When some of the cows dropped dead in their pasture, Little Marie merely laughed.
“Oh, that’s terrible,” I said, not understanding. “Those poor things—and now the children might not have milk for their breakfast.”
Little Marie gave me quite a wicked look. “And why should the Benoit offspring have milk every day? Do my own children have such luxuries? No. They are whipped and made to fetch and carry for the master, with only what we ourselves grow for their food. If the Benoit children, like the cattle, drop dead, I will not care. And you should not either, Luisah. You have the pink stripes on your body from the mistress’s whippings.”
Little Marie and I spoke in the language we had taken with us from our home in West Africa. In the house, we were supposed to speak only French, so I glanced around nervously and hurried away, digesting the ideas she had given to me.
To wish the children of this house to die was wrong, was it not? I was a Catholic and must not think such things. Yet my back and my soul bore the marks of our mistress’s malevolence. And I had many troubles in my life, the source of which were solely she and the master, who intended only, always, their own wealth and comfort.
Had I asked to be stolen away from my parents and brought to Haiti, or Sante Domingue, as this was called—the island of Hispaniola—when I was six? Had I asked to be put to work as a house slave from that age until now, so far eighteen years? Had I asked to be married to the slave Michel Benoit, a cruel man, and one of those who helped to oversee the field slaves? Or to have my two children torn from me and sold to a neighboring plantation? No. All this was at the wish of those who owned me. And Little Marie, a fierce adherent of the Vodou priest Ras Berbera, did not entirely shock me with her imaginings.
I brought the morning milk pail to the kitchen. And let that be the last of it for them to drink. I had many questions to ask Little Marie about what she had said. Yet so much work to do, as well. I must scrub the kitchen floor each day before breakfast and help the cook. Once the family was up, I must serve the food, and then begin to make a fire outside for a boiling vat. I must then strip the bedding and place the linen in the tub where I wash each sheet clean every other day. I then heat the iron on the stove and take the wrinkles from the cloth—so that when it goes back on their sweet-smelling beds, the feel and the appearance are just so, to Madame’s satisfaction.
This is the start to my day that ends near midnight, when my husband, should he choose, takes the opportunity to abuse me. After which, I may have some six hours—the only ones in the day—to myself, and those spent in the dead sleep of exhaustion.
Angelina stepped up behind me and pulled my cap, setting my restless hair askew. I whirled and smiled. Might I slap her? Only if I desired to be hung from the tree behind the kitchen door, where I have seen others like me hung—black girls who misbehaved and were disrespectful.
“You are up so early, Miss Angelina,” I said in French to the twelve-year-old. “Have you had sufficient rest?”
“I am riding to Cap Francois today, with Mama to buy many exquisite new frocks. A boat has come in from France with the latest fashions.” She looked quite pleased at the prospect of making herself pretty.
For sure, she had the basic good looks to be a beauty, with flaming red hair—but sometimes the fiery temper to match. Her parents worried that the girl might not attract a husband because of her lack of amiability. I heard them discuss this. I listen to everything freely in the house, since I am a part of the furniture and nothing to notice.
“You shall be lovely,” I declared. But somehow I thought of what Little Marie had said about the children dropping dead, and the idea failed to pain me. “In to breakfast with you, then.”
After their meal, the mistress told me I would come to town today with her and her daughters—Angelina and Angelina’s eight-year-old sister, Brigitte. If I behaved well, I might be given the job of personal maid to Mademoiselle Angelina, since her own black maid had died of a yellow fever the previous week. I curtsied in gratitude, although I was not sure I was exactly grateful. The new position meant I would dress the girl throughout the day and bathe her, in addition to the regular duties of my own. Such was the life here.
I rode on the outside of the carriage with the driver, Andre, a man who had come as a youth from his home in the Congo. We passed the place where the cows had died. A similar plague had broken out across many of the plantations, the master had told his wife at breakfast today. Madame did not pay particular attention, as she never cared to listen about business. The cows were being burned as we went by, so as not to infect the other livestock.
