CHATOYER: FREEDOM’S WAR CHIEF

Chapter One: Legotte

1754

Legotte led his two adolescent sons, Joseph Chatoyer and his half-brother, Duvalle, up the steep path that led from the French settlement of Layou on the leeward shore of St. Vincent Island. They climbed into the mountains toward the large Black Carib town of Grand Sable on the Windward Coast. Legotte was one of Grand Sable’s caciques, what Europeans called chiefs. Legotte’s two youngest wives followed behind. They carried the boys’ belongings on their bare backs in large baskets attached to wooden racks by tumplines strung around the young women’s foreheads.

Joseph was the older of Legotte’s two oldest sons. Joseph’s mother, Uguchuru, was Legotte’s senior wife and an important boyez or shaman back in their home, Grand Sable.

Joseph Chatoyer was tall, lean, and well-muscled for a boy in early adolescence. His dark skin and curly hair reflected his African ancestry. His handsome face showed hints of his Red Carib Amerindian ancestors, as well. His people, the Black Caribs, were a genetic mix of indigenous Carib Indians and escaped African captives who began blending into a new people from the time the Spanish first brought Africans across the Atlantic to the Caribbean Islands.

Having grown in his year away, Joseph Chatoyer strode confidently with his long legs at his tall father’s side, recounting his year living in the French community of Layou on the western half of St. Vincent Island. He smiled brightly as he described all he had learned. His father expected him to grow into a leader, and he was happy to anticipate this future role as something that naturally fit his personality. Joseph was not so sure his younger half-brother, Duvalle, was as suited for this role. Joseph’s second name, Chatoyer, meant something like brilliant or glittering in French. Whether this was intentional or just a coincidence in the way the French pronounced his Carib name was not clear. It certainly seemed to fit.

“Father, it was a good year. The French family you arranged for me to live with treated me well. I had to work for the family, but they acted as if I was a foster son rather than a servant, like their African slaves. I fished and hunted with their sons, shared in their work, ate at their table, and helped them with their animals. They have horses, Father, big ones. I’m glad you sent me there. I made some good friends among the French.”

“And what of your French, Joseph? Can you now read their language?”

“Yes. I can make out their language from their marks in the book. I can write a bit as well. The priest drilled us daily in French, and I picked up a lot of new words.”

Duvalle remained silent as his half-brother recounted his positive experiences among the French.

“What of you, Son? How went your stay with the French?” asked Legotte, looking back at his second son.

“I’m glad to be going home. I missed Mother’s cooking and my friends,” replied the younger brother, his shorter legs taking more effort to keep up with his older brother and his father.

“But were you treated well?”

            “I didn’t like it there. They weren’t so bad, but the family I stayed with treated me more like a servant. I had to work in the fields with the Africans. Do you know that the men do the farming among the French, not the women? It was humiliating, though, in truth, the French men worked alongside their servants. My family didn’t go hunting like Joseph’s. The priest tried to get me to accept his strange beliefs. I think Joseph’s mother would have laughed at what they believe.”

“I’m sorry you had a bad experience, Son. What of your French? Can you speak it well?”

Joseph interrupted. “Father, he’s just a sourpuss. Both he and I had a fine time. We both made some French friends. We can both speak French well now and can understand some of their scribblings on paper and make our own as well.”

Legotte looked at his younger son. “Is that true?”

“Well . . . yes, I can write some and read their words, which mean little to me. I did enjoy the stories the Black Robe told us of the tribes in a place he called the Holy Land. They fought against enemies just as we have done. They escaped slavery and fought to protect their lands. I enjoyed those stories, strange as they were. But I’ll be glad to be home in my own hammock, among my friends, and eating Mother’s good food.”

“Me, as well, Father, though the year was an informative one,” added Chatoyer.

“I’d hoped as much. You boys must learn these French people’s language and ways so we can deal with them as our neighbors. They’re here now for good, not just as missionaries and traders. We must accommodate to this, but we must also keep them on their side of the island. We can benefit from friendly relations, and a better understanding of their ways can help us maintain our lands. Others were not so able in the northern islands. That cannot be our fate. You boys will have to be adept at dealing with them in the future, and this experience will help you when you become caciques.”

Duvalle spoke up. “Father, in your day, you defeated them in battle. We can do that again should they try to settle on our side of the island. I’ve heard the stories in the carbet, how we drove the French out of our territory, killing their chief and forcing them to flee back to Martinique.”

“Yes, that’s true. I was just a boy then, barely able to pull back my father’s bowstring. We did drive the French back, but a more peaceful relationship is now to our advantage. I think the French have learned to theirs as well.”

Chatoyer interjected. “Father, remember your promise?”

Duvalle joined in. “Yes, you promised to take us to see the French islands if we learned our French well.”

“And we will sail north, boys, after you settle back into the carbet among your friends. I don’t want you to become too French.”

“That will never happen, Father,” declared Duvalle.

***

Joseph was just as happy as his brother to be returning home. Legotte led his little family group away from the small French farms of Layou to the trail that followed the route of the Buccament River up into the center of the rugged interior of St. Vincent Island. It would be a long walk on barely discernible paths through the jungle. They likely would not arrive at Legotte’s carbet until after sunset.

They passed by the Red Caribs’ scattered fields and Leeward settlements, which maintained close ties to their French neighbors. The Reds were relatively less mixed with African ancestry than Legotte’s Windward Black Caribs. The relationships between the two branches of Carib society alternated between cooperation and tension, though they were culturally identical. Legotte greeted the few Red Caribs they encountered on the trail in a warm, friendly manner, sometimes calling them by name. While his father projected friendship, Joseph noticed that the Reds they encountered sometimes kept a tight grip on their cutlasses. They seemed suspicious of Legotte’s intentions trekking through their territory, asking why he was on the Buccament path.

