Georges

by Alexandre Dumas

  XXV

  JUDGE AND EXECUTIONER

  In a war of surprise such as the one in which the rebels and their adversaries were now embroiled, night, with its increased risk of ambush, was a time of particular anxiety. This night was clear and calm, though the moon was waning and did not rise until almost eleven o’clock.

  For men less preoccupied with danger than our heroes, and for those less accustomed to the beauty of the islands, the gradual fading-away of the sun so deep in the vast and silent forest would have been a majestic spectacle indeed. The shadows seemed to rise from the horizon like a tide, washing over the tree trunks and the faces of the rocks and engulfing the rugged peaks. Daylight lingered at the very summits of the mountains for an instant, illuminating the crags so they seemed briefly like flaming volcanoes, then slipped finally into darkness.

  Still, for eyes used to the tropical night, the darkness was not complete; nor, for ears accustomed to solitude, was the silence absolute. Life is never completely still in the wilderness; as the sounds of the day fade away, they are replaced by those of the night. The murmurs of rustling leaves and rushing water mingle with the voices of a multitude of nocturnal animals. The sounds are plaintive and mysterious, and inspire in even the stoutest hearts an intangible emotion that reason can never quite banish.

  Not a single one of these sounds went unnoticed by Laïza’s well-trained ear. A wild hunter and therefore a man of solitude, long familiar with the night, he saw and heard every nuance of the wilderness around him. He recognized the scratching noise of the tenrecs gnawing on the exposed roots of the trees, and the soft footfalls of the deer coming to drink at the stream; he heard the fluttering of bats’ wings as they soared through the clearing, and he remained perfectly immobile.

  Strangely enough, it was here, where two hundred men hid themselves, that the silence was deepest and the solitude most complete. The ten Negroes whom Laïza had stationed at the entrance to the clearing lay facedown on the ground, unmoving and scarcely visible in the darkness. Some were awake and some slept, but it seemed that even the breathing of the sleepers was carefully controlled and quiet. Laïza leaned against an enormous tamarind tree, whose slender branches extended over the rocky path and past the edge of the precipice beyond it. Thanks to the blackness of night and the dark hue of his skin, he was all but indistinguishable from the tree trunk itself.

  Laïza had stood in silent immobility for nearly an hour when he heard the footsteps of several men behind him, crunching softly on ground covered with pebbles and dead branches. Though quiet, the approaching individuals did not seem to be trying to conceal their movements, and Laïza turned toward them, untroubled. Indeed, his eyes were accustomed to the darkness, and he was soon able to make out the forms of six or eight men; among them—recognizable due to his great height and the fine cut of his clothes—was Pierre Munier.

  Laïza detached himself from the tree he had been leaning against and went to meet him. “Well,” he said, “have the men you sent to take stock of our situation returned yet?”

  “Yes,” Pierre Munier replied. “The British soldiers are searching for us.”

  “Where are they?”

  “An hour ago they were camped between le Milieu and the mouth of the rivière des Créoles.”

  “They are following our trail, then,” said Laïza.

  “Yes. We shall probably hear from them tomorrow.”

  Laïza shook his head. “Sooner than that, I think.”

  “Why?”

  “We have already sent out our scouts. They must have done the same.”

  “And?”

  “Some of their men are already nearby.”

  Pierre Munier frowned. “What makes you think so? Have you heard voices, or footsteps?”

  “No,” said Laïza, “but the stag I shot was in such a fright that someone must have startled him badly.”

  “You think we are being tracked, then.”

  “I am sure of it,” said Laïza. He raised his finger suddenly to his lips. “Quiet!”

  “What is it?”

  “Listen.” They waited.

  “Yes, I hear something,” whispered Pierre Munier.

  “It is a woodcock in flight. Around two hundred feet away, I should think.” Laïza pointed toward a clump of trees whose topmost branches just barely showed above the edge of the ravine. “You see? It has landed now, only thirty feet away, just on the other side of the path beneath that great rock.”

  “And you think it was startled by a man?”

