‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,’ says Van Westerholt. ‘But if the blacks refuse to concede we’ll be left with no choice. Those who refuse to obey, must taste the rod.’ The priest says nothing, holds his Bible tightly on his lap and stares towards the horizon. The sun draws streaks of red on the surface of the water as the ships sail out of the bay.
XIX
Preparations are underway on Porto Marie for a possible confrontation with the whites and everyone is hard at work. Positions are under construction, weapons are being collected and a hideout is set up at the rear of the manor house for the women, children and elderly. Tension in the camp is running high. ‘Do we have enough weapons, Bastiaan?’ asks Louis as he emerges from behind the manor house.
‘All we have is what you see here on the porch,’ Bastiaan answers, his expression grim. ‘Tossijn and a couple of men are checking out the barn at the back of the courtyard to see if there’s anything else we can use. Chapis, machetes, that sort of thing.’
‘I’ve emptied the provisions barn,’ says Louis. ‘The women, children and elderly can sleep there tonight, although I’m pretty sure nobody will be getting much sleep judging by the atmosphere. Everyone’s on edge.’
‘And rightly so,’ says Tula wading in to the conversation. ‘We have to prepare ourselves for the worst. Is everything ready?’
‘I think so,’ says Bastiaan. ‘We’ve charted the escape routes. The women and children can follow a path behind the manor house that leads through the mondi to Fontein. We’ve hidden a number of carriages and horses there so that the elderly and the children won’t hold us back if he have to run. I can’t think of anything else we can do, unless we decide to attack first. So much bloody waiting and uncertainty is driving me crazy.’
Tula looks at him with a smile. ‘Let’s hope that all this waiting makes a confrontation unnecessary.’
‘What do we do with the prisoners, Tula?’ asks Tossijn as he joins the group on the porch.
Tula had almost forgotten about Pedro and his men.
‘Let them sit it out for a while longer. If everything goes according to plan we’ll have to hand them over to the authorities.’
‘And if things don’t go according to play?’ Tossijn insists.
‘If things don’t go well that means we’ll have to fight.’ Tula sighs. ‘In that instance we let them go and they can fight with us.’
In the evening, Tula is getting ready for bed in one of the bedrooms in the manor house.
‘What do you think, Tula? Are they going to attack?’ Speranza seems anxious and her face is drawn with concern.
‘I really can’t tell,’ says Tula. ‘After everything they’ve done to us, I hope they don’t make things worse with an attack. But if they do, we can’t run away. There’s no way back.’
‘I’m scared, Tula.’
‘But there’s no need to be. You’re in no danger, not even if the whites decide to attack us after all. You’ll be safe, Speranza, don’t worry.’
‘I wasn’t thinking about myself, Tula. It’s you I’m worried about.’
‘Don’t worry about me, my love. We have the advantage of numbers and we’re much stronger. You heard what happened this morning, didn’t you? The whites are useless in the mondi. Nothing’s going to happen to me.’
‘But I’m worried all the same,’ says Speranza. ‘About the future and about us. It’s all going to be different after this.’
‘Whatever happens, Speranza, we’ll still be together.’ Tula throws both arms around her and holds her tight.
Night has fallen by the time the ships arrive at Boca Sami. Van Westerholt gives orders to continue the journey to Old Santa Maria and camp there for the night. Father Schinck is determined to meet with the slaves and heads immediately in the direction of the salt flats. Van Westerholt sees him leave and hurries after him.
‘Father, what are you doing?’
‘Going to the slaves, of course. Wasn’t that the agreement?’
‘But it’s the middle of the night, Father. Surely you’re not planning to walk into the enemy camp at this hour and in the dark. That would make your mission much more dangerous than it already is.’
Schinck glares disparagingly at Van Westerholt. ‘May I remind you that what you call the enemy camp is now home to a multitude of people with whom we were living in peace only yesterday. If you already see them as “the enemy” then my mission is sure to fail before it starts. And may I also point out that the council prefers to avoid armed conflict should it be possible. It would help if you would do your best to support my mission, although I understand that you as a soldier would prefer to go to battle. But please be so kind as to control your urges, at least for the time being.’
