violence.
— Bayou is in there, said one of them.
Toussaint didn’t know the man, thought perhaps he had come from one of the neighboring smallholdings. He was pointing to the door of the house.
— We’ll pull them out, said another. Make them pay.
Toussaint raised a hand.
— Bayou has treated us justly, he said. Let’s give him free passage to Cape Town.
— Why? said a woman. Tonight the whites die.
— No. Tonight the blacks rise, said Toussaint. And the whites flee, if they have any sense. If we kill those who surrender, we’re as bad as they are.
He sensed their hesitation and seized it.
— Wait for me, he said. Arm yourselves. Look out for commissioners, for white vigilantes, but do not take up weapons to kill an old man.
Silent, shrugging, they let him past into the house.
Bayou de Libertas was abed still. Toussaint opened the door without knocking and knelt by the bed, taking pains to conceal his machete. Nevertheless, when he touched the master’s shoulder and de Libertas awoke, he looked at Toussaint with anxiety.
— What is it? Is it the mulats?
The attempted rebellion by the mulats, and its brutal suppression, had occurred only a month before. That had been confined to the towns, though, where the rich mulats lived, spending their fathers’ money on whores descended from their mothers’ bloodline, and on wine grown by their French forefathers. The mulats’ rebellion had never reached the countryside.
— No, he said. No, Bayou. It’s the blacks.
De Libertas shrank from him then, and Toussaint felt his heart harden.
He suspects me , Toussaint thought. After everything, he looks at me and he sees an animal.
With an effort, Toussaint regained his composure. Madame de Libertas was awake now, too, and staring about her in alarm.
— I don’t mean you any harm, said Toussaint. You’ve been good to me. But you must leave. Now. Tell anyone you meet that you surrendered, that your land belongs to the slaves who farm it.
Bayou de Libertas nodded – he was ever a man of quick understanding. He got out of bed in his nightcap and gown, and went over to the sideboard. He began to take items from its drawers.
— It’s better if you take nothing, said Toussaint. No money or weapons. There will be less cause to kill you then.
Madame de Libertas began to cry and her husband shushed her.
— Gather the children, the master said, although he was master of nothing now. Toussaint will prepare a carriage.
Madame de Libertas hurried from the room, but not before turning and directing at Toussaint a look of fear and suspicion, an insult that needed no words to deliver its blow.
— Take horses, said Toussaint. A carriage will be too slow.
De Libertas continued to arrange items at the sideboard, taking a quill from a wooden stationery box, dipping it in the built-in inkwell – how many times Toussaint had replaced that ink! – and leaning down to scrawl something on a leaf of paper.
— Don’t worry, I’m not taking anything, he said, noticing Toussaint’s look of impatience.
He handed the paper to Toussaint, before hurrying from the room. Toussaint began to fold it, to put it in his pocket for Boukman to read later. But to his surprise the black scrawls jumped off the paper into his mind and formed words there. He stared at them in disbelief. But I can’t read! he thought. Yet the paper offered itself to him and opened up its meaning.
He put his hand to his heart, felt it beating fiercely. The whole room seemed to swim, to breathe. Is this magic? What happened to me in that clearing? He felt at once himself and not himself. Wasn’t it a fact – an undeniable fact – that he couldn’t read? And yet here he was, looking at this piece of paper, apprehending the words written on it. He felt that he might faint, and steadied himself by seizing the corner of the sideboard. He stared, open-mouthed, at the paper.
I, Bayou de Libertas, being of sound mind and good health, do hereby
— Bayou is in there, said one of them.
Toussaint didn’t know the man, thought perhaps he had come from one of the neighboring smallholdings. He was pointing to the door of the house.
— We’ll pull them out, said another. Make them pay.
Toussaint raised a hand.
— Bayou has treated us justly, he said. Let’s give him free passage to Cape Town.
— Why? said a woman. Tonight the whites die.
— No. Tonight the blacks rise, said Toussaint. And the whites flee, if they have any sense. If we kill those who surrender, we’re as bad as they are.
He sensed their hesitation and seized it.
— Wait for me, he said. Arm yourselves. Look out for commissioners, for white vigilantes, but do not take up weapons to kill an old man.
Silent, shrugging, they let him past into the house.
Bayou de Libertas was abed still. Toussaint opened the door without knocking and knelt by the bed, taking pains to conceal his machete. Nevertheless, when he touched the master’s shoulder and de Libertas awoke, he looked at Toussaint with anxiety.
— What is it? Is it the mulats?
The attempted rebellion by the mulats, and its brutal suppression, had occurred only a month before. That had been confined to the towns, though, where the rich mulats lived, spending their fathers’ money on whores descended from their mothers’ bloodline, and on wine grown by their French forefathers. The mulats’ rebellion had never reached the countryside.
— No, he said. No, Bayou. It’s the blacks.
De Libertas shrank from him then, and Toussaint felt his heart harden.
He suspects me , Toussaint thought. After everything, he looks at me and he sees an animal.
With an effort, Toussaint regained his composure. Madame de Libertas was awake now, too, and staring about her in alarm.
— I don’t mean you any harm, said Toussaint. You’ve been good to me. But you must leave. Now. Tell anyone you meet that you surrendered, that your land belongs to the slaves who farm it.
Bayou de Libertas nodded – he was ever a man of quick understanding. He got out of bed in his nightcap and gown, and went over to the sideboard. He began to take items from its drawers.
— It’s better if you take nothing, said Toussaint. No money or weapons. There will be less cause to kill you then.
Madame de Libertas began to cry and her husband shushed her.
— Gather the children, the master said, although he was master of nothing now. Toussaint will prepare a carriage.
Madame de Libertas hurried from the room, but not before turning and directing at Toussaint a look of fear and suspicion, an insult that needed no words to deliver its blow.
— Take horses, said Toussaint. A carriage will be too slow.
De Libertas continued to arrange items at the sideboard, taking a quill from a wooden stationery box, dipping it in the built-in inkwell – how many times Toussaint had replaced that ink! – and leaning down to scrawl something on a leaf of paper.
— Don’t worry, I’m not taking anything, he said, noticing Toussaint’s look of impatience.
He handed the paper to Toussaint, before hurrying from the room. Toussaint began to fold it, to put it in his pocket for Boukman to read later. But to his surprise the black scrawls jumped off the paper into his mind and formed words there. He stared at them in disbelief. But I can’t read! he thought. Yet the paper offered itself to him and opened up its meaning.
He put his hand to his heart, felt it beating fiercely. The whole room seemed to swim, to breathe. Is this magic? What happened to me in that clearing? He felt at once himself and not himself. Wasn’t it a fact – an undeniable fact – that he couldn’t read? And yet here he was, looking at this piece of paper, apprehending the words written on it. He felt that he might faint, and steadied himself by seizing the corner of the sideboard. He stared, open-mouthed, at the paper.
I, Bayou de Libertas, being of sound mind and good health, do hereby
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