Caribbean (83 page)

Toussaint started by sketching in the earth a rude map of St.-Domingue: “If the Spaniards, with our help, hold this eastern third of the colony, and the British with their ships hold the western third, the French can control only this narrow strip down the middle,” and his generals visualized the enormous areas under foreign control. “But there is an important difference,” Toussaint continued. “The part the French own is mostly mountains, the part that’s easy to defend. The Spaniards and the English have had it too simple up to now. The real battle is yet to begin.”

For three days the black leader, a rugged, finely disciplined man of gigantic courage and imagination, kept his own counsel. He was only two generations out of Africa, where his ancestors had been men of leadership, and for that reason, he had great respect for fellow blacks like Vaval whose parents had also known Africa. On the third night of his lonely vigil he invited César to walk with him, and they climbed to a small rise from which they could look down on the smaller hill held by the Spanish soldiers: “What you said, Vaval, it’s been nagging at me: ‘The Spaniards don’t like us any more than the French do.’ What would you do in my place?” The two men spent several hours striving to unravel the future although they were barely able to understand the present. “Let’s sleep now and talk further in the morning,” Toussaint said abruptly, and off he marched to bed. But at half after three that morning an aide awakened Vaval with a curt message: “General Toussaint’s tent, immediately!” and when he and the other generals reported, the black leader unveiled his astonishing plans: “This morning … now … we rejoin the French. Help them fight off the Spanish on the east and the English on the west.”

“Why?” a grizzled old fighter asked, and Toussaint whirled about to face him. “Because, old friend, if either Spain or England captures our colony, it’s back to slavery for us. But if we help France win, we have a fighting chance. At least they’ve given freedom to their own people!”

The same old fellow pointed out: “Yes, they did pass a fine law in Paris giving us freedom, but when it crossed the ocean to St.-Domingue, there was no more law, no more freedom,” and Toussaint moved a step forward to clap the old man on the back: “True, you wise old bird, but this time we’ll be in charge, and we’ll see it’s real freedom … for everyone.”

Then, before the sleeping Spaniards on the other hill became aware of what was happening, Toussaint, Vaval and their complete black army were marching off to unite with the French, and when Vaval whispered to Toussaint: “I never slept an easy night in a Spanish uniform,” the leader confessed: “Nor did I … I’m French.”

Now Toussaint proved that he was just as able a leader of men as he was a strategist, for with a grudging promotion to make-believe general conferred almost comically by the French high command, he launched a series of brilliant thrusts, first to the east against the Spaniards, then boldly to the west to throw the British off balance. In these actions he demonstrated an unusual mastery of not only the spectacular one-time tactical raid on an isolated target but also the long-range strategic operation that moved an entire enemy front back a few precious miles. He had converted himself into a real general and, with reliable lieutenants to execute his orders, he had become a formidable one.

In a series of lightning sorties to the east, he practically liquidated the Spanish, but he still had to come to grips with the British, who had poured a huge number of troops into St.-Domingue in hopes of stealing that weakened colony for their empire. Their success had been spasmodic, now surging forward to wipe out the French, now retreating before Toussaint’s inspired blacks. But in 1797 they began a final drive, with a chain of spectacular victories. Toussaint, with remarkable self-discipline, allowed them to rampage among the small targets while keeping them isolated from the big, until it became common in the British mess to refer to their black enemy with grudging praise as “that damned Hannibal,” for he, like his famous black counterpart from Carthage, utilized mountains with great skill.

By maintaining remorseless pressure over an extended period, Toussaint, with no help from the French, finally forced the British back against the shore from which they had started four years earlier,
and toward the end of summer in 1798, Toussaint had recaptured all the major port towns, leaving the British pinched into the northwest corner of the island.

There the British commander, a Scot from a noble family, offered one of those valiant gestures which make others smile at British gentlemen but also salute their devotion to the honorable act; realizing that the black generals had outsmarted him at every turn, he gathered his staff at a port of debarkation and told them: “Those stubborn beggars have been a gallant foe. Let’s give them a real salute. They’ve earned it.” And his soldiers decorated the town, built a triumphal arch laden with flowers, conscripted local musicians to augment the military band, and assembled the local cooks to prepare a feast.

