“Turn your thoughts to the Creator, Antonio,” said Laïza implacably. “You have only five minutes left to live.”
“Give me five years, not five minutes, good Laïza,” wheedled Antonio. “I will be your slave—I will be at your command—you can whip me as much as you like; beat me, I won’t complain. I will sing your praises wherever I go! Life, dear Laïza, is all I ask.”
“Listen, Antonio,” Laïza said. “Do you hear the howling of that dog?”
“Yes. Do you think it was I who advised the soldiers to unleash it? I didn’t; I swear it!”
“Antonio,” said Laïza imperturbably, “a white man would never think of using a dog to pursue its own master. This idea, too, came from you.”
The Malay let out a pathetic groan. Then, obviously hoping to soften Laïza with humility, he spoke. “Well—yes, it was my idea. The Great Spirit had abandoned me, and I was crazed with the desire for revenge. Pity me as a madman, Laïza. In the name of your brother Nazim, spare me!”
Laïza’s eyes flared. “But who was it that denounced Nazim in the first place? Who made him so desperate to flee? You made a grave mistake, Antonio, in speaking my brother’s name. Your five minutes are up. It is time to die.”
“No! No! Oh, no! Don’t kill me!” Antonio screamed. “Have mercy, Laïza, please! Have mercy, my friends!”
His cries and supplications went unheeded. Laïza drew out his knife and, with one slash, severed the vines still binding Antonio to the tree. At his nod, the two men holding the branch to which the noose was attached released their grip. It sprang upward to its former position, carrying the miserable Malay with it.
A last wretched, choking cry, terrible and full of despair, rang out and died away, vanishing into the depths of the abyss. The deed was finished, and Antonio’s body hung lifeless, swinging to and fro gently above the precipice. Laïza stood motionless, watching the rope as it quivered and grew still. Then, cocking his ear, he listened again to the barking dog, now barely five hundred feet from their hiding place. Shouldering his gun, he turned to the other Negroes.
“Come, my friends,” he said. “We have had our revenge; now we can die in peace.” With firm and rapid steps, he and the others headed in the direction of the trenches.
XXVI
THE HUNT FOR THE NEGROES
As Laïza had predicted, the dog Fidèle, following his master’s scent, had led the English soldiers directly to the entrance of the grotto where Pierre Munier and the others were hiding. The animal plunged immediately into the underbrush and began anxiously pawing a section of stones there. The British now came forward with picks and shovels and set to work, and within moments an opening had been created that was large enough for a man to pass through.
One soldier raised himself up to peer through the gap, and as soon as he did so a rifle shot rang out. He fell to the ground, a bullet having pierced his heart. A second soldier followed the first and met the same fate; then a third. It was clear that the rebels had decided on a desperate course of action.
The attackers now took the proper precautions, sheltering themselves as much as they could while working to enlarge the breach in the stone wall to accommodate more than one man. The drums rolled ominously and the foot soldiers advanced, bayonets at the ready. But it was soon evident that the advantage lay with the defenders: The breach piled up rapidly with corpses, and the British were obliged to spend precious time clearing away the bodies of their slain comrades in preparation for a fresh assault.
On the second try they were able to penetrate as far as the middle of the cavern, but this resulted in an even greater number of dead. Crouching in the trenches Georges had ordered them to dig, the Negroes, under the direction of Laïza and Pierre Munier, kept up an unceasing barrage of gunfire on their enemies.
Meanwhile Georges, still confined to his litter in the crude hut, cursed his own weakness and the inactivity it had forced upon him. The scent of the powder smoke swirling in the air and the cracking of musket fire in his ears left him frantic to join his comrades in the fray. His anxiety to fight was made even greater by the fact that this was no foreign cause for which they battled, no king whose honor they defended, no nation whose borders they protected. It was Georges these brave blacks were fighting for, and now he, strong of heart and ambitious of spirit, could not join them on the field of combat, or even counsel them in their strategy of defense. Georges gritted his teeth as he lay there on the rough mattress. Finally he wept tears of rage.
