Told Under Canvas Page 8

  This warlike discourse, which to you appears perfectly ridiculous, had a tremendous effect on the insurgents. It is true that Biassou’s wild gesticulations, the manner in which his voice rose and fell, and the strange sneer which every now and then appeared on his lips, imparted to his speech a strange amount of power and fascination. The skill with which he alluded to those points which would have the greatest weight with the negroes, added a degree of force which told well with his audience.

  I will not attempt to describe to you the outburst of determined enthusiasm which the harangue of Biassou roused amongst the rebels.

  There arose at once a discordant chorus of howls, yells, and shouts. Some beat their naked breasts, others dashed their clubs and sabres together. Many threw themselves on their knees, and remained in that position as though in rapt ecstasy. The negresses tore their breasts and arms with their fish-bone combs. The sounds of drums, tom-toms, guitars, and tambourines were mingled with the discharge of firearms. It was a veritable witches’ Sabbath.

  Biassou raised his hand, and, as if by enchantment, the tumult was stilled, and each negro returned to his place in the ranks in silence. The discipline which Biassou had imposed upon his equals by the exercise of his power of will struck me, I may say, with admiration. All the soldiers of the force seemed to exist only to obey the wishes of their chief, as the notes of the harpsichord under the fingers of the musician.

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  The spectacle of another example of the powers of fascination and deception now attracted my attention, this was the healing of the wounded. The Obi, who in the army performed the double functions of healer of souls and bodies, began his inspection of his patients.

  He had taken off his sacerdotal robes, and was seated before a large box in which he kept his drugs and instruments. He used the latter very rarely, but occasionally drew blood skilfully enough with a lancet made of fish-bone, but he appeared to me to use the knife which in his hands replaced the scalpel rather clumsily. In most cases he contented himself with prescribing orange flower water, or sarsaparilla, and a mouthful of old rum. His favourite remedy, however, and one which he said was an infallible panacea for all ills, was composed of three glasses of red wine in which was some grated nutmeg and the yolk of an egg boiled hard. He employed this specific for almost every malady. You will understand that his knowledge of medicine was as great a farce as his pretended religion, and it is probable that the small number of cures that he effected would not have secured the confidence of the negroes had he not had recourse to all sorts of mummeries and incantations, and acted as much upon their imaginations as upon their bodies. Thus, he never examined their wounds without performing some mysterious signs, whilst at other times he skilfully mingled together religion and negro superstition, and would put into their wounds a little fetish stone wrapped in a morsel of lint, and the patient would credit the stone with the healing effects of the lint. If any one came to announce to him the death of a patient he would answer solemnly, “I foresaw it; he was a traitor; in the burning of such and such a house he spared a white man’s life; his death was a judgment.” And the wondering crowd of rebels applauded him as he thus increased their deadly hatred for their adversaries. This impostor, amongst other methods, employed one which amused me by its singularity. One of the negro chiefs had been badly wounded in the last action. The Obi examined the wound attentively, dressed it as well as he was able, then, mounting the altar, exclaimed, “All this is nothing.” He then tore two or three leaves from the missal, burnt them to ashes, and mingling them with some wine in the sacramental cup, cried to the wounded man, “Drink; this is the true remedy.” The patient, stupidly fixing his eyes on the impostor, drank, whilst the Obi with raised hands seemed to call down blessings on his head, and it may be the conviction that he was healed brought about his cure.

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  Another scene in which the Obi also played the principal part succeeded to this. The physician had taken the place of the priest, and the sorcerer now replaced the physician.

  “Listen, men!” cried the Obi, leaping with incredible agility upon the improvised altar, and sinking down with his legs crossed under his striped petticoat. “Listen; who will dive into the book of fate? I can foretell the future. ‘He estudiado la cienca de los Gitanos’ (‘I have studied the sciences of the gipsies’).”

  A crowd of mulattoes and negroes hurriedly crowded up to him.

  “One by one,” said the Obi, in that voice which called to my mind some remembrances that I could not quite collect. “If you come all together, altogether you will enter the tomb.”

  They stopped. Just then a coloured man dressed in a white jacket and trousers, with a bandana handkerchief tied round his head, entered the cave. Consternation was depicted on his countenance.

  “Well, Rigaud,” said the general, “what is it?”

  Rigaud, sometimes called General Rigaud, was the head of the mulatto insurgents at Lagu. A man who concealed much cunning under an appearance of candour, and cruelty beneath the mask of humanity. I looked upon him with much attention.

  “General,” whispered Rigaud, but as I was close to them I could catch every word, “on the outskirts of the camp there is a messenger from Jean François who has brought the news that Bouckmann has been killed in a battle with the whites under M. de Touzard, and that his head has been set upon the gates of the town as a trophy.”

  “Is that all?” asked Biassou, his eyes sparkling with delight at learning the diminution of the number of chiefs and the consequent increase of his own importance.

  “The emissary of Jean François has in addition a message for you.”