Legotte set a rapid pace that Joseph, who had grown to nearly his father’s height over the preceding year, was now able to match. Though he heard his younger brother’s panting behind, trying to keep up, Duvalle made no complaints. Legotte’s young wives seemed to manage to carry their burdens without any difficulty. Legotte’s youngest and newest wife, carrying Duvalle’s belongings on her back, was not much older than Joseph and very pretty. Joseph had never seen her before. He felt a stirring of emotion when he saw her and resolved to avoid her in the future out of respect for his father.

As they ascended deeper into the dense green forest, Joseph took in the beauty of his homeland: clear rushing streams, colorful birds flitting from one tree to the next, the smell of damp foliage, and as the altitude increased, the cool breezes and mists coming down from the mountainous interior.

Joseph enjoyed watching a kingfisher that seemed to lead them away from its nest, flying just above the river. The colorful bird went from tree to tree just in front of the Caribs. Tiny emerald-green hummingbirds hovered over sweet-smelling flowers on the occasional stunningly beautiful orange-blossomed flamboyant trees or pink-flowered pouis. Their brilliant flowers contrasted with the dark green of the forest foliage.

Chatoyer noted the strangler figs sending down dangling roots from the branches of the trees they were cannibalizing. The pleasant smell of cedros filled the air when they passed stands of that useful tree. Legotte pointed out a giant gommier that could be made into a fine seagoing dugout canoe if it were not so high up in the mountains.

The large buttresses of a great mahogany tree stretched toward the trail. Chatoyer picked up one of their fist-sized brown seed pods and threw it as far as he could across a deep gorge. He watched it fall short of reaching the forest on the opposite side. Noisy, large, multicolored St. Vincent parrots flew in pairs or clustered in groups high above in the forest canopy.

They reached the headwaters of the Buccament. Legotte located a hidden pass leading to the upper reaches of the Colonaire River, which flowed toward the Atlantic on the Windward Side of St. Vincent. Legotte used his cutlass to clear errant vines and branches as they followed the Colonaire’s valley trail toward the east. As the sun passed its zenith and began its journey toward the Caribbean on the western side of the mountains, Legotte left the Colonaire path and crossed a series of jungle-covered hills. He led the boys up and down a narrow track until they arrived at the Grand Sable River. From there, it was a short descent to their home.

The air became warmer and more humid as they paralleled the river trail. The breeze now came off the broad Atlantic, which they could see from the tops of the higher hills through gaps in the forest. Soon, they passed fields of manioc in flat clearings in the jungle adjacent to abandoned gardens reverting back to forest. Ducks swam in the river, and egrets perched on its banks, scanning for a fish meal.

Joseph’s heart pounded, not from the exertion of the day-long trek but in anticipation of returning to the home he loved, his friends, and his family.

            The two boys spotted Grand Sable from the heights of the surrounding hills. From above, the large town resembled a cluster of small inverted birds’ nests surrounding a giant upside-down basket. Most were light brown in color, with the occasional green of a newly thatched roof. Smoke rose from numerous cooking fires in outdoor kitchens.

Patches of manioc, corn, sea cotton, and tobacco gardens surrounded the town on the relatively extensive flat land, alternating with fields left fallow to recover their fertility for future planting. The Grand Sable River flowed nearby out of the mountains and into the Atlantic.

Below the town lay a long, broad beach of black sand. A row of large dugout canoes, called piraguas, were lined up above the high tide mark, mixed with smaller canoes, called cayucos. Unfinished piraguas stuck out from boat sheds higher up on the beach, away from where white breakers crashed onto the sand, finishing their long journey across the vast Atlantic.

The birds’ nests were the women’s cottages, who lived apart from their husbands and sons with their daughters and babies. The big upside-down basket was the carbet, the men’s house. All men lived in this combination dormitory, clubhouse, meeting hall, capitol, school, and workplace, where the men spoke a language different from their women. After being weaned, boys left their mothers to join the men to learn how to become Carib warriors, fishermen, hunters, and craftsmen.

The brothers stopped to take in the view.

“It’s good to be home, Father,” said Chatoyer, breathing in deeply the smells of the sea, the jungle, and what must be fresh cassava bread baking on griddles below. The boys picked up the pace, outstripping their father’s tired wives carrying their belongings.

Back in Grand Sable, Chatoyer was greeted by his siblings, cousins, uncles, and his mother. He found his hammock next to Duvalle’s in the carbet and happily stretched out among his friends and relatives who peppered him with questions about his year away. His mother and Duvalle’s brought them some of their favorite Carib foods—freshly baked cassava bread, fish, and a savory stew—which they devoured, asking for more of the foods they missed during their time among the French.

Joseph enjoyed relating his experiences and became the center of a cluster of curious Caribs, young and old, around his hammock. Duvalle, less outgoing, remained in his hammock, rarely contributing to the stories unless Chatoyer called on him to reinforce some curious statement about the French and their ways.

Chatoyer related how strange the French way of life seemed. “The men are always working in their fields and don’t spend as much time fishing or hunting as we do. They grow little to eat and focus on tobacco, cotton, and indigo for sale to French traders. They don’t enjoy their lives as much as we do. They seem to always be grumbling about this or that. The men do the farming, and the women stay at home with the children rather than working in the gardens as our women do. The men and boys sleep in the same house as the women and girls.”

“That cannot be,” said Dufond, Chatoyer’s much younger brother, looking at Duvalle for contradiction.

“It’s true. In the house where I lived, the woman often yelled at her husband, and he cowered at her outrages. At times, she even threw things at him,” said Duvalle, shocking his male audience.

“Father would beat any of his women severely if they did that,” mused a bewildered Dufond.

Chatoyer continued, “They have no men’s house and live far apart from their neighbors with their one wife and their children. It seems a lonely life, but that’s their way. They have strange foods; some I enjoyed, but many were barely edible. They don’t know how to take advantage of what the forest offers. The men don’t know how to weave baskets or mats, and the women can’t make hammocks. They don’t share their food with their neighbors as we do. If I have a fish and my friend doesn’t, he gets a share. They don’t do that. I have seen neighbors let others of their nation go hungry rather than share the food they have for their own family.”