  “One man, or several. I cannot tell.”

  “That is not what I meant,” Pierre Munier said. “I mean, are you absolutely certain it was a human that frightened the bird?”

  “Yes; animals know by instinct the sounds made by other animals,” replied Laïza. “It is only human noises that terrify them. Someone is coming, I am sure of it.” He lapsed into alert silence.

  “What do you hear?” Pierre Munier whispered after a moment.

  “The sound of a dry branch, breaking under a man’s foot,” murmured Laïza. “Keep very still; they are close enough to make out our voices. Hide yourself behind the trunk of the tamarind tree, monsieur.” He resumed his former position while the others concealed themselves in the shadows. They waited, silent and motionless as statues.

  Only a few seconds had passed before they heard the noise of a rock that, kicked loose from its resting place, clattered down the steep slope of the precipice. Laïza felt Pierre Munier’s breath quicken against his cheek, and the old man would have spoken if the Negro had not seized him firmly by the arm so that he kept silent. At the same instant, the woodcock flew up again, shrieking loudly, and soared over the tamarind tree to safety farther up the mountain. The spy was no more than twenty feet from them—he was following their trail! Laïza and Pierre Munier could not breathe, and the other blacks stood frozen in their tracks.

  Just then a faint, silvery light gleamed on the distant peaks of the mountains ringing the horizon. A few moments afterward the moon appeared behind the peak of Mont Créole and began its nightly voyage across the sky. Unlike the darkness, which had begun at ground level and risen upward, the moon’s rays illuminated the heavens from the top down. But the light penetrated only into areas that were not too thickly clustered with trees; the rest of the forest, except for stray bits of ground here and there, remained in deep shadow.

  There was a barely perceptible movement in a bush on the edge of the path. The bush rose to the top of the bank, concealing, remember, the perilous drop on the other side. The branches parted, and a man’s head could be seen. Despite the darkness, Laïza and Pierre Munier saw this at the same moment. They grasped each other’s hands in an instinctive motion. The stranger remained motionless for a second, then leaned a little farther out of the bush, his gaze sweeping the area and his ears straining into the silence until he was apparently satisfied that there was no one else around. He raised himself to his knees, then got to his feet. Laïza squeezed Pierre Munier’s hand, wordlessly urging him to be utterly silent. There could be no doubt that this man, whoever he was, was looking for them.

  This night spy now moved onto the path itself and bent down, evidently examining the ground for footprints. He ran the palm of his hand over the grass to see if it had been crushed and felt the stones with his fingertips to determine if they had been kicked out of their original positions. Finally, as if the very air had preserved traces of the men he sought, he raised his head and looked directly at the tamarind tree concealing Laïza and Pierre Munier. At that moment, a beam of moonlight shone between the branches and illuminated the spy’s face.

  With a movement quick as lightning, Laïza pulled his right hand from Pierre Munier’s and leapt forward. Seizing the end of a long bough in one hand and the stranger’s belt by the other, he plunged like a swooping eagle to the foot of the rock and pulled himself and his prey up to safety. Landing near the tree trunk again, he tightened his grip on the prisoner, who was now slashing vainly
at him with a knife as the snake tries vainly to bite the hawk that has taken it from the depths of the marshes unexpectedly to the sky.

  The stranger’s identity now became as clear to Pierre Munier and the other half a dozen blacks as it had immediately been to Laïza. It was Antonio the Malay. He had been captured so quickly that he had not even had time to yell.

  Finally Laïza’s mortal enemy was in his power. He would now be able to punish the man who was both traitor and assassin. He pushed Antonio facedown on the ground and held him there with one knee, looking at him with the terrible ferocity of a conqueror who gives the vanquished no reason to hope for life—and then the distant barking of a dog broke the stillness. Without relaxing his iron grip on Antonio, Laïza raised his head and cocked his ear in the direction of the noise.

  Antonio shuddered beneath him.

  “All in good time,” Laïza murmured, as if speaking to himself. Then, raising his voice, he addressed the Negroes who stood nearby. “Tie this man to a tree. I must speak to Monsieur Munier.”