Death has a certain sense of comfort here, because those who die need not labor any longer. Since my two children were taken from me, I have learned to abort the pauvres—the poor little ones—before they are born. We maids have discussed this. We don’t want our children to suffer our own fate. So perhaps this dying is good, too, for the animals. I do not know. Maybe the Fathers could tell us in church on Sunday, although I do not understand them or the language that they mostly speak.
On top of the coach, I broiled in the fierce sun of Haiti and was jounced mercilessly along the stony road. I thought further on the idea that the Benoit children might soon expire and was not perturbed. My own youngest had died soon after being sold to the master at a nearby plantation. Beaten to death. This was not unusual, and no one thought of the matter again, save for me.
I went in with the ladies and helped Angelina and Brigitte try on new clothes. Angelina kicked me once in her displeasure at my clumsy buttoning of her dress. When they were done with me, I went out to wait before going to the next shop.
Finally, after all the dresses and some cloth were purchased and stowed in the coach, they entered the hotel for their lunch. Of course I had forgotten to bring either food or water for myself, but I stood on the square in the area where the slaves loitered in wait for their masters. We must stand somewhere, after all, must we not? Not being invisible.
In a few minutes, Andre, the driver, came across the open park from the carriage. “Come sit on the step of the coach,” he urged. “You will find a little shade.”
I accepted, and while I sat there, fanning myself with my hand, he brought a sweet yam grown in his own garden to share with me and, after, carried, in his own cup, water from the fountain for me to drink—not once but twice.
No man had ever shown me such kind regard. In fact, no other human had.
A little while later, I thought the mistress and her daughters might be coming back and I stood. Now I was on a level with Andre, where we could speak.
I broached the subject of my earlier talk with Little Marie. “Many of the plantations have dead cows and sheep,” I said. “At some of them, the families, too, are dead. Do you think we black slaves can die from this awful disease, as well?”
“No,” Andre answered me at once. “This is not an illness for the blacks to suffer. Just the whites and their animals. The disease is of greed and greed is not catching, the Vodou priests say. You must come and hear them.”
Indeed, I was a Catholic, and I feared the Vodou for more than one reason. “What do your priests tell you?” I asked in curiosity.
“Not only the priests, but the Maroon chief Francois Mackandal has talked to us. He was once owned by the Juin family, but set himself free. He says that we may rid ourselves of the plantation owners forever.” A spark of excitement brought Andre’s face to a life he had not shown before. “Mackandal said that in the homeland of the French, the peasants talk about revolt as well.”
“Ah,” I exclaimed. I had heard the Benoits speak of farmer uprisings in their native land, yet not with approval. But perhaps such a thing was now permissible. The Maroons, of course, I knew about—disobedient slaves who had run off to the hills. Had they a chief?
“The priest says the God of the French must be cruel, because they act cruelly in obedience to him, but our loa, the spirits we serve, are full of love only. Those of us who worship before the altars in the Vodou temple are loving to all who wish us well. The French do not, so we need not tolerate them any longer, but may seek out vengeance.” Andre smiled, empty spaces showing where teeth were gone, either through beatings or simply because our teeth fell out from lack of nourishment.
I smiled, too.
“The houngans—our priests—and the mambos—our priestesses—say the bullets of the French will turn to water. They cannot touch us. Our God will protect us, and theirs will fail.”
I had a great deal to think about on the ride home, past fields of cane and sugar-cane presses, past cotton fields and land where the indigo grew. This island produced bountiful riches. The master praised it often for its cocoa and rum and molasses—none of which I knew by taste. What if those who worked the land were to own it? What if I had a fancy silk frock—ruffled on the bottom to keep off the mosquitoes? Perhaps Andre, who would work his own property, would buy me frocks and never hit me with his fists.
With our wheels rumbling deeper into the countryside, the stench of death grew. Fallen sheep lay scattered like logs in the neighboring pasture. Mistress must be frightened by the sight, revolted by the smell. In the distance, I observed flames and dense, black smoke. When we came nearer, I saw a plantation house on fire. The fine home was quickly consumed as we drove by, with slaves outside laughing, and no owner sending for water to fight the blaze. Where were the master and the mistress and their children? Dead of the plague?
I jolted awake the instant we reached the Benoit wrought-iron gate, and, soon, Andre fetched me down, daring to risk a moment’s delay in opening the coach door to our mistress and the children.
