Chapter Twenty Six.The Herald Abroad.Madame Ogé’s news was too true. Monsieur Pascal had held many an anxious conversation with L’Ouverture on the subject, before Afra showed him her little friend’s letter. In a short time an additional fact became known—that Bonaparte had re-established the slave-trade. His enmity to the race of blacks was now open and declared.The first intimation which the colony at large had of what had happened, was through the altered demeanour of their chief. From the first bright day of the prolific, gorgeous summer, to that in which the season merged in a fierce autumnal storm, L’Ouverture had been seen to be not less calm and quiet than usual, but depressed and sad. Some ascribed his gloom to the transaction at Cap, and the misery it must needs have introduced into his home. Others, who saw how much the colony had gained in confidence, and Toussaint’s government in strength by that act, looked for a different cause. Some reminded each other that, while no man was more energetic in the hour of proof than their chief, his spirits were wont to droop when others were elated. It seemed as if some boding ghost whispered evil to him most peremptorily when the harvests were ripest before his eyes, when the laugh and the song were loudest in his ear, and when no one dreamed that the bright days of the colony would ever more be overclouded.It was even so. When Toussaint saw that his race was in peace, it filled him with grief that this peace was not likely to last. When he saw what the true African soul was, when cleansed from blood and anger, and permitted to grow in freedom and in harmony, it was torture to know (as he did too well) that new injuries were preparing for it—that it was certain to be again steeped in passion and slaughter, and all that was savage in it excited afresh. This, even more than the death of Moyse, cast gloom round his soul, during the last of the series of bright and prosperous summers that were to pass under his eye. When autumn came, it might have made him wonder, if he had had leisure to consider himself, to find how his spirits rose, and his heart grew light, exactly when dismay and dread began to overcloud every face about him, but when he saw that suspense and struggle were coming to an end. He perceived perplexity in the countenance of his friend Pascal, even in the presence of his bride. He met sorrow in the mild eyes of Henri; he heard that exultation in the voice of Jacques which always struck like discord upon his ear. He observed that in the bearing of Madame Dessalines which carried back his memory ten years into her past history. He saw Aimée tremble at the approach of any one who might bring news from France; and he heard Margot weeping at her prayers, as she implored of Heaven the safe return of her sons. Yet all this caused to his sympathising heart scarcely a pang; so clear was his path now, so distinct was the issue to which his duty, and the fate of his race was brought.“Here it ends then,” said he, one day at the council-table, rising as bespoke. “Here ends all possibility of compromise. For the blacks, it is slavery or self-defence. It is so, Monsieur Pascal.”“It is. The terms of the new peace are proclaimed.”“And the fact substantiated that Bonaparte has declared that he will do what he pleases with Saint Domingo.”“Such were certainly his words.”“Who is surprised?” inquired Dessalines. “I forewarned you of this, long ago: and I said, at the same time, that, if we waited for aggression, we might find it too late for defence.”“Not a word of fear, Jacques. Our victory is as sure as the justice of Heaven.”“Perhaps so; but it would have been easier if you had not been training your people, all these years, to love and cherish those whom they are now going to resist.”“I see and admit our difficulty, Jacques. But if I had governed as you would have had me, we should have been in a worse. I should then have been the chief of a race of savages, instead of soldiers and citizens. If we had been extirpating the whites all this time, we should now have been destroying each other, instead of preparing to go forth to a righteous war.”“True. Most true,” declared Henri. “We may suffer for a time, and fight with the more difficulty, from our habits of observance towards those whom we must now oppose; but God will not allow the spirit of forgiveness and love to be finally a snare.”“Never,” said Toussaint. “He has appointed fierce passions for a yoke, and mild affections for freedom. Though Bonaparte betrays and oppresses, the Gospel stands.—It is now time for proclaiming the war throughout the colony.”“I will prepare the proclamation this night,” said Monsieur Pascal.“If you will, my friend,” said Toussaint. “But I intend to be my own proclamation. To-morrow morning I set forth for Saint Domingo, to visit my brother in his city. I shall examine every fort, and call together the militia, as I go. The trip would be more effective if I could have my council about me.”“I will go with you,” said Henri.“And I,” exclaimed Jacques.“And I?” said Raymond, inquiringly.“No, Raymond; stay at Port-au-Prince, to report my proceedings to the legislature. And you, Monsieur Pascal, remain here to receive the despatches which may arrive from France. My brethren-in-arms of the council will be with me. When we have satisfied ourselves, we will let you know whether or not those who would have loved and served France for ever as a guardian angel, can cast her off when she becomes an incubus.”It was a time of high excitement—that in which L’Ouverture, attended by four of his generals, and a train of inferior officers, traversed the island, to communicate or confirm the intelligence that an expedition was believed to be setting sail from France, for the purpose of wresting from the blacks the freedom which was theirs by the law of the land. Toussaint found, not only that all hearts were ready for the assertion of freedom, but that all eyes were so fixed upon him, all ears so open to his lightest word, that there was every probability of his purposes being fully understood and completely executed. At a word from him, the inhabitants of Cap Français and Port-au-Prince began to remove their property into the fastnesses of the interior, and to prepare to burn those towns at the moment of the French attempting to land. It was useless to think of preventing a landing, so exposed was the greater part of the coast. The more rational hope was so to distress the foe on shore as to make them glad to go on board their ships again. Equally satisfactory was the disposition of the interior. The municipal bodies throughout the colony, previously brought under one system, now acted in concert. Their means of communication had been improved, so that each settlement was no longer like an encampment in the wilderness: on the contrary, every order given by L’Ouverture seemed to have been echoed by the mountain-tops around, so promptly was it transmitted, and so continually did he find his commands anticipated. As he went, his four generals parted off, to examine the forts on either hand, and to inspect and animate the militia. Everywhere the same story was told, and everywhere was it received with the same eagerness and docility. “The French are coming to make slaves of us again; but there shall never more be a slave in Saint Domingo. They are coming; but they are our countrymen till they have struck the first blow. We will demand of them an account of our brethren in Cayenne, in Guadaloupe, and in Martinique. We will ask of them concerning our brethren on the coasts of Africa. If, in return, they throw us chains and the whip, we shall know how to answer. But not a blow must be struck till they have shown whether they are brethren or foes. Our dark skin is no disgrace; but the first drop of a brother’s blood dyes us all in infamy. Let the infamy be theirs who assault us. At this moment our first duty is to our white brethren of this island; in this time of our high excitement, they are full of grief; they are guiltless of this attack upon our liberty; they are as willing as we to live and die under the rule of L’Ouverture: and under the special protection of L’Ouverture, they shall, if they please, live and die. Beware of imputing to them the sins of their colour; protect them from your hearts—defend them with your lives. In the hour of danger, as you invoke the blessing of Heaven, save first the Creole whites, and next your wives and your children.”Such were the exhortations spoken everywhere by Christophe, La Plume, and Clerveaux. It could not be expected of Dessalines that he should deliver the last clauses with perfect fidelity. The solemnity of the hour had, however its tranquillising effect, even upon his ruling passion. Even his heart, which usually turned to stone at the sight of a white, was moved by the visible distress of the proprietors of that race, who were, with scarcely an exception, in despair. In private, they execrated the spirit and conduct of their former neighbours, now in Paris, whose representations were the chief cause of the expedition now projected. Instead of remaining or returning, to ascertain the real state of things in Saint Domingo—instead of respecting the interests and wishes of those who were entirely satisfied under the government of L’Ouverture, they had prejudiced the mind of the First Consul, and induced him to bring back the ruin and woe which had passed away. The ladies wept and trembled within their houses; their fathers, husbands, and brothers flocked to every point where L’Ouverture halted, to assure him of their good-will to his government, and to remind him of the difficulty and danger of the position in which they were placed. These last carried some comfort home with them. All who had seen Toussaint’s face had met there the gaze of a brother. If there were two or three who went with doubtful minds, prepared to exult at the depression of the blacks, but thinking it well to bespeak protection, in case of the struggle ending the wrong way—if there was a sprinkling of such among the throng of whites who joined the cavalcade from the cross-roads, they shrunk away abashed before the open countenance of the Deliverer, and stole homewards to wait the guidance of events.If it had not been that the city of Saint Domingo was at the end of this march, Toussaint would have traversed the colony with a higher spirit and a lighter heart than during any of his serener days of power; but the city of his brother’s government was before him, and, at its gate, Paul, whom he had not met since the death of Moyse. He had not been forgetful of his sorrowing brother; he had immediately sent to him Father Laxabon—the best consoler, as the last confidant of the departed. Letter upon letter had Toussaint sent—deed upon deed of kindness had he attempted towards his brother; but still Father Laxabon had written, “Come not yet;” “He must have time;” “Give him time if there is to be peace between you.” Now it had become necessary that they should meet; and far readier was Toussaint to encounter the armies of France than the countenance of his brother. For ever, in the midst of the excitements of the journey, he found himself asking in his own mind where and how Paul would meet him; and whether he had cut off from himself his brother, as well as his brother’s son.Meantime, the party rode proudly on, through the interior of the island, signs of welcome spreading around them at every step. From the grass-farms, in the wide savannahs, the herdsmen hastened, with promises to drive their flocks up into the mornes, where no enemy should penetrate while a man remained to guard the passes. At each salute from the forts that rose at intervals along the way, the wild cattle rushed towards the steeps; while the parties of hunters turned back from their sports, to offer themselves as scouts and messengers on behalf of the colony. From some glade of the woods appeared the monk, charged with the blessing of his convent; or the grazier, with a string of horses—his gift, for the service of the army. Around the crosses which, half concealed by the long grass of the plains, yet served to mark the road, were gathered groups of women, bearing bags of money, or ornaments of gold and silver, which they would have thrust upon him, to whom they declared that they owed their all; while every settlement displayed its company of armed men, standing in military order, and rending the air with shouts, on the approach of their chief. La Plume and Clerveaux, to whom such demonstrations were less familiar than to the other generals, no longer doubted that all would be well. They pronounced that the colony already showed itself invincible. Toussaint thought that he might have been of the same opinion, if the expected foe had been any other than French. The event must show whether the pains he had taken to unite his race with their fellow-citizens as brethren would now weaken or strengthen his cause—whether it would enhance or mitigate the bitterness of the impending quarrel.On the morning of the last day of their survey of the interior, the party emerged from the shade of the woods, and, crossing the grassy levels of the Llanos, reached the ferry by which the Ozama was to be crossed near its mouth. On the opposite bank were horsemen, who, on observing the party approaching the ferry, put spurs to their horses, and galloped southwards, in the direction of the city. They need not so have hastened; for the Deliverer was stopped at every fishing hamlet—almost at every hut along the shores of the bay, to receive the loyal homage of the inhabitants—Spanish as well as French. In the midst of these greetings the eye and the soul of the chief were absent—looking to what lay before him. There, at some distance, springing from the level of the plain, rose the cathedral of Saint Domingo, and other lofty buildings, whose outline was distinctly marked against the glittering sea which spread immediately behind. An ungovernable impatience seized him at length, and he broke away, bursting through the throngs upon the road, and resolving not to stop till he should have seen his fate, as a brother, in his brother’s eyes.A procession of priests was issuing from the city gates as he approached. They were robed, and they bore the Host under a canopy. At the first sound of their chant, the generals and their suite threw themselves from their horses, and prostrated themselves upon the grass. On rising, they perceived that the whole city had come out to meet them. “The whole city,” Toussaint heard his companions say: and his heart throbbed when he strained his sight to see if the Governor of the city was the only one left at home. The procession of priests had now turned, and was preceding him—slowly—so slowly, that he would fain have dispensed with the solemnity. The people crowded round his horse and impeded his way. He strove to be present to the occasion; but all was like a troubled dream—the chanting, the acclamation, the bursts of military music from a distance—all that at other times had fired his soul was now disturbance and perplexity. A few faithless persons in the crowd, on the watch for information with which they might make interest with the French on their arrival, noted the wandering of the eye and the knitting of the brow, and drew thence a portent of the fall of the Deliverer.At length the gate was reached; and there, in the shadow of the portal, surrounded by his attendants, stood Paul. On the arrival of his brother at the threshold, he took from an officer the velvet cushion on which the keys of the city were deposited, and advancing to the stirrup of the Commander-in-chief, offered them, according to custom. For an instant, Toussaint gazed on the aged, worn, melancholy countenance beside him, and then stooped from his horse, to fling his arms round the neck of his brother, breathing into his ear, “Ifyouare in your duty at such a time as this, who else dare fail me? I thank God! I thank God! We cannot fail.”Paul withdrew himself, without speaking. His action was sullen. He led the way, however, towards the Governor’s house, evidently expecting to be followed. Not another word passed between them on the way. Through one wide street after another L’Ouverture was led; and from the balconies of whole ranges of fine houses, from the roof of many a church, and the porch of many a convent, was he hailed, before he could catch another glimpse of the countenance of the brother who preceded him. At the gate of the Governor’s house there was a pause; and way was made for the chief to pass in first. He did so; and the next moment turned round in the vestibule, to speak to Paul; but Paul had disappeared. Glancing round, Toussaint saw Father Laxabon awaiting him at the foot of the staircase. Each advanced to the other.