‘As you wish,’ Van Westerholt snaps. ‘You have until early tomorrow morning. If you’re not back by then, we’ll assume your mission has failed.’ He summons a sergeant and has him designate two soldiers to accompany the priest. But Schinck pays no attention and makes his way into the mondi without looking back, forcing the soldiers to run after him.
The darkness and the rugged terrain don’t make his journey any easier and it takes the priest the best part of three hours to reach the plantation. He sees campfires burning in the distance close to the manor house. To announce his arrival and avoid startling the slaves he starts to sing a psalm. His lonely voice echoes through the dark night. At first there seems to be no reaction from the manor house, but then, all at once, he finds himself surrounded by eight menacing black men who appear out of nowhere and take hold of him while disarming the soldiers and working them to the ground.
‘What’s your business here?’ one of the men roars at him. The priest answers with as much calm as he can muster: ‘My name is Father Schinck and I’ve come to speak to your leaders. I have a message from the governor.’ The men appear to hesitate, surprised at the fact that Schinck spoke to them in Papiamento. They tie him up, body-search him, and take him to the manor house. It’s made clear to the soldiers that they should return to where they came from. One of the men runs ahead of the group to warn Tula about their visitor. Tula is waiting on the manor house porch when the priest arrives.
‘Untie him,’ he says to the man who is holding the priest by the arm. ‘Can’t you see he’s a man of God?’ Tula bows his head and stands to one side. ‘You are most welcome among us, Father. What brings you to Porto Marie in the middle of the night?’ He gestures invitingly in the direction of the manor house door and waits until the priest goes inside ahead of him.
A number of men have gathered in the living room, including, much to the priest’s astonishment, two white soldiers. They seem surprised when the priest enters the room. Louis jumps to his feet, marches up to Schinck and stops within inches of his face. ‘So they sent a priest to sweet talk us and send us home.’ But Tula grabs Louis by the arm and pulls him back. ‘Let the man speak,’ he says. ‘But first, Father, can we offer you something to drink? You’ve had quite a journey.’ The priest is given a glass of Jenever and offered a chair. He downs the glass in a single gulp.
‘I’m here on behalf of the governor to ask you to return to your plantations. If you do so peaceably and resume your normal activities a general pardon will be proclaimed and you will not be punished.’ His words initiate uproar among those present and curses are hurled across the room. Tula gets to his feet and calls for silence.
‘We have been mistreated long and often enough, Father. We don’t intend anyone harm, all we want is our freedom. The French slaves have been granted their freedom, and now that Holland is under French authority we claim our own right to freedom.’
‘What you say is true,’ the priest answers, ‘but Holland alas is still making its own rules. The laws of the French do not apply here on Curacao. The governor is still in charge, and he insists that you return to your plantations and go back to work.’
‘But if the Dutch are still in charge,’ Tula asks, ‘where are the Dutch ships?’ Father Schinck nods
understandingly.
‘Dutch ships or not, you have to realise you are in great danger here. The government has decided to use force if they must, to make you return to your plantations. The army is ready to attack if you refuse to accept the governor’s proposal. Think carefully about this, Tula. There’s a good chance that many of your people won’t survive such an attack. Your losses will be substantial. You have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide and they’re certain to deprive you of water and other necessities. This is a battle you can’t win, Tula, and that is why I pray to God that it never takes place. I pray to God that he spares you and your people such a nightmare. I understand your desires, and I realise how hard it must be for you, but for the sake of your people you have to put an end to this revolt.’
Once again commotion fills the room.
‘I knew it.’ Louis lurches towards the priest. ‘This so-called man of God is in cahoots with the army.’
Tula tries to calm the situation, but the people refuse to be calmed. He finally grabs a rifle and fires a round into the air. In the silence that follows he sends everyone out of the room. Visibly reluctant, they leave Tula alone with the priest.