I knew what all the slaves were told. Rules had been passed by our masters for us to live by and those rules said that no slaves might congregate during the day or night. We must not sing, except in the fields. And no drums were to be heard anywhere in Haiti. These things were expressly forbidden to us.
What I knew from listening to the master’s conversation with his friends was that other rules had been passed in the colony as well—the Code Noir, which said we must be fed a certain amount of food every day and given two hours after lunch to rest. We must have Sunday off to say our prayers. But the owners laughed and continued on as they chose. Yet the rule on the black slaves against our meeting together was strictly enforced. And that meant we were not to gather for Vodou ceremony.
I am a Catholic, as I have said, and always attended services with the family. As a Catholic, I know right from wrong, and I have been told that the practice of Vodou is a grave wrong. But add to that, since it is not allowed, I am afraid to go because of the punishments. After I smooth the clothes with my hot iron, sometimes it is used to sear the skin of a slave who has misbehaved. Other times, a very bad slave will have honey poured on him and be staked to the ground, where he is eaten by insects. Other times...oh many evil things are done. Perhaps the Vodou priest is right. Perhaps their God, Jesus, is no good, since the acts of the whites are so very wicked.
Early the next morning, Little Marie invited me in quiet whispers in our tongue to come to the Vodou ceremony that same night.
I wondered what had inspired her to ask me that. “Has someone told you anything about me?” I inquired. I was jealous. Perhaps she and Andre were close, and they had talked. Perhaps they were lovers. I must shake the dresses he would buy me from my mind.
The blankness in her eyes seemed to tell my answer. “We must know those we can count on,” she said. “Not cook. She is old and unreliable.” Little Marie darted her head around, watching to see if anyone spied. “Midnight,” she murmured. “Toward the swamp. Past the stables.”
This was out of the question. A Vodou ceremony was no place for a baptized Catholic. I practically shivered, I was so afraid to think of it—although Andre would be there and many others. Could they crucify or hang us all? But they might. The idea was not entirely inconceivable.
Thus, when I found my weary self at something like midnight on the path to the swamp, I knew that I must turn back. I was a Catholic, which was enough, although many who were Catholic for Sunday were Vodou, too. But the Vodou slaves were those who had come here grown, who were already Vodou from their homeland. I had come here too young to know the ways of the loa—the spirits—or to worship them.
When I arrived at their meeting place, the bonfire was a small one, and not a sound could be heard. The field slaves danced—and Little Marie and Andre—the only ones from those who worked in the house. The dancing was silent, since we were forbidden to sing or to drum.
Some on their knees or on the ground jerked in their bodies. I resolved not to do that because my dress must remain very clean. The difference between a house slave and a field slave is our clothing. Our garments are not rags like theirs. We must not offend the eyes of the family.
Andre, who saw me after a time, smiled. He came to meet me and pulled me into his circle. Was I now Vodou? The Catholic Fathers would say that this was wrong.
I did not feel wrong, however, only pleased, as the mistress is pleased when she goes to a ball at Cap Francois. I had never had such a time before.
After dancing and listening to the soft worship and the talk of the priest, I understood. The cattle had not been infected with a disease. They had been poisoned. The Maroon chief François Mackandal had given the slaves a deadly plant to scatter where the cattle grazed. At many of the big homes across the whole island, this poison was put even in the family’s food. So, no wonder we blacks could not catch this illness which was for the whites only. And this, Andre had known. I was surprised.
Creeping back to the frond-thatched hut I shared with Michel, surnamed Benoit to mark him as their property, I wondered in regard to the rightness or wrongness of killing the whites. The Fathers might say that this went against the wishes of their Jesus, but the Vodou priest said the black people’s God would strongly approve.
I always tried to act to please this powerful Jesus, who would be kind when I finally arrived in his heaven—but now I was not sure. If Jesus belonged to the white people only and the loa, like the Twins and Yemaya, to the slaves, perhaps I was more meant to serve the gods of the blacks. I did not know and could ask no one here. I might ask the Fathers if their God could love me as black as I was, but I already realized that the answer must be no. The French did not love me, so how could their God? Still, I had been a Catholic since I was six, eating the holy sacrament each week, and was thus claimed.
