ANOTHER scene in which the Obi also played the principal part succeeded
to this. The physician had taken the place of the priest, and the
sorcerer now replaced the physician.
“Listen, men!” cried the Obi, leaping with incredible agility upon the
improvised altar, and sinking down with his legs crossed under his
striped petticoat. “Listen; who will dive into the book of fate? I can
foretell the future. ‘_He estudiado la cienca de los Gitanos_’ (‘I have
studied the sciences of the gipsies’).”
A crowd of mulattoes and negroes hurriedly crowded up to him.
“One by one,” said the Obi, in that voice which called to my mind some
remembrances that I could not quite collect. “If you come all together,
altogether you will enter the tomb.”
They stopped. Just then a coloured man dressed in a white jacket and
trousers, with a bandana handkerchief tied round his head, entered the
cave. Consternation was depicted on his countenance.
“Well, Rigaud,” said the general, “what is it?”
Rigaud, sometimes called General Rigaud, was the head of the mulatto
insurgents at Lagu. A man who concealed much cunning under an appearance
of candour, and cruelty beneath the mask of humanity. I looked upon him
with much attention.
“General,” whispered Rigaud, but as I was close to them I could catch
every word, “on the outskirts of the camp there is a messenger from Jean
François who has brought the news that Bouckmann has been killed in a
battle with the whites under M. de Touzard, and that his head has been
set upon the gates of the town as a trophy.”
“Is that all?” asked Biassou, his eyes sparkling with delight at
learning the diminution of the number of chiefs and the consequent
increase of his own importance.
“The emissary of Jean François has in addition a message for you.”
“That is all right,” replied the general; “but get rid of this air of
alarm, my good Rigaud.”
“But,” said Rigaud, “do you not fear the effect that the death of
Bouckmann will have on the army?”
“You wish to appear more simple than you are, but you shall see what
Biassou will do. Keep the messenger back for a quarter of an hour and
all will go well.”
Then he approached the Obi, who during this conversation had been
exercising his functions as fortune-teller, questioning the wondering
negroes, examining the lines on their hands and foreheads, and
distributing more or less good luck according to the size and colour of
the piece of money thrown by each negro into a silver-gilt basin which
stood on one side. Biassou whispered a few words in his ear, and without
making any reply the Obi continued his prophetic observations.
“He,” cried the Obi, “who has in the middle of his forehead a little
square or triangular figure will make a large fortune without work or
toil. The figure of three interlaced S’s on the forehead is a fatal
sign; he who has it will certainly be drowned if he does not carefully
avoid water. Four lines from the top of the nose, and turning round two
by two towards the eyes, announces that you will be taken prisoner, and
for a long time languish in a foreign prison.”
Here the Obi paused.
“Friends,” continued he, “I have observed this sign in the forehead of
Bug-Jargal, the brave chief of Morne-Rouge.”
These words, which convinced me that Bug-Jargal had been made prisoner,
were followed by a cry of grief from a band of negroes who wore short
scarlet breeches. They belonged to the band of Morne-Rouge.
Then the Obi began again—
“If you have on the right side of the forehead in the line of the moon a
mark resembling a fork, do not remain idle, and avoid dissipation of all
kinds. A small mark like the Arabic cypher 3 in the line of the sun
betokens blows with a stick.”
An old negro here interrupted the magician, and dragging himself to his
feet begged him to dress his wound. He had been wounded in the face, and
one of his eyes almost torn from the socket hung upon his cheek. The Obi
had forgotten him when going through his patients. Directly, however, he
saw him he cried out—
“Round marks on the right side of the forehead in the line of the moon
foretell misfortunes to the sight. My man, let me see your hand.”
“Alas, excellent sir,” answered the other, “it is my eye that I want you
to look at.”
“Old man,” replied the Obi, crossly, “it is not necessary to see your
eye, give me your hand, I say.”
The miserable wretch obeyed, moaning, “My eye, my eye.”
“Good,” cried the Obi; “if you see on the line of life a spot surrounded
by a circle you will lose an eye. There is the mark. You will become
blind of an eye.”
“I am so already,” answered the negro, piteously.
But the Obi had merged the physician in the sorcerer, and thrusting him
roughly on one side continued—
“Listen, my men. If the seven lines on the forehead are slight, twisted,
and lightly marked, they announce a short life. He who has between his
eyebrows on the line of the moon the figure of two crossed arrows will
be killed in battle. If the line of life which intersects the hand has a
cross at its junction it foretells death on the scaffold, and here I
must tell you, my brethren,” said the Obi, interrupting himself, “that
one of the bravest defenders of our liberties, Bouckmann, has all these
fatal marks.”
At these words all the negroes held their breath, and gazed on the
impostor with glances of stupid admiration.
“Only,” continued the Obi, “I cannot reconcile the two opposing signs,
death on the battle-field and also on the scaffold, and yet my science
is infallible.”
