Chapter Ten.

Chapter Ten.A Morning of Office.If the devastation attending the revolutionary wars of Saint Domingo was great, it was repaired with singular rapidity. Thanks to the vigorous agencies of nature in a tropical region, the desolated plains were presently covered with fresh harvests, and the burnt woods were buried deep under the shadow of young forests, more beautiful than the old. Thanks also to the government of the wisest mind in the island, the moral evils of the struggle were made subordinate to its good results. It was not in the power of man to bury past injuries in oblivion, while there were continually present minds which had been debased by tyranny, and hearts which had been outraged by cruelty; but all that could be done was done. Vigorous employment was made the great law of society—the one condition of the favour of its chief; and, amidst the labours of the hoe and the mill, the workshop and the wharf—amidst the toils of the march and the bustle of the court, the bereaved and insulted forgot their woes and their revenge. A now growth of veneration and of hope overspread the ruins of old delights and attachments, as the verdure of the plain spread its mantle over the wrecks of mansion and of hut. In seven years from the kindling of the first incendiary torch on the Plaine du Nord, it would have been hard for a stranger, landing in Saint Domingo, to believe what had been the horrors of the war.Of these seven years, however, the first three or four had been entirely spent in war, and the rest disturbed by it. Double that number of years must pass before there could be any security that the crop planted would ever be reaped, or that the peasants who laid out their family burying-grounds would be carried there in full age, instead of perishing in the field or in the woods. The cultivators went out to their daily work with the gun slung across their shoulders and the cutlass in their belt: the hills were crested with forts, and the mountain-passes were watched by scouts. The troops were frequently reviewed in the squares of the towns, and news was perpetually arriving of a skirmish here or there. The mulatto general, Rigaud, had never acknowledged the authority of Toussaint L’Ouverture; and he was still in the field, with a mulatto force sufficient to interrupt the prosperity of the colony, and endanger the authority of its Lieutenant-Governor. It was some time, however, since Rigaud had approached any of the large towns. The sufferers by his incursions were the planters and field-labourers. The inhabitants of the towns carried on their daily affairs as if peace had been fully established in the island, and feeling the effects of such warfare as there was only in their occasional contributions of time and money.The Commander-in-chief, as Toussaint L’Ouverture was called, by the appointment of the French commissaries, though his dignity had not yet been confirmed from Paris—the Commander-in-chief of Saint Domingo held his head-quarters at Port-au-Prince. Among other considerations which rendered this convenient, the chief was that he thus avoided much collision with the French officials, which must otherwise have taken place. All the commissaries, who rapidly succeeded one another from Paris, resided at Government-House, in Cap Français. Thence, they issued orders and regulations in the name of the government at home; orders and regulations which were sometimes practicable, sometimes unwise, and often absurd. If Toussaint had resided at Cap, a constant witness of their ignorance of the minds, manners, and interests of the blacks—if he had been there to listen to the complaints and appeals which would have been daily made, he could scarcely have kept terms for a single week with the French authorities. By establishing himself in the south, while they remained in the north, he was able quietly to neutralise or repair much of the mischief which they did, and to execute many of his own plans without consulting them; while many a grievance was silently borne, many an order simply neglected, which would have been a cause of quarrel, if any power of redress had been at hand. Jealous as he was for the infant freedom of his race, Toussaint knew that it would be best preserved by weaning their minds from thoughts of anger, and their eyes from the sight of blood. Trust in the better part of negro nature guided him in his choice between two evils. He preferred that they should be misgoverned in some affairs of secondary importance, and keep the peace, rather than that they should be governed to their hearts’ content by himself, at the risk of quarrel with the mother-country. He trusted to the singular power of forbearance and forgiveness which is found in the negro race for the preservation of friendship with the whites and of the blessings of peace; and he therefore reserved his own powerful influence over both parties for great occasions—interfering only when he perceived that, through carelessness or ignorance, the French authorities were endangering some essential liberty of those to whom they were the medium of the pleasure of the government at home. The blacks were aware that the vigilance of their Commander-in-chief over their civil rights never slept, and that his interference always availed; and these convictions ensured their submission, or at least their not going beyond passive resistance on ordinary occasions, and thus strengthened their habits of peace.The Commander-in-chief held his levées at Port-au-Prince on certain days of the month, all the year round. No matter how far-off he might be, or how engaged, the night before, he rarely failed to be at home on the appointed day, at the fixed hour. On one particular occasion, he was known to have been out against Rigaud, day and night, for a fortnight, and to be closely engaged as far south as Aux Cayes, the very evening preceding the review and levée which had been announced for the 20th of January. Not the less for this did he appear in front of the troops in the Place Républicaine, when the daylight gushed in from the east, putting out the stars, whose reflection trembled in the still waters of the bay. The last evolutions were finished, and the smoke from the last volley had incited away in the serene sky of January, before the coolness of the northern breeze had yielded to the blaze of the mounting sun. The troops then lined the long streets of the town, and the avenue to the palace, while the Commander-in-chief and his staff passed on, and entered the palace-gates.The palace, like every other building in Port-au-Prince, consisted of one storey only. The town had been destroyed by an earthquake in 1770; and, though earthquakes are extremely rare in Saint Domingo, the place had been rebuilt in view of the danger of another. The palace therefore covered a large piece of ground, and its principal rooms were each nearly surrounded by garden and grass-plat. The largest apartment, in which the levées were always held, was the best room in the island—if not for the richness of its furniture, for its space and proportions, and the views which it commanded. Not even the abode of the Commander-in-chief could exhibit such silken sofas, marble tables, gilded balustrades, and japanned or ivory screens, as had been common in the mansions of the planters; and Toussaint had found other uses for such money as he had than those of pure luxury. The essential and natural advantages of his palace were enough for him and his. The door of this, his favourite apartment, was covered with a fine India matting; the windows were hung with white muslin curtains; and the sofas, which stood round three sides of the room, between the numerous windows, were covered with green damask, of no very rich quality. In these many windows lay the charm, commanding, as they did, extensive prospects to the east, north, and west. The broad verandah cast a shadow which rendered it unnecessary to keep the jalousies closed, except during the hottest hours of the year. This morning every blind was swung wide open, and the room was cool and shady, while, without, all was bathed in the mild, golden sunshine of January—bright enough for the strongest eye, but without glare.To the east and north spread the Cul-de-Sac—a plain of unequalled richness, extending to the foot of the mountains, fifteen miles into the interior. The sun had not yet risen so high but that these mountains cast a deep shadow for some distance into the plain, while their skirts were dark with coffee-groves, and their summits were strongly marked against the glowing sky. Amidst the wide, verdant level of the plain, arose many a white mansion, each marked by a cluster of trees, close at hand. Some of these plantation houses looked bluish and cool in the mountain shadows; others were like bright specks in the sunshine, each surmounted by a star, if its gilded weathercock chanced to turn in the breeze. To the north, also, this plain, still backed by mountains, extended till it joined the sands of the bight.Upon these sands, on the margin of the deep blue waters, might be seen flashing in the sun a troop of flamingoes, now moving forward in a line into the waves, and diligently fishing; and then, on the alarm of a scout, all taking wing successively, and keeping their order, as they flew homewards, to the salt marshes in the interior—their scarlet bodies vividly contrasted with the dark green of the forests that clothed the mountain-sides. To the west lay the broad azure sheet of the bay, locked by the island of Gonave, and sprinkled with fishing-boats, while under the forest-tufted rocks of the island two vessels rode at anchor—a schooner belonging to Saint Domingo, and an English frigate.In the shady western piazza sat a party who seemed much occupied in looking out upon the bay, and watching the vessels that lay under the island; from which vessels boats might be seen putting off for the town just at the time of the commencement of the levée. The party in the piazza consisted chiefly of women. Madame L’Ouverture was there—like, and yet unlike, the Margot of former years—employed, as usual—busy with her needle, and motherly, complacent, tenderly vigilant as of old; but with a matronly grace and dignity which evidently arose from a gratified mind, and not from external state. Her daughters were beside her, both wonderfully improved in beauty, though Génifrède still preserved the superiority there. She sat a little apart from her mother and sister netting. Moyse was at her feet, in order to obtain the benefit of an occasional gleam from the eyes which were cast down upon her work. His idolatry of her was no surprise to any who looked upon her in her beauty, now animated and exalted by the love which she had avowed, and which was sanctioned by her father and her family. The sisters were dressed nearly alike, though Aimée knew well that it would have been politic to have avoided thus bringing herself into immediate comparison with her sister. But Aimée cared not what was thought of her face, form, or dress. Isaac had always been satisfied with them. She had confided in Génifrède’s taste when they first assumed their rank; and it was least troublesome to do so still. If Isaac should wish it otherwise when he should return from France, she would do as he desired. Meantime, they were dressed in all essentials exactly alike, from the pattern of the Madras handkerchief they wore (according to universal custom) on their heads, to the cut of the French-kid shoe. The dress was far from resembling the European fashion of the time. No tight lacing; no casing in whalebone—nothing like a hoop. A chemisette of the finest cambric appeared within the bodice, and covered the bosom. The short full sleeves were also of white cambric. The bodice, and short full skirt, were of deep yellow India silk; and the waist was confined with a broad band of violet-coloured velvet, gaily embroidered. The only difference in the dress of the sisters was in their ornaments. Aimée wore heavy ear-drops, and a large necklace and bracelets of amethyst; while Génifrède wore, suspended from a throat-band of velvet, embroidered like that which bound her waist, a massive plain gold crucifix, lately given her by Moyse. Her ear-rings were hoops of plain gold, and her bracelets again of embroidered velvet, clasped with plain gold. In her might be seen, and in her was seen by the Europeans who attended the levée of that day, what the negro face and form may be when seen in their native climate, unhardened by degradation, undebased by ignorance, unspoiled by oppression—all peculiarities of feature softened under the refining influence of mind, and all peculiarities of expression called out in their beauty by the free exercise of natural affections. The animated sweetness of the negro countenance is known only to those who have seen it thus.Paul was of the party, looking very well in the French uniform, which he wore in honour of his brother on great occasions, though he was far from having grown warlike on his change of fortune. His heart was still in his cottage, or on the sea; and now, as he stood leaning against a pillar of the piazza, his eye was more busy in watching the fishing-boats in the bay than in observing what went on within the house. The only thing he liked about state-days was the hours of idleness they afforded—such hours as this, when, lounging in the shade, he could see Moyse happy at the feet of his beloved, and enjoy the soft wind as it breathed past, laden with spicy scents. During such an hour, he almost forgot the restraints of his uniform and of his rank.There was yet another person in the piazza. Seated on its step, but sheltered by its broad eaves, sat Thérèse—more beautiful by far than Génifrède—more beautiful by far than in her days of girlhood—celebrated as she had then been throughout the colony. Her girlishness was gone, except its grace; her sensitiveness was gone, and (as those might think who did not watch the changes of her eye) much of her animation. Her carriage was majestic, her countenance, calm, and its beauty, now refined by a life of leisure and the consciousness of rank—leisure and rank both well employed—more imposing than ever. Her husband was now a general in Toussaint’s army. When he was in the field, Madame Dessalines remained at home, on their estate near Saint Marc. When he was in attendance on the Commander-in-chief, she was ever a welcome guest in Toussaint’s family. Madame L’Ouverture loved her as a daughter; and she had endeared herself to the girls. At this time, from an accidental circumstance, she was at the palace without her husband. It was evident that she felt quite at home there; for, though she had arrived only a few hours before, she did not appear disposed to converse. As she sat alone, leaning against the base of the pillar, she now and then cast her eyes on the book she held open in her hand, but for the most part looked abroad upon the terraced town, the bay, or the shadowy clefts of the rocky island which closed it in.The sound of feet and of voices from within increased from moment to moment. The Commander-in-chief had assumed his place, with his aides on either hand; and presently the room was so nearly filled as to leave no more space than was required for the deputations to pass in at one entrance on the south of the apartment, appear before the General, and pass out at the other door. Toussaint stood at the centre of the north end, beside a table partly covered with papers, and at which sat his secretary. On this table lay his cocked hat. His uniform was blue, with scarlet capo and cuffs, richly embroidered. He had white trousers, long Hessian boots, and, as usual, the Madras handkerchief on his head. While walking up the apartment, he had been conversing on business with his officers, and continued to do so, without the loss of a moment, till, on his taking his place, two ushers came up with an account of the parties waiting for admittance, desiring to know his pleasure as to who should have precedence.“The clergy,” said Toussaint; “the first in duty must be first in honour.”In a few moments there was a loud announcement of the clergy from the districts of Saint Marc, Leogane, Mirbalais, and so on, through a long enumeration of districts. The priests entered, two and two, a long procession of black gowns. As they collected into a group before him, every one anxiously making way for them, Toussaint crossed his arms upon his breast, and bowed his head low for many moments. When he looked up again, an expression of true reverence was upon his countenance; and, in a tone of earnestness, he asked for what service they desired to command him.Father Antioche, an old priest, assisted by a brother at least thirty years younger, offered sealed papers, which, he said, contained reports from the several districts concerning the religious and moral condition of the inhabitants. Toussaint received them, and laid them, with his own hand, upon the table beside him, saying, with much solicitude—“Do I see rightly in your countenances that you bring good news of your flocks, my fathers!”“It is so,” replied the old priest. “Our wishes are fast fulfilling.”“Eight thousand marriages have been celebrated, as will appear in our reports,” added the young priest.“And in the difficult cases of a plurality of wives,” resumed Father Antioche, “there is generally a willingness in the cultivators to maintain liberally those who are put away.”“And the children?”“The children may be found in the schools, sitting side by side in peace. The quarrels of the children of different mothers (quarrels often fatal in the fields) disappear in the schools. The reports well exhibit the history of our expanding system.”“God be thanked!” Toussaint uttered in a low voice.“Under the religions rule of your excellency,” said the young priest, “enforced by so pure an example of piety, the morals of this colony will be established, and the salvation of its people secured.”“You,” said Toussaint, “the servants of Christ, are the true rulers of this island and its inhabitants. I am your servant in guarding external order, during a period which you will employ in establishing your flocks in the everlasting wisdom and peace of religion. I hold the inferior office of keeping our enemies in awe, and enabling our people to find subsistence and comfort. My charge is the soil on which, and the bodies in which, men live. You have in charge their souls, in which lies the future of this world and of the next. You are the true rulers of Saint Domingo; and we bow to you as such.”Every head was immediately bowed, and the priests went out, amidst the obeisances of the whole assemblage—some of the order wondering, perhaps, whether every mind there was as sincere in its homage as that of the Commander-in-chief.The superintendents of the cultivators came next—negroes dressed in check shirts, white linen jackets and trousers, and with the usual Madras handkerchief on the head. They, too, handed in reports; and to them also did Toussaint address his questions, with an air of respect almost equal to that with which he had spoken to the priests.“I grieve,” said he, “that you cannot yet fulfil your function altogether in peace. My generals and I have done what we can to preserve our fields from devastation, and our cultivators from the dangers and the fears of ambushed foes; but Rigaud’s forces are not yet subdued; and for a while we must impose upon our cultivators the toil of working armed in the field. We are soldiers here,” he added, looking round upon his officers, “but I hope there is not one of us who does not honour the hoe more than the gun. How far have you been able to repair in the south-eastern districts the interruption in the September planting?”The superintendent of those districts came forward, and said that some planting had been effected in November, the sprouts of which now looked well. More planting had been done during the early part of the present month; and time would show the result.“Good!” said Toussaint. “Some of the finest crops I have seen have risen from January plants, though it were best it were done in September. How do you report about the rats?”“The nuisance is still great,” replied the head superintendent; “their uninterrupted possession of the fields during the troubles has made them very powerful. Would that your excellency were as powerful to conquer the rats as the mulattoes!”“We have allies,” said Toussaint, gravely—“an army more powerful than that which I command. Where are the ants!”“They have closed their campaign. They cleared the fields for us in the autumn; but they have disappeared.”“For a time only. While there are rats, they will reappear.”“And when there are no more rats, we must call in some force, if your excellency knows of such, to make war upon the an Is; for they are only a less evil than that which they cure.”“If they were absent, you would find some worse evil in their stead—pestilence, perhaps. Teach your children this, if you hear them complain of anything to which Providence has given life and an errand among us. The cocoa walks at Plaisance—are they fenced to the north?”“Completely. The new wood has sprung up from the ashes of the fires, like a mist from the lake.”“Are the cottages enlarged and divided, as I recommended?”“Universally. Every cottage inhabited by a family has now two rooms, at least. As your excellency also desired, the cultivators have spent their leisure hours in preparing furniture—from bedsteads to baskets. As the reports will explain, there are some inventions which it is hoped will be inspected by your excellency—particularly a ventilator, to be fixed in the roofs of cottages; a broad shoe for walking over the salt marshes; and—”“The cooler,” prompted a voice from behind.“And a new kind of cooler, which preserves liquids, and even meats, for a longer time than any previously known to the richest planter in the island. This discovery does great credit to the sagacity of the labourer who has completed it.”“I will come and view it. I hope to visit all our cultivators—to verify your reports with my own eyes. At present, we are compelled, like the Romans, to go from arms to the plough, and from the plough to arms; but, when possible, I wish to show that I am not a negro of the coast, with my eye ever abroad upon the sea, or on foreign lands. I desire that we should make use of our own means for our own welfare. Everything that is good shall be welcomed from abroad as it arrives; but the liberty of the blacks can be secured only by the prosperity of their agriculture.”“I do not see why not by fisheries,” observed Paul, to the party in the piazza, as he caught his brother’s words. “If Toussaint is not fond of fish, he should remember that other people are.”“He means,” said Thérèse, “that toil, peaceful toil, with its hope, and its due fruit, is best for the blacks. Now, you know, Paul L’Ouverture, that if the fields of the ocean had required as much labour as those of the plain, you would never have been a fisherman.”“It is pleasanter on a hot day to dive than to dig; and easier to draw the net for an hour than to cut canes for a day—is it not, uncle?” asked Aimée.“If the Commander-in-chief thinks toil good for us,” said Moyse, “why does he disparage war? Who knows better than he what are the fatigues of a march? and the wearisomeness of an ambush is greater still. Why does he, of all men, disparage war?”“Because,” said Madame, “he thinks there has been enough hatred and fighting. I have to put him in mind of his own glory in war, or he would be always forgetting it—except, indeed, when any one comes from Europe. When he hears of Bonaparte, he smiles; and I know he is then glad that he is a soldier too.”“Besides his thinking that there has been too much fighting,” said Aimée, “he wishes that the people should labour joyfully in the very places where they used to toil in wretchedness for the whites.”Thérèse turned to listen, with fire in her eyes.