by Nick Lake
She said that like she wasn’t blanc her ownself. She rooted around in her pocket, came out with a plastic-sheeted card.
— Show this at the checkpoint, she said. Say I sent you. The soldiers are to escort you to Canapé-Vert Hospital, OK?
She took something from another pocket – it was a bundle of cash.
— Show this, too.
Tintin looked grateful. He took the card and the money and we left, but not before Biggie clapped Tintin on the back. It looked like that hurt, but Tintin didn’t say anyen at all.
After that, we drove onto another street, and then another. As we slowed, and Biggie turned the engine off, I noticed that we had come to the shack of one of Biggie’s customers; I knew it from the map I had drawn. What his customers bought, I didn’t know.
No, that’s a lie, and I don’t want to lie to you. You’re the voices in the darkness, and I have to tell you the truth, or maybe you’ll never let me out of here. I knew even then that they bought drugs. I just didn’t care.
Would you care? I was living in a place where it was common to eat mud. Don’t you judge me, motherfuckers. People call us gangsters, but who’s helping the people here apart from us? No moun wants to pay for education; no moun wants to pay for hospitalization. NGOs don’t come into Site Solèy. You want free food, the only place you get it from is a chimère. Biggie and Tintin threw sacks of food that Stéphanie brought to them out of a truck every Friday, fed half the Site like that.
As we sat there outside the house, Biggie turned to me.
— Can I see it? he said.
— See what?
— The pwen. The one you got from Dread.
I stared at him. Everyone knew Dread saved me, but I didn’t know they knew about the pwen. Biggie saw the expression on my face.
— My houngan, he said. Your manman goes to him, too.
I nodded. That made sense. I took the stone from my pocket and showed him.
— Can I touch it? he said.
— Uh, yeah, sure.
He rubbed the stone.
— Smooth, he said. Who’s in it?
— I don’t know. An ancestor spirit, my manman says.
Biggie handed it back.
— You got protection, Shorty, he said. That’s good. You got his stone. Me, I got Dread’s bones. Me and you, we bulletproof. You go in there, ain’t nothing can touch you when the shit goes down.
— What shit? I asked.
Biggie just looked at me, and he knew that I knew what was going down. We got out of the car, but Biggie didn’t open the door right away. I understood then that he had turned his engine off before we stopped, and I told myself I was stupid for not noticing it at the time. He didn’t want no moun to hear, I guessed.
Me and Stéphanie got out the car. Biggie handed me the shotgun.
— You know what to do with this, right?
I suddenly became aware of my heart in my chest. It was banging like it wanted to get out, like it didn’t want any part of this.
— Yeah, I said.
— This guy inside, he robbed from me, said Biggie very quietly. He took my stuff and he sold it to Boston. Can you believe that?
I shook my head. I couldn’t believe it, but he was right. Shit like that could get you killed.
— I should never have trusted him, Biggie said. Dude used to roll with Boston. I’ve heard him stand tall about all the men he has chopped with machetes. I only let him live cos he always has money; he’s always able to buy.
I thought of the men – the boys – who had killed my papa, of the machetes they had held. Was it possible that this man in the shack was one of them?
Yes, I thought. Yes, it was.
— Buy what? said Stéphanie, but I could tell she was joking.
— Food, of course, said Biggie. He put his hands together as if he was praying, like he was a saint or something, and that made me laugh a bit on the inside, and my heart calmed down a little.
— You want me to . . . ?
— Yes, said Biggie. Yes.
I was thinking about that night my papa died, the blood everywhere. I was looking at the door and picturing the man behind it, and I wondered if he really was one of the bandanna men. I decided he was.
I remembered how my papa had looked, the fear in his eyes, as the machetes came down. I began to hate the man behind that door.
Stéphanie stood in the street, her arms folded. I noticed that she stood at such an angle that no moun could shoot her from inside; it was like she’d done this before. She looked bored, I remember thinking.
Biggie reached into the back of his waistband, took out a pistol, and moved to the door. He made a gesture to me that I didn’t really understand, then he kicked the door open.
I was in front of the door and I raised the shotgun as the shadow of a man loomed before me. I pulled the trigger. It was that quick. There was a boom so loud, like the world was falling down, and I saw a spray of black and red. I was thrown backward, and my shoulder was screaming where the stock of the gun had blown back into it.
I staggered forward to see what I’d done. There was a dead man lying on the floor, but I was only half-conscious that it was me who had killed him.
I turned around. Stéphanie was kissing Biggie, her tongue in his mouth, and that made me nearly as sick as the blood all over the place. She pulled away and she smiled at me, a strange smile.
— Bon, said Biggie. Welcome to Route 9.
I was twelve.
Then
Toussaint spread out the map on which, in a few strokes of ink, he would plan the doom of the French. They had landed more troops: an inevitability. It had been many weeks since the immolation and slaughter of their first landing party. For now, they held only the ashes of Cape Town and some scrubland that lay around it. The French would needs move into the interior if they wished to regain the country.
