“These defections do not discourage me as they do you, Henri. Full one third of my forces are faithful—are proved so by trial. These, with the goodness of our cause, are enough for my hopes—almost for my desires. There is no ferocity, but rather mercy, in hastening on the day of our independence and peace, by using a force so respectable—so honoured, as this tried remnant of my army.”
“You reckon fallaciously, Toussaint. You include my troops in the force you speak of.”
“Henri!” exclaimed L’Ouverture, stopping in his walk up the apartment; “it cannot be that you will desert me. No, no! forgive me that the words passed my lips!”
“Never will I desert you or our cause, Toussaint. Never will I intermit my enmity to our invaders; never will I live for any other object than the liberties of our people. But the time may be come for us to pursue our common object by different paths. I cannot go and play the bandit in the mountains.”
“Why did you not call me a bandit when I was at the Plateaux?”
“Because you were then waging an honourable war. War, not peace, was then beckoning you on to freedom. A state of voluntary outlawry, a practice of needless ravage, will make a different man of you. Say no more of it, Toussaint: I cannot be lieutenant to— Do not make me utter the word.”
“You have always hitherto obeyed me, Henri.”
“I have; and when we are in a state of war, I will obey you again. Do not class me with La Plume and Clerveaux—or, rather, do, if you will, and when August is past I will prove to you the difference.”
“Do not you see, Henri, that you not only cease to aid me at a great crisis but that you put a force upon me?”
“I cannot help it; I must do so, rather than go and be a butcher in the mornes with Dessalines.”