Dance on the Volcano

by Marie Vieux-Chauvet

  He called out:

  “Minette!”

  His voice was lost in the tumult of sobs, screams, and cries of rage.

  He ran through a mob of poor Whites.

  “There’s one – kill him!”

  He ducked down, and the bullets just missed him, whizzing past him as he ran. He reached the last row of freedmen, who were headed to the docks.

  Two solid black arms were carrying a woman through the suffocating crowd. He recognized Minette. An expression of relief came over his face.

  He called out again:

  “Minette!”

  But despite his efforts, he could not move forward. He stood next to a pile of corpses, among which were Lise, Jasmine, and young Jean. He turned back in the other direction and, as the Whites were headed toward him, hid in the debris of a smoking house and shot down more than a dozen.

  At last free from the narrow street, the escapees began approaching the harbor in wild disarray. Women pushed terrified children ahead of them, others headed off on the road to the barracks where the soldiers from Artois and Normandy welcomed them to protect them and tend to their wounds…Scipion followed them, still carrying Minette passed out in his arms.

  The next day, five hundred homes and shops were in ruins. The streets, strewn with the dead and the wounded, were covered in blood and body parts. Hundreds of women and children had perished in the harbor, bogged down by the mangroves; their bodies now floated on the surface of the water.

  Joseph, Pétion, and the other freedmen, who had gathered in the Culde-Sac plains and taken on the name the “Confederates of Croix des Bouquets,” were about to send for news when the soldiers from Artois and Normandy arrived accompanied by the escapees. Minette, Zoé, and Louise Rasteau were with them.

  Zoé, who had also lost her parents, told Lambert what had happened as she held him in her arms. Joseph, Pétion, and all the men from Beauvais’ troop were appalled by the horrific news, and their resentment grew even more intense. Swearing to get vengeance, the Confederates of Croix des Bouquets called on the southern troops, commanded by André Rigaud, and cut off the water supply. Dying of hunger and thirst, surrounded on one side by Rigaud’s troops and by Beauvais’ on the other, the population wandered the streets for days like starving animals.

  XXXV

  FOUR DAYS LATER, the silence in the hills broke. The lambi horn sounded lugubriously as it transmitted messages to the four corners of the island. Thousands of slaves, armed with pikes, sticks, and machetes descended from the hills to join those in the workhouses, sowing terror and death in their wake. Massacring, pillaging, and burning, they arrived at the doors of Cap-Français. The white population took up arms to defend itself against the revolting slaves. In the West and in the South, the slaves had risen up and were waging war under other leaders. Just as in the North, they were massacring, pillaging, and burning. After killing their masters, they raped their wives and daughters before slitting their throats. Not even the convents were respected and one could see terrified nuns fleeing as they implored the heavens for rescue. Although drunk with vengeance and hatred, the slaves remained lucid enough to choose the cruelest masters for their first targets. Thus was the Marquis de Caradeux’s home raided and burned to the ground. Hidden in a trunk where no one had thought to look for him, he heard his daughter’s screams of horror as the slaves raped her and his brother and son-in-law’s cries of agony. When the house was set afire, he left his hiding place and crawled to his daughter’s bedroom. She lay there, passed out. He took her in his arms, fled into the night, and reached a boat heading to the United States. More than a thousand white families were murdered that night and buried under the rubble of their homes, reduced to ashes.

  The volcano, which for long years the planters did not believe existed, was erupting. Like lava and ashes, the slaves poured from the hills, left the workhouses and the forests as if vomited up from a crater. Armed, they took their turn bringing their weapons down over and over, without mercy…

  Blaming the people of color for this terrible insurrection, the Whites killed them in droves. Free Blacks and Mulattos, hunted and persecuted, fled into the hills. These were indescribably terrifying times for everyone. Fossette Square, in Cap-Français, was filled with gallows from which hung Negroes and Mulattos, slave and free, often wrongly accused.