Toussaint would be waiting for them. Not for the first time, he blessed the features that allowed Jean-Christophe to blend in with the French, or at least with the mulats. He looked down at the map before him. He had drawn it himself, marking the places where there were mountains, where there were woods, and where there were plantations that could sustain them. He had traveled to all these places himself, had covered the length and breadth of the land on horseback or on foot.
The French could look at their imperfect maps and think, oh look, there is a valley that will lead us nicely into the foothills, with plenty of fresh water to drink, and far from any of the known negro strongholds. But Toussaint looked at his own map, and he saw the hidden caves that he had marked along the side of the valley, the trees below that obscured them from view.
The other generals, Jean-François and Biassou, thought it was hubris that motivated Toussaint to confront the French on open ground, but Toussaint believed he had something the French didn’t have, certainly not in so much detail. He had the streams and the potato fields; he had the ravines where an army could lie concealed. He had the land.
As he had maintained from the beginning, there was no point taking Haiti if they couldn’t hold it afterward. So as he had traveled, he had encouraged and cajoled, too. He had convinced bloodthirsty soldiers to put down their swords and to take up plowshares, for a time at any rate, before they picked up their weapons again. He had devised a simple system of two bowls, one inside the other, with watered sand between, which allowed food to remain cool for longer, and therefore not spoil. As he traveled the country, he taught people the principle of the cooling bowl, and in this way the vittles and viands that were required by citizen and soldier alike were made to last a little longer.
He had ordered the cultivation of everything that could be cultivated, and that included his staff, whom he had instructed to seek out literate soldiers, and to learn to read and write from them. He had put aside stores of dried foods, of simples, of water. Others suggested these things, too – his army weren’t ignorant beasts, much as the commissioners might like to think it – but it had
been given to him to unite the efforts of all, to hold the plan, whether it was a sequence of steps in his mind or a map that lay before him.
He traced a finger along the road to Marmalade, north of Cape Town. He had stopped short of crossing Cape Town off his map, but the place was all but destroyed, burned in a vengeful fire. Sometimes, in his sleep, he saw people screaming in the flames, and he asked himself if he should have taken on this mantle, and not simply have run when the revolution began. Yet where would he have gone? He would have been caught up in the violence, whether he liked it or not. Besides, he had seen what was to come. He knew slavery was going to end, and so he had to bear the duty of being the one to end it.
He comforted himself, too, with the knowledge that things would be worse if he were not present. The troops he and his fellow generals commanded were a ragtag bunch, attired in many cases in the ill-fitting clothes of their masters, armed with bric-a-brac weapons. They were difficult to lead, much prone to mindless obedience or brusque refusal, with no response in between. Yet lead them he had – to several notable victories on the way to their conquest of the mountains.
His only injury, so far, was his left front tooth, which had been knocked out by a shell ejected from his rifle. He liked to smile at people now and show this hole; he had even styled himself Toussaint l’Ouverture for this opening in his teeth. The men in camp put it about that he was called l’Ouverture for the openings he was able to create in enemy lines, and he smiled even more at that. It had not been his intention in taking the name, but it was good nevertheless, for he understood that when a soldier takes pride in his leader, it is his own self-respect and bravery that benefits. He had been a slave – he understood the power of names. His French master had named him Toussaint, for he was born on the feast day of all saints. Now he named himself, and if his name spoke of his military prowess, not a foolish injury, then all the better.
Unfortunately, whilst he had created his own legend almost without meaning to, he had been unable to erase completely the fearsome reputation of his troops. They were still given to excessive cruelty when it came to the whites, and they had too much of an appetite for blood, destruction, and rapine. Biassou all but encouraged this behavior.
But eventually, there will be no Biassou and no Jean-François, just me, Toussaint thought. Then the soldiers will do as I command, all of them, and bring no shame upon our enterprise.
— Their plan is not stupid, he said to Jean-Christophe as he studied the terrain. Marmalade is the only place the French can repair to. I hold Dondon, and Biassou and Jean-François control la Grande Rivière. The French must flee from Cape Town or be destroyed, yet they cannot hope to face us here in open battle. If they gain a foothold in Marmalade, however, we’ll have to fight them for the interior.
— They move next week, said Jean-Christophe.
— Very well. He indicated the map. They don’t know about these caves, I’m sure of it. We’ll be ready.
— Ready for what? said Biassou, who was sitting near the entrance to the tent.
He was a fat man, and he liked to be close to a breeze if possible. Even so, sweat was darkening his shirt and running in rivulets down the creases in the flesh of his face. Toussaint forced a smile onto his face. Jean-François was otherwise occupied, strengthening his defenses to the east, but he knew Biassou was a threat to his leadership.
— An ambush, he said. I’m hoping I can take their main force without a drop of blood being spilled.
Biassou laughed, a sound like a pig eating.
— And how will you do that? he said. By vodou? Will Ogou Badagry take them all down to the land under the sea?
— No, said Toussaint. He held up the map. With this. And with words.
Biassou shrugged.
— To hell with words, he said. Swords are better. He touched the sword at his side. I killed my own master with this one. I never felt anything sweeter. I say we face the French on the open field, like men.
