Burke in the Land of Silver

by Tom Williams

  As he ran, Burke heard the cries of the negroes behind him and then the screams of one of his men as the rebels caught up with him. He didn’t know who it was and he didn’t turn to look. He just concentrated on running, his whole being focused on the tower of the church in the village ahead.

  There were more screams. He felt his arm grabbed and turned in horror, only to see Geraghty running beside him, fresh blood on his bayonet. He staggered on the uneven ground. Geraghty caught at his arm, steadying him before he could fall. Then there was a beaten path under his feet, and they were among the buildings.

  He ran on, zigzagging through the ruins. He ran aimlessly, the whole world concentrated into the next desperate step, the next breath tearing at his chest. Dimly, he was aware of Geraghty, guiding him this way and then that, while the cries of the rebels seemed to fade away behind them.

  At last, he could run no more. He collapsed against a wall and looked up to see Geraghty grinning down at him.

  ‘You ran well,’ he said.

  Only then did he realise he was leaning against the wall of the church.

  Geraghty pulled him to his feet and into the church. Another soldier staggered in after them.

  Burke tried to remember the man’s name but found he could not. Just then, though, it did not seem important.

  ‘How many others are there?’

  The man struggled to speak, then pulled himself to attention. ‘I think I’m the only one, sir.’

  Burke groaned: ‘Oh, God.’

  Geraghty was tugging at his arm again.

  ‘With respect, sir, we need to be getting a move on.’

  The Sergeant hustled him through the door that led to the base of the tower. Inside, was a bare chamber with a ladder running almost vertically to a hatch in the ceiling far above them.

  For a moment, Burke clutched at the ladder and did not move. Then, before Geraghty could scold him for delay, he started to pull himself, rung by rung, toward whatever safety the tower might offer. Behind him, Geraghty’s breath was rasping as he followed. Then came the other man. Burke struggled again to remember his name. Brown, that was it: William Brown – the English lad. Brown stood out in a platoon that was otherwise exclusively Irish. But, though he was young, he was a good soldier. And, it seemed, fast on his feet.

  Burke was at the hatch now and he pulled himself into the bell chamber above. The floor was thick with bird droppings, but if he lay in the filth and wriggled forward to the window he could raise his head and peer cautiously out at the scene below.

  Behind him, he heard Geraghty and Brown moving forward too, until the three men lay alongside each other. They watched as a group of negroes clustered around something on the ground a block away from them. One swung a machete downward. Burke heard a scream that was suddenly cut off. As he lay there, he was all too aware that they had abandoned their weapons and, if the rebels found them, they would share the fate of the wounded.

  They lay silent and still. Burke fought not to sneeze as the stench of the pigeon droppings irritated his nostrils. Gradually, his fear faded, to be replaced by anger. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. He was supposed to make a name for himself, fighting against a valiant enemy on the field of battle. He hadn’t joined the army – even the French army – to fight native slaves on some Godforsaken island the other side of the world. The army was there to defend planters who had abandoned their native land long since. Their cruelty to their slaves was alien to European ways – it was as if the Age of Enlightenment had passed them by. And now he was to die because the greed of the slavers had driven their victims to revolt.

  He heard the sound of naked feet on the bare earth as a group of slaves started toward the church. He felt his fists clench. With no weapons, they would go down fighting with their bare fists.

  A voice called an order and the sound of footsteps moved away.

  Now they heard more orders being shouted and then a great cheer. Burke risked lifting his head to see what was happening in the square outside the church.

  Below, it seemed as if the rebels were mustering for some sort of parade. The men stood in rows, facing a white building that was much grander than any of the others in this little village. Burke imagined it must have been the town hall. There was a flight of stairs to the door and on the top step stood a gigantic negro, who was haranguing the crowd. Women and children were arriving through the houses to join the men in the square and their voices were raised in the cheers that kept greeting the giant’s pronouncements.

  Burke struggled to make out what was said, but he found the negro patois difficult at the best of times and, at this distance, he could not make it out.