The wide-eyed youths in Chatoyer’s audience shook their heads at this.

“Some French have more than others, and they think this allows them to tell others what to do. Even Legotte would never try to tell another Carib when to fish or when to clear a field for his wives. Some of these French try to put themselves above the others, especially above their servants. Even above us Caribs.”

Duvalle uncharacteristically interrupted his brother’s tale. “Our father would tell others what to do in wartime, Brother.”

“Yes, you’re right. But that’s an exception. He would never tell another man what to do except in war.”

            “What are their women like?” asked an older Carib man.

“The women seem weak compared to our mothers, and even the young ones are not very pretty, with their pale faces and straw-like hair. Both men and women wear heavy clothing and are always sweating. They rarely bathe, and their smell takes getting used to. The men only take one wife, though they often secretly take their female slaves as additional wives. Isn’t that true, Brother?” said Chatoyer looking over at Duvalle.

Duvalle seemed pleased that his older brother called on him to relate his observations. “What you say is true. I’m so happy to be back home. I couldn’t live as these people do.”

“Their way of life isn’t for us; it’s true. But they’ve taught me some things that may be useful, at least in dealing with them on their own terms. I wouldn’t like for them to come to our side of the mountains, but having them as trading partners is something that can improve our lives in some ways,” added Chatoyer.

His audience took in his words and nodded in agreement. A small boy said, “Especially when they sell us muskets.” This was something they all laughed at, patting the child on the shoulders.

Dufond asked, “Were there any things you liked about the way they live?”

Chatoyer thought for a while. “Well, they don’t get as drunk as I have seen our people do when we have an ouicou party. So, they don’t fight as much as we do. That seems a good thing. When they fight and someone is injured or killed, it’s not up to the family to avenge the injury as it is among us. They see it is the responsibility of their chief in Martinique.”

Duvalle interjected, “It’s our responsibility to avenge an injury to our family, not somebody else we don’t know. What would the ancestors think?”

“I don’t know, Brother. But it does seem they have less violence among their people than we do among ours, though the kindness between families seems less, despite this. My Black Robe friend, Valladares, kept talking about avoiding violence and something he called ‘sin.’ I couldn’t understand this concept and why these people so feared it. They think it will somehow prevent them from joining their ancestors in a place they call ‘Heaven.’ It’s not a lovely island in the west where our ancestors’ spirits go after death, but someplace above the clouds. I can’t imagine how anyone could live in the clouds, even as a spirit.”

“Don’t forget the place they call ‘Hell,’” added Duvalle.

“Yes, they have great fear of this place and are constantly running to the Black Robes to wipe away this thing they call ‘sin.’ They think their spirit will be exiled to this ‘Hell’ should it have too much of this ‘sin.’ I think they say this place is much like our volcano, La Soufriere.”

“I would not want my spirit to go there,” said Dufond.

***

The next morning, Joseph visited his mother, Uguchuru, in her cottage. He found her sitting on a wooden stool, cleaning a manioc root with a sharp knife.

With its palm-leaf thatched roof and cane walls covered with fragrant interlaced vines sporting bright blue blossoms, the familiar cottage recalled Joseph’s early childhood. The same wicker cabinet with neat rows of decorated clay pots full of various liquids stood against the wall. Salvaged wine or rum bottles on its shelves contained mysterious-colored concoctions. On the top were bowls of dried insects and lizards, and a basket of desiccated bird carcasses. Various baskets containing clothing, household items, and the herbs, seeds, and roots Uguchuru used for her healing medicines, hung from the ceiling. She kept special fetishes in a wooden chest in the back of the one-room cottage under her hammock.

Uguchuru kept the hard-packed earthen floor swept clean. She used a small hearth in the middle of the room at night for light. Its smoke helped to keep the mosquitoes at bay. A stewpot sat to one side on glowing coals, exuding tantalizing smells.

Uguchuru gave her smiling son a cup of alcoholic ouicou and some tobacco for his pipe. Though in her thirties, her youthful beauty was no more. Legotte often bragged he had married the most desirable woman on the Windward Coast. Now her breasts and body showed the effects of numerous pregnancies. The men of Grand Sable still considered her attractive, and her fame as a shaman was widespread. She was tall and straight-backed, and her firm arms and shoulders showed signs of her labor in the manioc gardens. Her long legs were muscled and shapely, the result of many treks in the mountains searching for medicinal herbs. Rows of colorful beads wound tightly around her legs set off these muscles. All Carib women wore these to exaggerate the shapeliness of their calves.

She wore her long, curly hair piled on her head and bound with colorful cotton bands decorated with shells and glass trade beads. She appeared more African than Legotte, with darker skin and more tightly curled hair. She still painted her body from bare waist to chin in red plant dye, which was beginning to go out of style among the younger Carib women. Her ears were pierced and adorned with earrings carved from shells. Her lower lip was also pierced, as she sometimes wore a labret, now absent.

As a boyez, she was curious about the spiritual beliefs of the French. Uguchuru encountered French missionaries in her youth, but their efforts made no impact on her traditional beliefs.

“Son, what of the Black Robes? What have you learned of their stories and their spirits?”

“I became quite friendly with a young Black Robe named Valladares. He is not what they call a full-fledged priest yet, but he was friendly and interested in learning our language, which I helped him with as he helped me with my French letters. They have a book that they read stories from. They put much store in this book.”

“Were you able to read some of this book?”

“It’s in a language no longer used by the French. Valladares said he had to learn this language as a part of his training to be a priest. He showed me a similar book in French that I was able to read a bit. It was full of stories of ancient people from a land far off and of a man that the French call Jesus, the founder of their beliefs.”

“I have heard of this Jesus. He seems to be like me, a boyez, a healer.”