“In order,” continued Aimée, “that they may lose the sense of that misery, and become friendly towards the whites.”Thérèse turned away again, languidly.“There are whites now entering,” said Paul; “not foreigners, are they?”“No,” said Madame. “Surely they are Creoles; yes, there is Monsieur Caze, and Monsieur Hugonin, and Monsieur Charrier. I think these gentlemen have all been reinstated in their properties since the last levée. Hear what they say.”“We come,” exclaimed aloud Monsieur Caze, the spokesman of the party of white planters; “we come, overwhelmed with amazement, penetrated with gratitude, to lay our thanks at your feet. All was lost. The estates on which we were born, the lands bequeathed to us by our fathers, were wrenched from our hands, ravaged, destroyed. We and our families fled—some to the mountains—some to the woods—and many to foreign lands. Your voice reached us, inviting us to our homes. We trusted that voice; we find our lands restored to us, our homes secure, and the passions of war stilled, like this atmosphere after the storms of December. And to you do we owe all—to you, possessed by a magnanimity of which we had not dared to dream!”“These passions of war, of which you speak,” said Toussaint, “need never have raged, if God had permitted the whites to dream what was in the souls of the blacks. Let the past now be forgotten. I have restored your estates because they were yours; but I also perceive advantages in your restoration. By circumstances—not by nature, but by circumstances—the whites have been able to acquire a wide intelligence, a depth of knowledge, from which the blacks have been debarred. I desire for the blacks a perpetual and friendly intercourse with those who are their superiors in education. As residents, therefore, you are welcome; and your security and welfare shall be my care. You find your estates peopled with cultivators?”“We do.”“And you understand the terms on which the labour of your fellow-citizens may be hired? You have only to secure to them one-fourth of the produce, and you will, I believe, be well served. If you experience cause of complaint, your remedy will be found in an appeal to the superintendent of cultivators of the district, or to myself. Over the cultivators no one else, I now intimate to you, has authority.”The gentlemen bowed, having nothing to say on this head.“It may be in your power,” continued Toussaint, after applying to his secretary for a paper from the mass on the table—“it may be in your power to do a service to the colony, and to individuals mentioned in this paper, by affording information as to where they are to be found, if alive; which of them are dead; and which of the dead have left heirs. Many estates remain unclaimed. The list is about to be circulated in the colony, in France, and in the United States. If you should chance to be in correspondence with any of the owners or their heirs, make it known to them from me that they will be welcome here, as you are. In the mean time we are taking the best care in empower of their estates. They must rebuild such of their houses as have been destroyed; but their lands are cultivated under a commission, a part of the produce being assigned to the cultivators, the rest to the public treasury.”Toussaint read the list, watching, as did every one present, the countenances of the Creoles as each name was pronounced. They had information to offer respecting one or two only; to the rest they gave sighs or mournful shakes of the head.“It is afflicting to us all,” said Toussaint, “to think of the slaughter and exile of those who drank wine together in the white mansions of yonder plain. But a wiser cheerfulness is henceforth to spread its sunshine over our land, with no tempest brewing in its heats.”“Have we heard the whole list?” asked Monsieur Charrier, anxiously.“All except three, whose owners or agents have been already summoned. These three are, the Athens estate, Monsieur Dank; the Breda estate, the attorney of which, Monsieur Bayou—”“Is here!” cried a voice from the lower part of the room. “I landed just now,” exclaimed Bayou, hastening with extended arms to embrace Toussaint; “and I lose not a moment—”“Gently, sir,” said the Commander-in-chief, drawing back two steps. “There is now a greater distance between me and you than there, once was between you and me. There can be no familiarity with the chief of a newly-redeemed race.”Monsieur Bayou fell back, looking in every face around him, to see what was thought of this. Every face was grave.“I sent for you,” resumed Toussaint, in a mild voice, “to put you at the head of the interests of the good old masters;—for the good alone have been able to return. Show us what can be done with the Breda estate, with free labourers. Make the blacks work well. Be not only just, but firm. You were formerly too mild a master. Make the blacks work well, that, by the welfare of your small interests, you may add to the general prosperity of the administration of the Commander-in-chief of Saint Domingo.”Monsieur Bayou had no words ready. He stared round him upon the black officers in their splendid uniforms, upon the trains of liveried servants, handing coffee and fruits and sangaree on trays and salvers of massive silver, and on the throng of visitors who crowded upon one another’s heels, all anxious, not merely to pay their respects, but to offer their enthusiastic homage at the feet of his former slave. His eye at length fixed upon the windows, through which he saw something of the outline of the group of ladies.“You desire to greet Madame L’Ouverture?” said Toussaint, kindly. “You shall be conducted to her.” And one of the aides stepped forward to perform the office of introducer.Monsieur Bayou pulled from his pocket, on his way to the window, a shagreen jewel-case; and, by the time he was in front of Madame he had taken from it a rich gold chain, which he hung on her neck, saying, with a voice and air strangely made up of jocoseness, awkwardness, and deference—“I have not forgotten, you see, though I suppose you have, what you gave me, one day long ago. I tried to bring back something prettier than I carried away—something for each of you—but—I don’t know—I find everything here so different from what I had any idea of—so very strange—that I am afraid you will despise my little presents.”While speaking, he shyly held out little parcels to Génifrède and Aimée, who received them graciously, while their mother replied—“In those old days, Monsieur Bayou, we had nothing really our own to give; and you deserved from us any aid that was in our power. My daughters and I now accept with pleasure the tokens of friendship that you bring. I hope no changes have taken place which need prevent our being friends, Monsieur Bayou.”He scarcely heard her.“Is it possible,” cried he, “that these can be your girls? Aimée I might have known—but can this lady be Génifrède?”Génifrède looked up with a smile, which perplexed him still further.“I do not know that I ever saw a smile from her before; and she would not so much as lift up her head at one of my jokes. One could never gain her attention with anything but a ghost story. But I see how it is,” he added, stooping, and speaking low to her mother, while he glanced at Moyse—“she has learned at last the old song that she would not listen to when I wanted to tell her fortune:—“‘Your heart’s your own this summer day;To-morrow ’twill be changed away.’“And Aimée—is she married?”“Aimée is a widow—at least, so we call her,” said her mother, smiling. “Isaac (you remember Placide and Isaac)—her brother Isaac is all the world to her; and he is far away.”Aimée’s eyes were full of tears in a moment; but she looked happy, as she always did when Isaac was spoken of as her own peculiar friend.“I was going to ask about your boys,” said Bayou. “The little fellow who used to ride the horses to water, almost before he could walk alone—he and his brothers, where are they?”“Denis is with his tutor, in the palace here. Placide and Isaac are at Paris.”“At Paris! For education?”“Partly so.”“And partly,” interposed Paul, “for an object in which you, sir, have an interest, and respecting which you ought, therefore, to be informed. There are those who represent my brother’s actions as the result of personal ambition. Such persons have perpetually accused him to the French Government as desiring to sever the connection between the two races, and therefore between this colony and France. At the moment when these charges were most strongly urged, and most nearly believed, my brother sent his two elder sons to Paris, to be educated for their future duties under the care of the Directory. I hope, sir, you see in this act a guarantee for the safety and honour of the whites in Saint Domingo.”“Certainly, certainly. All very right—very satisfactory.”“Everybody who understands, thinks all that the Commander-in-chief does quite right,” said Madame, with so much of her old tone and manner as made Bayou ready to laugh. He turned to Paul, saying—“May I ask if you are the brother who used to reside on the northern coast—if I remember right?”“I am. I am Paul—Paul L’Ouverture.” He sighed as he added, “I do not live on the northern coast now. I am going to live on the southern coast—in a palace, instead of my old hut.”“Monsieur Bayou will see—Monsieur Bayou will hear,” interrupted Madame, “if he will stay out the levée. You will not leave us to-day, Monsieur Bayou?”Monsieur Bayou bowed. He then asked if he had the pleasure of any acquaintance with the other lady, who had not once turned round since he arrived. Thérèse had indeed sat with her face concealed for some time past.“Do not ask her,” said Aimée, eagerly, in a low voice. “We do not speak to her of old times. She is Madame Dessalines.”“The lady of General Dessalines,” said Madame. “Shall I introduce you?”She called to Thérèse. Thérèse just turned round to notice the introduction, when her attention was called another way by two officers, who brought her some message from Toussaint. That one glance perplexed Monsieur Bayou as much as anything he had seen. That beautiful face and form were not new to him; but he had only a confused impression as to where and when he had seen them. He perceived, however, that he was not to ask. He followed her with his eyes as she rose from her low seat, and placed herself close by one of the open jalousies, so as to hear what passed within.“It is the English deputation,” said Paul. “Hear what my brother will say.”“What will become of them?” said Madame. “I do not know what would become of me if my husband were ever as angry with me as I know he is with them.”There were indeed signs of wrath in the countenance which was commonly gentle as the twilight. The rigid uprightness of his figure, the fiery eye, the distended nostril, all showed that Toussaint was struggling with anger. Before him stood a group of Englishmen—a sailor holding a wand, on which was fixed a small white banner, two gentlemen in plain clothes, the captain of the frigate which rode in the bay, and a colonel of the English troops in Jamaica.“It is all very well, gentlemen,” Toussaint was saying—“it is all very well as regards the treaty. Twenty-four hours ago we should have had no difficulty in concluding it. But what have you to say to this treatment of women on board the schooner you captured? What have you to say to your act of taking all the gentlemen out of your prize (except one who would not quit his sister), leaving the ladies in charge of a brutal prize-master, who was drunk—was it not so?” he added, turning to one of his officers.“It was: he was drunk, and refused the ladies access to their trunks of clothes, denied them the wine left for their use, and alarmed them extremely by his language. These ladies were wives of our most distinguished officers.”“It matters not whose wives they were,” said Toussaint: “they were women; and I will treat with none who thus show themselves not to be men.”“We do not ask you to treat with my prize-master,” said Captain Reynolds. “If it be true—”“It is true,” said a voice from the window, to which all listened in a moment. “My maid and I were on board that schooner; from which we landed four hours ago. It is true that we were confined to the cabin, denied the refreshments that were before our eyes, and the use of our own clothes; and it is true that the oaths and threats of a drunken man were in our ears all night. When morning came, we looked out to see if we were really in the seas of Saint Domingo. It seemed as if we had been conveyed where the whites are still paramount.” And Thérèse indignantly walked away.“You hear!” said Toussaint. “And you ask me to trade with Jamaica! While permitted to obtain provisions from our coast, you have captured a French schooner and a sloop in our seas; you have insulted our women; and now you propose a treaty! If it were not for that banner, you would have to treat for mercy.”“When shall I be permitted to speak?” asked Captain Reynolds.“Now.”“The blame is mine. I appointed a prize-master, who, it now appears, was not trustworthy. I was not aware of this; and I left in the cabin, for the use of the ladies, all their own property, two cases of wine, and such fruits as I could obtain for them. I lament to find that my confidence was misplaced; and I pledge myself that the prize-master shall be punished. After offering my apologies to the offended ladies, I will retire to my ship, leaving this business of the treaty to appear as unconnected as it really is with this mischance. Allow me to be conducted to the presence of the ladies.”“I will charge myself with your apologies,” said Toussaint, who knew that any white stood a small chance of a good reception from Thérèse. “I accept your acknowledgment of error, Captain Reynolds, and shall be ready to proceed with the treaty, on proof of the punishment of the prize-master. Gentlemen, I regard this treaty with satisfaction, and am willing to enclose this small tract of peace in the midst of the dreary wilderness of war. I am willing to see trade established between Jamaica and Saint Domingo. There are days when your blue mountains are seen from our shores. Let to-morrow be a bright day when no cloud shall hide us from one another’s friendship.”“To-morrow,” the deputation from Jamaica agreed, as they bowed themselves out of the presence of the Commander-in-chief.“More English! more English!” was whispered round, when the name of Gauthier was announced.“No; not English,” observed some, on seeing that the five who now entered, though in the English uniform, were mulattoes.“Not English,” said Toussaint, aloud. “English soldiers are honourable, whether as friends or foes. When we meet with the spying eye, and the bribing hand, we do not believe them to be English. Such are the eyes and hands of these men. They have the audacity to present themselves as guests, when their own hearts should tell them they are prisoners.”“Prisoners!” exclaimed Gauthier and his companions.“Yes, surely—prisoners. Your conduct has already been judged by a military commission, and you are sentenced. If you have more to say than you had to plead to me, say it when I have read.”Toussaint took from among the papers on the table a letter brought, as Gauthier alleged, from the English commander, Sir Thomas Brisbane, declaring Gauthier empowered to treat for the delivery to the British of the posts of Gonaïves, Les Verrettes, and some others, in order to secure to the British the freedom of the windward passage. Toussaint declared that the messengers had brought with them bags of money, with which they had endeavoured to bribe him to this treachery. He asked of them if this were not true.“It is,” said Gauthier; “but we and our authorities acted upon the precedent of your former conduct.”“What former conduct? Did those hands ever receive gold from the coffers of an enemy? Speak freely. You shall not suffer from anything you may say here.”“You have been the means by which posts have been delivered to an enemy. We remember hearing of the surrender of Marmalade, Gros Morne, and some others.”“I was the means, as you say; but it was done by a wiser will and a stronger hand than mine. In that transaction my heart was pure. My design was to lose rank, and to return to poverty by the step I took. You ought to have inquired into facts, clearly understood by all who know me, before you proceeded to insult me. Have you more to say?”“It was natural that we should believe that he through whom posts had been delivered would deliver posts again; and this was confirmed by rumours, and I believe, even by letters which seemed to come from yourself, in relation to the posts now in question.”Gauthier appealed to his companions, who all assented.“There are other rumours concerning me,” said Toussaint, “which could not be perverted; and to these you should have listened. My actions are messages addressed to the whole world—letters which cannot be forged; and these alone you should have trusted. Such misunderstanding as yours could hardly have been foreseen; but it will be my fault, if it be repeated. The name of the First of the Blacks must never again be associated with bribery. You are sentenced by a military commission, before which your documents have been examined, to run the gauntlet. The sentence will immediately be executed in the Place d’Armes.”“Are you aware,” cried Gauthier, “that I was second in command at Saint Marc when it was in the possession of the British?”“I am aware of it.”“This is enmity to our colour,” said another. “To our being mulattoes we owe our disgrace.”“I have beloved friends of your colour,” said Toussaint. “Believe me, however, the complexion of your souls is so disgusting that I have no attention to spare for your faces. You must now depart.”“Change our punishment!” said Gauthier. “Consider that I am an emigrant officer. Some other punishment!”“No other,” said Toussaint. “This is the fit punishment—mean as your design—ridiculous as your attempt. Are the French Commissaries in waiting, Laroche? Let them be announced.”The prisoners were removed by one door, while the imposing party from France entered by the other.Commissary Hédouville, who had been for some time resident at Cap Français, entered, followed by a party of his countrymen, just arrived from Paris. There was among them one, at sight of whom Toussaint’s countenance changed, while an exclamation was heard from the piazza, which showed that his family were moved like himself. The person who excited this emotion was a young black officer, who entered smiling, and as if scarcely able to keep his place behind the Commissary, and General Michel, the head of the new deputation.The Commander-in-chief quitted his station, and advanced some steps, seizing the officer’s hand, and asking eagerly—“Vincent! Why here? My boys—how, where are they?”“They are well: both well and happy in our beloved Paris. I am here with General Michel; sent by the government, with gifts and compliments, which—”“Which we will speak of when I have offered my welcome to these representatives of the government we all obey,” said Toussaint, turning to the Commissary and the General, and remembering that his emotions as a father had caused him, for the moment, to lose sight of the business of the hour. He made himself the usher of the French Commissaries to the sofa, in front of which he had himself been standing. There he would have seated Hédouville and General Michel. Hédouville threw himself down willingly enough; but the newly arrived messenger chose to stand.“I come,” said he, “the bearer to you of honours from the Republic, which I delight to present as the humblest of your servants.—Not a word of apology for your graceful action of welcome to Brigadier-General Vincent! What so graceful as the emotions of a parent’s heart? I understand—I am aware—he went out as the guardian of your sons; and your first welcome was, therefore, due to him. The office of guardian of your sons is, ought to be, in your eyes, more important, more sacred, than that of Commissary, or any other. If our national Deliverer—if the conqueror of Italy—if our First Consul himself were here, he ought to step back while you embrace the guardian of your sons.”The party in the piazza saw and heard all.“If,” said Madame, in a whisper to Génifrède, “if these honours that they speak of come from Bonaparte—if he has answered your father’s letter, your father will think his happiness complete—now we know that the boys are well.”“The First Consul has written, or will write, no doubt,” said Aimée. “It must be pleasant to him as to my father, to greet a brother in destiny and in glory. Surely General Vincent will come and speak to us; will tell us of my brothers! He looked this way just now.”“The First Consul will not write,” said Moyse. “He is a white; and therefore, though a brother in destiny and in glory, he will not notice the Commander-in-chief of Saint Domingo.”“You are right, Moyse,” said Madame Dessalines. “And it is best so.”“But that will disappoint my husband very much,” said Madame. “He likes the whites better than you do.”“He does,” said Thérèse. “But let us listen.”Hédouville was at the moment exerting himself to introduce his secretary, Monsieur Pascal.“An honoured name,” observed Toussaint.“And not only in name, but by blood connected with the great man you refer to,” said Hédouville.“None are more welcome here,” said Toussaint, “than those who bring with them the honours of piety, of reason, and of science.” And he looked with deep interest upon the countenance of the secretary, which did in truth show signs of that thoughtfulness and sagacity, though not of the morbid suffering, which is associated in all minds with the image of the author of the Provinciales. Monsieur Pascal returned the gaze which was fixed upon him with one in which intense curiosity was mingled with doubt, if not fear. His countenance immediately, however, relaxed into an expression of pleased surprise. During this brief moment, these two men, so unlike—the elderly, toil-worn negro, and the young, studious Frenchman—felt that they were friends.Monsieur Pascal stepped aside to make way for Monsieur Molière.“Are we to welcome in you,” asked Toussaint, “a messenger of mirth to our society?”The group of Frenchmen could scarcely restrain their laughter at this question. Monsieur Molière had a most lugubrious countenance—a thing not always inconsistent with a merry humour: but Monsieur Molière’s heart was believed never to have laughed, any more than his face. He answered, as if announcing a misfortune, that he claimed no connection with the dramatist, though he believed some of his family had attempted to do so.“Monsieur Molière discharges the duty of a pious descendant, however,” said Vincent. “He laughs himself into such a state of exhaustion every night over those immortal comedies, that he has to be carried to bed. That is the reason we see him so grave in the morning.”“Think of Monsieur Molière as a trusted secretary of the messenger from the republic to yourself,” said General Michel.“I come,” said Michel, assuming a pompous tone, “I come associated with an officer of the republican army, Monsieur Pétion—a native of this colony, but a stranger to yourself.”Monsieur Pétion paid his respects. He was a mulatto, with shy and reserved manners, and an exceedingly intellectual countenance.“We lost you early,” said Toussaint; “but only to offer you the warmer welcome back. It was, as I remember, to attend the military schools of France that you left your home. Such scholars are welcome here.”“And particularly,” observed Michel, “when they have also had the fortune to serve in the army of Italy, and immediately under the eye of the First Consul himself.”