  The hospitals were overflowing with the wounded. The dead, piled up and poorly buried, gave off a nauseating smell. As if to add to the horror, yellow fever began to ravage hundreds of families, many of whom perished for lack of medical care…

  Praloto and M de Caradeux schemed with the planters of Arcahaie to seize that parish by surprise and thereby cut off all communication between the freedmen of Saint-Marc and those of the West. Jean-Baptiste Lapointe, warned by his spies, chose among his most intelligent slaves and sent them to rally slaves from the neighboring workhouses. Then, arming all of them, he sent them to attack the Whites in their homes and slaughter them.

  After the uprising, he gathered the revolting slaves with his own and led them into town, where the Whites, despite their suspicions, welcomed him as a savior. He had indeed entered as a peacemaker and publicly asked the slaves to return to their workhouses. How could anyone stand up to such a dangerous mixed-blood?

  For some time, the little house in Boucassin had become an important political salon, just like M de Caradeux’s luxurious home. Ever since Lapointe had returned from the Spanish side of the island, the most vindictive and hate-filled freedmen had been gathering there. He shrewdly kept their hatred alive by showing them the proof of the Whites’ bad faith toward them. Soon, he reigned over them like a dictator, naming himself head of the National Guard, then head of the police force and, finally, Mayor of Arcahaie. All the slaves of the region obeyed him blindly. His power was accepted and his will was law. It was the Whites’ turn to lower their heads in fear. He had them in the palm of his hand and he would not release them. He had sworn to make the Whites pay back bit by bit all the humiliation, all the dishonor, and all the disdain he and the other freedmen had felt for so long.

  In the meantime, he wanted to see Minette again and make her his wife. Her hold over him was as strong as the one he held over the Whites. All other women paled in comparison to her. Her reproaches made him admire and love her even more. Where was she? Had the black slave that was carrying her been able to save her? Mad with worry, he left Arcahaie and went to Croix des Bouquets, to the Confederates. The first person he encountered was Pétion:

  “There’s Jean Lapointe,” he cried.

  Minette, still recovering, was seated with Zoé on a flat rock surrounded by greenery. All around them, wildflowers trembling in the breeze shook their delicate petals. He came slowly toward them, restraining his fiery horse. They looked at one another in silence for a moment.

  “I was looking for you…”

  She said nothing and squeezed Zoé’s hand in hers.

  He dismounted his horse and took two steps toward her.

  “Did you see what happened?”

  Her voice was choked with emotion and full of tears as she spoke these words. Then, rising, she stood up and remained immobile, her hands clasped to her heart.

  “They killed my mother and sister.”

  “I know.”

  She raised her head, looked at him for a moment, and threw herself into his open arms. Then she cried. After a minute, her badly healed wound hurt so much that she had to close her eyes.

  “Humanity is made in the image of vultures. We have to fight, Minette, not with tears or prayers. Pity’s no longer in fashion. How many times will I have to tell you that?”

  She calmed down and wiped her tears.

  Beauvais, Lambert, Joseph, Pétion, and a few others came over to them.

  “Lapointe,” said Beauvais, “your latest maneuver in Arcahaie was an unparalleled feat of arms. Without your intervention, communication would have been cut between the freedmen of Saint-Marc and those of the West; we would have had to
surrender unconditionally. Allow me to thank you…”

  He shook his hand and, once a glass of rum had been served to everyone, drank to the success of the Confederate cause. That evening, Lapointe was alone with Minette and asked her to return to Boucassin with him.

  “I’ve proven to you that I, too, have been fighting for our cause. What do you hold against me? That I own slaves? That I beat them? Do you think that Ogé and Chavannes and all the people here would fight for their freedom? Everyone thinks only of himself, fights only for himself, and that’s already beautiful enough.”

  It had been some time since she had come to think the same way. Despair and all the fighting had aged her. Her idealism had been destroyed and she could see the truth of things more clearly.

  “I’ll join you very soon, Jean,” she promised him.

