Chapter Twenty Nine.
The Hour of Proof.
“So the long-expected letter is come at last,” observed Monsieur Pascal, as the study-door closed upon himself and his friend.
“Read it,” said Toussaint, putting the letter into the secretary’s hand, and walking up and down the room, till his friend spoke again.
“We hear,” said Monsieur Pascal, “that the First Consul understands men. He may understand some men—the soldiery of France, perhaps—but of others he knows no more than if he were not himself a man.”
“He no more understands my people than myself. Can it be possible that he believes that proclamation will be acceptable to them—that mixture of cajolery and bombast. He has heard that we are ignorant, and he concludes that we are without understanding. What think you of his promise of abundance by the hands of Leclerc? As if it were not their cupidity, excited by our abundance, which has brought these thousands of soldiers to our shores! They are welcome to it all—to our harvests, our money, and our merchandise—if they would not touch our freedom.”
“Bonaparte has a word to say to that in his letter to you,” observed the secretary. “What can you desire? The freedom of the blacks? You know that in all the countries we have been in, we have given it to the people who had it not? What say the Venetians to that? What says the Pope!”
“Does he suppose us deaf,” replied Toussaint, “that we have not heard of the fate of our race in Guadaloupe, and Martinique, and Cayenne? Does he suppose us blind, that we do not see the pirates he has commissioned hovering about the shores of Africa, as the vulture preparing to strike his prey? Ignorant as we are, does he suppose us stupid enough to be delighted when, free already, we find ourselves surrounded by fifty-four war-ships, which come to promise us liberty?”
“He does not know, apparently, how our commerce with the world brings us tidings of all the world.”
“And if it were not so—if his were the first ships that our eyes had ever seen—does he not know that the richest tidings of liberty come, not through the eye and ear, but from the heart? Does he not know that the liberties of Saint Domingo, large as they are, everlasting as they will prove to be—all sprang from here and here?”—pointing to his head and heart. “This is he,” he continued, “who has been king in my thoughts, from the hour when I heard of the artillery officer who had saved the Convention! This is he to whom I have felt myself bound as a brother in destiny and in glory! This is he with whom I hoped to share the lot of reconciling the quarrel of races and of ages! In the eye of the world he may be great, and I the bandit captain of a despised race. On the page of history he may be magnified, and I derided. But I spurn him for a hero—I reject him for a brother. My rival he may make himself. His soul is narrow, and his aims are low. He might have been a god to the world, and he is a tyrant. We have followed him with wistful eyes, to see him loosen bonds with a divine touch; and we find him busy forging new chains. He has sullied his divine commission; and while my own remains pure, he is no brother of my soul. You, my friend, knew him better than I, or you would not have left his service for mine.”
“Yet I gave him credit for a better appreciation of you, a clearer foresight of the destiny of this colony, than he has shown.”
“While we live, my friend, we must accept disappointment. In my youth, I learned to give up hope after hope; and one of the brightest I must now relinquish in my old age.”
“Two brilliant ones have, however, entered your dwelling this evening, my friend,” said the secretary.
“My boys? Are they not?—But these are times to show what they are. In the joy of having them back, I might have forgiven and forgotten everything, but for the claim— You heard, Pascal?”
“About their leaving you at dawn. Yes; that was amusing.”
“If they will not consider a negro a man, they might have remembered that beasts are desperate to recover the young that they have lost. Leclerc will find, however, that this night will make men of my sons. I will call them my boys no more; and never more shall this envoy call them his pupils, or his charge. These French will find that there is that in this Saint Domingo of ours which quickly ripens young wits, and makes the harvest ready in a day. Let them beware the reaping; for it is another sort of harvest than they look for.—But come,” said he: “it is late; and we have to answer the letter of this foreigner—this stranger to my race and nature.”
He took some papers from his pocket, sat down beside the friend, and said, with the countenance of one who has heard good news, “See here how little they comprehend how negroes may be friends! See here the proofs that they understand my Henri no better than myself.”
