The Haitian Trilogy: Plays: Henri Christophe, Drums and Colours, and The Haytian Earth Read online

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Foreword

  Henri Christophe

  Drums and Colours

  The Haitian Earth

  Also by Derek Walcott

  About the Author

  Copyright

  FOREWORD

  The writing of these plays spans an arc of nearly forty years. Henri Christophe, privately printed in 1948, deals with the struggle between two guerrilla generals, afterwards kings of Haiti, Christophe and Dessalines, following the imprisonment and death in exile of Toussaint L’Ouverture, whose name meant “the breach” or “the opening.” It was written on the invitation of my brother, Roderick, and performed by a young group called the Arts Guild.

  The theme of the slave revolt against French rule in Saint Domingue is also a pivotal part of the expansive design of Drums and Colours, commissioned for the first and only West Indian Federation, with emblematic images from Caribbean history: Columbus in chains, Millais’s painting The Boyhood of Raleigh, the coachman of the Breda family Toussaint L’Ouverture, and the martyrdom of George William Gordon for Jamaican independence. The Haitian Earth includes a scene from Drums and Colours, a repetition seen in a slightly altered context.

  The Haitian revolution, as sordidly tyrannical as so many of its subsequent regimes tragically became, was an upheaval, a necessary rejection of the debasements endured under a civilized empire, that achieved independence. The revolution is as central to the plays as it is to the history of the island.

  My debt to all those involved in their production, many no longer here, to the Arts Guild of Saint Lucia, and to the Trinidad Theatre Workshop remains incalculable. This book is for the memory of my brother.

  D.W.

  2001

  HENRI CHRISTOPHE

  A Chronicle in Seven Scenes

  The play was first produced by the St. Lucia Arts Guild at St. Joseph’s Convent in Castries, St. Lucia, in 1949. Directed by Derek Walcott. Costumes by Alix Walcott.

  It was later produced at Hans Crescent, London, in 1952. Directed by Errol Hill and designed by Carlyle Chang.

  The cast was as follows:

  GENERAL SYLLA—Sam Morris

  GENERAL PÉTION—Frank Pilgrim

  JEAN JACQUES DESSALINES—Victor Patterson

  CORNEILLE BRELLE—John Nunez

  HENRI CHRISTOPHE—Errol John

  VASTEY—Errol Hill

  NARRATOR—George Lamming

  Also, MURDERERS, SOLDIERS, CROWD—Roy Augier, Fred Debedin, Edric Roberts, George Griffith, Reggie Hill, Elesto Cortes, Ray Robinson, Maurice Mason, Eileen Stewart, Kenneth Monplaisir, Eustace Pollard, Lionel Ngakane, Charles Appia (DRUMMER)

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  GENERAL SYLLA

  GENERAL PÉTION

  JEAN JACQUES DESSALINES; later Jacques I, King of Haiti

  CORNEILLE BRELLE, a priest; afterwards archbishop

  HENRI CHRISTOPHE, a general; later Henri I, King of Haiti

  VASTEY, his secretary; afterwards a baron

  NUMEROUS ATTENDANTS, GENERALS, MESSENGERS, SOLDIERS, AND TWO MURDERERS

  The setting is Haiti after 1803.

  PART ONE

  The cease of majesty

  Dies not alone but like a gulf doth draw

  What’s near it with it; it is a massy wheel

  Fix’d on the summit of the highest mount,

  To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things

  Are mortis’d and adjoin’d; which, when it falls,

  Each small annexment, petty consequence,

  Attends the boist’rous ruin.

  —Hamlet

  Scene 1

  An interior of the Government Palace at Cap Haitien. Present are GENERALS SYLLA and PÉTION. SYLLA is an old, tired general with a wry, senile sense of humour. PÉTION is active and middle-aged.

  SYLLA

  This waiting is exhausting. It’s almost contradictory

  That anything so sad can happen

  In a broad afternoon.

  Where’s Dessalines?

  PÉTION

  Dressing in the inner room,

  Preparing to be valedictory

  To this peace that holds its breath, to hear

  What happened to Toussaint.

  Today a ship arrived from France;

  Anchoring in the roads, she looked sullen;

  Fearing the worst, Dessalines would look decorous

  To suit the occasion. But if he really dressed his hope,

  It would wear black; he would like Toussaint dead.

  This country that stretched, crowing to greet

  The sun of history rising, will have its throat cut;

  That’s the truth.

  SYLLA

  There’s a kind of rustle in the lower hall;

  It looks like the messenger from Napoleon, but

  Where is Dessalines?

  PÉTION

  No doubt decorating his drawers

  With epaulettes. He considers kingship;

  Vanity will undo him.

  Here’s the messenger.

  (Enter MESSENGER.)

  What is the sum of the news, good or bad?

