Tula

by Jeroen Leinders

  ‘They’re trying to provoke us into action,’ says Tula. ‘They want us to make the first move and reveal our positions.’

  ‘They can expect a long wait,’ says Louis with a grin as he joins Tula on top of the hill. ‘We’re good here, for the time being.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll have to wait much longer,’ says Tula. ‘The captain’s visit was no accident. They’re sure to attack soon, and we have to be ready for them.’

  XXII

  The sound of birds singing in the morning sun is rudely interrupted by a screeching cannonball thundering overhead and smashing into the top of the hill. Fragments of stone and grit explode in the air and Tula’s men scurry right and left in search of their weapons. Louis roars: ‘This is it, men, this is what we’ve been training for. Take your positions and fight for your freedom.’

  The undulating path leading from the bottom of the hill fills with soldiers as they advance behind a canon firing one shot after another. The soldiers are too far away for Tula’s men to use their carbines so they have to wait until they’re within firing distance. In the meantime they seek cover from the cannonballs that continue to crash into the top of the hill.

  ‘I knew it,’ says Louis. ‘I knew they’d choose this path. But they’re in for a surprise.’ Halfway up the hill, twenty men are lying in wait behind a fallen rock. On Louis’s signal they open fire, taking the advancing soldiers completely by surprise. The soldiers operating the cannon are immediately excluded from the fight. The group behind them are in total confusion, trying to determine the source of enemy fire. The soldiers scatter in opposite directions, encircling Tula’s men at the bottom of the hill who are out of range of the carbines and without cover. They’re quickly surrounded and taken prisoner as the cannon is redeployed and the soldiers continue their laborious climb.

  The women are aware that a battle is raging on the top of the hill. Speranza swings into action from the first rifle fire, calling the people together, loading the wounded into carts, and getting everything ready for a quick departure. At the first sight of men fleeing down the hill, the procession starts to move, heading off in the direction of Mount Christoffel, the highest mountain on the island.

  The soldiers are now under continuous fire from on top of the hill. They spread out in a broad line, using the trees and bushes for cover. This makes it difficult for Tula’s men to target them and forces them to scatter across the entire face of the hill in an effort to meet their advance. At that moment, a second division of Van Westerholt’s men reaches the top of the hill. Using the cannon as a diversion, they manage to climb the steep rocky face of the hill unnoticed, establish a tight formation on the plateau, and fire at Tula’s men from the opposite side. The ensuing battle is short but intense. More and more soldiers make it to the top of the hill and Tula’s men, who now have to fight on two fronts, scatter across the plateau as they’re forced further and further back. Louis does his best to keep the men together, but the group is already in complete disarray. Louis and Tula’s eyes meet in the chaos. Tula signals that the group should retreat and when Louis gives the whistle the people flee into the surrounding mondi. The soldiers follow in their wake and manage to shoot down a number of men and wrestle a few to the ground. Van Westerholt combs the surrounding area, executing on the spot any armed slaves they encounter. Those without arms are taken prisoner and assembled on top of the hill.

  Tula and Louis scurry, together with a number of men, along a heavily overgrown path through the mondi. Because of the unexpected attack from the second division of soldiers, the escape route they had cleared was no longer useable. Now divided into small groups, some of the slaves try to reach the eastern part of the island via the city of Bandariba, hoping to escape the inevitable military pursuit. Others flee to the west, seeking shelter in the densely-wooded, rough and hilly part of the island. Tula and Louis are on their way to Mount Christoffel, the place where the women and children had fled and where the group planned to reassemble if they were forced to retreat from Fontein. The men walk in silence along the narrow path, one behind the other. Louis is clearly in a foul mood. ‘How could I have been so stupid?’ he says for all to hear. ‘The whites are a crafty bunch. I should have known they would try to take the hill from more than one direction.’