And he put into the hands of his secretary those fine letters of Christophe, which do everlasting honour to his head and heart, and show that he bore a kingly soul before he adorned the kingly office. As Monsieur Pascal road the narrative of Leclerc’s attempts to alarm, to cajole, and to bribe Christophe to betray his friend’s cause, and deliver up his person, the pale countenance of the secretary became now paler with anger and disgust, now flushed with pleasure and admiration.
“Here is the friend that sticketh closer than a brother,” said he.
“Alas! poor Paul! he will be faithful, Pascal; but he can never again love me.”
“Pardon me, I entreat you. I meant no allusion.”
“You did not. But everything serves as an allusion there; for Paul is never out of my mind. Now for our letters;—that to Leclerc modified, as you perceive, by our knowledge of what has passed between him and Henri.”
“Modified, indeed!” exclaimed Pascal.
Their proceedings were destined to be further modified by the events of this night. Tidings as black as the darkest night that ever brooded over the island in the season of storms poured in to overshadow the prospects of the negroes, and the hopes of their chief.
It was after midnight when, in the midst of their quiet consultation, Toussaint and his secretary thought they heard voices at the gate. Toussaint was going to ascertain, when he was met in the hall by news that a messenger from the south-west had arrived. The messenger entered, halting and slow.
“It is—no,” said Pascal; “surely it cannot be—”
“Is it possible that you are Jacques?” exclaimed Toussaint, his eyes shaded by his hand.
“I am Dessalines,” said the wounded man, who had already sunk upon a seat.
“Why come yourself, in this state!” cried Toussaint, hastening to support him.
“I could more easily come than write my news,” replied Dessalines; “and it is news that I would commit to no man’s ear but your own.”
“Shall I go?” asked Monsieur Pascal of Toussaint.
“No. Stay and hear. Tell us your tidings, Jacques.”
“I am as well here as down in the south-west, or you would not have seen me.”
“You mean that all is lost there?”
“All is lost there.”
“While the enemy is beguiling us with letters, and talk of truce!” observed Toussaint to Pascal. “Where was your battle, Jacques? How can all the west be lost?”
“The French have bought La Plume. They told him your cause was desperate, and promised him honours and office in France. Get me cured, and let me win a battle for you, and I have no doubt I can buy him back again. Meantime—”
“Meantime, what has Domage done? Is he with me or La Plume? And is Chaney safe?”
“Domage never received your instructions. La Plume carried them, and no doubt, your aide-de-camp also, straight to the French. Chaney has not been seen: he is traitor or prisoner.”
“Then Cayes is not burned, nor Jeremie defended?”
“Neither the one nor the other. Both are lost; and so is Port-au-Prince. My troops and I did our best at the Croix de Bosquets: but what could we do in such a case? I am here, wounded within an inch of my life; and they are in the fastnesses. You were a doctor once, L’Ouverture. Set me up again; and I will gather my men from the mountains, and prick these whites all across the peninsula into the sea.”
“I will be doctor, or nurse, or anything, to save you, Jacques.”
“What if I have more bad news? Will you not hate me?”
“Lose no time, my friend. This is no hour for trifling.”
“There is no room for trifling, my friend. I fear—I am not certain—but I fear the east is lost.”
“Is Clerveaux bought too?”
“Not bought. He is more of your sort than La Plume’s. He is incorruptible by money; but he likes the French, and he loves peace. He would be a very brother to you, if he only loved liberty better than either. As it is, he is thought to have delivered over the whole east, from the Isabella to Cap Samana, without a blow.”
“And my brother!”
“He has disappeared from the city. He did not yield; but he could do nothing by himself, or with only his guard. He disappeared in the night, and is thought to have put off! by water. You will soon hear from him, I doubt not. Now I have told my news, and I am faint. Where is Thérèse?”
“She is here. Look more like yourself, and she shall be called. You have told all your news?”
“All; and I am glad it is out.”
“Keep up your heart, Dessalines! I have you and Henri; and God is with the faithful.—Now to your bed, my friend.”
Instead of the attendants who were summoned, Thérèse entered. She spoke no word, but aided by her servant, had her husband carried to his chamber. When the door was closed, sad and serious as were the tidings which had now to be acted upon, the secretary could not help asking L’Ouverture if he had ever seen Madame Dessalines look as she did just now.
“Yes,” he replied, “on certain occasions, some years since.—But here she is again.”
