Monsieur Papalier did not much relish the idea of roosting in a tree for
the night; especially as, on coming down in the morning, there would be
no friend or helper near, to care for or minister to him. Habitually
and thoroughly as he despised the negroes, he preferred travelling in
their company to hiding among the monkeys; and he therefore decided at
once to do as Toussaint concluded he would--accompany him to the Spanish
frontier.
The river Massacre, the boundary at the north between the French and
Spanish portions of the island, was about thirty miles distant from
Breda. These thirty miles must be traversed between sunset and sunrise.
Three or four horses, and two mules which were left on the plantation,
were sufficient for the conveyance of the women, boys, and girls; and
Placide ran, of his own accord, to Monsieur Papalier's deserted stables,
and brought thence a saddled horse for the gentleman, who was less able
than the women to walk thirty miles in the course of a tropical summer's
night.
"What will your Spanish friends think of our bringing so many women and
children to their post?" said Papalier to Toussaint, as soon as they
were on their way. "They will not think you worth having, with all the
incumbrances you carry."
"I shall carry none," said Toussaint.
"What do you mean to do with your wife and children?"
"I shall put them in a safe place by the way. For your own sake,
Monsieur Papalier, I must ask you what you mean to do in the Spanish
post--republican as you are. You know the Spaniards are allies of the
king of France."
"They are allies of France, and will doubtless receive any honourable
French gentleman," said Papalier confidently, though Toussaint's
question only echoed a doubt which he had already spoken to himself.
"You are acting so like a friend to me here, Toussaint, that I cannot
suppose you will do me mischief there, by any idle tales about the
past."
"I will not; but I hear that the Marquis d'Hermona knows the politics of
every gentleman in the colony. If there have been any tales abroad of
speeches of yours against the king, or threats, or acts of rebellion,
the Marquis d'Hermona knows them all."
"I have taken less part in politics than most of my neighbours; and
Hermona knows that, if he knows the rest. But what shall I do with
Therese, if your women stop short on the way? Could you make room for
her with them?"
"Not with them, but--"
"My good fellow, this is no time for fancies. I am sorry to see you set
your girls above their condition and their neighbours. There is no harm
about poor Therese. Indeed, she is very well educated; I have had her
well taught; and they might learn many things from her, if you really
wish them to be superior. She is not a bit the worse for being a
favourite of mine; and it will be their turn soon to be somebody's
favourites, you know. And that before long, depend upon it," he
continued, turning on his saddle to look for Genifrede and Aimee. "They
are fine girls,--very fine girls for their age."
When he turned again, Toussaint was no longer beside his horse. He was
at the head of the march.
"What a sulky fellow he is!" muttered the planter, with a smile. "The
airs of these people are curious enough. They take upon them to despise
Therese, who has more beauty than all his tribe, and almost as much
education as the learned Toussaint himself."
He called to the sulky fellow, however, and the sulky fellow came. What
Papalier wanted to say was--
"You seem to know more of these Spaniards than I. What will become of
Therese, if I take her among them; which, you see, you oblige me to do?"
"I proposed to her," said Toussaint, "to leave her with some of our
people near Fort Dauphin."
"Fort Egalite, you mean. That is its present name, you know. So you
asked her! Why did you not speak to me about it? It is my affair, not
hers."
"I thought it her affair. She will not remain behind, however. She
begged me to say nothing to you about her leaving you."
"Indeed! I will soon settle that." And the planter immediately
overtook the horse on which sat Therese, with her infant on her arm.
Therese smiled as she saw him coming; but the first few words he said to
her covered her face with tears. Blinded by these tears, she guided her
horse among the tough aloes which grew along the border of the
bridle-path, and the animal stumbled, nearly jerking the infant from her
arms. Her master let her get over the difficulty as she might, while he
rode on in the midst of the green track.
Placide disdained to ride. He strode along, singing in a low voice,
with a package on his shoulders, and his path marked by the fireflies,
which new round his head, or settled on his woollen cap. Isaac had made
Aimee happy by getting on her mule. Genifrede heard from the direction
in which they were, sometimes smothered laughter, but, for the most
part, a never-ending, low murmur of voices, as if they were telling one
another interminable stories. Genifrede never could make out what Isaac
and Aimee could be for ever talking about. She wondered that they could
talk now, when every monkey-voice from the wood, every click of a frog
from the ponds, every buzz of insects from the citron-hedge, struck fear
into her. She did not ask Placide to walk beside her horse; but she
kept near that on which her mother rode, behind Denis, who held a
cart-whip, which he was forbidden to crack--an accomplishment which he
had learned from the driver of the plantation.
