Chapter Thirty Two.
August far-off.
In time of peace, and if her children had perished by any other mode, it might have been a consolation to Deesha to dwell for a time beside their graves. As it was, the deep bark of the murderous dogs filled her ear perpetually, and their fangs seemed to tear her heart. Her misery in the quiet mansion of the mornes was unendurable; and the very day after the funeral she departed, with her husband, to a place where no woman’s eye could mark her maternal anguish—where no semblance of a home kept alive the sense of desolation. She retired, with her husband and his troop, to a fastness higher up in the Morne-du-Chaos, whence they kept watch over the regular entrenchments below, cut off supplies of provisions from the French, harassed all their marches, and waged a special war against the bloodhounds—the negro’s most dreaded foe. More, however, were perpetually brought over from Cuba, and regularly trained, by means too barbarous for detail, to make negroes their prey. From the hour when Deesha first heard the cry of a bloodhound, more than the barbarism of her native Congo took possession of her. Never more was she seen sowing under the shade of the tamarind-tree. Never more did she spread the table, for husband or guests, within a house. Never more was her voice heard singing, gaily or plaintively, the songs that she had gathered from the palm groves of Africa, or the vineyards of France, or from the flowery fields of a mother’s hopes. Henceforth she carried the rifle, and ate her meal in stern silence, in the cave of the rock. When she laughed, it was as her shot went straight to her victim’s heart. When she spoke, it was of the manoeuvres of her mountain war; and the only time that she was ever seen to shed tears was when a rumour of a truce reached the pinnacle on which she dwelt. Though assured that any truce could be only, as every negro knew, a truce till August, the mere semblance of accommodation with the foe forced tears of vexation from eyes which were for ever after dry. If she felt a gleam of satisfaction before leaving Le Zéphyr, it was at the singular accident by which Juste, always so bent upon being a soldier, shared the honours of a military funeral. Juste and Tobie were buried with the soldiers who had fallen in the defence of the house; and to the father, who followed the coffins, and the mother, who hid herself in the thicket, there was something like pleasure in the roll of the drum, and the measure of the dead march, and the warlike tone of the shrill dirge which was sung round the open graves, and the discharge of firearms over them—a satisfaction like that of fulfilling the last wish of their boy. This done, and the graves fenced and planted, the childless pair departed, wishing, perhaps, in their own hearts, that they could weep their misfortune like those whom they left behind.
For some time forward from that day there was no more cause for weeping at Le Zéphyr. The season had come for the blacks to show what they could do. In the hope, as he said, of hastening on the peace, Vincent told all that he knew of the plans and resources of the outlawed chiefs; and, in consequence, the French at length proceeded to vigorous action, believing that if they could force the post at the Plateaux, they could so impoverish and disable the negro leaders as to compel them to become mere banditti, who might be kept in check by guarding the mountain-passes. The French force was, therefore, brought up again and again to the attack, and always in vain. The ill success of the invaders was, no doubt, partly owing to the distress which overtook their soldiery whenever they had been a few days absent from their camp and their ships. Whichever way they turned, and however sudden the changes of their march, they found the country laid waste—the houses unroofed, the cattle driven away, the fields burned or inundated, and nothing but a desert under their feet, and flames on the horizon, while the sun of the tropic grew daily hotter overhead. These were disadvantages; but the French had greatly the superiority in numbers, in experience, and in supplies of ammunition. Yet, for many weeks, they failed in all their attempts. They left their dead before the entrance of the Plateaux, or heaped up in the neighbouring fields, or strewed along the mountain-paths, now to the number of seven hundred, now twelve, and now fifteen hundred; while the negroes numbered their losses by tens or scores. The first combined attack, when Maurepas, with his army, joined Rochambeau, and two other divisions met them from different points, was decisively disastrous; and even Vincent began to doubt whether the day of peace, the day of chastisement of L’Ouverture’s romance, was so near as he had supposed.
The last time that the French dared the blacks to come forth from their entrenchments, and fight on the plain afforded the most triumphant result to the negroes. So tremendous was the havoc among the French—while the blacks charged without intermission, rolling on their force from their entrenchments, each advancing line throwing itself upon the ground immediately after the charge, while those behind passed over their bodies, enabling them to rise and retreat in order to rush forward again in their turn—that the troops of the Rhine and the Alps were seized with a panic, and spread a rumour that there was sorcery among the blacks, by which they were made invulnerable. It was scarcely possible, too, to believe in the inferiority of their numbers, so interminable seemed the succession of foes that presented a fresh front. Rochambeau saw that, if not ordered to retreat, his troops would fly; and whether it was a retreat or a flight at last, nobody could afterwards determine. They left fifteen hundred dead on the field, and made no pause till they reached Plaisance.
