“Listen to me, friends and comrades, the whites will attack us here at daybreak, our position is a bad one, and we must quit it. At sunset we will march to the Spanish frontier; Macaya, you and your negroes will form the advanced guards; Padrejan, see that the guns taken at Pralato are spiked, we cannot take them into the mountains; the brave men of Croix-des-Bouquets will follow Macaya; Toussaint will come next with the blacks from Léogane and Trose. If the griots or the griotes make any disturbance, I will hand them over to the executioner of the army. Lieutenant-Colonel Cloud will distribute the English muskets that were disembarked at Cape Cabron, and will lead the half-breeds through the byways of the Vista. Slaughter any prisoners that may remain, notch the bullets, and poison the arrows. Let three tons of arsenic be thrown into the wells; the colonists will take it for sugar, and drink without distrust. Block up the roads to the plain with rocks, line the hedges with marksmen, and set fire to the forest. Rigaud, you will remain with me; Candi, summon my body-guard. The negroes of Morne-Rouge will form the rear-guard, and will not evacuate the camp until sunrise.”
He leaned over to Rigaud, and whispered hoarsely—
“They are Bug-Jargal’s men; if they are killed, all the better. ‘Muerta la tropa, muerte el gefe!’ (‘If the men die, the chief will die.’) Go, my brethren,” he added, rising, “you will receive instructions from Candi.”
The chiefs left the grotto.
“General,” remarked Rigaud, “we ought to send that dispatch of Jean François; affairs are going badly, and it would stop the advance of the whites.”
Biassou drew it hastily from his pocket.
“I agree with you, but there are so many faults, both in grammar and spelling, that they will laugh at it.”
He presented the paper to me.
“For the last time, will you save your life? My kindness gives you a last chance. Help me to correct this letter, and to re-write it in proper official style.”
I shook my head.