It soon became clear that Jean had made active use of the hours since he
parted from Toussaint. He must have sent messengers in many directions;
for, from beneath the shadow of every cacao grove, from under the
branches of many a clump of bamboos, from the recess of a ravine here--
from the mouth of a green road there, beside the brawling brook, or from
their couch among the canes, appeared negroes, singly or in groups,
ready to join the travelling party. Among all these, there were no
women and children. They had been safely bestowed somewhere; and these
men now regarded themselves as soldiers, going to the camp of the
allies, to serve against their old masters on behalf of the king. "Vive
le Roi, et l'ancien regime!" was the word as each detachment joined--a
word most irritating to Papalier, who thought to himself many times
during this night, that he would have put all to hazard on his own
estate, rather than have undertaken this march, if he had known that he
was to be one of a company of negroes, gathering like the tempest in its
progress, and uttering at every turning, as if in mockery of himself,
"Vive le Roi, et l'ancien regime!" He grew _very_ cross, while quite
sensible of the necessity of appearing in a good mood to every one--
except, indeed, poor Therese.
"We are free--this is freedom!" said Toussaint more than once as he laid
his hand on the bridle of his wife's horse, and seemed incapable, of
uttering any other words. He looked up at the towering trees, as if
measuring with his eye the columnar palms, which appeared to those in
their shade as if crowned with stars. He glanced into the forest with
an eye which, to Margot, appeared as if it could pierce through darkness
itself. He raised his face in the direction of the central
mountain-peaks, round which the white lightning was exploding from
moment to moment; and Margot saw that tears were streaming on his face--
the first tears she had known him shed for years. "We are free--this is
freedom!" he repeated, as he took off his cap; "but, thank God! we have
the king for our master now."
"You will come and see us," said she. "We shall see you sometimes while
you are serving the king."
"Yes." He was called away by another accession of numbers, a party of
four who ran down among them from a mountain path. Toussaint brushed
away his unwonted tears, and went forward, hearing a well-known voice
inquire for Toussaint Breda.
"Here I am, Jacques!" he exclaimed in some surprise, as he addressed
himself to a short, stout-built young negro. "You are the first
townsman among us, Jacques. Where is old Dessalines?"
"Here is my master," said Jacques.
"Not the better for being a master," said the old tiler, who was himself
a negro. "I found myself no safer than Jacques in the town; so I came
away with him, and we have been among the rocks all day, tired enough."
"Have not you a horse for him?" asked Jacques. Toussaint stepped back,
to desire Aimee and Isaac to give up their mule to Dessalines; but
before it was done, Dessalines was mounted on Papalier's horse. Jacques
had told Papalier, on finding that he had not been walking at all, that
his horse was wanted, and Papalier had felt all the danger of refusing
to yield it up. He was walking moodily by the side of Therese, when
Toussaint offered him the mule, which he haughtily declined.
When Dessalines was mounted, Jacques came running forward to Toussaint,
to ask and to tell much concerning their singular circumstances.
"Your party is too noisy," said he. "The whole country is up; and I
saw, not far-off, two hours ago, a party that were bringing ammunition
from Cap. There may be more; and, if we fall in their way, with a white
in company--"
"True, true." And Toussaint turned back to command silence. He told
every one that the safety of all might depend on the utmost possible
degree of quietness being observed. He separated Isaac from Aimee, as
the only way of obtaining silence from them, and warned the merry blacks
in the rear that they must be still as death. He and Jacques, however,
exchanged a few more words in a low whisper, as they kept in advance of
the party.
"How do they get ammunition from Cap?" asked Toussaint. "Have they a
party in the town? I thought the town negroes had been sent on board
ship."
"The suspected ones are. They are the silly and the harmless who have
still wit and mischief enough to give out powder and ball slyly for the
plantation negroes. Once over the river, what will you do with your
party?"
"My wife and children will be safe with my brother Paul--you know he
fishes on the coast, opposite the Seven Brothers. I shall enter the
Spanish ranks; and every one else here will do as he thinks proper."
