Coachy, to whom Papa Toussaint had given the two letters for Paul Louverture, led their way south from Point Samana toward Santo Domingo City. Coachy had been to that place before, not so long ago, when Papa Toussaint had sent his army to the Spanish side of the island for the first time, but Guiaou had not. He had not been to Point Samana either before that day, when Papa Toussaint had brought them to look at the ships of the French. It was the first time he had traveled so far across the border, but he had known Coachy for a long time and was content to follow him. Coachy rode in front, then Guerrier who had just been made a soldier by Papa Toussaint, and Guiaou third. Guiaou had never seen Guerrier before yesterday when Papa Toussaint tossed him the musket he carried now across his saddle bow, but he felt a warmth toward Guerrier because he remembered how, a long time ago, Papa Toussaint had taken him in when he was nearly naked and had made him a soldier too by giving him a gun. Guerrier rode well—he must have spent some time training horses at Toussaint's hatte across the border—but he did not seem to know what to do with the musket. He kept turning it and flourishing it one way and another, and Guiaou's horse twitched uneasily between his knees whenever the sunlight flashed on the barrel.
They had to ride some way inland along the north bank of the River Yuna to find a ford where they could cross. Even so the water was deeper than Guiaou liked, chest-deep on the horses in the middle of the river. It rose to touch Guiaou's boot in the stirrup, cold water seeping through the seams of the uppers. The cold water climbed his shinbone toward his knee, spilling over the boot top. Guiaou closed his eyes and felt his teeth clench tight. He prayed, Gras lamiserikòd, loosening the rein and trusting his horse to follow the others without guidance. Gras lamiserikòd, Papa . . . The water climbed onto his thigh, and he waited for the sick lurch when the horse's hooves would be uprooted from the bottom and the horse would begin to swim. But this did not happen. Instead the water began to sink, finally releasing its grip on his ankle, and Guiaou opened his eyes as the horse came scrambling up the southern bank of the river. He prayed his thanksgiving as he dumped the water from his boots and slung them over his saddlebow. The cloth of his trousers and the skin of his legs dried quickly as they rode east in the afternoon sun, warming against the drying hide of the horse.