Thérèse came to say that her husband had yet something to relate into Toussaint’s own ear before he could sleep; but, on her own part, she entreated that she might first be permitted to dress his wounds.
“Send for me when you think fit, and I will come, madame. But, Thérèse, one word. I am aware that Monsieur Papalier is here. Do not forget that you are a Christian, and pledged to forgive injuries.”
“You think you read my thoughts, L’Ouverture; but you do not. Listen, and I am gone. His voice once had power over me through love, and then through hatred. I never miss the lightest word he speaks. I heard him tell his old friends from Cap that I was his slave, and that the time was coming when masters would claim their own again. Now you know my thoughts.”
And she was gone.
When Toussaint returned from his visit to Dessalines’ chamber, he found Monsieur Pascal sitting with his face hid in his hands.
“Meditation is good,” said Toussaint, laying his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Lamentation is unworthy.”
“It is so; and we have much to do,” replied the secretary, rousing himself.
“Fear not,” resumed Toussaint, “but that your bride will bloom in the air of the mountains. We may have to entrench ourselves in the mornes—or, at least, to place there our ladies, and the civil officers of the government; but we ought to thank God for providing those natural homes, so full of health and beauty, for the free in spirit. I have still three brigades, and the great body of the cultivators, in reserve; but we shall all act with stronger hearts if our heart’s treasure is safe in the mornes.”
“Are we to lose Dessalines?” asked Monsieur Pascal.
“I believe not. He is severely wounded, and, at this moment, exasperated. He vows the death of Monsieur Papalier; and I vow his safety while he is my guest.”
“Papalier and Madame Dessalines cannot exist in one house.”
“And therefore must this deputation be dismissed early in the morning, if there were no other reasons. Notice must be carried to them with their coffee, that I am awaiting them with my replies. Those delivered, negotiation is at an end, and we must act. My foes have struck the blow which unties my hands.”
“What has Monsieur Papalier to do with the deputation?”
“Nothing, but that he uses its protection to attempt to resume his estates. They are in commission; and he may have them; though not, as he thinks, with men and women as part of his chattels. No more of him.”
“Of whom next, then? Except Christophe, who is there worthy to be named by you?” asked Monsieur Pascal, with emotion.
“Every one who has deserted us, except, perhaps, La Plume. He is sordid; and I dismiss him. As for Clerveaux and his thousands, they have been weak, but not, perhaps, wicked. They may be recovered. I take the blame of their weakness upon myself. Would that I alone could bear the consequences!”
“You take the blame of their weakness? Is not their former slavery the cause of it? Is there anything in their act but the servility in which they were reared?”
“There is much of that. But I have deepened the taint, in striving to avoid the opposite corruption of revenge. I have the taint myself. The stain of slavery exists in the First of the Blacks himself. Let all others, then, be forgiven. They may thus be recovered. I gave them the lesson of loving and trusting the whites. They have done so, to the point of being treacherous to me. I must now give them another lesson, and time to learn it; and they may possibly be redeemed.”
“You will hold out in the mornes—conduct your resistance on a pinnacle, where the eyes of the blacks may be raised to you—fixed upon you.”
“Just so;—and where they may flock to me, when time shall have taught them my principle and my policy, and revealed the temper and purpose of our invaders. Now, then, to prepare!”
Before dawn, the despatches for the French, on the coast and at home, were prepared; and messengers were dismissed, in every direction, with orders by which the troops which remained faithful would be concentrated, the cultivators raised and collected, stores provided in the fastnesses, and the new acquisitions of the enemy rendered useless to them. Never had the heads of these two able men, working in perfect concert, achieved such a mass of work in a single night.
A little after sunrise, the French party appeared in the salon, where already almost every member of the household was collected; all being under the impression that a crisis had arrived, and that memorable words were about to be spoken.
Toussaint acknowledged the apparent discourtesy of appointing the hour for the departure of his guests; but declared that he had no apology to offer:—that the time for courteous observance was past, when his guests were discovered to be sent merely to amuse and disarm him for the hour, while blows were struck at a distance against the liberties of his race. In delivering his despatches, he said, he was delivering his farewell. Within an hour, the deputation and himself must be travelling in different directions.