“Father, he is wretched,” whispered Toussaint. “Bring me to him.”“Follow me,” said the priest; and, instead of mounting the marble staircase, L’Ouverture and the father were seen to enter a passage, into which every one else was forbidden to follow. Father Laxabon tapped softly at a door, and was desired to enter. He opened it, and closed it behind Toussaint, keeping watch outside, that the brothers might not be disturbed.Paul started to his feet from the conch on which he had thrown himself. He stood waiting. Now was the decisive moment; and Toussaint knew it was. Yet he stood speechless.“I left my son in your charge,” said Paul, at length.“You did: and I—”“And you murdered him.”“No, Paul! I executed justice upon him. Hear me, brother, once for all. I am heart-broken for you as a brother: but as a magistrate, I will admit no censure. As his father in your stead, I was, as the event has proved, too ambitious for him: but, as a ruler, I did but my duty.”“Yes! You have been ambitious! You have chosen your duty!”“My ambition was for him, Paul. As for my duty—remember that I have too a child whom, by that act, I doomed to worse than death.”“You see what liberty has brought to us. Look at the family of Ouverture—consider what has befallen since your struggle for liberty began; and then, perhaps, you will give over struggling. Welcome the French—go back to Breda—send me home to my hut on the shore, that I may die in such peace as is left to a childless man. Why do you not answer me, Toussaint? Why will you not give us a last chance of peace? I must obey you at the city gate; but I will importune you here. Why will you not do as I say?”“Because I know that some—and the Ouvertures among them—were not born to live at ease—to pass their days in peace. I feel that some—and the Ouvertures among them—are born to suffer—to struggle and to die for their race. If you would know why, ask their Creator. I myself would fain know why. Meantime, the will of God is so clear, that I have devoted, not myself only, but my children. My sons, you know—”“And not your children only, but your brother and his child.”“No. Moyse cast himself away. And, as for you, your hut still stands, as you say. Go to it, if you will; or make friends with the French, if you desire to be a slave again. You have suffered too much by me for me to ask you ever to serve me more. I shall never desire you to dedicate yourself anew to pain, in this crisis. Go and seek for ease. I shall incessantly pray that you may find it.”“I shall not seek what is not to be found, Toussaint. I have never dared wretchedness as you have: but since I am and must be wretched, I will be an Ouverture. Your eye and your voice make me an Ouverture again, even yet. Give me your commands.”“Read this proclamation, with the eye of an Ouverture. Well! Do you like it? How do you understand it?”“You declare your allegiance to France, declaring, at the same time, its limits, and appealing to your soldiers, in the event of aggression. It is plain from this that you mean to defend yourself, and anticipate war.”“It is well. That is what I intend to convey. You will publish this proclamation, in your city and district, under the date of this 18th of December, 1801. You will then concert with General Clerveaux the measures for the defence of this city, and report your decisions to me, on my return from Cap Samana. Shall it be so, brother?”“Be it so.”“And we are friends?”“We are fellow-citizens—we are Ouvertures—and therefore faithful. I shall not betray you.”“That is all I can ask, I know. We are old men, Paul. Fidelity for a while! Beyond the grave, perhaps more.”“You are going already?”“To Cap Samana; and alone. Farewell!”
Madame Ogé’s news was too true. Monsieur Pascal had held many an anxious conversation with L’Ouverture on the subject, before Afra showed him her little friend’s letter. In a short time an additional fact became known—that Bonaparte had re-established the slave-trade. His enmity to the race of blacks was now open and declared.
The first intimation which the colony at large had of what had happened, was through the altered demeanour of their chief. From the first bright day of the prolific, gorgeous summer, to that in which the season merged in a fierce autumnal storm, L’Ouverture had been seen to be not less calm and quiet than usual, but depressed and sad. Some ascribed his gloom to the transaction at Cap, and the misery it must needs have introduced into his home. Others, who saw how much the colony had gained in confidence, and Toussaint’s government in strength by that act, looked for a different cause. Some reminded each other that, while no man was more energetic in the hour of proof than their chief, his spirits were wont to droop when others were elated. It seemed as if some boding ghost whispered evil to him most peremptorily when the harvests were ripest before his eyes, when the laugh and the song were loudest in his ear, and when no one dreamed that the bright days of the colony would ever more be overclouded.
It was even so. When Toussaint saw that his race was in peace, it filled him with grief that this peace was not likely to last. When he saw what the true African soul was, when cleansed from blood and anger, and permitted to grow in freedom and in harmony, it was torture to know (as he did too well) that new injuries were preparing for it—that it was certain to be again steeped in passion and slaughter, and all that was savage in it excited afresh. This, even more than the death of Moyse, cast gloom round his soul, during the last of the series of bright and prosperous summers that were to pass under his eye. When autumn came, it might have made him wonder, if he had had leisure to consider himself, to find how his spirits rose, and his heart grew light, exactly when dismay and dread began to overcloud every face about him, but when he saw that suspense and struggle were coming to an end. He perceived perplexity in the countenance of his friend Pascal, even in the presence of his bride. He met sorrow in the mild eyes of Henri; he heard that exultation in the voice of Jacques which always struck like discord upon his ear. He observed that in the bearing of Madame Dessalines which carried back his memory ten years into her past history. He saw Aimée tremble at the approach of any one who might bring news from France; and he heard Margot weeping at her prayers, as she implored of Heaven the safe return of her sons. Yet all this caused to his sympathising heart scarcely a pang; so clear was his path now, so distinct was the issue to which his duty, and the fate of his race was brought.
“Here it ends then,” said he, one day at the council-table, rising as bespoke. “Here ends all possibility of compromise. For the blacks, it is slavery or self-defence. It is so, Monsieur Pascal.”
“It is. The terms of the new peace are proclaimed.”
“And the fact substantiated that Bonaparte has declared that he will do what he pleases with Saint Domingo.”
“Such were certainly his words.”
“Who is surprised?” inquired Dessalines. “I forewarned you of this, long ago: and I said, at the same time, that, if we waited for aggression, we might find it too late for defence.”
“Not a word of fear, Jacques. Our victory is as sure as the justice of Heaven.”
“Perhaps so; but it would have been easier if you had not been training your people, all these years, to love and cherish those whom they are now going to resist.”
“I see and admit our difficulty, Jacques. But if I had governed as you would have had me, we should have been in a worse. I should then have been the chief of a race of savages, instead of soldiers and citizens. If we had been extirpating the whites all this time, we should now have been destroying each other, instead of preparing to go forth to a righteous war.”
“True. Most true,” declared Henri. “We may suffer for a time, and fight with the more difficulty, from our habits of observance towards those whom we must now oppose; but God will not allow the spirit of forgiveness and love to be finally a snare.”
“Never,” said Toussaint. “He has appointed fierce passions for a yoke, and mild affections for freedom. Though Bonaparte betrays and oppresses, the Gospel stands.—It is now time for proclaiming the war throughout the colony.”
“I will prepare the proclamation this night,” said Monsieur Pascal.
“If you will, my friend,” said Toussaint. “But I intend to be my own proclamation. To-morrow morning I set forth for Saint Domingo, to visit my brother in his city. I shall examine every fort, and call together the militia, as I go. The trip would be more effective if I could have my council about me.”
“I will go with you,” said Henri.
“And I,” exclaimed Jacques.
“And I?” said Raymond, inquiringly.
“No, Raymond; stay at Port-au-Prince, to report my proceedings to the legislature. And you, Monsieur Pascal, remain here to receive the despatches which may arrive from France. My brethren-in-arms of the council will be with me. When we have satisfied ourselves, we will let you know whether or not those who would have loved and served France for ever as a guardian angel, can cast her off when she becomes an incubus.”
It was a time of high excitement—that in which L’Ouverture, attended by four of his generals, and a train of inferior officers, traversed the island, to communicate or confirm the intelligence that an expedition was believed to be setting sail from France, for the purpose of wresting from the blacks the freedom which was theirs by the law of the land. Toussaint found, not only that all hearts were ready for the assertion of freedom, but that all eyes were so fixed upon him, all ears so open to his lightest word, that there was every probability of his purposes being fully understood and completely executed. At a word from him, the inhabitants of Cap Français and Port-au-Prince began to remove their property into the fastnesses of the interior, and to prepare to burn those towns at the moment of the French attempting to land. It was useless to think of preventing a landing, so exposed was the greater part of the coast. The more rational hope was so to distress the foe on shore as to make them glad to go on board their ships again. Equally satisfactory was the disposition of the interior. The municipal bodies throughout the colony, previously brought under one system, now acted in concert. Their means of communication had been improved, so that each settlement was no longer like an encampment in the wilderness: on the contrary, every order given by L’Ouverture seemed to have been echoed by the mountain-tops around, so promptly was it transmitted, and so continually did he find his commands anticipated. As he went, his four generals parted off, to examine the forts on either hand, and to inspect and animate the militia. Everywhere the same story was told, and everywhere was it received with the same eagerness and docility. “The French are coming to make slaves of us again; but there shall never more be a slave in Saint Domingo. They are coming; but they are our countrymen till they have struck the first blow. We will demand of them an account of our brethren in Cayenne, in Guadaloupe, and in Martinique. We will ask of them concerning our brethren on the coasts of Africa. If, in return, they throw us chains and the whip, we shall know how to answer. But not a blow must be struck till they have shown whether they are brethren or foes. Our dark skin is no disgrace; but the first drop of a brother’s blood dyes us all in infamy. Let the infamy be theirs who assault us. At this moment our first duty is to our white brethren of this island; in this time of our high excitement, they are full of grief; they are guiltless of this attack upon our liberty; they are as willing as we to live and die under the rule of L’Ouverture: and under the special protection of L’Ouverture, they shall, if they please, live and die. Beware of imputing to them the sins of their colour; protect them from your hearts—defend them with your lives. In the hour of danger, as you invoke the blessing of Heaven, save first the Creole whites, and next your wives and your children.”
Such were the exhortations spoken everywhere by Christophe, La Plume, and Clerveaux. It could not be expected of Dessalines that he should deliver the last clauses with perfect fidelity. The solemnity of the hour had, however its tranquillising effect, even upon his ruling passion. Even his heart, which usually turned to stone at the sight of a white, was moved by the visible distress of the proprietors of that race, who were, with scarcely an exception, in despair. In private, they execrated the spirit and conduct of their former neighbours, now in Paris, whose representations were the chief cause of the expedition now projected. Instead of remaining or returning, to ascertain the real state of things in Saint Domingo—instead of respecting the interests and wishes of those who were entirely satisfied under the government of L’Ouverture, they had prejudiced the mind of the First Consul, and induced him to bring back the ruin and woe which had passed away. The ladies wept and trembled within their houses; their fathers, husbands, and brothers flocked to every point where L’Ouverture halted, to assure him of their good-will to his government, and to remind him of the difficulty and danger of the position in which they were placed. These last carried some comfort home with them. All who had seen Toussaint’s face had met there the gaze of a brother. If there were two or three who went with doubtful minds, prepared to exult at the depression of the blacks, but thinking it well to bespeak protection, in case of the struggle ending the wrong way—if there was a sprinkling of such among the throng of whites who joined the cavalcade from the cross-roads, they shrunk away abashed before the open countenance of the Deliverer, and stole homewards to wait the guidance of events.