  The huge black figure seemed somehow out of place there. Black faces seemed natural here, even though Burke knew that these people had been brought from Africa to work in the white man’s plantations. Yet the blacks he had seen before all shared a diffidence that marked them as slaves. Even those who were now free seemed somehow diminished as the children of slaves. But there was nothing diminished about the man below him. He looked like a tribal carving Burke had been shown as a child, a totem from some otherworld of magic and horror. He was dressed in a gold-braided livery, presumably that which he had worn as a servant, and the contrast between his savage appearance and the civilised refinement of his clothes added to the monstrousness of the spectacle that he presented.

  A woman came forward from the crowd and passed a cockerel to the giant. He raised it, clucking and flapping its wings, above his head and then, in one single savage gesture, he seized its head in one hand and pulled it clear of its body.

  The men nearest to him surged forward, reaching out toward the blood spurting from the still flapping corpse. The negro reached forward with the hand that held the head and daubed those he could reach in the second and third ranks. Even from the tower, Burke could see the blood glistening as it dried on shoulders and heads. He watched in fascinated horror. There was no doubt in his mind that this was Boukman. Here, not a hundred yards away, was the man that the whole army had been seeking for months. Yet he could do nothing but pray that no one would think to search the church until the rebels had moved on.

  Lying in that tower, it seemed to Burke that the shouting and chanting in the square would never end but, in time, the cries grew quieter and, looking down in nervous glimpses, Burke saw the crowd slipping away.

  Beside him, he heard Brown muttering, ‘I think we’re going to make it.’

  ‘Best not count your chickens, lad,’ Geraghty growled.

  Burke knew his sergeant was right but, as he risked another look through the windows, and watched the last of the dark figures below slipping through the houses to make their way northward, he thought Brown might be right.

  Even so, Burke decided to be cautious and it was not until he had seen no sign of movement for a full hour that he felt it safe to leave the bell tower.

  By now, the tropical dusk was already on them. They made their way down the ladder in a gloom that grew perceptibly darker as he waited at the foot of the tower for the other two to ease their way carefully down to join him. Only when all three were ready did he open the door and step into the church.

  There, facing the door, as if waiting for him, a black figure sat cross-legged on the floor of the nave. It was Boukman. For a moment, Burke thought that the strain of the day had destroyed his reason, and that the man was the creation of a fevered brain, but he heard Geraghty gasp behind him and accepted that the figure must be real.

  The rebel leader looked up at Burke and spoke. His voice was deep and sweet. Terrified as Burke was, he could hear no threat in the man’s tone.

  ‘I have been waiting to speak with you.’

  Behind him, he heard Brown’s boots as the lad rushed forward to seize Boukman. The young man’s hands were reaching for the negro’s throat when he seemed to trip and fell, rolling away from his prey.

  Boukman gave an almost apologetic shrug. ‘I sit within a circle of protection.�
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  Burke looked down and saw a circle roughly drawn around the man. It was hard to be sure, in the failing light, but it looked as if it had been traced by a fingertip dipped in some red liquid.

  It took a deliberate effort of will, but Burke forced himself to remember that he was an officer and a gentleman and that the man he faced was no more than a renegade slave.

  ‘You are my prisoner, sir.’ He hadn’t meant to say, ‘Sir.’ It was the day spent terrified, stiff from lying in the tower, hot and hungry, and with no knowing how things would end. He knew he was covered in filth from the floor. He brushed self-consciously at his uniform coat and tried again to maintain his dignity. ‘You must surrender to me.’

  Boukman simply laughed. It was a gentle laugh, devoid of malice.

  Burke moved forward but, as he approached the circle, he felt a stabbing pain shoot down his leg and he staggered to a halt. It was cramp, he thought. But he noticed that Boukman held a figure woven of corn, like the corn dollies that Burke remembered from his Kilkenny childhood. The doll was tiny in the negro’s huge hands and Boukman was, almost absent-mindedly, twisting at the leg. He stopped twisting the doll and the pain in Burke’s leg eased.