  ‘Cut it out, Louis,’ says Tula. ‘No one expected this. The troops they sent after us left us outnumbered. We could never have beaten them, even if they hadn’t attacked us from behind. Every time a soldier was wounded they sent two to replace him. We didn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘But what are we going to do?’ asks Louis. ‘We’ve come too far to give up the fight now.’

  ‘Have patience, my friend, we’re not giving up,’ says Tula. ‘If it’s God’s will we’ll emerge from this struggle as victors. But we first have to see how many of our people make it to Mount Christoffel. Only then can we make new plans.’ Louis nods. ‘Freedom, equality, brotherhood,’ he mumbles under his breath as he struggles to suppress a cynical grin.

  The prisoners are rounded up on top of the hill near Fontein and bound together hand and foot. The soldiers regroup and march down the hill under the leadership of a sergeant. Van Westerholt hands out orders to his lieutenants from his horse. ‘We continue to the manor house on San Juan. Ships are expected there to pick up the provisions and we can use them to carry the prisoners and the wounded back to the city. Every rebel you meet on the way is to be taken prisoner. And those who resist…’ Van Westerholt runs his finger across his throat. He turns his horse, digs in the spurs, and gallops after the departing soldiers.

  Miss Lesire is in her garden on the outskirts of the city. A female slave is hanging out the washing when a vigilante patrol passes in column. The leader of the group, Peter Cornelius, walks up to her. ‘Do you live here alone, ma’am?’ Miss Lesire answers in the affirmative. ‘I advise you to move in with family closer to the centre of the city, ma’am,’ says Cornelius. ‘There are rebels on the loose, as you are probably aware, and it’s not unimaginable that they will attack the city. If they do, you will no longer be safe here.’

  Miss Lesire shrugs her shoulders. ‘I don’t have family in the city. And anyway, what does an old woman like me have to fear?’

  ‘It’s up to you, ma’am, but don’t say you weren’t warned.’ Cornelius taps his hat and continues on his way. Behind the house, Jantji and a couple of black men are pressed against the wall. One of the men is clearly wounded and is being held upright by his comrades. His face is twisted with pain in spite of desperate efforts to conceal it. ‘Thank you ma’am,’ says the man beside him, watching the patrol depart with anxiety in his eyes. ‘Don’t thank me,’ says Miss Lesire, ‘thank him.’ She nods in Jantji’s direction. ‘It’s good that they brought you here. Lay him down on the couch and we’ll see what we can do.’ The man is brought inside, blood streaming from a number of wounds on his shoulder and left leg. As Miss Lesire pulls back his clothing she cries out in shock. ‘Stay with him,’ she says to a female slave who came running when she heard her cry. ‘Let me see if I can find help.’

  Tula and his men are struggling to make progress on their way to Mount Christoffel. The dense overgrowth and lack of navigable paths makes it almost impossible for them to determine their position with any degree of accuracy. Louis discovers recent signs of life beside a muddy pool. People had clearly passed the spot not so long ago. They decide to follow the trail and continue with caution and in silence. A while later they hear the cracking of twigs and hushed male voices. Louis turns, places his finger on his lips, and makes a circular movement with his arm. The men spread out in two groups, catch up with the group ahead and surround them in a broad circle. The men catch sight of the group through the bushes. ‘Pedro,’ says Louis for all to hear. The man at the front jumps and readies his riffle. ‘Pedro, don’t shoot, we’re on your side.’

  The men run to greet each other, smiling and slapping shoulders. ‘It’s good that you found us,’ says Pedro, casting a cynic
al and telling glare in Tula’s direction. ‘There’s more safety in numbers.’ Tula stares Pedro in the eye, his head held high, and says nothing. ‘This is no time for an argument,’ Louis intervenes. ‘We have other things to deal with right now.’

  ‘An argument?’ Pedro gestures aggressively in Tula’s direction. ‘It’s that man’s fault I lost my brother.’