"Do not you call yourself a commander, then! Why do you not call us
your regiment, and take the command as a matter of course, as Jean has
done?"
"If it is desired, I am ready. Hark!"
There was evidently a party at some distance, numerous and somewhat
noisy, and on the approach from behind. Toussaint halted his party,
quickly whispered his directions, and withdrew them with all speed and
quietness within the black shade of a cacao-plantation, on the left of
the road. They had to climb an ascent; but there they found a green
recess, so canopied with interwoven branches that no light could enter
from the stars, and so hedged in by the cacao plants, growing twelve
feet high among the trees, that the party could hardly have been seen
from the road in broad daylight. There they stood crowded together in
utter darkness and stillness, unless, as Genifrede feared, the beating
of her heart might be heard above the hum of the mosquito, or the
occasional rustle of the foliage.
The approaching troop came on, tramping, and sometimes singing and
shouting. Those in the covert knew not whether most to dread a shouting
which should agitate their horses, or a silence which might betray a
movement on their part. This last seemed the most probable. The noise
subsided; and when the troop was close at hand, only a stray voice or
two was singing. They had with them two or three trucks, drawn by men,
on which were piled barrels of ammunition. They were now very near.
Whether it was that Therese, in fear of her infant crying, pressed it so
close to her bosom as to awaken it, or whether the rumbling and tramping
along the road roused its sleeping ear--the child stirred, and began
what promised to be a long shrill wawl, if it had not been stopped. How
it was stopped, the trembling, sickening mother herself did not know.
She only knew that a strong hand wrenched the child from her grasp in
the black darkness, and that all was still, unless, as she then and ever
after had a shuddering apprehension, there was something of a slight
gurgle which reached her strained ear. Her own involuntary moan was
stopped almost before it became a sound--stopped by a tap on the
shoulder, whose authoritative touch she well knew.
No one else stirred for long after the troop had passed. Then Toussaint
led his wife's horse down into the road again, and the party resumed
their march as if nothing had happened.
"My child!" said Therese, fearfully. "Give me my child!" She looked
about, and saw that no one seemed to have the infant.
"I will not let it cry," she said. "Give me back my child!"
"What is it?" asked Papalier, coming beside her horse. She told her
grief, as she prepared to spring down.
"No, keep your seat! Don't get down," said he, in a tone she dared not
disobey. "I will inquire for the child."
He went away, and returned--without it. "This is a sad thing," said he,
leading her horse forward with the rest. "No one knows anything about
the poor thing. Why did you let it go?"
"Have you asked them all? Who snatched it from me? Oh, ask who took
it! Let me look for it. I will--I will--"
"It is too late now. We cannot stop or turn back. These sad accidents
will happen at such times."
"Leave me behind--oh, leave me in the wood! I can follow when I have
found it. Leave me behind!"
"I cannot spare you, my dear. I should never see you again; and I
cannot spare you. It is sad enough to have lost the child."
"It was your child," said she, pleadingly.
"And you are mine too, my dear. I cannot spare you both."
Therese had never felt before. All that had moved her during her yet
short life--all emotions in one were nothing to the passion of this
moment--the conditional hatred that swelled her soul; conditional--for,
from moment to moment, she believed and disbelieved that Papalier had
destroyed her child. The thought sometimes occurred that he was not the
only cruel one. No one seemed to pity or care for her--not even Margot
or the girls came near her. She more than once was about to seek and
appeal to them; but her master held her bridle, and would not permit her
to stop or turn, saying occasionally that the lives of all depended on
perfect quiet and order in the march. When they arrived at the cross,
at the junction of the four roads, they halted, and there she told her
story, and was convinced that the grieved women knew nothing of her loss
till that moment. It was too late now for anything but compassion.
Jean Francais soon appeared with a troop so numerous, that all necessity
for caution and quiet was over. They could hardly meet an equal force
during the remainder of the march, and might safely make the forests and
ravines echo to their progress. Jean took off his cocked hat in
saluting Toussaint, and commended his punctuality and his arrangements.
"Jean always admires what my husband does," observed Margot to her
acquaintance Jacques. "You hear how he is praising him for what he has
done to-night."
"To be sure. Everybody praises Toussaint Breda," replied Jacques.
The wife laughed with delight.
