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The Fire of Freedom

The hot summer sun beat down on his back. The thick August air smelled sweet with the aroma of sugarcane, which he was chopping diligently with his machete. He closed his eyes trying not to feel the sting of the sweet juice dripping into the cuts on his hands. He found it was easier to focus only on his job and nothing else. He would try to cut each stalk efficiently and with precision. Hack, hack, hack, getting lost in the rhythm.
He glanced down the row to catch a glimpse of Master Lessard, the overseer, watching intently for any mistakes, any slackers. The man approached Maurice, looked down at him working, said nothing, and continued on his rounds. This was comparable to a nod of approval coming from this strict white man. Maurice decided to slow his pace now that he wasn’t being watched.
Hack…hack…hack. He found this rhythm not as easy to get lost in and he felt the floodgates of his mind open with repressed memories. All morning he had tried not to let himself think about it, but he had already admitted it to himself and once he had, it was too late to stop. Today was the anniversary of his mother’s death. Of course he would never know the exact date, but annually Master Paré would come around looking to buy slaves. Maurice didn’t know where he was from, but he was a trader and every year, like clockwork, he would visit during the muggy month of August.
Six years earlier, on Master Paré’s third annual visit, Master Fortin, the owner of the plantation, had been looking to sell Adèle a tall, thin, frail woman who was Maurice’s mother. Maurice didn’t know about this plan, because the day Adèle was going to be sold she died instead. Her illness came suddenly and during her last moments she had been coughing, vomiting, and in the heat of the day she collapsed. She had died in the fields, which disgusted Maurice most of all. She died with the whole world knowing she was a slave, she died working her fingers to the bone.
Once he saw the distinctive white speckled horse of Master Paré he knew that the anniversary of her death had come again, for the sixth time. He had only been eleven years old at the time, but from that day on he resented everyday he had to work in the same fields where his mother died. His heart grew harder, and harder, his hatred grew deeper and deeper. His hatred of the pale skin of white men, his hatred for the binding shackles of slavery. Because of slavery his mother had been worked to death under the threatening crack of a whip. Leaving him behind with no family to watch out for him.
Maurice was seventeen years old, strong with light skin that he inherited from his father. Maurice was fathered by Master Foritn, which was not unusual. On the plantation of about 200 slaves no one quite knew how many mixed children there were. Maurice’s skin reflected his white father’s, but his face perfectly mirrored his mother’s. Almond shaped-eyes, long eyelashes, a sharp set jaw, a warm smile and round cheeks. Adèle’s face was not the only trait Maurice had inherited. She passed down to him her towering height. Maurice had no siblings and didn’t know who Adèle’s parents were, something that made it harder to cope with her death.
Maurice tried not to think about that awful day years ago, when he realized how cruel the world could be. He found his thoughts straying to Célèste, his new wife who was pregnant with his baby. He knew they weren’t legally married, but that didn’t matter to him. Célèste was all he had. She was by his side no matter what and they were always there for each other. Besides his mother, Célèste was the only person he ever loved.
His thoughts were interrupted by Henrí, another field hand:
“Maurice, three nights from now there is something big going on in the woods,” Henrí whispered, just barely moving his lips. Maurice looked up with his eyes, scanning to see if there was anyone in hearing distance.
“Yes?” He whispered back. He had the feeling the information Henrí was about to tell him was important.
“There is a meeting of slaves.” He said, “A man will be there, a high priest, making a prediction about the future of this colony.”
“What do I care about the future of the colony?”
“It’s about freedom.”
That got his attention.
“What do you mean?”
“The man is predicting a war, a rebellion.” Henrí continued, “It will be the biggest we have ever seen, it will end slavery.”
Maurice raised his eyebrows.
“Men coming from everywhere. All around the islands.” Henrí said. “This priest’s name is Dutty Boukman, he’s from Africa. Came here as a free man.”
“And he really sees the end of slavery?”
“Yes.” Henrí answered. “Even if he doesn’t, his prophecy will certainly spark a revolt. This is the beginning of the end. There are so many people coming from all around, runaways and freemen alike. There will be enough fighters with enough passion to cause a commotion.”
“Is this real then?” He asked. “This meeting, it’s not like all the other’s, it will change something?”
Henrí nodded solemnly. “I heard it from Zacharie, he said he met Dutty Boukman himself. He says his prophecy is the truth.” Zacharie was an older man whom everybody trusted. If Zacharie said something would happen then of course it would happen.