“Is it so? Is it really so?” exclaimed Toussaint. “I can never hear enough of the ruler of France. Tell us—but that must be hereafter. Do you come to me from him?”“From the government generally,” replied Pétion.An expression of disappointment, very evident to his watchful wife, passed over the face of Toussaint.“There is no letter,” she whispered to Génifrède.“We bring you from the government,” said Michel, “a confirmation of the dignity of Commander-in-chief of this colony, conferred by Commissary Santhonax.”Toussaint bowed, but smiled not.“See, he sighs!” said Madame, sighing in echo.“These are empty words,” said Thérèse. “They give him only what they cannot withhold; and at the very moment they surround him with spies.”“He says,” replied Madame, “that Hédouville is sent here ‘to restrain his ambition.’ Those were the words spoken of him at Paris, where they will not believe that he has no selfish ambition.”“They will not believe, because they cannot understand. Their Commander-in-chief has a selfish ambition; and they cannot imagine that ours may be a man of a higher sold. But we cannot help it: they are whites.”“What a dress—what a beautiful dress!” exclaimed Madame, who almost condescended to stand fairly in the window, to see the presents now displayed before her husband by the commissary’s servants.“These presents,” pursued General Michel, while Pétion stood aloof, as if he had no concern in the business—“this dress of embroidered velvet, and this set of arms, I am to present to you, in the name of the late Directory of France, in token of their admiration of your services to the colony.”Toussaint stretched out his hand for the sword, which he immediately assumed instead of the one he wore, observing that this sword, like that which he had now laid aside, should be employed in loyal service to the republic. As he took no notice of the embroidered dress, it was conveyed away.“Not only in the hall of government,” resumed Michel—“but throughout all Europe, is your name ringing to the skies. A eulogium has been delivered at the Council of Ancients—”“And an oration before the governors of the Military Schools,” added Hédouville.“And from Paris,” said Pascal, “your reputation has spread along the shores of the Rhine, and as far north as Saint Petersburg; and in the south, even to Rome.”Toussaint’s ear caught a low laugh of delight from the piazza, which he thought fit alone for a husband’s ear, and therefore hoped that no one else had heard.“Enough, gentlemen,” he said. “Measuring together my deeds and this applause, I understand the truth. This applause is in fact given to the powers of the negro race; and not to myself as a soldier or a man. It belongs not, therefore, to me. For my personal support, one line of a letter, one word of message, from the chief of our common country, would be worth the applause of Europe, of which you speak.”Monsieur Petion produced a sealed packet, which he delivered; and this seemed to remind General Vincent that he had one too. Toussaint was unable to refrain from tearing open first one, and then the other, in the intense hope of receiving some acknowledgment, some greeting from the “brother in destiny and in glory,” who was the idol of his loyal heart. There was no word from Bonaparte among the first papers; and it was scarcely possible that there should be in the other packet; yet he could not keep his eye from it. Other eyes were watching from behind the jalousies. He cast a glance, a half smile that way; the consequence of which was that Aimée, forgetting the time, the deputation, the officers, the whole crowd, sprang into the room, and received the letter from Isaac, which was the only thing in all that room that she saw. She disappeared in another moment, followed, however, by General Vincent.The father’s smile died away from the face of Toussaint, and his brow darkened, as he caught at a glance the contents of the proclamations contained in Pétion’s packet. A glance was enough. Before the eyes of the company had returned from the window, whither they had followed the apparition of Aimée, he had folded up the papers. His secretary’s hand was ready to receive them: but Toussaint put them into his bosom.“Those proclamations,” said Hédouville, rising from the sofa, and standing by Toussaint’s side, “you will immediately publish. You will immediately exhibit on your colours the words imposed, ‘Brave blacks, remember that the French people alone recognise your freedom, and the legality of your rights!’”As the commissary spoke these, words aloud, he looked round upon the assembled blacks, who, in their turn, all fixed their eyes upon their chief. Toussaint merely replied that he would give his best attention to all communications from the government of France.“In order,” said Hédouville, as if in explanation of a friend’s purposes, “in order to yield implicit obedience to its commands.” Then resuming his seat, he observed to Toussaint, “I believe General Michel desires some little explanation of certain circumstances attending his landing at Cap.”“I do,” said General Michel, resuming his solemn air. “You are aware that General Vincent and I were arrested on landing?”“I am aware of it. It was by my instant command that you were set free.”“By whose command, or by what error, then, were we arrested?”“I hoped that full satisfaction had been afforded you by Monsieur Raymond, the Governor of Cap Français. Did he not explain to you that it was by an impulse of the irritated blacks—an impulse of which they repent, and to which they will not again yield, proceeding from anger for which there is but too much cause? As you, however, are not to be made responsible for the faults of your government towards us, the offending parties have been amply punished.”“I,” said Hédouville, from the sofa behind, “I am held responsible for the faults of our government towards you. What are they?”“We will discuss them at Cap,” replied Toussaint. “There you will be surrounded by troops of your own colour; and you will feel more at liberty to open your whole mind to me than, it grieves me to perceive, you are when surrounded by blacks. When you know the blacks better, you will become aware that the highest security is found in fully trusting them.”“What is it that you suppose we fear from the blacks?”“When we are at Cap, I will ask you what it was that you feared, Monsieur Hédouville, when you chose to land at Saint Domingo, instead of at Cap—when you showed your mistrust of your fellow-citizens by selecting the Spanish city for your point of entrance upon our island. I will then ask you what it is that your government fears, that it commits the interests of the blacks to a new legislature, which understands neither their temper nor their affairs.”“This was, perhaps, the cause of the difficulty we met with at Cap,” observed General Michel.“It is the chief cause. Some jealousy on this account is not to be wondered at; but it has not the less been punished. I would further ask,” he continued, turning again to Hédouville, “what the First Consul fears, that—”“Who ever heard of the First Consul fearing anything?” cried Hédouville, with a smile.“Hear it now, then.”“In this place?” said Hédouville, looking round. “In public?”“In this place—among the most loyal of the citizens of France,” replied Toussaint, casting a proud look round upon his officers and assembled friends. “If I were about to make complaints of the First Consul, I would close my doors upon you and myself, and speak in whispers. But it is known that I honour him, and hold him to my heart, as a brother in destiny and in glory: though his glory is now at its height, while mine will not be so till my race is redeemed from the consequences of slavery, as well as from slavery itself. Still, we are brothers; and I therefore mourn his fears, shown in the documents that he sends to my soldiers, and shown no less in his sending none to me.”“I bring you from him the confirmation of your dignity,” observed General Michel.“You do so by message. The honour is received through the ear. But that which should plant it down into my heart—the greeting from a brother—is wanting. It cannot be that the First of the Whites has not time, has not attention, for the First of the Blacks. It is that he fears—not for himself, but for our country: he fears our ambition, our revenge. He shall experience, however, that we are loyal—from myself, his brother, to the mountain child who startles the vulture from the rocks with his shouts of Bonaparte the Great. To engage our loyalty before many witnesses,” he continued, once more looking round upon the assemblage, “I send this message through you, in return for that which I have received. Tell the First Consul that, in the absence of interference with the existing laws of the colony, I guarantee, under my personal responsibility, the submission to order, and the devotion to France, of my black brethren. Mark the condition, gentlemen, which you will pronounce reasonable. Mark the condition, and you will find happy results. You will soon see whether I pledge in vain my own responsibility and your hopes.”Even while he spoke, in all the fervour of unquestionable sincerity, of his devotion to France, his French hearers fell that he was virtually a monarch. The First of the Blacks was not only supreme in this palace, and throughout the colony; he had entered upon an immortal reign over all lands trodden by the children of Africa. To the contracted gaze of the diplomatists present, all might not be visible—the coming ages when the now prophetic name of L’Ouverture should have become a bright fact in the history of man, and should be breathed in thanksgiving under the palm-tree, sung in exultation in the cities of Africa, and embalmed in the liberties of the Isles of the West:—such a sovereignty as this was too vast and too distant for the conceptions of Michel and Hédouville to embrace; but they were impressed with a sense of his power, with a feeling of the majesty of his influence; and the reverential emotions which they would fain have shaken off, and which they were afterwards ashamed of, were at the present moment enhanced by sounds which reached them from the avenue. There was military music, the firing of salutes, the murmur of a multitude of voices, and the tramp of horses and of men.Toussaint courteously invited the commissaries to witness the presentation to him, for the interests of France, of the keys of the cities of the island, late in the possession of Spain, and now ceded to France by the treaty of Bâle. The commissaries could not refuse, and took their stand on one side of the First of the Blacks, while Paul L’Ouverture assumed the place of honour on the other hand.The apartment was completely filled by the heads of the procession—the late Governor of the city of Saint Domingo, his officers, the magistracy of the city, and the heads of the clergy.Among these last was a face which Toussaint recognised with strong emotion. The look which he cast upon Laxabon, the gesture of greeting which he offered, caused Don Alonzo Dovaro to turn round to discover whose presence there could be more imposing to the Commander-in-chief than his own. The flushed countenance of the priest marked him out as the man.Don Alonzo Dovaro ordered the keys to be brought, and addressed himself in Spanish to Toussaint. Toussaint did not understand Spanish, and knew that the Spaniard, could speak French. The Spaniard, however, chose to deliver up a Spanish city in no other language than that of his nation. Father Laxabon stepped forward eagerly, with an offer to be interpreter. It was an opportunity he was too thankful to embrace—a most favourable means of surmounting the awkwardness of renewed intercourse with one, by whom their last conversation could not be supposed to be forgotten.“This is well—this fulfilment of the treaty of Bâle,” said Toussaint. “But it would have been better if the fulfilment had been more prompt. The time for excuses and apologies is past. I merely say, as sincerity requires, that the most speedy fulfilment of treaties is ever the most honourable; and that I am guiltless of such injury as may have arisen from calling off ten thousand blacks from the peaceful pursuits of agriculture and commerce, to march them to the gates of Saint Domingo. You, the authorities of the city, compelled me to lead them there, in enforcement of the claims of France. If warlike thoughts have sprung up in those ten thousand minds, the responsibility is not mine. I wish that nothing but peace should be in the hearts of men of all races. Have you wishes to express, in the name of the citizens? Show me how I can gratify them.”“Don Alonzo Dovaro explains,” said the interpreter, “that it will be acceptable to the Spanish inhabitants that you take the customary oath, in the name of the Holy Trinity, respecting the government of their whole region.”“It is indeed a holy duty. What is the purport of the oath?”“In the name of the Holy Trinity, to govern wisely and well.”“Has there lived a Christian man who would take that oath?”“Every governor of the Spanish colony in this island, from Diego, the brother of Columbus, to this day.”“What is human wisdom,” said Toussaint, “that a man should swear that he will be always wise? What is human virtue, that he should pledge his salvation on governing well? I dare not take the oath.”The Spaniards showed that they understood French by the looks they cast upon each other, before Laxabon could complete his version.“This, however, will I do,” said Toussaint. “I will meet you to-morrow, at the great church in Port-au-Prince, and there bind myself before the altar, before the God who hears me now, on behalf of your people, to be silent on the past, and to employ my vigilance and my toils in rendering happy the Spanish people, now become my fellow-citizens of France.”A profusion of obeisances proved that this was satisfactory. The late governor of the city took from one of his officers the velvet cushion on which were deposited the keys of Saint Domingo, and transferred it to the hands of the Commander-in-chief. At the moment, there was an explosion of cannon from the terrace on which stood the town; the bells rang in all the churches; and bursts of military music spread over the calm bay, with the wreaths of white smoke from the guns. The flamingoes took flight again from the strand; the ships moved in their anchorage; the shouts of the people arose from the town, and those of the soldiery from the square of the great avenue. Their idol, their Ouverture, was now in command of the whole of the most beautiful of the isles of the west.As soon as he could be heard, Toussaint introduced his brother to the Spaniards. Placing the cushion containing the keys upon the table, and laying his hand upon the keys, he declared his intention of giving to the inhabitants of the city of Saint Domingo a pledge of the merciful and gentle character of the government under which they were henceforth to live, in the person of the new governor, Paul L’Ouverture, who had never been known to remember unkindness from day-to-day. The new governor would depart for the east of the island on the morrow, from the door of the church, at the close of the celebration.The levée was now over. Spanish, French, and the family and guests of the Commander-in-chief, were to meet at a banquet in the evening. Meantime, Toussaint and his brother stepped out together upon the northern piazza, and the room was cleared.“I wish,” said Paul, “that you had appointed any one but me to be governor of that city. How should a poor negro fisherman like me govern a city?”“You speak like a white, Paul. The whites say of me, ‘How should a poor negro postillion govern a colony?’ You must do as I do—show that a negro can govern.”“But Heaven made you for a ruler.”“Who thought so while I was yet a slave? As for you—I know not what you can do till you have tried; nor do you. I own that you are not the man I should have appointed, if I had had a choice among all kinds of men.”“Then look around for some other.”“There is no other, on the whole, so little unfit as you. Henri must remain in the field while Rigaud is in arms. Jacques—”“Ay, Dessalines—and he might have a court—such a wife as he would carry.”“Dessalines must not govern a city of whites. He hates the whites. His passion of hatred would grow with power; and the Spaniards would be wretched. They are now under my protection. I must give them a governor who cannot hate; and therefore I send you. Your love of our people and of me, my brother, will rouse you to exertion and self-denial. For the rest you shall have able counsellors on the spot. For your private guidance, I shall be ever at your call. Confide wholly in me, and your appeal shall never be unanswered.”“You shall be governor, then. I will wear the robes, and your head shall do the work. I will amuse the inhabitants with water-parties, and you—”“No more of this!” said Toussaint, somewhat sternly. “It seems that you are unwilling to do your part of the great duty of our age and our race. Heaven has appointed you the opportunity of showing that blacks are men—fit to govern as to serve;—and you would rather sleep in the sunshine than listen to the message from the sky. My own brother does what he can to deepen the brand on the forehead of the negro!”“I am ashamed, brother,” said Paul, “I am not like you; but yet I will do what I can. I will go to-morrow, and try whether I can toil as you do. There is one thing I can do which Henri, and Jacques, and even you, cannot;—I can speak Spanish.”“You have discovered one of your qualifications, dear Paul. You will find more. Will you take Moyse with you?”“Let it be a proof that I can deny myself, that I leave my son with you. Moyse is passionate.”“I know it,” said Toussaint.“He governs both his love and his hatred before you, while with me he indulges them. He must remain with you, in order to command his passions. He inherited them from me; and I must thus far help him to master them. You are all-powerful with him. I have no power.”“You mean that Génifrède and I together are all-powerful with him. I believe it is so.”“To you, then, I commit him. Moyse is henceforth your son.”“As Génifrède is your daughter, Paul. If I die before the peace of the island is secured, there are two duties which I assign to you—to support the spirit of the blacks, and to take my Génifrède for your daughter. The rest of my family love each other, and the world we live in. She loves only Moyse.”“She is henceforth my child. But when will you marry them?”“When Moyse shall have done some act to distinguish himself—for which he shall not want opportunity. I have a higher duty than that to my family—it is my duty to call out all the powers of every black. Moyse must therefore prove what he can do, before he can marry his love. For him, however, this is an easy condition.”“I doubt not you are right, brother; but it is well for me that the days of my love are past.”“Not so, Paul. The honour of your race must now be your love. For this you must show what you can do.”They had paced the northern piazza while conversing. They now turned into the eastern, where they came upon the lovers, who were standing half shrouded by creeping plants—Moyse’s arm round Génifrède’s waist, and Génifrède’s head resting on her lover’s shoulder. The poor girl was sobbing violently, while Moyse was declaring that he would marry her, with or without consent, and carry her with him, if he was henceforth to live in the east of the island.“Patience, foolish boy!” cried his father. “You go not with me. I commit you to my brother. You will stay with him, and yield him the duty of a son—a better duty than we heard you planning just now.”“As soon as you prove yourself worthy, you shall be my son indeed,” said Toussaint. “I have heard your plans of marriage. You shall hear mine. I will give you opportunities of distinguishing yourself, in the services of the city and of the field. After the first act which proves you worthy of responsibility, I will give you Génifrède. As a free man, can you desire more?”“I am satisfied—I am grateful,” said Moyse. “I believe I spoke some hasty words just now; but we supposed I was to be sent among the whites—and I had so lately returned from the south—and Génifrède was so wretched!”Génifrède threw herself on her father’s bosom, with broken words of love and gratitude. It was the first time she had ever voluntarily approached so near him; and she presently drew back, and glanced in his face with timid awe.“My Génifrède! My child!” cried Toussaint, in a rapture of pleasure at this loosening of the heart. He drew her towards him, folded his arms about her, kissed the tears from her cheek, and hushed her sobs, saying, in a low voice which touched her very soul—“He can do great deeds, Génifrède. He is yours, my child; but we shall all be proud of him.”She looked up once more, with a countenance so radiant, that Toussaint carried into all the toils and observance of the day the light heart of a happy father.Note 1. I have to acknowledge that injustice is done in this work to the character of General Vincent. The writer of historical fiction is under that serious liability, in seizing on a few actual incidents, concerning a subordinate personage, that he makes himself responsible for justice to the whole character of the individual whose name he introduces into his story. Under this liability I have been unjust to Vincent, as Scott was to Edward Christian, in “Peveril of the Peak,” and Campbell to Brandt, in “Gertrude of Wyoming.” Like them, I am anxious to make reparation on the first opportunity. It is true that in my Appendix I avowed that Vincent was among those of my personages whose name alone I adopted, without knowing his character; but such an explanation in an appendix does not counteract the impression already made by the work. Finding this, I had thoughts of changing the name in the present edition; but I feared the character being still identified with Vincent, from its being fact that it was Vincent who accompanied Toussaint’s sons to Paris, and returned with the deputation, as I have represented; I think it best, therefore, to say here that, from all I can learn, General Vincent was an honourable and useful man, and that the delineation of character under that name in my book is purely fictitious. The following extract from Clarkson’s pamphlet on Negro Improvement will show in what estimation General Vincent is held by one whose testimony is of the highest value:—“The next witness to whom I shall appeal is the estimable General Vincent, who now lives at Paris, though at an advanced age. He was a Colonel, and afterwards a General of Brigade of Artillery in Saint Domingo. He was detained there during the time both of Santhonax and Toussaint. He was also a proprietor of estates in the island. He was the man who planned the renovation of its agriculture after the abolition of slavery, and one of the great instruments in bringing it to the perfection mentioned by La Croix. In the year 1801 he was called upon by Toussaint to repair to Paris, to lay before the Directory the new Constitution, which had been agreed on in Saint Domingo. He obeyed the summons. It happened that he arrived in France just at the moment of the Peace of Amiens. Here he found, to his inexpressible surprise and grief, that Bonaparte was preparing an immense armament, under Leclerc, to restore slavery in Saint Domingo. He remonstrated against the expedition: he told him to his face that though the army destined for this purpose was composed of the brilliant conquerors of Europe, they could do nothing in the Antilles. He stated, as another argument against the expedition, that it was totally unnecessary, and, therefore, criminal; for that everything was going on well in Saint Domingo; the proprietors in peaceable possession of their estates, cultivation making rapid progress, the Blacks industrious, and beyond example happy.”