If it had not been that the city of Saint Domingo was at the end of this march, Toussaint would have traversed the colony with a higher spirit and a lighter heart than during any of his serener days of power; but the city of his brother’s government was before him, and, at its gate, Paul, whom he had not met since the death of Moyse. He had not been forgetful of his sorrowing brother; he had immediately sent to him Father Laxabon—the best consoler, as the last confidant of the departed. Letter upon letter had Toussaint sent—deed upon deed of kindness had he attempted towards his brother; but still Father Laxabon had written, “Come not yet;” “He must have time;” “Give him time if there is to be peace between you.” Now it had become necessary that they should meet; and far readier was Toussaint to encounter the armies of France than the countenance of his brother. For ever, in the midst of the excitements of the journey, he found himself asking in his own mind where and how Paul would meet him; and whether he had cut off from himself his brother, as well as his brother’s son.
Meantime, the party rode proudly on, through the interior of the island, signs of welcome spreading around them at every step. From the grass-farms, in the wide savannahs, the herdsmen hastened, with promises to drive their flocks up into the mornes, where no enemy should penetrate while a man remained to guard the passes. At each salute from the forts that rose at intervals along the way, the wild cattle rushed towards the steeps; while the parties of hunters turned back from their sports, to offer themselves as scouts and messengers on behalf of the colony. From some glade of the woods appeared the monk, charged with the blessing of his convent; or the grazier, with a string of horses—his gift, for the service of the army. Around the crosses which, half concealed by the long grass of the plains, yet served to mark the road, were gathered groups of women, bearing bags of money, or ornaments of gold and silver, which they would have thrust upon him, to whom they declared that they owed their all; while every settlement displayed its company of armed men, standing in military order, and rending the air with shouts, on the approach of their chief. La Plume and Clerveaux, to whom such demonstrations were less familiar than to the other generals, no longer doubted that all would be well. They pronounced that the colony already showed itself invincible. Toussaint thought that he might have been of the same opinion, if the expected foe had been any other than French. The event must show whether the pains he had taken to unite his race with their fellow-citizens as brethren would now weaken or strengthen his cause—whether it would enhance or mitigate the bitterness of the impending quarrel.
On the morning of the last day of their survey of the interior, the party emerged from the shade of the woods, and, crossing the grassy levels of the Llanos, reached the ferry by which the Ozama was to be crossed near its mouth. On the opposite bank were horsemen, who, on observing the party approaching the ferry, put spurs to their horses, and galloped southwards, in the direction of the city. They need not so have hastened; for the Deliverer was stopped at every fishing hamlet—almost at every hut along the shores of the bay, to receive the loyal homage of the inhabitants—Spanish as well as French. In the midst of these greetings the eye and the soul of the chief were absent—looking to what lay before him. There, at some distance, springing from the level of the plain, rose the cathedral of Saint Domingo, and other lofty buildings, whose outline was distinctly marked against the glittering sea which spread immediately behind. An ungovernable impatience seized him at length, and he broke away, bursting through the throngs upon the road, and resolving not to stop till he should have seen his fate, as a brother, in his brother’s eyes.
A procession of priests was issuing from the city gates as he approached. They were robed, and they bore the Host under a canopy. At the first sound of their chant, the generals and their suite threw themselves from their horses, and prostrated themselves upon the grass. On rising, they perceived that the whole city had come out to meet them. “The whole city,” Toussaint heard his companions say: and his heart throbbed when he strained his sight to see if the Governor of the city was the only one left at home. The procession of priests had now turned, and was preceding him—slowly—so slowly, that he would fain have dispensed with the solemnity. The people crowded round his horse and impeded his way. He strove to be present to the occasion; but all was like a troubled dream—the chanting, the acclamation, the bursts of military music from a distance—all that at other times had fired his soul was now disturbance and perplexity. A few faithless persons in the crowd, on the watch for information with which they might make interest with the French on their arrival, noted the wandering of the eye and the knitting of the brow, and drew thence a portent of the fall of the Deliverer.
At length the gate was reached; and there, in the shadow of the portal, surrounded by his attendants, stood Paul. On the arrival of his brother at the threshold, he took from an officer the velvet cushion on which the keys of the city were deposited, and advancing to the stirrup of the Commander-in-chief, offered them, according to custom. For an instant, Toussaint gazed on the aged, worn, melancholy countenance beside him, and then stooped from his horse, to fling his arms round the neck of his brother, breathing into his ear, “Ifyouare in your duty at such a time as this, who else dare fail me? I thank God! I thank God! We cannot fail.”
Paul withdrew himself, without speaking. His action was sullen. He led the way, however, towards the Governor’s house, evidently expecting to be followed. Not another word passed between them on the way. Through one wide street after another L’Ouverture was led; and from the balconies of whole ranges of fine houses, from the roof of many a church, and the porch of many a convent, was he hailed, before he could catch another glimpse of the countenance of the brother who preceded him. At the gate of the Governor’s house there was a pause; and way was made for the chief to pass in first. He did so; and the next moment turned round in the vestibule, to speak to Paul; but Paul had disappeared. Glancing round, Toussaint saw Father Laxabon awaiting him at the foot of the staircase. Each advanced to the other.
“Father, he is wretched,” whispered Toussaint. “Bring me to him.”
“Follow me,” said the priest; and, instead of mounting the marble staircase, L’Ouverture and the father were seen to enter a passage, into which every one else was forbidden to follow. Father Laxabon tapped softly at a door, and was desired to enter. He opened it, and closed it behind Toussaint, keeping watch outside, that the brothers might not be disturbed.
Paul started to his feet from the conch on which he had thrown himself. He stood waiting. Now was the decisive moment; and Toussaint knew it was. Yet he stood speechless.
“I left my son in your charge,” said Paul, at length.
“You did: and I—”
“And you murdered him.”
“No, Paul! I executed justice upon him. Hear me, brother, once for all. I am heart-broken for you as a brother: but as a magistrate, I will admit no censure. As his father in your stead, I was, as the event has proved, too ambitious for him: but, as a ruler, I did but my duty.”
“Yes! You have been ambitious! You have chosen your duty!”
“My ambition was for him, Paul. As for my duty—remember that I have too a child whom, by that act, I doomed to worse than death.”
“You see what liberty has brought to us. Look at the family of Ouverture—consider what has befallen since your struggle for liberty began; and then, perhaps, you will give over struggling. Welcome the French—go back to Breda—send me home to my hut on the shore, that I may die in such peace as is left to a childless man. Why do you not answer me, Toussaint? Why will you not give us a last chance of peace? I must obey you at the city gate; but I will importune you here. Why will you not do as I say?”
“Because I know that some—and the Ouvertures among them—were not born to live at ease—to pass their days in peace. I feel that some—and the Ouvertures among them—are born to suffer—to struggle and to die for their race. If you would know why, ask their Creator. I myself would fain know why. Meantime, the will of God is so clear, that I have devoted, not myself only, but my children. My sons, you know—”
“And not your children only, but your brother and his child.”
“No. Moyse cast himself away. And, as for you, your hut still stands, as you say. Go to it, if you will; or make friends with the French, if you desire to be a slave again. You have suffered too much by me for me to ask you ever to serve me more. I shall never desire you to dedicate yourself anew to pain, in this crisis. Go and seek for ease. I shall incessantly pray that you may find it.”
“I shall not seek what is not to be found, Toussaint. I have never dared wretchedness as you have: but since I am and must be wretched, I will be an Ouverture. Your eye and your voice make me an Ouverture again, even yet. Give me your commands.”
“Read this proclamation, with the eye of an Ouverture. Well! Do you like it? How do you understand it?”
“You declare your allegiance to France, declaring, at the same time, its limits, and appealing to your soldiers, in the event of aggression. It is plain from this that you mean to defend yourself, and anticipate war.”
“It is well. That is what I intend to convey. You will publish this proclamation, in your city and district, under the date of this 18th of December, 1801. You will then concert with General Clerveaux the measures for the defence of this city, and report your decisions to me, on my return from Cap Samana. Shall it be so, brother?”
“Be it so.”
“And we are friends?”
“We are fellow-citizens—we are Ouvertures—and therefore faithful. I shall not betray you.”
“That is all I can ask, I know. We are old men, Paul. Fidelity for a while! Beyond the grave, perhaps more.”
“You are going already?”
“To Cap Samana; and alone. Farewell!”
Chapter Twenty Seven.All Eye.Day by day, in the internals of his occupation about the defence of the colony, did Toussaint repair to Cap Samana, to look eastwards over the sea. Day by day was he more sure, from the information that reached him, that the French could not be far-off. At length, he desired that his generals should be within call from Cotuy, a small town which stood on the banks of the Cotuy, near the western base of the mountainous promontory of Samana—promontory at low water, island at high tide.All was yet dark on the eastern point of this mountain, on the morning of the 28th of December, when two watchmen, who had passed the night under the ferns in a cleft of the steep, came out to look abroad. On their mountain all was yet dark, for the stars overhead, though still rolling clear and golden—visible orbs in the empty depths of the sky—were so far dimmed by the dawn in the east as no longer to send down their shafts of light upon the earth. The point on which these watchmen stood was so high, that between them and the horizon the sea lay like half a world—an immeasurable expanse, spreading as if from a vast depth below up into the very sky. Dim and soundless lay the mass of waters—breaking, no doubt, as for ages past, against the rocky precipice below; but not so as to be heard upon the steep. If might have appeared dead, but that a ray from some quarter of the heaven, capriciously touching its surface, showed that it was heaving as was its wont. Eastwards, at the point of junction of sea and sky, a dusky yellow light shone through the haze of morning, as behind a curtain, and told that the sun was on his way. As their eyes became accustomed to the dim light (which was darkness compared to that which had visited their dreams among the ferns), the watchmen alternately swept the expanse with their glass, and pronounced that there was not a sail in sight.“I believe, however, that this will be our day; the wind is fair for the fleet,” said Toussaint to Henri. “Go and bathe while I watch.”“We have said for a week past that each would be the day,” replied Henri. “If it be to-day, however, they can hardly have a fairer for the first sight of the paradise which poets and ladies praise at the French court. It promises to be the loveliest day of the year. I shall be here again before the sun has risen.”And Christophe retired to bathe in the waterfall which made itself heard from behind the ferns, and was hidden by them; springing, as they did, to a height of twenty feet and upwards. To the murmur and gush of this waterfall the friends had slept. An inhabitant of the tropics is so accustomed to sound, that he cannot sleep in the midst of silence: and on these heights there would have been everlasting silence but for the voice of waters, and the thunders and their echoes in the season of storms.When both had refreshed themselves, they took their seat on some broken ground on the verge of the precipice, sometimes indulging their full minds with silence, but continually looking abroad over the now brightening sea. It was becoming of a deeper blue as the sky grew lighter, except at that point of the east where earth and heaven seemed to be kindling with a mighty fire. There the haze was glowing with purple and crimson; and there was Henri intently watching for the first golden spark of the sun, when Toussaint touched his shoulder, and pointed to the northwards. Shading his eyes with his hand, Christophe strove to penetrate the grey mists which had gathered there.“What is it?” said he—“a sail? Yes: there is one—three—four!”“There are seven,” said Toussaint.Long did he gaze through the glass at these seven sail; and then he reported an eighth. At this moment his arm was grasped.“See! see!” cried Christophe, who was looking southwards.From behind the distant south-eastern promontory Del Euganno, now appeared, sail after sail, to the number of twenty.“All French,” observed Christophe. “Lend me the glass.”“All French,” replied his friend. “They are, no doubt, coming to rendezvous at this point.”While Henri explored those which were nearest, Toussaint leaned on his folded arms against the bank of broken ground before him, straining his eyes over the now-peopled sea.“More! More!” he exclaimed, as the sun appeared, and the new gush of light showed sail upon sail, as small specks upon the horizon line. He snatched the glass; and neither he nor Henri spoke for long.The east wind served the purposes of the vast fleet, whose three detachments, once within each other’s view, rapidly converged, showing that it was indeed their object to rendezvous at Cap Samana. Silent, swift, and most fair (as is the wont of evil) was this form of destruction in its approach.Not a word was spoken as the great ships-of-the-line bore majestically up towards their point, while the lighter vessels skimmed the sea, as in sport, and made haste in, as if racing with one another, or anxious to be in waiting, to welcome their superiors. Nearer and nearer they closed in, till the waters seemed to be covered with the foe. When Toussaint was assured that he had seen them all—when he had again and again silently counted over the fifty-four ships-of-war—he turned to his friend with a countenance of anguish, such as even that friend of many years had never seen.