The Hour and the Man, An Historical Romance

by Harriet Martineau

“They think the worst of everything good enough for us, because we are blacks. Oh! oh!” Here his wrath was aggravated by a twinge of rheumatism. “They think anything good enough for blacks.”

“Let them think so,” said his master, kindly. “God does not. God did not think so when He gave us the soil of Africa, and the sun of Saint Domingo. When he planted the gardens of the world with palms, it was for the blacks. When He spread the wide shade of the banyan, He made a tent for the blacks. When He filled the air with the scent of the cinnamon and the cacao, was it not for the blacks to enjoy the fragrance? Has He not given them music? Has he not given them love and a home? What has He not given them? Let the whites think of us as they will! They shall be welcome to a share of what God gave the blacks, though they return us nothing better than wet wood, to warm us among their snows.”

“It is true,” said Mars Plaisir, his complacency completely restored—“God thinks nothing too good for the blacks. I will tell the First Consul so, if—”

“The First Consul would rather hear something else from you: and you know, Mars Plaisir, the whites laugh at us for our boastings. However, tell the First Consul what you will.”

Again was Mars Plaisir silenced, and his countenance confused. Perpetually, from this hour did he drop words which showed an expectation of seeing the First Consul—words which were never noticed by his master. Every time that the increasing weakness and pain under which Toussaint suffered forced themselves on his servant’s observation—whenever the skeleton hands were rubbed in his own, to relieve cramps and restore warmth; or the friendly office was returned, in spite of the shame and confusion of the servant at finding himself thus served—with every drift of snow which blocked up the window—and every relaxation of frost, which only increased the worse evil of the damp—Mars Plaisir avowed or muttered the persuasive things he would say to the First Consul.

Toussaint felt too much sympathy to indulge in much contempt for his companion. He, too, found it hard to be tortured with cramps, and wrung by spasms—to enjoy no respite from vexations of body and spirit. He, too, found the passage to the grave weary and dreary. And, as for an interview with Bonaparte, for how long had this been his first desire! How distinctly had it of late been the reserve of his hope! Reminding himself, too, of the effects on the wretched of an indefinite hope, such as the unsettled mind and manners of his servant convinced him, more and more, had been held out—he could not, in the very midst of scenes of increasing folly and passion, despise poor Mars Plaisir. He mistrusted him, however, and with a more irksome mistrust continually, while he became aware that Mars Plaisir was in the habit of lamenting Saint Domingo chiefly for the sake of naming Christophe and Dessalines, the companies in the mornes, the fever among the whites, and whatever might be most likely to draw his master into conversation on the hopes and resources of the blacks. He became more and more convinced that the weakness of his companion was practised upon, and possibly his attachment to his master, by promises of good to both, on condition of information furnished. He was nearly certain that he had once heard the door of the cell closed gently, as he was beginning to awake, in the middle of the night; and he was quite sure that he one day saw Mars Plaisir burn a note, as he replenished the fire, while he thought his master was busy reading. Not even these mysterious proceedings could make Toussaint feel anything worse than sorrowing pity for Mars Plaisir.

The Commandant had ceased to visit his prisoners. During the rest of the winter, he never came. He sent books occasionally, but less frequently. The supply of firewood was gradually diminished; and so was the quantity of food. The ailments of the prisoners were aggravated, from day-to-day; and if the Commandant had favoured them with his presence, he would have believed that he saw two dusky shadows amidst the gloom of their cell, rather than men.

One morning, Toussaint awoke, slowly and with difficulty, from a sleep which appeared to have been strangely sound for one who could not move a limb without pain, and who rarely, therefore, slept for many minutes together. It must have been strangely long, too; for the light was as strong as it had ever been at noon in this dim cell. Before he rose, Toussaint felt that there was sunshine in the air; and the thought that spring was come, sent a gleam of pleasure through his spirit. It was true enough. As he stood before the window, something like a shadow might be seen on the floor. No sky—not a shred the breadth of his hand—was to be seen. For six months past, he had behold neither cloud, nor star, nor the flight of a bird. But, casting a glance up to the perpendicular rock opposite, he saw that it faintly reflected sunshine. He saw, moreover, something white moving—some living creature upon this rock. It was a young kid, standing upon a point or ledge imperceptible below—by its action, browsing upon some vegetation which could not be seen so far-off.

“Mars Plaisir! Mars Plaisir!” cried Toussaint. “Spring is come! The world is alive again, even here. Mars Plaisir!” There was no answer.

“He has slept deeply and long, like myself,” said he, going, however, into the darker corner of the cell where Mars Plaisir’s bed was laid. The straw was there, but no one was on it. The stove was warm, but there was no fire in the fireplace. The small chest allowed for the prisoners’ clothes was gone—everything was gone but the two volumes in which they had been reading the night before. Toussaint shook these books, to see if any note had been hidden in them. He explored them at the window, to discover any word of farewell that might be written on blank leaf or margin. There was none there; nor any scrap of paper hidden in the straw, or dropped upon the floor. Mars Plaisir was gone, and had left no token.