THE spectacle of another example of the powers of fascination and
deception now attracted my attention, this was the healing of the
wounded. The Obi, who in the army performed the double functions of
healer of souls and bodies, began his inspection of his patients.
He had taken off his sacerdotal robes, and was seated before a large box
in which he kept his drugs and instruments. He used the latter very
rarely, but occasionally drew blood skilfully enough with a lancet made
of fish-bone, but he appeared to me to use the knife which in his hands
replaced the scalpel rather clumsily. In most cases he contented himself
with prescribing orange flower water, or sarsaparilla, and a mouthful of
old rum. His favourite remedy, however, and one which he said was an
infallible panacea for all ills, was composed of three glasses of red
wine in which was some grated nutmeg and the yolk of an egg boiled hard.
He employed this specific for almost every malady. You will understand
that his knowledge of medicine was as great a farce as his pretended
religion, and it is probable that the small number of cures that he
effected would not have secured the confidence of the negroes had he not
had recourse to all sorts of mummeries and incantations, and acted as
much upon their imaginations as upon their bodies. Thus, he never
examined their wounds without performing some mysterious signs, whilst
at other times he skilfully mingled together religion and negro
superstition, and would put into their wounds a little _fetish_ stone
wrapped in a morsel of lint, and the patient would credit the stone with
the healing effects of the lint. If any one came to announce to him the
death of a patient he would answer solemnly, “I foresaw it; he was a
traitor; in the burning of such and such a house he spared a white man’s
life; his death was a judgment.” And the wondering crowd of rebels
applauded him as he thus increased their deadly hatred for their
adversaries. This impostor, amongst other methods, employed one which
amused me by its singularity. One of the negro chiefs had been badly
wounded in the last action. The Obi examined the wound attentively,
dressed it as well as he was able, then, mounting the altar, exclaimed,
“All this is nothing.” He then tore two or three leaves from the missal,
burnt them to ashes, and mingling them with some wine in the sacramental
cup, cried to the wounded man, “Drink; this is the true remedy.” The
patient, stupidly fixing his eyes on the impostor, drank, whilst the Obi
with raised hands seemed to call down blessings on his head, and it may
be the conviction that he was healed brought about his cure.