On the appointed day the British officers rose early, dressed in their brightest regimental uniforms laden with braid and medals, and marched behind the band to the edge of town, where they greeted in full panoply the two black generals. As those victors approached, the British had to smile, for tall Toussaint took such big strides that stubby Vaval, a head shorter, had to pump his chubby legs twice as hard to keep up. Joined by the Scot, they formed the front rank of the parade, and entered the town to the wild cheering of the black citizens and the polite applause of whites. At the local church Toussaint was handed a silver cross, which he bore proudly to the banqueting hall, and there he listened in solemn grandeur as the Scottish officer, a gallant adversary, said: “At the start we British had every advantage—controlled all your ports, occupied most of them, drove you inland. Total victory for our side.”

The British officers applauded, and the speaker continued: “We overlooked these two—General Toussaint L’Ouverture, who could not be pinned down no matter how hard we tried, and this stubborn little fellow Vaval, whom we could never quite catch but who struck at us again and again.”

Here the British officers turned to face the black generals and applauded loudly with cries of “Hear! Hear!” Then the Scotsman asked: “Honestly. How did you do it?” and the two black generals sat silent, tears coming to their eyes.

Toussaint and Vaval stood at the dock until the last British troops withdrew, and as the seven ships left the harbor Toussaint said, almost plaintively: “Vaval, our own French leaders never treated us with half the respect that enemy out there did. It could have been so different if they’d only dealt with us honorably.”

“It was never possible,” Vaval said, and Toussaint replied: “Now let’s take this country for ourselves.”

“You mean the slaves? Us?”

“We can tend the land as well as the French.”

“But why would you risk fighting a lion like Napoleon?”

Toussaint, a slave who had been allowed no education or access to books or the friendship of learned men, fell silent, for he too was amazed at what he was now proposing—grappling with the foremost military genius of his age.

“Time’s at hand, old friend, when we must strike out against the French.”

“Wait!” Vaval pleaded, raising his voice to an unaccustomed level. “You can’t go on doing this. First we side with the French, then the Spanish, then the French again, and now against them. You make yourself look foolish.”

“No man is foolish when he calculates strategies to gain his freedom. Besides, we’ll have no choice.”

“Why not?”

“Because Napoleon will never let us exercise any control in this colony. Sooner or later he’ll send troops against us.” Bringing his shoulders forward, as if he were a boxer preparing either to attack or defend, he said grimly: “Now we prepare for whatever Napoleon throws against us, and what a shock we’ll have for that one.” And off the two black generals went to prepare their troops for the battles that could not be avoided.

Napoleon, during his march through Europe, often found recreation at night by reading reports from his colonies, and insofar as the Caribbean in general was concerned, he was not unhappy: “Guadeloupe back in our hands, slave uprisings under control. Our Martinique does remain in British hands, but in retaliation we’ve captured three of their richest islands. Now, what is happening on that damned St.-Domingue? What do those slaves think they’re doing? Are English officers leading those black troops? Some outsider is.” Whenever he voiced that suspicion, he concluded: “We’ve got to teach those slaves a lesson. About who controls France these days.”

An aide, who had recently returned to Europe from St.-Domingue and traveled to Austria to meet Napoleon, reported: “This fellow Toussaint, a kind of homemade military genius. You know, of course,
that he came back to our side after fighting for a long time against us … with the Spanish.”

Napoleon stopped him right there: “He did desert to the Spanish, didn’t he?”

“With that able assistant, General Vaval.”

“Sounds French.”

“Black as midnight, but a manly little fighter. Helped Toussaint kick the British completely out of St.-Domingue, and now there’s talk among the slaves that they’ll throw us out, too.”

“Never!” Napoleon growled. “Time’s come to discipline them. Get them back to the sugar plantations … all of them.”

