Caribbean (82 page)

Throughout that first terrible night, when word filtered into town of the widespread destruction and loss of life, Espivent went sleepless, marching stiffly from one battle position to the next, encouraging the men and consoling wives whose husbands had been out on their plantations: “Yes, it’s painful. I have good men at Colibri, and I must hope that they’ll find a way to stay alive. Your husband will, too, I’m sure.”

For more than a week the fury raged, with Espivent denying the slaves entry to Le Cap, and César Vaval protecting Colibri. As the raping and burning began to decline, the black leaders of the rioting were grateful to César for having maintained the plantation, for it became an oasis of sanity in a fractured world. Blacks came there for food and water and to find rest among the trees. It was an errant irony that the detested Espivent plantation should have been spared.

It was during this savage period that César became a man so well spoken of by his fellow blacks that his reputation spread afar. “He’s a man of stability. He knows what can be done and what can’t,” they said, and one day in September, as a result of this good report, he was visited by a tall, imposing black man, who said: “It was difficult getting through the lines. New troops arriving from France. They’ve caught Boukman, you know. Going to rack and hang him.”

“What plantation are you from?” César asked, assuming the man to be a slave, and the stranger replied: “Bréda,” a well-regarded plantation almost as fine as Colibri. Then he added: “I’m the manager there. From what they tell me, you ought to be manager here.”

“Monsieur Espivent would never hear of that,” and the big man said: “He would if he were wise.”

“But what’s your name? And why are you here?”

“Toussaint L’Ouverture. And I’m here to see you. To satisfy myself as to what you’re like.”

He remained for two nights, during which he met with all the other slaves of whom he’d heard good reports, and at the close of his visit he told César: “You’ll be hearing from me. Not now. Too much confusion. But hold yourself ready. Remember my name, Toussaint, and when I call, come.”

Terror, murder and betrayal spread to every corner of St.-Domingue. On 15 May 1791 the government in Paris passed a law, long overdue, giving the free-coloreds of St.-Domingue the political liberties they
had sought, but the edict was so meanly hedged with property and other qualifications that only some one hundred and forty free-coloreds in all of St.-Domingue were eligible. That alone caused an anguished outcry, but when even that truncated document reached Le Cap, Jerome Espivent, conveniently ignoring the gallant role the free-coloreds had played in defending the town, launched a violent assault on the law, shouting in one gathering after another: “To admit them with their contaminated blood to the governance of this colony would be to destroy the meaning of the word France!” and he was so persuasive that he convinced the local council to deny rights to even the one hundred and forty who were eligible.

This clearly meant that the free-coloreds had no hope of justice, now or in the future, and upon no one did the disillusionment fall harder than on the Prémords, who felt so ostracized and humiliated that Julie cried in despair: “We must fight this out with Espivent … now!” She forced her reticent husband to march with her to the château, where at first they were denied entrance. But when the owner heard the ruckus at his door, he came out from his study: “What’s going on here?” and when he saw the Prémords he growled: “And what do you want?”

“Justice,” Julie snapped, but Espivent, always a proper
grand blanc
and a minor member of the nobility to boot, ignored her, indicating he would not discuss any important matter with a woman. But to Xavier he said: “Come in,” and when they were inside, he pointedly kept the handsome couple standing, refusing them even the courtesy of a chair. “Now tell me,” he said grudgingly, “what is the matter?”

“Your refusal to allow the laws of France to operate here,” Julie said with such force that he had to acknowledge her this time, but his answer had a terrible finality about it: “France is France, and if it runs wild, this colony will pick and choose.”

“And you choose to keep us in bondage forever?” Julie asked, and he said: “You have greater freedoms than you merit,” and he edged them toward the door, thus informing them that they could expect no improvement of their lot so long as he and his friends remained in control of the island.

Julie could not accept this: “Monsieur Espivent, in the bad days, when it looked as if the slaves would burn all of Le Cap, you called on us free-coloreds for assistance—to save your château, your clubs, your theater. Do you remember assigning Xavier and me to positions of extreme importance?” Standing straight and tall in his blue dressing
gown, Espivent replied: “In times of crisis a wise general calls upon all the troops he has under his command.” Julie lost control: “We’ll not be under your command forever,” but as he closed his door upon them he said: “I think you will.”

So, with expanding revolution threatening to destroy metropolitan France, her colonies and indeed her civilization, the people of St.-Domingue remained separated into their three stubborn groups, each unwilling or incapable of leading the colony toward rational behavior. It is difficult to visualize the pitiful condition to which their continued brawling brought the colony, but the American first mate on a trading vessel out of Charleston in South Carolina reported what he saw when he left ship at Port-au-Prince to travel overland to rejoin his crew at Cap-Français:

He concluded with comments which summarized his judgment as an experienced trader in these waters:

And in that state of chaos St.-Domingue, once the pearl of the Caribbean, envied by all the other islands, plodded along. But new decisions
reached in revolutionary France were about to reconstruct the community. Stern orders came: “Limited equality must be immediately granted to those hundred and forty free-coloreds designated earlier,” and when notice of this was delivered to Xavier Prémord in his shop he embraced his wife: “This day the world begins anew,” but she asked suspiciously: “For us, yes, but what of the others?” and in his club Jerome Espivent grumbled to his cronies: “Revolution has at last crossed the Atlantic. This is the end of decency as we knew it.”

But this was merely the start of the upheaval, for shortly thereafter came startling news: “All free-coloreds to be granted legal, military and social equality,” and then: “Complete freedom for any slave who has ever served in the French army, and also for their wives and children.”

