"Papaloi, O! Papaloi."
The poetry was not fine, the wording was ungrammatical, the verse halted and went quite lame in places, but I have never heard any lines before or since which gave me such unalloyed pleasure.
Was I dreaming, or had these words really been uttered?
I scanned the faces near me, on the right, on the left. I turned completely round, but the black man behind gave me a gentle prick in the calves, and it was again "Eyes front!" I will not repeat more of the ridiculous stuff. Stupid it may have been, but it gave me hope and courage to feel that I had a friend near; that I was listening to my own blessed English, though it did have a twang of something that I had heard called Cornish, or something else outlandish. It sent my spirits up almost to the seventh heaven. I determined to hold my place and my peace, and keep as close to the man behind me as circumstances would permit. Many of those who joined us were women. They also fell into the rhythmic march, and so we swept, a great following, up the slope to a secluded spot in the wood.
"They'll post their sentries now," I heard. I turned quickly, but there was no recognition in any of the faces near me. Was I going out of my mind and imagining things? I pulled myself together. Such a giving way to weakness would never do.
I saw that the posting of the sentries had now begun around the glade through which we walked.
I learned later that at the slightest sign of interference on the part of those in authority runners would come into the camp and the votaries would scatter. But in the times of which I write the vaudoux worship reigned almost unchecked. It was carried on secretly and at midnight, but so long as no one in the towns was disturbed, and none of their immediate relatives carried off for sacrifice, no protest was made. At the present day—the day in which I write—there is good reason to believe that vaudouism prevails more or less in Haïti. It has been the subject of foreign inquiry, so that its sectaries are more prudent than they had any need of being in the year 1820.
We were now approaching a structure which had a character of its own. I can not tell you what feelings of horror thrilled through me as we reached the door. Here the two men who led us advanced to the doorway and swept the devoted and curious crowd aside. We stood in two ranks, through which walked the Papaloi. So intent were the people upon his movement that I might perhaps have found a moment when I could have plunged through the crowd and so escaped. I knew, however, that running was not the Skipper's forte, and I could not leave the old man alone. But I must not take the entire credit to myself, for I, in fact, had become so interested in what was going forward that at times I almost forgot our alarming situation.
The Papaloi walked between the rows of his now silent followers and prostrated himself before the closed entrance of the long, low building in front of which we stood. Suddenly the doors were pushed outward, and from where I stood I had a glimpse of the bizarre interior.
At the end of the room was raised a sort of throne. This throne was covered with red—the same horrible deadly red. Upon this throne sat two figures, those of a man and a woman. At first I saw but the woman, for she was robed in white, and beside her there was to all appearances a head only, but presently the person beside her moved, and I saw that he was clothed in the same obtrusive and suggestive colour which was so hateful to me. Behind these two stretched a partition done in their same favourite shade. Beyond, I knew not what!