THE breakfast hour had now arrived; the shell of a turtle was placed
before Biassou, in which smoked a species of _olla-podrida_ seasoned
with bacon, in which turtle flesh took the place of lamb; an enormous
carib cabbage floated on the surface of the stew, and in addition, on
strips of bark, were dried raisins and water-melons, a loaf of maize
bread; and a bottle of wine, bound round with tarred string, completed
the feast. Biassou took from his pocket a few heads of garlic and rubbed
his bread with them; then, without even ordering the bleeding form to be
carried away, he began to eat, inviting Rigaud to do the same.
There was something terrible in Biassou’s appetite.
The Obi did not join their repast; like others in his profession, I
could easily understand that he never took anything in public, to induce
a belief amongst the negroes that he lived entirely without food.
During breakfast, Biassou ordered one of his aides-de-camp to order the
march past to commence, and the different corps began to defile past in
fairly good order. The negroes of Morne-Rouge were the first; there were
about four thousand of them, divided into companies commanded by chiefs,
who were distinguished by their scarlet breeches and sashes. This force
was composed of tall and powerful negroes; some of them carried guns,
axes, and sabres, but many had no other arms than bows and arrows, and
javelins rudely fashioned by themselves. They carried no standard, and
moved past in mournful silence. As they marched on, Biassou whispered to
Rigaud—
“When will Blanchelande’s and Rouvray’s shot and shell free me from
these bandits of Morne-Rouge? I hate them, they are nearly all of them
_Congos_, and they only believe in killing in open battle—following the
example of their chief Bug-Jargal, a young fool, who plays at being
generous and magnanimous. You do not know him, Rigaud, and I hope you
never will, for the whites have taken him prisoner, and they may perhaps
rid me of him, as they did of Bouckmann.”
“Speaking of Bouckmann,” answered Rigaud, “there are the negroes of
Macaya just passing, and I see in their ranks the negro whom Jean
François sent to you with the news of Bouckmann’s death. Do you know
that that man might upset all the prophecies of the Obi, if he were to
say that he had been kept for more than half an hour at the outposts,
and that he had told me the news before you sent for him?”
“Diabolo!” answered Biassou, “you are in the right, my friend; this
man’s mouth must be shut. Wait a bit.”
Then raising his voice he called out “Macaya.” The leader of the
division left the ranks, and approached the general with the stock of
his firelock reversed, in token of respect.
“Make that man who does not belong to your division leave his rank and
come forward.”
Macaya speedily brought the messenger of Jean François before the
general, who at once assumed that appearance of anger which he knew so
well how to simulate.
“Who are you?” cried he.
“General, I am a black.”
“Carramba, I can see that well enough; but what is your name?”
“My name is Vavelan, my patron saint is Sabas, deacon and martyr, whose
feast is on the twentieth day before the Nativity of our Lord.”
Biassou interrupted him.
“How dare you present yourself on parade, amidst shining muskets and
white cross-belts, with your sword without a sheath, your breeches torn,
and your feet muddy?”
“General,” answered the negro, “it is not my fault. I was despatched by
the Grand Admiral, Jean François, to bring you the news of the death of
the chief of the English negroes; and if my clothes are torn and my feet
bemired, it is because I have run, without stopping to take breath, to
bring you the news as soon as possible, but they detained me at——”
Biassou frowned.
“I did not ask you about that, but how you dared to enter the ranks in
so unbecoming a dress. Commend your soul to Saint Sabas, your patron,
the deacon and martyr, and go and get yourself shot.”
And here I had another proof of the ascendency that Biassou exercised
over the insurgents. The unfortunate man who was ordered to go and get
himself executed did not utter a protest; he bowed his head, crossed his
arms on his breast, saluted his pitiless judge three times, and after
having knelt to the Obi, who gave him plenary absolution, he left the
cavern.
A few minutes afterwards a volley of musketry told us that Biassou’s
commands had been obeyed, and that the negro was no more.
Freed from all sources of uneasiness, the general turned to Rigaud, a
gleam of pleasure in his eye, and gave a triumphant chuckle which seemed
to say—“Admire me!”