THE SAVAGE ISLAND
A map of Hayti was spread upon the table; on its geographical features there were inscribed in the fine, accurate hand of the Jew, countless notes, figures, memoranda in different colored inks. Each of the three men had committed these memoranda to memory. This had been a baffling task for Dessalines. The figures rioted elusively through his brain; the fine schedules, schema, devised by Rosenthal and commended by Jules, bewildered him; on the other hand he knew the country itself, the topographical features, the relative distances, the time necessary to traverse a district, everything pertaining to mobilization. He knew Hayti well, having ridden over much of it; what he did not know he felt. For locality, bearings, direction, the negro had the head of a hound.
Rosenthal laid both hands on the rim of the table and thrust himself violently backward. His swarthy face was flushed and under the black, bushy, Mephistophelian eyebrows, which drew a straight line from temple to temple, his agate-colored eyes, with their multiple spots of light brown, glinted with excitement. For a moment he pondered, beating a tattoo with his strong fingers, and the click of the heavy rings he wore rang like castanets.
"Let us sum up, my friend," he remarked suddenly. "One cannot too fully impress upon the mind the general plans of campaign." He paused and stroked his black imperial.
"Proceed, my dear fellow," said Dessalines. Jules cocked his birdlike head and his beady eyes flitted from Rosenthal's face to the map.
"We are now off the Mole," began Rosenthal; "we
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