CHAPTER XXII.

After passing through jungle, and crossing many a torrent, we arrived in a valley situated in the higher part of the hills, of a singular wild and savage appearance. The spot was absolutely unknown to me. The valley was situated in the heart of the hills, in what is called the double mountains. It was a large green plain, imprisoned by walls of bare rock, and dotted with clumps of pines and palm-trees. The cold, which at this height is very severe, was increased by the morning air, the day having just commenced to break, but the valley was still plunged in darkness, and was only lighted by flashes from the negroes’ fires; evidently this spot was their headquarters. The shattered remains of their army had begun to reassemble, and every now and then bands of negroes and mulattoes arrived, uttering groans of distress and cries of rage. New fires were speedily lighted, and the camp began to increase in size. The negro whose prisoner I was had placed me at the foot of an oak, whence I surveyed this strange spectacle with entire carelessness. The black had bound me with his belt to the trunk of the tree, against which I was leaning, and carefully tightening the knots in the cords which impeded my movements, he placed on my head his own red woollen cap, as if to indicate that I was his property, and after making sure that I could not escape or be carried off by others, was preparing to leave me, when I determined to address him, and speaking in the Creole dialect I asked him if he belonged to the band of Dondon, or of Morne-Rouge. He stopped at once, and in a tone of pride replied “Morne-Rouge.” Then an idea entered my head. I had often heard of the generosity of the chief Bug-Jargal, and though I had made up my mind that death would soon end all my troubles, yet the thought of the tortures that would inevitably precede it should I fall into the hands of Biassou, filled me with horror. All I wanted was to be put to death without torment. It was perhaps a weakness, but I believe that the mind of man ever revolts at such a death. I thought then, that if I could be taken from Biassou, Bug-Jargal might give me what I desired—a soldier’s death. I therefore asked the negro of Morne-Rouge to lead me to Bug-Jargal. He started. “Bug-Jargal,” he repeated, striking on his forehead in anguish; then, as if rage had suddenly overtaken him, he shook his fist, and shouting “Biassou, Biassou,” he left me hastily.

The mingled rage and grief of the negro recalled to my mind the events of the day, and the certainty we had acquired of either the death or capture of the chief of the band of Morne-Rouge. I felt that all hope was over, and resigned myself to the threatened vengeance of Biassou.