by Nick Lake
— I don’t want to die, Biggie said. I got a kid, man. I don’t want to die.
He said that, but he was still a gangster. So sometimes, yeah, people died. Sometimes people just got hurt, and then Biggie had to call Stéphanie and ask her to help. She helped a lot – more than she should have, I guess. But I could see from her eyes that she loved Biggie. Stupid, I think. Still, it’s her life.
Listen. I’m telling you all this for a reason. So you understand the routine, so you understand the life, so you understand what happened next.
This is what happened next.
This was the end of 2009. I was 14, and it had been 2,501 days since Marguerite was taken.
We were down near the sea and we were standing in the back of a truck, Tintin and me, throwing bags of rice and flour to the people. Some of the other Route 9 soldiers were standing by the truck with their guns up. Sometimes people got too desperate, then they mobbed the truck. The guns were to stop that.
Stéphanie was on the truck, too. She was watching to see how much food was being distributed. It was NGO food that she’d got her hands on somehow, you see. She couldn’t get her trucks in here, but she could get inside herself if she was prepared to take the risk. For her, it wasn’t much risk, though. She was the girlfriend of a hardcore chimère leader.
Someone asked if we had bandages.
— I’m sorry, Stéphanie said. No medical equipment. Just food. We’ll try to bring some next time.
The guy got pretty angry, but a chimère stepped forward with his gun. What was the guy going to do? He backed off.
Just then, a shot rang out. One of the people below us in the crowd – a woman with a baby slung on her front – went down on her face. Someone screamed, then more people screamed. In a flash, it wasn’t a crowd anymore, but a riot.
Boom.
That was a shotgun. It took one of the chimères below us in the chest and he flew – bang – against the wall of the truck. I was on the metal floor, and I didn’t know if I’d dived down or if someone had pushed me. There were people screaming and screaming, and I heard the whine of a bullet as it went over my head. Our guys were shooting back now. Tintin was swearing as he emptied his AK.
I stood up, and there was my pistol in my hand. I stared at it in surprise for a moment, then I looked out over the crowd. I saw a guy in a balaclava pointing a machine gun at us. I aimed and pulled the trigger, calmer than I felt, and I smelled the sulfur and cordite as my gun bucked in my hand. I didn’t wait to see if he was down. I turned and looked for other chimères, and saw another balaclava running toward the truck. I shot his legs, and he went sprawling.
Then I saw someone else.
I saw a girl. She had bandannas on that covered her mouth and hair, but I could tell it was a girl just from the eyes, and she was pointing her gun at me. It was a Heckler. Expensive weapon. She was my age, and her eyes were big. She was no more than ten meters from me.
I’m dead, I thought.
I’m dead cos I can’t shoot her.
She was wearing a Jay-Z T-shirt; she had little bud breasts. She must have been my age, maybe even younger.
And then I thought, oh, shit.
This girl, she was my age and she wasn’t shooting, either. I could hear Tintin next to me, shouting something to me, but I wasn’t listening. Everything was chaos, but in the center of the chaos there was this girl. She was all I saw. I was looking at her eyes and I remembered those eyes. They were small, like almonds. They had freckles either side of them, like I have freckles. They were the precise color of the sea at dusk.
They’re my eyes. They’re my sister’s eyes.
Slowly, I lowered my gun. I stared into this girl’s eyes, into Marguerite’s eyes, all the time.
I counted:
Time since the bullets started: 1 minute.
Time since I last saw my sister: 2,501 days.
Time since I was a whole person: 2,501 days.
Time since I loved her: forever.
Behind me, Stéphanie said:
— Down! Down!
But I ignored her. I nodded to the girl and she hesitated, then she nodded back.
People always say, like, time stood still, when something big goes down. It’s a thing that people say. But, mwen jire, that’s what happened at this moment. Everything stopped, and nothing and no one was moving. There was this gull above me and it just froze in the air, hung there, and I could see the people holding the guns, the people cowering on the ground, and they weren’t moving, either.
There was just Marguerite, and her eyes, and I could see that glow coming out of her, that glow I remembered, like her soul was just shining out of her, like she was a burning thing made to build, not to destroy. She had this little half-smile on her lips, and I could see her – she was filling my eyes – but in the corner of my vision I could see the street where we found the baby, too, and I could see the bit of beach where Dread was pushed, burning, into the sea.
Both those moments were happening at the same time as this one, and also the time when Marguerite found the baby rats, and the time she handed over the baby, and all these other memories, too, like all the times we were on the boat with Papa, looking up at the Site.
I swear, man, mwen jire, this moment went on forever. I could see those freckles on her nose, like a constellation. I could see that everything was going to be all right now. My heart was something so, so slow in my chest; there was a rushing in my ears, like the sea, like holding a shell to the side of your head.
She’s alive, I thought.
And then I thought, of course she’s alive.
No one could ever hurt her, no moun in the Site ever said no to her, even – she was that special. She was, like, this angel in a human body; she was the picture on the wall of the morgue, floating in the air, too perfect to stand on the filthy ground. Anyone could see that.