  ‘We’ve all lost loved ones, Pedro. This isn’t the moment,’ says Louis, standing between Tula and Pedro. But Pedro pushes him out of the way and swings a punch at Tula. Tula just manages to avoid the flying fist. He grabs Pedro by the arm and kicks his feet from under him. Pedro falls to the ground. Tula holds him down with his knees, grabs his head, pulls it back and hisses in his ear. “You should be grateful we didn’t hand you over to the whites at the first opportunity. Why do you think they’re suddenly after our blood?’ Tula pushes Pedro’s head to the ground and gets to his feet. Pedro glares at him, his eyes full of hatred. Pedro’s men hesitate for a moment then follow Tula as he continues through the mondi.

  ‘The bullet has to be removed. If it’s left there any longer we won’t be able to clean the wound and it’ll infect everything. We have to find a doctor.’

  ‘A doctor? Listen Pieter, if we have a doctor brought in they’ll take this man to the scaffold in an instant. A doctor is out of the question.’ Miss Lesire continues quietly but decisively. ‘We’ll have to help him ourselves.’

  ‘There’s only you and me. It’ll never work,’ says Pieter.

  ‘Then let me get Wouter.’

  XXIII

  On San Juan, the imprisoned slaves are locked up in the manor house barn to wait for the arrival of ships which have been despatched to collect the plantation’s provisions and take them to Punda. Unsure when the ships will arrive, Van Westerholt decides to set up camp on San Juan for the time being. The plantation has enough food to provide for his men and its natural harbour is ideal for the ships to anchor. A camp for the soldiers is created in the fields adjacent to the plantation, while Van Westerholt and his officers take up residence in the manor house. Van Westerholt calls his staff together for a meeting in the living room. ‘What’s the current situation, lieutenant?’ he asks.

  ‘The remaining rebels have fled westward, captain. We tried to follow them, but they’re much more familiar with the terrain and were able to move with greater speed. We decided to abandon the chase.’

  ‘I see.’ Van Westerholt puffs at his pipe, clearly concerned. ‘Do we know where they are at this moment?’

  ‘The group is no longer together, captain,’ says the second lieutenant. ‘They’re scattered across the territory near Christoffelberg.’

  ‘That doesn’t make matters any easier,’ says Van Westerholt. ‘If they’re scattered all over the place they’ll be hard to attack. We have to cut off their supplies of food and water. All this is taking much too long for my liking. Is there news of the ships?’ The lieutenant shakes his head, at which point Van Westerholt flies into a rage.

  ‘How can they expect me to engage in a battle with any success without the government providing necessary back up? Take a sloop early tomorrow morning and bring the prisoners to Punda,’ he orders the lieutenant. ‘Ask the governor when we can expect the ships and report back to me at the end of the day.’

  ‘What do we do with the wounded, captain?’

  ‘They can stay here. Tell De Veer to send a doctor on one of the ships. In the meantime, the wounded can be taken care of in the upstairs rooms.’

  ‘With your permission, captain, Mr Van Uytrecht can’t wait that long. His condition is getting worse by the hour.’

  ‘Van Uytrecht? I thought the man had a minor gunshot wound in the foot?’

  ‘The wound is infected, captain. His temperature is dangerously high.’

  ‘Then take him with you tomorrow. The rest of the troops can have a day off and regain their strength.’

  Speranza stops at a patch of open ground at the foot of Christoffelberg, looks around, and decides that she and her companions have journeyed enough for one day and that it’s time to get some rest. The two women accompanying her stare at her in amazement. ‘Stay here? In this wilderness? Where will the children sleep?’

  ‘We’ll just have to make do,’ says Speranza. ‘We don’t know where the soldiers are and there are no men to defend us. We also need to take care of our wounded. Let’s collect branches and leaves and lay them out on the ground for the children to sleep on. Put them together under the trees to protect them from the sun. They’re so tired they’ll sleep anywhere.’

  ‘We need to kindle a fire,’ says one of the women. ‘To cook and keep the mosquitoes away.’

  ‘No fires,’ Speranza insists. ‘The smoke would give our position away. We have to wait for the men to join us.’