— You’re right, said Toussaint. It’s good to avenge oneself on an enemy. But remember – if we inherit this earth, as the meek should, then we should share that inheritance. Slaughter all the whites and mulats, and we’ll only create a blood feud that echoes throughout history.
Biassou sighed.
— You would have us be merciful? he said. After all that they’ve done?
Toussaint shook his head.
— No, I would have us be pragmatic. Listen. We’ll try it my way. If it fails, we’ll kill them all.
Biassou smiled.
— I like that plan, he said.
The following week, Toussaint sat on his horse, looking down a long and gently sloping valley. The French soldiers progressed upward like some great insectile horde. He had not been a general long enough to have the knack of counting men at a glance, but he reckoned that there must be thousands of them. They preserved a semblance of discipline, even in the heat, and despite the skirmishes Toussaint’s men had visited upon them as they left Cape Town, although he noted through his spyglass that many in the rear ranks were borne on stretchers.
— Is everyone in position? he asked.
Biassou grinned.
— Ambuscades have been set up on all sides, he said.
He pointed to the treeline on either side of the valley and the caves beyond. From here, Toussaint couldn’t see their men, but that was the point.
He and Biassou were concealed behind a mound of earth just near the top of the valley. They had ridden at night to take these positions. Now they watched as the serried ranks of men, the steam-breathing horses, the dragged cannons processed steadily uphill.
— Now, Toussaint said.
Jean-Christophe, who was reined up beside them, nodded and spurred his mount, cantering down toward the front line of the French army. A white flag fluttered on the pole that he carried at his side. Toussaint could not hear what he shouted to them, but he knew what it was because it was his words in the other man’s mouth. Jean-Christophe was telling them that General Toussaint l’Ouverture requested the opportunity to treat personally with the leader of the French army, and invited him to ride ahead of his force that they might parley.
After much commotion amongst the troops, a man in a hat emerged from the fray, mounted on a magnificent stallion that began to trot up the hill beside the young mulat. Toussaint nodded to Biassou, and they rode to meet him.
They encountered one another some hundred yards before the advancing army. Toussaint dismounted and bowed to the French admiral, or lieutenant, or whatever he was. For his part, Biassou stayed on his horse; he wasn’t the type to learn that bowing doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to. In fact, he darted a quick frown at Toussaint, as if he were betraying weakness. Well, let Biassou wait and see what happens, Toussaint thought.
The French leader remained at saddle also; a Frenchman would not meet a black on equal terms. Toussaint smiled inwardly. Here he was, abasing himself, the only one of the three to dismount and bow, and yet he would carry the day.
The Frenchman was tall and arrogant of feature, perhaps fifty years old, but with a strong thick chest and a narrow waist, a shining sword at his side.
— Do you wish to negotiate the terms of your surrender? he asked.
His accent was pure Paris.
Toussaint laughed.
— I wish to negotiate the terms of yours.
The Frenchman made a show of looking around him, casting his eyes over his thousands of men.
— It would seem I am at a numerical advantage, he said.
— Then you place a lot of faith in appearances, said Toussaint.
He raised his hand and his soldiers moved forward from their positions, from behind rock and tree and earthen redoubt. He knew how many men he had – five thousand, some half of them armed with guns taken from the slave masters, or the white army. Indeed, many of his men were white – soldiers who had fought with the commission but who had afterward joined his cause, desiring the permanent expu
lsion of the colonizers and the unification and independence of Haiti.
The Frenchman blanched and reached for his saber, but Biassou was already pointing his rifle at him, and his hand soon stilled.
Toussaint gripped his reins and, with an ease that belied his age, swung himself up onto his saddle again. He made his mount uprear on its hind legs, and shouted for attention from the white soldiers:
— Lay down your weapons!
— Do you dare to address my men? the Frenchman asked.
Toussaint ignored him.
— You are surrounded by the men of Toussaint l’Ouverture and Biassou of the free Haitian army! he shouted. We are men of honor. You have many wounded – recommend them to the care of our women and our healers. They’ll be well treated, as will you. Any man who surrenders to us will be allowed to live.
Some of the soldiers began to lower their weapons. Toussaint smiled – the plan was working. He raised his rifle in the air, in a display of power.
— Yield, and you’ll live, he shouted. I swear it. Fight, and every last one of you will die.
He did not know if it was his supplication or the realization on the part of the French that their situation was hopeless, but suddenly the weapons began to fall, with a cliquetis of metal on wood, of metal on hard stony ground. Soon the great army had unarmed itself.
Biassou uttered a cry of triumph. He turned to the closest of his soldiers, the ones hidden in the bushes to the north.
— Now! he shouted. They’re defenseless. Kill –
He did not get any further. Smoothly, Toussaint brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired, tearing the top off Biassou’s head, hot blood spraying into the air. Damn him, Toussaint thought. The man collapsed at the waist, his feet still caught in the stirrups, and his startled horse carried him uphill, flopping like a rag doll.
— DO NOT FIRE! Toussaint roared to the men.
A good half of them were Biassou’s, and the air trembled with the metallic resonance of the possibility that they would mutiny, turning on Toussaint, then slaughtering the French.