“Very well. We want officers for our black troops—all we can raise in the present crisis. You will have the rank of colonel in a regiment to be immediately organised. Are you content?”
Toussaint signified his assent, and orders were given for a tent to be prepared for his present repose. He looked around, as if for some one whom he did not see. On being asked, he said that if there was at the post a priest who spoke French, he could wish to converse with him.
“Laxabon understands French, I think,” said the marquis to a gentleman of his staff. The aide assented.
“Your excellent desire shall be gratified,” said the General. “I doubt not Father Laxabon will presently visit you in your tent.”
Father Laxabon had heard rumours of the horrors perpetrated in the French colony within the last two nights. On being told that his attendance was equally desired by a fugitive negro, he recoiled for a moment from what he might have to hear.
When he entered the tent, he found Toussaint alone, on the ground, his bosom bursting with deep and thick-coming sobs, “How is this, my son?” said the priest. “Is this grief, or is it penitence?”
“I am free,” said Toussaint, “and I am an oppression to myself. I did not seek freedom. I was at ease, and did not desire it, seeing how men abuse their freedom.”
“You must not, then, abuse your freedom, my son,” said the priest, wholly relieved.
“How shall I appear before God—I who have ever been guided, and who know not whether I can guide myself—my master gone—my employment gone—and I, by his will, a free man, but unprepared, unfit?—Receive my confession, father, and guide me from this time.”
“Willingly, my son. He who has appointed a new lot to you will enable me to guide you in it.”