  ‘Lieutenant James Burke, I intend you no harm.’

  ‘You know my name.’

  The negro smiled. Like his laugh, his smile was gentle. ‘I know many things. Sit, and we will talk.’

  The pain had passed, but Burke did not question the order. The negro spoke softly, still with a gentle smile, but his words carried the authority of command. So James Burke of His Majesty King Louis’ Regiment of Dillon seated himself on the ground to parley with the rebel slave.

  Face to face with the man, Burke was even more aware of his size. Yet, it was not his stature that gave such an impression of power. It was his face. The wide nose that was so common among the slaves was framed by high cheekbones. The eyes were the deepest brown that Burke had ever seen and they held him as if mesmerised.

  ‘You are Boukman.’

  ‘I am, indeed. I was a slave in Jamaica before I came here. My master kept me as a servant in his house and had me help with the accounts of his business. I was an able student and he taught me to read and so I was known to the other slaves as the Book Man. And then my master died and I was sold and sent from Jamaica to toil in the fields of Saint-Domingue. So I have served under the crowns of Britain and France. You and I are alike in that respect. And in some others. I was curious to meet you.’

  ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘I know many things. Perhaps it is the voodoo. Perhaps I am just well informed. Perhaps your soldier is just clumsy on his feet. It is not really that important.’

  ‘Then, why?’

  ‘That’s a much better question. Why? Because I wanted to meet you.’

  ‘Again, why?’

  ‘Because we have something in common, Lieutenant Burke. It is my destiny to assist at the birth of a nation. And it is yours, too.’

  Burke felt his grip on reality slipping. Surely he could not be sitting here, talking with the Book Man about his own destiny? And what nonsense was this about the birth of a nation? Burke had ambitions, certainly. He had abandoned Ireland to find a place in Society. He had joined the Regiment of Dillon because there he could take his place in the officers’ mess without the fortune needed to buy a commission in a British regiment. In time, he hoped to progress to the point where he might number an earl amongst his acquaintances. Perhaps even a duke. But he was never going to be a person of that much consequence himself.

  The Book Man was watching him with an unexpected compassion in those deep brown eyes.

  ‘You do not do yourself justice, Lieutenant. You will never be accounted a great man, yet you will walk with the rulers of the world and your actions will help to bring forth a nation.’

  Behind the Book Man, Burke saw Brown, who had sat quietly since his fall, rising to his feet. The negro half turned his head toward the soldier: ‘William Brown, sit down again. I would not have you hurt.’

  Brown hesitated and Burke gestured to him to sit. Whether the Book Man really had magical powers or not, the Lieutenant had seen enough not to want to risk Brown’s life.

  The distraction meant the Book Man’s gaze turned away and, as if he was released from a spell, Burke found himself suddenly angry with this rebel leader and the deaths he had brought. He raised his voice to draw the negro’s attention back to him and away from Brown.

  ‘You talk of bringing forth a nation, but all you have achieved is death and destruction. You are nothing but a savage.’

  The Book Man turned his attention back to Burke. He did not speak for a moment. When he did, his voice was still calm, contrasting with the anger in the young Lieutenant’s tone.

  ‘You are not a fool, James Burke. And, for all that you affect indifference, you care for the suffering of those you see around you. You have spent months on this island. You have seen the marks of the whip on the backs of my people. Did you speak of savagery then? We have been torn from our land and our families and all that we hold dear. Did you speak of destruction then? Our rebellion is a thing of destruction and cruelty because destruction and cruelty gave it birth. I pray that such things do not need to be repeated but I know my prayers will not be answered.’ He paused and, when Burke gave no reply, he continued. ‘We are more alike than you think, Lieutenant. Both of us are exiled from the land of our birth, although you had the luxury to choose your exile. Both of us now fight under alien banners. Both of us despise the station we were born to in life. But I think that your course is, perhaps, easier than mine.’