“Henri,” said he, “we must all perish. All France has come to Saint Domingo!”“Then we will perish,” replied Henri.“Undoubtedly: it is not much to perish, if that were all. But the world will be the worse for ever. Trance is deceived. She comes, in an error, to avenge herself, and to enslave the blacks. Trance has been deceived.”“If we were but all together,” said Henri, “so that there were no moments of weakness to fear.—If your sons were but with us—”“Fear no moments of weakness from me,” said Toussaint, its wonted fire now glowing in his eye. “My colour imposes on me duties above nature; and while my boys are hostages, they shall be to me as if they no longer existed.”“They may possibly be on board the fleet,” said Christophe. “If by caution we could obtain possession of them—”“Speak no more of them now,” said Toussaint.—Presently, as if thinking aloud, and with his eyes still bent on the moving ships, he went on:“No, those on board those ships are not boys, with life before them, and eager alike for arts and arms. I see who they are that are there. There are the troops of the Rhine—troops that have conquered a fairer river than our Artibonite, storming the castles on her steeps, and crowning themselves from her vineyards. There are the troops of the Alps—troops that have soared above the eagle, and stormed the clouds, and plucked the ice-king by the beard upon his throne. There are the troops of Italy—troops that have trodden the old Roman ways, and fought over again the old Roman wars—that have drunk of the Tiber, and once more conquered the armies of the Danube. There are the troops of Egypt—troops that have heard the war-cry of the desert tribes, and encamped in the shadow of the pyramids.”“Yet he is not afraid,” said Henri to himself, as he watched the countenance of his friend.“All these,” continued Toussaint, “all these are brought hither against a poor, depressed, insulted, ignorant race—brought as conquerors, eager for the spoil before a blow is struck. They come to disembarrass our paradise of us, as they would clear a fragrant and fruitful wood of apes and reptiles. And if they find that it takes longer than they suppose to crush and disperse us, France has more thousands ready to come and help. The labourer will leave his plough at a word, and the vine-dresser his harvest, and the artisan his shop—France will pour out the youth of all her villages, to seize upon the delights of the tropics, and the wealth of the savages, as they are represented by the emigrants who will not take me for a friend, but eat their own hearts far away, with hatred and jealousy. All France is coming to Saint Domingo!”“But—” interposed Christophe.“But, Henri,” interrupted his friend, laying his hand on his shoulder, “not all France, with her troops of the Rhine, of the Alps, of the Nile, nor with all Europe to help her, can extinguish the soul of Africa. That soul, when once the soul of a man, and no longer that of a slave, can overthrow the pyramids and the Alps themselves, sooner than be again crushed down into slavery.”“With God’s help,” said Christophe, crossing himself.“With God’s help,” repeated Toussaint. “See here,” he continued, taking up a handful of earth from the broken ground on which they stood, “see here what God has done! See, here are shells from the depth of yonder ocean, lying on the mountain-top. Cannot He who thus uprears the dust of His ocean floor, and lifts it above the clouds, create the societies of men anew, and set their lowest order but a little below the stars?”“He can,” said Christophe, again crossing himself.“Then let all France come to Saint Domingo! She may yet be undeceived— What now?” he resumed, after a pause of observation. “What manoeuvre is this?”The ships, almost before they had drawn together, parted off again; nearly two-thirds retiring to the north, and the rest southwards.“They are doing as we supposed they would,” said Christophe; “preparing to attack Cap Français and our southern or western towns at once; perhaps both Saint Domingo and Port-au-Prince.”“Be it so; we are ready for them,” replied Toussaint. “But now there is no time to lose. To Cotuy, to give our orders, and then all to our posts!”Once more he took a survey of the vast fleet, in its two divisions, and then spread his arms in the direction of his chief cities, promising the foe to be ready to meet them there. In another moment he was striding down the mountain.His generals were awaiting him at Cotuy, and the horses of the whole party were saddled.“The French are come?” they asked.“The French are come in great force. Fifty-four ships-of-war, carrying probably ten or twelve thousand men.”“We have twenty thousand regular troops,” cried Dessalines. “The day of the proud French has arrived!”L’Ouverture’s calm eye checked his exultation.“Ten or twelve thousand of the élite of the armies of France,” said Toussaint, “are sailing along our shores; and large reinforcements may be following. Our twenty thousand troops are untried in the field against a European foe; but our cause is good. Let us be bold, my friends; but the leaders of armies must not be presumptuous.”All uncovered their heads, and waited only his dismissal.“General Christophe, Cap Français and its district are waiting for you. Let the flames of the city give us notice when the French land.”Christophe embraced his friend, and was gone.“General Dessalines, to your command in the west! Preserve your line of messengers from Leogane to my gate at Pongaudin, and let me not want for tidings.”The tramp of Dessalines’ horse next died away.“General La Plume, it is probable that your eye will have to be busier than your hands. You will be ever ready for battle, of course; but remember that I rely on you for every point of the south-west coast being watched, from Leogane round to Aux Cayes. Send your communications through Dessalines’ line of scouts.”La Plume withdrew, and Toussaint gazed after him in reverie, till he was out of sight.“And I?” said Clerveaux, the only general officer now left in attendance.“Your pardon, General Clerveaux. This your department in the east is likely at present to remain tranquil, as I forewarned you. I now forewarn you that it may hereafter become the seat of war, when you will have your day. Meantime, I may at any time call upon your reserve; and you will take care that the enemy shall find no solace in your department, if they should visit it. Let it be bare as the desert before them. Farewell; I leave you in command of the east.”Clerveaux made his obeisance with an alacrity which caused Toussaint to say to himself, as he mounted—“Is he glad that the hour is come, or that his post is in the rear of the battle?”Toussaint’s own road lay homewards, where he had assembled the choicest troops, to be ready for action on any point where they might first be wanted, and where the great body of the cultivators, by whom his personal influence was most needed, were collected under his eye. As he now sped like the lightning through the shortest tracks, his trompettes proclaiming the invasion through all the valleys, and over all the plains as they went, he felt strong and buoyant in heart, like the eagle overhead, which was scared from its eyrie in Cibao by the proclamation of war. For ever, as he rode, the thought recurred to fire his soul, “He is my rival now, and no longer my chief. I am free. It is his own act, but Bonaparte has me for a rival now.”
Day by day, in the internals of his occupation about the defence of the colony, did Toussaint repair to Cap Samana, to look eastwards over the sea. Day by day was he more sure, from the information that reached him, that the French could not be far-off. At length, he desired that his generals should be within call from Cotuy, a small town which stood on the banks of the Cotuy, near the western base of the mountainous promontory of Samana—promontory at low water, island at high tide.
All was yet dark on the eastern point of this mountain, on the morning of the 28th of December, when two watchmen, who had passed the night under the ferns in a cleft of the steep, came out to look abroad. On their mountain all was yet dark, for the stars overhead, though still rolling clear and golden—visible orbs in the empty depths of the sky—were so far dimmed by the dawn in the east as no longer to send down their shafts of light upon the earth. The point on which these watchmen stood was so high, that between them and the horizon the sea lay like half a world—an immeasurable expanse, spreading as if from a vast depth below up into the very sky. Dim and soundless lay the mass of waters—breaking, no doubt, as for ages past, against the rocky precipice below; but not so as to be heard upon the steep. If might have appeared dead, but that a ray from some quarter of the heaven, capriciously touching its surface, showed that it was heaving as was its wont. Eastwards, at the point of junction of sea and sky, a dusky yellow light shone through the haze of morning, as behind a curtain, and told that the sun was on his way. As their eyes became accustomed to the dim light (which was darkness compared to that which had visited their dreams among the ferns), the watchmen alternately swept the expanse with their glass, and pronounced that there was not a sail in sight.
“I believe, however, that this will be our day; the wind is fair for the fleet,” said Toussaint to Henri. “Go and bathe while I watch.”
“We have said for a week past that each would be the day,” replied Henri. “If it be to-day, however, they can hardly have a fairer for the first sight of the paradise which poets and ladies praise at the French court. It promises to be the loveliest day of the year. I shall be here again before the sun has risen.”
And Christophe retired to bathe in the waterfall which made itself heard from behind the ferns, and was hidden by them; springing, as they did, to a height of twenty feet and upwards. To the murmur and gush of this waterfall the friends had slept. An inhabitant of the tropics is so accustomed to sound, that he cannot sleep in the midst of silence: and on these heights there would have been everlasting silence but for the voice of waters, and the thunders and their echoes in the season of storms.
When both had refreshed themselves, they took their seat on some broken ground on the verge of the precipice, sometimes indulging their full minds with silence, but continually looking abroad over the now brightening sea. It was becoming of a deeper blue as the sky grew lighter, except at that point of the east where earth and heaven seemed to be kindling with a mighty fire. There the haze was glowing with purple and crimson; and there was Henri intently watching for the first golden spark of the sun, when Toussaint touched his shoulder, and pointed to the northwards. Shading his eyes with his hand, Christophe strove to penetrate the grey mists which had gathered there.
“What is it?” said he—“a sail? Yes: there is one—three—four!”
“There are seven,” said Toussaint.
Long did he gaze through the glass at these seven sail; and then he reported an eighth. At this moment his arm was grasped.
“See! see!” cried Christophe, who was looking southwards.
From behind the distant south-eastern promontory Del Euganno, now appeared, sail after sail, to the number of twenty.
“All French,” observed Christophe. “Lend me the glass.”
“All French,” replied his friend. “They are, no doubt, coming to rendezvous at this point.”
While Henri explored those which were nearest, Toussaint leaned on his folded arms against the bank of broken ground before him, straining his eyes over the now-peopled sea.
“More! More!” he exclaimed, as the sun appeared, and the new gush of light showed sail upon sail, as small specks upon the horizon line. He snatched the glass; and neither he nor Henri spoke for long.
The east wind served the purposes of the vast fleet, whose three detachments, once within each other’s view, rapidly converged, showing that it was indeed their object to rendezvous at Cap Samana. Silent, swift, and most fair (as is the wont of evil) was this form of destruction in its approach.
Not a word was spoken as the great ships-of-the-line bore majestically up towards their point, while the lighter vessels skimmed the sea, as in sport, and made haste in, as if racing with one another, or anxious to be in waiting, to welcome their superiors. Nearer and nearer they closed in, till the waters seemed to be covered with the foe. When Toussaint was assured that he had seen them all—when he had again and again silently counted over the fifty-four ships-of-war—he turned to his friend with a countenance of anguish, such as even that friend of many years had never seen.
“Henri,” said he, “we must all perish. All France has come to Saint Domingo!”
“Then we will perish,” replied Henri.
“Undoubtedly: it is not much to perish, if that were all. But the world will be the worse for ever. Trance is deceived. She comes, in an error, to avenge herself, and to enslave the blacks. Trance has been deceived.”
“If we were but all together,” said Henri, “so that there were no moments of weakness to fear.—If your sons were but with us—”
“Fear no moments of weakness from me,” said Toussaint, its wonted fire now glowing in his eye. “My colour imposes on me duties above nature; and while my boys are hostages, they shall be to me as if they no longer existed.”
“They may possibly be on board the fleet,” said Christophe. “If by caution we could obtain possession of them—”
“Speak no more of them now,” said Toussaint.—Presently, as if thinking aloud, and with his eyes still bent on the moving ships, he went on:
“No, those on board those ships are not boys, with life before them, and eager alike for arts and arms. I see who they are that are there. There are the troops of the Rhine—troops that have conquered a fairer river than our Artibonite, storming the castles on her steeps, and crowning themselves from her vineyards. There are the troops of the Alps—troops that have soared above the eagle, and stormed the clouds, and plucked the ice-king by the beard upon his throne. There are the troops of Italy—troops that have trodden the old Roman ways, and fought over again the old Roman wars—that have drunk of the Tiber, and once more conquered the armies of the Danube. There are the troops of Egypt—troops that have heard the war-cry of the desert tribes, and encamped in the shadow of the pyramids.”
“Yet he is not afraid,” said Henri to himself, as he watched the countenance of his friend.
“All these,” continued Toussaint, “all these are brought hither against a poor, depressed, insulted, ignorant race—brought as conquerors, eager for the spoil before a blow is struck. They come to disembarrass our paradise of us, as they would clear a fragrant and fruitful wood of apes and reptiles. And if they find that it takes longer than they suppose to crush and disperse us, France has more thousands ready to come and help. The labourer will leave his plough at a word, and the vine-dresser his harvest, and the artisan his shop—France will pour out the youth of all her villages, to seize upon the delights of the tropics, and the wealth of the savages, as they are represented by the emigrants who will not take me for a friend, but eat their own hearts far away, with hatred and jealousy. All France is coming to Saint Domingo!”