Maurice felt a thrill in the bottom of his stomach. Freedom was coming. People would fight and maybe someday they would win.
“Please come,” Henrí said. “The winds of change have started to blow.” He looked once more at Maurice and then heaved his full bundle of sugarcane over his shoulder and headed down to the next row.
Maurice stopped his endless rhythm for a second to stand upright and wipe the sweat off his forehead. Maybe it was just his imagination but he suddenly felt a slight breeze blow, churning the heavy August air.

Maurice was looking for an opportunity to tell Célèste what he heard from Henrí. He found one during a dinner of leftover table scraps.
He gazed over at Célèste who was next to him leaning on the back wall of the cookhouse. Her dark and beautiful face reflected deep thought. Her hair was cropped short, the easiest way to keep it clean and manageable. She had a slender figure that was interrupted by the bulge at her belly. Three months pregnant she was just beginning to show.
He sighed and looked at her. She was watching a group of children playing tag.
“Have you heard about the meeting?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said her eyes off in the distance. “You’re not going are you?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
She looked down at the ground trying to pry a rock out with her fingers.
“I was afraid you would say that.” She said.
“Célèste…”
She just shook her head. “Don’t you know you are going to get yourself killed?”
He sighed impatiently. “I-“
“I’m serious Maurice,” she interrupted him. “There’s been revolts, people have died, there’s still no freedom.” She put softened her voice, “Do you really think it’s going to work? Do you really think it’s going to happen this time? Just because we have passion when we fight doesn’t mean anything. They have guns, Maurice. They have whips. And they have no mercy. They will kill people, they might kill you.” Her voice was choking up, but she took a deep breath to calm herself. “I don’t think freedom is going to come now. I don’t think it’s going to come in our lifetime. I don’t think it’s going to come in the life of our baby.” Her eyes were full of tears, but they never broke away from his. “If you want to live to see her born, then don’t go to that meeting.”
There was a pause in the conversation when they both stared into each other’s eyes.
“I don’t want to die, Célèste. And even more I don’t want to leave you.” Maurice said quietly. “I don’t have a choice though. The rebellion is going to happen no matter if we are a part of it or not. I talked to Henrí yesterday, he said he had talked to Zacharie. This meeting is the real thing. The revolution will begin soon after it. War is going to start. I don’t want to fight in this war, but there’s nothing else I can do.”
“What will I do?” She asked looking up at him. “If you fight how will I have this baby without you? How will I survive the war with a newborn child? How will I live without you?’
“How will you live with me?” He said desperately. “Célèste, either way you are going to have this baby and it won’t make a difference if I’m there or not. Your life will be hard, my being there won’t help. I can’t protect you.”
She realized what he said was right. For once they could not be there for each other. He needed to fight, she couldn’t stop him from that. He didn’t even want to fight, he realized now. He wanted never to leave Célèste’s side, he wanted to make a life with her and always be able to protect her. She wanted that too, but neither one of them could have it.
“I think you should go to that meeting Maurice,” she said in a calm voice. A voice that had lost hope.
“I will,” he said the same way. “I think you should take care of yourself. When the revolution starts find someplace safe to stay. Get someone to help you.”
“I will.”

Through the thick blanket of trees Maurice could see the roaring, towering, burning flames of the fire. His callused feet worked their way over the damp forest ground like they had been doing for years. He wondered in the back of his mind if the forest ground would change because of the war. Would it get burned? Would it be stained forever with blood?
Soon, he had made his way to the clearing of the old burial ground. He saw in the center of a group of men a strong, tall man with deep dark skin and large brown eyes. Maurice could not yet tell what he was saying yet. There was too much commotion from the men standing around him. There were many, many men around the campfire. In fact, he saw, there was more than one campfire. There were campfires all around the burial ground. He searched the crowds for a familiar face. He saw Henrí and moved along the perimeter of the crowd to get to him. When he got right up behind him he tapped him on the shoulder. Henrí turned around and smiled wide when he saw Maurice.
“You came,” he said in voice that seemed to suggest he knew Maurice would be coming all along. “But, you’re late.”
“I know, but what is this? I can barely hear him speak.”
