Tula is overcome by a sense of powerlessness. Freedom is so close, almost tangible, yet it’s still beyond his grasp. Every part of him refuses to accept the situation. The opportunity generations of his people have been waiting for finally comes, and again nothing happens, no one does anything and the whites just carry on, business as usual. Tula walks over to his father, torn with desperation. ‘Don’t the people have a right to know, father?’ he asks, his eyes filling with tears. He grabs Jorboe by the shoulders and forces his father to look him in the eye. ‘Let them decide, father. One way or the other they have to be told.’ Jorboe looks away and says nothing. Tula gets to his feet, disappointed. Rosita wants to put her arm around him, to comfort him, but he pushes her away. Just as he’s about to leave, his father breaks his silence: ‘Tomorrow, in the evening. We’ll talk to the heads of the families. Now get some sleep, boy.’ Tula turns to his father, thankful and relieved. He gets to his knees and kisses both his father’s hands. ‘No need, boy, no need. Go home, and think about what you’re going to say tomorrow when you talk to the people.’
The following evening a group of twenty men gather in front of the campfire. ‘My son has important news you need to know about. Let’s listen to what he has to say.’ Jorboe steps aside and pushes Tula gently to the fore. Overawed by the group and the almost mystical atmosphere created by the light of the flickering flames, Tula searches for the words he had planned to say, but they seem to have evaporated into thin air. He stands in front of the assembled men in silence, not quite sure where to start. The men stare at him full of expectation and the silence begins to take on menacing proportions. Think about what you’re going to say tomorrow. His father’s words echo in his head. He knows what he has to say and he’s determined to say it. ‘We don’t have to work for the whites anymore,’ he begins, hesitatingly. The men are surprised by his words and eyebrows are raised here and there. ‘Because you say so?’ someone interrupts. ‘What are you trying to say, Tula?’ A restlessness takes hold of the group. ‘Quiet, men, let him speak.’ Jorboe looks at the assembled family heads one by one. ‘What my son has to say is important. Let him speak first and then you’re free to say whatever is on your mind.’ Reassured by his father’s support, Tula continues, his voice steady:
‘The slaves on Haiti have liberated themselves from their masters. Their French masters.’ He underlines the word French. ‘The French have announced that their slaves are free, that they can live as they please side by side with the whites.’ Astonishment is written on every face as Tula pauses for a moment. ‘The French,’ he continues, ‘defeated the Dutch in a war. And that means, my brothers, that we too should be free.’
A murmur runs through the group. Tula holds up his hands for silence, raises his voice and continues: ‘The master thinks we know nothing about this. He thinks he can treat us as he’s always done. He can punish me for the words I say… He can send my wife away to another plantation… But if we demand our rights together… If we demand our rights together as brothers… he’ll have to admit defeat. Our master is a stubborn man, but we can’t let him stand in our way. This is much bigger than one plantation alone. This is about the island, about our people. Equality with the whites, equality with each other. A society of brothers. The whites as well as the blacks. Equality, liberty, fraternity. That’s what we stand for. Help me… No, let’s help each other to win our rights. Liberate our people and stand behind me tomorrow when I go to the master to demand our freedom.’
His words are met with stunned silence. Tula turns to his father, the adrenaline racing through his veins. Jorboe gets to his feet, looks at Tula with a glint of pride in his eye and turns to the group: ‘What he said is true. A new day has dawned for us. Let us unite as brothers with one voice. Equality, freedom, brotherhood.’ The men appear to approve. Cautiously at first, but then with increasing conviction they quietly repeat the catchphrase: ‘Equality, freedom, brotherhood. The mood changes to one of excitement and merriment, albeit subdued. The men laugh and embrace one another. Equality, freedom, brotherhood. Their time has finally come.
IX
‘Order, gentlemen, come to order.’ The council meeting in Punda is in session. Governor De Veer pounds the table with his chairman’s gavel.
‘How dare you talk about maintaining public order when you yourself refuse, sir, to pay taxes. As a government we are bound hand and foot. It’s the council’s duty to ensure the correct implementation of the rules, but if members of the same council disregard the rules then how can the council continue to do this?’