“But—” interposed Christophe.
“But, Henri,” interrupted his friend, laying his hand on his shoulder, “not all France, with her troops of the Rhine, of the Alps, of the Nile, nor with all Europe to help her, can extinguish the soul of Africa. That soul, when once the soul of a man, and no longer that of a slave, can overthrow the pyramids and the Alps themselves, sooner than be again crushed down into slavery.”
“With God’s help,” said Christophe, crossing himself.
“With God’s help,” repeated Toussaint. “See here,” he continued, taking up a handful of earth from the broken ground on which they stood, “see here what God has done! See, here are shells from the depth of yonder ocean, lying on the mountain-top. Cannot He who thus uprears the dust of His ocean floor, and lifts it above the clouds, create the societies of men anew, and set their lowest order but a little below the stars?”
“He can,” said Christophe, again crossing himself.
“Then let all France come to Saint Domingo! She may yet be undeceived— What now?” he resumed, after a pause of observation. “What manoeuvre is this?”
The ships, almost before they had drawn together, parted off again; nearly two-thirds retiring to the north, and the rest southwards.
“They are doing as we supposed they would,” said Christophe; “preparing to attack Cap Français and our southern or western towns at once; perhaps both Saint Domingo and Port-au-Prince.”
“Be it so; we are ready for them,” replied Toussaint. “But now there is no time to lose. To Cotuy, to give our orders, and then all to our posts!”
Once more he took a survey of the vast fleet, in its two divisions, and then spread his arms in the direction of his chief cities, promising the foe to be ready to meet them there. In another moment he was striding down the mountain.
His generals were awaiting him at Cotuy, and the horses of the whole party were saddled.
“The French are come?” they asked.
“The French are come in great force. Fifty-four ships-of-war, carrying probably ten or twelve thousand men.”
“We have twenty thousand regular troops,” cried Dessalines. “The day of the proud French has arrived!”
L’Ouverture’s calm eye checked his exultation.
“Ten or twelve thousand of the élite of the armies of France,” said Toussaint, “are sailing along our shores; and large reinforcements may be following. Our twenty thousand troops are untried in the field against a European foe; but our cause is good. Let us be bold, my friends; but the leaders of armies must not be presumptuous.”
All uncovered their heads, and waited only his dismissal.
“General Christophe, Cap Français and its district are waiting for you. Let the flames of the city give us notice when the French land.”
Christophe embraced his friend, and was gone.
“General Dessalines, to your command in the west! Preserve your line of messengers from Leogane to my gate at Pongaudin, and let me not want for tidings.”
The tramp of Dessalines’ horse next died away.
“General La Plume, it is probable that your eye will have to be busier than your hands. You will be ever ready for battle, of course; but remember that I rely on you for every point of the south-west coast being watched, from Leogane round to Aux Cayes. Send your communications through Dessalines’ line of scouts.”
La Plume withdrew, and Toussaint gazed after him in reverie, till he was out of sight.
“And I?” said Clerveaux, the only general officer now left in attendance.
“Your pardon, General Clerveaux. This your department in the east is likely at present to remain tranquil, as I forewarned you. I now forewarn you that it may hereafter become the seat of war, when you will have your day. Meantime, I may at any time call upon your reserve; and you will take care that the enemy shall find no solace in your department, if they should visit it. Let it be bare as the desert before them. Farewell; I leave you in command of the east.”
Clerveaux made his obeisance with an alacrity which caused Toussaint to say to himself, as he mounted—
“Is he glad that the hour is come, or that his post is in the rear of the battle?”
Toussaint’s own road lay homewards, where he had assembled the choicest troops, to be ready for action on any point where they might first be wanted, and where the great body of the cultivators, by whom his personal influence was most needed, were collected under his eye. As he now sped like the lightning through the shortest tracks, his trompettes proclaiming the invasion through all the valleys, and over all the plains as they went, he felt strong and buoyant in heart, like the eagle overhead, which was scared from its eyrie in Cibao by the proclamation of war. For ever, as he rode, the thought recurred to fire his soul, “He is my rival now, and no longer my chief. I am free. It is his own act, but Bonaparte has me for a rival now.”
Chapter Twenty Eight.Many Guests.For some weeks after the appearance of the fleet upon the coast, nothing took place which could be called war. Toussaint was resolved not to be the aggressor. Prepared at all points, he waited till those whom he still regarded as his fellow-citizens should strike the first blow. He was the more willing to leave an opening for peace till the last, that he heard that ladies were on board—ladies from the court of France, come to enjoy the delights of this tropical paradise. The sister of Bonaparte, Madame Leclerc, the wife of the commander of the expedition, was there. It seemed scarcely conceivable that she and her train of ladies could have come with any expectation of witnessing such a warfare as, ten years before, had shown how much more savage than the beasts of the forest men may be. It was as little conceivable that they could expect the negroes to enter into slavery again at a word, after having enjoyed freedom, and held rule for ten years. There must still be hope of peace; and Toussaint spared no effort to preserve it, till the strangers should declare their intentions by some unequivocal act.For this object, L’Ouverture appeared gifted with ubiquity. No flying Arab was ever in so many places so nearly at once. Pongaudin, like every other estate which was in friendly hands, was a sort of camp. Here the Commander-in-chief and his officers had their head-quarters; and here he was to be found, at intervals of a few hours. During those intervals, he was inspecting the fortifications of Saint Marc, one of the strongest places of the island, and under the charge of Dessalines; or he was overlooking the bight of Leogane, from behind Port-au-Prince; or he was visiting L’Étoile, made a strong post, and held by Charles Bellair and his wife (for Deesha would not leave her husband);—or he was riding through the mornes to the north, re-animating, with the sight of his beloved countenance, the companies there held in reserve. He was on the heights of the Gros Morne, an admiring spectator, on occasion of that act of Christophe which was the real cause of the delay and indecision of Leclerc and his troops.The main body of the French army was preparing to land, immediately on its arrival at Cap Français, when Christophe sent his friend and brother officer, Sangos, on board the fleet, to acquaint Leclerc with the absence of the Commander-in-chief of the colony, without whose permission the landing of troops could not be allowed. If a landing by force were attempted, the city would immediately be fired, and the inhabitants withdrawn. General Leclerc could not believe this to be more than an empty threat; but thought it as well to avoid risk, by landing in the night at points where he was not looked for. Accordingly, he sent some of his force on shore at Fort Dauphin, to the east; while he himself, with a body of troops, set foot on the fatal coast which he was never to leave, at Le Limbé, on the western side of the ridge which commanded the town, hoping to drop into the military quarter from the heights, before he was looked for. From these heights, however, he beheld the town one mass of fire. Christophe had withdrawn the inhabitants, including two thousand whites, who were to be held as hostages in the interior; and so orderly and well-planned had been his proceedings, that not the slightest personal injury was sustained by any individual. Of this conflagration, Toussaint had been a witness from the heights of Gros Morne. The horror which it occasioned was for the strangers alone. All the movable property of the citizens was safe in the interior: and they were all safe in person. The dismay was for the French, when they found only a burning soil, tumbling roofs, and tottering walls, where they had expected repose and feasting after the ennui of a voyage across the Atlantic. For the court ladies, there existed at present only the alternative of remaining on board the ships, of which they were heartily weary, and establishing themselves on the barren island of Tortuga, the home of the buccaneers of former days. They shortly after took possession of Tortuga, which they found to be a tropical region indeed, but no paradise. It was not the best season for turtle; and there was no other of the luxuries whose savour had reached the nostrils of the court of France.Among the two thousand whites removed from Cap were, of course, the ladies of the convent. They were safely established under shelter of the fortifications of Saint Marc, with all their little comforts about them, and their mocking-bird as tuneful as when hanging in its own orange-tree. Euphrosyne was not with them—nor yet with her guardian. Monsieur Critois had enough to do to protect himself and his lady; and he earnestly desired his ward to be thankful that she had friends among the ruling powers. Euphrosyne needed no commands on this head. She joined Madame Pascal, and was now with her and the secretary in the half-camp, half-household of Pongaudin.Besides the family and establishment of the Commander-in-chief, as many of the white gentry of Cap were accommodated as the country palace of Pongaudin would contain. It seemed doubtful how long they would have to find amusement for themselves there; for the invaders seemed to have fallen asleep. A month had passed since the burning of Cap, and not another step had been taken. Expectation had begun to be weary. The feverish watching for news had begun to relax; the ladies no longer shuddered at the bare idea of walking in the shrubberies; and some of the younger damsels had begun to heed warnings from L’Ouverture himself not to go out of bounds—by no means to pass the line of sentinels in any direction. Instead of everything French being spoken of with a faltering voice, any one was now welcome who might be able to tell, even at second or third hand, that Madame Leclerc had been seen, and what she wore, and how she looked, and what she had said, either about the colony or anything else. The officers, both civil and military, found themselves able to devote their powers of entertainment more and move to the ladies; and the liability to be called off in the midst of the game of chess, the poem, the song, or the dance, seemed only to make their attentions more precious, because more precarious, than those of the guests who knew themselves to be hostages, and who had abundance of time for gallantry, if only they had had spirits and inclination. Most of the party certainly found the present position of affairs very dull. The exceptions were few. They were poor Génifrède, whose mind was wholly in the past, and before whose eyes the present went forward as a dim dream; her mother and sister, whose faculties were continually on the stretch to keep up, under such circumstances, the hospitalities for which they were pledged to so large a household; the secretary and his bride, who were engrossed at once with the crisis in public affairs and in their own; and Euphrosyne, who could find nothing dull after the convent, and who unconsciously wished that, if this were invasion and war, they might last a good while yet.One evening, the 8th of February, was somewhat remarkable for L’Ouverture being not only at home, but at leisure. He was playing billiards with his officers and guests. It followed of course that General Vincent was also present. It followed of course; for whether it was that Toussaint felt the peculiar interest in him which report made observers look for towards an intended son-in-law, or whether the chief distrusted him on account of his fondness for Paris and the First Consul, Vincent was for ever kept under the eye, and by the side of his General. Aimée was wont to sigh when she heard her father’s horse ordered; for she know that Vincent was going too; and she now rejoiced to see her father at the billiard-table; for it told her that Vincent was her own for the evening.Vincent was not slow in putting in his claim. At the first moment, when they were unobserved, he drew her to the window, where the evening breeze blew in, fragrant and cool; then into the piazza; then across the lawn; then down to the gate which opened upon the beach. He would have gone further; but there Aimée stopped, reminding him of the general order against breaking bounds.“That is all very well for the whites; and for us, when the whites have their eyes upon us,” said Vincent. “But we are not prisoners; and there is not a prisoner abroad to-night. Come—only as far as the mangroves! We shall not be missed: and if we should be, we can be within the gate in two minutes.”“I dare not,” said Aimée, with a longing look, however, at the pearly sands, and the creaming waves that now overspread them, now lapsed in the gleam of the moon. The dark shadow of the mangroves lay but a little way on. It was true that two minutes would reach them; but she still said, “I dare not.”“Who is there?” cried the sentinel, in his march past the gate.“No strangers, Claude. Any news on your watch?”“None, Mademoiselle.”“All quiet over towards Saint Marc?” inquired Vincent.“All quiet there, General; and everywhere else when the last reports came round, ten minutes ago.”“Very well: pass on, good Claude. Come, come!” he said to Aimée; “who knows when we may have a moonlight hour again!”He would not bide another refusal, but, by gentle violence, drew her out upon the beach, telling the sentinel, as they passed between him and the water, that if they were inquired for, he might call: they should be within hearing. Claude touched his cap, showed his white teeth in a broad smile, and did not object.Once among the mangroves, Aimée could not repent. Their arched branches, descending into the water, trembled with every wave that gushed in among them, and stirred the mild air. The moonlight quivered on their dark green leaves, and on the transparent pool which lay among their roots.“Now, would you not have been sorry if I had not made you come?” said Vincent.“If we could only stay—stay here for ever!” she exclaimed, leaning back against the bush under which they sat. “Here, amidst the whispering of the winds and the dash of the waters, you would listen no more for the roll of the drum, or the booming of cannon at Saint Marc. I am weary of our life at Pongaudin.”“Weary of rumour of wars, before we have the wars themselves, love.”“We can never hear anything of my brothers while we are on these terms with France. Day after day comes on—day after day, and we have to toil, and plan, and be anxious; and our guests grow tired, and nothing is done; and we know that we can hear nothing of what we most want to learn. I am certain that my mother spends her nights in tears for her boys; and nothing is so likely to rouse poor Génifrède as the prospect of their coming back to us.”“And you yourself, Aimée, cannot be happy without Isaac.”“I never tried,” said she. “I have daily felt his loss, because I wished never to cease to feel it.”“He is happier than you, dearest Aimée.”“Do not tell me that men feel such separations less than women; for I know it well already. I can never have been so necessary to him as he is to me; I know that well.”“Say ‘was,’ my Aimée. The time comes when sisters find their brothers less necessary to them than they have been.”“Such a time has never come to me, and I believe it never will. No one can ever be to me what Isaac has been.”“‘Has been;’—true. But see how times have changed! Isaac has left off writing to you so frequently as he did—”“No, no. He never did write frequently; it was never his habit to write as I wrote to him.”