WE left the camp of the negroes of Morne-Rouge. I could not help
thinking it strange to find myself at perfect liberty amongst a horde of
savages, in a spot where the evening before each man had seemed only too
ready to shed my blood. Far from seeking to bar our progress, both the
negroes and the mulattoes prostrated themselves on all sides, with
exclamations of surprise, joy, and respect. I was ignorant what rank
Pierrot held in the army of the insurgents, but I remembered the
influence that he used to exercise over his companions in slavery, and
this appeared to me to account for the respect with which he was now
treated.
On our arrival at the guard before the grotto, the mulatto Candi
advanced before us with threatening gestures, demanding how we dared
approach so near the general’s quarters; but when he came near enough to
recognize my conductor, he hurriedly removed his gold-laced cap, as
though terrified at his own audacity, bowed to the ground, and at once
introduced us into Biassou’s presence, with a thousand apologies of
which Pierrot took no heed.
The respect with which the simple negro soldiers had treated Pierrot
excited my surprise very little, but seeing Candi, one of the principal
officers of the army, humiliate himself thus before my uncle’s slave,
made me ask myself who this man could be whose power was illimitable.
How much more astonished was I, then, upon being introduced into the
presence of Biassou, who was alone when we entered, and was quietly
enjoying his _calalou_. He started to his feet, concealing
disappointment and surprise under the appearance of profound respect,
bowed humbly to my companion, and offered him his mahogany throne.
Pierrot declined it. “No, Jean Biassou,” said he, “I have not come to
take your place, but simply to ask a favour at your hands.”
“Your Highness,” answered Biassou, redoubling his obeisances, “you know
well that all Jean Biassou has is yours, and that you can dispose as
freely of all as you can of Jean Biassou himself.”
“I do not ask for so much,” replied Pierrot, quickly; “all I ask is the
life and liberty of this prisoner,” and he pointed to me.
For a moment Biassou appeared embarrassed, but he speedily recovered
himself.
“Your servant is in despair, your Highness, for you ask of him, to his
great regret, more than he can grant; he is not Jean Biassou’s prisoner,
does not belong to Jean Biassou, and has nothing to do with Jean
Biassou.”
“What do you mean?” asked Pierrot, in severe tones, “by saying that he
does not belong to you? Does any one else hold authority here except
you?”
“Alas, yes, your Highness.”
“Who is it?”
“My army.”
The sly and obsequious manner in which Biassou eluded the frank and
haughty questions of Pierrot, showed, had it depended solely upon
himself, he would gladly have treated his visitor with far less respect
than he felt himself now compelled to do.
“What!” exclaimed Pierrot, “your army; and do not you command it?”
Biassou, with every appearance of sincerity, replied—
“Does your Highness really think that we can command men who are in
insurrection because they will not obey?”
I cared too little for my life to break the silence that I had imposed
upon myself, else, having seen the day before the despotic authority
that Biassou exercised over his men, I could have contradicted his
assertions, and laid bare his duplicity to Pierrot.
“Well, if you have no authority over your men, and if they are your
masters, what reason can they have for hating your prisoner?”
“Bouckmann has been killed by the white troops,” answered Biassou,
endeavouring to conceal his sardonic smile under a mask of sorrow, “and
my men are determined to avenge upon this white the death of the chief
of the Jamaica negroes. They wish to show trophy against trophy, and
desire that the head of this young officer should serve as a
counterpoise to the head of Bouckmann in the scales in which the good
_Giu_ weighs both parties.”
“Do you still continue to carry on this horrible system of reprisals.
Listen to me, Jean Biassou: it is these cruelties that are the ruin of
our just cause. Prisoner as I was in the camp of the whites (from which
I have managed to escape), I had not heard of the death of Bouckmann
until you told me. It is the just punishment of heaven for his crimes. I
will tell you another piece of news: Jeannot, the negro chief who served
as a guide to draw the white troops into the ambush of Dompté-Mulâtre,
Jeannot also is dead. You know—do not interrupt me, Biassou—that he
rivalled you and Bouckmann in his atrocities; and pay attention to this,
it was not the thunderbolt of heaven, nor the bullets of the whites,
that struck him—it was Jean François himself who ordered this act of
justice to be performed.”
Biassou, who had listened with an air of gloomy respect, uttered an
exclamation of surprise. At this moment Rigaud entered, bowed
respectfully to Pierrot, and whispered in Biassou’s ear.
The murmur of many voices was heard in the camp.
“Yes,” continued Pierrot, “Jean François, who has no fault except a
preposterous love of luxury and show, whose carriage with its six horses
takes him every day to hear mass at the Grande-Riviere, Jean François
himself has put a stop to the crimes of Jeannot. In spite of the
cowardly entreaties of the brigand, who clung in despair to the knees of
the Priest of Marmalade, who attended him in his last moments, he was
shot beneath the very tree upon which he used to hang his living victims
upon iron hooks. Think upon this, Biassou. Why these massacres which
provoke the whites to reprisals? Why all these juggleries which only
tend to excite the passions of our unhappy comrades, already too much
exasperated? There is at Trou-Coffi a mulatto impostor, called Romaine
the Prophet, who is in command of a fanatical band of negroes; he
profanes the holy sacrament of the mass, he pretends that he is in
direct communication with the Virgin, and he urges on his men to murder
and pillage in the name of Marie.”
There was a more tender inflection in the voice of Pierrot as he uttered
this name than even religious respect would have warranted, and I felt
annoyed and irritated at it.
“And you,” continued he, “you have in your camp some Obi, I hear—some
impostor like this Romaine the Prophet. I well know that having to lead
an army composed of so many heterogeneous materials, a common bond is
necessary; but can it be found nowhere save in ferocious fanaticism and
ridiculous superstition? Believe me, Biassou, the white men are not so
cruel as we are. I have seen many planters protect the lives of their
slaves. I am not ignorant that in some cases it was not the life of a
man, but a sum of money that they desired to save, but at any rate their
interest gave them the appearance of a virtue. Do not let us be less
merciful than they are, for it is our interest to be so. Will our cause
be more holy and more just because we exterminate the women, slaughter
the children, and burn the colonists in their own houses? These,
however, are every-day occurrences. Answer me, Biassou: must the traces
of our progress be always marked by a line of blood and fire?”
He ceased; the fire of his glance, the accent of his voice, gave to his
words a force of conviction and authority which it is impossible for me
to imitate. Like a fox in the clutches of a lion, Biassou seemed to seek
for some means of escape from the power that constrained him. Whilst he
vainly sought for a pretext, the chief of the negroes of Cayer, Rigaud,
who the evening before had calmly watched the horrors that had been
perpetrated in his presence, seemed to be shocked at the picture that
Pierrot had drawn, and exclaimed with a hypocritical affectation of
grief—
“Great heavens! how terrible is a nation when roused to fury.”