“I do think he was a shaman of some type. There are stories of his healing powers. But they see him as more than a shaman, as a kind of sacred man. Apparently, his enemies didn’t see him as such. In fact, the priests and their followers revere the wooden cross that was the means of his torture and death. You would think they should hate this object, but instead, they see it as a magical charm. They wear a small version of it around their necks and hang it from their house walls as we hang our enemies’ bouccaned limbs from the ceiling of our carbet. A bigger version hangs above their meeting place. You would think revenge against those who killed this man would be foremost on their minds, but instead, the priest spoke to me about love and forgiveness. If I spoke like that in the carbet, I would be laughed out of the village.”

Joseph’s mother looked at her hands clasped in her lap. “These French and their holy men are a strange bunch. I know very few Caribs willing to accept their ideas; they are so unusual and bizarre. They have tried for years to get us to come to their meeting halls. Few Caribs have done so. Most here are more comfortable with what they have grown up with. Many feel these priests are just spies trying to help their countrymen to take more of our territory.”

“The priest did try to get Duvalle and me to go to his meeting hall. This angered Little Brother, as he feels that way about these French shamans. I went a few times out of curiosity, but it meant little to me. I have to say, Mother, I did enjoy the priests’ stories. Some had points to be made about the French way of life. For me, I will trust your magic over theirs any day.”

            Uguchuru looked up from her stew pot and smiled.

            Chatoyer sensed his mother enjoyed his sharing as much as he enjoyed the telling. “Do you know they have a Mabouya spirit? He’s called Satan, and they fear him greatly but don’t offer him sacrifice or honor, as we do Mabouya to keep him from causing us difficulty. This Satan is opposed to their good god, like our Icheiri, and is constantly at war with him. Like us, they also have many spirit beings they call demons, angels, and ghosts. These ghosts live with their gods and once walked the earth, like their shaman, Jesus. They also have a father god, a son god, born of the mating between this father god and a young girl, and they have a ghost-bird god. The Black Robe was never able to make this very clear, as they claim to have only one god, yet they talk of three or more. I often spoke with Valladares about the similarities and differences between our beliefs. He was just as curious about us as I was about the French. Do you know they kill their own people who don’t think the same way about these stories in their book as they do?”

“I have heard that,” she said, reaching for some greens to add to the pepper pot.

            “That’s beyond my comprehension. They don’t kill others for women, vengeance, or pillage, but simply for how they think about their spirit world. They talk about kindness and the brotherhood of mankind, yet I know the way they treat their slaves. Even the priests have slaves. It’s a strange people, Mother.”

Uguchuru poked at the glowing coals. “Is it true that they have a cannibal ritual in their meeting halls?”

“I had heard that. In fact, some French used to think we were cannibals until the missionaries learned the bouccaned limbs were simply war trophies, like the heads these Christians display of their executed enemies. The priest explained to me their ritual involves eating the flesh of their founder, Jesus, and drinking his blood.”

“By the spirits, if their founder was killed those many years ago, how can this be?” exclaimed Chatoyer’s mother, looking up from her fire.

“I was shocked to learn this as well. They only pretend to eat this great shaman’s flesh and drink his blood. They are actually just eating a piece of their bread and drinking red wine, meant to look like flesh and blood. It’s somehow supposed to be transformed into the real thing during their ritual. I observed this once but couldn’t see any change. It seemed to me the bread was still bread and the wine still wine, but that is not the way Valladares explained it to me. Why they would eat what they think is the flesh of their founder is beyond me.”

Uguchuru used a wooden ladle to fill a bowl with stew from the pot and handed it to her son. “This all sounds just too bizarre for a reasonable person to accept. These French are a strange bunch. Have you shared this with your father?”

“Yes, Mother. He just laughed.”

***

The news had the men in the carbet all astir. A French settler family established a plantation on lands claimed by a Black Carib family. Hunters from a nearby village ran across the newly constructed buildings and cleared fields while chasing a wild boar down a steep hillside.

The French were warned frequently that they would not be allowed on the Black Carib side of the island. The men in the carbet argued about what to do about this incursion. Word came that a devious Red Carib sold the lands to this French family and then took the payment and his family to Trinidad to settle among other Red Caribs from St. Vincent. The Red Caribs, with little or no African mixture, were often at odds with their Black cousins.

The French family occupied old fields left fallow for a number of years by the cacique, whose family had previously cleared the land. The Caribs moved to new land when these fields began to yield less after several years of planting. They anticipated returning to work the old fields after sufficient time to let the soil recover, clearing the jungle that reclaimed the old croplands using fire and machetes.

Now, with the French plantation established, this would not be possible. The angered chief asked for support from his neighbors and the caciques in Grand Sable to deal with this incursion onto Black Carib land. Legotte said this not only was a threat to this cacique’s territory but also set a precedent for more exploitation of Carib lands by the French settlers and their African servants. There was much talk in the carbet of what to do. Other caciques arrived to discuss the matter with Legotte and his fellow caciques of Grand Sable, the most important Carib town.

Chatoyer and his brother Duvalle attended these discussions. Some chiefs advocated going to the French plantation to demand the family abandon it. Others advocated going to Martinique to complain to the French governor-general there. Some felt direct action was necessary to compel the settlers to withdraw. Young Duvalle told his brother this option most appealed to him. He knew of the family from their time living among the French and had no liking for the man or his slaves.

The caciques finally agreed to send a delegation immediately to the French governor-general on Martinique, the leading official for all the French islands. Bigot, cacique of the village at Point Espagnol, the closest village to the land taken over by the Frenchman, led the delegation bringing the complaint. The settler was a man called Perain, who was secretary to Martinique Island’s Governor Rouille.

Chatoyer heard the results of the meeting when the men returned and spoke of it in the carbet. The French tried to dispel any argument against Perain’s purchase of the land at a place called Manacro, near the fishing grounds of Owia, valued by all Caribs, Red, and Black. The governor-general suggested that an important cacique living in the French settlement of Saint Antony on Ouasigany Bay, named Tourouya, may have approved of the sale. Bigot replied that Tourouya had no say in the lands near his carbet. The French said the matter would be looked into.