Commotion takes hold of the assembly. De Veer pounds the table hard once again.
‘Order, or I’ll have the place cleared!’
‘And who makes the rules of which you speak, sir? The French who are presently our protectors, or the English who should be a source of concern? On which side does this council stand?’ A man in a spotless white suit glares impertinently at De Veer. A few of the other assembly members clearly approve of his intervention.
De Veer gets to his feet, narrows his eyes and addresses the man in what is close to a whisper: ‘May I remind you that whoever is pulling the strings in our fatherland, we as a council are still responsible for ensuring that the rules of this colony are properly observed. That fact has not prevented you in the past from trampling on rules promulgated by this same council. A society cannot function without taxes. And those are the very taxes you refuse to pay. You have thus taken the law into your own hands, but when difficulties arise you come complaining to the council.’
‘And what income did Mr De Veer have in mind that we should use to pay our taxes? Trade has more or less ground to a standstill. It is your task and your responsibility to ensure the steady growth of trade in the region and to ensure that we have access to goods to cultivate trade. But I can’t remember the last time a ship laden with goods sailed into the harbour.’
Once again a murmur of approval runs through the assembly. De Veer holds up his hands.
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen… I cannot deny that trade has been under enormous pressure on account of the war between the French and our beloved Prince, who has done everything, and I mean everything…’
‘Your beloved Prince!’ The man in white interrupts De Veer a second time.
De Veer turns to him, irritated. ‘It doesn’t matter what side you choose in this conflict. It’s because of the war that trade has come to a standstill. But if you take that as an excuse to construct your own little kingdoms, implementing your own rules and ignoring the necessary rest due to the workers on your plantations, then you are guilty of overexploiting the property of this island. You create unrest, fully aware that the army is unable to function for lack of financial means, and is thus unable to put an end to the unrest that you yourself have started.’
A voice from the assembly shouts: ‘Don’t worry about the blacks. We can take care of them.’
An explosion of laughter rips through the assembly, forcing De Veer to raise his voice in an effort to be heard above the commotion: ‘In these turbulent times… In these turbulent times we do not know who is our friend and who our foe. Every ship that sails into the harbour is potentially hostile and we simply cannot be sure. Piracy has increased dramatically of late. We just have to wait until it is clear to which authority we have been condemned: France or England. Until then we have to be on our guard and make the army ready to defend the harbour from pirates, be they French or English. There is no other option. This assembly is adjourned.’
When Tula was younger, at least life was simple. Unjust, but simple nevertheless. The master decided everything and fighting against the system was just unthinkable. Tula remembers the words of a free negro he used to know when he first learned about the uprising in Haiti. “Revolt is bad for business.”
Tula grouches to his mother in the early morning light. ‘I can’t keep this up. I have to work hard every day and I need a normal night’s sleep. The cabin is too small for the four of us.’
; Jorboe emerges from the cabin. ‘What’s all the noise about? Do you realise what time it is?’
‘I can’t take it any longer,’ Tula erupts. ‘You and mama keep me from my sleep half the night and Quaku wakes me up before dawn. I’m exhausted. When can I have my own place? It’s not my job to entertain your child, is it?’ Tula doesn’t see the slap on the back of his head coming. It leaves him dizzy. ‘Right now you’re still our child, and you’re no more or less important than Quaku, is that clear?’
‘I’m much older than Quaku, and besides, he’s not…’
‘What isn’t he?’ Jorboe grabs Tula firmly by the arm. ‘Do you think you’re better than your little brother? What gives you the right to talk to your mother like that? Your time will come, Tula. When you’ve chosen a wife for yourself, then you can have your own cabin. But until then you’ll just have to do as we say.’ Tula wrings himself free of his father’s grip, turns on his heels, and runs in the direction of the manor house. He’s in a foul mood and it’s written all over his face. When he arrives at the bell he sees that something isn’t right. A couple of bombas are standing next to the old master pulling slaves out of the line and sending them to stand by the barn where they’re left to wait, worried about what’s about to happen. When Tula reaches the steps he too is plucked from the line. ‘Wait by the barn,’ the bomba grunts.
