In Darkness (29 page)

LECLERC

The General-in-Chief of the Army of Haiti,

and Captain-General of the colony

Toussaint had laughed, even as he wept. Rebels? There were no rebels in Haiti. A few soldiers, maybe, who found the life of fighting hard to give up and had become bandits, but no more than that. Haiti was peaceful for the first time in years, and this Leclerc thought an army of thousands the best means of keeping it that way? He was outraged, too, with how the man styled himself: General-in-Chief of the Army of Haiti – as if he had ever stepped foot on her beautiful land.

It was clever, however, this issue of the rebels. Inventing these rebels made it possible to claim Toussaint and his men amongst them. Some of the whites might even be convinced – obedience to France was a hard lesson for them to forget. Toussaint would not be surprised if this letter, like Bonaparte’s proclamation before it, was making its way secretly around Cape Town.

He had Leclerc’s letter in his hand as he looked down on the ships in the bay. Irritated and weary, he struck a match and held it to the paper. It curled, blackened, and then burned. Not until after the flame had bitten his hand did he drop the letter to the ground.

He turned, disgusted, and mounted his horse.

— Tell them to burn it, he said.

Jean-Christophe frowned.

— Burn what? The town?

— Everything. Tell them to burn everything – the whole coast. Let the French land amidst fire and destruction; let them have a taste here of the hell that awaits them for this crime. We will repair to the mountains.

— Everything? said Jean-Christophe.

— Everything, he replied. Burn it all.

A month later, Toussaint was at Dondon.

He still didn’t have his son with him, and this grieved him. Isaac remained in Paris, where he had been sent soon after Toussaint gained control of Haiti as a gesture of goodwill and trust on his part toward France. He was, in effect, a hostage, and still the French came to reclaim the country.

He did have some peace, though, and he was pleased to spend this time at Dondon, sitting in the evenings, listening to the crickets, enjoying simple food, drinking wine, and talking with his closest advisors, the freed slaves who had been with him from the beginning. It reminded him a little of the life they had had at the plantations before all the bloodshed had begun, although of course then they had not been free.

Toussaint sat always in the same chair by the open flap of his tent. He could have slept in any plantation house in the interior, but he preferred the tent – it showed the troops that he did not believe himself better than they. Hanging at the tent’s entrance was his long-coat; he hung it there to remind himself, and others, of who they were dealing with. It was burned at the hem, torn, and penetrated in several places by musket balls – the legacy of his ride from the north to Dondon after supervising the burning of the ports to slow the French. He had inadvertently come up on Leclerc’s rear guard, and those brave French soldiers had fired on him – him, the governor-general! – and almost taken his life. His horse had been killed beneath him. And yet, as hole-ridden as he subsequently found his long-coat, not a single ball had insulted his flesh.

That was not my destiny
, he thought.

Once he had ordered the burning of the coastline, there had been little for him to do but wait. He and his troops ate well from the crops and stores in the interior. But the French, he knew, would starve sooner or later. He had left them nothing but ashes. So he bided his time, receiving intelligence daily from his spies and his generals, learning of the civil unrest in Gonlaive, of the riots in Cape Town, of the hangings in Port-au-Prince.

Let them stay
, he thought.
They’ll kill themselves eventually and we can reclaim the coast
.

It was still his aim to avoid direct confrontation if possible. Jean-Christophe urged him to double his bodyguard, though, to station armed and trusted men around him at all times, to warn all the soldiers of his army to be on their guard. He suspected that the French would use some stratagem, some canular, to take him unawares and either kill or imprison him. Toussaint always dismissed this with irritation. The French might want their slaves back, but they were men of honor nevertheless. They would not stoop to such tactics.

— Besides, he told Jean-Christophe, for a man to sacrifice his life for his country when she finds herself in peril is a sacred duty, but for a man to arouse his country to save his life is inglorious. I am not Haiti. Should I die, we will still have our freedom, so long as we’re prepared to keep fighting for it.

It seemed to him that if the first war for Haiti was a war of weapons, then this second was a war of letters. He read and wrote several a day. So he was not surprised when Jean-Christophe peered through the flap and told him:

— There’s someone here who has a letter for you.

Toussaint stood and tied the tent flap full open. Then he stared at the man who stood there.

— Isaac, he said. My son.

He was amazed by how much the boy had grown. It was a commonplace thing, the growing of children, but it thrilled him and filled him with pride that he had produced this handsome man who stood before him! He was the Ogre; his son was a prince.

— I am so glad to see you, Isaac, he continued.

He stepped forward and embraced him, felt the broadness of his shoulders. Strong, too, as well as handsome! His pride seemed something alive that might burst out of him.

Isaac smiled, extricated himself from the embrace, then kissed him in the French fashion. Toussaint narrowed his eyes. The gesture had seemed pointed; was it meant as an instruction on how people greeted one another in civilized countries?

— Papa, he said. It is good to see you, too. You look tired.

— It’s this country, Toussaint said. People keep trying to take it from us.

— So I understand, said Isaac. Well, I’m here to help now.

Toussaint sent for wine and food, then bade Isaac sit. He could not credit that his son was here, in the uplands of Haiti. He had believed him still in Paris, at his studies. He could not credit how much Isaac had grown up, either, and what a man he seemed.

I suppose he is a man
, he thought.
In age, at least.

Leadership had not found Toussaint until his fifties. Who knew at what age his son would be required to take up the mantle of responsibility?