“It doesn’t matter, here’s what’s going to happen: seven days from now we all will revolt at once. All around the island, or least in the northern part of the island, wherever we can word out fast enough. During the week we will be collecting weapons secretly and right when the sunsets on the seventh day we will attack without warning. Everyone will revolt all at once and they won’t be able to defend themselves. It is the most ingenious plan. This Dutty Boukman he predicted those three men would lead the rebellion.” He pointed out three, very serious looking men standing in the inner circle of the fire. “Maurice, freedom is upon us. It is here now, not someday, not tomorrow: now.”
But Henrí was wrong. They had seven days. He had seven more days with Célèste. Seven more precious, beautiful, cherished days. He put this thought in the back of his mind to hold onto as he turned back to the center of the fire watching the man standing beside it.
He could know hear the man clearly and realized that he was beginning a chant. Maurice heard it perfectly and others heard it too and began to chant with him. It was in his native African language, but no matter what language, any slave, anywhere, would understand this.
“freedom,”
“freedom,”
“freedom!”
“FREEDOM!”
The word rang in his ears.

Although Maurice had tried to stop them the seven days he had left they slipped through his fingers like sand. It was dinnertime on the seventh day. The sun hung low in the sky, just above the horizon and he wished he could freeze it there forever. He and Célèste were once again sitting behind the cookhouse leaning against the wall. He relished the cool feel of the wall on his back and the feel of Célèste’s head on his shoulder, telling himself he would come back to this if he needed a feeling of peace. This was the last time he could sit here like this, he realized. He and Célèste didn’t talk. They both knew there were no words that could be said to penetrate the deafening sadness. They clung to each other and Célèste wept.
At sunset all the men of the plantation would run out to the clearing where a campfire pit was. Over the past week the area usually reserved for gatherings of friends was used as a gathering place for weapons. The weaponry its self consisted of rusting farm tools, glinting kitchen knives, thick club-like branches, and someone had even smuggled two old hunting rifles.
After choosing their weapons and outlining the plan of attack the men would all attack at once under the cover of dark. They had the element of surprise on their side and they outnumbered the white men at least three to one. The odds were definitely in their favor, especially since they now had the two rifles. Maurice hoped it wouldn’t come down to him killing anyone, he also hoped he and Célèste wouldn’t be hurt. Fighting for freedom wasn’t something he was prepared for, he realized, and leaving Célèste was something he was prepared for even less. As she cried on his shoulder he concocted a plan in his head.
“Célèste,” he said calmly still working out the idea.
She looked up at him in recognition.
“When we come back to the plantation and start attacking could you meet me right where we are now.”
“Why?” She croaked through her tears.
He told her.
“Yes,” she said absolutely. “I will.”

The feel of the machete was rough in his hands. It felt familiar yet unfamiliar at the same time. The knife he knew so well was transformed into something that was meant to kill. They had laid out their plan of attack and Maurice was supposed to rob the stables and kill the horses so they had no mean so getting out. It would have been useful to keep the horses, but none of the slaves knew anything about controlling the animals. A group had already been sent out to the road to make sure anyone who tried to escape couldn’t. They would all rush out of the forest at once to surprise the enemy.
They were waiting for the call of Zacharie. The tension in the group was almost palpable. There was a hum of excitement as the men tested their weapons and chanted aloud in their native African tongue. Even Maurice was not immune to the feeling. His machete was feeling more and more comfortable in his hands and he heard his voice chanting along with the other men.
A young man, a boy really, stumbled into the clearing carrying a torch. The chanting stopped and it was quiet.
“The first group along the road is in position.” He was gasping for air. “Master Fortin is entertaining the guests in his study.”
Zacharie nodded and looked calmly at the men. “Well, you heard him. Everything is ready. Go!”
The rush of men swelled around Maurice. Every last one of them eager to fight and kill. Maurice ran with them feeling the stampede of feet against the Earth. They had been instructed not to scream, because it would give them away. The sound of their running was loud enough Maurice thought. He was so rapped up in the passion of the men around him he forgot about everything else. “Freedom, freedom, freedom” the rhythm of his steps seemed to be saying. “Freedom, freedom, freedom.” He navigated effortlessly between trees and over rocks, the sheer adrenaline made him fly and he flew down the hill and towards the stable, which was in sight now. “Freedom, freedom, freedom. Freedom, freedom, free–“
He felt his foot catch on a root and he saw the ground rush up to meet him. Suddenly, everything went black.

