A GROUP of negresses came near the tree to which I was fastened, and lit
a fire. By the numerous bracelets of blue, red, and violet glass which
ornamented their arms and ankles, by the rings which weighed down their
ears and adorned their toes and fingers, by the amulets on their bosoms
and the collar of charms suspended round their necks, and by the aprons
of variegated feathers which were their sole coverings, I at once
recognized them as _griotes_. You are perhaps ignorant that amongst the
African blacks there exists a certain class with a rude talent for
poetry and improvisation, which approaches closely to madness. These
unhappy creatures, wandering from one African kingdom to another, are in
these barbarian countries looked upon in the same light as the
_minstrels_ of England, the _minnesingers_ of Germany, and the
_troubadours_ of France. They are called _griots_, and their wives
_griotes_. The _griotes_ accompany the barbaric songs of their husbands
with lascivious dances, and form a grotesque parody on the _nautch
girls_ of India and the _almes_ of Egypt. It was a group of these women
who came and sat down near me, with their legs crossed under them
according to their custom, and their hideous faces lighted up by the red
light of a fire of withered branches. When they had formed a complete
circle they all took hands, and the eldest, who had a heron’s plume
stuck in her hair, began to exclaim “_Ouanga_.” I at once understood
that they were going through one of their performances of pretended
witchcraft. Then the leader of the band, after a moment’s silence,
plucked a lock of hair from her head and threw it into the fire, crying
out these words, “Malé o guiab,” which in the jargon of the Creoles
means, “I shall go to the devil.” All the _griotes_ imitated their
leader, and throwing locks of their hair in the fire, repeated gravely,
“Malé o guiab.” This strange invocation, and the extraordinary grimaces
that accompanied it, caused me to burst into one of those hysterical
fits of laughter which so often seize on one even at the most serious
moments. It was in vain that I endeavoured to restrain it—it would have
vent; and this laugh which escaped from so sad a heart brought about a
gloomy and terrifying scene.
Disturbed in their incantations, the negresses sprang to their feet.
Until then they had not noticed me, but now they rushed close up to me,
screaming “Blanco, Blanco.” I have never seen so hideous a collection of
faces, contorted as they were with passion, their white teeth gleaming,
and their eyes almost starting from their heads. They were, I believe,
about to tear me to pieces, when the old woman with the beaver’s plume
on her head stopped them with a sign of her hand, and exclaimed seven
times, “Zoté cordé!” (“Do you agree?”) The wretched creatures stopped at
once, and, to my surprise, tore off their feather aprons, which they
flung upon the ground, and commenced the lascivious dance which the
negroes call “_La chica_.”
This dance, which should only consist of attitudes and movements
expressive of gaiety and pleasure, assumed a very different complexion
when performed by these naked sorceresses. In turn, each of them would
place her face close to mine, and, with a frightful expression of
countenance, would detail the horrible punishment that awaited the white
man who had profaned the mysteries of their _Ouanga_.
I recollected that savage nations had a custom of dancing round the
victims that they were about to sacrifice, and I patiently awaited the
conclusion of the performance which I knew would be sealed with my
blood; and yet I could not repress a shudder as I perceived each
_griote_, in strict unison with the time, thrust into the fire the point
of a sabre, the blade of an axe, a long sail-maker’s needle, a pair of
pincers, and the teeth of a saw.
The dance was approaching its conclusion, and the instruments of torture
were glowing red with heat.
At a signal from the old woman, each negress in turn withdrew an
implement from the fire, whilst those who had none furnished themselves
with a blazing stick. Then I understood clearly what my punishment was
to be, and that in each of the dancers I should find an executioner.
Again the word of command was given, and the last figure of the dance
was commenced. I closed my eyes that I might not see the frantic
evolutions of these female demons, who, in measured cadence, clashed the
red-hot weapons over their heads. A dull, clinking sound followed,
whilst the sparks flew out in myriads. I waited, nerving myself for the
moment when I should feel my flesh quiver in agony, my bones calcine,
and my muscles writhe under the burning tortures of the nippers and the
saws. It was an awful moment. Fortunately it did not last long.
In the distance I heard the voice of the negro whose prisoner I was,
shouting, “_Que haceis, mujeres, ne demonio, que haceis alli, devais mi
prisonero?_” I opened my eyes again; it was already broad daylight. The
negro hurried towards me, gesticulating angrily. The _griotes_ paused,
but they seemed less influenced by the threats of my captor than by the
presence of a strange-looking person by whom the negro was accompanied.
It was a very stout and very short man—a species of dwarf—whose face
was entirely concealed by a white veil, pierced with three holes for the
eyes and mouth. The veil hung down to his shoulders, and displayed a
hairy, copper-hued breast, upon which was hung by a golden chain the
mutilated sun of a monstrance.
The cross-hilt of a heavy dagger peeped from a scarlet belt, which also
supported a kind of petticoat striped with green, yellow, and black, the
hem of which hung down to his large and ill-shaped feet.
His arms, like his breast, were bare; he carried a white staff, and a
rosary of amber beads was suspended from his belt, in close proximity to
the handle of his dagger. His head was surmounted by a pointed cap
adorned with bells, and when he came close I was not surprised in
recognizing in it the _gorra_ of Habibrah; and amongst the hieroglyphics
with which it was covered, I could see many spots of gore: without
doubt, it was the blood of the faithful fool. These bloodstains gave me
fresh proofs of his death, and awakened in me once again a fresh feeling
of regret for his loss.
Directly the _griotes_ recognized the wearer of Habibrah’s cap, they
cried out all at once, “The Obi,” and prostrated themselves before him.
I guessed at once that this was a sorcerer attached to Biassou’s force.
“Basta, basta” (“enough”), said he, in a grave and solemn voice, as he
came close up to them. “Devais el prisonero de Biassou” (“Let the
prisoner be taken to Biassou”).
All the negresses leapt to their feet and cast their implements of
torture on one side, put on their aprons, and, at a gesture of the Obi,
fled like a cloud of grasshoppers.
At this instant the glance of the Obi fell upon me. He started back a
pace, and half waved his white staff in the direction of the retiring
_griotes_, as if he wished to recall them; then, muttering between his
teeth the word “_Maldicho_” (“accursed”), he whispered a few words in
the ear of the negro, and, crossing his arms, retired slowly, apparently
buried in deep thought.