THE GREAT ECCENTRICS—I King Henry I, tyrant of Haiti

Press, Volume CXI, Issue 32524, 6 February 1971, Page 13

THE GREAT ECCENTRICS—I King Henry I, tyrant of Haiti

(By

RONALD ELLISON)

King Henry I wanted to impress an English visitor with his power—and the rigid discipline of his forces.

On the battlements of his vast fortress, gaunt on a 3000-foot mountain top, he called out a squad of his guards. The hot West Indian sun beat down on their breastplates as he gave the order for them to march to the parapet.

Stamping rigidly along they stepped four by four into space—to drop to their deaths on the jagged rocks hundreds of feet below. Just another demonstration of power by the extraordinary King Christophe of Haiti, the Negro realm in San Domingo. They called him the Black Bonaparte—or sometimes the Negro Napoleon this illiterate, absolute ruler, bom to slaves on the island of Grenada in 1767, who began his career as a cabin boy in a French ship, and was later able to buy hi? freedom as a hotel servant in Haiti. In the long revolutionary struggle against French overlordship, he rose from sergeant to general in the insurgent forces and in 1804 found himself in undisputed military command of most of Haiti.

In 1806 he was nominated President of Haiti. Soon he elevated himself to the spiritual rank of Monseigneur and in 1811 he formally had himself crowned, “Henry, by the Grace of God and the constitution and law of the State, King of Haiti, Sovereign of Tortuga, Gonave and other adjacent islands, Destroyer of Tyranny, Regenerator and Benefactor of the Haitian nation, Creator of Moral, Political and Martial Institutions, First Crowned Monarch of the New World, Defender of the Faith, Founder of the Royal and Military Order of St Henry.” Somehow he learned to scratch the semblance of his own name, but he never learned to read a book. But he had a fiery energy, enormous will-power and an eccentrically indomitable personality. Noble entourage What he lacked in knowledge he made up in magnificance. He appointed four princes, eight dukes, 22 counts, 37 barons and 40 knights to form his noble entourage. He had a minister of foreign affairs, the Count (later Duke) de Limonade and a military commander-in-chief, the Due de la Marmelade.

At the mountain-top Citadel of La Ferriere, he built the greatest fortress of the West Indies. The mountain was almost impossible to climb, yet every day thousands of labourers toiled to complete the stronghold. The fortress, to accommodate an army of 10,000, had waljs 80 to 130 feet high and 25 feet thick. In front of it, he placed 365 huge bronze cannon which were dragged up the mountain side, with hundreds of casks of gun-powder and thousands of cannon balls. When the fortress was complete, its architect, a mulatto, was murdered to preserve its secrets. King Christophe, who slept only three hours a night, believed in hard work and discipline for all. “If I see red berries rotting on a tree, I am furious,” he once exclaimed. He cut the four-hour siesta to two hours and en-

forced a 12-hour day most of the year. He would watch his people at work from the fortress through a small brass telescope. One day he saw a labourer asleep in the doorway of his hut—during working hours. Calling his chief gunner, he helped him to train a large cannon on the unsuspecting man, took careful aim and touched the taper. There was a roar and the missile hit the hut, demolishing it and killing the man instantly. Second fortress Christophe built for himself another great fortress and nine chateaux with such names as the Sceptre, the Necklace, the Cloak, Embuscade and Belle-Vue-le-Roi. His principal Palace was named Sans Souci after the splendid residence of his ideal ruler, Frederick the Great. There was marble halls of state, terraces, vistas, pinnacled towers on the fourstorey palace, even water gardens fed by mountain streams. There, modelling himself in clothes and deportment on what he had heard of Frederick, Britain’s George 111 and Napoleon, he gave elaborate public audiences and entertainments. As the years went by Haiti had roads, bridges, reservoirs but such benefits were forgotten in sudden opposition to the tyranny and unpredicatable rages of Christophe. He quarrelled with Corneille Brelle, his chaplain whom he had created Archbishop and Duke of Anse, and put him to death, Brelle cursing the King as he died. Final parade Months went by and Christophe was filled with remorse. One day he jumped on his horse and dashed to a church to attend Mass. He leaped from the saddle and flung himself on his knees before the altar. Suddenly he sprang to his feet, his lips trembling. ‘‘Corneille Brelle! It’s Corneille Brelle!" he babbled.

Crying wildly at what he thought was an apparition, he crashed forward, striking a pillar hard. His doctor diagnosed apoplexy and partial paralysis. But Christophe refused to listen. He feared his subjects would rise against him if he showed any sign of physical weakness. “The traitorous swine shall not conquer!” he shouted. “Tomorrow morning at 10 o’clock I will review my whole army.” It was a crazy command, but who could argue with Christophe? All night doctors massaged his limbs with a mixture of raw rum and red pepper. Next morning, October 8, 1820, he was dressed in his most resplendent gold-laced uniform and propped up on

his throne on his palace parade ground. Masterfully he cried before the ranks of 5000 men: “Bring forward my horse!” His bodyguard wanted to lift him on to the charger, but he contemptuously brushed them aside. He strode to the horse, then stooped .a trifle to swing into the saddle. His left leg was in the stirrup but the muscles of his right leg would, not respond. He clawed desperately at the horse, his grip slackened and he fell, face down in the mud.

The cheers died away—and, as the haggard Christophe was helped back to his throne, men shouted: “Down with the King! Down with the tyrant!” Death by suicide His reign was ending. In the palace of Sans Souci he bade farewell to his wife, his two daughters, his confidential servants. Soon he was alone, without a guard to defend him from the angry mob storming the palace. Suddenly he heard a loud crash of broken glass. “They are smashing the very mirrors that reflected my greatness!” he cried. Crawling slowly across the polished floor to a cupboard, he took out a pistol, ready primed, put a golden bullet in it, raised it to his temple and pressed the trigger. When the rebels broke down the doors, the demonic Henry I of Haiti lay dead.