There was more talk about what to do next. Some wanted to wait for the French response. Others advised action. Joseph and Duvalle listened. Joseph could see that his brother became more and more agitated as the older chiefs recommended caution rather than action.

After a long session in the carbet that stretched into the night, accompanied by the consumption of lots of ouicou, Duvalle walked over to Chatoyer, sleeping in his hammock, and shook him awake.

“Joseph. Wake up.”

A slumbering Chatoyer opened his eyes. His brother motioned for him to remain silent. “What is it?”

“Come with me,” whispered Duvalle.

A groggy Chatoyer stumbled out of his hammock and accompanied his brother outside of the crowded carbet, his ears ringing with the sounds of snores and deep breathing coming from the occupants of the other hammocks.

Chatoyer noticed that Duvalle carried both his own and Chatoyer’s bows and quivers of arrows and their cutlasses.

They entered the cool night air outside. This revived Chatoyer. He breathed in deeply, taking in the sweet-smelling jungle fragrance of a St. Vincent night.

Duvalle led his older brother to a cluster of young men standing just outside the town on the trail that led toward the mountains. All were armed.

“What is this all about, Brother?” asked Chatoyer.

“Joseph, we’re going to deal with these French on our lands. The old men just talk. Now it’s time for action. We want you to lead us to expel these French as our grandfathers did in our father’s time. Are you with us?”

Chatoyer was taken aback. “What of the caciques idea about appealing to the French to withdraw? Shouldn’t we see if that works first?”

“Brother, you know these people. We lived with them. This family will not agree to withdraw.”

Duvalle looked to the other young men for support. They all nodded their heads in agreement.

            “Now is the time to act. Will you lead us, Joseph?”

It seemed to Chatoyer that his younger brother knew how to appeal to his desire for attention and leadership. Knowing this, he still could not resist. He also felt the French were trespassers that needed to be removed, but he wanted to do it with less risk of violence.

“What’s your plan?” asked Chatoyer.

“With your help, we will drive them out. Burn them out if necessary. It will be a lesson the French need to relearn.”

“What of the consequences after? Have you thought of that?”

“We’ll leave that up to the caciques. It will be done, Joseph. It needs to be done, or these people will slowly take over our side of the island. You know what our father said. It’s up to us to act to keep them in their place.”

“Are there others from that area willing to join us?”

Two boys from Bigot’s village stood forward. The older of the two spoke, “These lands were our family’s before the Frenchman, Perain, moved in. We and our cousins will join in any effort to expel them. We can stop at our village on the way across the mountains and collect more followers.”

“So, I will join you as well. But first, we must see what can be accomplished without violence. If warnings don’t work, I will lead you in action,” concluded Chatoyer.

With that said, the band of young warriors began the long walk to the village nearest the new French plantation. All the boys were dressed simply in loincloths, with their full quivers and bows slung over their shoulders and trade knives tucked in their string belts. Most carried cutlasses.

As the moon was nearly full and the stars brilliant, they made their way along the open path by moonlight. When the forest became dense, blocking the moon’s light, Duvalle took out one of his mother’s precious, expensive candles, stolen from her cottage. He used his knife and a flint to strike sparks into the small tinder box he carried tucked into his belt. He blew on the resulting ember, adding bits of dry tinder to create a small flame, and lit the candle. He handed the candle to one of the boys from Bigot’s village, who best knew the path. The boy used the candlelight to find their way through the dark woods until they reached open lands again and could use the moonlight.

The going on the narrow jungle path in the dark was slow, but the boy leading them knew the way well. They went up and down the rugged coastal hills, occasionally gaining glimpses of silver moonlight reflecting off the Atlantic to the east. They heard the sound of breakers crashing on the rocky shore below. Their young guide counted the rivers they had to ford as they waded through the cool rushing waters, scooping up mouthfuls of the sweet water as they crossed. Seven rivers and they would be at Point Espagnol and Bigot’s village adjacent to Manacro and the new French plantation.

Toward dawn, the tired boys stopped at the sixth river to rest. Duvalle’s mother’s candle was nearly halfway done, despite only using it on the darkest parts of the path. As the sun rose over the vast Atlantic, the boys could make out the distant Grenadine Islands on the horizon; Bequia was the closest and most prominent. The sky glowed pink, then orange, and finally, the sun burst bright yellow over the watery horizon and into the blue sky. It warmed the boys as they rested on the shore where the sixth river entered the salty waters.

Several boys took their bows and climbed down to the rocks to shoot fish. When they had enough to make a satisfying meal, they used Duvalle’s tinder box to build a fire near the river bank and cooked their breakfast.

The boys slept for a while, then got their gear together for the last short trek to Bigot’s village. Duvalle was the first to raise the issue of what action should be taken against the encroaching Frenchman, Perain.

Chatoyer had given the issue much thought. The boys all looked to him for leadership as the oldest son of Legotte and as someone who had earned their admiration as a leader in childhood games and pranks. He seemed to know what to do in any situation.

“We should first give this Perain a warning,” said Chatoyer.

Duvalle spoke up. “What, just walk up and ask him to abandon his plantation and the buildings he put up? I would think he would ignore us, as he has in the past. Perhaps even greet us with musket shot.”

“This kind of warning has already been attempted,” added one of the boys from Bigot’s village.

            Chatoyer surveyed his small crew of adolescent warriors. “What I was thinking is a bit more suggestive than simple talk. This man has livestock, correct?”

The Point Espagnol boys nodded.

“We’ll first send a meaningful message with his animals, suggesting what is in store for him should he not leave our lands.”

“And what is that, Joseph?” responded a skeptical Duvalle.

“I have something very graphic in mind that this Frenchman will certainly understand. You will see. For now, let’s go on to the village and find out what we can about this plantation from Bigot and his men.”

With that, the boys got up and trudged their weary way toward the big carbet at Point Espagnol. They left the jungle path that went up and down the steep, rugged Windward Coast, and entered more open land with abandoned fields covered with vines, brush, and small trees, where gardens of staples once thrived.

