Toby took a moment before asking, “So, you left Haiti because of what happened to you?”
Mr. Joseph nodded. “Yes.”
“Is that why you left your wife and daughter behind?”
Mr. Joseph finished off his tea. “You know, I never used to drink tea before I came to America. All I drank was coffee. But after I became a zombi, my taste for coffee went away. I guess it reminded me too much of my past. And God knows, I’ve got enough reminders.” He touched his scar, but quickly took his hand away. “Okay, I’ll tell you, if you really want to know. But it won’t be easy for me, Toby.”
“I understand,” Toby said.
Mr. Joseph poured another cup of tea from the pot. He took a sip. “Right, let’s begin.”
“It was late 1918. I was a farmer in the northern central plateau region, living on a small plot of land at the foothills of Morne Savanette, near the town of Pignon. I lived with my wife, Mangela, our daughter Felicia and her daughter, Rachel, who was six years old. We farmed mostly vegetables, but we also had some cattle. There were two huts—cailles, as they are called in Haiti—on our tiny habitation; one where Mangela and I lived, the other housed Felicia and Rachel. Our nearest neighbors were about a mile away, so we were fairly isolated, the area of the plateau where we lived being sparsely populated. We had part of the great mountain range, the Massif du Nord, behind us, but the view out our front door was flat and relatively treeless—not particularly scenic by Haitian standards. It was dry and dusty in the summer, constantly muddy during the rainy season. Like the vast majority of Haitians eking out a living in the mountains or on the plains, we were poor. We barely made a living selling our produce and occasionally meat at the Pignon market. It was a simple life, but we were healthy enough and, until recently, happy. Even though we were far from the cities where all the business with the marines was happening, recently, with the fighting between the rebels and the Gendarmerie igniting once again, the interior was becoming an increasingly dangerous place to be, especially if you lived in the northern regions—and we, like so many peasants, had been affected by this violence.
You see, almost four years earlier, America had sent its military to occupy Haiti. According to their government, it was on ‘humanitarian grounds’. They were coming over to help stabilize the country, and to look after the American citizens living in Haiti. At the time of the U.S. occupation, Haiti was in a state of disarray and continual bloodshed. Presidents were being overthrown by violent coups at an alarming rate, so the U.S. government sent marines over. But in truth, President Wilson sent marines over to protect his country’s financial interests, and because of his government’s concern over foreign parties gaining control over Haiti and her waters—America had recently completed the Panama Canal, and the war in Europe had begun.
While the Americans were in Haiti—they occupied the country for almost twenty years—they brought Haiti up to date with the rest of the so-called civilized world, Haiti being such a poor country and all. They constructed new roads and improved the old ones, built schools, hospitals, and set up irrigation and telephone systems. From afar it looked like they were doing good things for my country. Well, let me tell you, things often look good from a distance. It’s not until you get up close and see what’s really happening that you see how horrible and ugly the truth really is.
Along with their modern ways, the marines also brought with them their racist ideals. They saw our way of life—the peasant way of life—as backward, and the peasants themselves as ignorant, primitive apes, nothing but “niggers” and “gooks”. But even worse than their attitudes and racial slurs was when they introduced the corvée. This was an old mid-nineteenth century law, dusted off by the Americans for modern-day use. Essentially the corvée meant that peasants were required to perform manual labor on local roads in lieu of paying a road tax. So, in effect, forced labor was re-introduced to Haiti.
I was too old to be of any use to the marines, but the younger men were made to work hard for no pay. The corvée gangs were kept under the armed guard of the Gendarmerie—the local Haitian constabulary, organized and officered by the marines—and soon abuse was rife: marching the peasants to and from work bound together by ropes, violence against those workers deemed lazy, even shooting peasants attempting to flee from these road gangs.