From this time, the French generals resolved against more fighting, till reinforcements arrived from France. New hopes inspired the blacks—all of them, at least, who did not, like L’Ouverture and Christophe, anticipate another inundation of the foe from the sea. Placide, who was foremost in every fight, was confident that the struggle was nearly over, and rode up to Le Zéphyr occasionally with tidings which spread hope and joy among the household, and not only made his mother proud, but lightened her heart.
He told, at length, that the French, not relishing the offensive war begun by Christophe, had blockaded his father in the Plateaux. He treated this blockade as a mere farce—as a mode of warfare which would damage the French irreparably as the heats came on, while it could not injure the blacks, acquainted as they were with the passes of the country.
Placide would have been right, if only one single circumstance had been otherwise than as it was. L’Ouverture had nothing to fear from a blockade in regard to provisions. He had adherents above, among the heights, who could supply his forces with food for themselves and fodder for their horses inexhaustibly. Every ravine in their rear yielded water. They had arms enough; and in their climate, and with the summer coming on, the clothing of the troops was a matter of small concern. But their ammunition was running short. Everything was endeavoured, and timely, to remedy this; but there was no effectual remedy. Many a perilous march over the heights, and descent upon the shore, did one and another troop attempt—many a seizure of French supplies did they actually effect—many a trip did Paul, and others who had boats, make to one and another place, where it was hoped that powder and ball might be obtained; but no sufficient supply could be got. The foe were not slow in discovering this, and in deriving courage from their discovery. From the moment that they found themselves assailed with flights of arrows from the heights, and that their men were wounded, not always with ball, or even shot, but with buttons, nails, and other bits of old metal—with anything rather than lead—they kept a closer watch along the coast and the roads, that no little boat, no cart or pack-horse, might escape capture. Towards the end of April the difficulty became so pressing, that L’Ouverture found himself compelled to give up his plan of defensive war, with all its advantages, and risk much to obtain the indispensable means of carrying on the struggle.
It was with this view that he mustered his force, gave out nearly the last remains of his ammunition, burst victoriously through the blockading troops, routed them, and advanced to attack the French lines posted at Plaisance. Behind him he left few but his wounded, commanded by Dessalines, who was yet hardly sufficiently recovered to undertake a more arduous service. Before him were the troops under Maurepas, whom he had always believed he could recall with a word, if he could but meet them face to face. Others probably believed so too; for those troops had, on every occasion, been kept back, and so surrounded, as that no one from their old haunts and their old companions could reach them. Now, however, the French force was so reduced by the many defeats they had undergone, that it was probable they would be obliged to put faith in the renegado division, if attacked; and L’Ouverture was not without hopes of striking a decisive blow by recalling the negroes in the French lines to their allegiance to himself.
Everything answered to his anticipations. When he advanced to the attack, he found the troops of Maurepas posted in the front, to weaken the resolution of their former comrades, or receive their first fire. His heart bounded at the sight; and all his resentment against them as renegades melted into compassion for the weakness of those who had been reared in terror and servility. He rushed forward, placing himself, without a thought of fear, between the two armies, and extended his arms towards the black lines of the enemy, shouting to them—
“My soldiers, will you kill your general? Will you kill your father, your comrades, your brothers?”
In an instant every black was on his knees. It was a critical moment for the French. They rushed on, drowning the single voice on which their destruction seemed to hang, threw the kneeling soldiers on their faces, strode over their prostrate bodies, and nearly effected their object of closing round L’Ouverture, and capturing him. His danger was imminent. The struggle was desperate;—but his soldiers saved him. The battle was fierce and long, but again and again turning in his favour, till all seemed secure. He was forcing the enemy from their lines, and giving out the inspiring negro cry of victory, when a new force marched up against him, stopped the retreat of the French, and finally repulsed the blacks—exhausted as they were, and unable to cope with a fresh foe. In the most critical moment, four thousand troops, fresh from the ships had arrived to convert the defeat of the French into a victory; and they brought into the battle more than their own strength in the news that reinforcements from France were pouring in upon every point of the coast.
The news reached L’Ouverture, and completed the discouragement of his little army. It decided him at once in what direction to retreat. It was useless to return to the Plateaux, as the force there was more than proportioned to the supply of ammunition. This fresh descent of the French upon the coast would have the effect of dispersing the small bodies of black troops in the north. A rendezvous was necessary, in order to make the most both of the men and stores. He proceeded to post his troops at Le Dondon, and Marmalade, sending orders to Christophe to meet him there. There they might possibly be usefully employed in cutting off access to the French army at Plaisance, and at the same time supplying their own wants, while deliberating on what plan to carry on the struggle, under the new circumstances, till August; for, whatever treachery and defection might have to be encountered elsewhere, there was never a moment’s doubt that Nature would prove a faithful ally, when her appointed season came.