“You love Sara!” Jacques exclaimed. “What does this mean, ‘I love Sara’?”
“It means that I must possess the woman or die.”
“You’re making a mistake,” said Jacques, shaking his head. “It’s true that I have never been in love, myself; but I would wager that one woman from the Comoros Islands is worth four of these Creole girls. You will agree with me, once you have tried them. I have six of them on my ship even now, and you can have any of them you like. I haul anchor at midnight. Come with me, and by daybreak we’ll be twenty-five leagues from here, laughing at every fool white man on Mauritius—and I can promise you that if we should meet up with any of Henri’s friends between now and then, a few of my strongest sailors will give them the punishment they had in mind for you.”
“I thank you, but it is impossible,” repeated Georges, firmly. “I cannot leave île de France.”
“All right; I won’t say anything more,” Jacques said with a sigh. “You are a man, and when a man’s mind is made up, it cannot be changed. I shall sail tonight, without you.”
“Yes, go—but not too far,” said Georges. “Otherwise you might miss a spectacular sight.”
“Like what—an eclipse of the moon?”
“You will see a volcano erupting from the passe de Descorne to the peak of Brabant, and from Port Louis to Mahebourg—one that is well worthy of île de France.”
“Ah, so you’re planning some sort of pyrotechnical display? Come on, then, tell me more!”
“I will say only that in a week’s time, these whites who despise and threaten me, who seek to treat me like a runaway slave, will be cowering at my feet.”
“A revolt, then! Such a thing might work, if there were two thousand men on île de France to equal my hundred and fifty Lascars. I only call them Lascars out of habit; they’re a brilliant lot—good Bretons, brave Americans, pureblood Dutchmen, and Spaniards—the pick of each nation’s crop. But who have you got here, to carry off a coup d’état?”
“Ten thousand slaves, all of them weary of obeying, and ready to give the orders in their turn.”
“Blacks, bah!” exclaimed Jacques, curling his lip scornfully. “Listen to me, Georges. I know these fellows well; I deal in them as my trade. They bear the heat well; they can live on a few bananas, and they work hard. They have many good qualities, no doubt about it. But they make poor soldiers; you can take my word for it. In fact, I was speaking to the governor about the blacks even today, when he asked what I think of them.”
“What? How did that come about?”
“‘Captain Van den Broek,’ he said to me, ‘you have traveled widely and seem to have excellent powers of observation. Suppose there should be a slave revolt on an island of which you were governor. What would you do?’”
“And what did you say?”
“I told him I would simply set out barrels of rum in the streets through which the Negroes were planning to pass, lock my door, and then go to bed without a care in the world.”
Georges bit his lip until the blood came.
“I ask you once more, will you come away with me?”
“My answer is the same. It is impossible.”
“Then,” said Jacques, “there is nothing more to be said. Shake hands, my brother!”
“Adieu, Jacques.”
“Adieu, brother. Take my advice—do not trust the blacks too much.”
“You are really leaving?”
“Blazes, yes! I’m not as proud as all that; I know how to flee, when the occasion calls for it, over the open sea. And if the Leicester wishes to follow me there for a game of skittles, I will be happy to oblige. But to stay here in the port, within range of Fort Blanc’s guns and the Redoute Labourdonnaie? No, thank you! Now, let me ask you just once more. Will you come away with me?”
“No.”
“All right, then. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
The two brothers embraced one last time, then Jacques went to the bedroom where Pierre Munier slept, blissfully unaware of what was to come. Georges returned to his chamber, where Laïza awaited him.
“Well?” asked the Negro.
“You may tell the rebels that they have a leader.”
Laïza crossed his hands on his chest, nodded his head once, and departed without another word.
XIX
THE YAMSÉ
The races, as I told you, had been only a part of the second day’s entertainment. At around three o’clock in the afternoon, much of the vast and many-colored crowd that had covered champ de Mars began to move toward the plaine Verte. The fashionable set went home for dinner in carriages and on horseback, returning after the meal in time to be present at the Lascars’ games.
