BIASSOU seemed to be dreaming. When the review was concluded, his last
orders had been given, and the insurgents had retired to the huts, he
condescended to address me again.
“Young man,” said he, “you have now had the means of judging of my power
and genius; the time has now arrived for you to bear the report to
Leogri.”
“It is not my fault that he has not had it earlier,” answered I, coldly.
“You are right,” replied Biassou. He then paused, as if to note what the
effect would be upon me of what he was going to say, and then added,
“But it will depend upon yourself whether you ever carry the message or
not.”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed I, in astonishment.
“Why,” replied he, “that your life depends upon yourself, and that you
can save it if you will.”
This sudden paroxysm of pity—the first, and no doubt the last, which
had ever possessed Biassou—surprised me much, and astonished the Obi so
greatly that he leapt from the position which he had so long maintained,
and, placing himself face to face with the general, addressed him in
angry tones.
“What are you saying? Have you forgotten your promise? Neither God nor
you can dispose of this life, for it belongs to me.”
At that instant I thought that I recognized the voice; but it was but a
fleeting recollection, and in a moment had passed away.
Biassou got up from his seat without betraying any anger, spoke for a
few moments in whispers to the Obi, and pointed to the black flag which
I had already remarked, and after a little more conversation the Obi
nodded in sign of assent. Both of them then reverted to their former
positions.
“Listen to me,” said the general, drawing from his pocket the dispatch
which Jean François had sent to him. “Things are going ill. Bouckmann
has been killed. The whites have slaughtered more than two thousand of
our men in the district of Cul-de-Sac. The colonists are continuing to
establish and to fortify military posts. By our own folly we have lost
the chance of taking Cap, and it will be long before another occasion
will present itself. On the eastern side our line of march has been cut
by a river, and the whites have defended the passage by a pontoon
battery and a fortified camp. On the south side they have planted
artillery on the mountainous road called the Haut-du-Cap. The position
is, in addition, defended by a strong stockade, at which all the
inhabitants have laboured, and in front of it there is a strong _chevaux
de frise_. Cap, therefore, is beyond our reach. Our ambush in the
ravines of Dompté-Mulâtre was a failure; and, to add to all these
misfortunes, the Siamese fever has devastated our camps. In consequence,
the Grand Admiral (and I agree with him) has decided to treat with the
Governor Blanchelande and the Colonial Assembly. Here is the letter that
we have addressed to the assembly on this matter. Listen!
“‘GENTLEMEN OF THE HOUSE OF DEPUTIES,—
“‘In the great misfortunes which have afflicted this great
and important colony we have also been enveloped, and there
remains nothing for us to say in justification of our conduct.
One day you will render us the justice that our conduct merits.
“‘According to us, the King of Spain is a good king who treats
us well, and has _testified it to us by rewards_; so we shall
continue to serve him with zeal and devotion.
“‘We see by the law of September 28, 1791, that the National
Assembly and the King have agreed to settle definitely the
status of slaves, and the political situation of people of
colour. We will defend the decrees of the National Assembly with
the last drop of our blood.
“‘It would be most interesting to us if you would declare, by an
order sanctioned by your general, as to your intentions
regarding the position of the slaves. Knowing that they are the
objects of your solicitude through their chiefs, who send you
this, they will be satisfied if the relations now broken are
once again resumed.
“‘Do not count, gentlemen Deputies, upon our consenting to take
up arms for the revolutionary Assemblies. We are the subjects of
three kings—the King of Congo, the born master of all the
blacks; the King of France, who represents our fathers; and the
King of Spain, who is the representative of our mothers. These
three kings are the descendants of those who, conducted by a
star, worshipped the Man God. If we were to consent to serve the
Assemblies, we might be forced to take up arms and to make war
against our brothers, the subjects of those three kings to whom
we have sworn fidelity. And, besides, we do not know what is
meant by the will of the Nation, seeing that since the world has
been in existence we have always executed that of the King. The
Prince of France loves us; the King of Spain never ceases to
help us. We aid them—they aid us; it is the cause of humanity;
and, besides, if these kings should fail us we could soon
_enthrone a king of our own_.
“‘Such are our intentions, although we now consent to make
peace.
“‘_Signed_, JEAN FRANÇOIS, General; BIASSOU, Brigadier; DESPREZ,
MANZEAU, TOUSSAINT, AUBERT, Commissaires; _ad hoc_.’”[3]
“You see,” said Biassou, after he had read this piece of negro
diplomacy, every word of which has remained imprinted on my memory,
“that our intentions are peaceable; but this is what we want you to do:
neither Jean François nor I have been brought up in the schools of the
whites, or learned the niceties of their language. We know how to fight,
but not how to write. Now we do not wish that there should be anything
in our letter at which our former masters could laugh. You seem to have
learned those frivolous accomplishments in which we are lacking. Correct
any faults you may find in this dispatch, so that it may excite no
derision amongst the whites, and—I will give you your life!”
This proposition of becoming the corrector of Biassou’s faults of
spelling and composition was too repugnant to my pride for me to
hesitate for a moment; and besides, what did I care for life. I declined
his offer. He appeared surprised.
“What!” exclaimed he, “you prefer death to scrawling a few marks with a
pen on a piece of paper?”
“Yes,” replied I.
My determination seemed to embarrass him. After a few moments of thought
he again addressed me.
“Listen, young fool. I am less obstinate than you are; I give you until
to-morrow evening, up to the setting of the sun, when you shall again be
brought before me. Think well then, before you refuse to obey my wishes.
Adieu. Let night bring reflection to you, and remember that with us
death is not simply death—much comes before you reach it.”
The frightful sardonic grin with which he concluded his last speech too
plainly brought to my recollection the awful tortures which it was
Biassou’s greatest pleasure to inflict upon his prisoners.
“Candi,” continued Biassou, “remove the prisoner, and give him in charge
to the men of Morne-Rouge. I wish him to live for another day, and
perhaps my other soldiers would not have the patience to let him do so.”
The mulatto Candi, who commanded the guard, caused my arms to be bound
behind my back, a soldier took hold of the end of the cord, and we left
the grotto.
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[3] It is a fact that this ridiculously characteristic letter was sent
to the Assembly.