I could not have entered my hut more quietly. If Michel had been sleeping properly as he ought to have been, I would not have awakened him. But no, he had been lying in wait for me, which, tonight, only meant that he pushed me out of the bed onto the floor. I was used to sleeping on the floor when he preferred me to. I should not have gotten into his bed, though, because then he sat up, reached to me, and grabbed his hand into my hair, tearing at it. He shook me that way until my brain felt rattled and my neck nearly broken. Then he let go with another strong push. Although tears came to my eyes, this was not so bad as sometimes. I was not punched.
Without a word, Michel fell to sleep, and I moved further away so that he could not reach me. I waited for my head to settle down before I, too, slept, my bruised body uncomforted by the packed dirt.
Over the next two weeks, I attended the Vodou several times more. Less frightened than I had been, I was, nonetheless, afraid. If we were caught... But at the Vodou, no one treated me badly. I was accepted as one of them. We danced, and no matter how tired I was from my work, I felt strengthened by what we did there.
I saw the future and pictured going on this way until I perhaps died of the fever or of a beating from Michel. I had no idea that anything would change. How could it? What would change? More cows had died, and several of the horses, but new ones would be bought. We would go on as always. I would become a little more tired each year, and my face and body more scarred and ugly. That was all.
“You must be the one to do it for us all,” whispered Little Marie to me one morning. She pressed a small, closed wooden box into my hand and gestured for me to hide it in my apron. I placed it there while she nodded approvingly. “Don’t touch what’s in there with your fingers,” she warned. “It will kill you dead.”
Naturally, my eyes went wide with great amazement. This was the poison fungus they talked about and I must hold it? I could not be calm.
Little Marie clenched her jaw grimly and went and looked into the other rooms to be sure no one was hiding there. Of course, we spoke the language of our own tribe, the Bagandas. But still. ‘‘You are the only one beside cook who handles the food directly, and cook is not on our side. We cannot trust her.”
We heard the rustling of a silk dress on the way down the hall, so we parted, and I was left only half comprehending what I must do. They trusted me—that was all I understood. I was trusted, and cook was not. I was Vodou like them, even though a Catholic. But, of course, as a Catholic,
I must not poison the family because Thou Shalt Not Kill. This was correct, was it not?
I felt fairly sure that I must not poison the Benoits, that Jesus, whom I was sworn to as a servant, and baptized in his name with the holy water, would not want me to. I must think of a way to say no to the Vodou slaves.
In the meantime, the wooden box seemed on fire against my body. Every step I took, it clacked and bounced. Would the poison come out of the box and attack me? It hit against the stove and made a noise. I jumped. I even broke a dish that day and cook tattled to the mistress, who slapped me hard across the face. “You stupid black girl. Why must I deal with these stupid blacks in this Godforsaken country?” Madame said.
Oh, if she would find the wooden box, I would be buried alive. I felt ill all day and went straight to bed that night, hiding the wooden box behind the cabin door, which Michel left open to get a little air. But I should not have stayed home that night, for Michel abused me and then hit me many times for his extra pleasure. But he is neither Christian nor Vodou, and only does the bidding of Pierre Benoit.
In the morning, Little Marie could only glare at me meaningfully. Again, the box was in my smock because I had no place else to hide anything that I might own. Luckily, the single possession to my name was an old wooden comb, and that I carried in my pocket always, though many teeth were missing from it and it did not comb my hair at all well.
That night I went to the Vodou ceremony. Where else was I to go that offered the company of friends, and solace? Francois Mackandal, the Maroon chief, was present and came to me personally during the dancing to whisper hot words into my ear. He called me a good girl, a smart girl, one who would help the blacks of this island claim our own—before the white men killed us off altogether, as they had the Indians who had lived here before. Where were those Indians? Dead slaves on the trash pile of the whites. I was a good girl, a smart girl. Only one answer remained for our kind.
Andre walked me quietly across the fields. “I’m afraid of the punishments,” I whispered to him. “The whites will punish me with a great deal of pain.”
They will be dead,” Andre assured me. “Too dead to punish. And we will all run off. We will be Maroons.”
“I can’t run off alone.” I hesitated.
