The lads found some of the details of military training less heroic and
less agreeable than they had imagined--scarcely to be compared, indeed,
under either aspect, to the chase of the wild goats, and search for
young turtle, to which they had been of late accustomed. They had their
pleasures, however, amidst the heats, toils, and laborious offices of
the camp. They felt themselves men, living among men: they were young
enough to throw off, and almost to forget, the habits of thought which
belong to slavery; and they became conscious of a spirit growing up
within them, by which they could look before and after, perceive that
the future of their lives was in their own hands, and therefore
understand the importance of the present time. Their father looked upon
them with mixed feelings of tender pride in them, and regret for his own
lost youth. The strong and busy years on which they were entering had
been all spent by him in acquiring one habit of mind, to which his
temperament and his training alike conduced--a habit of endurance. It
was at this time that he had acquired the power of reading enough to
seek for books; and the books that he had got hold of were Epictetus,
and some fragments of Fenelon. With all the force of youth, he had been
by turns the stoic and the quietist; and, while busied in submitting
himself to the pressure of the present, he had turned from the past, and
scarcely dreamed of the future. If his imagination glanced back to the
court of his royal grandfather, held under the palm shades, or pursuing
the lion-hunt amidst the jungles of Africa, he had hastily withdrawn his
mind's eye from scenes which might create impatience of his lot; and if
he ever wondered whether a long succession of ignorant and sensual
blacks were to be driven into the field by the whip every day in Saint
Domingo, for evermore, he had cut short the speculation as inconsistent
with his stoical habit of endurance, and his Christian principle of
trust. It was not till his youth was past that he had learned anything
of the revolutions of the world--too late to bring them into his
speculations and his hopes. He had read, from year to year, of the
conquests of Alexander and of Caesar; he had studied the wars of France,
and drawn the plans of campaigns in the sand before his door till he
knew them by heart; but it had not occurred to him, that while empires
were overthrown in Asia, and Europe was traversed by powers which gave
and took its territories, as he saw the negroes barter their cocoa-nuts
and plantains on Saturday nights--while such things had happened in
another hemisphere, it had not occurred to him that change would ever
happen in Saint Domingo. He had heard of earthquakes taking place at
intervals of hundreds of years, and he knew that the times of the
hurricane were not calculable; but, patient and still as was his own
existence, he had never thought whether there might not be a convulsion
of human affections, a whirlwind of human passion, preparing under the
grim order of society in the colony. If a master died, his heir
succeeded him; if the "force" of any plantation was by any conjuncture
of circumstances dispersed or removed, another negro company was on the
shore, ready to re-people the slave-quarter. The mutabilities of human
life had seemed to him to be appointed to whites--to be their privilege
and their discipline; while he doubted not that the eternal command to
blacks was to bear and forbear. When he now looked upon his boys, and
remembered that for them this order was broken up, and in time for them
to grasp a future, and prepare for it--that theirs was the lot of
whites, in being involved in social changes, he regarded them with a far
deeper solicitude and tenderness than in the darkest midnight hours of
their childish illnesses, or during the sweetest prattle of their
Sabbath afternoons, and with a far stronger hopefulness than can ever
enter the heart or home of a slave. They had not his habitual patience;
and he saw that they were little likely to attain it; but they daily
manifested qualities and powers--enterprise, forecast, and aspiration of
various kinds, adorning their youth with a promise which made their
father sigh at the retrospect of his own. He was amused, at the same
time, to see in them symptoms of a boyish vanity, to which he had either
not been prone, or which he had early extinguished. He detected in each
the secret eagerness with which they looked forward to displaying their
military accomplishments to those with whom they were always exchanging
thoughts over the ridge. He foresaw that when they should have improved
a little in certain exercises, he should be receiving hints about a
visit to the shore, and that there would then be such a display upon the
sands as should excite prodigious admiration, and make Denis break his
heart that he must not go to the camp.
