Chapter Thirty Eight.
A Feat.
General Brunet brought with him no more than his allotted twenty soldiers, and a secretary. Christophe ascertained to his own satisfaction, and let the household know, that not another French soldier breathed within a circuit of some miles, when the evening closed in; so that the ladies threw off constraint and fear together as the two generals, with their secretaries, retired to the library, after coffee.
Placide had been with Christophe all day, and was the means by which the household had been assured of the tranquillity of the neighbourhood. He was of the patrol which was to watch the roads during the night. It seemed improbable, however, that, of all nights, that should be chosen for an assault when the Ouvertures must be particularly roused to observation, and when a French general was in their hands. Of all nights, this was probably the safest; yet Placide, glad, perhaps, of an excuse to keep out of the way of a guest from Paris, chose to mount guard with Christophe.
Denis was permitted to be in the library, as the business was not private, and, to one who knew the country as well as he did, very entertaining. For a time he found it so, while all the five were stooping over the maps, and his father was explaining the nature of the localities, and the interests of the inhabitants, and while words dropped from General Brunet which gave an insight into that object of Denis’s strong curiosity—the French encampment on Tortuga. When all of this kind had been said, and the conversation turned upon points of military science or management, which he did not care about, Denis drew off to the window, and thence into the balcony, where he looked out upon the night—vainly, for it was cloudy, and there was yet no moon. The air was cool and pleasant, however, and he remained leaning over the balcony, revolving what he had heard, and picturing to himself the little court of Madame Leclerc—so near, and yet out of his reach. While thus absorbed, it is probable that some distant voice of song instigated him to sing also. Like his race generally, Denis was almost always singing; always when alone and meditative. It is probable that some notes of the air sung by those who looked to August for freedom—sung by the whole negro population—now caught his ear; for he began, hardly to sing, but to murmur this popular air. The words were not heard within; and it would not have mattered if they had been; for the words were in the negro language. But the air was, by this time, intelligible enough to the invaders. In the interest of conversation, nothing escaped the eye of Toussaint. He saw an exchange of glances between General Brunet and his secretary, and a half smile on the face of each which he did not like.
He thought it best to take no notice; but, far from leaving off, Denis sang louder as he sank deeper into reverie. Monsieur Pascal became aware of some embarrassment, and of its cause.
“Denis, you disturb us,” he called out from the table.
They heard no more of Denis; and their business proceeded. Vexed, partly with himself, and partly at having been rebuked in General Brunet’s hearing, he went round the house by the balcony, and thence to the upper gallery, which commanded the finest sea view in the day-time, and the freshest sea breezes at night. There, in a somewhat perverse mood, he sang for his own pleasure the air which he had been checked for singing unconsciously. He remained there a long while—he did not know how long—till the moon rose, when he remembered that it must be midnight. As no one had called him, he supposed that the party in the library were still in consultation.
As his eye rested on the bay, while he was considering whether he must not go in, he perceived something dark lying on the waters between the island and the shore. As he strained his sight, and as the waned moon rose higher, he discovered that it was a ship. It was strange. No ship ever had business there; though he had heard that there was a deep channel, and good anchorage in that little bay. It was very strange. But something stranger still soon met his ear—sounds, first odd, then painful—horrible. There was some bustle below—on the beach, within the little gate—he thought even on the lawn. It was a scuffle; there was a stifled cry. He feared the guard were disarmed and gagged—attacked on the side of the sea, where no one dreamed of an assault, and where there was no Christophe to help. Denis knew, however, how to reach Christophe. He did the right thing. Lest his purpose should be prevented if he entered the house, he clambered up the roof to its ridge, and swung the heavy alarm-bell. Its irregular clang banished sleep in a moment from a circuit of many miles. It not only startled the ladies of the family from their beds; but every fisherman rushed from his hut upon the shore. Christophe and Placide were galloping to Pongaudin almost before they had drawn a breath. Every beast stirred in its lair; and every bird rustled in its roost. Rapid, however, as was the spread of sound, it was too late to save L’Ouverture.
L’Ouverture himself had but a few moments of uncertainty to endure. In the midst of earnest conversation, suspicious sounds were heard. The two Frenchmen rushed to the door of the library, and Monsieur Pascal to the balcony. Monsieur Pascal re-entered in an instant, saying—
“The house is surrounded—the lawn is crowded. Make no resistance, and they may spare your life.”
“Hark! The bell! There is hope,” said Toussaint. “No resistance! but let us gain time.”
The door was burst open, and with General Brunet entered a personage whom he introduced as Admiral Ferrari, followed by a file of grenadiers.
“What can be your errand at this hour?” asked Toussaint.
“I have orders from the Captain-General to arrest you,” replied Admiral Ferrari. “Your guards are disarmed and bound. Our troops are everywhere. You are dead if you resist. Deliver up your sword!”
“I shall not resist such a force as you have thought it necessary to bring against me,” replied Toussaint, handing his sword to the admiral. “Am I to be a prisoner here, in my own house?”
“No, indeed! I have orders to convey you and your family to Cap Français. No delay! To the boats this moment! You will find your family on board the frigate, or on the way to it.”
“Do what you will with me; but Madame L’Ouverture is in weak health. Suffer her and my children to remain at home.”