If the devastation attending the revolutionary wars of Saint Domingo was great, it was repaired with singular rapidity. Thanks to the vigorous agencies of nature in a tropical region, the desolated plains were presently covered with fresh harvests, and the burnt woods were buried deep under the shadow of young forests, more beautiful than the old. Thanks also to the government of the wisest mind in the island, the moral evils of the struggle were made subordinate to its good results. It was not in the power of man to bury past injuries in oblivion, while there were continually present minds which had been debased by tyranny, and hearts which had been outraged by cruelty; but all that could be done was done. Vigorous employment was made the great law of society—the one condition of the favour of its chief; and, amidst the labours of the hoe and the mill, the workshop and the wharf—amidst the toils of the march and the bustle of the court, the bereaved and insulted forgot their woes and their revenge. A now growth of veneration and of hope overspread the ruins of old delights and attachments, as the verdure of the plain spread its mantle over the wrecks of mansion and of hut. In seven years from the kindling of the first incendiary torch on the Plaine du Nord, it would have been hard for a stranger, landing in Saint Domingo, to believe what had been the horrors of the war.

Of these seven years, however, the first three or four had been entirely spent in war, and the rest disturbed by it. Double that number of years must pass before there could be any security that the crop planted would ever be reaped, or that the peasants who laid out their family burying-grounds would be carried there in full age, instead of perishing in the field or in the woods. The cultivators went out to their daily work with the gun slung across their shoulders and the cutlass in their belt: the hills were crested with forts, and the mountain-passes were watched by scouts. The troops were frequently reviewed in the squares of the towns, and news was perpetually arriving of a skirmish here or there. The mulatto general, Rigaud, had never acknowledged the authority of Toussaint L’Ouverture; and he was still in the field, with a mulatto force sufficient to interrupt the prosperity of the colony, and endanger the authority of its Lieutenant-Governor. It was some time, however, since Rigaud had approached any of the large towns. The sufferers by his incursions were the planters and field-labourers. The inhabitants of the towns carried on their daily affairs as if peace had been fully established in the island, and feeling the effects of such warfare as there was only in their occasional contributions of time and money.

