with which they were used to distracting themselves from their troubles before seeking forgetfulness in sleep. Perhaps misery is the father to fable; it is nourished on illusions and takes pleasure in losing itself in the chase of quiet phantoms, all in order to flee sad reality. Thus stories became the consolation of the ajoupa. The imagination of the slave flies on fairy wings, as light as those of dreams, in pursuit of blissfulness that he knows not and possessions that he will never have!
One night, the conversation lasted longer than usual. It was the mother who spoke. This time she told a touching and true story that we have collected for the benefit of the reader:
“I was born very far from here,” she said to her sons, “in the bosom of joy and abundance. My father was the chief of a powerful tribe; my mother the daughter of a king. They both idolized me; I was their only child. My father, already an old man, soon began to think of my marriage prospects. He fixed his sights on a man who was worthy of both his trust and my love.
“Our union,” she continued, “took place under the happiest of auspices. Still at an age not far from childhood, I left the maternal roof laden with the gifts of my much-beloved parents. The spouse whom my father chose for me was an officer in his service; so handsome, young, and brave was he. Alas! If only he had lived longer! . . .”
A tear slid down the cheek of Marie the African; she wiped it away with the back of her hand, and continued: “Around the time of my marriage, the chief of a neighboring tribe declared war against my father. In those first moments we made many preparations and put ourselves on the defensive. But vigilance soon falls asleep in false security. After some time, the enemy presented himself unexpectedly at our door. Our resistance was weak; he seized our city by surprise and became the master of our days.
“My father was killed in the combat; my husband died valiantly at his side. I was, as was my mother, taken prisoner by our vanquishers; they sold us to traders of men, who sent us off on a ship to Saint-Domingue. The ship, or rather the floating prison where we were incarcerated and bound with chains, had something hideous about it that I will always remember. The space was not even as tall as I; the air entered in such small quantities that we suffocated; the days were lugubrious; an unbearable odor escaped from the sides of that infected cage.
“My mother was not strong enough to fight against such suffering; she succumbed two days after our embarkation. I survived by a miracle. My isolation and constant misfortune left my existence heavier than my chains. I resolved to free myself; but one cannot trick fate . . . My love of life came back to me in the first pains of childbirth—because, I neglected to say, I was pregnant and on the brink of becoming a mother.
“Your arrival in this world,” she continued, addressing her first son, “brought consolation to my heart; but it was difficult to keep you alive. During long hours, you let out muffled complaints without moving or crying. We thought that you were dying: you barely breathed. A few drops of water given out of pity were all that you drank during two days of agony. How did you leave that state without succor and despite the tainted air of our dungeon? This, perhaps, I will never be able to explain.
“Like a seed fallen from a tree, you took root thanks to a hidden Hand, unknown to men, that dug you a furrow in life. In spite of everything, you grew and my maternal joys took the place of bitter sorrows. Yet I regretted having given you life only to see you associated with my troubles. Alone on this earth, what would become of you after I was gone? This thought, born from the horror of my current situation, numbly guided me to despair when I was called to become a mother for the second time. There came to me then a comforting vision of that which may come to pass. While waiting for it, remember well these words: the solitary plant is easily torn or bent in the wind.
“Therefore,” Marie pressed on, “to preserve you from grievous loneliness, the same Hand that saved you from destruction caused a companion, a friend, a brother to be born. Thanks be to God! . . . The hidden Hand, in its all-seeing goodness, wanted the product of your mother’s blood—this brother, your comrade in misery—to have no interests opposed to your own, so that he would love and strengthen you, so that you could defy the jealous fate that disinherited you at birth and seemed to turn you away from the world.”
The two brothers were hearing this intimate story for the first time. The mother had kept it to herself until the conditions were right, in the same way that the intelligent farmer does not confide a seed to the ground except during a favorable season. Without knowing the precise meaning of the words that we have repeated here, the sons of Marie the African were moved to the furthest depths of their simple and good souls.
Abruptly, the attitude of the Colonist toward his slaves became that of an irritated enemy. Never before had he appeared so moved by such violent passions. His cheeks were sunken and pale and his face contracted horribly. One could read the look of death in his eyes. It was probable that the Colonist knew of the nocturnal conversation in the ajoupa, either because he had heard it himself, or because it had been treacherously told to him by someone who had been listening at the door. Interpreting the slave’s story according to his mean-spirited nature, the Colonist prepared himself to wreak a horrible vengeance.
It is easy to imagine how a supposition of this sort would alarm the members of the young slave family. Initially, they had the idea to flee and become marrons; but then, thinking better of it, they decided to stay and risk what would come. We must note this act of forceful resolution: the courage to die would later give birth to the will to be free.
But Marie and her sons were wrong: the anger of the Colonist was caused by reasons far less trivial. A Revolution in the name of Liberty and Equality had just erupted in France . . . It was 1789 . . .3
Here is how the murderous pique of the master made itself known:
The slaves were at work. Rain threatened. One of the young sons had gone to rest under a tree at some distance from the field in which they worked. Doubtless he was suffering. The Colonist appeared and learned of the transgression. He could have listened before condemning and punishing, but he did not even take the time to inquire, so pressed was he to satisfy his ardent thirst for murder.
When the Colonist called to the overseer in a voice sharp and loud, Marie quivered with terror: her mother’s heart had guessed everything. In a movement as fast as thought, she threw herself at the Colonist’s feet, with a gesture so eloquent that, in days gone by, it would have defeated the Lion of Florence.4 She cried out, “Have mercy! My master, have mercy on him; it is I instead who you must strike!” If there are exceptional beings endowed by heaven with superior morals, there are, sadly, others to whom nature has refused its best instincts, whom she has made inferior to the ferocious beast. The Colonist was one of those monsters: no one, therefore, expected him to fall like the Lion.
He hesitated a minute before choosing his victim. Then, resolved, he took the mother at her word and signaled to the overseer. In an instant, the terrible whip flew back; a scene of horror, the details of which make one shiver, began. To the increasing noise of the strikes were added sharp, heart-rending cries that weakened, little by little, until finally ending in a death rattle. The whip struck, struck for two hours. The victim jumped, twisted, and gnashed her teeth. Her mouth foamed, her nostrils flared, her eyes started out of their sockets. Even when there was no life left, the human matter still quivered, and the whip continued to strike; it did not stop until there was nothing left but an inert corpse.
The crime was complete. Listen how this innocent blood cries out as it ascends toward heaven! . . .
After the Colonist left, the two brothers lifted the inanimate body of the young woman onto their shoulders and took her to their shared shelter, lowering her onto their pallet and letting the tears that they had been forced to control in the presence of her executioners flow freely. These warm tears of the heart flooded onto the face of the departed and seemed, for an