Once he voiced this decision his aides saw his eyes gleam with conspiratorial delight, and they supposed that he had suddenly imagined some stratagem which would startle and subdue Toussaint and Vaval, but that was not the case. What pleased him was the prospect of finally discovering how to get his obstreperous younger sister Pauline out of Paris. For the past five years she had presented him with one difficult problem after another; only twenty-one, she had already weathered some half-dozen tempestuous and even scandalous love affairs, and seemed quite prepared to add to that list whenever she encountered one of his handsome colonels or married generals.

Some months ago he believed he had solved the problem: he had married her to a fine young officer of good family named Charles Leclerc, medium height, erect carriage, dashing, and with a ready wit. Napoleon had attended their wedding, had given his sister away, and had then rushed the promotion of the bridegroom to senior general. Now he said: “We’ll put Leclerc in charge of the St.-Domingue expedition, let him win his spurs and make him a duke or something. That would please Pauline.” When the announcement was readied, Napoleon warned his aides: “We won’t put it in writing, but most important—Pauline must accompany him. We’ve got to get her out of Paris.”

So an expedition of enormous magnitude was mustered, utilizing at least nine ports from Honfleur in the north to Cádiz in the south, thirty-two thousand battle-tested soldiers and gear enough for a yearlong campaign in the tropics. When Napoleon saw the final report of what was being sent to St.-Domingue—the munitions, the extra uniforms, the medical kits, the presence of small, fast ships to serve as messengers back and forth between the scores of big ones—
he remarked: “Young Leclerc may not be a Marshal Soult or Ney, but he’ll have older aides of proven merit to keep him headed in the right direction.” It was a massive expedition, a tribute to Napoleon for having been able to assemble it and to France for having the men and equipment to spare. As its components sailed forth from their various ports, Napoleon could be forgiven when he claimed: “We’ve thought of everything,” but not even he could have foreseen what kind of enemy his troops were about to face.

On the evening of 1 February 1802, César Vaval, now forty-six, stood on a breakwater at Cap-Français and looked in awe as eleven big French ships dropped anchor in the roadstead while small boats scurried back and forth bearing messages. General Toussaint stood silent beside him, calculating the number of trained French soldiers the ships must carry. Finally he said, with no emotion: “Maybe twelve thousand,” and suddenly springing into action, the wily Toussaint dragged the speechless Vaval back into the town, where he gave him surprising orders.

“Things look perilous tonight. But we shall drive that crowd waiting out there right back to Paris … if you do your job right.”

“I’ll try.”

“Don’t try. Do it. Tomorrow, the next day too, and for as long as possible, fend them off. Don’t let them land. Say there’s a plague … any trick to hold them aboard ship for two days.”

“Where will you be?”

“Bringing our troops down from the mountains. And while I do that, you see to it that every white man or free-colored who remains in this town is driven out … out!” Then, to Vaval’s surprise, Toussaint started running like a hare through the empty streets, shouting: “Pile stacks of wood here! Stack dried tree branches here! Bring in hay from the barns! We’re going to light a fire that will be seen in France!” Showing Vaval which houses to ignite first to ensure a giant conflagration, he said grimly: “No matter what general is waiting out there, when he looks ashore I want him to catch a fiery taste of what’s ahead when he puts one toe on our land.”

Toussaint’s guess that the French troops would take some days to deduce that Vaval, the courteous little local manager, was playing them for a fool proved accurate, and those two days of waiting gave Vaval time to carry out orders. He did drive out the remaining whites and coloreds, most of them, and he did pile the street corners with combustibles, but in two of his major assignments he was forestalled
by men as brave and resolute as he. The two-storied stone Château Espivent he was unable to capture from a group of
grands blancs
who had assembled there under the leadership of its owner. They resisted all attacks. Nor could he combat a collection of do-or-die free-coloreds who had fled to the big theater at the summons of Xavier Prémord, and who fired at the blacks with deadly accuracy.

On the second evening, when the rat-a-tat of gunfire ashore echoed through the fleet, Leclerc issued his order: “We land at dawn. All forces in small boats to storm the beach.” But about an hour before dawn Pauline awakened him: “Charles! The town’s on fire!” and with his other generals Leclerc went up on deck, to see wild flames rising above the town that was to have been his capital.