WHEN the first bitter pang of grief had passed, a kind of fury took
possession of me, and I entered the valley with a rapid step, for I felt
the necessity of shortening the period of suspense. When I presented
myself at the negro outpost the sergeant in command at first refused to
permit me to pass. It seemed strange that I should have had to have
recourse to entreaties to enable me to effect my object. At last two of
them seized me by the arms and led me into Biassou’s presence.
As I entered the grotto he was engaged in examining the springs of
various instruments of torture with which he was surrounded. At the
noise my guard made in introducing me he turned his head, but my
presence did not seem to surprise him.
“Do you see these?” asked he, displaying the horrible engines which lay
before him.
I remained calm and impassive, for I knew the cruel nature of the _hero
of humanity_, and I was determined to endure to the end without
blenching.
“Leogri was lucky in being only hung, was he not?” asked he, with his
sardonic sneer.
I gazed upon him with cold disdain, but I made no reply.
“Tell his reverence the chaplain that the prisoner has returned,” said
he to an aide-de-camp.
During the absence of the negro, we both remained silent, but I could
see that he watched me narrowly.
Just then Rigaud entered, he seemed agitated, and whispered a few words
to the general.
“Summon the chiefs of the different bands,” said Biassou, calmly.
A quarter of an hour afterwards, the different chiefs in their strange
equipments, were assembled in the grotto. Biassou rose.
“Listen to me, friends and comrades, the whites will attack us here at
daybreak, our position is a bad one, and we must quit it. At sunset we
will march to the Spanish frontier; Macaya, you and your negroes will
form the advanced guards; Padrejan, see that the guns taken at Pralato
are spiked, we cannot take them into the mountains; the brave men of
Croix-des-Bouquets will follow Macaya; Toussaint will come next with the
blacks from Léogane and Trose. If the _griots_ or the _griotes_ make any
disturbance, I will hand them over to the executioner of the army.
Lieutenant-Colonel Cloud will distribute the English muskets that were
disembarked at Cape Cabron, and will lead the half-breeds through the
byways of the Vista. Slaughter any prisoners that may remain, notch the
bullets, and poison the arrows. Let three tons of arsenic be thrown into
the wells; the colonists will take it for sugar, and drink without
distrust. Block up the roads to the plain with rocks, line the hedges
with marksmen, and set fire to the forest. Rigaud, you will remain with
me; Candi, summon my body-guard. The negroes of Morne-Rouge will form
the rear-guard, and will not evacuate the camp until sunrise.”
He leaned over to Rigaud, and whispered hoarsely—
“They are Bug-Jargal’s men; if they are killed, all the better. ‘Muerta
la tropa, muerte el gefe!’ (‘If the men die, the chief will die.’) Go,
my brethren,” he added, rising, “you will receive instructions from
Candi.”
The chiefs left the grotto.
“General,” remarked Rigaud, “we ought to send that dispatch of Jean
François; affairs are going badly, and it would stop the advance of the
whites.”
Biassou drew it hastily from his pocket.
“I agree with you, but there are so many faults, both in grammar and
spelling, that they will laugh at it.”
He presented the paper to me.
“For the last time, will you save your life? My kindness gives you a
last chance. Help me to correct this letter, and to re-write it in
proper official style.”
I shook my head.
“Do you mean no?” asked he.
“I do,” I replied.
“Reflect,” he answered, with a sinister glance at the instruments of
torture.
“It is because I have reflected that I refuse,” replied I. “You are
alarmed for the safety of yourself and your men, and you count upon this
letter to delay the just vengeance of the whites. I do not desire to
retain a life which may perhaps have saved yours. Let my execution
commence.”
“Ha, boy,” exclaimed Biassou, touching the instruments of torture with
his foot, “you are growing familiar with these, are you? I am sorry, but
I have not the time to try them on you. Our position is a dangerous one,
and we must get out of it as soon as we can. And so you refuse to act as
my secretary? Well, you are right, for it would not after all have saved
your miserable life, which, by the way, I have promised to his reverence
my chaplain. Do you think that I would permit any one to live who holds
the secrets of Biassou?”
He turned to the Obi, who just then entered.
“Good father, is your guard ready?”
The latter made a sign in the affirmative.
“Have you taken it from amongst the negroes of Morne-Rouge? for they are
the only ones who are not occupied in preparations for departure.”
Again the Obi bowed his head.
Then Biassou pointed out to me the black flag which I had before
remarked in a corner of the grotto.
“That will show your friends when the time comes to give your place to
your lieutenant. But I have no more time to lose, I must be off. By the
way, you have been for a little excursion; how did you like the
neighbourhood?”
“I noticed that there were enough trees upon which to hang you and all
your band.”
“Ah,” retorted he, with his hideous laugh, “there is one place that you
have not seen, but with which the good father will make you acquainted.
Adieu, my young captain, and give my compliments to Leogri.”
He bade me farewell with a chuckle that reminded me of the hiss of the
rattlesnake, and turned his back as the negroes dragged me away.
The veiled Obi followed us, his rosary in his hand.