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So if you fight, you will have to fight alone, and you can guess how much chance of success you have. You know the penalty for insurrection. It's death, and not an easy death, either, death by fire! If you go ahead with this thing, no power on earth can save every one of you from the stake." "It's a lie!" yelled Polete. "I did hab d' vision.
He says he has seen the French army marching, and he has just told me that their uniforms are all colors, red, blue, green, and so on. Now, if he has seen the army, he ought to know the color of the uniforms, ought he not?" "Yes, yes," yelled the mob. "Well, boys," I continued, "the French wear only one color uniform, and that color is just the one which Polete has not mentioned white.
His hearers were seemingly much affected, and interrupted him from time to time with shouts and groans and loud amens. "Dis is d' promise' lan'!" cried old Polete, waving his arms above his head in a wild ecstasy. "All we hab t' do is t' raise up an' take it from ouh 'pressahs. Ef we stays hyah slaves, it's ouh own fault. Now's d' 'pinted time. D' French is ma'chin' obah d' mountings t' holp us.
It was at this time that old Polete, crazed, perhaps, by working in the tobacco fields under the blazing sun, had suddenly developed into a witch man, and proclaimed that he could see the French army marching, and urged the negroes to strike a blow at once in order to merit their freedom when the French should come.
"Yes, massa," he muttered, and looked about him wildly, as though he already saw the flames at his feet. "Well, Polete," I went on, "after the way you have acted to-night, I see no reason why I should try to save you. You certainly did all you could to get me killed." "Yes, massa," he said again, and would have fallen had not Long held him upright by the collar.
Well, I had no reason to wish Polete any harm, yet if it were discovered that he had been inciting the slaves to insurrection, there was no power in the colony could save his life. If his owner did not execute him, the governor would take the matter out of his hands, and order it done himself. "I tell you what I'll do, Sam," I said at last.
If Polete here, who, you know, is only a laborer like most of you, says he has seen them coming in a vision, why he's simply lying to you, or he doesn't know what he's talking about. There are not three hundred Frenchmen the other side of the mountains, in the first place, and it will be winter before they can get any more there.
Quick, tell me." He looked at me a moment longer before answering. "D' plantation? Obah dah, eight, ten mile, neah d' ribbah," and he made a faint little motion northward with his hand. The motion, slight as it was, brought on another hemorrhage. His eyes looked up into mine for a moment longer, and then, even as I gazed at them, grew fixed and glazed. Old Polete was dead.
"It's Mas' Tom!" yelled one big fellow, as my hat was knocked from my head. And, as if by instinct, they crowded back on either side, and a path was opened before us to the pile of logs where Polete stood. He gaped at us amazedly as we clambered up toward him, and I saw that he was licking his lips convulsively.
I thought he was dying, but when I dashed more water in his face, he opened his eyes again. This time he seemed to know me. "Is it Mas' Tom?" he gasped. "Mas' Tom what let me go?" "Yes, Polete," I answered gently, "it's Master Tom." "Whar am I?" he asked faintly. "Have dee got me 'gin? Dee gwine to buhn me?" "No, no," I said. "Nobody 's going to harm you, Polete.
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