  “That is all right,” replied the general; “but get rid of this air of alarm, my good Rigaud.”

  “But,” said Rigaud, “do you not fear the effect that the death of Bouckmann will have on the army?”

  “You wish to appear more simple than you are, but you shall see what Biassou will do. Keep the messenger back for a quarter of an hour and all will go well.”

  Then he approached the Obi, who during this conversation had been exercising his functions as fortune-teller, questioning the wondering negroes, examining the lines on their hands and foreheads, and distributing more or less good luck according to the size and colour of the piece of money thrown by each negro into a silver-gilt basin which stood on one side. Biassou whispered a few words in his ear, and without making any reply the Obi continued his prophetic observations.

  “He,” cried the Obi, “who has in the middle of his forehead a little square or triangular figure will make a large fortune without work or toil. The figure of three interlaced S’s on the forehead is a fatal sign; he who has it will certainly be drowned if he does not carefully avoid water. Four lines from the top of the nose, and turning round two by two towards the eyes, announces that you will be taken prisoner, and for a long time languish in a foreign prison.”

  Here the Obi paused.

  “Friends,” continued he, “I have observed this sign in the forehead of Bug-Jargal, the brave chief of Morne-Rouge.”

  These words, which convinced me that Bug-Jargal had been made prisoner, were followed by a cry of grief from a band of negroes who wore short scarlet breeches. They belonged to the band of Morne-Rouge.

  Then the Obi began again—

  “If you have on the right side of the forehead in the line of the moon a mark resembling a fork, do not remain idle, and avoid dissipation of all kinds. A small mark like the Arabic cypher 3 in the line of the sun betokens blows with a stick.”

  An old negro here interrupted the magician, and dragging himself to his feet begged him to dress his wound. He had been wounded in the face, and one of his eyes almost torn from the socket hung upon his cheek. The Obi had forgotten him when going through his patients. Directly, however, he saw him he cried out—

  “Round marks on the right side of the forehead in the line of the moon foretell misfortunes to the sight.
My man, let me see your hand.”

  “Alas, excellent sir,” answered the other, “it is my eye that I want you to look at.”

  “Old man,” replied the Obi, crossly, “it is not necessary to see your eye, give me your hand, I say.”

  The miserable wretch obeyed, moaning, “My eye, my eye.”

  “Good,” cried the Obi; “if you see on the line of life a spot surrounded by a circle you will lose an eye. There is the mark. You will become blind of an eye.”

  “I am so already,” answered the negro, piteously.

  But the Obi had merged the physician in the sorcerer, and thrusting him roughly on one side continued—

  “Listen, my men. If the seven lines on the forehead are slight, twisted, and lightly marked, they announce a short life. He who has between his eyebrows on the line of the moon the figure of two crossed arrows will be killed in battle. If the line of life which intersects the hand has a cross at its junction it foretells death on the scaffold, and here I must tell you, my brethren,” said the Obi, interrupting himself, “that one of the bravest defenders of our liberties, Bouckmann, has all these fatal marks.”

  At these words all the negroes held their breath, and gazed on the impostor with glances of stupid admiration.

  “Only,” continued the Obi, “I cannot reconcile the two opposing signs, death on the battle-field and also on the scaffold, and yet my science is infallible.”

  He stopped and cast a meaning glance at Biassou, who whispered something to an officer, who at once quitted the cavern.

  “A gaping mouth,” continued the Obi, turning on his audience a malicious glance, “a slouching carriage, and arms hanging down by the side, announces natural stupidity, emptiness, and want of reasoning powers.”

  Biassou gave a sneer of delight; at that moment the aide-de-camp returned, bringing with him a negro covered with mud and dust, whose feet, wounded by the roots and flints, showed that he had just come off a long journey.

  This was the messenger whose arrival Rigaud had announced. He held in one hand a letter, and in the other a document sealed with the design of a flaming heart. Round it was a monogram, composed of the letters M and N interlaced, no doubt intended as an emblem of the union of the free mulattos and the negro slaves. Underneath I could read this motto, “Prejudice conquered, the rod of iron broken, long live the king!” This document was a safe conduct given by Jean François.

  The messenger handed his letter to Biassou, who hastily tore it open and perused the contents, then with an appearance of deep grief he exclaimed, “My brothers!” All bowed respectfully.

  “My brothers, this is a despatch to Jean Biassou, generalissimo of the conquered states, Brigadier-General of His Catholic Majesty, from Jean François, Grand Admiral of France, Lieutenant-General of the army of the King of Spain and the Indies.

  “Bouckmann, chief of the hundred and twenty negroes of the Blue Mountain, whose liberty was recognized by the Governor-General of Belle Combe, has fallen in the glorious struggle of liberty and humanity against tyranny and barbarism. This gallant chief has been slain in an action with the white brigands of the infamous Touzard. The monsters have cut off his head, and have announced their intention of exposing it on a scaffold in the main square of the town of Cap. Vengeance!”

