CHAPTER XXXI.

“It is your turn now,” said the general, turning to the last of the prisoners, the planter who was accused by the white men of having black blood in his veins, and who had on that account sent me a challenge.

A general clamour drowned the reply of the planter. “Muerte! Death! Mort! Touyé!” cried the negroes, grinding their teeth, and shaking their fists at the unhappy captive.

“General,” said a mulatto, making himself heard above the uproar, “he is a white man, and he must die.”

The miserable planter, by cries and gesticulations, managed to edge in some words. “No, general, no, my brothers, it is an infamous calumny, I am a mulatto like yourselves, of mixed blood; my mother was a negress, like your mothers and sisters.”

“He lies,” cried the infuriated negroes, “he is a white man, he has always detested the coloured people.”

“Never,” retorted the prisoner; “it is the whites that I detest; I have always said with you, ‘Negre cé blan, blan cé negre’ (‘The negroes are the masters, the whites are the slaves’).”

“Not at all,” cried the crowd, “not at all; kill the white man, kill him!”

Still the unhappy wretch kept repeating in heart-rending accents, “I am a mulatto, I am one of yourselves.”

“Give me a proof,” was Biassou’s sole reply.

“A proof,” answered the prisoner, wildly, “the proof is that the whites have always despised me.”

“That may be true,” returned Biassou, “but you are an insolent hound to tell us so.”

A young mulatto stepped to the front and addressed the planter in an excited manner.

“That the whites despised you is a fact; but, on the other hand, you affected to look down upon the mulattoes amongst whom they classed you. It has even been reported that you once challenged a white man who called you a half caste.”

A howl of execration arose from the crowd, and the cry of “death” was repeated more loudly than ever, whilst the planter, casting an appealing glance at me, continued, with tears in his eyes—

“It is a calumny, my greatest glory and happiness is in belonging to the blacks, I am a mulatto.”

“If you really were a mulatto,” observed Rigaud, quietly, “you would not make use of such an expression.”

“How do I know what I am saying?” asked the panic-stricken wretch. “General, the proof that I am of mixed blood is in the black circle that you see round the bottom of my nails.”

Biassou thrust aside the suppliant hand.

“I do not possess the knowledge of our chaplain, who can tell what a man is by looking at his hand. But listen to me: my soldiers accuse you—some, of being a white man; others, of being a false brother. If this is the case you ought to die. You, on the other hand, assert that you belong to our race, and that you have never denied it. There is one method by which you can prove your assertions. Take this dagger and stab these two white prisoners!”

As he spoke, with a wave of his hand, he designated the citizen C—— and myself.

The planter drew back from the dagger which, with a devilish smile on his face, Biassou presented to him.

“What,” said the general, “do you hesitate? It is your only chance of proving your assertion to the army that you are not a white, and are one of ourselves. Come, decide at once, for we have no time to lose.”

The prisoner’s eyes glared wildly; he stretched out his hand towards the dagger, then let his arm fall again, turning away his head, whilst every limb quivered with emotion.

“Come, come,” cried Biassou, in tones of impatience and anger, “I am in a hurry. Choose—either kill them, or die with them!”

The planter remained motionless, as if he had been turned to stone.

“Good!” said Biassou, turning towards the negroes, “he does not wish to be the executioner, let him be the victim. I can see that he is nothing but a white man—away with him!”

The negroes advanced to seize him. This movement impelled him to immediate choice between giving or receiving death.

Extreme cowardice produces a bastard species of courage.

Stepping forward, he snatched the dagger that Biassou still held out to him, and without giving himself time to reflect upon what he was about to do, he precipitated himself like a tiger upon citizen C——, who was lying on the ground near me. Then a terrible struggle commenced. The lover of the negro race, who had, at the conclusion of his interview with Biassou, remained plunged in a state of despair and stupor, had hardly noticed the scene between the general and the planter, so absorbed was he in the thought of his approaching death; but when he saw the man rush upon him, and the steel gleam above his head, the imminence of his danger aroused him at once. He started to his feet, grasped the arm of his would-be murderer, and exclaimed in a voice of terror—

“Pardon, pardon! What are you doing? What have I done?”

“You must die, sir,” said the half-caste, fixing his frenzied eyes upon his victim, and endeavouring to disengage his arm. “Let me do it; I will not hurt you.”

“Die by your hand,” cried the economist; “but why? Spare me; you wish perhaps to kill me because I used to say that you were a mulatto. But spare my life, and I vow that I will always declare that you are a white man. Yes, you are white, I will say so everywhere, but spare me!”

The unfortunate man had taken the wrong method of sueing for mercy.

“Silence, silence!” cried the half-caste, furious at the idea of the danger he was incurring, and fearing that the negroes would hear the assertion.

But the other cried louder than ever, that he knew that he was a white man, and of good family.

The half-caste made a last effort to impose silence on him; then finding his efforts vain, he thrust aside his arms, and pressed the dagger upon C——’s breast.

The unhappy man felt the point of the weapon, and in his despair bit the arm that was driving the dagger home.

“Monster! wretch!” exclaimed he, “you are murdering me.” Then casting a glance of supplication towards Biassou, he cried, “Defend me, avenger of humanity.”

Then the murderer pressed more heavily on the dagger; a gush of blood bubbled over his fingers, and spattered his face. The knees of the unhappy lover of the negro race bent beneath him, his arms fell by his side, his eyes closed, he uttered a stifled groan, and fell dead.