The bomba on the stairs divides the people into groups and they spread out over the plantation as they do every day, but Tula remains with a small group of men next to the barn. A few moments later a cart arrives. ‘Everybody in.’ The men climb into the back of the cart. Caspar van Uytrecht hurries towards them. ‘We’re ready, master,’ says the bomba, holding out his hand and helping Caspar climb onto the perch. The cart sets off, jolting and juddering.
The dirt roads are hard, with polished rocks penetrating the surface here and there, and the journey is long and bumpy. The coachman has to keep his eyes peeled to avoid the countless pot-holes and as a result, the cart is only able to make slow progress. The atmosphere is tense. With the master so close by, the men just stare into space in silence and don’t dare speak. The landscape slowly changes as the hills of Bándabou make way for the vast plain along the northern edge of the island. The raging sea crashes against the rocks. The continuous gusts of wind cool the air, but also scatter a fine sand across the plain. Hunched in the back of the cart, Tula pulls his tunic over his mouth and nose. A manor house appears in the distance and the cart slows down as they approach it. Caspar jumps from the perch when they reach the gate, makes his way up the drive in no apparent hurry, and disappears inside. A few minutes later he emerges with another master and points towards the cart. The master nods and winks at the coachman to drive on. They stop by a well.
‘Everyone out. Get some water. Thanks for the hospitality Mr Pinedo. You’re always welcome to visit my plantation whenever you’re in the neighbourhood.’
‘There’s not much chance of that,’ the man answers with a smile. ‘But I hope you have a good onward journey and that you do good business in the city.’
The city. So they’re on their way to the city. Tula is only barely able to suppress a surge of panic. Business in the city? Surely the master isn’t planning to sell us? The other men also heard what the master said and the look at each other, unable to disguise their unease. It’s late in the afternoon when the contours of the city appear on the horizon. Enormous ships are anchored in the middle of a lagoon, others moored along the quay, their huge masts standing out in sharp relief against the white clouds in the deep blue sky. Sails flap restlessly in the wind and tiny boats sail back and forth. The dirt path gives way to bumpy cobblestones. Tula looks around. The white facades of the soberly plastered houses glimmer in the sun and the light pains the eyes. There are people everywhere. Black and white swarming together. Coaches, horsemen, open horse-drawn carts piled high, people with wheelbarrows, soldiers with rifles, people on foot, people on donkeys, all of them in a hurry, scurrying right and left along the city’s narrow streets and alleys. More accustomed to the silence of Bándabou, Tula covers his ears in an effort to escape the sudden cacophony; whinnying horses, people shouting, the deafening clatter of the wheels on the cobblestones. Tula is hunched up in the back of the cart with his hands over his ears and his eyes tight shut. After what seemed like an endless journey, the cart finally comes to a standstill. Tula sits upright. The hubbub of the city suddenly seems far away. They’ve stopped in a garden adjacent to a large house. Tula can hardly believe his eyes. The house is taller than the trees that cast their shadow over this leafy oasis of tranquillity. A broad stairway leads up to an immense porch where two enormous pillars support what appears to be a second house perched on top of the first. The upstairs porch is edged with a balustrade. A dark-skinned woman is beating a blanket with a carpet beater. A house slave runs to the cart and helps Van Uytrecht to step down from the perch. The coachman then steers the cart to the rear of the house where an assortment of humble buildings is grouped around a huge tree in the middle of the property. The coachman jumps to the ground. ‘We’re here,’ he shouts and then whistles through his fingers. ‘Take these men to their quarters,’ he says to the bomba who has rushed over to meet them. ‘They haven’t had anything to eat for a while so make sure they’re fed and watered and see that they’re back here tomorrow at dawn. The master wants to make an early start.’ The bomba nods and gestures to Tula and the others to follow him.