These games consist of a series of symbolic races, dances, and fights, all accompanied by chanting and strange music. Mingling with these exotic sounds are the cries of “Bananas! Bananas!” “Sugarcane! Sugarcane!” and “Curds! Curds!” or “Kalou! Good kalou!” The criers are Negroes, who roam the crowds selling sugarcane, bananas, and curds and whey for their own profit or that of their masters. The Lascars’ games last until six o’clock in the evening, when the lesser procession—so called to distinguish it from the first day’s grand procession—begins.
The Lascars proceed between two rows of spectators. Some of them are half hidden under a sort of miniature pointed pagoda called an aïdoré, made to resemble the gouhn. Others are armed with sticks and broken swords; still others are half naked, clad only in rags. At a predetermined signal, all the Lascars rush forward. The men with the aïdorés begin to dance, spinning in wild circles. Those bearing sticks and swords begin to fight, thrusting and parrying their weapons with marvelous agility. Finally the men in rags beat their chests and roll on the ground in simulated despair, crying “Yamsé! Yamli! Oh, Hussein! Oh, Ali!” Meanwhile other Lascars circulate among the crowd, offering boiled rice and aromatic herbs to all.
This spectacle lasts until midnight, when the Lascars return to the Malabar camp in the same order by which they left it, and remain there until the following morning.
The next day the scene changes and becomes even more dazzling. After proceeding through the city once again, the Lascars return to their camp at nightfall to fetch the gouhn. This year in île de France, since it was a joint production by both groups of Lascars, the gouhn was larger and more splendid than it had ever been before. Covered with rich paper, brilliant and sparkling, lit from within by masses of blazing lamps, the outside hung with countless multicolored paper lanterns, the sides of the gouhn shimmered with ever-changing gleams of light. The structure was borne slowly forward, with crowds of men both inside and outside supporting its weight, singing a sort of dolorous, monotone hymn as they walked. Other men marched in front of the gouhn, carrying lanterns, torches, and various artistically wrought lamps. The dance of the aïdorés and the mock fighting resumed, yet more vigorously than before. The men in ragged clothes again beat their breasts and gave their mournful cries, and all the Lascars wailed “Yamsé! Yamli! Oh, Hussein! Oh, Ali!” even louder and more heartrendingly than they had the previous day.
The gouhn was intended to represent both the city of Kerbela, near which Hussein had perished, and the martyr’s tomb. A naked man also marched in the procession, his body painted to resemble a tiger’s hide, in order to commemorate the legendary beast that had guarded the imam’s remains for several days after his death. From time to time he made a dash at the spectators, growling as if he meant to devour them, but his “keeper,” walking behind him, restrained him with a rope, and a mullah at his side calmed him with mysterious words and gestures.
The gouhn was promenaded for several hours through and around Port Louis; then its bearers proceeded toward the rivière des Lataniers, followed by the entire population of the town. The festival was nearing its end; the gouhn was now to be ceremonially burned, and everyone wanted to witness this final spectacle.
The men supporting the gouhn halted at the river’s edg
e, and precisely at the stroke of midnight four men, all holding lighted torches, approached and set fire to each of its four corners. At the same instant the bearers let their burden drop into the water—but because the rivière des Lataniers is a small stream and only the base of the gouhn was submerged, the flames were not immediately doused. Rather, they rapidly climbed the pagoda’s three stories, spiraling upward and leaping in the night air. It was a strange and fantastic moment. The crowd of nearly thirty thousand spectators stood in the flickering light, cheering and shouting in every conceivable language, waving their handkerchiefs and their hats. People thronged the riverbank and perched on nearby rocks and cliffs, looking like inky black spots as they grew closer to the shadows cast by the surrounding forests. The wealthy sat in palanquins and carriages or on horseback to complete the enormous circle. For an instant the water reflected the ruddy glare of the burning gouhn, and the multitude of people roared like the ocean; the trees stood out of the shadows like awakening giants. The sky could be seen only through a haze of crimson smoke that made each passing cloud resemble a wave of blood.