“Well, well. Whatever expectation may lie at the bottom of this little heart, whatever secret remonstrance for his silence, whatever dissatisfaction with his apologies, whatever mortification that such apologies were necessary—”“How dare you— What right have you to pry into my heart?” exclaimed Aimée, withdrawing herself from her companion’s side.“The right of love,” he replied, following till both were seated on the very verge of the water. “Can you suppose that I do not see your disappointment when L’Ouverture opens his dispatches, and there is not one of that particular size and fold which makes your countenance change when you see it? Can you suppose that I do not mark your happiness, for hours and days, after one of those closely-written sheets has come?—happiness which makes me feel of no account to you—happiness which makes me jealous of my very brother—for my brother he is, as he is yours.”“It should not do that,” replied Aimée, as she sat looking into the water. “You should not beangryat my being happy. If you have learned so much of my thoughts—”“Say on! Oh, say on!”“There is no need,” said she, “if you can read the soul without speech, as you seem to profess.”“I read no thoughts but yours; and none of yours that relate to myself. I see at a glance every stir of your love to all besides. If you care for me, I need to hear it from yourself.”“If this quarrel comes to bloodshed, what will become of my brothers? If you love me, tell me that.”“Still these brothers!” cried Vincent, impatiently.“And who should be inquired of concerning them, if not you? You took them to France; you left them there—”“I was sent here by Bonaparte—put on the deputation by his express command. If not, I should not now have been here—I should have remembered you only as a child, and—”“But Placide and Isaac! Suppose Leclerc and Rochambeau both killed—suppose Madame Leclerc entering once more into her brother’s presence, a mourning widow—what would Bonaparte do with Placide and Isaac? I am sure you have no comfort to give me, or you would not so evade what I ask.”“I declare, I protest you are mistaken. Bonaparte is everything that is noble, and gracious, and gentle.”“You are sure of that?”“Nay, why not? Have I not always said so? and you have delighted to hear me say so.”“I should delight to believe it now. I will believe it; but yet, if he were really noble, how should this quarrel have arisen? For, if ever man was noble, and gracious, and gentle, my father is. If two such men come to open defiance, whose is the crime, and wherein does it lie?”“If the world fall to pieces, Aimée, there can be no doubt of Bonaparte’s greatness. What majesty he carries with him, through all his conquests! How whole nations quail under his magnificent proclamations!”“Are they really fine? I have seen but few; and they—”“Are they not all grand? That proclamation in Egypt, for instance, in which he said he was the Man of Fate who had been foretold in the Koran, and that all resistance was impious and vain! If it had not happened four years before Bonaparte went to Egypt, I should have thought your father—”“I was just thinking of that. But there is a great difference. It was not my father, but Laveaux, who said that the black chief, predicted by Raynal, had appeared. And it was originally said, not as a divine prophecy, but because, in the natural course of things, the redeemer of an oppressed race must arise. Besides, my father says nothing but what he believes; and I suppose Bonaparte did not believe what he was saying.”“Do you think not? For my part, I believe his very words—that to oppose him is impious and vain.”“Heaven pity us, if that be true! Was it not in that proclamation that Bonaparte said that men must account to him for their secret thoughts, as nothing was concealed from him?”“Yes; just as L’Ouverture told the mulattoes in the church at Cap that, from the other side of the island, his eye would be upon them, and his arm stretched out, to restrain or punish. He almost reached Bonaparte’s strain there.”“I like my father’s words the best, because all understood and believed what he said. Bonaparte may claim to read secret thoughts; but before my father, men have no secret thoughts—they love him so that their minds stand open.”“Then those Italian proclamations, and letters to the Directory,” said Vincent; “how they grew grander, as city after city, and state after state, fell before him! When he summoned Pavia to open her gates to him, after her insurrection, how imperious he was! If he had found that a drop of French blood had been shed, he declared not a stone of the city should have remained; but a column should arise in its place, bearing the inscription, ‘Here once stood Pavia!’ There spoke the man who held the ages in his hand, ready to roll them over the civilised world—to crumble cities, and overthrow nations, in case of resistance to his will! How Paris rang with acclamations when these words passed from mouth to mouth! He was worshipped as a god.”“It is said,” sighed Aimée, “that Leclerc has proclamations from him for our people. I wonder what they are, and how they will be received.”“With enthusiasm, no doubt. When and where has it been otherwise? You shudder, my Aimée; but, trust me, there is inconceivable folly in the idea of opposing Bonaparte. As he said in Egypt, it is impious and vain. Trust me, love, and decide accordingly.”“Desert my father and my family in their hour of peril! I will not do that.”“There is no peril in the case, love; it is glory and happiness to live under Bonaparte. My life upon it, he will do your father no injury, but continue him in his command, under certain arrangements; and, as for the blacks, they and the whites will join in one common enthusiasm for the conqueror of Europe. Let us be among the first, my Aimée! Be mine; and we will go to the French forces—among my friends there. It is as if we were called to be mediators; it is as if the welfare of your family and the colony were, in a measure, consigned to our hands. Once married, and with Leclerc, how easily may we explain away causes of quarrel! How completely shall we make him understand L’Ouverture! And how, through us, Leclerc can put your father in possession of the views of Bonaparte: Oh, Aimée, be mine, and let us go!”“And if it were otherwise—if it came to bloodshed—to deadly warfare?”“Then, love, you would least of all repent. Alone and desolate—parted from your brothers—parted from me.”“From you, Vincent?”“Assuredly. I can never unsheath my sword against those to whom my attachment is strong. I can never fight against an army from Paris—troops that have been led by Bonaparte.”“Does my father know that?”“He cannot know me if he anticipates anything else. I execute his orders at present, because I admire his system of government, and am anxious that it should appear to the best advantage to the brother-in-law of the First Consul. Thus, I am confident that there will be no war. But, love, if there should be, you will be parted for ever from your brothers and from me, by remaining here—you will never again see Isaac. Nay, nay! No tears! no terrors, my Aimée! By being mine, and going with me to that place where all are happy—to Paris—you will, through my interest, best aid your father; and Isaac and I will watch over you for ever.”“Not a word more, Vincent! You make me wretched. Not a word more, till I have spoken to my father. He must, he will tell me what he thinks, what he expects—whether he fears. Hark! There are horsemen!”“Can it be? Horsemen approaching on this side? I will look out.”“No, no! Vincent, you shall not go—”Her terror was so great that Vincent could not indeed leave her. As the tramp of a company of horsemen became almost lost on quitting the hard road for the deep sand, he dropped his voice, whispering in her ear that she was quite safe, completely hidden under the mangroves, and that he would not leave her. She clasped his hand with both hers, to compel him to keep his word, and implored him not to speak—not to shake a leaf of their covert.The company passed very near; so near as that the sand thrown up by the horses’ feet pattered among the foliage of the mangroves. No one of the strangers was then speaking; but in another moment the sentry challenged them. They laughed, and were certainly stopping at the little gate.“We know your master, fellow,” said one. “We have had more talk with him in one day than you in all your service.”“I am sure I ought to know that voice,” whispered Aimée, drawing a long breath.The strangers were certainly intending to pass through the gate into the grounds; and the sentry was remonstrating. In another moment he fired, as a signal. There was some clamour and laughter, and Aimée started, as at a voice from the grave.“That is Isaac’s voice!” she exclaimed, springing from her seat. It was now Vincent’s turn to hold her hands, or she would have been out in the broad moonlight in an instant.“Stay, love! Stay one moment,” he entreated. “I believe you are right; but let me look out.”She sank down on the sand, while he reconnoitred. At the moment of his looking forth, a young man who, he was certain, was Placide, was good-humouredly taking the sentry by the shoulders, and pushing him from his place, while saying something in his ear, which made the poor soldier toss his hat in the air, and run forward to meet his comrades, whom the sound of his gun was bringing from every direction, over the sands.“It is they, indeed,” said Vincent. “Your brothers are both there.”While he was speaking, Aimée burst from the covert, made her way miraculously through the gathering horses and men, pushed through the gate, leaving her lover some way behind, flew like a lapwing through the shrubbery, and across the lawn, was hanging on her brother’s neck before the news of the arrival was understood within the house.There was no waiting till father and mother could choose where to meet their children. The lads followed the messenger into the salon, crowded as it was with strangers. L’Ouverture’s voice was the first heard, after the sudden hush.“Now, Heaven bless Bonaparte for this!” he cried, “and make him a happy father!”“Hear him, O God! and bless Bonaparte!” sobbed Margot.A check was given to their words and their emotions, by seeing by whom the young men were accompanied. Thérèse was leading forward Génifrède, when she stopped short, with a sort of groan, and returned to her seat, forgetful at the moment even of Génifrède; for Monsieur Papalier was there. Other gentlemen were of the company. The one whom the young men most punctiliously introduced to their father was Monsieur Coasson, the tutor, guardian, or envoy, under whose charge General Leclerc had sent them home.Toussaint offered him a warm welcome, as the guardian of his sons; but Monsieur Coasson himself seemed most impressed with his office of envoy: as did the gentlemen who accompanied him. Assuming the air of an ambassador, and looking round him, as if to require the attention of all present, Monsieur Coasson discharged himself of his commission, as follows:—“General Toussaint—”“They will not acknowledge him as L’Ouverture,” observed Thérèse to Madame Pascal and Génifrède. Afra’s eyes filled with tears. Génifrède was absorbed in contemplating her brothers—both grown manly, and the one looking the soldier, the other the student.“General Toussaint,” said Coasson, “I come, the bearer of a letter to you from the First Consul.”In his hand was now seen a gold box, which he did not, however, deliver at the moment.“With it, I am commissioned to offer the greetings of General Leclerc, who awaits with anxiety your arrival at his quarters as his Lieutenant-General.”“Upon what does General Leclerc ground his expectation of seeingmethere?”“Upon the ground of the commands of the First Consul, declared in his proclamation to the inhabitants of Saint Domingo, and, no doubt, more fully in this letter to yourself.”Here he delivered the box, desiring that the presence of himself and his companions might be no impediment to General Toussaint’s reading his dispatches.Toussaint had no intention that they should be any hindrance. He read and re-read the letter, while all eyes but those of Aimée were fixed upon his countenance. With an expression of the quietest satisfaction, she was gazing upon her brothers, unvexed by the presence of numbers, and the transaction of state business. They were there, and she was happy.Those many eyes failed to discover anything from the countenance of Toussaint. It was immovable; and Monsieur Coasson was so far disappointed. It had been his object to prevent the dispatches which he brought from being road in private, that he might be enabled to report how they were received. He had still another resource. He announced that he had brought with him the proclamation of the First Consul to the inhabitants at large of Saint Domingo. As it was a public document, he would, with permission, read it aloud. Toussaint now looked round, to command attention to the words of the ruler of France. Vincent sought to exchange glances with Aimée; but Aimée had none to spare. Monsieur Papalier had unceremoniously entered into conversation with some of the guests of his own complexion, and did not cease upon any hint, declaring to those about him, that none of this was new to him, as he was in the counsels of Bonaparte in all Saint Domingo affairs. The tone of their conversation was, however, reduced to a low murmur, while Monsieur Coasson read aloud the following proclamation:—“Paris, November8, 1801.“Inhabitants of Saint Domingo,“Whatever your origin or your colour, you are all French: you are all equal, and all free, before God, and before the Republic.“France, like Saint Domingo, has been a prey to factions, torn by intestine commotions and foreign wars. But all has changed: all nations have embraced the French, and have sworn to them peace and amity: the French people have embraced each other, and have sworn to be all friends and brothers. Come also, embrace the French, and rejoice to see again your European friends and brothers!“The government sends you the Captain-General Leclerc. He has brought—”Here Monsieur Coasson’s voice and manner became extremely emphatic.“He has brought sufficient force for protecting you against your enemies, and against the enemies of the Republic. If you are told that these forces are destined to violate your liberties, reply, ‘The Republic will not suffer them to be taken from us.’“Rally round the Captain-General. He brings you abundance and peace. Rally all of you around him. Whoever shall dare to separate himself from the Captain-General will be a traitor to his country; and the indignation of the country will devour him, as the fire devours your dried canes.“Done at Paris,” etcetera.“This document is signed, you will perceive,” said Monsieur Coasson, “by the First Consul, and by the Secretary of State, Monsieur H.B. Maret.”Once more it was in vain to explore the countenance of L’Ouverture. It was still immovable. He extended his hand for the document, saying that he would retire with his secretary, for the purpose of preparing his replies for the First Consul, in order that no such delays might take place on his part, as the date of the letter and proclamation showed to have intervened on the other side. Meantime, he requested that Monsieur Coasson, and all whom he had brought in his company, would make themselves at home in his house; and, turning to his wife and family, he commended his newly arrived guests to their hospitality. With a passing smile and greeting to his sons, he was about to leave the room with Monsieur Pascal, when Monsieur Coasson intimated that he had one thing more to say.“I am directed, General Toussaint,” said he, “in case of your refusal to join the French forces immediately, to convey your sons back to the guardianship of the Captain-General Leclerc: and it will be my duty to set out with them at dawn.”A cry of anguish broke forth from Margot, and Placide was instantly by her side.“Fear nothing,” said Toussaint to her, in a tone which once more fixed all eyes upon him. His countenance was no longer unmoved. It was convulsed, for a moment, with passion. He was calm in his manner, however, as he turned to Monsieur Coasson, and said, “Sir, my sons are at home. It rests with myself and with them, what excursions they make henceforth.”He bowed, and left the room with Monsieur Pascal.