The Commander-in-chief, as Toussaint L’Ouverture was called, by the appointment of the French commissaries, though his dignity had not yet been confirmed from Paris—the Commander-in-chief of Saint Domingo held his head-quarters at Port-au-Prince. Among other considerations which rendered this convenient, the chief was that he thus avoided much collision with the French officials, which must otherwise have taken place. All the commissaries, who rapidly succeeded one another from Paris, resided at Government-House, in Cap Français. Thence, they issued orders and regulations in the name of the government at home; orders and regulations which were sometimes practicable, sometimes unwise, and often absurd. If Toussaint had resided at Cap, a constant witness of their ignorance of the minds, manners, and interests of the blacks—if he had been there to listen to the complaints and appeals which would have been daily made, he could scarcely have kept terms for a single week with the French authorities. By establishing himself in the south, while they remained in the north, he was able quietly to neutralise or repair much of the mischief which they did, and to execute many of his own plans without consulting them; while many a grievance was silently borne, many an order simply neglected, which would have been a cause of quarrel, if any power of redress had been at hand. Jealous as he was for the infant freedom of his race, Toussaint knew that it would be best preserved by weaning their minds from thoughts of anger, and their eyes from the sight of blood. Trust in the better part of negro nature guided him in his choice between two evils. He preferred that they should be misgoverned in some affairs of secondary importance, and keep the peace, rather than that they should be governed to their hearts’ content by himself, at the risk of quarrel with the mother-country. He trusted to the singular power of forbearance and forgiveness which is found in the negro race for the preservation of friendship with the whites and of the blessings of peace; and he therefore reserved his own powerful influence over both parties for great occasions—interfering only when he perceived that, through carelessness or ignorance, the French authorities were endangering some essential liberty of those to whom they were the medium of the pleasure of the government at home. The blacks were aware that the vigilance of their Commander-in-chief over their civil rights never slept, and that his interference always availed; and these convictions ensured their submission, or at least their not going beyond passive resistance on ordinary occasions, and thus strengthened their habits of peace.

The Commander-in-chief held his levées at Port-au-Prince on certain days of the month, all the year round. No matter how far-off he might be, or how engaged, the night before, he rarely failed to be at home on the appointed day, at the fixed hour. On one particular occasion, he was known to have been out against Rigaud, day and night, for a fortnight, and to be closely engaged as far south as Aux Cayes, the very evening preceding the review and levée which had been announced for the 20th of January. Not the less for this did he appear in front of the troops in the Place Républicaine, when the daylight gushed in from the east, putting out the stars, whose reflection trembled in the still waters of the bay. The last evolutions were finished, and the smoke from the last volley had incited away in the serene sky of January, before the coolness of the northern breeze had yielded to the blaze of the mounting sun. The troops then lined the long streets of the town, and the avenue to the palace, while the Commander-in-chief and his staff passed on, and entered the palace-gates.

The palace, like every other building in Port-au-Prince, consisted of one storey only. The town had been destroyed by an earthquake in 1770; and, though earthquakes are extremely rare in Saint Domingo, the place had been rebuilt in view of the danger of another. The palace therefore covered a large piece of ground, and its principal rooms were each nearly surrounded by garden and grass-plat. The largest apartment, in which the levées were always held, was the best room in the island—if not for the richness of its furniture, for its space and proportions, and the views which it commanded. Not even the abode of the Commander-in-chief could exhibit such silken sofas, marble tables, gilded balustrades, and japanned or ivory screens, as had been common in the mansions of the planters; and Toussaint had found other uses for such money as he had than those of pure luxury. The essential and natural advantages of his palace were enough for him and his. The door of this, his favourite apartment, was covered with a fine India matting; the windows were hung with white muslin curtains; and the sofas, which stood round three sides of the room, between the numerous windows, were covered with green damask, of no very rich quality. In these many windows lay the charm, commanding, as they did, extensive prospects to the east, north, and west. The broad verandah cast a shadow which rendered it unnecessary to keep the jalousies closed, except during the hottest hours of the year. This morning every blind was swung wide open, and the room was cool and shady, while, without, all was bathed in the mild, golden sunshine of January—bright enough for the strongest eye, but without glare.

To the east and north spread the Cul-de-Sac—a plain of unequalled richness, extending to the foot of the mountains, fifteen miles into the interior. The sun had not yet risen so high but that these mountains cast a deep shadow for some distance into the plain, while their skirts were dark with coffee-groves, and their summits were strongly marked against the glowing sky. Amidst the wide, verdant level of the plain, arose many a white mansion, each marked by a cluster of trees, close at hand. Some of these plantation houses looked bluish and cool in the mountain shadows; others were like bright specks in the sunshine, each surmounted by a star, if its gilded weathercock chanced to turn in the breeze. To the north, also, this plain, still backed by mountains, extended till it joined the sands of the bight.

Upon these sands, on the margin of the deep blue waters, might be seen flashing in the sun a troop of flamingoes, now moving forward in a line into the waves, and diligently fishing; and then, on the alarm of a scout, all taking wing successively, and keeping their order, as they flew homewards, to the salt marshes in the interior—their scarlet bodies vividly contrasted with the dark green of the forests that clothed the mountain-sides. To the west lay the broad azure sheet of the bay, locked by the island of Gonave, and sprinkled with fishing-boats, while under the forest-tufted rocks of the island two vessels rode at anchor—a schooner belonging to Saint Domingo, and an English frigate.

In the shady western piazza sat a party who seemed much occupied in looking out upon the bay, and watching the vessels that lay under the island; from which vessels boats might be seen putting off for the town just at the time of the commencement of the levée. The party in the piazza consisted chiefly of women. Madame L’Ouverture was there—like, and yet unlike, the Margot of former years—employed, as usual—busy with her needle, and motherly, complacent, tenderly vigilant as of old; but with a matronly grace and dignity which evidently arose from a gratified mind, and not from external state. Her daughters were beside her, both wonderfully improved in beauty, though Génifrède still preserved the superiority there. She sat a little apart from her mother and sister netting. Moyse was at her feet, in order to obtain the benefit of an occasional gleam from the eyes which were cast down upon her work. His idolatry of her was no surprise to any who looked upon her in her beauty, now animated and exalted by the love which she had avowed, and which was sanctioned by her father and her family. The sisters were dressed nearly alike, though Aimée knew well that it would have been politic to have avoided thus bringing herself into immediate comparison with her sister. But Aimée cared not what was thought of her face, form, or dress. Isaac had always been satisfied with them. She had confided in Génifrède’s taste when they first assumed their rank; and it was least troublesome to do so still. If Isaac should wish it otherwise when he should return from France, she would do as he desired. Meantime, they were dressed in all essentials exactly alike, from the pattern of the Madras handkerchief they wore (according to universal custom) on their heads, to the cut of the French-kid shoe. The dress was far from resembling the European fashion of the time. No tight lacing; no casing in whalebone—nothing like a hoop. A chemisette of the finest cambric appeared within the bodice, and covered the bosom. The short full sleeves were also of white cambric. The bodice, and short full skirt, were of deep yellow India silk; and the waist was confined with a broad band of violet-coloured velvet, gaily embroidered. The only difference in the dress of the sisters was in their ornaments. Aimée wore heavy ear-drops, and a large necklace and bracelets of amethyst; while Génifrède wore, suspended from a throat-band of velvet, embroidered like that which bound her waist, a massive plain gold crucifix, lately given her by Moyse. Her ear-rings were hoops of plain gold, and her bracelets again of embroidered velvet, clasped with plain gold. In her might be seen, and in her was seen by the Europeans who attended the levée of that day, what the negro face and form may be when seen in their native climate, unhardened by degradation, undebased by ignorance, unspoiled by oppression—all peculiarities of feature softened under the refining influence of mind, and all peculiarities of expression called out in their beauty by the free exercise of natural affections. The animated sweetness of the negro countenance is known only to those who have seen it thus.

Paul was of the party, looking very well in the French uniform, which he wore in honour of his brother on great occasions, though he was far from having grown warlike on his change of fortune. His heart was still in his cottage, or on the sea; and now, as he stood leaning against a pillar of the piazza, his eye was more busy in watching the fishing-boats in the bay than in observing what went on within the house. The only thing he liked about state-days was the hours of idleness they afforded—such hours as this, when, lounging in the shade, he could see Moyse happy at the feet of his beloved, and enjoy the soft wind as it breathed past, laden with spicy scents. During such an hour, he almost forgot the restraints of his uniform and of his rank.

There was yet another person in the piazza. Seated on its step, but sheltered by its broad eaves, sat Thérèse—more beautiful by far than Génifrède—more beautiful by far than in her days of girlhood—celebrated as she had then been throughout the colony. Her girlishness was gone, except its grace; her sensitiveness was gone, and (as those might think who did not watch the changes of her eye) much of her animation. Her carriage was majestic, her countenance, calm, and its beauty, now refined by a life of leisure and the consciousness of rank—leisure and rank both well employed—more imposing than ever. Her husband was now a general in Toussaint’s army. When he was in the field, Madame Dessalines remained at home, on their estate near Saint Marc. When he was in attendance on the Commander-in-chief, she was ever a welcome guest in Toussaint’s family. Madame L’Ouverture loved her as a daughter; and she had endeared herself to the girls. At this time, from an accidental circumstance, she was at the palace without her husband. It was evident that she felt quite at home there; for, though she had arrived only a few hours before, she did not appear disposed to converse. As she sat alone, leaning against the base of the pillar, she now and then cast her eyes on the book she held open in her hand, but for the most part looked abroad upon the terraced town, the bay, or the shadowy clefts of the rocky island which closed it in.

The sound of feet and of voices from within increased from moment to moment. The Commander-in-chief had assumed his place, with his aides on either hand; and presently the room was so nearly filled as to leave no more space than was required for the deputations to pass in at one entrance on the south of the apartment, appear before the General, and pass out at the other door. Toussaint stood at the centre of the north end, beside a table partly covered with papers, and at which sat his secretary. On this table lay his cocked hat. His uniform was blue, with scarlet capo and cuffs, richly embroidered. He had white trousers, long Hessian boots, and, as usual, the Madras handkerchief on his head. While walking up the apartment, he had been conversing on business with his officers, and continued to do so, without the loss of a moment, till, on his taking his place, two ushers came up with an account of the parties waiting for admittance, desiring to know his pleasure as to who should have precedence.

“The clergy,” said Toussaint; “the first in duty must be first in honour.”

In a few moments there was a loud announcement of the clergy from the districts of Saint Marc, Leogane, Mirbalais, and so on, through a long enumeration of districts. The priests entered, two and two, a long procession of black gowns. As they collected into a group before him, every one anxiously making way for them, Toussaint crossed his arms upon his breast, and bowed his head low for many moments. When he looked up again, an expression of true reverence was upon his countenance; and, in a tone of earnestness, he asked for what service they desired to command him.

Father Antioche, an old priest, assisted by a brother at least thirty years younger, offered sealed papers, which, he said, contained reports from the several districts concerning the religious and moral condition of the inhabitants. Toussaint received them, and laid them, with his own hand, upon the table beside him, saying, with much solicitude—

“Do I see rightly in your countenances that you bring good news of your flocks, my fathers!”

“It is so,” replied the old priest. “Our wishes are fast fulfilling.”

“Eight thousand marriages have been celebrated, as will appear in our reports,” added the young priest.

“And in the difficult cases of a plurality of wives,” resumed Father Antioche, “there is generally a willingness in the cultivators to maintain liberally those who are put away.”

“And the children?”

“The children may be found in the schools, sitting side by side in peace. The quarrels of the children of different mothers (quarrels often fatal in the fields) disappear in the schools. The reports well exhibit the history of our expanding system.”

“God be thanked!” Toussaint uttered in a low voice.

“Under the religions rule of your excellency,” said the young priest, “enforced by so pure an example of piety, the morals of this colony will be established, and the salvation of its people secured.”

“You,” said Toussaint, “the servants of Christ, are the true rulers of this island and its inhabitants. I am your servant in guarding external order, during a period which you will employ in establishing your flocks in the everlasting wisdom and peace of religion. I hold the inferior office of keeping our enemies in awe, and enabling our people to find subsistence and comfort. My charge is the soil on which, and the bodies in which, men live. You have in charge their souls, in which lies the future of this world and of the next. You are the true rulers of Saint Domingo; and we bow to you as such.”

Every head was immediately bowed, and the priests went out, amidst the obeisances of the whole assemblage—some of the order wondering, perhaps, whether every mind there was as sincere in its homage as that of the Commander-in-chief.

The superintendents of the cultivators came next—negroes dressed in check shirts, white linen jackets and trousers, and with the usual Madras handkerchief on the head. They, too, handed in reports; and to them also did Toussaint address his questions, with an air of respect almost equal to that with which he had spoken to the priests.