Soon, though, the light began to fade away. The faces in the crowd blended together, and the trees were again lost in the darkness. The sky paled, bit by bit reassuming its leaden hue, and the clouds grew shadowy and black once more. The gouhn continued to flicker weakly, unburned sections flaring up from time to time then fading to render the blackness even denser than before. The framework of the structure collapsed slowly into fragments; the water hissed and steamed. Finally the last sparks died away. The sky was now thickly filled with clouds, and the crowd found itself engulfed in darkness, which seemed all the more profound in contrast to the brilliant light that had preceded it.
Then, as always happens at the end of a public spectacle, especially after light shows or fireworks, a hum of voices rose to fill the silence, and the onlookers laughed, joked, and chatted as they made for home as fast as they could. The carriages departed with their horses at full gallop, and the palanquins with their Negroes at a full trot. As for those on foot, they walked rapidly in chattering groups.
Whether out of livelier curiosity or the love of gossip natural to their race, the Negroes and other colored men were the last to leave—but finally they did so, some taking the road to the Malabar camp, others disappearing upriver into the depths of the forest, and the rest following the line of the seashore. Very soon the site was completely deserted.
Fifteen minutes elapsed during which, save for the murmuring of the stream, the silence was absolute. The darkness, too, was nearly impenetrable; in the dim rays of moonlight that filtered through the passing clouds, a few enormous bats glided over the river—as if to smother the smoldering embers of the abandoned gouhn with their wings—and then vanished into the woods.
Suddenly there was a soft rustling sound, and two men approached the river from opposite directions—one coming from the direction of the Dumas battery, the other from Mont Longue. When they had reached the banks of the river, one of the men clapped his hands three times, while the other gave the same number of low whistles. At this obviously prearranged signal, an immense number of Negroes and Indians emerged from their hiding places among the trees and rocks. A moment before, they had been so well concealed that no one would have suspected their presence for an instant.
The crowd soon divided itself into two distinct groups. All of the Indians grouped themselves around one of the men standing on the riverbank; this was an olive-skinned individual who spoke in a Malay dialect. The Negroes gathered near the other man, who was black like them, and spoke in a mixture of the dialects of Madagascar and Mozambique.
The first man paced rapidly among the crowd, declaiming and gesticulating in the manner of a pretentious but ambitious lowborn man; a coarse intriguer. It was Antonio the Malay.
In contrast, the other man stood, calm and sober, nearly silent; he seemed to attract the gazes of his followers with no effort at all. He embodied the strength and brilliance of a born commander. This was Laïza, the Lion of Anjouan. He and Antonio were the chosen leaders of the slave revolt, and the men who crowded around them—the conspirators—were ten thousand strong.
Antonio was the first to speak.
“There was once,” he began, “an island governed by apes, and inhabited by elephants, lions, tigers, panthers, and serpents. The number of those who were governed was ten times greater than the number of those who governed them. But the rulers were cunning baboons, and they had the talent to divide their subjects among themselves, so that the elephants lived at odds with the lions, and the tigers with the panthers, and the serpents with all. The result of all this was that whenever the elephants so much as raised their trunks, the apes caused all the other animals to march against them; and as strong as the elephants were, they were always defeated. If it was the lions that roared out, the apes again made all the other creatures fight them, and despite all their courage they were invariably enchained once more. The same was true for the tigers and the panthers, and the serpents, clever as they were, had it worst of all. If they so much as hissed, the apes caused the elephants, the lions, the tigers, and the panthers to march against them in their turn, and the serpents, no matter what they tried, ended up defeated. So it was that whenever there was talk of a revolt, the apes only laughed behind their hands. They knew they could use the same tactics that had been successful a hundred times before.