‘Father,’ Tula begins. ‘Is it not so that all people are descendants of one father and one mother, Adam and Eve? Have I been wrong to liberate my own brothers from the prison to which they have been unjustly confined? Father, the liberation of the French slaves has brought us nothing but misery. When they punish us they ask: ‘Do you want freedom too? Is that what you’re after?” I once begged for mercy and they bound me hand and foot, and when I was released my mouth ran with blood. I fell on my knees and cried out to God: “Divine majesty, purest Spirit. Is it your desire that I be mistreated this way?” They treat the animals better than they treat us, Father. If an animal injures itself, at least they make an effort to treat it and heal it. Not with us, Father, not with us.’
The priest’s face is full of understanding. ‘I’m sorry, Tula,’ he says, ‘but there’s nothing I can do to change the situation. Alas, my hands are tied.’
Tula nods, but says nothing in response. The priest can read the despair in his face. Tula looks around the room, swallows his bitter tears and leaves Father Schinck alone.
Moments later the door opens and two black women appear with a tray of food and a jug of water. They serve the priest in silence and say nothing. When he’s finished eating, one of the women takes him to a bedroom where the bed has been readied for him to stay the night. A candle has been lit next to the bed and a bible is resting on the pillow. The woman nods politely and leaves the priest alone. He can hear the gentle singing of the people gathered around the campfire outside as he takes to his bed and falls into a restless sleep.
Schinck is dressed and ready before sunrise. He meets Tula on the porch outside sitting alone on the balustrade. The priest joins him.
‘I have to go back,’ says Father Schinck. ‘What would you like me to tell the governor?’
‘Tell him all we want is our freedom,’ says Tula, his expression grim and determined.
Sadness fills the priest’s face as the consequences of Tula’s words become clear to him.
‘I shall pray for you.’ He gets to his feet and makes his way towards the gate.
Once outside the perimeter fence surrounding the manor house he turns and sees Bastiaan approaching on horseback. He dismounts, hands the reins to the priest and nods politely. The priest thanks him profusely, jumps on the horse, digs in the spurs and rides off at a gallop.
XX
Father Schinck arrives back at the Old Santa Maria manor house to find Captain Van Westerholt busy preparing for the attack. He runs to meet the priest as soon as he catches sight of him and Schinck tells him what happened, barely able to control his emotions.
‘That’s what I was afraid of.’ Van Westerholt summons a sergeant and gives orders to arrange a sloop for the priest and an escort back to the city. The beach is abuzz with activity as the troops tug newly arrived boats onto the sand and the marines promised by the governor jump into the shallow surf. The contingent has now grown to more than one hundred and sixty men.
Van Westerholt signals departure and gallops in front of his troops in the direction of Porto Marie. A messenger is sent out in advance to ask for a meeting with the leader of the slaves. Van Westerholt halts his troops a short distance from the plantation and makes his way to the perimeter fence in the company of a black corporal and no one else. A group of armed slaves is standing by the gate eyeing the two approaching soldiers with suspicion. Suddenly the group splits in two and Tula steps to the fore.
‘We’re not looking for a fight. All we want is peace,’ he says in Papiamento. Unfamiliar with the language, Van Westerholt turns for assistance to his corporal who translates Tula’s words.
The captain stares penetratingly at Tula. ‘If you’re not looking for a fight then you should all return to your plantations and nothing more will come of this.’ Tula retorts that his people are free under the new French regime.
‘On this island the governor is in charge,’ Van Westerholt informs him. ‘And you can take this as a final warning.’
Tula’s glare of contempt glides from Van Westerholt to the corporal at his side as he turns, spits on the ground and marches back to the plantation. His men close ranks, a look of blank determination on their faces. Van Westerholt shakes his head and follows the path back to his troops.
