As soon as they became aware of this, the freedmen united and rallied around their leaders, banishing any past grievances from their thoughts and focusing only on the moment at hand.
They had to fight and they had to fight together. Otherwise the Whites were sure to be victorious. They had to forget about anything other than their abiding will to fight; they had to forget about the three hundred murdered slaves; they had to forget about the past and live only with the present desperate passion to triumph at whatever cost.
Minette understood this immediately.
She had been made aware of the situation by the Lamberts themselves. Their disappointment, their bitterness, and their rebellion had been terrifying. And when Beauvais had cried out, “We would rather die and take them with us!” she had understood that they were all prepared for the very worst.
She had returned from her visit utterly depressed and so overwhelmed that she did not think she would be able to sing that evening at the theater.
So the Whites were once again going back on their word! So those three hundred slaves had been sacrificed for nothing! No, it wasn’t possible, they couldn’t; they had no right…But then suddenly remembering their strength and their power, Minette felt her hatred for them swell. I hate them, I hate them, she said to herself. And for the first time in her life she had the courage to look her hatred in the face. Ah, yes! Truly, her hatred extended not just to all the planters, but to all the Whites in the world. She had had enough of suppressing her feelings and holding back her reactions. “I hate them, I hate them…” she repeated. And her throat contracted so violently in response to this harsh burning sensation that it was as if the roof of her mouth were being stabbed with a lancet.
When she returned home, Jasmine gave her the same news she had just heard from the Lamberts.
“They say the Whites have ripped up the Damiens Accord. It’s like we were born only to keep being defeated.”
“We’ll beat them someday, Mama.”
“I’ll already be dead.”
Minette said nothing and got dressed to head to the theater with Lise and her mother.
There were too many carriages and too many stagecoaches for anyone to notice the absence of a few cars. The atmosphere was the same everywhere: in the crowd, in the wings, and on the stage. Nothing had changed on the outside. Everyone knew that the Whites had promised to give the freedmen their rights and that a new Colonial Assembly was to be formed. Everyone also knew that the Whites were thinking of going back on their promise and breaking the accord. Everyone was talking about it in the theater. It was the most recent news on everyone’s mind – some being for and others against the planters’ decision. The fact that several seats were empty first became apparent from the stage, though this was not necessarily that odd. Yet, everyone had been so happy to go back to the old amusements after so much conflict, that these absences seemed bizarre. The play, which had been advertised with Minette in the lead role, should have been an irresistible temptation. Why had these seats remained empty?
During the intermission, a few people pointed out the empty seats.
“I’ll bet,” said a young man in a frilled shirt, “that the Committee of the West is going back on its word. I’ll bet a hundred pounds.”
“I’ll take that bet. They’re afraid of the freedmen. They’ll cow to them completely.”
“Monsieur de Caradeux has been talking about annulling the Treaty of Damiens.”
“That’s impossible – it’ll start up the fighting again.”
“You taking the bet?”
“Okay.”
As the curtains were about to rise, the conversations stopped, and Minette made her appearance in a dazzling costume.
She looked toward the empty seats. Where were the planters? Deliberating on the freedmen’s fate? Tearing up the accord? A surge of revolt rumbled so deeply inside her that she feared she would be incapable of singing. It was too late to do anything about it – the orchestra had already launched into the first bars. That day, she sang like she had never sung before. But when the triumphant applause began she made a few vain attempts to smile before fleeing the stage, making clear she would not return.
As soon as the curtains had been lowered, the political discussions began again unabated. The police had difficulty containing the various tussles that had broken out. At the exit, a police officer jostled a black Confederate, who then grabbed him by the collar. Such a tumult broke out that Minette ended up separated from Jasmine and Lise. The black Confederate had just seized the white man and was about to disarm him when the horsemen of the constabulary invaded the square and arrested the black man. At that point, the din had become so deafening that the police had to fire into the crowd to get them to disperse. All the people of color shook their fists at the policemen, threatening to have their heads. One White, standing near Minette, protested openly against the unjust treatment the black Confederate had received. When the police withdrew with their prisoner, more than a thousand people of color followed behind them.
Jasmine had been searching for Minette and finally found her.
“Come,” she said, “let’s join the crowd of demonstrators. As for you, Lise, be strong, no matter what happens…”
Minette looked at her, astonished. Her resigned expression had disappeared. She had raised her head high, like someone who had just become conscious of her own value.
A poor White passed by them and Minette recognized the painter Perrosier. He was filthier than ever and stumbled as he walked. He raised his arms to the sky and cried:
“It’s unjust…”
He reached the crowd of people of color, repeating the same words:
“It’s unjust, it’s unjust, it’s unjust…”
A thousand voices repeated after him.
“It’s unjust!” screamed Minette.
At that moment, Joseph rushed up to her.
Unable to speak, his eyes were bulging out of his head. Minette took his hand in hers. To think that he had once roused crowds with his words! The time had come – the moment he had been waiting for his whole life. The first serious revolts were beginning and he could not speak to his people. The miracles he had dreamed of in spreading the good word, he could no longer conjure into being with his words – and his brothers risked straying from the righteous path, taking hatred alone for their guide. Where was it about to lead them? Blinded with anger, spurred on by this word “Justice” they were repeating publicly for the first time in their lives, they would end up being slaughtered by the National Guard.