He stopped and cast a meaning glance at Biassou, who whispered something
to an officer, who at once quitted the cavern.
“A gaping mouth,” continued the Obi, turning on his audience a malicious
glance, “a slouching carriage, and arms hanging down by the side,
announces natural stupidity, emptiness, and want of reasoning powers.”
Biassou gave a sneer of delight; at that moment the aide-de-camp
returned, bringing with him a negro covered with mud and dust, whose
feet, wounded by the roots and flints, showed that he had just come off
a long journey.
This was the messenger whose arrival Rigaud had announced. He held in
one hand a letter, and in the other a document sealed with the design of
a flaming heart. Round it was a monogram, composed of the letters M and
N interlaced, no doubt intended as an emblem of the union of the free
mulattos and the negro slaves. Underneath I could read this motto,
“Prejudice conquered, the rod of iron broken, long live the king!” This
document was a safe conduct given by Jean François.
The messenger handed his letter to Biassou, who hastily tore it open and
perused the contents, then with an appearance of deep grief he
exclaimed, “My brothers!” All bowed respectfully.
“My brothers, this is a despatch to Jean Biassou, generalissimo of the
conquered states, Brigadier-General of His Catholic Majesty, from Jean
François, Grand Admiral of France, Lieutenant-General of the army of the
King of Spain and the Indies.
“Bouckmann, chief of the hundred and twenty negroes of the Blue
Mountain, whose liberty was recognized by the Governor-General of Belle
Combe, has fallen in the glorious struggle of liberty and humanity
against tyranny and barbarism. This gallant chief has been slain in an
action with the white brigands of the infamous Touzard. The monsters
have cut off his head, and have announced their intention of exposing it
on a scaffold in the main square of the town of Cap. Vengeance!”
A gloomy silence succeeded the reading of this despatch; but the Obi
leapt on his altar, and waving his white wand, exclaimed in accents of
triumph—
“Solomon, Zerobabel, Eleazar Thaleb, Cardau, Judas Bowtharicht, Avenoes,
Albert the Great, Bohabdil, Jean de Hagul, Anna Baratio, Daniel Ogromof,
Rachel Flintz, Allornino, I give you thanks. The science of the spirits
has not deceived me; sons, friends, brothers, boys, children, mothers,
all of you listen to me. What was it that I predicted? the marks on the
forehead of Bouckmann announced that his life would be a short one, that
he would die in battle, and that he would appear on the scaffold. The
revelations of my art have turned out true to the letter, and those
points which seemed the most obscure are now the most plain. Brethren,
wonder and admire!”
The panic of the negroes changed during this discourse to a sort of
admiring terror. They listened to the Obi with a species of confidence
mingled with fear, whilst the latter, carried away by his own
enthusiasm, walked up and down the sugar case, which presented plenty of
space for his short steps.
A sneer passed over Biassou’s face as he addressed the Obi.
“Your reverence, since you know what is to come, will you be good enough
to tell me the future of Jean Biassou, Brigadier-General?”
The Obi halted on the top of his strange altar, which the credulity of
the negroes looked upon as something divine, and answered, “_Venga
vuestra merced_” (“Come, your Excellency”). At this moment the Obi was
the most important man in the army; the military power bowed to the
spiritual.
“Your hand, general?” said the Obi, stooping to grasp it. “_Empezo_ (“I
begin”). The line of junction equally marked in its full length promises
you riches and happiness; the line of life strongly developed announces
a life exempt from ills, and a happy old age. Its narrowness shows your
wisdom and your superior talents, as well as the generosity of your
heart; and, lastly, I see what chiromancers call the luckiest of all
signs, a number of little wrinkles in the shape of a tree with its
branches extending upwards, this promises health and wealth, it also
prognosticates courage. General, it curves in the direction of the
little finger, this is the sign of wholesome severity.”
As he said this the eyes of the Obi glanced at me through the apertures
of his veil, and I fancied that I could catch a well-known voice under
the habitual gravity of his intonation, as he continued—
“The line of health, marked with a number of small circles, announces
that you will have, for the sake of the cause, to order a number of
executions; divided here by a half-moon, shows that you will be exposed
to great danger from ferocious beasts, that is to say, from the whites,
if you do not exterminate them. The line of fortune surrounded, like the
line of life, by little branches rising towards the upper part of the
hand, confirms the position of power and supremacy to which you have
been called; turning to the right, it is a symbol of your administrative
capacity. The fifth line, that of the triangle prolonged to the root of
the middle finger, promises you success in all your undertakings. Let me
see your fingers: the thumb marked with little lines from the point to
the nail shows that you will receive a noble heritage, that of the glory
of the unfortunate Bouckmann, no doubt,” added the Obi, in a loud voice.
“The slight swelling at the root of the forefinger, lightly marked with
lines, promises honours and dignities. The middle finger shows nothing.