‘The new arrivals, eh? You’ve come a long way. You must be tired. Let’s see what Estrella can rustle up for you to eat first. Take the weight off your feet.’ The bomba points to a bench and gives the men a friendly nod before disappearing into one of the houses and leaving them alone. Tula watches the man as he walks away, suspicious of his affability. He’s convinced there has to be a catch. They’re probably planning to sell us, he thinks, but when the bomba returns a few minutes later he’s just as friendly as before. ‘There’s rice and chicken,’ he says, ‘and if you want something to drink we have a well.’ He joins them on the bench, fishes a clay pipe from his pocket and starts to fill it at his ease. Tula plucks up enough courage to ask a question: ‘What are they planning to do with us? I mean, why has the master brought us to the city?’
‘Didn’t he tell you?’ the bomba answers calmly. ‘You’ll be working in the harbour, some of you at least. The others in the shipyard repairing ships. There’s plenty of work.’ He produces a tinderbox from his pocket and lights his pipe. ‘But you’ve done enough for today. Estrella will bring you something to eat shortly and tell you where you can sleep. I’ll explain everything tomorrow morning.’ He gets to his feet and walks away. Tula heaves a sigh of relief. They’re not up for sale. They’re just being assigned different work. But his relief is short lived. How long do we have to stay here, he asks himself. Will he ever see Jorboe, Rosita and Quaku again? He already misses them and he’s not even been away from them for a whole day. Why didn’t the master say something? At least then he could have said his farewells. Did his parents know where he was? Tula stares into space, his expression dark and cheerless.
A good-humoured Paolo, the bomba, marches into the barracks before dawn, waking Tula from a restless sleep. ‘Come on, everybody up, it’s time for work!’ When Tula opens his eyes it takes a while before he realises where he is. Of course, the city… the harbour… He makes his way outside with a troubled heart. Paolo is already hard at it, fetching tools and equipment from the barn and loading them into a cart. ‘So there you are, finally!’ He turns to Tula with a smile. ‘I haven’t properly introduced myself.’ He offers Tula a cheerful hand. ‘I’m Paolo. And you?’ Tula stares at the hand in surprise. ‘Tula,’ he says, looking to the ground, ignoring the hand. ‘Tula,’ the bomba repeats. ‘Welcome to the city. It’ll all take a little getting used to, but I can assure you you’re better off here than in Bándabou. Mark my words. Give it a couple of days and you won’t want to go back. The others are on their way to the harbour with the maste
r so we’ll have to go on foot. If you grab the barrow we can get started.’ He tosses a heavy sack over his shoulder and heads out onto the street. Tula grabs the barrow and runs after him, still a little puzzled.
Paolo slows down a little, lets Tula catch up, and strikes up an immediate conversation: ‘It’s busy in the harbour… A lot of schooners from Haiti of late. Small ships… Small ships…fast, but they need a great deal of maintenance. And if they’re out of service they aren’t earning an income. Not for their owners, that is.’ He winks roguishly. ‘There’s money in it for us, of course. But that means we need to work fast. The faster we finish, the faster they leave and the more money we make.’
The hustle and bustle on the quay at Santa Anna Bay is incredible. Ships are loading and unloading, slaves running up and down the gangplanks, their backs laden. Donkey-drawn carts leave full and return empty. Men in uniform shout orders from the various ships to the slaves on the quay, roaring at the tops of their voices in an effort to be heard above the racket. Tula and Paolo worm their way through the crowd. ‘This way!’ Paolo shouts. It’s much quieter at the end of the quay. Three ships are moored along the embankment and loud hammering can be heard from inside one of the ships.
‘The shipyard.’ Paolo gestures exaggeratedly with both arms. ‘We’ll be working here together for the foreseeable future. This one here to has to be finished by tomorrow.’ He points to one of the ships. ‘’Came through a heavy storm. Almost lost its entire rigging. That’s not our job, luckily enough, but they want it rigged again and ready by tomorrow morning and there’s a lot of patching up to do before then. Enough to keep us busy.’ Tula stares at him in bewilderment. Rigging, patching up? What’s he talking about?
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