Minette looked at Joseph. His forehead was drenched in sweat and his features were so tense that she immediately understood she needed to help him. What did he want? To hold back a crowd headed toward certain death…
She then remembered a passage from Bossuet’s sermons that Joseph used to recite with such eloquence. And with her most beautiful voice, she began to sing it to the melody of a well-known tune:
Christians, let us reflect on those whose
power seems stronger than everything else.
Think of the final hour,
which will enshroud all their greatness…
Becalmed by these great words, the crowd began to sing as one. Joseph was so moved, he began to weep. In their calmer state, the demonstrators accompanied the prisoner to the Municipality, where the Guard awaited them, muskets drawn.
But what were they supposed to do with this crowd of people singing?
Not a single shot was fired, not one body was left dead on the cobblestones. Their numbers remained intact for the final battle.
XXXIV
THE NEXT DAY was Saint Cécile’s Day. The bells had been ringing out joyful melodies all morning in the hopes of attracting some of the faithful to the church where the saint, covered in bouquets of flowers, graced all who entered with a smile that greatly resembled that of Mlle de Caradeux.
Young flower merchants set up on the street corners proposed bouquets to the passersby. A lim
pid sky, speckled with just a few light clouds, brightened the horizon.
Groups of freedmen in multicolored costumes spoke in low tones about the demonstration of the day before and about the fate that awaited the prisoner, who, they had learned, had been hanged on the parade grounds. At that moment, the freedmen’s indignation had reached its peak. No longer would they be controlled. They gathered in groups and protested openly. The time of fear had long passed for them. No longer would they tolerate being humiliated. Indifferent to whatever consequences might follow, they would return blow for blow. As one of Praloto’s gunners passed by, a freedman who had been immersed in a passionate discussion noticed him and, losing his head, killed him with a gunshot before anyone could stop him.
The Whites immediately commanded the drummers to beat the assembly.
The footsoldiers and officers ran back to the barracks and, while the crowd of ardent congregants leaving the church began to spill out onto the street, the joyful ringing of the bells became a death knell.
Already at the command of his post, Pétion saw M de Caradeux and his men emerge from the street.
“Destroy that fort!” he cried to Praloto’s men, pointing to the Governor’s palace, where Pétion was stationed.
Pétion caressed his artillery.
“There you go, Gluttonous One,” he said. “There’s a nice meal for you.”
And he immediately launched a violent response to Praloto’s bullets.
The battle was so intense that the room had become stiflingly overheated.
Pétion looked for water. The buckets were empty and the fountain across the way directly faced Praloto.
“A brave man,” he shouted, “I need a brave man.”
Pons grabbed the buckets and headed toward the fountain as fast as he could run. Bullets whizzed by him so close that several times he feared he had been hit. Once he had filled the buckets, he had to cross the street again. How could he run with these weights on his arms?
He had come so close to death that, reaching Pétion, he fell into a seat on the cannon, the full buckets in his hands.
“They missed you – they’re bad shots,” said Pétion, hugging him.
Realizing that he was being attacked both by the regiments from Artois and from Normandy, he cried:
“We need help – we need help! Let Beauvais’ camp know!”
Help fell from the sky at that very moment, in the form of Jean-Baptiste Lapointe. Leading his men, he arrived at the parade grounds, causing Praloto’s shocked soldiers to cease firing.
Surrounded by his men, Lapointe sowed panic among the Whites stationed in the square. Bullets whistling right by his ears, he invaded the Municipality, seized the ledgers where the names of condemned freedmen were inscribed and burned them in the street. Eyes blazing and a cruel smile playing at the corners of his lips, he began violently stabbing the Whites.
Soon the battle between his men and the French soldiers turned into a tremendous hand-to-hand combat.
After two hours of battle, Pétion was beginning to run out of munitions.
“My Lord!” he said, “the ‘Gluttonous One’ has already eaten up everything we’ve got. Someone bring me some rocks – bring me some rocks!”
Noticing the diminished firepower, Beauvais and Lambert gave the order to retreat toward Croix des Bouquets. They brought the wounded along with them. Twenty dead freedmen remained on the cobblestones. The Whites had lost more than a hundred of their soldiers, including Captain Desroches.
Suddenly, a fire broke out in Bel-Air. Lit by mercenaries who had been paid by the planters to increase dissent and disorder, it spread rapidly. Rather than try to put it out, the Whites chased after the freedmen and tried to kill them. All those who had not had the time to join up with Beauvais’ troops were murdered: men, women, and children. Homes were broken into and looted, their inhabitants killed. Cries and screams rang out. Fearing the appearance of armed Whites, people of color abandoned their homes and fled. Women fell to their knees, pleading with Saint Cécile to rescue them.
Panic had reached the inhabitants of Traversière Street. Jasmine sobbed as she held the terrified Lise and little Jean against her shoulder.
“We’ve got to leave,” screamed Nicolette, bursting in. “The Whites are killing people in their homes.”