"Everybody praises him but me," pursued Jacques. "I find fault with him
sometimes; and to-night particularly."
"Then you are wrong, Jacques. You know you have everybody against you."
"Time will show that I am right. Time will show the mischief of sending
away any whites to do us harm in far countries."
"Oh, you do not blame him for helping away Monsieur Bayou!"
"Yes, I do."
"Why, we have been under him ever since we were children--and a kind
youth he was then. And he taught my husband to read, and made him his
coachman; and then he made him overseer; and he has always indulged the
children, and always bought my young guinea-fowl, and--"
"I know that. All that will not prevent the mischief of helping him
away. Toussaint ought to have seen that if we send our masters to all
the four sides of the world, they will bring the world down upon us."
"Perhaps Toussaint did see it," said the man himself, from the other
side of his wife's horse. "But he saw another thing, too--that any
whites who stayed would be murdered."
"That is true enough; and murdered they ought to be. They are a race of
tyrants and rebels that our warm island hates."
"Nobody hated Monsieur Bayou," said Margot.
"Yes, I did. Every one who loves the blacks hates the whites."
"I think not," said Toussaint. "At least, it is not so with Him who
made them both. He is pleased with mercy, Jacques, and not with
murder."
Jacques laughed, and muttered something about the priests having been
brought in by the whites for a convenience; to which Toussaint merely
replied that it was not a priest, nor an ally of white masters, who
forgave His enemies on the cross.
"Father," said Placide, joining the group, "why is Jean commanding your
march? He speaks to you as if you were under him."
"Because he considers it his march."
"He praised your father--very much, Placide," said his mother.
"Yes--just as if my father were under him--as if the march were not
ours. We began it."
"I command those who began it--that is, my own family, Placide. I
command you to obey Jean, while you are with him. On the other side the
river, you shall be commander, all the way to your uncle's house. You
will follow his lead, Margot?"
"Oh, yes, if he leads straight. Jean is a commander, Placide. Look at
his cocked hat."
"And he calls himself commander-in-chief of the armies of France."
"In Saint Domingo. Well, so he is," said Toussaint, smiling, and
pointing to the troop. "Here are the armies of the King of France in
Saint Domingo; and here Jean commands."
At this moment, Jean made proclamation for Toussaint Breda; and
Toussaint joined him, leaving his wife saying, "You see he wants my
husband at every turn. I am sure he thinks a great deal of my husband."
"Toussaint," said Jean, "I shall introduce you to the Marquis d'Hermona;
and I have no doubt he will give you a command."
"I shall introduce myself to him, Jean."
"But he will be expecting you. He will receive you according to my
report--as a man of ability, and a most valuable officer. I sent
messengers forward to tell him of my approach with reinforcements; and I
gave a prodigious report of you."
"Still I shall speak for myself, Jean."
"What I now have to ask of you is, that you will dress like an officer--
like me. The uniform is, on the whole, of no great consequence at this
season, when the whites wear all the linen, and as little cloth as they
can. But the hat. Toussaint--the hat! You will not show yourself to
the Marquis d'Hermona in a cap! For my sake, do not show yourself till
you have procured a cocked hat."
"Where did you get yours, Jean?"
Jean could only say that it was from one who would never want it again.
"We will go as we are," said Toussaint. "You look like a commander, as
you are--and I look what I am, Toussaint Breda."
"But he will not believe what I shall say of you, if he sees a mere
common negro."
"Then let him disbelieve, till I have shown what I am. We shall find
daylight on the other side this ridge."
They had been for some time ascending the ridge which lies north and
south between Fort Dauphin and the river Massacre, the Spanish boundary.