After fording one more rushing stream, where children splashed in the cool waters and women filled jars to carry home, they crossed a field dotted with small hills sprouting manioc plants. Their multiple green leaves spread out from central stems already as high as an adult Carib. Between the maniocs were rows of broad-leafed sweet potatoes. Nearby stands of maize reached for the sun.

The boys entered the village where women worked preparing cassava flour, grinding manioc roots in the shade of fruit trees in front of their cottages. The resulting pulp would be squeezed in matapees––special devices hanging from nearby trees––to remove the toxic juices. After pounding and grating, the flour was cooked on large round griddles. The resulting cassava was baked into the staple bread that accompanied nearly every Carib meal. As the women worked, children dashed about, yelling greetings to Chatoyer’s crew before returning to their games.

The youthful warriors headed for the entrance of Bigot’s carbet. The villagers greeted the boys related to Bigot and welcomed Chatoyer, Duvalle, and the other youths who came with them from Grand Sable. They were escorted into the reed-covered carbet, their eyes adjusting to the dark interior. Bigot’s carbet was not as big as Legotte’s back in Grand Sable. It still could accommodate all the men and boys of Point Espagnol, as well as guests. Chatoyer looked up to the ceiling and noted the bouccaned, or smoked, arms and legs tied high up, old desiccated reminders of a more violent time when the men of Point Espagnol raided enemies and took their limbs as trophies.

Bigot’s people offered food, drink, and hammocks. Soon, the talk turned to the issue of the new plantation near Owia Bay. Villagers complained of French boats anchored there, disrupting a favorite fishing ground. Bigot related his attempt to get support from the government in Martinique to remove Perain from Manacro. He still waited for the Frenchman to begin evacuating the land he claimed. His patience was being greatly tried.

Chatoyer listened to Bigot’s complaints and nodded in sympathy. After resting for a time in his hammock, Chatoyer had Duvalle and the Point Espagnol boys gather a band of like-minded youths, some as young as eleven. They went down to the river to bathe and to plan.

***

In the late afternoon, as the sun dipped behind the green mass of La Soufriere Volcano, the boys assembled outside the village. They were armed and eager to follow Chatoyer and Duvalle toward Perain’s plantation. When they arrived at the edge of the cleared lands, they saw young coffee and cotton plants already emerging from the soil. The boys watched goats, cattle, and horses grazing on cleared fields surrounded by wooden fences. There were newly constructed slave huts; their palm leaf roofs were still green. Behind these stood a roughly constructed shed and the main house, a low single-story wattle and daub building with a thatched roof. An open veranda surrounded the house, containing wooden stools. Several African women sat cleaning baskets of vegetables, using pots of water resting at their feet. The smells of cooking came from the slave quarters. Men sat on the ground outside their huts, some smoking, others talking quietly, some sleeping on the bare ground.

Chatoyer discussed the plan with his followers. They waited on the edge of the forest out of sight until it grew dark and all the activity of the slaves near their quarters and the French at the main house ended. When no lights were visible at the windows of the main house or the open doors of the slave huts, Chatoyer put his plan into action.

The boys took out their bows and arrows. They stealthily shot Perain’s dogs to prevent them from warning the sleeping occupants of the plantation. Approaching the corral, they used their knives and cutlasses to dispatch cattle and goats. The big cattle were the most difficult to kill. Only the biggest boys could approach the drowsy beasts close enough to hack at their broad necks and the loose skin hanging from their throats.

It took two boys to bring down one of these big animals. As one boy hacked at the neck and throat, his companion forced a cutlass into the animal’s side, aiming for its heart. The dying beasts made bellowing noises the boys feared might alert the sleeping occupants of the plantation, but the corral was far enough from the dwellings that no response occurred. Only a few cattle were killed, and Chatoyer forbade harming the horses, remembering his time caring for similar beautiful animals in Layou.

Killing the numerous goats proved much easier, something the boys had done back in their villages. They took them by the horns and easily slit their throats with their knives. Chatoyer took the biggest he-goat and cut its throat.

In the dark, the boys quietly dragged the goat carcass to the front of the plantation house. Chatoyer dipped a handful of goat hair cut from the dead animal into its flowing blood. On the mud wall of the main house, he used his newly acquired literacy in French to scrawl “Quitte maintenant,” leave now, in large letters.

Chatoyer ordered his followers to retreat back into the forest; as they did, they used their cutlasses to hack at the new coffee and cotton plants and shot at more livestock, including sleeping chickens and pigs. Chatoyer ordered that no animals be stolen. This was meant to be a final warning, not a raid.

Chatoyer looked back as his crew disappeared into the dark. He took a deep breath, held the hilt of his cutlass in his right hand, and used it to pound on the wooden door. He then sprinted into the dark to join his followers. He stopped when he felt he could remain hidden in the darkness to watch the reaction of the occupants of the house.

Breathless, he crouched low, his heart pounding, and looked back at the door. The door opened. Chatoyer watched as the man at the door raised a lantern and saw the dead goat. He could not make out the man’s face, but Chatoyer was sure from his reaction that he registered first shock and then anger. The man returned to the house’s interior and a minute later exited again, followed by a younger man, who held up the lantern. The first man now carried a musket in both hands, scanned the dark, and yelled toward the slave huts. Chatoyer waited a minute more to see if the man had read the message on the wall. As the slaves began to exit their huts, he felt it was wise to join his companions hiding at the forest’s edge.

He sprinted over to join them. They greeted him with smiles and questions. They pounded him on the back and laughed at his description of the reaction of the Frenchman to the dead goat.

            Duvalle spoke. “Did he read the message on the wall?”

            A grinning Chatoyer answered. “I couldn’t tell in the dark. Perhaps he doesn’t read or didn’t see it yet. Certainly, by morning, someone will read it and get our message. Let’s go before he sends his servants out to find us. I don’t want to fight them now if we can avoid it. Let’s go.”

