The Obi and Rigaud were equally impassible, but the negroes appeared terrified at the horrible drama that their general had caused to be enacted before them.
One white man, however, yet remained to be slaughtered—my turn had come. I cast a glance upon the murderer who was about to become my executioner, and a feeling of pity came over me. His lips were violet, his teeth chattered, a convulsive tremor caused every limb to quiver. By a mechanical movement his hand was continually passed over his forehead, as if to obliterate the traces of the blood which had so liberally sprinkled it; he looked with an air of terrified wonder at the bleeding body which lay at his feet, as though he were unable to detach his strained eyeballs from the spectacle of his victim.
I waited for the moment when he would resume his task of blood. The position was a strange one: he had already tried to kill me and failed, to prove that he was white, and now he was going to murder me to show that he was black.
“Come,” said Biassou, addressing him, “this is good; I am pleased with you, my friend.” Then glancing at me, he added. “You need not finish the other one; and now I declare you one of us, and name you executioner to the army.”
At these words a negro stepped out of the ranks, and bowing three times to the general, cried out in his jargon—which I will spare you—
“And I, general?”
“Well, what do you want?” asked Biassou.
“Are you going to do nothing for me, general?” asked the negro. “Here you give an important post to this dog of a white, who murders to save his own skin, and to prove that he is one of ourselves. Have you no post to give to me, who am a true black?”
This unexpected request seemed to embarrass Biassou, and Rigaud whispered to him in French—
“You can’t satisfy him; try to elude his request.”