  Caught in the gaze of those brown eyes, Burke struggled to maintain his anger, to rail against this slave, sat in a circle of blood. ‘I have nothing in common with you.’

  The Book Man’s eyes were drawing him in. He tried to remember that the negro was the enemy and that he should hate him, but he felt his anger fading as the rebel leader spoke.

  ‘We are all men, Lieutenant. We share a common humanity. Soon, I will die in the struggle to build freedom here. You will live for many, many years. But perhaps I have, after all, the better life. I know who I am and what I fight for. It gives me peace and strength. You, Lieutenant, change the person you are as you change the company you keep. You will fight for the French against the English and for the English against the French. You have yet to find your path.’ He paused, nodding slowly to himself. ‘I am glad we have spoken. I am going to my death. I know that I have found my own path and I am ready to follow it.’

  The slave leader rose to his feet.

  ‘One week from today, my army will meet with the French. There will be a battle. The French will win. But their war, I know, is lost.’

  From a pocket in his jacket, he took a handful of seeds and threw them to the ground.

  ‘As the corn roots in the earth, so may you be fixed to the spot where you stand.’

  Then, stepping from the circle, he walked toward the door of the church.

  Burke watched him go. He knew he should stop him but his feet seemed strangely unwilling to move.

  ‘Detain that man!’

  Geraghty started, as if suddenly awakened, but he did not move from the spot. Brown managed just a step or two before stopping.

  The three of them stood watching as the Book Man opened the door and slipped away. Burke knew they should be pursuing him, but it seemed far more natural just to stand there and watch him go.

  As the rebel leader moved out of sight, Burke willed himself to step forward. Reluctantly, his foot left the floor and he started toward the door. A moment later, the others followed.

  They emerged from the church into the growing darkness. Outside, the square was empty.

  The Book Man had been less than a minute ahead of them. But now the little village was deserted.

  *

  When Burke made his report, he did not mention what had happened in the church. Nor did the others ever speak of it.

&nbs
p; He had more or less convinced himself that he had imagined the whole affair when, exactly one week later, the rebel army finally faced the French in open battle. Burke had yet to be assigned a new platoon, so he had been kept in the reserve, close enough to watch the battle, yet taking no part in it. It had seemed like some monstrous pageant, put on for his amusement. He had watched as the rebels had rushed the regiment’s lines, a great black tide breaking against a line of red rocks. They had attacked with the passionate fearlessness of the dispossessed but the outcome had never really been in doubt. The disciplined ranks of the Regiment of Dillon had fired and reloaded, fired and reloaded, pouring death into the rebel ranks.

  When it was over, one of his brother officers – a fellow from Dublin with all the self-importance of a man from the capital – told him that they had killed the Book Man.

  ‘Huge, ugly fellow. You can see the corpse for yourself. Something to boast about when you get back to Ireland.’

  Burke had no intention of ever going back to Ireland and, for a while, he resisted the idea of joining the crowds gawping at the corpse. In the end, though, his curiosity got the better of him.

  The body had been strung up from a tree. The great head lolled forward, all dignity destroyed. The body was battered and broken and some of the officers made sport of throwing stones at it.

  James stayed just long enough to be sure it was the same man and then he went back to the tent that was his temporary home. Once there, he proceeded to get himself very, very drunk.

  He had hoped that the Book Man’s death and the crushing of the revolt might bring an end to the fighting. But he had reckoned without the changes under way in France. The king had sent them to Saint-Domingue to strike down the rebellious slaves. Now, the king’s power was waning. The revolutionaries were in the ascendant and suddenly the Rights of Man were more important than the property rights of colonialist planters.

  The island was full of mulattos – the half-caste children of white masters and black slave girls. Many of these had been raised as free men and they and their descendants had become successful and, often, rich. They owned slaves themselves but, in the eyes of white society, they remained blacks. They might be free but they could not mix with white folk or have any of the privileges of citizenship. Now the Revolution sought to alter that. The planters – many of them from Spanish families that had settled here long before French rule – had so far simply ignored the new French laws. Now, though, things were to change.