AS if to draw my attention from the perplexity into which I had been
thrown by the strange scene that had just passed, a new and more
terrible drama succeeded to the farce that had been played between
Biassou and the Obi. Biassou had again taken his place upon his mahogany
throne, whilst Rigaud and the Obi were seated on his right and left; the
latter, with his arms crossed on his breast, seemed to have given
himself up to deep thought. Biassou and Rigaud were chewing tobacco, and
an aide-de-camp had just asked if he should order a general march past
of the forces, when a tumultuous crowd of negroes, with hideous shouts,
arrived at the entrance of the grotto. They had brought with them three
white prisoners to be judged by Biassou, but what they desired was
easily shown by the cries of “Muerte! Muerte!” “Death, death!” the
latter, no doubt, emanating from the English negroes of Bouckmann’s
band, many of whom had by this time arrived to join the French and
Spanish negroes of Biassou.
The general with a gesture of his hand commanded silence, and ordered
the three captives to be brought to the entrance of the grotto. I
recognized two of them with considerable surprise; one was the Citizen
General C——, that philanthropist who was in correspondence with all
the lovers of the negro race in different parts of the globe, and who
had proposed so cruel a mode of suppressing the insurrection to the
governor. The other was the planter of doubtful origin, who manifested
so great a dislike to the mulattoes, amongst whom the whites insisted on
classing him. The third appeared to belong to a section called “poor
whites”—that is to say, white men who had to work for their living: he
wore a leathern apron, and his sleeves were turned up to his elbows. All
the prisoners had been taken at different times, endeavouring to hide
themselves in the mountains.
The “poor white” was the first one that was questioned.
“Who are you?” asked Biassou.
“I am Jacques Belin, carpenter to the Hospital of the Fathers, at Cap.”
Surprise and shame struggled for the mastery in the features of the
general.
“Jacques Belin!” repeated he, biting his lips.
“Yes,” replied the carpenter; “do you not recognize me?”
“Begin,” retorted the general, furiously, “by recognizing _me_ and
saluting me.”
“I do not salute _my slave_,” replied the carpenter, sturdily.
“Your slave, wretch!” cried the general.
“Yes,” replied the carpenter; “yes, I was your first master, you pretend
not to recognize me, but remember, Jean Biassou, that I sold you for
thirty piastres in the Saint Domingo slave market.”
An expression of concentrated rage passed over Biassou’s face.
“Well,” continued the carpenter, “you appear ashamed of having worked
for me; ought not Jean Biassou to feel proud of having belonged to
Jacques Belin? Your mother, the old idiot, has often swept out my shop,
but at last I sold her to the major-domo of the Hospital of the Fathers,
and she was so old and decrepit, that he would only give me thirty-two
livres and six sous for her. There is my history and yours, but it seems
as if the negroes and the mulattoes are growing proud, and that you have
forgotten the time when you served Master Jacques Belin, the carpenter
of Cap, on your knees.”
Biassou listened to him with that sardonic smile that gave him the
appearance of a tiger.
“Good,” said he; then turning to the negroes who had captured Belin,
“get two trestles, two planks, and a saw, and take this man away.
Jacques Belin, carpenter of Cap, thank me, for you shall have a true
carpenter’s death.”
His sardonic laugh too fully explained the horrible punishment that he
destined for the pride of his former master, but Jacques Belin did not
blench, and turning proudly to Biassou, cried—
“Yes, I ought to thank you, for I bought you for thirty piastres, and I
got work out of you to a much greater amount.”
They dragged him away.