H.M.S Valor

by Cal Clement

  A party of men gathered at the edge of the village, holding lanterns and torches, they were all armed. The men fanned out in a line and began walking away from the village. In the pre-dawn light, their lanterns cast formidable shadows that danced back towards the village. Their gait was slow, each man near enough to the man next to him to hear without yelling. They walked in line for several hundred yards in silence, passing right by the sleeping siblings and then into the tree line.

  Omibwe awoke to an awkwardly silent morning, no birds singing, no voices from the village. He instinctively reached down to check his little sister. She was still there, clung to his leg and still fast asleep. He woke her gently, gesturing for her to remain silent. The pair crawled as far as they could through the tall grasses beside the village, pausing every few seconds so Omibwe could listen for anything amiss. Finally, reaching as far as they could go in the tall grass, Omibwe stretched his head up out of the grass as far as he dared. Looking around he couldn't see anyone. He took Anaya by the hand and together they crept low to the ground into the village. The now breaking dawn revealed carnage in the village. Many men and women lay dead in the open, huts had been burned. Omibwe couldn’t believe what he saw, why would anyone do this to his village? Tears welled up into his eyes, he struggled to cover Anaya’s view, not wanting her to see her home and the elders who lay dead. He did not see his parents or any sign of survival of the others in the village. His hands shook as he looked around unsure of what to do. He didn’t know if the men had left for a ship or headed overland to somewhere else. Or maybe they would return. As he struggled over these thoughts and looked around the village, tears now streaming down his face uncontrollably, he did not notice that the masts of several ships now protruded from behind the thatched roofs of the village. Omibwe’s wander took him south through the village towards his own family’s home. Hoping against all hope, his entire being longed to see his family unharmed. His father would know what to do and that thought brought him both an uneasy comfort and foreboding sadness.

  Approaching their family home, Omibwe noted it had not been set fire, the thatched door was intact, the few hand tools they owned were in place. It seemed as if he could walk in and find his mother and father inside, perhaps eating breakfast. After instructing Anaya to stay out front, Omibwe entered their family’s hut. Their belongings were scattered, what food they had been preparing to eat was all over the floor, and there was a small spatter of blood across the back wall, but no one inside. It was small relief not to find anyone, but he still did not know their fate, and this troubled him almost into a panic. Coming out of the hut, Omibwe thought to check on the beach. It is possible his family went that way to make it to another village up the coast. Starting up the path Omibwe cleared his eyes and looked up, seeing the masts. His eyes followed a mast that led down to a ship only a few hundred yards off the shore.

  Omibwe quickly realized he needed to get out of the village, he needed to protect Anaya and get her somewhere safe in case the white men returned. He took Anaya’s hand and they began to hurry back toward the grass that had hidden them through the night. The pair came around from behind a hut to the sight of the search party returning. The large man with the big nose and scarred face in front, the party spotted the two right away. Omibwe heard some shouting, a shot rang out and the men started running. More shouting, Omibwe could hear clearly but didn’t understand the words. They didn’t sound like the men he had met before; their words were different. He held his sister’s hand tightly and ran away as quickly as he could, Anaya fell, unable to keep pace with her brother. Omibwe dragged her back up to her feet and they continued running through the village. The pair turned down a path that would lead to the shoreline, frantically racing away from the group of men now in pursuit.

  Racing to the shoreline, Omibwe quickly outpaced Anaya who stumbled again. He slowed momentarily to scoop up his little sister to carry her and took off again, this time with everything he had. Omibwe was a powerful runner and strong enough to carry his sister for miles, if he could get far enough away that the guns couldn't hit him, he knew he could lose the following men. As he sprinted to the shore, he could already tell he was opening a gap from his followers. Cresting over a small ridge, Omibwe came within sight of the sea and the ships. What he hadn’t seen before was the inhabitants of his village, all sitting, surrounded by several men with guns. There were small boats laden with people from the village being ferried off to the large ships. Omibwe was shocked, he almost froze at the sight, but he turned and kept his sprint up the shore hoping none of the men down on the beach had seen him. His legs burning from the pace, shoulders already aching from carrying Anaya, Omibwe searched desperately in his mind for a plan. He could hear yelling behind him, a piercing shot rang out and snapped in the air over his head. A shrill voice screamed out his name, then Anaya’s! Omibwe turned his head to see the source of the screams. His mother was crying out for them from the group of villagers, upon seeing her fleeing children she panicked, inconsolably crying and trying to leave the group to protect her children.