“I grieve,” said he, “that you cannot yet fulfil your function altogether in peace. My generals and I have done what we can to preserve our fields from devastation, and our cultivators from the dangers and the fears of ambushed foes; but Rigaud’s forces are not yet subdued; and for a while we must impose upon our cultivators the toil of working armed in the field. We are soldiers here,” he added, looking round upon his officers, “but I hope there is not one of us who does not honour the hoe more than the gun. How far have you been able to repair in the south-eastern districts the interruption in the September planting?”

The superintendent of those districts came forward, and said that some planting had been effected in November, the sprouts of which now looked well. More planting had been done during the early part of the present month; and time would show the result.

“Good!” said Toussaint. “Some of the finest crops I have seen have risen from January plants, though it were best it were done in September. How do you report about the rats?”

“The nuisance is still great,” replied the head superintendent; “their uninterrupted possession of the fields during the troubles has made them very powerful. Would that your excellency were as powerful to conquer the rats as the mulattoes!”

“We have allies,” said Toussaint, gravely—“an army more powerful than that which I command. Where are the ants!”

“They have closed their campaign. They cleared the fields for us in the autumn; but they have disappeared.”

“For a time only. While there are rats, they will reappear.”

“And when there are no more rats, we must call in some force, if your excellency knows of such, to make war upon the an Is; for they are only a less evil than that which they cure.”

“If they were absent, you would find some worse evil in their stead—pestilence, perhaps. Teach your children this, if you hear them complain of anything to which Providence has given life and an errand among us. The cocoa walks at Plaisance—are they fenced to the north?”

“Completely. The new wood has sprung up from the ashes of the fires, like a mist from the lake.”

“Are the cottages enlarged and divided, as I recommended?”

“Universally. Every cottage inhabited by a family has now two rooms, at least. As your excellency also desired, the cultivators have spent their leisure hours in preparing furniture—from bedsteads to baskets. As the reports will explain, there are some inventions which it is hoped will be inspected by your excellency—particularly a ventilator, to be fixed in the roofs of cottages; a broad shoe for walking over the salt marshes; and—”

“The cooler,” prompted a voice from behind.

“And a new kind of cooler, which preserves liquids, and even meats, for a longer time than any previously known to the richest planter in the island. This discovery does great credit to the sagacity of the labourer who has completed it.”

“I will come and view it. I hope to visit all our cultivators—to verify your reports with my own eyes. At present, we are compelled, like the Romans, to go from arms to the plough, and from the plough to arms; but, when possible, I wish to show that I am not a negro of the coast, with my eye ever abroad upon the sea, or on foreign lands. I desire that we should make use of our own means for our own welfare. Everything that is good shall be welcomed from abroad as it arrives; but the liberty of the blacks can be secured only by the prosperity of their agriculture.”

“I do not see why not by fisheries,” observed Paul, to the party in the piazza, as he caught his brother’s words. “If Toussaint is not fond of fish, he should remember that other people are.”

“He means,” said Thérèse, “that toil, peaceful toil, with its hope, and its due fruit, is best for the blacks. Now, you know, Paul L’Ouverture, that if the fields of the ocean had required as much labour as those of the plain, you would never have been a fisherman.”

“It is pleasanter on a hot day to dive than to dig; and easier to draw the net for an hour than to cut canes for a day—is it not, uncle?” asked Aimée.

“If the Commander-in-chief thinks toil good for us,” said Moyse, “why does he disparage war? Who knows better than he what are the fatigues of a march? and the wearisomeness of an ambush is greater still. Why does he, of all men, disparage war?”

“Because,” said Madame, “he thinks there has been enough hatred and fighting. I have to put him in mind of his own glory in war, or he would be always forgetting it—except, indeed, when any one comes from Europe. When he hears of Bonaparte, he smiles; and I know he is then glad that he is a soldier too.”

“Besides his thinking that there has been too much fighting,” said Aimée, “he wishes that the people should labour joyfully in the very places where they used to toil in wretchedness for the whites.”

Thérèse turned to listen, with fire in her eyes.

“In order,” continued Aimée, “that they may lose the sense of that misery, and become friendly towards the whites.”

Thérèse turned away again, languidly.

“There are whites now entering,” said Paul; “not foreigners, are they?”

“No,” said Madame. “Surely they are Creoles; yes, there is Monsieur Caze, and Monsieur Hugonin, and Monsieur Charrier. I think these gentlemen have all been reinstated in their properties since the last levée. Hear what they say.”

“We come,” exclaimed aloud Monsieur Caze, the spokesman of the party of white planters; “we come, overwhelmed with amazement, penetrated with gratitude, to lay our thanks at your feet. All was lost. The estates on which we were born, the lands bequeathed to us by our fathers, were wrenched from our hands, ravaged, destroyed. We and our families fled—some to the mountains—some to the woods—and many to foreign lands. Your voice reached us, inviting us to our homes. We trusted that voice; we find our lands restored to us, our homes secure, and the passions of war stilled, like this atmosphere after the storms of December. And to you do we owe all—to you, possessed by a magnanimity of which we had not dared to dream!”

“These passions of war, of which you speak,” said Toussaint, “need never have raged, if God had permitted the whites to dream what was in the souls of the blacks. Let the past now be forgotten. I have restored your estates because they were yours; but I also perceive advantages in your restoration. By circumstances—not by nature, but by circumstances—the whites have been able to acquire a wide intelligence, a depth of knowledge, from which the blacks have been debarred. I desire for the blacks a perpetual and friendly intercourse with those who are their superiors in education. As residents, therefore, you are welcome; and your security and welfare shall be my care. You find your estates peopled with cultivators?”

“We do.”

“And you understand the terms on which the labour of your fellow-citizens may be hired? You have only to secure to them one-fourth of the produce, and you will, I believe, be well served. If you experience cause of complaint, your remedy will be found in an appeal to the superintendent of cultivators of the district, or to myself. Over the cultivators no one else, I now intimate to you, has authority.”

The gentlemen bowed, having nothing to say on this head.

“It may be in your power,” continued Toussaint, after applying to his secretary for a paper from the mass on the table—“it may be in your power to do a service to the colony, and to individuals mentioned in this paper, by affording information as to where they are to be found, if alive; which of them are dead; and which of the dead have left heirs. Many estates remain unclaimed. The list is about to be circulated in the colony, in France, and in the United States. If you should chance to be in correspondence with any of the owners or their heirs, make it known to them from me that they will be welcome here, as you are. In the mean time we are taking the best care in empower of their estates. They must rebuild such of their houses as have been destroyed; but their lands are cultivated under a commission, a part of the produce being assigned to the cultivators, the rest to the public treasury.”

Toussaint read the list, watching, as did every one present, the countenances of the Creoles as each name was pronounced. They had information to offer respecting one or two only; to the rest they gave sighs or mournful shakes of the head.

“It is afflicting to us all,” said Toussaint, “to think of the slaughter and exile of those who drank wine together in the white mansions of yonder plain. But a wiser cheerfulness is henceforth to spread its sunshine over our land, with no tempest brewing in its heats.”

“Have we heard the whole list?” asked Monsieur Charrier, anxiously.

“All except three, whose owners or agents have been already summoned. These three are, the Athens estate, Monsieur Dank; the Breda estate, the attorney of which, Monsieur Bayou—”

“Is here!” cried a voice from the lower part of the room. “I landed just now,” exclaimed Bayou, hastening with extended arms to embrace Toussaint; “and I lose not a moment—”

“Gently, sir,” said the Commander-in-chief, drawing back two steps. “There is now a greater distance between me and you than there, once was between you and me. There can be no familiarity with the chief of a newly-redeemed race.”

Monsieur Bayou fell back, looking in every face around him, to see what was thought of this. Every face was grave.

“I sent for you,” resumed Toussaint, in a mild voice, “to put you at the head of the interests of the good old masters;—for the good alone have been able to return. Show us what can be done with the Breda estate, with free labourers. Make the blacks work well. Be not only just, but firm. You were formerly too mild a master. Make the blacks work well, that, by the welfare of your small interests, you may add to the general prosperity of the administration of the Commander-in-chief of Saint Domingo.”

Monsieur Bayou had no words ready. He stared round him upon the black officers in their splendid uniforms, upon the trains of liveried servants, handing coffee and fruits and sangaree on trays and salvers of massive silver, and on the throng of visitors who crowded upon one another’s heels, all anxious, not merely to pay their respects, but to offer their enthusiastic homage at the feet of his former slave. His eye at length fixed upon the windows, through which he saw something of the outline of the group of ladies.

“You desire to greet Madame L’Ouverture?” said Toussaint, kindly. “You shall be conducted to her.” And one of the aides stepped forward to perform the office of introducer.

Monsieur Bayou pulled from his pocket, on his way to the window, a shagreen jewel-case; and, by the time he was in front of Madame he had taken from it a rich gold chain, which he hung on her neck, saying, with a voice and air strangely made up of jocoseness, awkwardness, and deference—

“I have not forgotten, you see, though I suppose you have, what you gave me, one day long ago. I tried to bring back something prettier than I carried away—something for each of you—but—I don’t know—I find everything here so different from what I had any idea of—so very strange—that I am afraid you will despise my little presents.”

While speaking, he shyly held out little parcels to Génifrède and Aimée, who received them graciously, while their mother replied—

“In those old days, Monsieur Bayou, we had nothing really our own to give; and you deserved from us any aid that was in our power. My daughters and I now accept with pleasure the tokens of friendship that you bring. I hope no changes have taken place which need prevent our being friends, Monsieur Bayou.”

He scarcely heard her.

“Is it possible,” cried he, “that these can be your girls? Aimée I might have known—but can this lady be Génifrède?”

Génifrède looked up with a smile, which perplexed him still further.

“I do not know that I ever saw a smile from her before; and she would not so much as lift up her head at one of my jokes. One could never gain her attention with anything but a ghost story. But I see how it is,” he added, stooping, and speaking low to her mother, while he glanced at Moyse—“she has learned at last the old song that she would not listen to when I wanted to tell her fortune:—

“‘Your heart’s your own this summer day;To-morrow ’twill be changed away.’

“‘Your heart’s your own this summer day;To-morrow ’twill be changed away.’

“And Aimée—is she married?”

“Aimée is a widow—at least, so we call her,” said her mother, smiling. “Isaac (you remember Placide and Isaac)—her brother Isaac is all the world to her; and he is far away.”

Aimée’s eyes were full of tears in a moment; but she looked happy, as she always did when Isaac was spoken of as her own peculiar friend.

“I was going to ask about your boys,” said Bayou. “The little fellow who used to ride the horses to water, almost before he could walk alone—he and his brothers, where are they?”

“Denis is with his tutor, in the palace here. Placide and Isaac are at Paris.”

“At Paris! For education?”

“Partly so.”

“And partly,” interposed Paul, “for an object in which you, sir, have an interest, and respecting which you ought, therefore, to be informed. There are those who represent my brother’s actions as the result of personal ambition. Such persons have perpetually accused him to the French Government as desiring to sever the connection between the two races, and therefore between this colony and France. At the moment when these charges were most strongly urged, and most nearly believed, my brother sent his two elder sons to Paris, to be educated for their future duties under the care of the Directory. I hope, sir, you see in this act a guarantee for the safety and honour of the whites in Saint Domingo.”

“Certainly, certainly. All very right—very satisfactory.”

“Everybody who understands, thinks all that the Commander-in-chief does quite right,” said Madame, with so much of her old tone and manner as made Bayou ready to laugh. He turned to Paul, saying—

“May I ask if you are the brother who used to reside on the northern coast—if I remember right?”

“I am. I am Paul—Paul L’Ouverture.” He sighed as he added, “I do not live on the northern coast now. I am going to live on the southern coast—in a palace, instead of my old hut.”

“Monsieur Bayou will see—Monsieur Bayou will hear,” interrupted Madame, “if he will stay out the levée. You will not leave us to-day, Monsieur Bayou?”

Monsieur Bayou bowed. He then asked if he had the pleasure of any acquaintance with the other lady, who had not once turned round since he arrived. Thérèse had indeed sat with her face concealed for some time past.

“Do not ask her,” said Aimée, eagerly, in a low voice. “We do not speak to her of old times. She is Madame Dessalines.”

“The lady of General Dessalines,” said Madame. “Shall I introduce you?”

She called to Thérèse. Thérèse just turned round to notice the introduction, when her attention was called another way by two officers, who brought her some message from Toussaint. That one glance perplexed Monsieur Bayou as much as anything he had seen. That beautiful face and form were not new to him; but he had only a confused impression as to where and when he had seen them. He perceived, however, that he was not to ask. He followed her with his eyes as she rose from her low seat, and placed herself close by one of the open jalousies, so as to hear what passed within.

“It is the English deputation,” said Paul. “Hear what my brother will say.”

“What will become of them?” said Madame. “I do not know what would become of me if my husband were ever as angry with me as I know he is with them.”

There were indeed signs of wrath in the countenance which was commonly gentle as the twilight. The rigid uprightness of his figure, the fiery eye, the distended nostril, all showed that Toussaint was struggling with anger. Before him stood a group of Englishmen—a sailor holding a wand, on which was fixed a small white banner, two gentlemen in plain clothes, the captain of the frigate which rode in the bay, and a colonel of the English troops in Jamaica.

“It is all very well, gentlemen,” Toussaint was saying—“it is all very well as regards the treaty. Twenty-four hours ago we should have had no difficulty in concluding it. But what have you to say to this treatment of women on board the schooner you captured? What have you to say to your act of taking all the gentlemen out of your prize (except one who would not quit his sister), leaving the ladies in charge of a brutal prize-master, who was drunk—was it not so?” he added, turning to one of his officers.

“It was: he was drunk, and refused the ladies access to their trunks of clothes, denied them the wine left for their use, and alarmed them extremely by his language. These ladies were wives of our most distinguished officers.”

“It matters not whose wives they were,” said Toussaint: “they were women; and I will treat with none who thus show themselves not to be men.”

“We do not ask you to treat with my prize-master,” said Captain Reynolds. “If it be true—”

“It is true,” said a voice from the window, to which all listened in a moment. “My maid and I were on board that schooner; from which we landed four hours ago. It is true that we were confined to the cabin, denied the refreshments that were before our eyes, and the use of our own clothes; and it is true that the oaths and threats of a drunken man were in our ears all night. When morning came, we looked out to see if we were really in the seas of Saint Domingo. It seemed as if we had been conveyed where the whites are still paramount.” And Thérèse indignantly walked away.