She raised one hand, and I raised my hand, too, or maybe it’s better to say that my hand raised itself, and gave a little wave. I didn’t have shit to do with what my body did really, cos I was just looking at Marguerite. The whole world had shrunk down to those eyes and those freckles. It could have turned to night and I wouldn’t have noticed, cos now Marguerite was the sun.
Flash.
A gun went off next to me, and suddenly time started again. I saw Marguerite duck as someone – some fucker – shot at her. There was a smell of cordite in the air, the gulls were wheeling in the sky above me again, and I could hear screaming.
Marguerite looked up as I dived against the wall of the truck for shelter. For a moment I thought, she’ll come here, she’ll run toward me. But then a guy in a balaclava – he was clutching his arm and there was blood coming from it – grabbed her and pushed her, made her run, stumbling, beside him. I snapped out of it, and saw that the truck guard, who was still alive, was coming round to where we were.
We’ve won, I realized. There were several bodies lying on the ground below the truck, most of them wearing balaclavas. But there were a couple of citizens, too. I thought, those Boston motherfuckers. We were just giving out food and they came and shot us up.
But that wasn’t all I was thinking. I was also thinking about Marguerite.
She’s alive.
She’s with Boston.
She’s everything – she’s hope, she’s life, she’s the future – not this gangster bullshit of the cars and the cribs and the hos.
Together, we’re Marassa. We have power. We can heal. We can see the future – we can change it, even. I didn’t believe this before, but then I thought, what if it’s true? Marassa can make broken things whole, make people walk whose legs are wasted. What if Marassa can heal the Site, too? What if Marassa can mend these streets, put Route 9 and Boston back together? We got nothing but love for our crew; we got nothing but steel for the haters. But what if we had love for everybody? With Marguerite, I could do anything. We think together. We are two halves of one person. We could use our power. Fix things.
But al
one I am nothing. I have to have her with me if we’re going to be able to do anything to heal this Site in which we live, to change its future.
I have to rescue her.
Then
Toussaint l’Ouverture gazed at the town of Guildive on its little hill by the sparkling sea. Once again, he was lying on his front, breathing in the earthy smell of his country.
This was it. This was hope, this was the future, this was the freedom of the Haitian republic.
This was everything.
For months, he had ridden tirelessly. It was said of Toussaint that he and his horse were one compound being, for he was only ever seen riding on it. He had maintained control of his stronghold at Dondon, he had held Marmalade, he had held la Grande Rivière, expulsing all the French soldiers who had dared to land on Haiti. All of these places he had held by his tenacity, and his omnipresence. Early on, he had understood that to inspire the troops he must be everywhere. So he went everywhere, on his horse and sometimes on other horses, because a horse did not possess the same energy he did, the same drive. He slept three hours every night, and the rest of the time he rode.
If there were battles, he fought at the front of them. If there were wounded men, he was at their side. If there were crops to be planted, he was at the head of the row, singing the old songs, dictating the rhythm of the working.
The French had been defeated. The Republic of France had declared the slaves free, and this was no mere martial trick; this was a solemn declaration of the French government. Right now, though, he had one final problem to deal with, and then Haiti would be truly free.
Guildive.
The English had landed at several port towns, and had been repulsed from all of them eventually. But still they clung onto Guildive, which they had fortified with cannons taken from their ships. Haiti was a rich prize, one well worth the expenditure of the lives of English sailors. Toussaint had learned the value of the nation’s slaves alone from Brandicourt, who had inspected the country’s balance sheets himself, and swore it was the larger part of one billion francs.
Toussaint had been surprised to learn that Haiti’s slaves were worth more than its exports, and Brandicourt had explained that an export is a fixed quantity, whereas a slave can keep on growing food or rearing animals or building all his life, and that their tenure can be lengthy if the master is not too cruel.
Slaves: nine hundred million francs.
Exports: two hundred million francs.
No wonder the whites had been so desperate to keep Haiti enslaved.
Now the English wanted that money for themselves, and it fell to Toussaint to stop them. He put away his spyglass and crawled back through the undergrowth to Jean-Christophe.
— I see new fortifications, he said. Ditches, and the like. But there are soldiers milling around outside the walls. They don’t know we’re here.
— Are you sure?
Toussaint smiled.
— I’m never sure. But it’s worth the risk.
The two men walked back to a carriage that had been halted under the trees whilst they examined the fortifications at Guildive. Six of Toussaint’s picked men stood around it. Toussaint approached the door and swung it open. Peering in, he saw a terrified woman, in the autumn of her life, her jowly cheeks wobbling. Beside her sat a rigid gentleman in a cravat, with gray whiskers.
— Please, sir, the man said, revealing himself to be French. You can take everything. Everything. Just, please, leave us our lives.
Toussaint tried not to be too offended by the man’s assumption that he was a bandit.
— Where are you going? he asked.
— To Guildive, said the man.
— Why? Tell the truth, or my men will kill you.
The man seemed about to lie, then thought better of it.