  Omibwe heard the shot, he stumbled down to the sand, instantly coating his sweat soaked body, the sand cushioned his fall. Anaya scrambled to her feet, Omibwe could hear her gasp and start to cry and then her cries turned to screams. He rolled to his back, trying to command his feet to lift them both and carry them away, but they would not obey. He felt a strange, sudden rush of cold, a chill he had never experienced, and a nausea swept over him. He struggled to sit up, his head felt like a boulder. He had heard the shot, he saw three of the pursuing men now just moments from getting to him, his head swooned, and his vision was failing. In the distance Omibwe could see his mother, struggling against their captors, fighting to get to her children, a man raised up a musket and struck her with it. Omibwe, filled with rage, attempted to muster strength that seemed to be slipping through his fingers again trying to stand. His right leg would not obey, it lay crooked and as he looked at it Omibwe saw the wound. Just below the knee, a massive hole with blood running out soaking into the white sand. His head swam, feeling heavier by the second. The men approached, now walking, looking over him with disdain. Anaya’s screams and cries faded from hearing and he could no longer sit up. His torso crashing back into the sand, he watched helplessly as one of the men grabbed Anaya’s arm and drug her back away towards the rest of the captive villagers. Then Omibwe’s vision finally succumbed and unconsciousness swept over him.

  4 August 1808

  Haiti, Near Port-Au-Prince

  In the past few months, Lilith Gereau had suffered trauma upon tragedy. She was the illegitimate daughter of a French slave owner in Port-Au-Prince, Haiti. The result of his salacious and depraved acts against her mother. Lilith had grown up never knowing that the man whom she feared more than anyone, the man whose volatile temper caused so much pain and torment to her mother, was actually her father. Learning this truth was difficult, but when Lilith’s mother told her that she would soon likely have to endure the same type of abuse, she could not stand the thought. Her mother had, up until then, attempted to shield her daughter from the wicked realities of life on the plantation. But having just reached sixteen years of age and due to her beautiful features and lighter complexion, Lilith was told she would be given “inside work”. Her mother could not stand to see her daughter go into the estate home unknowing of some very hard truths. Lilith’s mother came to her the evening before she was to begin working in the kitchen of the estate owner.

  “I don’t wish this for you my darling, but in some ways, it will be better than working cane in the fields.” Lilith’s mother lamented. She was braiding Lilith’s long hair as they sat by the only lantern in the long bunkhouse. The building that housed all the slaves of the French estate sat situated near cane fields, at the bottom of the hill the estate house was on. It was a low, long building with dirt floors, no windows, poor ventilation and a slant roof that did little to keep out water in the rainy seasons.

  “Mam
a, I don’t want to be near him.” Lilith said, struggling to see through the tears welling in her eyes.

  “Baby, we have no choices here. It will be okay, but you need to keep busy and try not to be caught alone by him,” her mother said through a deep sigh, knowing how impossible that endeavor would be.

  “No, mama. I don’t want this. I don’t want the kitchen or cleaning or the cane fields. I want to leave. We need to leave.” Lilith said, a spark kindled in her eyes with the thought of even the possibility of a future away from here.

  “Lilith, we have spoken about this. There is only one way that path ends. Baby, I cannot watch you hang…” her mother’s voice trailed off. Lilith could see tears running down her mother’s cheeks when she looked back at her and felt a wave of sadness over their situation. It seemed hopeless, but Lilith was desperate to avoid the same fate her mother had suffered for years. The night found her in restless fits, sleep elusive until the wee morning hours when exhaustion finally set her off into a sleep laden with strange dreams.