Chatoyer looked at his brother and thought he saw a sign of disappointment on the boy’s face.

They heard shouts coming from the plantation and quickly put some distance between themselves and the French and their slaves, who were rushing about the plantation, some carrying torches or lanterns. At least one Frenchman held what looked like a musket.

            They walked back to Bigot’s village in the dark, laughing and joking about their adventure. Some bragged about their bravery. Others were teased about trips in the dark or missed shots at chickens or pigs. Several boys wished they had at least taken some of the slain chickens back with them. Chatoyer insisted that was not what this was about. It was about forcing the French to leave.

They said nothing to Bigot. For the next couple of days, the boys fished and kept to themselves, trying to keep their nighttime deed a secret. Of course, this was not possible. Soon, a message came from the plantation brought by a Red Carib friendly with the plantation owner. Perain demanded that Bigot meet with him at the landing at Owia. The boys watched as Bigot left in his cayuco, accompanied by other caciques and a few warriors.

When Bigot returned to the carbet, everyone was curious about what the Frenchmen had to say.

            “They accused me of attacking their plantation and killing their animals.”

One of the village men asked how they reacted to the attack as the actual perpetrators sat quietly in their hammocks, listening to Bigot’s description of the meeting. Apparently, the French were furious and demanded that Bigot pay for the cost of replacing the animals.

“When I denied knowing anything about it, they demanded I find out who vandalized their plantation and turn the vandals over to the French for punishment. I responded that I had no such knowledge of any vandals, and had they not illegally settled on Carib lands—our lands—they would not have lost their animals. I recommended that they leave and that I couldn’t guarantee their safety if they didn’t. I reminded them that the governor-general on Martinique was aware of the land issue and was dealing with it.”

One of the young nighttime raiders from the village asked, “What did he say to that, Uncle?”

“Not a thing. I’m not sure what he intends. He just left, and so did we. Not on particularly friendly terms, I might add.”

A tight-lipped Chatoyer looked over at Duvalle and his fellow conspirators, who seemed to be sinking lower into their hammocks. When Duvalle caught his eye, Chatoyer winked. They all met again at the shore after a fine supper of fish, cassava bread, and ouicou.

Chatoyer spoke first. “We need to know if they got the message we sent. Who is the best at hiding in the forest?”

All the local boys looked over at a young Carib boy.

            “Unhun (Pigeon) is the best I know at hiding and spying. He sometimes spies on the older boys when they’re attempting to make love with the village girls and then comes back to tell us about it. They haven’t noticed him yet,” said one of the Point Espagnol boys.

            Chatoyer looked at Unhun, barely twelve and small for his age.

“Unhun, will you be our lookout? Go to the forest near Perain’s plantation and see if they are getting ready to abandon it? Are you willing?”

The boy nodded his head enthusiastically.

            “Stay hidden and bring some food. You can tell your father that you are going to visit friends in another village so he and your mother won’t worry. One of us will go with you part way, but it will be up to you to report each evening on what you see.”

The next few days, spent fishing and relaxing in the carbet, ended after each sunset with a report from Unhun on the activities at the plantation. He saw no evidence that the French and their servants were preparing to leave. The slaves were still sent to the fields to tend the cotton and coffee plants, replanting those damaged in the nighttime raid. The slaughtered animals were butchered and used for food. The bloody message on the wall was washed clean. Unhun reported that the Frenchmen on the plantation now never went without their firearms, and it appeared that at least some of the servants were posted at the edge of the plantation as night guards.

This was not what Chatoyer wanted to hear. Duvalle pressed him for more action. After a few days, he gathered his conspirators together and gave new orders. They met again after dark and walked toward the Manacro plantation. From the edge of the forest, in the moon’s pale light, they could just make out the main house and the servants’ huts clustered nearby. No light shone through open doors or windows. They waited and listened. Unhun pointed toward the shed between the main house and the servant’s huts. Leaning against the shed was the dim outline of a man. Unhun volunteered to creep forward to scout.

He came back and reported. “It’s one of Perain’s African servants armed with a cutlass and maybe a pistol.”

They could not be as bold this time in approaching the house.

Chatoyer anticipated this. He deployed his “men,” as he called them, though none was more than fifteen. Each prepared their arrows for the attack, which would begin with Chatoyer’s arrow. They lit small fires hidden from view by the dense forest. They used cotton, soaked in rum, tied to their arrows.

Each of the boys waited for Chatoyer’s signal. The guard sitting against the door of the shed appeared to dose off. Chatoyer’s fire-arrow arched high into the air and landed on the dry thatch covering the roof of the plantation house. It was the signal for the other boys to loose their fire-arrows. Arrows filled the sky above the various structures on the plantation. Most targeted the main house, some landed on the roof of the shed, and others struck the cane walls of the slave huts.

At first, no response came from the sleeping residents inside the buildings. The roof on the main building caught fire and lit up the compound. The slave huts did not catch fire so easily, as the rooftops were still quite green. Light from the burning main house alerted the drowsing guard, who yelled out to the residents inside. The Carib raiders continued to rain fire arrows at the buildings, catching the shed on fire and adding to the conflagration that now engulfed the main house’s roof and spread to the posts that held up the veranda. The inhabitants exited in their nightclothes or only in drawers. The men loaded their muskets and yelled for the servants to bring buckets to douse the flames. It was too late. The veranda collapsed, blocking the entrance to the main house, preventing the removal of the goods and furniture inside. The conflagration grew, lighting up the compound.

A few shots were fired in the direction the Frenchmen thought the fire arrows were coming from, and servants ran here and there looking for buckets or dashing toward the nearest stream to fill them. The fire continued to burn despite their efforts.

Chatoyer and the others disappeared into the forest. Their plan was not to return directly to Point Espagnol but instead to go back to Grand Sable and wait to hear of the outcome of their venture.

On the way back, Duvalle strode up to his tall brother.

“Joseph, you know Father will figure out it was us.”

“Yes. I think he will.”

            “What do you think will happen then?”