  Seizing Antonio by the hands and feet, the blacks bound him to the trunk of a takamaka tree using strong vines. Laïza checked to ensure that the Malay would not be able to escape, then he led Pierre Munier a few steps away. “Did you hear a dog barking?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “The barking of a dog.”

  “No,” the old man said.

  “Listen; it is getting closer.”

  “Yes,” said Pierre Munier after a moment’s silence. “I do hear it now.”

  “They are hunting us like deer.”

  “You think it is the soldiers?”

  “Who else?”

  “An escaped dog, perhaps, hunting on its own.”

  “No,” murmured Laïza. “Listen again.” They waited for a moment; the barking resumed, even nearer this time than before. “It is us they seek.”

  “How can you be sure?” asked the old man.

  “That is not the bark of a hunting dog. It is the howl of a lost animal in search of its master. The devils must have found a dog chained in some Negro’s hut and taken him along as a guide. If that Negro is among us, we are lost.”

  Pierre Munier was shaking. “It is the voice of my Fidèle,” he whispered.

  Laïza turned pale. “Yes,” he murmured. “I recognize it now. The same dog howled last night, when we brought Georges home to Moka.”

  “I forgot to bring him with us when we left the plantation,” Pierre Munier said. “But wait—it seems to me that if it is Fidèle, he would be running faster. The bark is approaching so slowly!”

  “They must have him on a leash,” said Laïza, “so they can follow him more easily. He may have an entire regiment on his heels! It is no use getting angry at the poor animal,” the Lion of Anjouan added with a hollow laugh. “He may not be able to go very fast, but believe me, he will get here.”

  “What must we do?” Pierre Munier asked.

  “If you had a ship lying in wait at Grand Port, we would have a very good chance of reaching it. We are not more than eight or ten leagues away from the harbor. I don’t suppose there is such a ship?”

  “No; none.”

  “Then we must defend ourselves,” said Laïza grimly, “or die in the attempt.”

  “Come, then!” said Pierre Munier, who always recovered his courage when faced with the choice between battle and death. “My dog may lead them to the entrance of our hiding place, but they will have a difficult time going any farther than that!”

  “Yes.” Laïza nodded. “Go now to the trenches.”

  “You are not coming with me?”

  Laïza shook his head. “I must remain here a few moments longer.”

  “But you will join us soon?”

  “Rest assured, when the first shot is fired, I shall be at your side.”

  The old man clasped Laïza’s hand; then, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he and the other blacks walked rapidly toward the entrance of the grotto. Laïza watched his retreating figure until it was swallowed by the shadows, then returned to the bound figure of Antonio the Malay. “Now,” he said, “it is time to conclude our business.”

  “Business?” repeated Antonio in a trembling voice. “What does Laïza want of his friend and brother?”

  “I want him to remember what was said on the banks of the rivière des Lataniers, the night of the Yamsé festival,” said Laïza sternly.

  “Many things were said that night,” quavered Antonio. “My brother Laïza was eloquent indeed, for he brought everyone around to his way of thinking.”

  “Do you remember what was said about the sentence to be carried out on all traitors?”

  Antonio trembled from head to foot and, despite the coppery hue of his skin, turned visibly paler in the moonlight.

  “It would appear that your memory is faulty, brother,” Laïza continued, his voice heavy with irony. “Let me refresh it. It was said that, if a proven traitor was discovered among us, he should be put to death on the spot by whatever means we chose—quick or slow, gentle or painful. Do you remember now?”

  “Yes,” whispered Antonio faintly.

  “Now you must answer the questions I am about to ask you.”

  “What right do you have to question me?” Antonio cried shrilly. “You are not my judge!”

  “Then I shall leave others to ask the questions,” said Laïza calmly. He gestured to the twelve Negroes who were still lying, facedown and silent, on the ground around him. “Rise, men, and do your duty!” The blacks obeyed, standing and forming a semicircle around the tree to which Antonio was tied.

