GENTLEMEN, I hardly know why I lay before you my ideas upon such a
subject; they are not those which you understand, or can be made to
understand. To thoroughly comprehend them, you must have gone through
what I have. But such was the state of my mind when the guards of
Biassou handed me over to the negroes of Morne-Rouge. I was still in a
dream: it appeared as if one body of phantoms passed me over to another,
and without opposing any resistance I permitted them to bind me by the
middle to a tree. They then gave me some boiled potatoes, which I ate
with the mechanical instinct that God grants to man even in the midst of
overwhelming thought.
The darkness had now come on, and my guards took refuge in their huts,
with the exception of half a dozen who remained with me, lying before a
large fire that they had lighted to preserve themselves from the cold
night-air. In a few moments they were all buried in profound sleep.
The state of physical weakness into which I had fallen caused my
thoughts to wander in a strange manner. I thought of those calm and
peaceful days which, but a few weeks ago, I had passed with Marie,
without being able to foresee any future but one of continued happiness.
I compared them with the day that had just expired, a day in which so
many strange events had occurred as almost to make me wonder whether I
was not labouring under some delusion. I had been three times condemned
to death, and still remained under sentence. I thought of my future,
bounded only by the morrow, and which offered nothing but misfortune,
and a death happily near at hand. I seemed to be the victim of some
terrible nightmare. Again and again I asked myself if all that had
happened was real: was I really in the power of the sanguinary Biassou,
and was my Marie lost to me for ever? Could this prisoner, guarded by
six savages, bound to a tree, and condemned to certain death, really be
me? In spite of all my efforts to repel them, the thoughts of Marie
would force themselves upon me. In anguish I thought of her fate, I
strained my bonds in my efforts to break them, and to fly to her
succour, ever hoping that the terrible dream would pass away; and that
Heaven would not permit all the horrors that I dreaded to fall upon the
head of her, who had been united to me in a sacred bond. In my sad
preoccupation the thought of Pierrot returned to me, and rage nearly
took away my senses; the pulses of my temples throbbed nearly to
bursting. I hated him, I cursed him; I despised myself for having ever
had friendship for Pierrot at the same time I had felt love for Marie;
and without caring to seek for the motive which had urged him to cast
himself into the waters of Grande-Riviere, I wept because he had escaped
me. He was dead, and I was about to die, and all that I regretted was
that I had been unable to wreak my vengeance upon him.
During the state of semi-somnolency into which my weakness had plunged
me, these thoughts passed through my brain. I do not know how long it
lasted, but I was aroused by a man’s voice singing distinctly, but at
some distance, the old Spanish song, “_Yo que soy contrabandista_.”
Quivering with emotion I opened my eyes; all was dark around me, the
negroes slept, the fire was dying down. I could hear nothing more. I
fancied that the voice must have been a dream, and my sleep-laden
eyelids closed again. In a second I opened them; again I heard the voice
singing sadly but much nearer, the same song—
’Twas on the field of Ocanen
That I fell in their power,
To Cotadilla taken,
Unhappy from that hour.
This time it was not a charm—it _was_ Pierrot’s voice. A few moments
elapsed, then it rose again through the silence and the gloom, and once
more I heard the well-known air of “_Yo soy que contrabandista_.” A dog
ran eagerly to greet me, and rolled at my feet in token of welcome; it
was Rask! A tall negro stood facing me, and the glimmer of the fire
threw his shadow, swelled to colossal proportions, upon the sward; it
was Pierrot!
The thirst for vengeance fired my brain; surprise rendered me motionless
and dumb. I was not asleep. Could the dead return? If not a dream, it
must be an apparition. I turned from him with horror.
When he saw me do this, his head sank upon his breast.
“Brother,” murmured he, “you promised that you would never doubt me when
you heard me sing that song. My brother, have you forgotten your
promise?”
Rage restored the power of speech to me.
“Monster,” exclaimed I, “do I see you at last! Butcher, murderer of my
uncle, ravisher of Marie, dare you call me your brother? Do not venture
to approach me.”
I forgot that I was too securely tied to make the slightest movement,
and glanced to my left side as though to seek my sword.
My intention did not escape him, and he continued in a sorrowful tone of
voice—
“No, I will not come near you—you are unhappy and I pity you; whilst
you have no pity for me, though I am much more wretched than you are.”
I shrugged my shoulders; he understood my feelings, and in a half dreamy
manner continued—
“Yes, you have lost much; but, believe me, I have lost more than you
have.”
But the sound of our conversation had aroused the negro guard.
Perceiving a stranger they leapt to their feet, and seized their
weapons; but as soon as they recognized the intruder they uttered a cry
of surprise and joy, and cast themselves at his feet, striking the
ground with their foreheads.
But the homage that the negroes rendered to Pierrot, and the fondlings
of Rask, made no impression upon me at the moment. I was boiling over
with passion, and maddened at the bonds that restrained me, and at
length my fury found words. “Oh, how unhappy I am!” I exclaimed,
shedding tears of rage. “I was grieving because I thought that this
wretch had committed suicide, and robbed me of my just revenge; and now
he is here to mock me, living and breathing under my very eyes, and I am
powerless to stab him to the heart. Is there no one to free me from
these accursed cords?”
Pierrot turned to the negroes, who where still prostrate before him.
“Comrades,” said he, “release the prisoner.”