When he awoke he was still in the forest. He did not know how much time had gone by since he blacked out. He tried sitting up and did not feel dizzy so he looked around. He saw his machete a few feet from him. He remembered tripping and checked to see if he had been hurt. There was a large bump on his skull, but there was no bleeding anywhere. When he was oriented he became aware of his surroundings. He could hear screaming coming at him from all directions. Past the trees he could see the flicker of fires. He realized slowly that it was the stables that were on fire. He heard more screaming, clashing of knives, and a gunshot. A woman’s scream piercing and loud. He knew it wasn’t Célèste’s scream, but it could have been. The thought of this sent him running blindly through the trees in the direction of the cookhouse.
As he was running the voice of a little girl cried out.
“Is that you Patrick?” She wailed.
He spun around in the near-darkness trying to find the source of the meek voice. He saw a silhouette of a little girl about twenty feet to the right of him. He started walking her way, but he froze when he saw another silhouette approaching the girl. It was the outline of a man and when the moonlight shone on his face Maurice saw the pale white of his skin. Only about fifteen feet away now he could see the two figures clearly. The little girl turned to the man “I’m sorry sir, I was just trying to find my brother.”
The man said nothing. As if in slow motion he raised his hand to his belt and took his gun out of its holster. He looked the girl straight in the eyes and shot her through the heart.
The girl’s body fell like a rag doll’s. The sound of the gunshot made Maurice deaf and blind. He fell against the tree and tried his best not to scream. He wanted to cry out with horror, wanted to run far away, disappear from the cruel world. The man ran the opposite direction, the direction Maurice had come from. When he was out of sight Maurice walked over to the girl’s body. He checked to see if she was alive. She wasn’t.
He looked down at her face. She wasn’t someone he knew them name of, but he recognized her. At that moment in time the little girl became everyone for him. She was his mother, she was Célèste and for a moment she was his unborn daughter. He looked at her twisted, gruesome face and turned away from her. He vomited in the bushes.
The girl’s body was sprawled out over the ground the rocks cutting into her back. He laid her in a more comfortable position, crossed her arms over her chest and said a prayer in his traditional African language. While he was doing this he felt himself change inside. He had stopped thinking the moment he heard the shot, but he felt a change inside his heart. It was slow and shifting, like the tumblers of a lock. Although he acknowledged it he didn’t have the mental energy to figure out what it was. All he knew was that he had to get away. He turned his back on the girl and run out of the forest and into the chaos.
There was screaming all around, men fighting, women crying, children dying. The blood was everywhere and the fire burned his eyes. He ran around the perimeter of the battle trying not to think about what was happening, trying to get to the cookhouse without being killed. The thought of all the slaughtered bodies piled up around him made him run faster.
He got to the back of the cookhouse and looked around. He could not see Célèste. He immediately panicked, but then he saw the outline of a woman hiding behind a crate.
“Célèste!”
The woman peered out from behind the crate. “Maurice?”
The two figures, both crying, ran up to each other and embraced.
“Do you have the bag of supplies?” Maurice asked.
“Yes of course, enough for three days,” she gasped. “Maurice, is your head okay?”
Maurice realized she was talking about the bump that had formed on his head. “Yes, I’m fine.” He said, even though he wasn’t fine at all. “Let’s go.”
“Okay.” Célèste said desperately. And them two of them set their plan in motion running off toward a trail in the forest that would eventually lead to Cap-Haïtien, the nearest city. They both just longed to get away and Maurice tried to pick a spot to run away to that would be safe. He ignorantly wanted to believe that the war and corruption would not have reached the city. He was wrong of course.

It was their second night of traveling and they still had not run into anybody on the trail. They had rushed at first wanting to get to Cap-Haïtien as quickly as possible. By now they had slowed as if avoiding the city. They had more than enough supplies to keep traveling for a couple days. Maurice didn’t want to reach Cap-Haïtien, it was too unknown. Maybe they would be murdered the minute they walked out of the forest. Maybe Maurice would have to join the other young men as soldiers in the rebellion. He didn’t have any idea what would happen.
Neither Célèste or Maurice had thought about the night of the revolt. Both of their brains were frozen, the past was unimaginable to them. They hadn’t really spoken to each other either. The calm weather and lack of human contact lulled them into a sense of safety. Célèste couldn’t shake the feeling that she was in limbo. This was just a transition point, a gap between the time before the riot and the time after. It was like she was taking a break from her life where she didn’t have to think or feel, she just had to breathe.