For some weeks after the appearance of the fleet upon the coast, nothing took place which could be called war. Toussaint was resolved not to be the aggressor. Prepared at all points, he waited till those whom he still regarded as his fellow-citizens should strike the first blow. He was the more willing to leave an opening for peace till the last, that he heard that ladies were on board—ladies from the court of France, come to enjoy the delights of this tropical paradise. The sister of Bonaparte, Madame Leclerc, the wife of the commander of the expedition, was there. It seemed scarcely conceivable that she and her train of ladies could have come with any expectation of witnessing such a warfare as, ten years before, had shown how much more savage than the beasts of the forest men may be. It was as little conceivable that they could expect the negroes to enter into slavery again at a word, after having enjoyed freedom, and held rule for ten years. There must still be hope of peace; and Toussaint spared no effort to preserve it, till the strangers should declare their intentions by some unequivocal act.
For this object, L’Ouverture appeared gifted with ubiquity. No flying Arab was ever in so many places so nearly at once. Pongaudin, like every other estate which was in friendly hands, was a sort of camp. Here the Commander-in-chief and his officers had their head-quarters; and here he was to be found, at intervals of a few hours. During those intervals, he was inspecting the fortifications of Saint Marc, one of the strongest places of the island, and under the charge of Dessalines; or he was overlooking the bight of Leogane, from behind Port-au-Prince; or he was visiting L’Étoile, made a strong post, and held by Charles Bellair and his wife (for Deesha would not leave her husband);—or he was riding through the mornes to the north, re-animating, with the sight of his beloved countenance, the companies there held in reserve. He was on the heights of the Gros Morne, an admiring spectator, on occasion of that act of Christophe which was the real cause of the delay and indecision of Leclerc and his troops.
The main body of the French army was preparing to land, immediately on its arrival at Cap Français, when Christophe sent his friend and brother officer, Sangos, on board the fleet, to acquaint Leclerc with the absence of the Commander-in-chief of the colony, without whose permission the landing of troops could not be allowed. If a landing by force were attempted, the city would immediately be fired, and the inhabitants withdrawn. General Leclerc could not believe this to be more than an empty threat; but thought it as well to avoid risk, by landing in the night at points where he was not looked for. Accordingly, he sent some of his force on shore at Fort Dauphin, to the east; while he himself, with a body of troops, set foot on the fatal coast which he was never to leave, at Le Limbé, on the western side of the ridge which commanded the town, hoping to drop into the military quarter from the heights, before he was looked for. From these heights, however, he beheld the town one mass of fire. Christophe had withdrawn the inhabitants, including two thousand whites, who were to be held as hostages in the interior; and so orderly and well-planned had been his proceedings, that not the slightest personal injury was sustained by any individual. Of this conflagration, Toussaint had been a witness from the heights of Gros Morne. The horror which it occasioned was for the strangers alone. All the movable property of the citizens was safe in the interior: and they were all safe in person. The dismay was for the French, when they found only a burning soil, tumbling roofs, and tottering walls, where they had expected repose and feasting after the ennui of a voyage across the Atlantic. For the court ladies, there existed at present only the alternative of remaining on board the ships, of which they were heartily weary, and establishing themselves on the barren island of Tortuga, the home of the buccaneers of former days. They shortly after took possession of Tortuga, which they found to be a tropical region indeed, but no paradise. It was not the best season for turtle; and there was no other of the luxuries whose savour had reached the nostrils of the court of France.
Among the two thousand whites removed from Cap were, of course, the ladies of the convent. They were safely established under shelter of the fortifications of Saint Marc, with all their little comforts about them, and their mocking-bird as tuneful as when hanging in its own orange-tree. Euphrosyne was not with them—nor yet with her guardian. Monsieur Critois had enough to do to protect himself and his lady; and he earnestly desired his ward to be thankful that she had friends among the ruling powers. Euphrosyne needed no commands on this head. She joined Madame Pascal, and was now with her and the secretary in the half-camp, half-household of Pongaudin.
Besides the family and establishment of the Commander-in-chief, as many of the white gentry of Cap were accommodated as the country palace of Pongaudin would contain. It seemed doubtful how long they would have to find amusement for themselves there; for the invaders seemed to have fallen asleep. A month had passed since the burning of Cap, and not another step had been taken. Expectation had begun to be weary. The feverish watching for news had begun to relax; the ladies no longer shuddered at the bare idea of walking in the shrubberies; and some of the younger damsels had begun to heed warnings from L’Ouverture himself not to go out of bounds—by no means to pass the line of sentinels in any direction. Instead of everything French being spoken of with a faltering voice, any one was now welcome who might be able to tell, even at second or third hand, that Madame Leclerc had been seen, and what she wore, and how she looked, and what she had said, either about the colony or anything else. The officers, both civil and military, found themselves able to devote their powers of entertainment more and move to the ladies; and the liability to be called off in the midst of the game of chess, the poem, the song, or the dance, seemed only to make their attentions more precious, because more precarious, than those of the guests who knew themselves to be hostages, and who had abundance of time for gallantry, if only they had had spirits and inclination. Most of the party certainly found the present position of affairs very dull. The exceptions were few. They were poor Génifrède, whose mind was wholly in the past, and before whose eyes the present went forward as a dim dream; her mother and sister, whose faculties were continually on the stretch to keep up, under such circumstances, the hospitalities for which they were pledged to so large a household; the secretary and his bride, who were engrossed at once with the crisis in public affairs and in their own; and Euphrosyne, who could find nothing dull after the convent, and who unconsciously wished that, if this were invasion and war, they might last a good while yet.
One evening, the 8th of February, was somewhat remarkable for L’Ouverture being not only at home, but at leisure. He was playing billiards with his officers and guests. It followed of course that General Vincent was also present. It followed of course; for whether it was that Toussaint felt the peculiar interest in him which report made observers look for towards an intended son-in-law, or whether the chief distrusted him on account of his fondness for Paris and the First Consul, Vincent was for ever kept under the eye, and by the side of his General. Aimée was wont to sigh when she heard her father’s horse ordered; for she know that Vincent was going too; and she now rejoiced to see her father at the billiard-table; for it told her that Vincent was her own for the evening.
Vincent was not slow in putting in his claim. At the first moment, when they were unobserved, he drew her to the window, where the evening breeze blew in, fragrant and cool; then into the piazza; then across the lawn; then down to the gate which opened upon the beach. He would have gone further; but there Aimée stopped, reminding him of the general order against breaking bounds.
“That is all very well for the whites; and for us, when the whites have their eyes upon us,” said Vincent. “But we are not prisoners; and there is not a prisoner abroad to-night. Come—only as far as the mangroves! We shall not be missed: and if we should be, we can be within the gate in two minutes.”
“I dare not,” said Aimée, with a longing look, however, at the pearly sands, and the creaming waves that now overspread them, now lapsed in the gleam of the moon. The dark shadow of the mangroves lay but a little way on. It was true that two minutes would reach them; but she still said, “I dare not.”
“Who is there?” cried the sentinel, in his march past the gate.
“No strangers, Claude. Any news on your watch?”
“None, Mademoiselle.”
“All quiet over towards Saint Marc?” inquired Vincent.
“All quiet there, General; and everywhere else when the last reports came round, ten minutes ago.”
“Very well: pass on, good Claude. Come, come!” he said to Aimée; “who knows when we may have a moonlight hour again!”
He would not bide another refusal, but, by gentle violence, drew her out upon the beach, telling the sentinel, as they passed between him and the water, that if they were inquired for, he might call: they should be within hearing. Claude touched his cap, showed his white teeth in a broad smile, and did not object.
Once among the mangroves, Aimée could not repent. Their arched branches, descending into the water, trembled with every wave that gushed in among them, and stirred the mild air. The moonlight quivered on their dark green leaves, and on the transparent pool which lay among their roots.
“Now, would you not have been sorry if I had not made you come?” said Vincent.
“If we could only stay—stay here for ever!” she exclaimed, leaning back against the bush under which they sat. “Here, amidst the whispering of the winds and the dash of the waters, you would listen no more for the roll of the drum, or the booming of cannon at Saint Marc. I am weary of our life at Pongaudin.”
“Weary of rumour of wars, before we have the wars themselves, love.”
“We can never hear anything of my brothers while we are on these terms with France. Day after day comes on—day after day, and we have to toil, and plan, and be anxious; and our guests grow tired, and nothing is done; and we know that we can hear nothing of what we most want to learn. I am certain that my mother spends her nights in tears for her boys; and nothing is so likely to rouse poor Génifrède as the prospect of their coming back to us.”
“And you yourself, Aimée, cannot be happy without Isaac.”
“I never tried,” said she. “I have daily felt his loss, because I wished never to cease to feel it.”
“He is happier than you, dearest Aimée.”
“Do not tell me that men feel such separations less than women; for I know it well already. I can never have been so necessary to him as he is to me; I know that well.”
“Say ‘was,’ my Aimée. The time comes when sisters find their brothers less necessary to them than they have been.”
“Such a time has never come to me, and I believe it never will. No one can ever be to me what Isaac has been.”
“‘Has been;’—true. But see how times have changed! Isaac has left off writing to you so frequently as he did—”
“No, no. He never did write frequently; it was never his habit to write as I wrote to him.”
“Well, well. Whatever expectation may lie at the bottom of this little heart, whatever secret remonstrance for his silence, whatever dissatisfaction with his apologies, whatever mortification that such apologies were necessary—”
“How dare you— What right have you to pry into my heart?” exclaimed Aimée, withdrawing herself from her companion’s side.
“The right of love,” he replied, following till both were seated on the very verge of the water. “Can you suppose that I do not see your disappointment when L’Ouverture opens his dispatches, and there is not one of that particular size and fold which makes your countenance change when you see it? Can you suppose that I do not mark your happiness, for hours and days, after one of those closely-written sheets has come?—happiness which makes me feel of no account to you—happiness which makes me jealous of my very brother—for my brother he is, as he is yours.”
“It should not do that,” replied Aimée, as she sat looking into the water. “You should not beangryat my being happy. If you have learned so much of my thoughts—”
“Say on! Oh, say on!”
“There is no need,” said she, “if you can read the soul without speech, as you seem to profess.”
“I read no thoughts but yours; and none of yours that relate to myself. I see at a glance every stir of your love to all besides. If you care for me, I need to hear it from yourself.”
“If this quarrel comes to bloodshed, what will become of my brothers? If you love me, tell me that.”
“Still these brothers!” cried Vincent, impatiently.