  A gloomy silence succeeded the reading of this despatch; but the Obi leapt on his altar, and waving his white wand, exclaimed in accents of triumph—

  “Solomon, Zerobabel, Eleazar Thaleb, Cardau, Judas Bowtharicht, Avenoes, Albert the Great, Bohabdil, Jean de Hagul, Anna Baratio, Daniel Ogromof, Rachel Flintz, Allornino, I give you thanks. The science of the spirits has not deceived me; sons, friends, brothers, boys, children, mothers, all of you listen to me. What was it that I predicted? the marks on the forehead of Bouckmann announced that his life would be a short one, that he would die in battle, and that he would appear on the scaffold. The revelations of my art have turned out true to the letter, and those points which seemed the most obscure are now the most plain. Brethren, wonder and admire!”

  The panic of the negroes changed during this discourse to a sort of admiring terror. They listened to the Obi with a species of confidence mingled with fear, whilst the latter, carried away by his own enthusiasm, walked up and down the sugar case, which presented plenty of space for his short steps.

  A sneer passed over Biassou’s face as he addressed the Obi.

  “Your reverence, since you know what is to come, will you be good enough to tell me the future of Jean Biassou, Brigadier-General?”

  The Obi halted on the top of his strange altar, which the credulity of the negroes looked upon as something divine, and answered, “Venga vuestra merced” (“Come, your Excellency”). At this moment the Obi was the most important man in the army; the military power bowed to the spiritual.

  “Your hand, general?” said the Obi, stooping to grasp it. “Empezo (“I begin”). The line of junction equally marked in its full length promises you riches and happiness; the line of life strongly developed announces a life exempt from ills, and a happy old age. Its narrowness shows your wisdom and your superior talents, as well as the generosity of your heart; and, lastly, I see what chiromancers call the luckiest of all signs, a number of little wrinkles in the shape of a tree with its branches extending upwards, this promises health and wealth, it also prognosticates courage. General, it curves in the direction of the little finger, this is the sign of wholesome severity.”

  As he said this the eyes of the Obi glanced at me through the apertures of his veil, and I fancied that I could catch a well-known voice under the habitual gravity of his intonation, as he continued—

  “The line of health, marked with a number of small circles, announces that you will have, for the sake of the cause, to order a number of executions; divided here by a half-moon, shows that you will be exposed to great danger from ferocious beasts, that is to say, from the whites, if you do not exterminate them. The line of fortune surrounded, like the line of life, by little branches rising towards the upper part of the hand, confirms the position of power and supremacy to which you have been called; turning to the right, it is a symbol of your administrative capacity. The fifth line, that of the triangle prolonged to the root of the middle finger, promises you success in all your undertakings. Let me see your fingers: the thumb marked with little lines from the point to the nail shows that you will receive a noble heritage, that of the glory of the unfortunate Bouckmann, no doubt,” added the Obi, in a loud voice. “The slight swelling at the root of the forefinger, lightly marked with lines, promises honours and dignities. The middle finger shows nothing. Your little finger is covered with lines crossing each other, you will vanquish all your enemies, and rise high above your rivals. These lines form the cross of Saint Andrew, a mark of genius and foresight. I also notice the figure of a circle, another token of your arrival at the highest power and dignity. ‘Happy the man,’ says Eleazar Thaleb, ‘who possesses all these signs. Destiny has its choicest gifts in store for him, and his fortunate star announces the talent which will bring him glory.’ And now, general, let me look at your forehead? ‘He,’ says Rachel Flintz, of Bohemia, ‘who bears on his forehead, on the line of the sun, a square or a triangular mark, will make a great fortune.’ Here is another prediction, ‘If the mark is on the right, it refers to an important succession;’ that of Bouckmann is, of course, again referred to. The mark in the shape of a horseshoe between the eyebrows, on the line of the moon, means that prompt vengeance will be taken for insult and tyranny. I have this mark as well as you.”

  The curious manner in which the Obi uttered these words, “I have this mark,” attracted my attention.

  “The mark of a lion’s claw which you have on your left eyelid is only noticeable amongst men of undoubted courage; but to close this, General Jean Biassou, your forehead shows every sign of the most unexampled success, and on it is a combination of lines which form the letter M, the commencement of the name of the Blessed
Virgin. In whatever part of the forehead, and in whatever line of the face, such a sign appears, the signification is the same—genius, glory, and power. He who bears it will always bring success to whatever cause he embraces, and those under his command will never have to regret any loss. He alone is worth all the soldiers of his army. You, general, are the elect of Fate.”

  “Thanks, your reverence,” said Biassou, preparing to return to his mahogany throne.

  “Stay a moment, general,” said the Obi, “I forgot one last sign: the line of the sun, which is so strongly marked on your forehead, proves that you understand the way of the world, that you possess the wish to make others happy, that you have much liberality, and like to do things in a magnificent manner.”