  The following morning, Lilith reported to the head servant in the estate home. She was given a set of clothes, strictly for while she was in the home. The dress she was expected to wear was constricting and stifling in the hot Haitian morning. In addition, she was told to wear an apron and head dress which only added to her discomfort. As soon as she dressed, she was ushered into a washroom adjacent to the kitchen in the large estate home, loads of pots and pans and plates and flatware waiting for her to begin.

  Lilith worked diligently at cleaning the dishes and meticulously placing them away in their designated spots. As she was nearing completion of her first task, Francis, the estate owner entered the washroom. He was an older man, in his late fifties, rotund and with a receding hairline typically hidden by his wig. He stood in the doorway between the washroom and the kitchen, watching Lilith for a moment. An awkward tension filled the kitchen and washroom, the other slave women shared glances amongst each other. Soon Lilith noticed the other workers making themselves scarce, leaving the kitchen for some task either instructed or implied. A heavy feeling came over her, she had been warned about this exact situation by her mother, her hands began to shake, and she felt as though she could not catch her breath. Francis entered the washroom and closed the door behind him, he walked over to the window near the large wash basin Lilith stood at and reached up to pull the curtains shut. Momentarily over his shoulder, Francis ran his eyes up and down Lilith’s figure, bringing a sick feeling to her stomach. Lilith averted her eyes from the Frenchman’s and searched the room. On a counter behind her, Lilith’s eye caught one of the large kitchen knives she had yet to clean. She reached her hands behind her onto the counter as Francis finished drawing the curtains. He turned towards her, looking her up and down with an unmistakable intent in his eyes.

  “Let me introduce you to your new surroundings girl, there are a few things I’d like to teach you about serving a man such as myself.” Francis said, the words oozing from his mouth. He reached out a hand and placed it on Lilith’s shoulder. Then with a sudden force that took Lilith by surprise, Francis spun her around and shoved her into the counter. Francis pushed against her hard and her hip bones could feel the biting edge of the counter through her dress as Francis pushed harder and harder, lifting her feet from the floor. Lilith looked over, seeing the large kitchen knife laying on the counter, just out of reach. Francis began pulling at her dress and she squirmed involuntarily, he stopped moving momentarily and before Lilith could process what was happening, she felt his hand hit her square on the back of her head. The impact was hard enough that it forced her forehead into the cabinet above the counter.

  “Don’t you try and pull away from me, I’ll take what I want girl.” Francis hissed through clenched teeth and resumed pulling up her dress. Lilith filled with rage, realizing this was the heinous treatment her mother had received for years and it was about to repeat with her. She stretched herself and could get a fingertip onto the handle of the knife. Then she felt Francis exposed her buttocks and push her dress hard against the back of her neck. The sound of him unbuckling his belt with his free hand sent a chill through her nerves, cutting so deep goosebumps rose all across her skin. She felt an urgent rush of panic and knew she had to stop him, or she would fall victim to Francis the same way her mother and surely many others had. Lilith kicked her right foot back hard, finding Francis’ knee with her heel. His leg buckled from the impact and his hand left Lilith’s shoulder and dress to hold his balance from falling. Lilith, using the leverage from her contact with Francis’ knee, lunged for the kitchen knife. With a solid grasp on the handle, Lilith pushed with everything she had off the counter with her other arm and turned toward Francis, slashing the knife hard. The edge of the knife found Francis’ brow and cut him across his nose and deep across his cheek. Francis reached his hands up, instinctively trying to grab Lilith’s arms to stop a second swing, but Lilith’s next attack was not a swing or slash. She plunged her arm in, stabbing Francis directly in his throat. The man’s eyes bulged, blood gushed and frothed from his neck as he tried to breathe. Lilith withdrew the knife and pushed Francis over onto the floor. Then, standing over him, Lilith stabbed again, this time into her attacker’s groin. She withdrew the blade, wiping the blood off with a dishrag from the wash basin. Breathless and shaking, Lilith dropped the rag onto Francis’ chest as he writhed on the ground attempting to hold both his groin and his throat while blood pooled around him on the washroom floor.