  Exhausted from the long journey, the women no longer have the energy to protest and are actually happy that they don’t have to continue. They start by setting up a provisional camp, distributing food and water, and spreading palm leaves under the trees where the wounded can lie down out of the sun and be given the necessary care. Unaware of the situation they’re in, the children chase each other, laughing and having fun, playing Soldier or tag. Speranza does her best to quieten them down, but soon realises that there’s little point. So she let’s them play, hoping that everything will work out.

  ‘Quiet.’ Tula lifts his head and tries to listen. ‘Do you hear what I hear?’ The sound of excited children’s voices can be heard in the distance and the men charge down the hill towards them. Whoops of joy fill the air as they run through the open space in which Speranza and her group have set up camp. They search for their loved ones. Men and women throw their arms around each other, overcome with emotion. Some women are unable to find their husbands and are left standing in dismay, while others run optimistically to the edge of the forest where the men first appeared. Still others can no longer contain their tears and fall to their knees in despair. Speranza and Tula embrace passionately. ‘Where are the rest of the men?’ she says. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Tula. ‘The soldiers attacked us from every side and we had to run for our lives. Everyone just ran. I don’t know how many survived or were taken prisoner. Some must have been shot and killed.’

  ‘And the army?’ Speranza asks.

  ‘They stopped following us,’ says Tula. Safe in each other’s arms, they forget for a brief moment about the horrors surrounding them, but the intimacy is soon rudely interrupted by a loud voice: ‘We have to organise food and water,’ says Louis. ‘It looks as if we’re going to have to dig in here for a while.’

  ‘There’s enough for today,’ says Speranza, freeing herself with difficulty from Tula’s arms. ‘We can look for extra supplies tomorrow.’

  Louis nods. ‘Tomorrow is fine by me. I’m exhausted. Let’s wait and see how many of the others join us.’ He turns and makes his way into the camp.

  ‘He’s right,’ says Tula. ‘This has been a terrible day for all of us. But how in God’s name did you manage to organise all this? It’s been a long journey for you too.’

  ‘Long and tiring, but luckily we’re strong in number. Everyone did their bit and it all came together. Oh, I’m so happy to see you in once piece, my sweetheart.’ She pulls Tula close and says: ‘Oh, Tula, I’m so happy to see you again.’

  ‘Hold him still.’ With beads of sweat dripping from his forehead, Wouter worms his way into the wounded shoulder with a pair of tweezers. The injured man squirms with pain as Miss Lesire and Pieter try to hold him down on the table. The man’s companion looks on anxiously from the corner of the faintly lit room where only a couple of candles illuminate the space. The lack of light clearly doesn’t make the operation any easier.

  ‘I can’t keep this up,’ says Miss Lesire. ‘Can one of you take over?’

  Jantji steps forwards and takes Miss Lesire’s place.

  ‘Give him some more rum and wedge something between his teeth for him to
bite on.’

  Wouter props a piece of wood between the man’s teeth as Miss Lesire brings one of the candles closer to help him see what he’s doing.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Wouter asks. The man nods fearfully.

  Once again Wouter probes the wound. The man does everything he can to swallow the pain, his eyes bulging in panic. ‘Almost,’ says Wouter, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. ‘We’re nearly there.’

  Wouter lifts the tweezers in triumph, a small leaden ball in their grip.

  ‘So that’s that,’ he says, turning to Miss Lesire: ‘Pour some rum into the wound and bandage it without delay. If there’s any left, I wouldn’t mind a glass of the stuff myself. He’ll be back on his feet in no time.’ He steps back from the table and wipes the sweat from his brow. ‘So,’ he says to the wounded man’s companion, ‘Fancy a drop to calm your nerves?’ The man smiles diffidently, emerges from the corner and nods.

  ‘Thank you, master.’

  ‘Master?’ Wouter laughs. ‘Let’s hope we can put that behind us. Just call me Wouter. So what about that drink then?’ He fetches the jug of rum and pours the man a glass. ‘Cheers,’ he says.