AFTER passing through jungle, and crossing many a torrent, we arrived in
a valley situated in the higher part of the hills, of a singular wild
and savage appearance. The spot was absolutely unknown to me. The valley
was situated in the heart of the hills, in what is called the _double
mountains_. It was a large green plain, imprisoned by walls of bare
rock, and dotted with clumps of pines and palm-trees. The cold, which at
this height is very severe, was increased by the morning air, the day
having just commenced to break, but the valley was still plunged in
darkness, and was only lighted by flashes from the negroes’ fires;
evidently this spot was their headquarters. The shattered remains of
their army had begun to reassemble, and every now and then bands of
negroes and mulattoes arrived, uttering groans of distress and cries of
rage. New fires were speedily lighted, and the camp began to increase in
size. The negro whose prisoner I was had placed me at the foot of an
oak, whence I surveyed this strange spectacle with entire carelessness.
The black had bound me with his belt to the trunk of the tree, against
which I was leaning, and carefully tightening the knots in the cords
which impeded my movements, he placed on my head his own red woollen
cap, as if to indicate that I was his property, and after making sure
that I could not escape or be carried off by others, was preparing to
leave me, when I determined to address him, and speaking in the Creole
dialect I asked him if he belonged to the band of Dondon, or of
Morne-Rouge. He stopped at once, and in a tone of pride replied
“_Morne-Rouge_.” Then an idea entered my head. I had often heard of the
generosity of the chief Bug-Jargal, and though I had made up my mind
that death would soon end all my troubles, yet the thought of the
tortures that would inevitably precede it should I fall into the hands
of Biassou, filled me with horror. All I wanted was to be put to death
without torment. It was perhaps a weakness, but I believe that the mind
of man ever revolts at such a death. I thought then, that if I could be
taken from Biassou, Bug-Jargal might give me what I desired—a soldier’s
death. I therefore asked the negro of Morne-Rouge to lead me to
Bug-Jargal. He started. “Bug-Jargal,” he repeated, striking on his
forehead in anguish; then, as if rage had suddenly overtaken him, he
shook his fist, and shouting “Biassou, Biassou,” he left me hastily.
The mingled rage and grief of the negro recalled to my mind the events
of the day, and the certainty we had acquired of either the death or
capture of the chief of the band of Morne-Rouge. I felt that all hope
was over, and resigned myself to the threatened vengeance of Biassou.