Monsieur Coasson, on receiving the packets, said that he had no other desire than to be on his way. There could be no satisfaction, and little safety, in remaining in a house where, under a hypocritical pretence of magnanimity and good-will, there lurked a spirit of hideous malice, of diabolical revenge, towards a race to whom nature, and the universal consent of men, had given a superiority which they could never lose.
In unaffected surprise, Toussaint looked in the face of the envoy, observing that, for himself, he disclaimed all such passion and such dissimulation as his household was charged with.
“Of course you do,” replied Coasson: “but I require not your testimony. The men of a family may, where there is occasion, conceal its ruling passion: but, where there is occasion, it will be revealed by the women.”
Toussaint’s eyes, like every one’s else, turned to the ladies of his family. It was not Madame L’Ouverture that was intended, for her countenance asked of her husband what this could mean. It could not be Aimée, who now stood drowned in tears, where she could best conceal her grief. Génifrède explained. She told calmly, and without the slightest confusion, that Monsieur Coasson had sought a conversation with her, for the purpose of winning over her feelings, and her influence with her father, to the side of the French. He had endeavoured to make her acknowledge that the whole family, with the exception of its head, were in favour of peace, admirers of Bonaparte, and aware that they were likely to be victims to the ambition of their father. Her reply, in which she declared that she gloried, was that the deepest passion of her soul was hatred of the whites; and that she prayed for their annihilation.
“And did you also declare, my daughter,” said Toussaint, “that in this you differ from us all? Did you avow that your parents look upon this passion in you as a disease, for which you have their daily and nightly prayers?”
“I did declare, my father, that I alone of the Ouvertures know how to feel for the wrongs of my race. But Monsieur Coasson did not believe me, and vowed that we should all suffer for the opinions held by me alone.”
“It is true, I did not believe, nor do I now believe,” said Coasson, “that the devil would single out one of a family, to corrupt her heart with such atrocious hatred as that whose avowal chilled the marrow of my bones. It was her countenance of wretchedness that attracted me. I saw that she was less capable of dissimulation than the rest of you; and so I have found.”
“A wise man truly has the Captain-General chosen for an envoy!” observed Toussaint: “a wise and an honourable man! He sees woe in the face of a woman, and makes it his instrument for discovering the secret souls of her family. Blindly bent upon this object, and having laid open, as he thinks, one heart, he reads the rest by it. But he may, with all his wisdom, and all this honour, be no less ignorant than before he saw us. So far from reading all our souls, he has not even read the suffering one that he has tempted. You have opened the sluices of the waters of bitterness in my child’s soul, Monsieur Coasson, but you have not found the source.”
“Time will show that,” observed the envoy.
“It will,” replied Toussaint; “and also the worth of your threat of revenge for the words of my suffering child. I have no more to say to you.—My sons!”
Placide sprang to his side, and Isaac followed.
“I no longer call you boys; for the choice of this hour makes you men. The Captain-General insists that you go from me. He has no right to do so. Neither have I a right to bid you stay. Hear, and decide for yourselves.—The cause of the blacks is not so promising as it appeared last night. News has arrived, from various quarters, of defeat and defection. Our struggle for our liberties will be fierce and long. It will never be relinquished; and my own conviction is, that the cause of the blacks will finally prevail; that Saint Domingo will never more belong to France. The ruler of France has been a guardian to you—an indulgent guardian. I do not ask you to tight against him.”
The faces of both the young men showed strong and joyful emotion; but it was not the same emotion in them both.
“Decide according to your reason and your hearts, my children, whether to go or stay; remembering the importance of your choice.” Putting a hand on the shoulder of each, he said impressively, “Go to the Captain-General, or remain with me. Whichever you do, I shall always equally love and cherish you.”
Margot looked upon her sons, as if awaiting from them life or death. Aimée’s face was still hidden in her handkerchief. She had nothing to learn of her brother’s inclinations.
Isaac spoke before Placide could open his lips.