“We will all run off,” Andre said, pulling me by the arm closer to him as we passed under the shadow of the stables. “You and I will run off together.”
The horses inside snickered, and we hurried on.
The next day, I got what little milk the milkers handed me and stopped before I reached the kitchen door. Carefully, I opened the wooden box with the hem of my apron. Inside was a gray powder. Would this make the milk look spoiled?
I shook some in and the powder settled on the top, like dirt.
I closed the box and placed it back in my apron. This was no good. The milk would not work. I could not get all of the poison in.
By the time I got the milk onto the pantry shelf, it looked the same as everyday cow’s milk, white and foamy. But I had not placed enough poison in it, so the drink would probably only make the family sick. That was possibly better, since, as a Catholic, I was not actually supposed to kill.
I would tell François Mackandal that the failure had not been my fault, and Andre and I could still go to the Maroons.
Master came down early and I served him his coffee with plenty of the milk. “The coffee is too white, girl,” he said. “It will not be hot.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Will you drink that? I will run fetch you another cup.” I went and stood in the pantry and stared into the milk, then I went back out to the dining room. “The coffee is boiling, sir. I will bring it in an instant.”
The master’s hand was on his chest and an odd look marched across his face. “Are you unwell, sir? Shall I go get Madame?”
He shook his head, and I dared to stand in place and watch him, feigning concern. In a moment, he slumped to one side and collapsed on the floor. The poison must be very strong or the master must be very weak.
I did not feel at all bad, but I ran for Blanche, the mistress’s personal maid. “Hurry upstairs and tell Mistress that the master is ill. She must come at once.”
I passed the master on my way back into the kitchen. He did not twitch.
In the pantry once more, I stared at the milk, which looked quite ordinary still, though the froth was gone. I listened to cook in the kitchen banging her pans and waited for whatever was to happen next. I had not meant to kill him, possibly. That much powder had been very little. I would make my apology to Jesus later in a prayer and to the Twins and to the Dead, which I supposed now included Pierre Benoit.
Too nervous to stand still another minute, I went out the pantry door to the yard. I barely knew what I was doing. My only thought was to stay away from the master for a minute or two until the mistress was over her initial shock. But I might have been sorry for leaving the safety of the house because, unfortunately, Michel was out there.
“I have been banging on the door, you lazy black girl. Didn’t you hear me? Go and tell the master I am here, as he called.” Michel reached to give me a smack across my face, but I jumped out of the way in time.
“Oh, Michel, something terrible. The master is ill. He has the white plague.”
Michel shook his head. “No, it isn’t possible.”
I wrung my hands. “Yes, it is true.” I could barely keep a nervous smile off my face. But I thought with some sense of accomplishment that I had for once spoiled Michel’s assurance of mind. He must worry about his own position on the plantation now, must he not? “Poor Michel,” I added. “I hope this will mean nothing too bad for you.”
I could not tell what was going on in that odd brain of his, since he had a way of keeping his thoughts to himself while acting superior, but I supposed he would be very glum.
“Don’t talk so stupid, girl, or I’ll give you a beating.” He pretended he would advance on me, though I knew he would not. If the mistress saw him, she would chide him for wasting his time.
“Poor Michel,” I repeated. “I feel sorry for you. But in any case, I will bring you a small cup of milk.”
I ran into the pantry and poured my husband half a cup of the liquid, rushing out again, lest he go before he’d had his refreshment. If Jesus meant for him to die, Michel would be there and drink the milk and the poison would be sufficient to bring him low. And maybe he would only become very, very ill.
Michel wrapped his giant black knuckles around the delicate porcelain and I recalled that very fist cracking into my face and breaking the bone beneath my eye. I ran my fingers over the spot on my cheek, but quickly took my hand away and smiled encouragingly. He drank. I really hadn’t served him much.
I took the cup back and brought it into the kitchen. There, I set it into the trash, under a heap of eggshells and coffee grinds, so no one would drink from it accidentally. Cook was in the middle of preparing the meal.
I had not dressed Angelina yet this morning. She must be livid. I went back out to the yard.
“Oh, poor Michel,” I cried out at once. He was on the ground, gasping. He had not died straightaway like the master. I supposed he was stronger. He might even live. “Are you not well?”