“You hear!” said Toussaint. “And you ask me to trade with Jamaica! While permitted to obtain provisions from our coast, you have captured a French schooner and a sloop in our seas; you have insulted our women; and now you propose a treaty! If it were not for that banner, you would have to treat for mercy.”

“When shall I be permitted to speak?” asked Captain Reynolds.

“Now.”

“The blame is mine. I appointed a prize-master, who, it now appears, was not trustworthy. I was not aware of this; and I left in the cabin, for the use of the ladies, all their own property, two cases of wine, and such fruits as I could obtain for them. I lament to find that my confidence was misplaced; and I pledge myself that the prize-master shall be punished. After offering my apologies to the offended ladies, I will retire to my ship, leaving this business of the treaty to appear as unconnected as it really is with this mischance. Allow me to be conducted to the presence of the ladies.”

“I will charge myself with your apologies,” said Toussaint, who knew that any white stood a small chance of a good reception from Thérèse. “I accept your acknowledgment of error, Captain Reynolds, and shall be ready to proceed with the treaty, on proof of the punishment of the prize-master. Gentlemen, I regard this treaty with satisfaction, and am willing to enclose this small tract of peace in the midst of the dreary wilderness of war. I am willing to see trade established between Jamaica and Saint Domingo. There are days when your blue mountains are seen from our shores. Let to-morrow be a bright day when no cloud shall hide us from one another’s friendship.”

“To-morrow,” the deputation from Jamaica agreed, as they bowed themselves out of the presence of the Commander-in-chief.

“More English! more English!” was whispered round, when the name of Gauthier was announced.

“No; not English,” observed some, on seeing that the five who now entered, though in the English uniform, were mulattoes.

“Not English,” said Toussaint, aloud. “English soldiers are honourable, whether as friends or foes. When we meet with the spying eye, and the bribing hand, we do not believe them to be English. Such are the eyes and hands of these men. They have the audacity to present themselves as guests, when their own hearts should tell them they are prisoners.”

“Prisoners!” exclaimed Gauthier and his companions.

“Yes, surely—prisoners. Your conduct has already been judged by a military commission, and you are sentenced. If you have more to say than you had to plead to me, say it when I have read.”

Toussaint took from among the papers on the table a letter brought, as Gauthier alleged, from the English commander, Sir Thomas Brisbane, declaring Gauthier empowered to treat for the delivery to the British of the posts of Gonaïves, Les Verrettes, and some others, in order to secure to the British the freedom of the windward passage. Toussaint declared that the messengers had brought with them bags of money, with which they had endeavoured to bribe him to this treachery. He asked of them if this were not true.

“It is,” said Gauthier; “but we and our authorities acted upon the precedent of your former conduct.”

“What former conduct? Did those hands ever receive gold from the coffers of an enemy? Speak freely. You shall not suffer from anything you may say here.”

“You have been the means by which posts have been delivered to an enemy. We remember hearing of the surrender of Marmalade, Gros Morne, and some others.”

“I was the means, as you say; but it was done by a wiser will and a stronger hand than mine. In that transaction my heart was pure. My design was to lose rank, and to return to poverty by the step I took. You ought to have inquired into facts, clearly understood by all who know me, before you proceeded to insult me. Have you more to say?”

“It was natural that we should believe that he through whom posts had been delivered would deliver posts again; and this was confirmed by rumours, and I believe, even by letters which seemed to come from yourself, in relation to the posts now in question.”

Gauthier appealed to his companions, who all assented.

“There are other rumours concerning me,” said Toussaint, “which could not be perverted; and to these you should have listened. My actions are messages addressed to the whole world—letters which cannot be forged; and these alone you should have trusted. Such misunderstanding as yours could hardly have been foreseen; but it will be my fault, if it be repeated. The name of the First of the Blacks must never again be associated with bribery. You are sentenced by a military commission, before which your documents have been examined, to run the gauntlet. The sentence will immediately be executed in the Place d’Armes.”

“Are you aware,” cried Gauthier, “that I was second in command at Saint Marc when it was in the possession of the British?”

“I am aware of it.”

“This is enmity to our colour,” said another. “To our being mulattoes we owe our disgrace.”

“I have beloved friends of your colour,” said Toussaint. “Believe me, however, the complexion of your souls is so disgusting that I have no attention to spare for your faces. You must now depart.”

“Change our punishment!” said Gauthier. “Consider that I am an emigrant officer. Some other punishment!”

“No other,” said Toussaint. “This is the fit punishment—mean as your design—ridiculous as your attempt. Are the French Commissaries in waiting, Laroche? Let them be announced.”

The prisoners were removed by one door, while the imposing party from France entered by the other.

Commissary Hédouville, who had been for some time resident at Cap Français, entered, followed by a party of his countrymen, just arrived from Paris. There was among them one, at sight of whom Toussaint’s countenance changed, while an exclamation was heard from the piazza, which showed that his family were moved like himself. The person who excited this emotion was a young black officer, who entered smiling, and as if scarcely able to keep his place behind the Commissary, and General Michel, the head of the new deputation.

The Commander-in-chief quitted his station, and advanced some steps, seizing the officer’s hand, and asking eagerly—

“Vincent! Why here? My boys—how, where are they?”

“They are well: both well and happy in our beloved Paris. I am here with General Michel; sent by the government, with gifts and compliments, which—”

“Which we will speak of when I have offered my welcome to these representatives of the government we all obey,” said Toussaint, turning to the Commissary and the General, and remembering that his emotions as a father had caused him, for the moment, to lose sight of the business of the hour. He made himself the usher of the French Commissaries to the sofa, in front of which he had himself been standing. There he would have seated Hédouville and General Michel. Hédouville threw himself down willingly enough; but the newly arrived messenger chose to stand.

“I come,” said he, “the bearer to you of honours from the Republic, which I delight to present as the humblest of your servants.—Not a word of apology for your graceful action of welcome to Brigadier-General Vincent! What so graceful as the emotions of a parent’s heart? I understand—I am aware—he went out as the guardian of your sons; and your first welcome was, therefore, due to him. The office of guardian of your sons is, ought to be, in your eyes, more important, more sacred, than that of Commissary, or any other. If our national Deliverer—if the conqueror of Italy—if our First Consul himself were here, he ought to step back while you embrace the guardian of your sons.”

The party in the piazza saw and heard all.

“If,” said Madame, in a whisper to Génifrède, “if these honours that they speak of come from Bonaparte—if he has answered your father’s letter, your father will think his happiness complete—now we know that the boys are well.”

“The First Consul has written, or will write, no doubt,” said Aimée. “It must be pleasant to him as to my father, to greet a brother in destiny and in glory. Surely General Vincent will come and speak to us; will tell us of my brothers! He looked this way just now.”

“The First Consul will not write,” said Moyse. “He is a white; and therefore, though a brother in destiny and in glory, he will not notice the Commander-in-chief of Saint Domingo.”

“You are right, Moyse,” said Madame Dessalines. “And it is best so.”

“But that will disappoint my husband very much,” said Madame. “He likes the whites better than you do.”

“He does,” said Thérèse. “But let us listen.”

Hédouville was at the moment exerting himself to introduce his secretary, Monsieur Pascal.

“An honoured name,” observed Toussaint.

“And not only in name, but by blood connected with the great man you refer to,” said Hédouville.

“None are more welcome here,” said Toussaint, “than those who bring with them the honours of piety, of reason, and of science.” And he looked with deep interest upon the countenance of the secretary, which did in truth show signs of that thoughtfulness and sagacity, though not of the morbid suffering, which is associated in all minds with the image of the author of the Provinciales. Monsieur Pascal returned the gaze which was fixed upon him with one in which intense curiosity was mingled with doubt, if not fear. His countenance immediately, however, relaxed into an expression of pleased surprise. During this brief moment, these two men, so unlike—the elderly, toil-worn negro, and the young, studious Frenchman—felt that they were friends.

Monsieur Pascal stepped aside to make way for Monsieur Molière.

“Are we to welcome in you,” asked Toussaint, “a messenger of mirth to our society?”

The group of Frenchmen could scarcely restrain their laughter at this question. Monsieur Molière had a most lugubrious countenance—a thing not always inconsistent with a merry humour: but Monsieur Molière’s heart was believed never to have laughed, any more than his face. He answered, as if announcing a misfortune, that he claimed no connection with the dramatist, though he believed some of his family had attempted to do so.

“Monsieur Molière discharges the duty of a pious descendant, however,” said Vincent. “He laughs himself into such a state of exhaustion every night over those immortal comedies, that he has to be carried to bed. That is the reason we see him so grave in the morning.”

“Think of Monsieur Molière as a trusted secretary of the messenger from the republic to yourself,” said General Michel.

“I come,” said Michel, assuming a pompous tone, “I come associated with an officer of the republican army, Monsieur Pétion—a native of this colony, but a stranger to yourself.”

Monsieur Pétion paid his respects. He was a mulatto, with shy and reserved manners, and an exceedingly intellectual countenance.

“We lost you early,” said Toussaint; “but only to offer you the warmer welcome back. It was, as I remember, to attend the military schools of France that you left your home. Such scholars are welcome here.”

“And particularly,” observed Michel, “when they have also had the fortune to serve in the army of Italy, and immediately under the eye of the First Consul himself.”

“Is it so? Is it really so?” exclaimed Toussaint. “I can never hear enough of the ruler of France. Tell us—but that must be hereafter. Do you come to me from him?”

“From the government generally,” replied Pétion.

An expression of disappointment, very evident to his watchful wife, passed over the face of Toussaint.

“There is no letter,” she whispered to Génifrède.

“We bring you from the government,” said Michel, “a confirmation of the dignity of Commander-in-chief of this colony, conferred by Commissary Santhonax.”

Toussaint bowed, but smiled not.

“See, he sighs!” said Madame, sighing in echo.

“These are empty words,” said Thérèse. “They give him only what they cannot withhold; and at the very moment they surround him with spies.”

“He says,” replied Madame, “that Hédouville is sent here ‘to restrain his ambition.’ Those were the words spoken of him at Paris, where they will not believe that he has no selfish ambition.”

“They will not believe, because they cannot understand. Their Commander-in-chief has a selfish ambition; and they cannot imagine that ours may be a man of a higher sold. But we cannot help it: they are whites.”

“What a dress—what a beautiful dress!” exclaimed Madame, who almost condescended to stand fairly in the window, to see the presents now displayed before her husband by the commissary’s servants.

“These presents,” pursued General Michel, while Pétion stood aloof, as if he had no concern in the business—“this dress of embroidered velvet, and this set of arms, I am to present to you, in the name of the late Directory of France, in token of their admiration of your services to the colony.”

Toussaint stretched out his hand for the sword, which he immediately assumed instead of the one he wore, observing that this sword, like that which he had now laid aside, should be employed in loyal service to the republic. As he took no notice of the embroidered dress, it was conveyed away.

“Not only in the hall of government,” resumed Michel—“but throughout all Europe, is your name ringing to the skies. A eulogium has been delivered at the Council of Ancients—”

“And an oration before the governors of the Military Schools,” added Hédouville.

“And from Paris,” said Pascal, “your reputation has spread along the shores of the Rhine, and as far north as Saint Petersburg; and in the south, even to Rome.”

Toussaint’s ear caught a low laugh of delight from the piazza, which he thought fit alone for a husband’s ear, and therefore hoped that no one else had heard.

“Enough, gentlemen,” he said. “Measuring together my deeds and this applause, I understand the truth. This applause is in fact given to the powers of the negro race; and not to myself as a soldier or a man. It belongs not, therefore, to me. For my personal support, one line of a letter, one word of message, from the chief of our common country, would be worth the applause of Europe, of which you speak.”

Monsieur Petion produced a sealed packet, which he delivered; and this seemed to remind General Vincent that he had one too. Toussaint was unable to refrain from tearing open first one, and then the other, in the intense hope of receiving some acknowledgment, some greeting from the “brother in destiny and in glory,” who was the idol of his loyal heart. There was no word from Bonaparte among the first papers; and it was scarcely possible that there should be in the other packet; yet he could not keep his eye from it. Other eyes were watching from behind the jalousies. He cast a glance, a half smile that way; the consequence of which was that Aimée, forgetting the time, the deputation, the officers, the whole crowd, sprang into the room, and received the letter from Isaac, which was the only thing in all that room that she saw. She disappeared in another moment, followed, however, by General Vincent.

The father’s smile died away from the face of Toussaint, and his brow darkened, as he caught at a glance the contents of the proclamations contained in Pétion’s packet. A glance was enough. Before the eyes of the company had returned from the window, whither they had followed the apparition of Aimée, he had folded up the papers. His secretary’s hand was ready to receive them: but Toussaint put them into his bosom.

“Those proclamations,” said Hédouville, rising from the sofa, and standing by Toussaint’s side, “you will immediately publish. You will immediately exhibit on your colours the words imposed, ‘Brave blacks, remember that the French people alone recognise your freedom, and the legality of your rights!’”

As the commissary spoke these, words aloud, he looked round upon the assembled blacks, who, in their turn, all fixed their eyes upon their chief. Toussaint merely replied that he would give his best attention to all communications from the government of France.

“In order,” said Hédouville, as if in explanation of a friend’s purposes, “in order to yield implicit obedience to its commands.” Then resuming his seat, he observed to Toussaint, “I believe General Michel desires some little explanation of certain circumstances attending his landing at Cap.”

“I do,” said General Michel, resuming his solemn air. “You are aware that General Vincent and I were arrested on landing?”

“I am aware of it. It was by my instant command that you were set free.”

“By whose command, or by what error, then, were we arrested?”

“I hoped that full satisfaction had been afforded you by Monsieur Raymond, the Governor of Cap Français. Did he not explain to you that it was by an impulse of the irritated blacks—an impulse of which they repent, and to which they will not again yield, proceeding from anger for which there is but too much cause? As you, however, are not to be made responsible for the faults of your government towards us, the offending parties have been amply punished.”

“I,” said Hédouville, from the sofa behind, “I am held responsible for the faults of our government towards you. What are they?”

“We will discuss them at Cap,” replied Toussaint. “There you will be surrounded by troops of your own colour; and you will feel more at liberty to open your whole mind to me than, it grieves me to perceive, you are when surrounded by blacks. When you know the blacks better, you will become aware that the highest security is found in fully trusting them.”