  “And this time, if you leave me, I’ll kill you.”

  He tried to take her in his arms again, so she had to admit to him that she had been wounded and was still suffering.

  “Wounded!” he cried out. “Oh, but you’ll get better. You’ll see a doctor tomorrow. I’ll bring him here myself.”

  She smiled weakly and caressed his face.

  “What strength you have in you!”

  He departed that night, leaving Minette, if not consoled, at least somewhat reassured. His vitality and energy had left some small mark on her wounded soul.

  The next day, he returned with a white doctor and had Minette show him her wound. It was deep, badly cared for, and half gangrened. The doctor made a bandage and advised her to rest. He said nothing to Lapointe, but in passing by Zoé, said:

  “It’s a nasty wound; this young girl needs the kind of regular care she can’t get here.”

  Zoé tried to get her to leave for Arcahaie. She refused. What was she afraid of? She herself did not know. She felt calm around her friends and, though she was in pain because of her wound, she had no desire to leave Croix des Bouquets. Weakened and distraught, perhaps she feared that some new conflict might separate her once again from Lapointe. It was better for her, she thought, to remain there and have him arrive at a gallop, impatient and lovelorn. She was also closer to the battle, more intimately involved in making decisions and getting news, which came daily and was more and more shocking. Thus it was that two days after the doctor’s visit, they learned that a boat arriving from France had left three civil commissioners on the shores of Cap-Français and that, astounded by the state of the colony, they had tried to restore order by entering into negotiations with the leaders of the revolting slaves.

  Beauvais asked for two volunteers: Joseph and Pétion were then sent to Port-au-Prince, from which they returned that afternoon with all sorts of information. Yes, the commissioners had indeed begun negotiations with the slave leaders. But the latter had demanded fifty autonomies in exchange for their surrender and the planters had refused to cede.

  “Haven’t they had enough of all this killing?” cried Lambert. “For heaven’s sake what kind of men are these?”

  And Minette, remembering the pile of corpses cluttering Traversière Street, hid her face in her hands.

  But all of this had to end; everyone had had enough. They made their final arrangements and decided to march on the Assembly of the West. Their numbers were small. Many had died in battle on the day of the massacre. The morning of their departure was a heartbreaking moment for the women. Marguerite Beauvais, who had lost the child she was carrying due to all she had lived through, Louise Rasteau, Zoé, and Minette all cried openly: these men were all they had left in the world. With their relatives dead, the freedmen’s army was their only consolation. Minette grabbed on to Jean Lapointe, Zoé clutched her brother, Marguerite Beauvais held on to her husband. They went from one to the other, telling them to be cautious, going to their satchels and adding a few last treats. Minette hugged Joseph and Pétion to her, kissed her lover one last time, and fled into the house. An indefinable taste rose in her throat. She took her handkerchief and spat. It was blood. She looked ahead with a strange expression and raised her hand to the spot on her chest where she had been wounded. Hearing the galloping of a horse, she raced outside. A messenger had arrived, out of breath. The news was staggering: three more commissioners had arrived from France with an expeditionary army of six thousand men and with an order to execute a decree favorable to the people of color. Everyone was overjoyed. The Confederates of Croix des Bouquets, learning that a mixed commission made up of six Whites and six freedmen had been formed, rallied to the side of the commissioners and the Governor and headed for Port-au-Prince. A brutal combat ensued for two days, after which the planters were defeated. Finally, it was the great and definitive victory they had sought for so many long years. Many of them had died, but many had stayed alive to bless this day and see their cause triumph. Welcomed by the jubilant population, the freedmen’s army entered the town, accompanied by the commissioners and the Governor. This time they marched along the main street, heads held high and cheered by the Whites themselves, as they headed toward the Municipality, where they proceeded to sign the decree recognizing their civil and political rights.