The next attack brought the British soldiers as far as the middle of the clearing, and they fired a few shots on the trenches. Georges’s hut was directly behind the fortifications, and two or three musket balls whistled between the leaves and branches of its walls. Such a close call would have terrified a normal man, but Georges was pleased—even comforted—by it. He was grateful that he could share his comrades’ peril, and consoled by the thought that if he could not deal out death himself, he could at least die in the line of fire.
The English troops now ceased fire momentarily, but it was clear that they were preparing for a fresh assault. The constant clinking of the pickaxes outside the enclosure told the rebels that it was only a matter of time before their refuge was completely breached; indeed, a large portion of the grotto’s outer wall had already been torn down. The drums rolled again, and in the pale moonlight the soldiers’ bayonets could be seen gleaming at the entrance cavern. Pierre Munier and Laïza exchanged glances; this, the third skirmish, promised to be the bloodiest yet.
“What is our last resort?” Laïza asked Pierre Munier.
“We’ve booby-trapped the grotto,” replied the old man.
“In that case,” said Laïza, “we still have a chance of winning. When the moment of truth comes, do what I tell you or we are all lost. With Georges wounded, there will be no possibility of retreat.”
“Then I shall die by my son’s side,” Pierre Munier said.
“It would be better,” said Laïza, “if both of you were safe.”
“Both of us?”
“Yes, or either of you. What difference does it make?”
“You know, Laïza, that I will never leave my son.”
“You will, if it is the only way to ensure his safety.”
Pierre Munier frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I will explain later.” Laïza turned to the waiting blacks. “Now, my men, the hour of decision has arrived! Fire upon the redcoats, and do not waste a single shot! In another hour, powder and bullets will be scarce indeed.”
The Negroes fired. In general, they are a race of excellent marksmen, and several gaps were made in the British ranks—though it must be owned that these were filled again with admirable efficiency, and that the soldiers’ forward advance, though slowed a bit by the rough terrain of the cavern, barely missed a step. The hail of bullets raining down on the rebels had ceased; it appeared that the enemy was now determined to take the trenches by bayonet.
The situation, grave as it was for everyone involved, was doubly perilous for Georges. He had raised himself upon his elbow, then struggled to his knees, and finally came shakily to his feet. But his weakness was so great that the earth seemed to rock beneath his feet, and he had to cling to the branches surrounding him with both hands. Well aware of the unswerving courage of the men who had pledged themselves to him until the end, he could not help regarding the cool bravery of the English troops with nearly equal admiration. They moved forward as smartly as if they were on parade, though rebel bullets felled a few of them and they were obliged to reform their ranks with every step they took. He felt sure that they would never consider retreat; despite the ongoing fire of the blacks, they would likely overwhelm the trenches within five minutes.
Suddenly a realization hit Georges like a thunderbolt. For him, him, a useless and wounded man unable to participate in the battle raging around him, all these men were going to lose their lives. Remorse washed over him. He tried to take a step, to throw himself into the midst of
the fray as a sacrifice so that the carnage might cease—after all, it was in all probability him alone that the pursuers were seeking—but he knew he would not be able to walk even a third of the distance that separated him from the English troops. He shouted to the rebels to cease their fire, and to the attackers to stop their advance; he wished to surrender himself. But his weak voice was lost in the noise of battle.
Just then he saw his father draw himself up to his full height—which placed his entire upper body above the safety of the trench—holding a flaming fir branch aloft. Moving a few steps toward the enemy, Pierre Munier touched his torch to the ground. A trail of fire ignited, ran a short distance along the dirt, and buried itself in the earth. An instant later the ground on which the English soldiers were standing crumbled under their feet. A terrible explosion was heard, and the roof of the cavern blew apart. An enormous crater now yawned beneath the enemy’s feet. Boulders and shards of rock tumbled into the crater, and the cries of the troops on the other side of the entrance were drowned out as the passage imploded with a rumbling crash.
“Now,” cried Laïza above the din, “there is not a moment to lose!”
