In Darkness (21 page)

He comforted himself, too, with the knowledge that things would be worse if he were not present. The troops he and his fellow generals commanded were a ragtag bunch, attired in many cases in the ill-fitting clothes of their masters, armed with bric-a-brac weapons. They were difficult to lead, much prone to mindless obedience or brusque refusal, with no response in between. Yet lead them he had – to several notable victories on the way to their conquest of the mountains.

His only injury, so far, was his left front tooth, which had been knocked out by a shell ejected from his rifle. He liked to smile at people now and show this hole; he had even styled himself Toussaint l’Ouverture for this opening in his teeth. The men in camp put it about that he was called l’Ouverture for the openings he was able to create in enemy lines, and he smiled even more at that. It had not been his intention in taking the name, but it was good nevertheless, for he understood that when a soldier takes pride in his leader, it is his own self-respect and bravery that benefits. He had been a slave – he understood the power of names. His French master had named him Toussaint, for he was born on the feast day of all saints. Now he named himself, and if his name spoke of his military prowess, not a foolish injury, then all the better.

Unfortunately, whilst he had created his own legend almost without meaning to, he had been unable to erase completely the fearsome reputation of his troops. They were still given to excessive cruelty when it came to the whites, and they had too much of an appetite for blood, destruction, and rapine. Biassou all but encouraged this behavior.

But eventually, there will be no Biassou and no Jean-Fran
ç
ois, just me,
Toussaint thought.
Then the soldiers will do as I command, all of them, and bring no shame upon our enterprise.

— Their plan is not stupid, he said to Jean-Christophe as he studied the terrain. Marmalade is the only place the French can repair to. I hold Dondon, and Biassou and Jean-François control la Grande Rivière. The French must flee from Cape Town or be destroyed, yet they cannot hope to face us here in open battle. If they gain a foothold in Marmalade, however, we’ll have to fight them for the interior.

— They move next week, said Jean-Christophe.

— Very well. He indicated the map. They don’t know about these caves, I’m sure of it. We’ll be ready.

— Ready for what? said Biassou, who was sitting near the entrance to the tent.

He was a fat man, and he liked to be close to a breeze if possible. Even so, sweat was darkening his shirt and running in rivulets down the creases in the flesh of his face. Toussaint forced a smile onto his face. Jean-François was otherwise occupied, strengthening his defenses to the east, but he knew Biassou was a threat to his leadership.

— An ambush, he said. I’m hoping I can take their main force without a drop of blood being spilled.

Biassou laughed, a sound like a pig eating.

— And how will you do that? he said. By vodou? Will Ogou Badagry take them all down to the land under the sea?

— No, said Toussaint. He held up the map. With this. And with words.

Biassou shrugged.

— To hell with words, he said. Swords are better. He touched the sword at his side. I killed my own master with this one. I never felt anything sweeter. I say we face the French on the open field, like men.

— You’re right, said Toussaint. It’s good to avenge oneself on an enemy. But remember – if we inherit this earth, as the meek should, then we should share that inheritance. Slaughter all the whites and mulats, and we’ll only create a blood feud that echoes throughout history.

Biassou sighed.

— You would have us be merciful? he said. After all that they’ve done?

Toussaint shook his head.

— No, I would have us be pragmatic. Listen. We’ll try it my way. If it fails, we’ll kill them all.

Biassou smiled.

— I like that plan, he said.

The following week, Toussaint sat on his horse, looking down a long and gently sloping valley. The French soldiers progressed upward like some great insectile horde. He had not been a general long enough to have the knack of counting men at a glance, but he reckoned that there must be thousands of them. They preserved a semblance of discipline, even in the heat, and despite the skirmishes Toussaint’s men had visited upon them as they left Cape Town, although he noted through his spyglass that many in the rear ranks were borne on stretchers.

— Is everyone in position? he asked.

Biassou grinned.

— Ambuscades have been set up on all sides, he said.

He pointed to the treeline on either side of the valley and the caves beyond. From here, Toussaint couldn’t see their men, but that was the point.

He and Biassou were concealed behind a mound of earth just near the top of the valley. They had ridden at night to take these positions. Now they watched as the serried ranks of men, the steam-breathing horses, the dragged cannons processed steadily uphill.

— Now, Toussaint said.

Jean-Christophe, who was reined up beside them, nodded and spurred his mount, cantering down toward the front line of the French army. A white flag fluttered on the pole that he carried at his side. Toussaint could not hear what he shouted to them, but he knew what it was because it was his words in the other man’s mouth. Jean-Christophe was telling them that General Toussaint l’Ouverture requested the opportunity to treat personally with the leader of the French army, and invited him to ride ahead of his force that they might parley.

After much commotion amongst the troops, a man in a hat emerged from the fray, mounted on a magnificent stallion that began to trot up the hill beside the young mulat. Toussaint nodded to Biassou, and they rode to meet him.

They encountered one another some hundred yards before the advancing army. Toussaint dismounted and bowed to the French admiral, or lieutenant, or whatever he was. For his part, Biassou stayed on his horse; he wasn’t the type to learn that bowing doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to. In fact, he darted a quick frown at Toussaint, as if
he
were betraying weakness.
Well, let Biassou wait and see what happens
, Toussaint thought.

The French leader remained at saddle also; a Frenchman would not meet a black on equal terms. Toussaint smiled inwardly. Here he was, abasing himself, the only one of the three to dismount and bow, and yet he would carry the day.

The Frenchman was tall and arrogant of feature, perhaps fifty years old, but with a strong thick chest and a narrow waist, a shining sword at his side.