“Brother, I don’t know. I guess we will have to wait to find out.”

***

After several days back in Grand Sable, joined by the conspirators from the other villages, the boys finally found out the results of their nighttime raids. Word came from Bigot’s village that the French and their servants had abandoned their plantation, loading whatever goods they could save from the burned-out house onto boats in the anchorage at Owia. They left with their servants and surviving animals, setting sail for the north.

This was good news to the boys. They couldn’t suppress displaying broad, knowing smiles. The boys from Bigot’s village left to return home. Their elders said nothing to the young warriors for several more days. Duvalle and Chatoyer still worried about how their father would react and if he would suspect their role in the affair. It seemed too obvious for him not to know.

The brothers tried to avoid Legotte as much as possible for the time being.

            One evening, while they joined other young Caribs bathing in the nearby stream, Legotte called the two brothers to smoke with him on a hill overlooking the Atlantic. The boys rose out of the stream as the other youngsters watched, making signs to each other that now the two errant brothers were in for it.

Legotte spoke earnestly to the two young warriors. “I don’t suppose when you were away from the carbet with your friends, you learned anything about the goings-on up at Manacro?”

Duvalle looked first at his older brother. Chatoyer responded. “What goings-on would that be, Father?”

            “It appears that someone raided the French plantation up near Owia. Exactly where were you when that happened, boys?”

Duvalle almost burst. “Father, we were the ones who drove those French out. I’m not afraid to admit it. They’re gone, and we forced them to go.”

Chatoyer looked at his brother and frowned.

Legotte’s eyes narrowed; his brow furrowed. He turned to Chatoyer. “Is that true, Joseph? Were you part of this raid?”

Chatoyer considered how to answer his father. “If we were, Father, it is because of what you said.”

“What do you mean?”

Chatoyer calmly outlined his defense. “You told us we must learn about the French so we could protect our lands. Protecting our lands is the most important thing, right?”

“Of course. Having our own land is the basis of our freedom and our support.”

“When you were younger than us, you joined your father in defending the land from French invasion, right?”

“Yes, but those were different times, Son.”

“I think not so different when a member of the French Government buys lands illegally, belonging to one of our caciques and his family. Black Carib land, near important fishing grounds. We cannot stand for that, Father.”

“That’s true. But the caciques went up to Martinique to complain.”

“What did that accomplish, Father?”

“Not much so far, it seems.”

“Our little encouragement helped move the French out, did it not?”

“It seems so, Joseph.”

Joseph looked at Legotte and then at Duvalle, who carefully followed Chatoyer’s reasoning.

            “So, Father. Did we do wrong in defending our lands? Tell me.”

Legotte looked at the two boys and smiled. “It seems you did what the caciques were reluctant to try, though there were some who would have joined you had you asked, myself included, if you really want to know.”

Duvalle spoke. “Father, Joseph was wonderful as our leader. All went well, and nobody was hurt except some animals.”

With Legotte’s acceptance of their role at Manacro, the two boys explained their efforts at intimidating Perain’s people on the plantation. Chatoyer enjoyed hearing Duvalle explain his older brother’s role as leader of the young warriors in the two raids. They both saw that Legotte sympathized with them, as he exclaimed and laughed as the boys excitedly related their adventure.

When they finished, Legotte sat back and looked at his two young warrior sons.

“I think it is time for us to take that trip up to Martinique.”

The boys looked shocked.

“Is now the right time to visit the French?” asked Chatoyer.

“It certainly is. We must try to maintain good relations with the leaders in Martinique. This Perain made a mistake moving on our lands. We need to make this clear, but we don’t want to antagonize these people to the point that they respond with force against us. That happened in the past. We’re more likely to remain safe here if we maintain friends with the French. We’ll go up to Martinique and trade, meet with some Frenchmen I know there. We’ll let them know we’re unhappy about what happened to their countryman’s property, but make it very clear that he brought it on himself. Some hotheaded Caribs, who we cannot say, took direct action. Just a shame, we’ll say. But that’s what happens when people settle where they don’t belong.”

“We will tell them that, Father?” said Chatoyer.

“Of course. But we’ll not tell them who these hotheaded Caribs are, will we?”

Both boys said, “No.”

“So, let’s take a nice trip and make some more French friends.”

***

There were no direct repercussions resulting from the raid on the Manacro plantation. It discouraged further French settlement in the area, but French settlers still tried to buy lands on the borders of Black Carib Territory. Tensions increased between some of the settlers and some of the Black Carib villages closest to the settlements. Caribs still traded with the French and visited Saint Anthony on Ouasigany Bay to sell tobacco and local produce. Occasionally, fights broke out between young Frenchmen and Carib warriors, usually fueled by alcohol.

Arguments over land and the building of roads toward Carib settlements continued. By 1755, when Chatoyer entered his late teens, a series of riots, fights, and attacks on plantations, followed by counterattacks on Carib villages by vindictive French settlers, led to intervention by the French governor on Martinique. Both Duvalle and Chatoyer participated in some of these confrontations, but in a minor way. Chatoyer often had to calm his volatile brother to prevent him from getting into more trouble than was deemed prudent by his more thoughtful older brother.

The French governor sought out important chiefs and promised to define a clear border between the French side of the island and the Black Carib side, just as a predecessor had defined Le Barre d’Isle separating the feuding Red and Black Caribs. The caciques, including Legotte, accompanied by his sons, visited Governor-general Bompar on Martinique and apologized for the troubles. They were well received by Bompar and returned to St. Vincent with gifts and hopes of resuming a more peaceful coexistence. Issues between the remaining Red Caribs and their Black cousins continued to occasionally boil over into open conflict.

Chatoyer experienced these conflicts, often as a participant. He also learned from Legotte the value of diplomacy and seeking friendship with potential enemies, while being willing to act when it became necessary to protect Black Carib freedom. He would face future challenges as he reached maturity and took his place as one of Grand Sable’s caciques, along with his brother, Duvalle.