They were both staring into the fire getting lost in the flames. Above them the thick canopy of trees blocked out the black sky and bright stars. Maurice was pondering chains that had no lock on them. If the chains were tied tight around your wrist and there was no key how were you supposed to get them off? The only way Maurice could think of would be to melt the metal in the fire. You would burn yourself and it would hurt terribly, you might even burn your hand off before the chains melted through, but there was no other way. The chains and your hands were so close together, they were so inextricably linked, that it would take burning yourself to ever get the shakles off.

When they reached Cap-Haïtien it was bright and boiling. The glaring sun made everything harsher. The city was dead silent which made both Célèste and Maurice suspicious. They walked through the town cautiously, wary of every small sound.
Suddenly, they heard the smack of footsteps on hard packed dirt coming from around the corner. The immediately ran to the nearest building and stood flush against the wall, hiding behind a cart of some kind. The source of the footsteps appeared. It was a boy of eleven or twelve with a scrawny but tall build. His sweaty, light brown skin glistened in the morning sun.
“Who’s there?” Asked the boy.
Célèste and Maurice reluctantly came out, they were suspicious, but they knew the boy himself would not do them any harm. They both had their hands in the air.
“Hello,” the boy said. “I won’t hurt you.” They lowered their hands. “Are you here to join the rebellion army?”
“I guess so,” Maurice said without thinking or looking at Célèste. What other choice did he have?
“Well they are meeting right up the road and down the hill.” He pointed down the street he had come from.
“Yes, thank you.” Maurice said.
“There is also a woman letting people into her house.”
Célèste nodded thanks.
“I have to go now.” He said and continued running along.
Maurice and Célèste started walking again. A few minutes passed and they had nothing to say to each other. Then the silence was broken.
“Maurice,” Célèste sighed. “You’re not going to tell me what happened to you the night of the riot, are you?”
“You look as if you saw enough.” He whispered, gently touching the burns on her face. She nodded with tears in her eyes.
“I don’t want to say goodbye to you.” She said on the verge of crying.
“Me neither.”
She looked up into his eyes sobbing.
“Because I won’t be able to do this when we say goodbye, I’ll do it now.” He leaned down and kissed her deeply and sweetly. There was something lonely about his kiss, like he knew it was going to be there last one. When they separated they started walking again. The same way they had always walked, tangled up in each other. After all that had happened Célèste found it to be a small miracle that they could still walk in a straight line. Their last few moments together should have been perfect and she wanted them to be just that. She thought breaking the silence would ruin the stillness of the moment. Still, when somebody finally did talk again it was her. She was so repulsed by what she saw she could not help crying out.
“What is that?” She asked, pointing to something circular a little bit bigger than a cantaloupe. It was mounted on a bloody stake in the middle of the central square. They got closer to the object releasing each other on the way.
“Is that…”
“A head.” It was Dutty Boukman’s head and Maurice recognized it from the meeting at the burial ground. All of a sudden everything came rushing back to him. Everything he had tried to hold back by not thinking.
He saw flashes of his mother’s grave, flashes of the little girl’s face, flashes of her killer, of the cold hate that was in her killer’s eyes that night. He saw flashes of the stables burning down, of people being slaughtered, mother’s being killed in front of their children. He looked up at the dead eyes in front of him. He felt that same feeling he felt after seeing the girl killed. He felt that slow, shifting feeling of tumblers in a lock, except this time he let the tumblers fall until they stopped. It was almost as if a small “click” went off in his head. The tumblers were finally in place and he knew what they meant.
He knew. He knew he had to fight in this war. He had to fight for the life of his mother, for the life of Dutty Boukman, for the life of the little girl, for the life and freedom of his unborn baby, for Célèste’s freedom and for his own freedom. He knew that he would get hurt, he would get burned and scarred. He would have to say goodbye to Célèste, he would have to leave her. But, he had to fight in this war. He hadn’t wanted to before, but now he knew he needed to. It wasn’t a matter of desire, it was something so much deeper he couldn’t explain. It was the feeling of the shackles around his wrists. He could not stand the itch anymore. He could not live in a world where someone could shoot an innocent little girl right through the heart. Something changed him the night of the riot. Before he might have lived his whole life avoiding the fire. Keeping his chained hands far away from the flames. Choosing to live his life in bindings if it meant not getting burned. Now, getting burned did not matter to him. Without hesitation he willing thrust his shackled hands into the fire of freedom.