Of course, it would be an understatement to say that this system of mass forced labor didn’t sit well with the people. The corvée stirred up the past, of when their ancestors were made to live and work as slaves under French rule. People feared the return of slavery and torture. With rumblings of Gendarmerie torture, and the rising tide of unrest against the corvée, the forced labor program was finally abolished in October of 1918. But the corvée still continued illegally in some parts of the country, particularly in the northern and central regions, and this led to an uprising of a rebel guerilla army—cacos. These cacos hid in the rugged mountains of the north, attacking Gendarmerie detachments to procure guns and ammunition, ambushing gendarme patrols. Finally, with the marines bringing in extra reinforcements, including the air squadron, and with the superior firepower of the marines compared with the ancient rifles and machetes of the cacos, the uprising was quashed. Their leader, Charlemagne Peralte, was eventually captured late 1919 and killed. His body was nailed to a door to serve as a warning to the cacos rebels. The rebel uprising quickly died after that. But that all happened after I had left Haiti. All of this brief history I’ve just told you, I read about in books long after they happened.
The war between the marines and the cacos was still very much in full swing and I was just a simple peasant farmer when my story begins.
It was a typically humid day in December. Mangela was inside our tiny two-room caille with Rachel, Felicia was in hers, resting. She hadn’t been well since her husband had died a month ago. I was in the field behind our tiny habitation, plowing, when I saw three men walking towards me. Though I had never seen them before, it didn’t take me long to figure out who they were—or, more appropriately, what they were. If the old rifles two of the men were carrying didn’t give them away, the red patches on their clothes did.
Two of the men were holding up a third between them; blood spattered all their clothing.
“You have to help us,” one of the cacos said. He was a small man with a bushy beard.
I put down the hoe, took off my straw hat, wiped an arm across my forehead and prayed that all they wanted was a glass of water or something to eat.
“Hello,” I said, nodding my head. I put my hat back on.
“This man’s hurt. Can we take him into your house?” He wasn’t being rude, just blunt.
I glanced from the wounded man—a makeshift bandage made from someone’s shirt was tied around his left shoulder and was soaked in blood—to the small man. I swallowed and said, “What’s the problem?”
“Can’t you see? He’s been shot.” Now the small man was getting impatient.
I couldn’t refuse. These men meant me no harm, but they were asking for my help, and would turn nasty in a heartbeat if I didn’t give it to them. Also, they had guns.
“Okay,” I said and led them around to the front of my hut. I stopped at the door and turned around. “My six-year-old granddaughter is in there. Can I go in and prepare her first?”
The small man nodded. “Hurry.”
So far the other man, a taller, stronger looking man in a cap hadn’t said a word. The wounded man just groaned.
I hurried into the hut. It was slightly cooler inside our wattle-and-mud-walled, thatch-roofed house than it was outside. Mangela and Rachel were sitting mending clothes—Mangela had a dress across her lap, Rachel was holding a ball of cotton.
They looked up at me and smiled when I entered.
“There are some men here,” I said, taking off my hat and tossing it to the earthen floor.
Mangela’s smile dropped. “What men?”
“Three cacos. One of them is hurt. They want to bring him inside.”
“What for?” Mangela said, frowning.
“I don’t know. Food, water, perhaps. But I have to warn you, one of the men has been shot.” I crouched down and looked at Rachel, who was wearing only a loose fitting hand-made dress, but looking pretty with her braided hair and wide, bright eyes. “Now little one,” I started, but stopped when Rachel gasped. Her eyes were now even wider and she was looking over my shoulder.
I stood and turned around.
“We couldn’t wait any longer,” the small caco said. “Who lives in that other hut?”
I heard Rachel behind me whispering to Mangela. My wife said, “It’s okay, darling. Go outside and play.”
Bare footsteps pattered across the floor as Rachel headed outside.
“My daughter lives there, but she’s resting, she’ll cause you no trouble,” I told the man.
That was a lie, but I couldn’t tell them the truth, the reason why she hadn’t been well for the past month. If she knew there were cacos here, she would have a fit.
