Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [88]
“You can ride?” he said to Michau as he strapped the rifle scabbard and saddlebags into place. “Excellent. I think I had better shut up the house, but get anything you want from the kitchen. If there is trouble you must bring the horses to Madame Cigny, or if you cannot, take them to the top of La Vigie.” He pointed to one of the peaks behind the town.
Michau nodded, and the doctor clapped him on the back. He gave the porter a couple of minutes to clean out the larder, then began closing the double doors and fastening them with the iron padlocks Elise had left with him. The last lock fell against the door with a drum-like thump. The doctor dropped the bunch of keys into his saddlebag and mounted the mule. Touching his hat to Michau, he rode into the street.
More soldiers than usual were stationed outside Christophe’s mansion, but no sign of the general himself. The doctor did not see Pascal, or anyone else it seemed wise to hail, as he rode through the area of Government House, perched on the high, narrow ridge of the mule’s back. He did not take the road that led to the beach this time. There was a trail that went higher on the hill around the point, a difficult one which was not much used except by charcoal burners. It was for that he had chosen the mule, and the animal went up it nimbly enough.
At the crown of the hill he pulled up and looked back. The sun had dropped behind the mountain, its red glow staining a few feathers of cloud. A couple of denser darker clouds were drifting across the plain from the east, but they were small and widely separated—there wouldn’t be much rain tonight. There still was light enough for him to see threads of smoke rising from the fires that warmed the tarpots at the Place d’Armes and the Place Clugny and many intersections in between. Hardly anyone had come out for the evening promenade. The red-tiled roofs and empty streets looked weirdly tranquil.
He clucked to the mule and rode on, turning his face into a freshening wind off the sea. A mild chop and a few whitecaps below. He was overlooking the open ocean now, and the masts of the fleet were plainly visible against the horizon. He started counting, gave it up. His heart sank as he looked at them. Here the trail was level and he could move the mule to a trot. In a couple of minutes he was looking down an abrupt descent onto the battlements of Fort Picolet.
No one thought to glance up in his direction. The men were all concentrating on heating up shot. General Christophe stood at the outer wall among the gunners, erect and uncharacteristically rigid, looking out to sea. The doctor saw a frigate detach itself from the fleet and begin to sail down upon the fort. He took a small brass spyglass from his pocket and pulled it to its full extension. With the help of the lens he could make out the name of the approaching ship, L’Aiguille. But his arm was unsteady and the circle of magnification bounced around, beyond his control. He collapsed the spyglass and put it back in his pocket. L’Aiguille, the Needle, was quite near now. Everything was becoming indistinct in the rapidly lowering dusk. The doctor saw iron shot glowing red on the grills above the coals. He saw Christophe thrust his right arm toward L’Aiguille as if he were hurling a javelin.
“Feu!”
A single cannon spoke. The hot iron of the ball drew a red line across the water, then fell sizzling, short of the frigate’s bow. L’Aiguille cut nimbly to the south and returned a broadside on the fort. This time a dozen cannon replied from Picolet. But Christophe had already left the battlement, as if the outcome of this engagement were of no more concern