“Tell us, what must we do?” shouted Pierre Munier.
“Go to Grand Port. Try to find asylum aboard a French vessel. I will take care of Georges.”
Pierre Munier shook his head. “I have already said I will not leave my son.”
“And I have said you will, because for you to remain would mean his certain death!”
“But how?”
“Your dog is still tracking you, monsieur,” Laïza reminded the old man. “They will follow you anywhere you go—into the deepest woods or the darkest caverns. Georges is wounded; he cannot move very fast, and they will catch him easily. But if you run, they will assume your son is with you and leave the rest of us alone. I can use the darkness—I will take four loyal men and carry Georges in a direction opposite of yours. If we can reach Mont Bambou, we can hide in the forest there. Get to île des Oiseaux and light a signal fire, if you are able. We will take to Grande-Rivière on a raft, and you can fetch us in a skiff at its source. Then we can all flee together.”
Pierre Munier gazed at Laïza as he listened, barely breathing, grasping the Negro’s hands in his own. Then, as the other man finished his speech, he grasped him in a fierce hug. “Yes,” he cried, “yes! I understand now; there are no longer any other means open to us. Let the English come after me, and in the meantime look after my Georges!”
“I will save him, or die with him,” Laïza vowed. “I promise you that.”
“I know you will keep your promise,” said Pierre Munier. “Let me embrace my son just once more, and then I will go.”
“No!” said Laïza. “If you see him, you may lose the will to leave—if he sees you, if he learns that you are risking your life to save his, he will not allow it! Go, now!” He turned to the rest of the blacks. “Follow Monsieur Munier, all of you! I need only four men, the strongest and most loyal among you, to remain with me.” Twelve men stepped forward, volunteering themselves, and Laïza chose the stoutest among them. Then, seeing that Pierre Munier still hesitated, he urged him again to run. “The English will be upon us in an instant,” he warned.
“I will see you at the mouth of Grande-Rivière,” said the old man.
“Yes—if we are not killed, or taken prisoner.”
“Adieu, Georges! Adieu, my son!” Pierre Munier cried. Followed by the surviving Negroes, he turned and dashed in the direction of Mont Créole.
In his hut Georges heard Pierre Munier’s shouted farewell. “Father!” he cried. “What are you doing—where are you going? Why do you not remain, to die with your son? Father, I am here! Wait for me!” But Pierre was already far away, and Georges’s words were uttered in a voice so weak that the old man could not possibly hear them.
Laïza went to the wounded man; he found Georges on his knees. “Father…,” the young man murmured, and sank to the ground, unconscious.
Laïza moved quickly; indeed, Georges had fainted at a very opportune moment. He knew that if the mulatto had been in full possession of his faculties he would have fought to the death, regarding retreat as an act of cowardice. But in his weakened state, he was entirely in Laïza’s power. The Negro now laid his prostrate form back on the litter, and the other four blacks each seized a handle and hoisted it to their shoulders. The party moved toward the area known as Trois-Ilots, from where they hoped to reach Mont Bambou by following the winding course of the Grande-Rivière.
They had not gone more than a quarter of a league when they heard the barking of a dog. They stopped in their tracks. Georges was still unconscious, or at least so weak that he seemed unaware of what was going on around him. Laïza had predicted correctly once again. The English had scaled the rubble created by the gunpowder blast and were again following Fidèle, who was hot on the fugitives’ trail.
There was a moment of terrible suspense while Laïza listened to the howling of the dog. For a few moments the sound remained stationary; Fidèle had evidently reached the spot where the fighting had taken place. Then the barking drew nearer once again. The dog moved from the deserted trenches to the hut in which Georges had lain, and where his father had come several times to see him. Then the howling moved south—the direction Pierre Munier had taken when he fled with the rebels. Laïza’s ruse had worked. The hunters now unknowingly pursued the father instead of the son.