  “But these are slaves!” the Malay cried indignantly. “I ought not to be judged by slaves; I am not black! I am a free man, and it is for a court of law to pass sentence on me—if indeed I have committed a crime—not for you!”

  “Enough!” interrupted Laïza. “We will try you first, here and now. Afterward you may appeal the decision before any court you like.”

  Antonio fell silent. In the pause that followed, the barking of the approaching dog could be heard, nearer than before.

  “It seems that the accused has nothing to say,” Laïza said to the Negroes surrounding Antonio. “You, men, must reply on his behalf. Who was it, I ask you, that informed the governor of our plan, out of spite that he had not been chosen to lead the revolt?”

  “Antonio the Malay,” answered the blacks in a voice that was heavy but united.

  “That is not true!” the prisoner cried. “I swear it!”

  “Silence!” Laïza commanded. “Who was it,” he continued, addressing the blacks again, “that fired upon our leader with a rifle at the foot of Petite-Montagne, seriously wounding him?”

  “Antonio the Malay,” repeated the Negroes.

  “Who saw me do anything of the sort?” Antonio shrieked. “Who dares accuse me? Who can tell one man from another in the dark of night?”

  “Silence!” Laïza said again. He paused, then continued, his voice carefully controlled. “Finally, I ask you, who is it that—after betraying us to the governor, after attempting to murder our chief—has come again in the night, slithering like a serpent around our retreat, searching for an opening by which the English soldiers might enter it?”

  “Antonio the Malay,” said the blacks for the third time, in tones of firm conviction that did not waver once.

  “I came to join my brothers!” Antonio protested. “To share their lot, whatever it might be! I swear it!”

  “Do you believe him?” Laïza asked the blacks.

  “No! No! No!” they cried.

  “My good friends, my dear friends!” pleaded Antonio. “Listen to me, I beg you!”

  “Silence!” thundered Laïza. Then, reassuming the attitude of calm he had retained throughout the proceedings, obviously aware of the import of his words, he continued: “Antonio has been shown to be a traitor—not in one instance, but in three. If he could, he should by rights die three times. Antonio, prepare yourself. You are about to
meet the Great Spirit.”

  “This is murder!” shrieked Antonio. “You have no right to murder a free man! The English cannot be very far away—I will call to them! Help me! Murder! Help me!” He broke off, for Laïza had seized him by the throat.

  “Bring me a rope,” the Negro said to his comrades. When he heard these words and understood what they implied, Antonio struggled so violently that he broke some of the vines binding him to the tree—but he was unable to escape from Laïza’s iron grip. After a moment Laïza realized that if his prisoner continued to writhe in this way, the rope would not be necessary. He relaxed his hold slightly, and Antonio’s head sagged. “I will give you ten minutes to prepare yourself to meet your maker,” Laïza told him.

  Antonio tried to speak, but his voice had deserted him. The dog’s bark sounded again; it grew nearer every minute.

  “Where is the rope?” Laïza asked.

  “Here,” said a Negro, handing him a length of cord.

  “Good.” With the single word, Laïza changed from judge to executioner. Seizing one of the stoutest limbs of the tamarind tree, he drew it down and knotted one end of the rope securely to it; he fashioned the other end into a noose, which he slipped around Antonio’s neck. Directing two of his men to hold the branch and checking once more to make sure that the prisoner could not escape, he repeated his statement that the Malay must prepare himself for death.

  Antonio had by now recovered his powers of speech, but he did not use them to implore God for mercy; rather, he made a final appeal to the pity of his judges.

  “Well!” he said. “Ah—yes, yes, my friends, it’s true, I am guilty. You are right to condemn me as you have. But surely you will pardon me, your old acquaintance! Surely you will take pity on Antonio, who has made you laugh on so many evenings, who has told you so many fantastic stories and sung you so many merry songs? What will you do without Antonio? Who will entertain you; who will drive away your sadness and make you forget the troubles of the day? Mercy, my friends, for poor Antonio! Life, my friends! I beg you, on my knees, for life!”