  Despite all of this satisfaction, hearts remained heavy: the city was in ruins. Port-au-Prince was no longer recognizable. Fire, death, and desolation had left violent traces everywhere. The actors of the Comédie had left for France and the site was nothing more than burned-out rubble. On Traversière Street, the market-women – half of whom had been killed – had become traveling vendors. The magnificent homes of Bel-Air, the boutiques, the Vaux-Halls – there was nothing left but a pile of ashes. The doors of the houses having been torn off, the looted homes stood wide open and completely emptied. The gaunt and ragged populace wandered through the streets, utterly distraught. Children – orphans – held out their hands to beg, and wept as they followed passersby, while starving dogs sniffed at them.

  The freedwomen in Croix des Bouquets could not look at the town without weeping. There was no one there to greet them – no homes, no relatives. Some few acquaintances came up to them, spoke to them about those who had died of hunger and thirst, those who had been murdered, those who had died on the battlefield. The dead, the dead, nothing but the dead. Such horror! Minette thought to herself. When she saw Scipion in the crowd, she let out a cry of relief. He would help her find out what had happened to her loved ones.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Miss,” he said simply.

  He brought her to a grave, recognizable by the immense cross comprised of two branches nailed together. A slight taste of blood rose in her throat, as it did every time she exerted herself at all.

  “Why, God, why?” she murmured, her eyes fixed on the cross.

  XXXVI

  TRYING TO FORGET the dead and regain their taste for living, the townspeople built dreams for the future on the still-smoking ruins of the town.

  Zoé’s house had been spared and Minette took shelter there. The army had dispersed. The men courageously rebuilt the homes that had been destroyed, and those who still had theirs opened their doors to those without shelter. After having searched in vain for a doctor to treat Minette, Lapointe had returned to his land in the hopes of finding someone there. The trip from Croix des Bouquets to Port-au-Prince had unleashed a frightening hemorrhage and Lapointe, desperately worried, had nearly lost his mind when Minette fainted. A local healer and Zoé had done their best to care for her, but Lapointe insisted on finding a doctor.

  The day after his departure for Arcahaie, Minette revealed to Zoé that she had decided to get married in just a few days.

  “That makes me very happy,” responded Zoé. “You two need one another…He’ll help you get well, and you’ll help him to change.”

  Minette had lowered her head without answering. Him – change? She had a hard time imagining him forgiving his tormentors, holding his hand out to the Whites, and forgetting the past. He had fought at his brothers’ sides to win this fight. Now that the battle had been won, he stayed firm in his j
udgments, and looked at the present situation with a clear eye.

  The situation was not ideal, and Minette, kept informed by Lapointe, anxiously observed what was happening all around her. It wasn’t over, and she sensed that Lapointe was right again. The planters’ hatred had not abated. Praloto was dead, M de Caradeux had left, but there were others to take their place. And those others, miraculous survivors of the slaves’ massacre, were still numerous. But more than ever, the colony needed everyone’s help: an enemy was knocking at its borders, hoping to exploit the dissension and disorder that reigned there. Rather than accept the decree favorable to the freedmen, the planters had allied themselves with a coalition of English and Spanish forces, enemies of Saint-Domingue.

  Sonthonax, the High Commissioner, was a hotheaded young revolutionary. Of medium height, he had the round, rosy cheeks of a young girl, which was decidedly misleading, given his pugnacious temperament. Three days after his arrival, he had installed a young Negress in his home to help, as he put it, cool the ardor of his blood. Treating her like a princess, he went around with her on his arm and, in this imitating the late François Saint-Martin, went about saying that white women paled in comparison to a goddess like his. He had made himself unlikeable to the planters with his revolutionary ideas, and he became even more hated once he began publicly declaring his preference for women of color. He understood immediately that if he wanted to get into the planters’ good graces he would have to work within the rules and do what he wanted in secret. Even love. But he refused.

  For the time being, the battle he was waging against hundreds of reactionary colonists was at its paroxysm. He had already had to capitulate to several of his aggressors, despite the aid of the freedmen. The enemy was exploiting the situation; the Spanish were already invading the neighboring market towns.