The day had been a brilliant one, but now some clouds covered up the sun. That would be a relief from the intense heat, making our trip to the Maroons in the hills that much easier.
Michel no longer seemed to be breathing, and I reached over and pinched the flesh of his arm very hard. I wanted to see if he was dead or alive, and that was one way to tell. Since he didn’t move, I assumed the worst and dragged him into the outdoor larder, where the less perishable staples are kept. I saw no sense in leaving his dead body lying out for anyone to see.
“I’m sorry, Jesus,” I said out loud. “But, Michel, you were not a very good man. Did you think nothing would ever come of your badness? That you would never be punished?”
I went into the house and the dining room, where a crowd was gathered around the mistress and around the master’s body. “How terrible,” I said, nearly wailing. “The plague has struck.” Then the idea occurred to me, finally, that Jesus himself had used me as the instrument of his revenge. Was not their God a wrathful God? Oh yes. This was a very sensible and logical thought.
“Poor Mistress,” I consoled her quietly, as I was suddenly tired and yearned to lie down. The killing of men, though it might not take physical strength, is an effort to exhaust one.
Mistress’s eyes met my own and for once her face was fragile, as bone China is fragile.
I shooed the other slaves away from her presence and helped the mistress to a chair. “I will get you a coffee,” I suggested. “The day will be a long one for you.” Not actually, it wouldn’t, however, and wasn’t the right thing for her troubles to be over, too? Could a woman like her live without her husband? But in any case, I wasn’t truly concerned with her best interests, simply eager to fulfill what had been asked of me by the Maroon chief and by God.
The milk was not running at all low and the liquid still appeared very ordinary. I gave Mistress the sugar to her coffee, as she preferred. I could have sworn for one moment when I handed her the cup that she almost said “Thank you.” But she did not, and of course, I bobbed my head anyway.
She sent one of the men slaves for the surgeon, although the fact that the master was dead should have been quite obvious to her. “The plague, Mistress,” I explained. “He has expired of the plague.” I put on a sad face, since that was what one usually did.
I didn’t like to watch her die, so I went back into the pantry and poured three goblets of the milk, one for each of the children—the two girls and the boy. I set them all on a tray and brought the tray out with me. As I passed the dining table, I saw a vomit coming out of the mistress’s mouth. The poison in the milk had not lost its power, although it had already killed two men.
Upstairs, I first brought the Benoit son, Henri, his milk. “Here, young sir. We are late with the breakfast. Have this to tide you over, until we serve.”
I did the same for the two girls, but Angelina was in a rage. ‘‘I’ve not had my bath, you lazy, lazy girl.” She hit me on the shoulder with the back of her hairbrush, then hit me again. I barely felt the blows because my mind did not think of them, spinning as it was with so much else.
“I am wrong, Mademoiselle, and I pray to Jesus Christ to forgive me.”
With that, she was appeased and turned and drank down her milk.
So it was that I obeyed the summons given to me by God or the devil, I really don’t know.
Downstairs, the house slaves milled about in some confusion with the mistress, too, dead on the carpet. Little Marie came over and hugged me. I didn’t recall having been hugged ever before. “I will go and get the others,” she said.
When she left the room, I went upstairs again to be sure the children were all dead. Like the cows in the field, they had each breathed their last. How quickly the Vodou poison worked.
Angelina lay sprawled across the floor in her nightdress, her plump white limbs quite akimbo, her soft, blazing-red hair shining in the sun. I took the silver comb from Angelina’s dressing table top. In its place, I put my old wooden comb, a sign that I did not care to steal.
Andre was in the house when I went down and we nodded to one another as an acknowledgment that our work was complete. The field slaves would burn the Benoit house to cinders and the bodies of the family with it—along with the dead overseer, Michel. Andre and I headed toward the hills to claim and work our parcel of land.
And several decades later, I did not forbid my then-grown sons to go to Cap François along with the priest Boukman to overcome the still-ruling whites. A few years after that, Haiti became the country of the loa, with the Indians dead, the Spanish departed, the French overthrown, and only we blacks and some few mulattos left to harvest the island’s rich and hard-won soil.