A bellowing of rage greeted the last decree, and it came not only from an outraged Espivent and his fellow
grands blancs
, but also from Xavier Prémord and his free-coloreds, and it would be difficult to determine which faction detested the new regulations more. Certainly Prémord saw it as the first fearful step in a movement that must ultimately alter his life, for once the slaves were free, the free-coloreds would become superfluous, and in rejecting the new law he used almost the same words as Espivent: “The dam is breaking.” But his wife was more hopeful: “We cannot change what has happened and we must be prepared to adjust to whatever comes next,” and she let her husband know that in her management of their plantation she would begin to take those steps which would enable them to adjust to freedom for their slaves when it came.

And it did come with startling suddenness, for on 14 June 1794 a packet boat arrived from France with final instructions from the revolutionary government: “All slaves in St.-Domingue are to be granted complete freedom.” At last it seemed that this glorious island, so filled with human promise, was about to be restored to sanity, with its three groups working together toward the common purpose of equality and productivity. Optimists calculated that within two years the plantations would recover to the point where they would be delivering as much sugar as before, but Julie, who understood her slaves, assured other owners: “We’ll do even better, because when your slaves are free, they’ll work harder than before.”

Despite that chance for sanity, Espivent and his powerful friends declared war against the new decree and threatened to shoot any owner who tried to implement it. Knowing that he would need a
united citizenry if the blacks rebelled at being denied what was now legally theirs, he came to Prémord’s shop dressed in his full military regalia, and asked: “Could we meet in your kitchen?” and when they sat about the rough, sturdy table that Julie herself had built, he said persuasively: “Obviously, we must now work together, for once the blacks get their freedom, they’ll move against both of us.” Xavier nodded in agreement, but Julie cried out in protest: “No! This is wrong! The blacks should be free, and we coloreds should work with them, because you”—and she pointed her finger almost in Espivent’s face—“will never grant us acceptance, even if we do help you win this time.”

“Madam,” Espivent said without raising his voice, “had you uttered those words out in the street, you would have been shot. This is war, war to the death, and you must stand with us or we shall both be swept away in a black hurricane.” So that night the free-coloreds of Cap-Français placed themselves once more under the leadership of the
grands blancs
for the defense of the town.

Why did they submit so passively to this repeated humiliation and betrayal? Xavier Prémord had known why from the start: “We have no other option. We’re trapped between unyielding whites and vengeful blacks, but since the whites have the guns and the ships, we must ally with them and trust that sooner or later they’ll show us generosity.” Julie, of course, argued differently: “The blacks are so numerous they’ll overcome the guns and ships. We must ally with them,” but as a woman, her voice in council mattered little.

When the outlines of the great civil war that would destroy even further the wealth of St.-Domingue were drawn, César Vaval, snug in his leadership of the blacks on Colibri Plantation, told his wife: “We have no quarrel with Espivent and he has none with us. Keep calm and do nothing to create a new frenzy like the one Boukman started.” And between them they persuaded the Colibri blacks to remain aloof from the rapidly forming battle lines.

But one night that compelling black leader from Bréda Plantation returned, loomed ominously in the doorway, and told Vaval: “I said I’d be coming back one day to summon you. I am here,” and Toussaint L’Ouverture’s appearance was so commanding, his dedication to the black revolt so forceful, that Vaval asked but one word: “Battle?”

“Yes.”

“Against Le Cap again?” When this question was asked so boldly and so quickly, Toussaint became evasive, but César pressed: “Not Cap? We heading south to Port-au-Prince?” at which the Negro leader blurted out: “No! We’ve been offered tremendous promises by the Spaniards to fight on their side … against the French.”

Vaval was stunned. He had always supposed that the slaves’ fight for freedom would be a prolonged affair against reluctant French whites like his own master, Espivent. But now to be asked to join a foreign army, to fight against what he considered his own country, that seemed treacherous and unworthy, and he said: “I would not feel easy,” and Toussaint reached down and grabbed him by the neck: “Do you trust me or not?” and Vaval looked up: “I do.”

“Then come!”

Thus in mid-1793 the great black leader led Vaval and some half-dozen of his other lieutenants across the mountainous border and into camps where the Spaniards were preparing a full-scale attack on St.-Domingue. It was a bold decision, a terrible one, really, but Toussaint, having watched a score of constructive laws passed in Paris but ignored in the colony, saw no way to correct such injustice except to join with the Spaniards, drive out the French, and then make the best deal possible with the new victors.

The strategy worked, at least in the beginning, for the reinforced Spanish armies swept across the border and quickly captured the mountainous eastern third of the French colony. With surging joy Toussaint cried to his black troops: “We’ll soon have the whole country!” But cautious Vaval probed when they were alone: “Then what? Spaniards don’t like us any better than the French do,” and Toussaint, finding strength from being back on familiar terrain, said: “Old friend, you must trust me. I want what you want, but the secret is to keep fluid. If you keep watching, you usually discover what the next step must be.” Now César, who was becoming his general’s conscience, warned: “Don’t be too clever.”

He had barely uttered this warning when runners from the seacoast brought frightening information: “Toussaint! The British have declared war on everybody—the French, the Spanish, even us. They see a chance to steal the entire colony. Their warships have captured every port on the Caribbean side.”

“Le Cap, too?”

“No, the French still hold that.”

When subsequent couriers confirmed the news, other self-styled black generals met one afternoon in their camp atop the middle of three small hills—their Spanish allies were occupying the hill to the east, and at a farther distance, the French army waited on the western hill. As the men joined Toussaint they knew that this would be a meeting of crucial importance, but none of them, Vaval least of all, could have guessed what was to be discussed.