— What’s the point of staying? he said. We have no country here. I thought . . . I thought if the English won, we would be on the right side. And if they didn’t, well, perhaps I could pay our passage on one of their ships.
— What do you mean, you have no country?
The man quailed.
— You . . . I mean, the blacks . . . they took our land.
Toussaint sighed.
— We took no such thing. We are not thieves, sir. We took our freedom. We require some measure of the land, of course. We must needs eat. But it has always been my intention to restore much of the land to the plantation owners.
— Really?
— Yes, but it doesn’t matter now. Since you have declared for the enemy, the English, now you are prisoners of war.
— Oh no! Please don’t kill us, cried the woman.
Toussaint smiled.
— I don’t intend to. I merely intend to take your carriage and your riches.
He peered further into the carriage, seeing the rolled-up carpets, the chandeliers, the candlesticks, and the silver cutlery.
— You said you weren’t thieves, said the man.
Toussaint was almost impressed. A moment ago the Frenchman had seemed entirely without backbone; now he was showing some spirit.
— We’re not. In fact, we’re going to give your goods away. The money, too.
The man frowned and seemed about to say something, but Toussaint was bored of the conversation. He waved to one of his lieutenants.
— Take these fine people and remove them to Dondon, he said. This man wishes for land. Give him a plot on one of the south-facing hills, a good one – use your discretion. Our men will help him to build a house if he agrees to share the bounty of his land when others are hungry.
— Oh, dieu soit loué, said the white man.
Praise be to God.
Toussaint gave the man the benefit of his gap-toothed smile.
— Vous pouvez m’appeler simplement l’Ouverture, he said.
You may simply call me l’Ouverture.
Jean-Christophe burst out laughing.
Toussaint allowed himself a laugh, too. He wasn’t aware that he had ever made a joke before, but he was in a good humor. If all went well, soon the entire country would belong to her people.
When the man and his wife had been escorted away, Toussaint turned to Jean-Christophe.
— You don’t have to do this, he said.
— Of course I do, said Jean-Christophe. I’m the mulat. They wouldn’t believe it if a black came looking for shelter in Guildive.
Toussaint stepped forward and embraced the man. He was surprisingly wiry for one whose actions had so influenced the course of the war. Toussaint felt emotion brimming within him. Jean-Christophe was young enough to be his son, and he knew he would be proud if his son grew up to be half so brave.
— They’ll call out your name all over the land, he said. They’ll make up songs about you.
— They already do, said Jean-Christophe. The women, anyway.
He kissed Toussaint on the cheek as Toussaint rolled his eyes, then stepped up into the carriage.
The next morning, Toussaint led his army to the base of the hill of Guildive – not within firing distance, but close enough that the English could see him there, arrayed in all his force. Jean-François rode beside him. After the death of Biassou, the man had been more than happy to defer to Toussaint as overall commander.
It was Toussaint’s habit in war to attempt some kind of parley, ever since he had forced the French to surrender in that valley. He preferred to avoid fighting, if at all possible. But there were always exceptions. The English had never had any claim to this land; they were merely opportunists who had landed here in the hope of securing nearly one billion francs’ worth of slaves. They were not like the French, who genuinely believed they had some right to the territory, who defended it from what they saw as the depredations of the blacks. These English had no business being here, and Toussaint did not intend for any of them to remain to foment rebellion and undermine his government once he had control of the country.
He intended that they should depart the isle or die.
&nbs
p; Still, there were such things as appearances, even if some attached too much importance to them. He rode close to the town walls, a white flag fluttering above his horse.
An Englishman with a shock of white hair leaned out over the wooden parapet.
— Surely you can’t hope to take us by force, he said in heavily accented French. We have cannon, muskets, and enough shot to last two months.
I’m counting on it, thought Toussaint.
He had prevented the English from landing at a dozen points, so the town of Guildive was crammed with soldiers and equally crammed with guns and gunpowder. Seven Royal Navy galleys lay at anchor just beyond the reach of Toussaint’s guns.
One of the things that had surprised Toussaint, along with his sudden and miraculous ability to read, was the fact that his French had improved enormously. He had spoken French before, with his master, but not often, and he was more comfortable in the Creole of the slaves. When he spoke French he had always felt as if he were wearing one of the restrictive suits the whites wore, with those neckties that choked the throat. Now, though, with whatever spirit that had possessed him at Bois Caiman inside him, he wore French as if it were something he had always owned.
— I don’t hope anything, he said. I know.
— Pardon? said the man on the parapet.
— You will lose this battle, Toussaint said. Better to go to your ships now and leave this country.
The man laughed.
— We’re the British Navy, he said. You’re untrained negroes. If you insist on fighting, you’ll be crushed.
Toussaint shrugged.
— Have it your way, he said.
He turned and rode back to his troops. It didn’t matter what he said; it didn’t matter what the English said. They thought themselves incapable of losing, much less of losing to a black rabble – that was the only thing that mattered.
He lifted his hand and gave the signal for attack. A sorry, bedraggled row of soldiers staggered forward under the blazing sun. It was nearly midday, a terrible time to fight a battle. That was precisely why Toussaint had chosen it.