IN THE SHADOW
"Where away?" bawled the sleepy boy upon the bridge.
"Dade ahaid, sah! High Ian', sah!" sang the negro.
Dessalines strained his eyes, but though good they were not sea-eyes. The mate was staring through his glasses. Previously he had been watching Dessalines curiously.
"It's the Mole, all right," he answered with a grin. "If you come up here, general, you can make it out through the glass." The two officers had in a semi-mockery irritating to both Dessalines and Rosenthal conferred this title upon their negro employer.
Dessalines ascended the ladder. From the bridge, as the day swiftly lightened, he did not need the glass. Far on the horizon the rough, mountainous outline of the savage island raised blue and hazy from the ultramarine sea.
For the moment Dessalines could scarcely speak; his emotion overcame him. The youthful mate, glancing at him curiously, could see the vibration of the huge, black, naked chest.
"It is the Mole St. Nicholas!" exclaimed Dessalines. "Hayti!" His eyes rolled, the flat nostrils dilated; the thick lips rolled back and the white teeth flashed; an expression of such savage ferocity, exultation, contorted the grotesque features that the watch officer, hardened as he was, drew back, startled, appalled.
"Hayti!" roared Dessalines. He threw out an arm with a gesture of greeting. "Bon jour, belle Haiti!" He smote his chest a blow with his clinched fist. "Haiti!—Haiti!—ta renaissance est arrivée!"
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