Still, the situation in which Laïza, Georges, and the four litter bearers now found themselves was hardly a safe one. The first rays of dawn had appeared in the sky, and the sheltering shadows of the forest began to fade away. If Georges had been unhurt the party would have been in an advantageous position, for his cunning and skill, as well as Laïza’s, easily matched those of the pursuers. But the young mulatto’s injury made the field an unequal one, and Laïza could not deny the fact that they were in grave peril.
One thing was especially worrisome: The English had most likely enlisted the services of slaves trained in the pursuit of runaways, promising them some lofty reward—such as their liberty—if they were able to capture Georges Munier. If this was indeed the case, Laïza would lose part of his advantage by facing other men used to nature and equally skilled in navigating the wilderness and the blackness of the forest at night. There was, he concluded, no time to lose. Deducing the direction from which the pursuers were coming, he led the others decisively eastward.
The woods felt strange here, as if all the animals shared the refugees’ anxiety. The night’s unceasing musket fire had frightened the birds from their nests, the wild pigs from their dens, and the deer from their hiding places among the trees. Everything seemed to be moving, fleeing in fear. It was almost as if a sort of terrified dizziness had seized every living creature.
Two hours had passed when it became necessary for them to halt. They had fought all night and eaten nothing since four o’clock the previous afternoon. Laïza stopped beneath the ruins of an ajoupa that had obviously served as a refuge for other runaways that very night; it contained a fire that still smoldered beneath its bed of ashes. Three of the men now set off in search of some tenrecs while the fourth busied himself rekindling the fire. Laïza went out in search of the medicinal herbs he needed to refresh the dressing on Georges’s wound.
As strong in both spirit and body as Georges was, on this occasion matter had triumphed over mind. He was feverish and delirious, unaware of what was happening around him and completely unable to take any active part in it. The cleansing and rebandaging of his wound seemed to give him some comfort, though; as for Laïza, he seemed to have risen above any consideration of the flesh. He had not slept in sixty hours, or eaten in twenty, yet he appeared neither tired nor hungry.
The hunters eventually returned to camp bringing half a dozen tenrecs, which they set to roast on the bonfire their companion had built. The smoke from the fire made Laïza slightly uneasy, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that they had left
no tracks behind them and must now be at least two leagues from the grotto where the fighting had taken place. Even if their pursuers noticed the smoke, they would be so far away that the fugitives would have time to flee before they reached them.
The meal was ready, and the blacks called Laïza from his seat at Georges’s side. As he joined them, he noticed that one of the men had a gash in his thigh, which was still bleeding. In an instant his sense of security was gone. The British would be able to follow the trail of blood drops, just as if they were tracking a wounded deer—and they would certainly do so; not because they believed Georges was at the other end of the trail, but because any prisoner would be of great importance to them. A prisoner would be able to give them information, and the English would use any means necessary to extract it from him.
The realization hit Laïza like a thunderbolt. Just as he opened his mouth to order the others to prepare to start moving again immediately, a small, dense clump of trees nearby—which he had eyed uneasily more than once—flared with light. A staccato series of shots rang out, and bullets whistled through the air. Five or six of them whizzed past Laïza. One of the Negroes collapsed face-first into the fire. The others ran, but not quickly enough. Another man fell, then another ten paces away. Only the fourth remained untouched; he disappeared into the surrounding woods.
At the sight of the smoke and the sound of the gunshots, Laïza had leapt with one enormous bound to Georges’s side. Lifting the wounded man as if he were a child, he dashed into the trees. Almost at the same moment eight or ten British soldiers accompanied by half a dozen Negroes emerged from the thicket and ran in pursuit of the fugitives. They had followed the trail of blood, just as Laïza feared. One of them had recognized Georges’s prone form, and seen that he was wounded. The ambush had gone off without a hitch; out of Georges and Laïza’s party of six, only three remained.
A desperate race now began; it was clear that despite Laïza’s agility and strength, his pursuers would soon overtake him. His only chance was to lose them in the depths of the forest, but that option held its own dangers. If he sought out the area where the trees and foliage were thickest, he would probably come up against a barrier he could not pass; on the other hand, if he stayed in the open glades, his enemies could see him much more easily.
Georges Page 28
