“I may be wrong, Toussaint. God grant, for the sake of the liberties of the world, that I may be proved mistaken! But, in the hour of choice between your sovereignty and continued dependence, you must not suppose the sympathy between the First of the Whites and the First of the Blacks to be greater than it is.”
Toussaint could have told how Henri’s words only confirmed misgivings as to the public virtues of Bonaparte, which had long troubled his secret soul.
“Are you willing,” he asked of Monsieur Pascal, “to tell us your anticipations as to the career of the First Consul? Do not speak, if you prefer to be silent.”
“I cannot predict confidently,” replied Pascal; “but I should not be surprised if we see Bonaparte unable to resist the offer of sovereignty. Once crowned, and feeling himself still compelled to speak incessantly of the good of his country, his views of good will become debased. He will invest France with military glory, and sink into ruin by becoming a conqueror;—a vulgar destiny, in this age—a destiny which Alexander himself would probably scorn, if now born again into the world.”
“Alas! my poor blacks, if this be indeed Bonaparte!” exclaimed Toussaint. “Their supreme need is of peace; and they may become the subjects of a conqueror.”
“And happy if they be no worse than subjects,” said Christophe.
“If,” said Toussaint, “Bonaparte respects the liberties of the French no more than to reduce them from being a nation to being an army, he will not respect the liberties of the blacks, and will endeavour to make them once more slaves.”
“Ah! you see!” exclaimed Dessalines.
“I neither see nor believe, Jacques. We are only speculating. I will be thoroughly faithful to my allegiance, till Bonaparte is unquestionably unfaithful to the principles by which he rose. At the moment, however, when he lifts his finger in menace of the liberties of the blacks, I will declare myself the Champion of Saint Domingo;—not, however, through the offices of the English, but by the desire of those whom I govern.”
“Say King of Hayti,” exclaimed Christophe. “This island was Hayti, when it lay blooming in the midst of the ocean, fresh from the will of God, thronged with gentle beings who had never lifted up a hand against each other. It was Hayti when it received, as into a paradise, the first whites who came into our hemisphere, and who saw in our valleys and plains the Eden of the Scripture. It became Saint Domingo when vice crept into it, and oppression turned its music into sighs, and violence laid it waste with famine and the sword. While the blacks and whites yet hate each other, let it be still Saint Domingo: but when you withdraw us from jealousy and bloodshed, let it again be Hayti. While it holds its conquered name there will be heart-burnings. If it became our own Hayti, we might not only forgive, but forget. It would be a noble lot to be King of Hayti!”