Isaac explained that Bonaparte had requested that he sail to Haiti to try to end the stalemate between Leclerc and Toussaint, and to reunite the island.

— I would love for the island to be reunited, said Toussaint. But Leclerc insists on landing troops on our shores and killing our soldiers. I interpret that as an act of war, and believe I would be a great fool not to.

Isaac smiled.

— You have never been a fool, Father, he said. Leclerc appears to have . . . overstepped his bounds. The consul is displeased with his service, and he has been recalled to Paris.

— Are you sure? asked Toussaint.

He had not heard this, but then, news from the coast was infrequent and slow to arrive. The unrest in the country had given rise to bandits, who robbed and killed many of those brave enough to dare the tracks.

— I’m sure, said Isaac. He has been replaced by a man named Brunet. I treated with him in Cape Town. He says that you have been grossly calumniated by Leclerc, that his predecessor spread many vile lies about you, and that he himself has nothing but the greatest respect for you, as the liberator of your country and elected leader of your people.

— And the troops? Toussaint asked. Will Brunet withdraw the troops?

— He says he will, Father. He asks only that you commit some of yours to the maintenance of safety in the towns and on the roads. He says that the bandits must be stopped for the peace and prosperity of the country. The civil conflict, too.

Isaac produced a letter from this Brunet. Toussaint unfolded it and read it.

To Toussaint, styled l’Ouverture,

I fear, Citizen-General, that you have been unfairly maligned by Captain-General Leclerc, who caused unfounded rumors to be spread around the towns of your reputed work to destabilize this country. I do not share Leclerc’s views, I must assure you, since I am utterly persuaded that your sentiments tend only to bring back order in the district which you inhabit. As such I have ordered the withdrawal of all French troops from the island, and this evacuation has already commenced. I am prepared, also, to accept you as Governor-General, and officially invest in you the power to rule Haiti on behalf of France.

In the spirit of cooperation and friendship, however, I would ask you kindly that you render me aid in order to restore communication with Cape Town, which was yesterday interrupted for the second time this month, since three persons have been murdered by a band of fifty brigands between Ennery and Coupe-à-Pintade. Send toward those places faithful men to preserve the peace, whom you will pay well; I will be accountable for the outlay.

There are also, my dear General, arrangements which we ought to make in concert, which it is impossible to treat of by letter, but which an hour’s conference would resolve. Had I not today been overwhelmed with business, I would myself have brought this letter and trusted myself to the good offices of your troops, knowing the honorable conduct you require of them.

Occupied as I am, though, I must beg you to come to my residence. You will not find there all the pleasures which I would wish to welcome you with, but you will find the frankness of an honorable man who desires nothing but the happiness of the colony and your own happiness. Never, General, will you find a more sincere friend than myself. With confidence in me and my officers, you will enjoy tranquillity.

As a final gage of my honor, I append to this letter a most precious article – your son. Only consider how France might have used your son as a hostage against you, instead of returning him, and you will have a measure of my sincerity. When you visit me you may bring him with you or not, as it pleases you. I assure you that the two of you will be reunited in either case.

I cordially salute you,

BRUNET

Toussaint turned to his son.

— Do you trust this man? he asked.

Isaac nodded.

— I knew him in Paris, he said. He is a man of honor.

Toussaint smiled.

— Then when we have supped and spent a night here in the mountains, we will saddle our horses. It seems Haiti may have found peace at last.

Now

There’s a crack of light. I don’t think I’m imagining it. It’s up ahead of me and it looks like a shining river on a map. It’s tiny, or it’s far away.

Sweat is pouring down me, which worries me. I don’t think I can afford to lose any more water than I already have.

There are no more voices, and at present I’m not shouting. I’m still too far from the crack of light for that. Besides, I don’t want to wear out my voice.

I think I broke one of my fingers. It’s painful to touch it, and when I explored it with my other hand I found it hanging strangely. So I’m digging mostly with my left hand now. A minute ago, I had to brace my knees against the side and push with my back to try to move a metal bar that was lying across my path. I didn’t move it much, but enough to crawl another meter.

As hope lights up ahead of me, a line for me to follow, I remember when all my hope was taken away.

I remember that I crouched next to Marguerite, or whoever she was, for only one moment before the world exploded with noise again.

First, there was a rumbling bass noise, and I turned and saw a tank bursting through the wreckage of the exploded car. It was like a hip-hop video, but much louder and more real. Then there was a loud noise very close.

Thwup, thwup, thwup, thwup.

I recognized it from the night when Dread Wilmè died. It was a helicopter. I saw it hovering above the shack we were crouching by. From somewhere behind the tank, men in black uniforms and black helmets poured into the street, the whole thing like a nightmare, covered everywhere in smoke.

There was a rattle of machine-gun fire. I pushed Marguerite to the ground and lay on top of her.

I saw Biggie turn to the soldiers and raise his gun. A tear-gas canister sailed over his head, coughing out gray smoke, and he covered his eyes as he fired. I don’t know if he hit anything, but lots of things hit him. I saw him shaking as the bullets tore through him, and I saw that Manman was not exaggerating when she told her story of Dread Wilmè, cos I could see the floodlights and the smoke through Biggie’s body, through the holes in his chest, they were that big.

I thought about Dread’s bone powder that Biggie had sprinkled on himself, to make himself proof against bullets. It didn’t look like it was working.