“Get my man something to lie on,” the small caco demanded. “And some rum.”
I rushed outside to where our straw mats were lying under the hot sun. I dragged one of the thick mats inside, over to one corner. Mangela was pouring some of our clairin into a tin cup.
The two cacos dragged the wounded man over to the mat and laid him down.
I looked over at Mangela. With a displeasing look, she walked over and handed the smaller caco the tin of raw white rum.
I saw him eye Mangela as he took the cup from her.
My wife may have been four years off sixty, but she was still a remarkably good-looking woman with high cheekbones, smooth chocolate skin and a trim figure.
“What happened?” I asked, trying to divert the small man’s attention away from my wife.
“Americans,” the small caco spat as he bent down and muttered to the injured man.
“Oh,” I said. I had figured as much. “I am Jacques Joseph, by the way.”
The two cacos ignored my friendly gesture. The injured man fumbled for the cup and once he had a hold of it, drew the cup to his mouth and took a long drink.
“Is he badly injured?” I asked.
“No,” the smaller caco said. “It’s not severe. But it’s bad enough that he needs rest and someone to tend to him. And to keep him safe from the Gendarmerie. He will stay here.”
“Excuse me?”
The small man with the bushy beard looked at me with hard eyes. “We can’t take him with us until he is better. You will take care of him until we come back for him.”
I glanced at Mangela. She had a look that could burn steel.
“Isn’t there a camp you can take him to?” Mangela said.
“The Americans ambushed our nearest camp. Most of our brothers were killed. We only got away by pure luck. It’s a long way to the next camp. We can’t drag him through the mountains in his condition.”
“How about we take him to Papa Louis? He’s the local houngan. He would be able to help your friend.”
“No. No priests. Besides, the Americans have been trying to rid our country of vodou, so taking him to a hounfor is too risky.”
“But we can’t...” Mangela started.
I reached out and gripped Mangela by her shoulder.
Mangela looked at me, saw the pleading in my eyes. She closed her mouth, then looked down to the floor.
Maybe I should’ve spoken up and told these men no, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to endanger my family. Even though harboring a caco was danger enough.
“Okay, we’ll look after him,” I said through clenched teeth. I knew better than to argue with cacos. These were strong, fearless men.
Plus, they had connections with powerful bocors—evil priests.
“If any Americans or gendarme come snooping around, you haven’t seen anything, and this man is your nephew,” the smaller man said. “Don’t tell anyone about him being here. And make sure he stays inside.”
I nodded and began to wonder if the taller man could speak at all.
The smaller man reached down, ripped off the injured man’s red caco patch, stuffed it into his pocket and then motioned to the taller man to leave. “We thank you for your help,” he said.
“When will you be back?” Mangela asked.
“That, we cannot say. Hopefully in a week, but it could be longer.”
The two cacos left.
“Why didn’t you tell those men no?” Mangela sighed. “Why didn’t you stand up to them, Jacques?”
“And what? Have them shoot us? And what of Rachel and Felicia?”
“Well did you see the way that small man was looking at me?”
“Of course I did.”
“And still you did nothing!”
“They are fighting for the cause. I have to respect them.”
Mangela huffed. She put her hands on her hips. “You couldn’t care less about ‘the cause’. It doesn’t affect us. You’ve said so yourself.”
“That may well be, but he’s still a wounded man. How can we turn away a wounded man?”
“He’s not that hurt.”
I turned and looked at the man lying on the mat. He appeared to be sleeping and didn’t look to be in much pain.
“Well, what’s done is done,” I told Mangela.
“When Felicia finds out we have a caco...”
Rachel stepped into the hut.
“Who were those men, gran?” she asked, looking scared.
Mangela turned to Rachel. “Just some men who needed our help, darling.” She went over and took Rachel into her arms.
“Is the man dead?”
“No,” I answered, trying to smile. “He’s not dead. Just sleeping.”
I turned and gazed down at the man. At least a week. Possibly longer. And I didn’t even know his name.
