out of the way. The artillerymen stood by their cannons, fuses already alight. Guizot’s jitters increased when he noticed that.
Some unintelligible shout came from the wall of Fort Labouque as soon as the squadron drew within hailing distance. General Rochambeau stood in the bow of the ship immediately to port of Guizot’s, and the captain could plainly hear his bellow: We are the Army of the French Republic! Make way for our landing!
Guizot had barely time to think that this was not the most temporizing greeting imaginable. Now he could understand the retort from the fort— Pas de blancs! Pas de servitude!—together with a puff of smoke, and an instant later the explosion and the splash, in the water before them, of an undershot cannonball. No whites! No slavery! The cannon nearest Guizot recoiled; he had not seen the gunner lower the fuse to the touch-hole. The explosion saturated him in a hot gunpowder smell, and all at once his fear dissipated (he could call it fear now it was gone) and was replaced with a quivering excitement like that of a pointing dog. One of his sergeants, who stood nearby, turned the ghost of a smile toward him, as if he’d somehow smelled his change of state.
Guizot