Meantime, he amused them in the evenings, with as many of his officers
as chose to look on, by giving them the history of the wars of Asia and
Europe, as he had learned it from books, and thoroughly mastered it by
reflection. Night after night was the map of Greece traced with his
sword's point on the sand behind his tent, while he related the
succession of the conflicts with Persia, with a spirit derived from old
Herodotus himself. Night after night did the interest of his hearers
arouse more and more spirit in himself, till he became aware that his
sympathies with the Greeks in their struggles for liberty had hitherto
been like those of the poet born blind, who delights in describing
natural scenery--thus unconsciously enjoying the stir within him of
powers whose appropriate exercise is forbidden. Amidst this survey of
the regions of history, he felt, with humble wonder, that while his boys
were like bright-eyed children sporting fearlessly in the fields, he was
like one lately couched, by whom the order of things was gradually
becoming recognised, but who was oppressed by the unwonted light, and
inwardly ashamed of the hesitation and uncertainty of his tread. While
sons, nephew, and a throng of his officers, were listening to him as to
an oracle, and following the tracings of his sword, as he showed how
this advance and that retreat had been made above two thousand years
ago, he was full of consciousness that the spirit of the history of
freedom was received more truly by the youngest of his audience than by
himself--that he was learning from their natural ardour something of
higher value than all that he had to impart.
As he was thus engaged, late one spring evening--late, because the rains
would soon come on, and suspend all out-door meetings--he was stopped in
the midst of explaining a diagram by an authoritative tap on the
shoulder. Roused by an appeal to his attention now so unusual, he
turned quickly, and saw a black, who beckoned him away.
"Why cannot you speak!--Or do you take me for some one else? Speak your
business."
"I cannot," said the man, in a voice which, though too low to be heard
by anyone else, Toussaint knew to be Papalier's. "I cannot speak here--
I must not make myself known. Come this way."
Great was the surprise of the group at seeing Toussaint instantly follow
this black, who appeared in the dusk to be meanly clothed. They entered
the tent, and let down the curtain at the entrance. Some saw that a
woman stood within the folds of the tent.
"Close the tent," said Papalier, in the same tone in which he had been
wont to order his plate to be changed at home. "And _now_, give me some
water to wash off this horrid daubing. Some water--quick! Pah! I have
felt as if I were really a negro all this day."
Toussaint said nothing; nor did he summon any one. He saw it was a case
of danger, led the way into the inner part of the tent, poured out
water, pointed to it, and returned to the table, where he sat down, to
await further explanation.
Papalier at length re-appeared, looking like himself, even as to his
clothes, which Therese must have brought in the bundle which she
carried. She now stood leaning against one of the tent-poles, looking
grievously altered--worn and wearied.
"Will you not sit down, Therese?" said Toussaint, pointing to a chair
near his own, Papalier having seated himself on the other side of the
table.
Therese threw herself on a couch at some distance, and hid her face.
"I must owe my safety to you again, Toussaint," said Papalier. "I
understand General Hermona is here at present."
"He is."
"You have influence with him, and you must use it for me."
"I am sorry you need it. I hoped you would have taken advantage of the
reception he gave you to learn the best time and manner of going to
Europe. I hoped you had been at Paris long ago."
"I ought to have been there. If I had properly valued my life, I should
have been there. But it seemed so inconceivable that things should have
reached a worse pass than when I crossed the frontier! It seemed so
incredible that I should not be able to preserve any wreck of my
property for my children, that I have lingered on, staying month after
month, till now I cannot get away. I have had a dreadful life of it. I
had better have been anywhere else. Why, even Therese," he continued,
pointing over his shoulder towards the couch, "Therese, who would not be
left behind at Fort Egalite, the night we came from Breda--even Therese
has not been using me as she should do. I believe she hates me."
"You are in trouble, and therefore I will not speak with you to-night
about Therese," said Toussaint. "You are in danger, from the
determination of the Spaniards to deliver up the enemies of the late
king to--"
"Rather say to deliver up the masters to their revolted slaves. They
make politics the pretence; but they would not be sorry to see us all
cut to pieces, like poor Odeluc and Clement, and fifty more."
"However that may be, your immediate danger is from the Spaniards--is
it?"
"Yes, I discovered that I was to be sent over the line to-morrow; so I
was obliged to get here to-day in any way I could; and there was no
other way than--pah! it was horrid!"
"No other way than by looking like a negro," said Toussaint, calmly.
"Well, now you are here, what do you mean to do next?"
