Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [45]
“Forward!”
That was his own hoarse voice. Away he sprang at the head of his troops; the men charging with him, bayonets fixed. But the smoke cloud at the end of the block contained no adversaries. The few shots still falling among them seemed to come from the rooftops—but what kind of fighter would hold out in a burning house?
No bullet struck Captain Guizot. At the first contact his heart, already pounding from mere physical effort, had made a swelling lunge into his throat, but now it beat more steadily, pumping his body through the necessary paces. He had only to lead, gesturing with the sword he had recovered (his own hung a dead weight at his side), propelling his men from one block to the next. At the third intersection they met an enemy skirmish line, and Guizot stepped aside as the sergeant formed the musketeers.
Ready. Aim. Fire!
At the second volley the skirmish line scattered and Guizot’s men advanced through their own powder fumes, mingled with the smoke of burning buildings. All at once they had broken through into the central square. No serious resistance continued here or in the adjoining streets, though there was still fighting at the fort. Guizot received the order to turn his men to douse the fires. With the help of the sergeant (what was the man’s name?) he organized a bucket brigade. As the vessels passed in the line he scooped a palmful of water to ease his throat. The partisans who’d set the fires had fled the town, and the several squads of impromptu firefighters were able to bring the flames under control before too many buildings were destroyed. At the end of this labor Guizot was exhausted, charcoal-stained, his throat raw from shouting and inhaling smoke, but the order came down for him to re-form his men and proceed on the double to Fort Labouque.
Again the rapid march around the contour of the bay. Guizot lurched forward as if in a dull dream. The sword of the fallen aide-de-camp still swung in his hand, for he had nowhere to sheathe it. Somehow the whole day had passed in this action; sunset stained the water of the harbor. They were bringing up the rear of the French column now, and by the time they reached Fort Labouque a white flag dangled from the battlement. The victory had not been without cost, for a good many corpses of French grenadiers were scattered around the outer wall.
As Guizot led his troop into the fort, Rochambeau was just receiving the sheathed sword from the surrendering black commander, Charles Barthelmy. Rochambeau drew the weapon from the scabbard, glanced for an instant at the polished blade, and then with a quick jerk broke it over his knee and tossed the clanging pieces aside.
Barthelmy’s nostrils flared slightly; that was his sole response. About thirty of the captured defenders stood with him, already disarmed, their backs to the fort’s central blockhouse. They were standing in another kill zone, Guizot realized, where the first of his comrades to storm the outer wall had been caught in fire from loopholes from the central redoubt. Some death detail had already dragged their bodies into rows beneath the shadow of the battlement behind them.
Rochambeau rounded on Guizot. “Captain,” he said, “you bring me fresh troops.”
“Oui, mon général.” Guizot drew himself to rigid attention, thinking uneasily that neither his men nor their officer was anything like fresh. Rochambeau’s small, dark eyes lazed over him. Guizot was acutely conscious of his soot-streaked face and grubby uniform. But it was the extra sword that puzzled the general. Rochambeau took it from Guizot’s hand, looked at the fancy chasing of the hilt, and raised it closer to his face to study an inscription engraved on the blade.
“I have lost too many men to these rebellious brutes,” Rochambeau said. “And not only the son of the Duc de Châtre.” He aimed the sword’s point at Barthelmy and his men. “Don’t waste your powder on them, Captain.” Rochambeau returned Guizot’s salute