“And who should be inquired of concerning them, if not you? You took them to France; you left them there—”
“I was sent here by Bonaparte—put on the deputation by his express command. If not, I should not now have been here—I should have remembered you only as a child, and—”
“But Placide and Isaac! Suppose Leclerc and Rochambeau both killed—suppose Madame Leclerc entering once more into her brother’s presence, a mourning widow—what would Bonaparte do with Placide and Isaac? I am sure you have no comfort to give me, or you would not so evade what I ask.”
“I declare, I protest you are mistaken. Bonaparte is everything that is noble, and gracious, and gentle.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Nay, why not? Have I not always said so? and you have delighted to hear me say so.”
“I should delight to believe it now. I will believe it; but yet, if he were really noble, how should this quarrel have arisen? For, if ever man was noble, and gracious, and gentle, my father is. If two such men come to open defiance, whose is the crime, and wherein does it lie?”
“If the world fall to pieces, Aimée, there can be no doubt of Bonaparte’s greatness. What majesty he carries with him, through all his conquests! How whole nations quail under his magnificent proclamations!”
“Are they really fine? I have seen but few; and they—”
“Are they not all grand? That proclamation in Egypt, for instance, in which he said he was the Man of Fate who had been foretold in the Koran, and that all resistance was impious and vain! If it had not happened four years before Bonaparte went to Egypt, I should have thought your father—”
“I was just thinking of that. But there is a great difference. It was not my father, but Laveaux, who said that the black chief, predicted by Raynal, had appeared. And it was originally said, not as a divine prophecy, but because, in the natural course of things, the redeemer of an oppressed race must arise. Besides, my father says nothing but what he believes; and I suppose Bonaparte did not believe what he was saying.”
“Do you think not? For my part, I believe his very words—that to oppose him is impious and vain.”
“Heaven pity us, if that be true! Was it not in that proclamation that Bonaparte said that men must account to him for their secret thoughts, as nothing was concealed from him?”
“Yes; just as L’Ouverture told the mulattoes in the church at Cap that, from the other side of the island, his eye would be upon them, and his arm stretched out, to restrain or punish. He almost reached Bonaparte’s strain there.”
“I like my father’s words the best, because all understood and believed what he said. Bonaparte may claim to read secret thoughts; but before my father, men have no secret thoughts—they love him so that their minds stand open.”
“Then those Italian proclamations, and letters to the Directory,” said Vincent; “how they grew grander, as city after city, and state after state, fell before him! When he summoned Pavia to open her gates to him, after her insurrection, how imperious he was! If he had found that a drop of French blood had been shed, he declared not a stone of the city should have remained; but a column should arise in its place, bearing the inscription, ‘Here once stood Pavia!’ There spoke the man who held the ages in his hand, ready to roll them over the civilised world—to crumble cities, and overthrow nations, in case of resistance to his will! How Paris rang with acclamations when these words passed from mouth to mouth! He was worshipped as a god.”
“It is said,” sighed Aimée, “that Leclerc has proclamations from him for our people. I wonder what they are, and how they will be received.”
“With enthusiasm, no doubt. When and where has it been otherwise? You shudder, my Aimée; but, trust me, there is inconceivable folly in the idea of opposing Bonaparte. As he said in Egypt, it is impious and vain. Trust me, love, and decide accordingly.”
“Desert my father and my family in their hour of peril! I will not do that.”
“There is no peril in the case, love; it is glory and happiness to live under Bonaparte. My life upon it, he will do your father no injury, but continue him in his command, under certain arrangements; and, as for the blacks, they and the whites will join in one common enthusiasm for the conqueror of Europe. Let us be among the first, my Aimée! Be mine; and we will go to the French forces—among my friends there. It is as if we were called to be mediators; it is as if the welfare of your family and the colony were, in a measure, consigned to our hands. Once married, and with Leclerc, how easily may we explain away causes of quarrel! How completely shall we make him understand L’Ouverture! And how, through us, Leclerc can put your father in possession of the views of Bonaparte: Oh, Aimée, be mine, and let us go!”
“And if it were otherwise—if it came to bloodshed—to deadly warfare?”
“Then, love, you would least of all repent. Alone and desolate—parted from your brothers—parted from me.”
“From you, Vincent?”
“Assuredly. I can never unsheath my sword against those to whom my attachment is strong. I can never fight against an army from Paris—troops that have been led by Bonaparte.”
“Does my father know that?”
“He cannot know me if he anticipates anything else. I execute his orders at present, because I admire his system of government, and am anxious that it should appear to the best advantage to the brother-in-law of the First Consul. Thus, I am confident that there will be no war. But, love, if there should be, you will be parted for ever from your brothers and from me, by remaining here—you will never again see Isaac. Nay, nay! No tears! no terrors, my Aimée! By being mine, and going with me to that place where all are happy—to Paris—you will, through my interest, best aid your father; and Isaac and I will watch over you for ever.”
“Not a word more, Vincent! You make me wretched. Not a word more, till I have spoken to my father. He must, he will tell me what he thinks, what he expects—whether he fears. Hark! There are horsemen!”
“Can it be? Horsemen approaching on this side? I will look out.”
“No, no! Vincent, you shall not go—”
Her terror was so great that Vincent could not indeed leave her. As the tramp of a company of horsemen became almost lost on quitting the hard road for the deep sand, he dropped his voice, whispering in her ear that she was quite safe, completely hidden under the mangroves, and that he would not leave her. She clasped his hand with both hers, to compel him to keep his word, and implored him not to speak—not to shake a leaf of their covert.
The company passed very near; so near as that the sand thrown up by the horses’ feet pattered among the foliage of the mangroves. No one of the strangers was then speaking; but in another moment the sentry challenged them. They laughed, and were certainly stopping at the little gate.
“We know your master, fellow,” said one. “We have had more talk with him in one day than you in all your service.”
“I am sure I ought to know that voice,” whispered Aimée, drawing a long breath.
The strangers were certainly intending to pass through the gate into the grounds; and the sentry was remonstrating. In another moment he fired, as a signal. There was some clamour and laughter, and Aimée started, as at a voice from the grave.
“That is Isaac’s voice!” she exclaimed, springing from her seat. It was now Vincent’s turn to hold her hands, or she would have been out in the broad moonlight in an instant.
“Stay, love! Stay one moment,” he entreated. “I believe you are right; but let me look out.”
She sank down on the sand, while he reconnoitred. At the moment of his looking forth, a young man who, he was certain, was Placide, was good-humouredly taking the sentry by the shoulders, and pushing him from his place, while saying something in his ear, which made the poor soldier toss his hat in the air, and run forward to meet his comrades, whom the sound of his gun was bringing from every direction, over the sands.
“It is they, indeed,” said Vincent. “Your brothers are both there.”
While he was speaking, Aimée burst from the covert, made her way miraculously through the gathering horses and men, pushed through the gate, leaving her lover some way behind, flew like a lapwing through the shrubbery, and across the lawn, was hanging on her brother’s neck before the news of the arrival was understood within the house.
There was no waiting till father and mother could choose where to meet their children. The lads followed the messenger into the salon, crowded as it was with strangers. L’Ouverture’s voice was the first heard, after the sudden hush.
“Now, Heaven bless Bonaparte for this!” he cried, “and make him a happy father!”
“Hear him, O God! and bless Bonaparte!” sobbed Margot.
A check was given to their words and their emotions, by seeing by whom the young men were accompanied. Thérèse was leading forward Génifrède, when she stopped short, with a sort of groan, and returned to her seat, forgetful at the moment even of Génifrède; for Monsieur Papalier was there. Other gentlemen were of the company. The one whom the young men most punctiliously introduced to their father was Monsieur Coasson, the tutor, guardian, or envoy, under whose charge General Leclerc had sent them home.
Toussaint offered him a warm welcome, as the guardian of his sons; but Monsieur Coasson himself seemed most impressed with his office of envoy: as did the gentlemen who accompanied him. Assuming the air of an ambassador, and looking round him, as if to require the attention of all present, Monsieur Coasson discharged himself of his commission, as follows:—
“General Toussaint—”
“They will not acknowledge him as L’Ouverture,” observed Thérèse to Madame Pascal and Génifrède. Afra’s eyes filled with tears. Génifrède was absorbed in contemplating her brothers—both grown manly, and the one looking the soldier, the other the student.
“General Toussaint,” said Coasson, “I come, the bearer of a letter to you from the First Consul.”
In his hand was now seen a gold box, which he did not, however, deliver at the moment.
“With it, I am commissioned to offer the greetings of General Leclerc, who awaits with anxiety your arrival at his quarters as his Lieutenant-General.”
“Upon what does General Leclerc ground his expectation of seeingmethere?”
“Upon the ground of the commands of the First Consul, declared in his proclamation to the inhabitants of Saint Domingo, and, no doubt, more fully in this letter to yourself.”
Here he delivered the box, desiring that the presence of himself and his companions might be no impediment to General Toussaint’s reading his dispatches.
Toussaint had no intention that they should be any hindrance. He read and re-read the letter, while all eyes but those of Aimée were fixed upon his countenance. With an expression of the quietest satisfaction, she was gazing upon her brothers, unvexed by the presence of numbers, and the transaction of state business. They were there, and she was happy.
Those many eyes failed to discover anything from the countenance of Toussaint. It was immovable; and Monsieur Coasson was so far disappointed. It had been his object to prevent the dispatches which he brought from being road in private, that he might be enabled to report how they were received. He had still another resource. He announced that he had brought with him the proclamation of the First Consul to the inhabitants at large of Saint Domingo. As it was a public document, he would, with permission, read it aloud. Toussaint now looked round, to command attention to the words of the ruler of France. Vincent sought to exchange glances with Aimée; but Aimée had none to spare. Monsieur Papalier had unceremoniously entered into conversation with some of the guests of his own complexion, and did not cease upon any hint, declaring to those about him, that none of this was new to him, as he was in the counsels of Bonaparte in all Saint Domingo affairs. The tone of their conversation was, however, reduced to a low murmur, while Monsieur Coasson read aloud the following proclamation:—
“Paris, November8, 1801.
“Inhabitants of Saint Domingo,
“Whatever your origin or your colour, you are all French: you are all equal, and all free, before God, and before the Republic.
“France, like Saint Domingo, has been a prey to factions, torn by intestine commotions and foreign wars. But all has changed: all nations have embraced the French, and have sworn to them peace and amity: the French people have embraced each other, and have sworn to be all friends and brothers. Come also, embrace the French, and rejoice to see again your European friends and brothers!
“The government sends you the Captain-General Leclerc. He has brought—”
Here Monsieur Coasson’s voice and manner became extremely emphatic.
“He has brought sufficient force for protecting you against your enemies, and against the enemies of the Republic. If you are told that these forces are destined to violate your liberties, reply, ‘The Republic will not suffer them to be taken from us.’
“Rally round the Captain-General. He brings you abundance and peace. Rally all of you around him. Whoever shall dare to separate himself from the Captain-General will be a traitor to his country; and the indignation of the country will devour him, as the fire devours your dried canes.
“Done at Paris,” etcetera.
“This document is signed, you will perceive,” said Monsieur Coasson, “by the First Consul, and by the Secretary of State, Monsieur H.B. Maret.”
Once more it was in vain to explore the countenance of L’Ouverture. It was still immovable. He extended his hand for the document, saying that he would retire with his secretary, for the purpose of preparing his replies for the First Consul, in order that no such delays might take place on his part, as the date of the letter and proclamation showed to have intervened on the other side. Meantime, he requested that Monsieur Coasson, and all whom he had brought in his company, would make themselves at home in his house; and, turning to his wife and family, he commended his newly arrived guests to their hospitality. With a passing smile and greeting to his sons, he was about to leave the room with Monsieur Pascal, when Monsieur Coasson intimated that he had one thing more to say.
“I am directed, General Toussaint,” said he, “in case of your refusal to join the French forces immediately, to convey your sons back to the guardianship of the Captain-General Leclerc: and it will be my duty to set out with them at dawn.”
A cry of anguish broke forth from Margot, and Placide was instantly by her side.
“Fear nothing,” said Toussaint to her, in a tone which once more fixed all eyes upon him. His countenance was no longer unmoved. It was convulsed, for a moment, with passion. He was calm in his manner, however, as he turned to Monsieur Coasson, and said, “Sir, my sons are at home. It rests with myself and with them, what excursions they make henceforth.”
He bowed, and left the room with Monsieur Pascal.