— Do you wish to negotiate the terms of your surrender? he asked.

His accent was pure Paris.

Toussaint laughed.

— I wish to negotiate the terms of yours.

The Frenchman made a show of looking around him, casting his eyes over his thousands of men.

— It would seem I am at a numerical advantage, he said.

— Then you place a lot of faith in appearances, said Toussaint.

He raised his hand and his soldiers moved forward from their positions, from behind rock and tree and earthen redoubt. He knew how many men
he
had – five thousand, some half of them armed with guns taken from the slave masters, or the white army. Indeed, many of his men were white – soldiers who had fought with the commission but who had afterward joined his cause, desiring the permanent expulsion of the colonizers and the unification and independence of Haiti.

The Frenchman blanched and reached for his saber, but Biassou was already pointing his rifle at him, and his hand soon stilled.

Toussaint gripped his reins and, with an ease that belied his age, swung himself up onto his saddle again. He made his mount uprear on its hind legs, and shouted for attention from the white soldiers:

— Lay down your weapons!

— Do you dare to address my men? the Frenchman asked.

Toussaint ignored him.

— You are surrounded by the men of Toussaint l’Ouverture and Biassou of the free Haitian army! he shouted. We are men of honor. You have many wounded – recommend them to the care of our women and our healers. They’ll be well treated, as will you. Any man who surrenders to us will be allowed to live.

Some of the soldiers began to lower their weapons. Toussaint smiled – the plan was working. He raised his rifle in the air, in a display of power.

— Yield, and you’ll live, he shouted. I swear it. Fight, and every last one of you will die.

He did not know if it was his supplication or the realization on the part of the French that their situation was hopeless, but suddenly the weapons began to fall, with a cliquetis of metal on wood, of metal on hard stony ground. Soon the great army had unarmed itself.

Biassou uttered a cry of triumph. He turned to the closest of his soldiers, the ones hidden in the bushes to the north.

— Now! he shouted. They’re defenseless. Kill –

He did not get any further. Smoothly, Toussaint brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired, tearing the top off Biassou’s head, hot blood spraying into the air.
Damn him
, Toussaint thought. The man collapsed at the waist, his feet still caught in the stirrups, and his startled horse carried him uphill, flopping like a rag doll.

— DO NOT FIRE! Toussaint roared to the men.

A good half of them were Biassou’s, and the air trembled with the metallic resonance of the possibility that they would mutiny, turning on Toussaint, then slaughtering the French.

He took a deep breath.

— Any man who kills a prisoner will answer to me with his life!

There was a terrible pregnant moment, as Toussaint observed the hesitation on the faces of the free blacks, the mulats, and the whites who had joined them.

A moment passed, eternally.

Another.

Sweat beaded on Toussaint’s brow and nose, dripped down, and landed on the warm skin of his horse; he fancied that he could hear the tiny splash it made.

To Toussaint’s relief, though, absolutely nothing happened. No one moved; no one fired. A bird called somewhere, and a frog sang.

— Collect their weapons, he said to Jean-Christophe. Take the wounded to our infirmary tent. Any soldier who wishes to join us is welcome; we accept no segregation in this army. Tell them there’ll be freedom, and food to eat, and some English to kill soon, I warrant.

— English? said the French leader, who looked pale and shaken.

— Yes, said Toussaint. I gather His Majesty’s Royal Navy has landed at Guildive.

— What? Why?

— I presume, said Toussaint, that they’ve observed France’s loss of control over the country and think to take it for themselves. I imagine, further, that they would like to enslave us once again. We, and the sugar we grow, are very valuable, are we not?

The French leader nodded, slowly.

— So. We eat and drink. Then we ride to Guildive, and any of your men are free to join us, provided you pledge allegiance to myself and to Haiti. You French love killing the English, so I hear.

One of the soldiers nearby laughed, and didn’t stop when the French leader shot him an angry look.

I have them
, thought Toussaint.
I have them
.

Only at that moment did he realize his hands were shaking, and he turned to see if Biassou’s corpse was riding around still, but the horse had disappeared. He felt sickness wrapping its clammy hands around his belly, and he saw the Frenchman looking at him as if he were some kind of monster.

Good god
, he thought.
Now they’ll start saying I took my name from the time I opened up Biassou’s head.

But he had sworn that the French soldiers would live if they laid down their arms, and Biassou would have massacred them. Toussaint was many things, but most of all he was a man of his word.

Now

I think maybe the oxygen is running out in here. I can hear my heart –
boom, boom, boom
– it’s like one of the beats that Biggie used to rap to. I can hear my breathing, too; it’s loud and shallow. I don’t want to die in the darkness, so I start to cry, but then I think I shouldn’t cry cos it’s a waste of water.

But I’m not going to die without a fight. That’s what Biggie used to say. He used to say:

— Don’t come after me. Don’t come after me or my soldiers, cos I will come after you a thousand times harder. Come after me, mwen apè mange, you, I’ll eat you up, man. I’ll come at you in broad daylight.

Broad daylight. I think about that. I want to see the daylight. There’s no moun coming after me, but maybe the walls of this place are my enemy; maybe I should fight. I crawl over to the closest pile of rubble and I start to pull at it. It’s stupid cos I saw the building from above – I think I did, anyway – and I know I can’t dig myself out.

But I try.

I’m a cold gangster, real G, motherfucker. Gangster for life. That’s what I say to the plaster and the metal and the concrete, cursing that stuff as it cuts my hands. I can’t see it, but I throw it behind me. I’m crying, I think, and I’m grabbing this stuff and just throwing it into the darkness. I don’t even know if I’m going in the right direction.