“This, however, will I do,” said Toussaint. “I will meet you to-morrow, at the great church in Port-au-Prince, and there bind myself before the altar, before the God who hears me now, on behalf of your people, to be silent on the past, and to employ my vigilance and my toils in rendering happy the Spanish people, now become my fellow-citizens of France.”
A profusion of obeisances proved that this was satisfactory. The late governor of the city took from one of his officers the velvet cushion on which were deposited the keys of Saint Domingo, and transferred it to the hands of the Commander-in-chief. At the moment, there was an explosion of cannon from the terrace on which stood the town; the bells rang in all the churches; and bursts of military music spread over the calm bay, with the wreaths of white smoke from the guns. The flamingoes took flight again from the strand; the ships moved in their anchorage; the shouts of the people arose from the town, and those of the soldiery from the square of the great avenue. Their idol, their Ouverture, was now in command of the whole of the most beautiful of the isles of the west.
As soon as he could be heard, Toussaint introduced his brother to the Spaniards. Placing the cushion containing the keys upon the table, and laying his hand upon the keys, he declared his intention of giving to the inhabitants of the city of Saint Domingo a pledge of the merciful and gentle character of the government under which they were henceforth to live, in the person of the new governor, Paul L’Ouverture, who had never been known to remember unkindness from day-to-day. The new governor would depart for the east of the island on the morrow, from the door of the church, at the close of the celebration.
The levée was now over. Spanish, French, and the family and guests of the Commander-in-chief, were to meet at a banquet in the evening. Meantime, Toussaint and his brother stepped out together upon the northern piazza, and the room was cleared.
“I wish,” said Paul, “that you had appointed any one but me to be governor of that city. How should a poor negro fisherman like me govern a city?”
“You speak like a white, Paul. The whites say of me, ‘How should a poor negro postillion govern a colony?’ You must do as I do—show that a negro can govern.”
“But Heaven made you for a ruler.”
“Who thought so while I was yet a slave? As for you—I know not what you can do till you have tried; nor do you. I own that you are not the man I should have appointed, if I had had a choice among all kinds of men.”
“Then look around for some other.”
“There is no other, on the whole, so little unfit as you. Henri must remain in the field while Rigaud is in arms. Jacques—”