  SYLLA

  What is Napoleon doing?

  Patience will drive us mad.

  (Enter DESSALINES.)

  This is the messenger from Napoleon

  That we sent on the last ship; a veiled intensity

  Inflates his bearing.

  DESSALINES

  Thanks. There is a crowd of marchands, fishermen

  At the front gates. Are they converged in a rebellious murmur

  For bread again, or waiting for news?

  PÉTION

  They want, as is only natural, to hear

  About Toussaint.

  DESSALINES

  If they are rabble, make them orderly.

  You smile, I do not.

  PÉTION

  About Toussaint … General …

  DESSALINES

  Of course, proceed. Be eloquent without elaboration;

  Talk quickly …

  MESSENGER

  I have leave to speak?

  After the general and liberator left his country,

  By force and treachery of his ruined captains

  He was taken, without satisfaction of audience or justice,

  To a sullen castle, situated near the border,

  Flung in a dungeon; he fretted there,

  Complained of discomfort, protesting, not pleading,

  As it suits a soldier, not a state buffoon.

  But the black mountains and snow in the tight winter,

  Whose sharpness, although cautionary in October,

  Hurt his teeth, cramped in pains …

  DESSALINES

  Well?…

  MESSENGER

  He would look out past where the snow, like bread,

  Settled without sound on the barred window edge

  In brittle heaps. A mountain’s iron aspect, the sky

  Grey as soiled milk, imprisoned his exile more.

  One day he rose to stretch his bones and died.

  They buried him. The cleric who did the obsequ
ies

  Informed me that he died, grace on his lips;

  But that is no comfort, he is dead …

  You have heard his fate …

  DESSALINES

  I’ll talk of fate. Have you letters

  From Napoleon? How was his death received?

  MESSENGER

  Somewhat with courtesy, unlike the court

  I see here. I expected to move iron men to tears;

  You look as if I had discussed the weather.

  Haiti is in the Saturday of honour, she

  Is rudderless.

  SYLLA

  There are several captains, son.

  Here is the priest. Thank you.

  (Enter BRELLE as the MESSENGER leaves.)

  Good evening, Père Brelle.

  BRELLE

  I caught the mood from the tossing murmur outside;

  I can read that the man is dead.

  How they loved him …

  DESSALINES

  We have all loved him.

  We must not profane his memory with idleness.

  You have done well to come, Priest.

  Have a proclamation issued; I’ll append

  My signature; declare a day of mourning, toll bells;

  Inform your archbishop, Father Brelle, of an opulent

  Obsequy for the man’s memory. As for Christophe,

  Tell him I have assumed temporary rule;

  Temporary—see that the word is out before he chokes

  The messenger. I am now in control.

  Christophe must learn to cage the jaguar hope

  In the bars of restraint. You all respect

  My wish?… General Pétion? Sylla? Father Brelle?

  Good. Tragedy threatens me with being great,

  After this little condolence, the state …

  BRELLE

  This is a cursory mourning;

  Do tears dry up so very quickly?

  DESSALINES

  Habit makes a boredom of tragedy.

  Even in our eyes we hold death’s annunciation,

  Like Sylla, getting blind, deaths of twin light.

  Let us proceed. We will enlarge our conscience, spread it

  Like an open map in Father Brelle’s presence.

  There are no more French:

  We have dispersed their broken units, they cannot lift a finger

  Against us; the country, now, is ours;

  But we must not talk, delay, malinger

  With words, words, not action.

  SYLLA

  Then you appreciate the position

  That a long war, an internal, cormorant war, has left

  Our treasury in?

  The peasants have identified liberty with idleness;

  The fallow fields cropless; the old plantations,

  Plaine du Nord, Morne Rouge, Quartier Morin,

  Are like grass widows, unweeded, growing thorns

  And bristles, dry seeds in a parching wind.

  We do not seem to be able to drive them back to work;

  They speak of slavery, murmur against measures,

  Strict, but satisfactory to the able administrator.

  PÉTION

  Give a man an education or a gun

  And you lose an honest labourer.

  BRELLE

  Since Toussaint’s exile, I have observed the country

  Has grown lax in spiritual matters, perplexing the clergy;

  The ancient cults are growing like an unweeded garden over

  Our pruned labours;

  A stern but gentle hand is needed,

  As long as the Church is not superseded.

  SYLLA

  We must remember Christophe;

  He needs watching.

  BRELLE

  I do not descend to a question of enmity, I prefer

  That the present holders of the keys of authority

  Do not consider

  Who must open the door first, rather,

  Work in an amity to put our rooms in order.

  PÉTION

  I agree with what Brelle says;

  We should transcend these partisan rages …

  DESSALINES

  Cackling of old women, talking politics to savages,

  You still persist in framing gentle laws?