“What is it that you suppose we fear from the blacks?”

“When we are at Cap, I will ask you what it was that you feared, Monsieur Hédouville, when you chose to land at Saint Domingo, instead of at Cap—when you showed your mistrust of your fellow-citizens by selecting the Spanish city for your point of entrance upon our island. I will then ask you what it is that your government fears, that it commits the interests of the blacks to a new legislature, which understands neither their temper nor their affairs.”

“This was, perhaps, the cause of the difficulty we met with at Cap,” observed General Michel.

“It is the chief cause. Some jealousy on this account is not to be wondered at; but it has not the less been punished. I would further ask,” he continued, turning again to Hédouville, “what the First Consul fears, that—”

“Who ever heard of the First Consul fearing anything?” cried Hédouville, with a smile.

“Hear it now, then.”

“In this place?” said Hédouville, looking round. “In public?”

“In this place—among the most loyal of the citizens of France,” replied Toussaint, casting a proud look round upon his officers and assembled friends. “If I were about to make complaints of the First Consul, I would close my doors upon you and myself, and speak in whispers. But it is known that I honour him, and hold him to my heart, as a brother in destiny and in glory: though his glory is now at its height, while mine will not be so till my race is redeemed from the consequences of slavery, as well as from slavery itself. Still, we are brothers; and I therefore mourn his fears, shown in the documents that he sends to my soldiers, and shown no less in his sending none to me.”

“I bring you from him the confirmation of your dignity,” observed General Michel.

“You do so by message. The honour is received through the ear. But that which should plant it down into my heart—the greeting from a brother—is wanting. It cannot be that the First of the Whites has not time, has not attention, for the First of the Blacks. It is that he fears—not for himself, but for our country: he fears our ambition, our revenge. He shall experience, however, that we are loyal—from myself, his brother, to the mountain child who startles the vulture from the rocks with his shouts of Bonaparte the Great. To engage our loyalty before many witnesses,” he continued, once more looking round upon the assemblage, “I send this message through you, in return for that which I have received. Tell the First Consul that, in the absence of interference with the existing laws of the colony, I guarantee, under my personal responsibility, the submission to order, and the devotion to France, of my black brethren. Mark the condition, gentlemen, which you will pronounce reasonable. Mark the condition, and you will find happy results. You will soon see whether I pledge in vain my own responsibility and your hopes.”

Even while he spoke, in all the fervour of unquestionable sincerity, of his devotion to France, his French hearers fell that he was virtually a monarch. The First of the Blacks was not only supreme in this palace, and throughout the colony; he had entered upon an immortal reign over all lands trodden by the children of Africa. To the contracted gaze of the diplomatists present, all might not be visible—the coming ages when the now prophetic name of L’Ouverture should have become a bright fact in the history of man, and should be breathed in thanksgiving under the palm-tree, sung in exultation in the cities of Africa, and embalmed in the liberties of the Isles of the West:—such a sovereignty as this was too vast and too distant for the conceptions of Michel and Hédouville to embrace; but they were impressed with a sense of his power, with a feeling of the majesty of his influence; and the reverential emotions which they would fain have shaken off, and which they were afterwards ashamed of, were at the present moment enhanced by sounds which reached them from the avenue. There was military music, the firing of salutes, the murmur of a multitude of voices, and the tramp of horses and of men.

Toussaint courteously invited the commissaries to witness the presentation to him, for the interests of France, of the keys of the cities of the island, late in the possession of Spain, and now ceded to France by the treaty of Bâle. The commissaries could not refuse, and took their stand on one side of the First of the Blacks, while Paul L’Ouverture assumed the place of honour on the other hand.

The apartment was completely filled by the heads of the procession—the late Governor of the city of Saint Domingo, his officers, the magistracy of the city, and the heads of the clergy.

Among these last was a face which Toussaint recognised with strong emotion. The look which he cast upon Laxabon, the gesture of greeting which he offered, caused Don Alonzo Dovaro to turn round to discover whose presence there could be more imposing to the Commander-in-chief than his own. The flushed countenance of the priest marked him out as the man.

Don Alonzo Dovaro ordered the keys to be brought, and addressed himself in Spanish to Toussaint. Toussaint did not understand Spanish, and knew that the Spaniard, could speak French. The Spaniard, however, chose to deliver up a Spanish city in no other language than that of his nation. Father Laxabon stepped forward eagerly, with an offer to be interpreter. It was an opportunity he was too thankful to embrace—a most favourable means of surmounting the awkwardness of renewed intercourse with one, by whom their last conversation could not be supposed to be forgotten.

“This is well—this fulfilment of the treaty of Bâle,” said Toussaint. “But it would have been better if the fulfilment had been more prompt. The time for excuses and apologies is past. I merely say, as sincerity requires, that the most speedy fulfilment of treaties is ever the most honourable; and that I am guiltless of such injury as may have arisen from calling off ten thousand blacks from the peaceful pursuits of agriculture and commerce, to march them to the gates of Saint Domingo. You, the authorities of the city, compelled me to lead them there, in enforcement of the claims of France. If warlike thoughts have sprung up in those ten thousand minds, the responsibility is not mine. I wish that nothing but peace should be in the hearts of men of all races. Have you wishes to express, in the name of the citizens? Show me how I can gratify them.”

“Don Alonzo Dovaro explains,” said the interpreter, “that it will be acceptable to the Spanish inhabitants that you take the customary oath, in the name of the Holy Trinity, respecting the government of their whole region.”

“It is indeed a holy duty. What is the purport of the oath?”

“In the name of the Holy Trinity, to govern wisely and well.”

“Has there lived a Christian man who would take that oath?”

“Every governor of the Spanish colony in this island, from Diego, the brother of Columbus, to this day.”

“What is human wisdom,” said Toussaint, “that a man should swear that he will be always wise? What is human virtue, that he should pledge his salvation on governing well? I dare not take the oath.”

The Spaniards showed that they understood French by the looks they cast upon each other, before Laxabon could complete his version.

“This, however, will I do,” said Toussaint. “I will meet you to-morrow, at the great church in Port-au-Prince, and there bind myself before the altar, before the God who hears me now, on behalf of your people, to be silent on the past, and to employ my vigilance and my toils in rendering happy the Spanish people, now become my fellow-citizens of France.”

A profusion of obeisances proved that this was satisfactory. The late governor of the city took from one of his officers the velvet cushion on which were deposited the keys of Saint Domingo, and transferred it to the hands of the Commander-in-chief. At the moment, there was an explosion of cannon from the terrace on which stood the town; the bells rang in all the churches; and bursts of military music spread over the calm bay, with the wreaths of white smoke from the guns. The flamingoes took flight again from the strand; the ships moved in their anchorage; the shouts of the people arose from the town, and those of the soldiery from the square of the great avenue. Their idol, their Ouverture, was now in command of the whole of the most beautiful of the isles of the west.

As soon as he could be heard, Toussaint introduced his brother to the Spaniards. Placing the cushion containing the keys upon the table, and laying his hand upon the keys, he declared his intention of giving to the inhabitants of the city of Saint Domingo a pledge of the merciful and gentle character of the government under which they were henceforth to live, in the person of the new governor, Paul L’Ouverture, who had never been known to remember unkindness from day-to-day. The new governor would depart for the east of the island on the morrow, from the door of the church, at the close of the celebration.

The levée was now over. Spanish, French, and the family and guests of the Commander-in-chief, were to meet at a banquet in the evening. Meantime, Toussaint and his brother stepped out together upon the northern piazza, and the room was cleared.

“I wish,” said Paul, “that you had appointed any one but me to be governor of that city. How should a poor negro fisherman like me govern a city?”

“You speak like a white, Paul. The whites say of me, ‘How should a poor negro postillion govern a colony?’ You must do as I do—show that a negro can govern.”

“But Heaven made you for a ruler.”

“Who thought so while I was yet a slave? As for you—I know not what you can do till you have tried; nor do you. I own that you are not the man I should have appointed, if I had had a choice among all kinds of men.”

“Then look around for some other.”

“There is no other, on the whole, so little unfit as you. Henri must remain in the field while Rigaud is in arms. Jacques—”

“Ay, Dessalines—and he might have a court—such a wife as he would carry.”

“Dessalines must not govern a city of whites. He hates the whites. His passion of hatred would grow with power; and the Spaniards would be wretched. They are now under my protection. I must give them a governor who cannot hate; and therefore I send you. Your love of our people and of me, my brother, will rouse you to exertion and self-denial. For the rest you shall have able counsellors on the spot. For your private guidance, I shall be ever at your call. Confide wholly in me, and your appeal shall never be unanswered.”

“You shall be governor, then. I will wear the robes, and your head shall do the work. I will amuse the inhabitants with water-parties, and you—”

“No more of this!” said Toussaint, somewhat sternly. “It seems that you are unwilling to do your part of the great duty of our age and our race. Heaven has appointed you the opportunity of showing that blacks are men—fit to govern as to serve;—and you would rather sleep in the sunshine than listen to the message from the sky. My own brother does what he can to deepen the brand on the forehead of the negro!”

“I am ashamed, brother,” said Paul, “I am not like you; but yet I will do what I can. I will go to-morrow, and try whether I can toil as you do. There is one thing I can do which Henri, and Jacques, and even you, cannot;—I can speak Spanish.”

“You have discovered one of your qualifications, dear Paul. You will find more. Will you take Moyse with you?”

“Let it be a proof that I can deny myself, that I leave my son with you. Moyse is passionate.”

“I know it,” said Toussaint.

“He governs both his love and his hatred before you, while with me he indulges them. He must remain with you, in order to command his passions. He inherited them from me; and I must thus far help him to master them. You are all-powerful with him. I have no power.”

“You mean that Génifrède and I together are all-powerful with him. I believe it is so.”

“To you, then, I commit him. Moyse is henceforth your son.”

“As Génifrède is your daughter, Paul. If I die before the peace of the island is secured, there are two duties which I assign to you—to support the spirit of the blacks, and to take my Génifrède for your daughter. The rest of my family love each other, and the world we live in. She loves only Moyse.”

“She is henceforth my child. But when will you marry them?”

“When Moyse shall have done some act to distinguish himself—for which he shall not want opportunity. I have a higher duty than that to my family—it is my duty to call out all the powers of every black. Moyse must therefore prove what he can do, before he can marry his love. For him, however, this is an easy condition.”

“I doubt not you are right, brother; but it is well for me that the days of my love are past.”

“Not so, Paul. The honour of your race must now be your love. For this you must show what you can do.”

They had paced the northern piazza while conversing. They now turned into the eastern, where they came upon the lovers, who were standing half shrouded by creeping plants—Moyse’s arm round Génifrède’s waist, and Génifrède’s head resting on her lover’s shoulder. The poor girl was sobbing violently, while Moyse was declaring that he would marry her, with or without consent, and carry her with him, if he was henceforth to live in the east of the island.

“Patience, foolish boy!” cried his father. “You go not with me. I commit you to my brother. You will stay with him, and yield him the duty of a son—a better duty than we heard you planning just now.”

“As soon as you prove yourself worthy, you shall be my son indeed,” said Toussaint. “I have heard your plans of marriage. You shall hear mine. I will give you opportunities of distinguishing yourself, in the services of the city and of the field. After the first act which proves you worthy of responsibility, I will give you Génifrède. As a free man, can you desire more?”

“I am satisfied—I am grateful,” said Moyse. “I believe I spoke some hasty words just now; but we supposed I was to be sent among the whites—and I had so lately returned from the south—and Génifrède was so wretched!”

Génifrède threw herself on her father’s bosom, with broken words of love and gratitude. It was the first time she had ever voluntarily approached so near him; and she presently drew back, and glanced in his face with timid awe.

“My Génifrède! My child!” cried Toussaint, in a rapture of pleasure at this loosening of the heart. He drew her towards him, folded his arms about her, kissed the tears from her cheek, and hushed her sobs, saying, in a low voice which touched her very soul—

“He can do great deeds, Génifrède. He is yours, my child; but we shall all be proud of him.”

She looked up once more, with a countenance so radiant, that Toussaint carried into all the toils and observance of the day the light heart of a happy father.

Note 1. I have to acknowledge that injustice is done in this work to the character of General Vincent. The writer of historical fiction is under that serious liability, in seizing on a few actual incidents, concerning a subordinate personage, that he makes himself responsible for justice to the whole character of the individual whose name he introduces into his story. Under this liability I have been unjust to Vincent, as Scott was to Edward Christian, in “Peveril of the Peak,” and Campbell to Brandt, in “Gertrude of Wyoming.” Like them, I am anxious to make reparation on the first opportunity. It is true that in my Appendix I avowed that Vincent was among those of my personages whose name alone I adopted, without knowing his character; but such an explanation in an appendix does not counteract the impression already made by the work. Finding this, I had thoughts of changing the name in the present edition; but I feared the character being still identified with Vincent, from its being fact that it was Vincent who accompanied Toussaint’s sons to Paris, and returned with the deputation, as I have represented; I think it best, therefore, to say here that, from all I can learn, General Vincent was an honourable and useful man, and that the delineation of character under that name in my book is purely fictitious. The following extract from Clarkson’s pamphlet on Negro Improvement will show in what estimation General Vincent is held by one whose testimony is of the highest value:—

“The next witness to whom I shall appeal is the estimable General Vincent, who now lives at Paris, though at an advanced age. He was a Colonel, and afterwards a General of Brigade of Artillery in Saint Domingo. He was detained there during the time both of Santhonax and Toussaint. He was also a proprietor of estates in the island. He was the man who planned the renovation of its agriculture after the abolition of slavery, and one of the great instruments in bringing it to the perfection mentioned by La Croix. In the year 1801 he was called upon by Toussaint to repair to Paris, to lay before the Directory the new Constitution, which had been agreed on in Saint Domingo. He obeyed the summons. It happened that he arrived in France just at the moment of the Peace of Amiens. Here he found, to his inexpressible surprise and grief, that Bonaparte was preparing an immense armament, under Leclerc, to restore slavery in Saint Domingo. He remonstrated against the expedition: he told him to his face that though the army destined for this purpose was composed of the brilliant conquerors of Europe, they could do nothing in the Antilles. He stated, as another argument against the expedition, that it was totally unnecessary, and, therefore, criminal; for that everything was going on well in Saint Domingo; the proprietors in peaceable possession of their estates, cultivation making rapid progress, the Blacks industrious, and beyond example happy.”

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