"I mean, by your influence with General Hermona, to obtain protection to
a port, that I may proceed to Europe. I do not care whether I go from
Saint Domingo, or by Saint Iago, so as to sail from Port Plate. I could
find a vessel from either port. You would have no difficulty in
persuading General Hermona to this?"
"I hope not, as he voluntarily gave you permission to enter his
territory. I will ask for his safe-conduct in the morning. To-night
you are safe, if you remain here. I request that you will take
possession of the inner apartment, and rely upon my protection."
"Thankyou. I knew my best way was to come here," said Papalier, rising.
"Therese will bring me some refreshment; and then I shall be glad of
rest, for we travelled half last night."
"For how many shall the safe-conduct be?" asked Toussaint, who had also
risen. "For yourself alone, or more?"
"No one knows better than you," said Papalier, hastily, "that I have
only one servant left," pointing again to the couch. "And," lowering
his voice, so that Therese could not hear, "she, poor thing, is
dreadfully altered, you see--has never got over the loss of her child,
that night." Then, raising his voice again, he pursued: "My daughters
at Paris will be glad to see Therese, I know; and she will like Paris,
as everybody does. All my other people are irrecoverable, I fear; but
Therese goes with me."
"No," said Therese, from the conch, "I will go nowhere with you."
"Hey-day! what is that?" said Papalier, turning in the direction of the
voice. "Yes, you will go, my dear. You are tired to-night, as you well
may be. You feel as I do--as if you could not go anywhere, to-morrow or
the next day. But we shall be rested and ready enough, when the time
comes."
"I am ready at this moment to go anywhere else--anywhere away from you,"
replied Therese.
"What do you mean, Therese?" asked her master, sharply.
"I mean what you said just now--that I hate you."
"Oh! silence!" exclaimed Toussaint. He then added in a mild tone to
Therese, "This is my house, in which God is worshipped and Christ
adored, and where therefore no words of hatred may be spoken." He then
addressed himself to Papalier, saying, "You have then fully resolved
that it is less dangerous to commit yourself to the Spaniards than to
attempt to reach Cap?"
"To reach Cap! What! after the decree? Upon my soul, Toussaint, I
never doubted you yet; but if--"
He looked Toussaint full in the face.
"I betray no one," said Toussaint. "What decree do you speak of?"
"That of the Convention of the 4th of February last."
"I have not heard of it."
"Then it is as I hoped--that decree is not considered here as of any
importance. I trusted it would be so. It is merely a decree of the
Convention, confirming and proclaiming the liberty of the negroes, and
declaring the colony henceforth an integrant part of France. It is a
piece of folly and nonsense, as you will see at once; for it can never
be enforced. No one of any sense will regard it; but just at present it
has the effect, you see, of making it out of the question for me to
cross the frontier."
"True," said Toussaint, in a voice which made Papalier look in his face,
which was working with some strong emotion. He turned away from the
light, and desired Therese to follow him. He would commit her to the
charge of one of the suttlers' wives for the night.
Having put on the table such fruit, bread, and wine as remained from his
own meal (Papalier forbidding further preparation, for fear of exciting
observation without), Toussaint went out with Therese, committed her to
safe hands, and then entered the tent next his own, inhabited by his
sons, and gave them his accustomed blessing. On his return, he found
that Papalier had retired.
Toussaint was glad to be alone. Never had he more needed solitude; for
rarely, if ever, in the course of his life, had his calm soul been so
disturbed. During the last words spoken by Papalier, a conviction had
flashed across him, more vivid and more tremendous than any lightning
which the skies of December had sent forth to startle the bodily eye;
and amidst the storm which those words had roused within him, that
conviction continued to glare forth at intervals, refusing to be
quenched. It was this--that if it were indeed true that the
revolutionary government of France had decreed to the negroes the
freedom and rights of citizenship, to tight against the revolutionary
government would be henceforth to fight against the freedom and rights
of his race. The consequences of such a conviction were overpowering to
his imagination. As one inference after another presented itself before
him--as a long array of humiliations and perplexities showed themselves
in the future--he felt as if his heart were bursting. For hour after
hour of that night he paced the floor of his tent; and if he rested his
limbs, so unused to tremble with fear or toil, it was while covering his
face with his hands, as if even the light of the lamp disturbed the
intensity of his meditation. A few hours may, at certain crises of the
human mind and lot, do the work of years; and this night carried on the
education of the noble soul, long repressed by slavery, to a point of
insight which multitudes do not reach in a lifetime. No doubt, the
preparation had been making through years of forbearance and meditation,
and through the latter mouths of enterprise and activity; but yet, the
change of views and purposes was so great as to make him feel, between
night and morning, as if he were another man.