  Lilith stood over Francis, watching him squirm, she felt no guilt, no pity, only a fiery rage. Then fear closed in around her. She could hear voices out beyond the kitchen and her anger was replaced by an icy chill that cut her to her core. Once Francis’ body was discovered she would be sought after and killed for his murder, it did not matter how the act had come about. She scooted a large wooden case of pots in front of the door, it took every ounce of strength she had in her slight frame and the better part of ten minutes. Once she was satisfied that the case would impede anyone easy access to the washroom, Lilith pulled the window open as far as she could. She tucked the knife into the waist of her dress, crawled through the open window and walked away at as brisk a pace as she dared. So far, no alarm had been raised and she feared running would do just that. As she approached the bunkhouse, Lilith looked around for her mother, but she was still laboring in the cane fields. That was a good thing though, Lilith thought, none of the other white men would be around the estate home for some hours. She would have some time to effect an escape.

  Lilith shed the apron and head dress and kept to a path away from the road that allowed her to stay out of sight from the cane fields. She walked in the scorching heat and humidity of the Haitian sun, only pausing to look back momentarily when the thought of her mother crossed her mind. Hours drug by and the sun dipping ever lower over the western horizon did little to lower the temperature. It seemed even the breeze off the sea brought little relief and in the constricting dress, with no water, Lilith was soon exhausted of the walk. Port-Au-Prince was only a couple miles away and she could see the masts in the harbor, little beacons of freedom and escape to Lilith. She stopped to rest near a squat tree a way off the road. She finally found respite from the sun in the shade of the tree, looking over the beautiful Caribbean coast. Carefully watching the road, Lilith knew that by now Francis’ body had to have been discovered and his people would be looking for her. If they got to the port before she did, they would be watching for her there as well. With nothing but a kitchen knife to defend herself, she suddenly began to feel like her escape plans were hopeless. Francis was a fat old man and she had surprised him during his attack on her. It would be much harder, if not impossible, to defend herself against someone trying to apprehend her. These thoughts ran through her mind, gripping her with a carnal fear of being caught and killed or worse, returned to the estate.

  Noises down on the road caught Lilith’s attention and snapped her thoughts to her immediate situation. Riders on
the road, carrying lanterns and armed with muskets were on their way towards Port-Au-Prince. Lilith could see they were not soldiers and studying them harder she recognized one of the faces. They were from the estate, no doubt searching for the murderer of their collective employer. Lilith waited for them to pass completely from sight before she roused herself from her hiding spot. With any good fortune at all, she could skirt the edge of town and make it to the dockyards. From there, she hoped to stow away aboard a vessel heading somewhere and leave Haiti forever.

  Moving in the moonlight, Lilith felt exposed and kept to the shadows as much as she could. In the pale glow, she could still see decently well enough to make slow progress across the rough terrain towards the harbor. Trying to work out in her mind how to get aboard a ship, Lilith was careful to avoid roads and paused often to listen for signs of pursuit. After hours of methodical progress and with the moonlight about to fade away Lilith came to a halt a short distance across the bay from the harbor. There were several silhouettes of ships in the harbor and some smaller vessels moored up by the pier. From her vantage across the bay, Lilith watched sailors returning to their vessels under the brilliant tapestry of stars in the dark night sky. The water of the bay was placid calm, the tide ebbing slowly out exposed a broadened beach that would allow Lilith to walk within a couple hundred feet of the pier. She carefully edged her way out onto the exposed rocky shores and made her way as far as she could towards the pier.

  Reaching the water’s edge, Lilith eased into the water up to her waist and took a deep breath trying to adjust to the chill water. Then she plunged in the rest of the way. She could swim, not well, but well enough to cross this small stretch she thought to herself. As she approached the boats docked at the pier her legs began to fatigue, her arms burned, and she struggled to keep her face above the water. Her dress felt heavier and heavier by the second and soon she was gasping for panicked breaths while fighting to buoy her face out of the water. All forward progress stopped as she was consumed with a struggle only for air. The chill of the water overcame Lilith, her strength to fight her head above the water failed. Clawing at the surface felt impossible, her feet felt like lead weights, her chest felt as if it would explode, her vision faded. Sinking slowly to the floor of the bay she succumbed to unconsciousness.