  I have seen virgin debauchery, bacchanals, heresies, shouting

  Under a swaying moon, drinking goat’s death and wine,

  A shriek ahead of spinsterish piety.

  We should know better, not be merciful.

  Iron decisions make a Caesar, and a Caesar is what

  This country needs.

  I will assemble powers.

  I plan a temporary amendment, call it enlargement

  Of Toussaint’s constitution. If these men will not work,

  Since we have their good in our intentions,

  We will punish them like a stern father.

  BRELLE

  You will have to contend with the aristocracy.

  SYLLA

  What aristocracy? Treacherous white rags of flesh,

  Dogs under skin, who sold his exile for the Judas kiss

  Of comfort. Welcoming Toussaint when he routed Rigaud,

  Throwing jewelry and laughter under his horse—

  How many are left now? Not enough to spit on.

  BRELLE

  When will this eating another be over?

  PÉTION

  For you, that’s easy; your cassock makes you calm;

  But I remember in these soft-edged voices,

  In the waning sun, actions so fresh

  The gutters seem to run like lymph; the smell

  Of blood cooks in my nostrils, the blood sticks

  Wet, very wet, on my memory.

  BRELLE

  We cannot answer vengeance on vengeance, because

  As far as the eye can warn, the incision instruct,

  The cycle will never end. Blood grows

  Where blood is uprooted …

  SYLLA

  Father, a priest, you are safe.

  Dessalines is right, we’d better watch the whites.

  I saw them fawn on Leclerc, your very archbishop,

  Who owed to Toussaint his ecclesiastic spiral,

  Leaped nimbly to the side that wore his flesh, the whites:

  His robes did not hinder him.

  BRELLE

  You seek to kill the founders of your country?

  DESSALINES

  Who are the founders of our country—the Big Whites?

  Wild geese that, adopting a finer climate, assume

  The white divinity of the swan; and all their brothers,

  A babble of shopkeepers, murderers, dispossessed.

  You say they founded this country. What did they found?

  Bastardhoods whose existences they denied, privileges pruned,

  Cruelties devised to adorn an indolent minute,

  White Jesuit fathers built presbyteries from slavery,

  Swinging annulling incense over wound-humped backs,

  Tired with the weight of Africa,

  Baptising with a tongue in cheek …

  SYLLA

  Stop, Jacques, this ordinary heresy …

  PÉTION

  Shut up, old man.

  BRELLE

  I too have seen much; the actions of the Church

  Are not always exemplary, but the Church’s laws are perfect.

  Messengers miscarry, fall prey to the time’s temptation,

  And the Church has done grave wrongs in Haiti,

  Or where it has not done, it has often allowed it.

  I grant Archbishop Mainvielle treacherous, refractory,

  And I condemn him as a man, but

  I cannot question his right to bless his flock …

  DESSALINES

  I have decided.

  Although it defy an old archbishop whose voice

  Is weak as water.

  BRELLE

  The archbishop is ineffectual. If


  I were archbishop …

  DESSALINES

  When you will be archbishop, I will not be King,

  And if I am King, you will never be archbishop. So even priests

  Conceal ambitions?

  PÉTION

  You seek to exclude and deprive the whites?

  DESSALINES

  Be frank, I seek to cut them down.

  BRELLE

  Massacre would be more frank.

  DESSALINES

  Call it any name, the syllables do not matter.

  BRELLE

  Whose conscience do you ferret out on that?

  Whose law? What love?

  DESSALINES

  My own, my conscience, and the memory

  Of a red past.

  BRELLE

  Conscience is the jackass you ride to history on, the mule

  You heap excuses on, but watch your step.

  You defame Toussaint.

  What is your alphabet, the bullet?

  What is the bayonet, your bible?

  You betrayed Toussaint to Leclerc,

  Then you betrayed the peasants to Rochambeau.

  What is your dictionary, only treason?

  Then, when the tide changed, you betrayed the French.

  If I had the authority …

  DESSALINES

  Priest, your cassock is your comfort; do not waste

  Your safety, leave us.

  BRELLE

  So you must rule?

  I hope Christophe contests it.

  You throne yourself on cruelty. So you will rule?

  We are embarrassment to our hopes, when

  They are fulfilled. Ah, time, how men shame

  The achievement of their whispers!

  You are bald of mercy. But I warn all of you,

  The extreme of tyranny happens when

  The gaoled turn on their gaolers.

  I’ve said my fill.

  (He exits.)

  DESSALINES

  And overflowed the cup.

  Now, gentlemen, to make our policy plain,

  Our simple trick impedes Christophe:

  The messenger hastens cautiously to his camp,

  Days later will arrive too late.

  Christophe will be helpless to prison power.

  I assume a monarchy.

  (There is consternation.)

  PÉTION

  Monarchy … Not even Toussaint …