“Lose no more time. General. March! or we must carry you.”
Voices of lamentation and of passion were heard in the corridor, which quickened L’Ouverture’s movements more than threats or insults could have done. He left the library, and found the ladies of the household in the corridor—Margot weeping and trembling, and Génifrède addressing Monsieur Coasson in a tone of high anger.
“You here! Monsieur Coasson!” said Toussaint; “and availing yourself once more of the weakness and woes of women, I perceive.”
“I came as guide,” replied Monsieur Coasson. “The admiral and his troops needed some one to show them the way; and, as you are aware, I was qualified to do so. I have always felt, too, that I had a sort of appointment to fulfil with this young lady. Her kind expressions towards the whites on my last visit might be considered a sort of invitation to come again—with such a train as you see,” pointing to the stiff row of grenadiers who stood behind.
Génifrède groaned.
“Make yourself happy with your train,” said Toussaint, as he seized the wretch by the collar, hurled him back among the grenadiers, and kicked him over as he lay, introducing great disorder into the formal arrangements of that dignified guard.
This would have been the last moment of Toussaint, if General Brunet had not drawn his sword, and commanded every one to stand back. His orders, he said, were to deliver his prisoner alive.
“Come, my love,” said Toussaint to Madame L’Ouverture. “We are to sleep on board a frigate this night. Come. Génifrède! We may sleep in peace. General Brunet will hardly be able to digest your hospitality, my Margot; but you may sleep. Who else?” he asked, as he looked round upon his trembling household.
“We are following,” said Monsieur Pascal, who had his wife and Euphrosyne on either arm.
“Pardon me,” said General Brunet. “Our orders extend only to General Toussaint and his family. You must remain. Reverend father,” he said to Father Laxabon, “you will remain also—to comfort any friends of General Toussaint whom you may be able to meet with to-morrow. They will be all inconsolable, no doubt.”
Monsieur Coasson whispered to the admiral, who said, in consequence, bowing to Euphrosyne—
“I can answer for this young lady being a welcome guest to Madame Leclerc. If she will afford to a countryman the pleasure and honour of conveying her, it will give him joy to introduce her to a society worthy of her.”
“I do not wish to see Madame Leclerc,” said Euphrosyne, speaking with surprising calmness, though her cheek was white as ashes. “I wish to be wherever I may best testify my attachment to these my honoured friends, in the day of their undeserved adversity.”
She looked from Monsieur Pascal to L’Ouverture.
“Stay with those who can be your guardians,” said Toussaint.
“For our sakes,” added Génifrède.
“Stay with us!” cried Monsieur Pascal and Afra.
“Farewell, then,” said Euphrosyne, extending her arms to Madame L’Ouverture.
“We are losing time,” said General Brunet, as the clang of the alarm-bell was heard again. By his order, some soldiers went in search of the traitor who was ringing the bell; and others pushed the captive family before them towards the door. Monsieur Coasson thrust himself between the parting friends, and began to count the family, in order to tell who was missing. It would not do, he observed, to leave any behind.
“Lose no more time,” said the admiral. “Those who may be left behind are cared for, I promise you. We have a hundred of them safe already.”
“A hundred of whom?” asked Toussaint, as he walked.
“Of your friends,” replied Admiral Ferrari.
This was too true. A hundred of Toussaint’s most attached adherents had been seized this night. No one of them was ever again heard of in the island.
At the door of the mansion Denis was brought forward, guarded. His eyes were flashing fire.
“The country is up!” he cried. “I got good service out of the old bell before they found me.”
“Right, my boy! Thank you!” said his father, cheerfully.
“Give Génifrède to me, father. My mother is ready to sink.”
Proudly he supported his sister to the boats, carrying her on so rapidly as to prevent the need of any soldier speaking to her.
There was an array of boats along the shore of the bay. Distant firing was heard during the whole time that the prisoners and the troops were embarking.
“They must be very much afraid of us,” observed Denis, looking round, as soon as he had taken his place beside his sister in the boat. “They have given us above a hundred guards, I believe.”
“They are afraid of us,” said Toussaint.
“There is terrible fighting somewhere,” murmured the weeping Margot. “I am afraid Placide is in the midst of it.”
“He is in his duty if he be,” said Toussaint.
Placide had discharged this kind of duty, however, and now appeared to fulfil the other—of sharing the captivity of his parents. He leaped into the boat, breathless, after it had pushed off from the shore.
“In time, thank God!” gasped he.
“He can hardly speak!” exclaimed his mother. “He is wet! He is wounded—cruelly wounded!”
“Not wounded at all, mother. Whole in heart and skin! I am soaked in the blood of our enemies. We have fought gloriously—in vain, however, for to-night. Latortue is shot; and Jasmin. There are few left but Christophe; but he is fighting like a lion.”
“Why did you leave him, my son?” asked Toussaint.
“He desired me to come, again and again, and I fought on. At last I was cut off from him. I could not give any more help there; and I saw that my business lay here. They say this frigate is the Creole. Whither bound, I wonder?”
“To Cap Français,” replied the officer in the stern: “to join the Héros, now in the roads there.”
“The Héros—a seventy-four, I think,” said L’Ouverture.
“A seventy-four—you are correct,” replied the officer. No one spoke again.