The wounded caco woke up a couple of hours later. I was inside resting while Mangela and Rachel were down at the river doing some washing.
“Who are you? Where am I?”
I jumped. I wasn’t asleep, just dozing in the chair, but hearing the man’s voice had startled me. “You’re awake,” I said.
The man sat up. He winced, then looked at his shoulder. “What happened? How’d I get here?”
“You were shot by some Americans. Two of your friends brought you here. You are in my house, about half an hour’s walk from Pignon. I am Jacques Joseph.”
“You say two men brought me here?”
“Yes. A small man with a bushy beard and a strong looking tall man.”
He nodded and muttered to himself. “Can I get something to drink?”
“Of course.” I hopped up from my chair and went over to the bucket which held the water—it was nearing empty; I hoped Mangela remembered to bring some more back from the river. I filled a tin cup with water and then handed the cup to the man.
He snatched it off me, sniffed the contents and threw the cup down. Cloudy water spilled over the floor as the tin cup clanged on the ground.
“I meant a real drink, old man. Rum.”
“Of course, my apologies.”
Grimacing as he shifted, the man huffed.
I had already taken a disliking to this man. Here we were, taking him in, a stranger, a member of the rebel cacos army no less, and he was being rude.
I picked the tin cup from off the floor and headed over to the table, where the bottle of clairin sat. I was just about to pour some rum into the cup, when the caco called out:
“Just bring the bottle, old man.”
Rum, even raw clairin, was expensive for peasants like me, so I didn’t want to give him the whole bottle.
So I poured him a cup, put the bottle under the table, and took the cup over to him. “This is all that was left in the bottle, I’m afraid.” I handed him the cup.
Again he snatched the cup from me. He finished the rum in one gulp. “Cheap, but it does the job,” he said. “You will need to buy some more, soon.”
I no
dded. Though we still had half a bottle left, with this man staying with us, it seemed we would indeed have to buy some more. Lucky tomorrow was Saturday, market day; Felicia or Mangela would have to get some more tomorrow.
“So what’s your name, stranger?” I asked, trying my best to be friendly. I figured if he was going to be with us a while, I should at least try and be pleasant to him.
The man threw down the empty cup and laid back down. “Just call me Marcel.” He closed his eyes and soon began snoring.
I picked the cup off the floor, poured myself some clairin, had just finished when Felicia stepped into the hut. “Papa, who is that man?”
I flinched at her voice, turned and said, “Felicia, you startled me.”
“Sorry papa.”
She stepped further into the hut, up to the sleeping caco. She looked tired, her face had an unhealthy pallor. Her dress was crinkled, her hair more so. “He’s been shot,” she said. “What’s going on?” She turned and faced me.
I swallowed. Took some deep breaths. “Come outside,” I said, and I walked out into the bright sunshine.
“He is a caco,” I said when my daughter joined me out the front of my hut. There was no point in lying to her.
She drew in breath. “What’s a filthy caco doing here?” Her eyes were suddenly hard.
“Two other cacos brought him here. They were attacked by Americans, but they couldn’t take him with them, so they left him here. We’re to look after him, see that he’s not captured by the Gendarmerie.”
“I’m going into Pignon now and informing the police,” Felicia said, turning around.
I put out my hands and grabbed her shoulders. “No, darling, please. I’m not happy about this either, but telling the police won’t help. It’ll just get us into more trouble.”
When Felicia turned back around, she was crying, her mouth a tight line. “I can’t stay here with a caco. They killed my husband!”
Technically the Gendarmerie had killed her husband, but because he went off to join the rebels in their fight against the marines, against Felicia’s wishes, she blamed the cacos for her husband’s death. In her mind, they brainwashed Henri into joining. He was a farmer, not a fighter, but all the talk about nationalism and the pride of the black folk roused something in him and so, a little over a month ago, he left our tiny habitation to join the ‘good fight’.
The Awakening Page 25