The penetrating blast of a trumpet signals the attack. The army begins its advance in small units of fifteen soldiers, and the manor house palisade comes under fire. After every salvo, the men advance further until they arrive at the gate. Tula’s men return fire from their improvised positions, some of them even jumping over the constructions and charging the soldiers armed only with machetes. But the approaching army’s firepower is too much for most of them and they fall wounded to the ground after just a couple of metres. A few manage to reach the advancing soldiers only to be killed on the spot. The soldiers continue their advance unhindered. Apparently immune to the bullets being shot from the mondi and from behind the plantation fence, they manage to reach the slaves’ positions and destroy them. Tula’s men are forced to seek protection within the walls of the manor house where they regroup and open fire once again on the approaching troops. But the superior strength of the advancing army is too much for them. Manning the front line on the manor house porch, Tula is forced to look on with sadness as his people suffer ever increasing losses. ‘Louis!’ he roars through the thick gun smoke. ‘Bring the women and children to safety. We can’t keep this up for long.’ Louis knows what he has to do, disappears inside the house and re-emerges via the back door shouting ‘Run!’ to the assembled crowd. They start to move immediately and as one, panic written on every face, falling over each other as they disappear into the mondi. Once the group has reached a safe distance from the manor house, Tula signals to his remaining men to pull back. They race along the path at the back of the house and dive into the thick undergrowth, soldiers on their heels firing in every direction. But the retreating slaves quickly manage to build up a significant lead, making further pursuit pointless. The ‘cease fire’ resounds. The dead and the wounded are scattered across the grounds of the manor house. Van Westerholt goes inside and finds the two soldiers captured earlier by Louis tied to a chair but otherwise unharmed.
‘Stay together,’ Louis shouts as he passes the retreating crowd on horseback. The river of people is made up for the most part of women, children and the elderly, some walking, others pressed together in carts, all heading towards plantation Fontein. Terror can be read their eyes, left behind by the rain of bullets that accompanied them as they were forced to seek refuge in the mondi at the back of the plantation. The journey to Fontein is no more than five kilometres, but the procession makes painfully slow progress. The people panic at the least little thing and scurry into the dense bush on either side of the path. Bastiaan, also on horseback, catches up with them roughly halfway. He stops h
is horse abruptly at Louis’ side. ‘You have to stop for a while,’ he pants. ‘Many of the men are wounded. We have to get them into carts. Those who can walk will have to continue on foot. We need the carts for the wounded.’ Louis tells the people to get down from the carts. Only those who are unable to continue on foot are allowed to use them, the others have to carry on to Fontein without transport. The procession slowly begins to move again, leaving behind a number of empty carts.
Tula and his men follow the path leading to Fontein. Some of the wounded are forced to rely on the help of others to make the journey. Bastiaan rides back to meet them with one of the unused carts, dismounts, and helps to load up the wounded. Tula clears the way for the wounded to be brought to the front of the line.
‘This cart can leave right away for Fontein,’ says Bastiaan. ‘Other carts are on their way.’ Tula nods as Tossijn jumps onto the perch, grabs the reins and rides off. Tula encourages the able bodied to keep moving and to leave the wounded behind, but some are in such a state that the people helping them refuse to abandon them. The able bodied continue on their way, giving Tula a clearer picture of the number of wounded. He walks among them and can no longer hold back his tears. ‘Why, Lord? Why do we have to endure this,’ he roars at the top of his voice, staring up to the sky. He falls to his knees and lifts the head of a man lying next to him on the ground, blood oozing from a wound in his belly, his breathing shallow. Tula tries to offer him words of encouragement, but the man grabs him with both hands and wheezes: ‘Pedro was right… The whites don’t want to talk.’ He shakes his head. ‘But I don’t want to die… please, you have to help me.’ Panic fills the man’s eyes as he holds on to Tula in desperation. Tula takes off his shirt and presses it against the wound. ‘Don’t give up,’ he whispers in the man’s ear. ‘Don’t give up… you’re not going to die… you’ll get through this.’ The man’s body relaxes for a moment, but then he lifts his head suddenly, his face twisted with pain, and stares Tula in the eye. He opens his mouth as if there’s something else he wants to say but at that he collapses in Tula’s arms. Tula bows his head, gently lays the man to rest on the ground and walks away. Bastiaan rests an encouraging hand on his shoulder. ‘We did what we had to do,’ he says. ‘We had no other choice.’ Tula nods cheerlessly and helps load the last of the wounded onto the carts. When he’s done he continues in silence towards Fontein and the setting sun.
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