Hurricane Hurry

by William Henry Giles Kingston

In a piece of waste ground where offal and rubbish was cast, and where the bodies of the few malefactors who were ever brought to justice, as well as those of dogs and other animals, were deposited, they had ordered our poor friend to be interred. He had been placed there, fastened up in a piece of canvas, without a coffin and without ceremony of any sort. We stood with mournful countenances and with hearts full of bitterness and indignation over the foul spot, discussing among ourselves whether we ought not to dig up the body and carry it to the churchyard of Ou Trou, there to bury it among others who at all events had called themselves Christians. Our intentions must have been suspected, for in a few minutes a guard of soldiers made their appearance, and, threatening us with their pikes or halberds, made us desist. We then determined to go at once to the commandant. He received us with a look of haughty contempt. He remarked that our countryman was a heretic—that the priests considered that he had died out of the pale of their true Church like a dog, and that like a dog he must be buried.

“Does the holy religion of Christ teach you thus to treat your enemies?” exclaimed Delisle, indignantly. “We are Christians, as you call yourselves, and have, as such, a right to Christian burial.”

“I know nothing about that matter,” answered the commandant. “The priests say that you are not, that you are cut off from the only true Church, and are thus condemned to everlasting punishment. This being the case—and I am bound to believe it—what matters it where your bodies are placed?”

Such was the tenor of the reply we received from an officer holding a commission under the government of a nation which prided itself on being the most enlightened and civilised in the world.

Though in France the outward signs of religion were still adhered to, the savants and literati were already paving the way by their false philosophy for that terrific outbreak of popular fury which deluged their country in blood, and well-nigh rooted out all that was noble and good and worthy in the land. At this time in Saint Domingo, and probably in the other French dependencies, there was an ostentatious show of religion which was sadly belied by the manners and customs of the people. At all events, a person bearing his Britannic Majesty’s commission was entitled, as a prisoner of war according to the law of nations, to all the respect due to his rank as an officer and a gentleman.

We returned to our home, wondering who next among us would be carried off to be put into that revolting receptacle of the dead. We had now seriously to turn it in our minds how we should be able to exist. A bright idea struck me—I would become a gardener. There was a considerable portion of ground attached to our mansion. I had had some little experience before in my life; others also knew something about the art, and so we hoped that our united stock of knowledge would produce us a good supply of vegetables. We had unfortunately but little money to purchase tools, or seeds or plants, but we did not disdain to turn beggars. We borrowed what tools we could, and manufactured spades and hoes and rakes out of wood. They were not very neat, but they answered our purpose. Seeds cost but very little; many were given us, others we bought. The poor unsophisticated, ignorant blacks were very kind-hearted, and gave us all they could spare. Thus our garden became our greatest source of amusement, and at the same time a most profitable employment.

Often for days together we had no other food but that which our garden produced. We had yam, cassava, choco, ochro, tomatoes, Indian kale, Lima beans, potatoes, peas, beans, calalue, beet-root, artichokes, cucumbers, carrots, parsnips, radishes, celery and salads of all sorts; nor must I forget the magnificent cabbage-trees some two hundred feet high—not that we planted them, by-the-bye—or the fruits, the cocoa-nut, plantain, banana, the alligator pear, the cashew, papaw, custard apples, and others too numerous to mention; the recollection of which even now makes my mouth water, as it did sometimes then, when we saw but could not obtain them. If it had not been for our garden I believe that we should one and all of us have succumbed to that fell climate. In vain we endeavoured to learn how the war was going on. No news was ever allowed to reach us but what was of the most disheartening nature, and Monsieur Roquion always contrived to bring it with a grin on his countenance which we knew meant mischief, though we could not make up our minds to believe him or not. One day he came in with a smile on his countenance, and shrugging his shoulders—

“Very sorry for you, as we do not here benefit by your loss,” he remarked, endeavouring to put on a look of perfect sincerity. “You have, undoubtedly, heard the sad news. Your brave Admiral Keppel has been defeated in the channel. Most of his ships have been sunk or taken, and he himself has been captured and is a prisoner in France.”

Days and days passed away and we heard no more, and though we used every exertion to discover the truth, no one we met could contradict it. Next we heard that the successful French fleet had pursued Admiral Byron on his voyage to America, had brought him to action and completely dispersed and destroyed his fleet. We daily talked the matter over among ourselves. We could scarcely believe that the sun of England had set so low, and yet what right had we to doubt the truth of what we heard? We had ourselves been captured by the enemy, and might not others have been equally unfortunate?

Then we heard that the French had blocked up Lord Howe in New York, and that the American patriots had triumphed over the British army and were everywhere successful. How earnestly we longed for letters which might inform us of the truth! but our cunning captors took care that we should not get them. Perhaps they themselves believed the reports they spread among us. One thing we knew, that in spite of all their reverses, the English were not likely to give in without a desperate and prolonged struggle, and that, therefore, our captivity might be continued to an indefinite period. I therefore considered if I could not make myself more comfortable than I had hitherto been. I called Tom Rockets to my councils. He, faithful fellow, had been constantly in attendance on me.