“We knew, father,” he said, “that your love and your rare liberality—that liberality which gave us our French education—would not fail now. And this it is that persuades me that this quarrel cannot proceed to extremities—that it will not be necessary for your sons to take any part, as you propose. When Placide and I think of you—your love of peace, your loyalty, and your admiration of Bonaparte; and then, when we think of Bonaparte—his astonishment at what you have done in the colony, and the terms in which he always spoke of you to us—when we consider how you two are fitted to appreciate each other, we cannot believe but that the Captain-General and you will soon be acting in harmony, for the good of both races. But for this assurance, we could hardly have courage to return.”
“Speak for yourself alone, Isaac,” said his brother.
“Well, then: I say for myself, that, but for this certainly, it would almost break my heart to leave you so soon again, though to go at present no further off than Tortuga. But I am quite confident that there will soon be perfect freedom of intercourse among all who are on the island.”
“You return with me?” asked Monsieur Coasson.
“Certainly, as my father gives me my choice. I feel myself bound, in honour and gratitude, to return, instead of appearing to escape, at the very first opportunity, from those with whom I can never quarrel. Returning to Leclerc, under his conditional orders, can never be considered a declaration against my father: while remaining here, against Leclerc’s orders, is an undeniable declaration against Bonaparte and France—a declaration which I never will make.”
“I stay with my father,” said Placide.
“Your reasons?” asked Monsieur Coasson; “that I may report them to the Captain-General.”
“I have no reasons,” replied Placide; “or, if I have, I cannot recollect them now. I shall stay with my father.”
“Welcome home, my boy!” said Toussaint; “and Isaac, my son, may God bless you, wherever you go.”
And he opened his arms to them both.
“I am not afraid,” said Madame L’Ouverture, timidly, as if scarcely venturing to say so much—“I am not afraid but that, happen what may, we can always make a comfortable home for Placide.”
“Never mind comfort, mother: and least of all for me. We have something better than comfort to try for now.”
“Give me your blessing, too, father,” said Aimée, faintly, as Isaac led her forward, and Vincent closely followed. “You said you would bless those that went, and those that stayed; and I am going with Isaac.”
The parents were speechless; so that Isaac could explain that the Captain-General offered a welcome to as many of the Ouvertures as were disposed to join him; and that Madame Leclerc had said that his sisters would find a home and protection with her.
“And I cannot separate from Isaac yet,” pleaded Aimée. “And with Madame Leclerc—”
“General Vincent,” said Toussaint, addressing his aide before noticing his daughter, “have the goodness to prepare for an immediate journey. I will give you your commission when you are ready to ride.”
After one moment’s hesitation, Vincent bowed, and withdrew. He was not prepared to desert his General while actually busy in his affairs. He reflected that the great object (in order to the peace and reconciliation he hoped for) was to serve, and keep on a good understanding with, both parties. He would discharge this commission, and then follow Aimée and her brother, as he had promised. Thus he settled with himself, while he ordered his horses, and prepared for departure.
Toussaint was sufficiently aware that he should prosper better without his shallow-minded and unstable aide; but he meant to retain him about his person, on business in his service, till Aimée should have opportunity, in his absence, to explore her own mind, and determine her course, while far from the voice of the tempter.
“Go with your brother, Aimée,” he said, “rather than remain unwillingly with us. Whenever you wish it, return. You will find our arms ever open to you.”
And he blessed her, as did her weeping mother—the last, however, not without a word of reproach.
“Oh, Aimée, why did not you tell me?”
“Mother, I did not know myself—I was uncertain—I was—Oh, mother! it will not be for long. It is but a little way: and Isaac and I shall soon write. I will tell you everything about Madame Leclerc. Kiss me once more, mother; and take care of Génifrède.”
As Toussaint abruptly turned away, with a parting bow to the envoy, and entered the piazza, on his way to the urgent business of the day, and as the shortest escape from the many eyes that were upon him, he encountered Monsieur Pascal, who stood awaiting him there.
“My friend!” said Monsieur Pascal, with emotion, as he looked in the face of Toussaint.
“Ay, Pascal: it is bitter. Bonaparte rose up as my rival; and cheerfully did I accept him for such, in the council and in the field. But now he is my rival in my family. He looks defiance at me through my children’s eyes. It is too much. God give me patience!”
Monsieur Pascal did not speak; for what could he say?