Minette and Jasmine quickly packed some bedding.
A screaming horde arrived at the Comédie, brandishing swords and rifles.
“My God,” murmured Jasmine, feeling her old fears overwhelm her again, “have pity on the young, at least.”
“Quiet, Mama,” pleaded Minette softly, “or we’ll all lose our heads.”
All of a sudden, a big black body emerged from the shadows. It was Scipion.
“You’ve got to go, ladies,” he said. “The Whites are coming.”
They did not have time to leave. Six Whites armed with rifles invaded the front room. Scipion immediately cut two of their throats. Then, grabbing their weapons, he threw one to Minette while at the same time smashing in the skull of a White who was about to fire on Lise.
“Use your weapon, young lady,” he shouted to Minette.
She shouldered the rifle and aimed at one of the murderers. He fell to the ground. Young Jean screamed. Jasmine hid him in the back room and came back with an iron bar with which she threatened one of the invaders. Abandoning Lise to her tears, Nicolette threw herself into the battle. She had surprised one of the invaders by jumping on his back and was now digging her fingers into his eyes like some kind of she-devil. A shot was fired but hit no one. With a solid kick, Scipion had disarmed Jasmine’s attacker. He picked up the rifle and broke it over one of the Whites’ head. Minette tried to fire a second time, but her rifle was out of bullets. She went to the second room and returned with a knife. Her eyes blazing and her lips taut, she struck one of the Whites with all her strength. The knife stayed planted in the man’s body as he fell, curled into a ball, without making a sound. Nicolette was biting and scratching, dodging bullets. Scipion seized her adversary and crushed his head against a wall. Minette looked at her feet: they were swimming in a sea of blood. The entire room was filled with corpses. Jasmine ran to get young Jean and together they went out to the street where panicked escapees turned in place, unable to move forward.
“Saint Cécile, come to our aid,” murmured Jasmine, making the sign of the cross.
“Let us put our souls in the hands of our Lord Jesus. May he consider our suffering and welcome us in our last hours.”
“Stop praying, Mama, please. I’m scared – I’m too scared to die…”
Lise clutched her mother, whimpering.
They took a few steps forward and were immediately blocked by the crowd.
“Move forward, clear the street; do you want to die where you’re standing?” someone shouted.
“We can’t. The Whites are waiting for us on the other side of the street.”
“So then we’re surrounded.”
Minette turned her head and saw flames rising. The surrounding houses were on fire. A suffocating heat engulfed the escapees, and terrifying flashes of light blazed, filling the atmosphere. Women and children passed out; people trampled their bodies. They could barely breathe.
“Please, please, go forward. Have pity…”
The blaze had reached indescribable proportions. Four pumps had been brought from the ships; they burned up immediately.
All of a sudden, someone began firing on the crowd at point-blank range. Twenty or so people fell to the ground. Trampled cadavers, their insides hanging out, lay on the ground. Those who had only been wounded tried with cries of pain to keep away the feet that were crushing them and more than one died in this final misery.
Jasmine held Lise and young Jean close to her as Minette, protected by Scipion, walked ahead of them. The crowd moved step by step, with frustrating slowness, as the houses blazed like torches. The fire was coming from the north and the south. It quickly reached the area of the Comédie and the G
reat Clock. The city had become an immense inferno. Her throat dry, her eyes burning, Minette looked out for Jasmine. She saw her holding Lise and young Jean close to her. Behind them, Nicolette wept as she tried to cut through the crowd. All of a sudden, a horde of demons with bloodied clothes threw themselves on the inhabitants of Traversière Street. A thick-necked white man seized Nicolette and sunk his weapon into her back. She fell at Jasmine’s feet, as she clasped Lise and young Jean closer to her.
“You’re all almost there, Mama, Mama,” called Minette.
She let out a scream of horror and tried to run to them:
“Mama, Mama…Lise…”
Jasmine had faltered on her feet. A white man pulled a knife from her heart and then plunged it into Lise’s back. Young Jean fell from Jasmine’s lifeless arms. Minette tore herself from Scipion’s arms and, fighting desperately, tried to reach the child. But she couldn’t move. Holding out her hand, she called him to her. A white man turned around, and with one hand grabbed the boy’s neck and strangled him; with the other he threw a knife, which hit Minette in the chest.
Scipion grabbed her and pulled her toward him:
“Stay here, miss. Don’t move.”
She tried to speak, and a stream of blood flowed from her mouth. She turned her eyes toward Jasmine and Lise’s entangled corpses. A sob left her throat along with a second trickle of blood.
“Don’t be afraid, Miss. You’ll go to pray on their graves one day.”
Lifting her up, Scipion held her above the crowd in his powerful arms. She did not move at all; she had fainted.
As soon as he had seen the blaze, Lapointe had stopped fighting. Fleeing the square, he had run with his rifle in one hand and a knife in the other. A white man, blinded in one eye and covered in rags, threatened him and tried to block his way. He felled him with a single rifle shot. Near the Comédie, right at the corner of Traversière Street, fifty or so white men were chasing the freedmen, gathered in the narrow street.
Dance on the Volcano Page 38