“Things went on in this way for a long time; yes, a very long time, indeed. But then one day a serpent even more cunning than the others had an idea. This serpent, you see, understood the rules of arithmetic. He calculated the number of apes, and saw that the rest of the animals outnumbered them eight to one. He waited until a great festival was held, and on that day he called a meeting of the elephants, lions, tigers, panthers, and serpents. ‘Now,’ he said to them. ‘How many of you are on this island?’ All the animals counted themselves, and found that they numbered eighty thousand. ‘Very good,’ said the serpent. ‘Now count your masters, the apes. How many are they? Tell me, would it not be foolish if you failed to unite and rid yourselves of them? After all, there are ten of you for every single ape!’
“So the animals united, and they overthrew the apes. Then they were masters of the island. They enjoyed the best fruits, the most fertile fields, and the richest forests. They lived in fine mansions, and the apes became their slaves—and the apes’ daughters, their mistresses. Do you understand what I am trying to say, my friends?” Antonio shouted.
Loud cries of “Hurrah!” and “Bravo!” erupted in response. Antonio’s fable had made him a veritable Menenius.
Laïza waited patiently until the outburst of enthusiasm had died away. Then, holding his hand up for silence, he uttered these simple words: “There was once an island where the slaves wanted to be free. They rose up in one body, and fought and won their liberty. This island used to be called Saint-Domingue; it is now the Republic of Haiti. My friends, let us follow their lead—and like them, we shall be free.”
Laïza’s speech, though it received its share of applause and hurrahs, was too simple to move its listeners as Antonio’s had. Noticing this, the Malay seized his chance. He motioned that he wished to speak again, and absolute silence fell.
“Yes,” he said, “yes, Laïza has spoken the truth. I have heard tales of another island as well, far away, even beyond Africa, on which all black men are kings. But on the island of the animals, and on Laïza’s island of Haiti, too, there was only one man chosen to be chief.”
“That is true,” said Laïza. “Antonio is right; power shared is power weakened. I agree that we must elect a leader, and only one.”
“But who shall be this leader?” Antonio demanded.
“Those who are assembled here must decide that for themselves,” Laïza replied.
“Our chief must be able to oppose the enemy stratagem to stratagem, strength to strength, courage to courage,” said Antonio.
“Yes, that is so,” agreed Laïza
.
“He must have lived among both whites and blacks,” Antonio continued. “He must hold blood allegiance to both. He must be a man who, though free, is prepared to sacrifice that liberty—indeed, to sacrifice all he has. Only a man such as this is worthy to be our leader.”
“That is so,” Laïza said again.
“I know of only one man who has all these qualities,” said Antonio.
“As do I.”
“Do you claim to be such a man?” Antonio demanded, indignantly.
“No.” Laïza shook his head.
“Then you admit I am that man!” cried the Malay triumphantly.
“No, you are not,” Laïza corrected him, “any more than I.”
“Who is it, then?” challenged Antonio. Voices cried out, echoing him, Indians and Negroes alike, demanding to see this paragon of whom Laïza spoke.
The black man clapped his hands three times. The pounding of a horse’s hooves was heard. Turning, the multitude saw a stranger riding toward them out of the forest, in the faint light of early dawn. The mysterious cavalier galloped at full speed straight into the center of the throng, and then reined in his mount so suddenly that the animal reared back on its haunches.
Laïza extended his hand toward the newcomer with an air of immeasurable dignity. “There he is!” he cried. “Behold your leader!”
There was a moment of stunned silence, then ten thousand voices cried out the name as one: “Georges Munier!”
“Yes, Georges Munier!” Laïza exclaimed. “You have asked for a worthy chief, one who can meet the enemy as an equal, who is willing to risk his wealth, his liberty, all he has, for your sake! Where will you find another such man?”
Antonio was speechless with shock. All eyes were upon Georges. The throng buzzed with murmurs.
Georges had known what would appeal to the men he was dealing with: He was dressed to satisfy their love of show, in a magnificent gold-embroidered burnoose over the caftan of honor he had been given by Ibrahim Pasha. The crosses of the Légion d’honneur and Charles III shone on his breast. His mighty stallion Antrim, trapped in scarlet cloth, stood restless and proud beneath him.
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