CHAPTER XXXIII.

The breakfast hour had now arrived; the shell of a turtle was placed before Biassou, in which smoked a species of olla-podrida seasoned with bacon, in which turtle flesh took the place of lamb; an enormous carib cabbage floated on the surface of the stew, and in addition, on strips of bark, were dried raisins and water-melons, a loaf of maize bread; and a bottle of wine, bound round with tarred string, completed the feast. Biassou took from his pocket a few heads of garlic and rubbed his bread with them; then, without even ordering the bleeding form to be carried away, he began to eat, inviting Rigaud to do the same.

There was something terrible in Biassou’s appetite.

The Obi did not join their repast; like others in his profession, I could easily understand that he never took anything in public, to induce a belief amongst the negroes that he lived entirely without food.

During breakfast, Biassou ordered one of his aides-de-camp to order the march past to commence, and the different corps began to defile past in fairly good order. The negroes of Morne-Rouge were the first; there were about four thousand of them, divided into companies commanded by chiefs, who were distinguished by their scarlet breeches and sashes. This force was composed of tall and powerful negroes; some of them carried guns, axes, and sabres, but many had no other arms than bows and arrows, and javelins rudely fashioned by themselves. They carried no standard, and moved past in mournful silence. As they marched on, Biassou whispered to Rigaud—

“When will Blanchelande’s and Rouvray’s shot and shell free me from these bandits of Morne-Rouge? I hate them, they are nearly all of them Congos, and they only believe in killing in open battle—following the example of their chief Bug-Jargal, a young fool, who plays at being generous and magnanimous. You do not know him, Rigaud, and I hope you never will, for the whites have taken him prisoner, and they may perhaps rid me of him, as they did of Bouckmann.”

“Speaking of Bouckmann,” answered Rigaud, “there are the negroes of Macaya just passing, and I see in their ranks the negro whom Jean François sent to you with the news of Bouckmann’s death. Do you know that that man might upset all the prophecies of the Obi, if he were to say that he had been kept for more than half an hour at the outposts, and that he had told me the news before you sent for him?”

“Diabolo!” answered Biassou, “you are in the right, my friend; this man’s mouth must be shut. Wait a bit.”

Then raising his voice he called out “Macaya.” The leader of the division left the ranks, and approached the general with the stock of his firelock reversed, in token of respect.

“Make that man who does not belong to your division leave his rank and come forward.”

Macaya speedily brought the messenger of Jean François before the general, who at once assumed that appearance of anger which he knew so well how to simulate.

“Who are you?” cried he.

“General, I am a black.”

“Carramba, I can see that well enough; but what is your name?”

“My name is Vavelan, my patron saint is Sabas, deacon and martyr, whose feast is on the twentieth day before the Nativity of our Lord.”

Biassou interrupted him.

“How dare you present yourself on parade, amidst shining muskets and white cross-belts, with your sword without a sheath, your breeches torn, and your feet muddy?”

“General,” answered the negro, “it is not my fault. I was despatched by the Grand Admiral, Jean François, to bring you the news of the death of the chief of the English negroes; and if my clothes are torn and my feet bemired, it is because I have run, without stopping to take breath, to bring you the news as soon as possible, but they detained me at——”

Biassou frowned.

“I did not ask you about that, but how you dared to enter the ranks in so unbecoming a dress. Commend your soul to Saint Sabas, your patron, the deacon and martyr, and go and get yourself shot.”

And here I had another proof of the ascendency that Biassou exercised over the insurgents. The unfortunate man who was ordered to go and get himself executed did not utter a protest; he bowed his head, crossed his arms on his breast, saluted his pitiless judge three times, and after having knelt to the Obi, who gave him plenary absolution, he left the cavern.

A few minutes afterwards a volley of musketry told us that Biassou’s commands had been obeyed, and that the negro was no more.

Freed from all sources of uneasiness, the general turned to Rigaud, a gleam of pleasure in his eye, and gave a triumphant chuckle which seemed to say—“Admire me!”