In the covert of the woods which clothed the slope all was yet
darkness; but when the travellers could catch a glimpse upwards through
the interwoven branches, they saw that the stars were growing pale, and
that the heavens were filling with a yellower light. On emerging from
the woods on the summit of the ridge, they found that morning was indeed
come, though the sun was not yet visible. There was a halt, as if the
troops now facing the east would wait for his appearance. To the left,
where the ridge sank down into the sea, lay Mancenillo Bay, whose dark
grey waters, smooth as glass, as they rolled in upon the shore, began to
show lines of light along their swell. A dim sail or two, small and
motionless, told that the fishermen were abroad. From this bay, the
river Massacre led the eye along the plain which lay under the feet of
the troops, and between this ridge and another, darkly wooded, which
bounded the valley to the east; while to the south-east, the view was
closed in by the mass of peaks of the Cibao group of mountains. At the
first moment, these peaks, rising eight thousand feet from the plain,
appeared hard, cold, and grey, between the white clouds that encumbered
their middle height and the kindling sky. But from moment to moment
their aspect softened. The grey melted into lilac, yellow, and a faint
blushing red, till the start, barren crags appeared bathed in the hues
of the soft yielding clouds which opened to let forth the sun. The
mists were then seen to be stirring,--rising, curling, sailing, rolling,
as if the breezes were imprisoned among them, and struggling to come
forth. The breezes came, and, as it seemed, from those peaks. The
woods bent before them at one sweep. The banyan-tree, a grove in
itself, trembled through all its leafy columns, and shook off its dews
in a wide circle, like the return shower of a playing fountain. Myriads
of palms which covered the uplands, till now still as a sleeping host
beneath the stars, bowed their plumed heads as the winds went forth, and
shook off dews and slumber from the gorgeous parasitic beauties which
they sustained. With the first ray that the sun levelled among the
woods, these matted creepers shook their flowery festoons, their twined,
green ropes, studded with opening blossoms and bells, more gay than the
burnished insects and gorgeous birds which flitted among their tangles.
In the plain, the river no longer glimmered grey through the mists, but
glittered golden among the meadows, upon which the wild cattle were
descending from the clefts of the hills. Back to the north the river
led the eye, past the cluster of hunters' huts on the margin,--past the
post where the Spanish flag was flying, and whence the early drum was
sounding--past a slope of arrowy ferns here, a grove of lofty cocoa-nut
trees there, once more to the bay, now diamond-strewn, and rocking on
its bosom the boats, whose sails were now specks of light in contrast
with the black islets of the Seven Brothers, which caught the eye as if
just risen from the sea.
"No windmills here! No cattle-mills!" the negroes were heard saying to
one another. "No canes, no sugar-houses, no teams, no overseers'
houses, no overseers! By God, it is a fine place, this! So we are
going down there to be soldiers to the king! those cattle are wild, and
yonder are the hunters going out! By God, it is a fine place!"
In somewhat different ways, every one present, but Papalier and Therese,
was indulging the same mood of thought. There was a wildness in the
scene which made the heart beat high with the sense of freedom. For
some the emotion seemed too strong. Toussaint pointed out to his boys
the path on the other side of the river which would lead them to the
point of the shore nearest to Paul's hut, instructed them how to find or
make a habitation for their mother and sisters till he could visit them,
gave his wife a letter to his brother, and, except to bid his family a
brief farewell for a brief time, spoke no more till he reached the
Spanish post, and inquired for the General.
Jean stepped before him into the general's presence, taking possession
of the centre of the green space before the tent, where the Marquis
d'Hermona was enjoying the coolness of the morning. After having duly
declared his own importance, and announced the accession of numbers he
was likely to bring, Jean proceeded to extol Toussaint as one of the
valuables he had brought. After apologising for his friend's want of a
cocked hat, he proceeded to exhibit his learning, declaring that he had
studied "Plutarch", "Caesar's Commentaries", "Epictetus", "Marshal
Saxe's Military Reveries--"
Here he was stopped by the grasp of Toussaint's hand upon his arm.
Toussaint told the General that he came alone, without chief and without
followers: the few men who had left Breda with him having ranged
themselves with the force of Jean Francais. He came alone to offer the
strength of his arm, on behalf of his king, to the allies of royalist
France.
The Spanish soldiers, who glittered all around in their arms and bright
uniform, looked upon the somewhat gaunt negro in his plantation dress,
dusty with travel, and his woollen cap in hand, and thought, probably,
that the king of France would not be much aided by such an ally. It is
probable; for a smile went round, in which Jean joined. It is probable
that the Marquis d'Hermona thought differently, for he said--
"The strength of your arm! Good! And the strength of your head, too, I
hope. We get more arms than heads from your side of the frontier. Is
it true that you have studied the art of war?"
"I have studied it in books."
"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."
The tent was closed; and Toussaint kneeled to relieve his full heart
from its new sense of freedom, by subjecting himself to a task-master of
the soul.