# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Slaver (Henri Heine)

THE SLAVER.
HENRI HEINE.
The good ship's captain, stout Mynheer Van Kock, Is seated in his cabin, occupied In making up his balance-sheet account. He calculates the cargo's price with care, And then the profits likely to accrue. 'The gum is good, the pepper better still; I have three hundred sacks,—and let me see, Three hundred barrels nicely stowed below. I have too gold-dust, and rare ivory, But the merchandise of blacks for slavery Is what is worth the most, ta'en all in all. I have six hundred negroes I acquired By fair exchange,—that is, for almost nought In verity—on Senegal's wild coast. The flesh is firm, the nerves are tough and strong As bowstrings strained: a looker-on may say, Statues my figures are, of moulded bronze. Brandy and gin in barter I have given, And beads of glass that look like precious pearls, And instruments of steel as bright as sharp. Eight hundred for each hundred shall I gain If but the half alone remain alive. Yes, if there rest for me three hundred souls In Rio Janeiro's port, the well-known firm,
Gonzales Perreiro shall to me count out A hundred ducats by the head at least.' All of a sudden, good Mynheer Van Kock Is interrupted in his happy thoughts. The surgeon of the brave ship enters in, Monsieur le Docteur Van der Smissen, named. It is a figure dry and thin, the nose Full of red warts. 'Ah well! My surgeon friend,' Cries out Van Kock, 'how fare my dear, dear blacks?' The doctor thanks him for his interest, And says, 'I came here, captain, to announce That the mortality the night just past Has much augmented. On an average, One with another taken, there have died About per day but two. This day have died Not less than seven, four men and women three. I have inscribed the loss without delay Upon the registers; I have done more; I have examined, and with care minute, The corpses, for often will these rogues Counterfeit death, in hopes they may be thrown Amidst the waves. I took away their chains And saw, as is my wont, the bodies flung This morning in the sea at break of day. Then instantly the sharks came darting forth From the blue bosom of the waves; they came Band after band, a serried army fierce. They love the black flesh, captain, oh so much! They're my pensioners since a long, long time. They have pursued the track of our good ship E'en from the day we left the savage coast. The rogues! They scent the corpses,—far, far off, With the dilated nostrils of gourmets. It is most comical to see them seize
The dead afloat. This grinds a woolly head, And that a foot; some others swallow down Strips of black flesh; when all have been devoured, They joyous dance around the vessel's sides, And look at me with great and glassy eyes Protruding from their fronts, as if they wished To thank me for their breakfast.'—Here Van Kock, Sighing, cut short his words. 'How soften down The evil, doctor? let me ask you that. How stop this progress of mortality?' 'Many are lost,' the doctor gravely said, 'By their own fault. It is their dirty smell That has corrupted the salubrious air Of this good ship; and many more are dead Of melancholy, and because they felt Quite weary of their lives and longed to die. A little air, and exercise, and play, And music and the dance might be enough To heal the evil or to lessen it.' 'Good counsel! cried Van Kock; 'my surgeon friend, You are as wise as Aristotle's self, Great Alexander's teacher,—yes, you are! The President of the Society at Delft For tulip culture and perfectionment Is very able,—yea, a man of men, But half your wit he has not. Quick, oh quick! Music—that is it—music and a ball For all the blacks upon the clean-scrubbed deck! This shall I have, and then let those beware Who are not well amused, or shun the dance. We shall rejoice their bosoms with the whip, Prompt to persuade where milder measures fail.'
II
From the blue pall of heaven spread out on high Thousands of stars look down like tender eyes Of lovely women—bright, and large, and full, Full of desire and strange intelligence. As they have done for æons, they regard The blue sea stretching miles and miles away, Covered with purple vapours, lit by starts With strange phosphoric gleams. Murmur the waves Voluptuously around the gallant ship. No sail floats on its towering masts. It seems Despoiled of all its rigging and its gear. But lanterns shine upon the glancing deck Where joyful music summons to the dance. The pilot plays the violin, the cook Breathes on the flute, a sailor strikes the drum, And Van der Smissen gives the trumpet voice. About a hundred men and women dark Utter wild cries of joy, and leap and whirl In Bacchanal frenzy. At each turn Their chains resound in cadence to their steps. They beat the creaking planks beneath their feet Like folk gone mad, and many an ebon nymph Twines with her arms voluptuously the form Of some companion stalwart yet though gaunt. But ever and anon across the noise Tumultuous, a low, low sob resounds. The garde-chiourme, the master of the bands, Is master of the ceremonies here, And with the lash by fits he stimulates The dancers faint, and urges them to joy. And dideldumdei! And schnedderedeng! The tumult from the waves' dark depths attracts
The monsters of the sea, at last aroused From their long stupid sleep. But half awake, Drowsy and dull, and heavy still, they come, The sharks—yea, hundreds of the ravenous sharks, With eyes fixed on the ship in wonder mute. They have perceived, however, that the hour For breakfast has not dawned as yet. They gape, They open wide the caverns of their throats, Demoniac jaws displaying, set with rows Of teeth, that look like, and are sharp as, saws. And dideldumidei! And schnedderedeng! Still, still the dance whirls furious on. The sharks From sheer impatience bite each other's tails. I think they love not music. Those do not Who are their similars amongst our kind. Old Albion's poet world-renowned has sung The man who has no music in his soul Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils, Never on such a creature put thou trust. And dideldumdei! And schnedderedeng! The dance whirls on, and on, and endless on! Mynheer Van Kock is seated near the mast— The great mast of the ship—his hands are joined, His eyes half-closed, as thus devout he prays: 'O good Lord! For the precious love of Christ, Spare, spare the remnant of these sinners black! If they have Thee offended, Thou, O Lord, Knowest they are as stupid as the kine. Spare Thou their lives, and spare for Jesus' sake, Who died for us, yea, all of us, and paid The ransom full. For oh! if there remain Not full three hundred, when I reach the port Of Rio Janeiro, then I shall have made A sorry business of it, and instead Of reaping profit, shall have suffered loss!'