Your little finger is covered with lines crossing each other, you will
vanquish all your enemies, and rise high above your rivals. These lines
form the cross of Saint Andrew, a mark of genius and foresight. I also
notice the figure of a circle, another token of your arrival at the
highest power and dignity. ‘Happy the man,’ says Eleazar Thaleb, ‘who
possesses all these signs. Destiny has its choicest gifts in store for
him, and his fortunate star announces the talent which will bring him
glory.’ And now, general, let me look at your forehead? ‘He,’ says
Rachel Flintz, of Bohemia, ‘who bears on his forehead, on the line of
the sun, a square or a triangular mark, will make a great fortune.’ Here
is another prediction, ‘If the mark is on the right, it refers to an
important succession;’ that of Bouckmann is, of course, again referred
to. The mark in the shape of a horseshoe between the eyebrows, on the
line of the moon, means that prompt vengeance will be taken for insult
and tyranny. I have this mark as well as you.”
The curious manner in which the Obi uttered these words, “I have this
mark,” attracted my attention.
“The mark of a lion’s claw which you have on your left eyelid is only
noticeable amongst men of undoubted courage; but to close this, General
Jean Biassou, your forehead shows every sign of the most unexampled
success, and on it is a combination of lines which form the letter M,
the commencement of the name of the Blessed Virgin. In whatever part of
the forehead, and in whatever line of the face, such a sign appears, the
signification is the same—genius, glory, and power. He who bears it
will always bring success to whatever cause he embraces, and those under
his command will never have to regret any loss. He alone is worth all
the soldiers of his army. You, general, are the elect of Fate.”
“Thanks, your reverence,” said Biassou, preparing to return to his
mahogany throne.
“Stay a moment, general,” said the Obi, “I forgot one last sign: the
line of the sun, which is so strongly marked on your forehead, proves
that you understand the way of the world, that you possess the wish to
make others happy, that you have much liberality, and like to do things
in a magnificent manner.”
Biassou at once recognized his forgetfulness, and drawing from his
pocket a heavy purse, he threw it into the plate, so as to prove that
the line of the sun never lies.
But this miraculous horoscope of the general’s had produced its effect
upon the army. All the insurgents who, since the news of the death of
Bouckmann attached greater weight than ever to the words of the Obi,
lost their feelings of uneasiness and became violently enthusiastic, and
trusting blindly in their infallible sorcerer and their predestined
chief, began to shout, “Long live our Obi! long live our general!”
The Obi and Biassou glanced at each other, and I almost thought I could
hear the stifled laugh of the one replied to by the sardonic chuckle of
the other. I do not know how it was, but this Obi tormented me
dreadfully; I had a feeling that I had seen or heard him before, and I
made up my mind to speak to him.
“Ho, Obi, your reverence, doctor, here!” cried I to him.
He turned sharply round.
“There is some one here whose lot you have not yet cast—it is mine.”
He crossed his arms over the silver sun that covered his hairy breast,
but he made no reply.
I continued, “I would gladly know what you prophesy with regard to my
future, but your worthy comrades have taken my watch and my purse, and I
suppose you will not give me a specimen of your skill for nothing?”
He advanced quickly to me, and muttered hoarsely in my ear—
“You deceive yourself, let me see your hand.”
I gave it, looking fixedly at him; his eyes sparkled as he bent over my
hand.
“If the line of life,” said he, “is cut by two transverse lines, it is
the sign of immediate death, your life will be a short one. If the line
of health is not in the centre of the hand, and if there is only the
line of life, and the line of fortune united so as to form an angle, a
natural death cannot be looked for. Do not, therefore, look for a
natural death! If the bottom of the forefinger has a long line cutting
it, a violent death will be the result. Prepare yourself for a violent
death!”
There was a ring of pleasure in his sepulchral voice as he thus
announced my death, but I listened to him with contempt and
indifference.
“Sorcerer,” said I, with a disdainful smile, “you are skilful, for you
are speaking of a certainty.”
Once more he came closer to me.
“You doubt my science,” cried he; “listen, then, once more. The
severance of the line of the sun on your forehead shows me that you take
an enemy for a friend, and a friend for an enemy.”
These words seemed to refer to the treacherous Pierrot, whom I loved,
but who had betrayed me, and to the faithful Habibrah, who I had hated,
and whose blood-stained garments attested his fidelity and his devotion.
“What do you say?” exclaimed I.
“Listen until the end,” continued the Obi. “I spoke of the future,
listen to the past. The line of the moon on your forehead is slightly
curved—that signifies that your wife has been carried off.”
I trembled, and endeavoured to spring from my seat, but my guards held
me back.
“You have but little patience,” continued the sorcerer; “listen to the
end. The little cross that cuts the extremity of that curve shows me
all; your wife was carried off on the very night of your nuptials.”
“Wretch,” cried I, “you know where she is! Who are you?”
I strove again to free myself, and to tear away his veil, but I had to
yield to numbers and to force, and I had the mortification of seeing the
mysterious Obi move away repeating, “Do you believe me now? Prepare for
immediate death.”