Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [95]
He felt a flash of exhilaration, without reason, beyond it. Then a tight outward bend of the trail brought him clear of the cover of the trees, and all at once he could see the whole expanse of the great Northern Plain. The land was on fire like a checkerboard: some plantations were ablaze while others remained green and somnolent. Columns of men moved through the fuming landscape like lines of worker ants. At this distance Daspir could not discern what men they were. The humid air was heavy with the smell of scorching sugar.
“Forward!” Hardy ordered. For a moment, the general himself had been staggered by the panorama of the burning plain. But now his men were coming down onto flat and open terrain, with the black soldiers falling back before them. Hardy massed his infantry, signaled a charge— but the blacks would not stand to receive them. They were retreating, in reasonable order, dragging their cannon across a wooden bridge.
Daspir rode up. Without realizing it, he had passed the front line of his own troops to reach the bank of a swift-running brown river. Oxen were laboring on the shoals of the stream bed, hauling on ropes attached to the posts beneath the bridge. There was that small rider on the big white horse, shouting commands to the ox drivers. With a great heave and a groan of ripping wood, the posts gave way, the bridge buckled and collapsed into the water. Scraps of plank and broken joist came eddying out into the spiraling currents of the stream. Daspir watched as the white horse scrambled up the opposite bank; once on level ground, it broke into a canter. A magnificent animal—and the old rag-headed Negro certainly rode with a consummate skill. He moved as fluidly with the horse as if the two were one. By instinct Daspir rode down the bank and scouted the water’s edge, but it looked too deep to cross without swimming. When he looked up he saw that the black riding the big stallion had paused in his movement to study him, and felt a thrill at that recognition.
“What are you doing there, Captain—come back!” It was Hardy’s voice; the general had just appeared on the bank above. Daspir leaned forward and pushed his horse up to join him; Hardy watched his riding with a grudging respect.
“Look you well,” the general said, when Daspir had swung his horse in beside him. “We have the honor to bring the battle to Toussaint Louverture.”
Across the river the little man had slipped down from the warhorse and was moving among the gun carriages, nudging, gesturing. Daspir stared at him, only half believing. But it must be. Something whined between him and Hardy. Daspir reached automatically for his mosquito bites, then realized it must have been a musket ball.
“Get out of this,” Hardy told him. “Ride to the Captain-General and let him know the bridge is down.”
Daspir snapped his fingers to his hat brim and turned his horse to the rear. There was a volley of cannon as he spurred up, and cries as the front rank of Hardy’s infantry was torn by grapeshot on the riverbank. Daspir did not look back. The drums from the jungle had gone silent, yet their absence seemed to hum in his head.
“Then we must hurry to find a ford,” Leclerc said, when he’d received the message. “I want to enter Le Cap before dark.” He stroked his silky blond sidewhiskers absently down toward his chin, and narrowed his eyes at Daspir. “But are you not wounded?”
“No,” Daspir said, confused. “I do not think so.” Leclerc seemed to be peering at his hat brim. Daspir pulled off the hat and looked at it. Halfway up the crown was a hole big enough to admit his thumb.
“A fine souvenir that will make of this day,” Leclerc said with a brilliant smile. “And a fortunate first day of battle for you, Captain.”
Daspir flushed with pleasure