The lamp burned out, and there was no light but from the brilliant
flies, a few of which had found their way into the tent. Toussaint made
his repeater strike: it was three o'clock. As his mind grew calm under
the settlement of his purposes, he became aware of the thirst which his
agitation had excited. By the light of the flitting tapers, he poured
out water, refreshed himself with a deep draught, and then addressed
himself to his duty. He could rarely endure delay in acting on his
convictions. The present was a case in which delay was treachery; and
he would not lose an hour. He would call up Father Laxabon, and open
his mind to him, that he might be ready for action when the camp should
awake.
As he drew aside the curtain of the tent, the air felt fresh to his
heated brow, and, with the calm starlight, seemed to breathe strength
and quietness into his soul. He stood for a moment listening to the
dash and gurgle of the river, as it ran past the camp--the voice of
waters, so loud to the listening ear, but so little heeded amidst the
hum of the busy hours of day. It now rose above the chirpings and
buzzings of reptiles and insects, and carried music to the ear and
spirit of him who had so often listened at Breda to the fall of water in
the night hours, with a mind unburdened and unperplexed with duties and
with cares. The sentinel stopped before the tent with a start which
made his arms ring at seeing the entrance open, and some one standing
there.
"Watch that no one enters?" said Toussaint to him. "Send for me to
Father Laxabon's, if I am wanted."
As he entered the tent of the priest--a tent so small as to contain only
one apartment--all seemed dark. Laxabon slept so soundly as not to
awake till Toussaint had found the tinder-box, and was striking a light.
"In the name of Christ, who is there?" cried Laxabon.
"I, Toussaint Breda; entreating your pardon, father."
"Why are you here, my son? There is some misfortune, by your face. You
look wearied and anxious. What is it?"
"No misfortune, father, and no crime. But my mind is anxious, and I
have ventured to break your rest. You will pardon me?"
"You do right, my son. We are ready for service, in season and out of
season."
While saying this, the priest had risen, and thrown on his morning-gown.
He now seated himself at the table, saying--
"Let us hear. What is this affair of haste?"
"The cause of my haste is this--that I may probably not again have
conversation with you, father; and I desire to confess, and be absolved
by you once more."
"Good. Some dangerous expedition--is it not so?"
"No. The affair is personal altogether. Have you heard of any decree
of the French Convention by which the negroes--the slaves--of the colony
of Saint Domingo are freely accepted as fellow-citizens, and the colony
declared an integrant part of France?"
"Surely I have. The General was speaking of it last night; and I
brought away a copy of the proclamation consequent upon it. Let me
see," said he, rising, and taking up the lamp, "where did I put that
proclamation?"
"With your sacred books, perhaps, father; for it is a gospel to me and
my race."
"Do you think it of so much importance?" asked Laxabon, returning to the
table with the newspaper containing the proclamation, officially given.
"The General does not seem to think much of it, nor does Jean Francais."
"To a commander of our allies the affair may appear a trifle, father;
and such white planters as cannot refuse to hear the tidings may scoff
at them; but Jean Francais, a negro and a slave--is it possible that he
makes light of this?"
"He does; but he has read it, and you have not. Read it, my son, and
without prejudice."
Toussaint read it again and again.
"Well!" said the priest, as Toussaint put down the paper, no longer
attempting to hide with it the streaming tears which covered his face.
"Father," said he, commanding his voice completely, "is there not hope,
that if men, weakened and blinded by degradation, mistake their duty
when the time for duty comes, they will be forgiven?"
"In what case, my son? Explain yourself."
"If I, hitherto a slave, and wanting, therefore, the wisdom of a free
man, find myself engaged on the wrong side--fighting against the
providence of God--is there not hope that I may be forgiven on turning
to the right?"
"How the wrong side, my son? Are you not fighting for your king, and
for the allies of France?"
"I have been so pledged and so engaged; and I do not say that I was
wrong when I so engaged and so pledged myself. But if I had been wise
as a free man should be, I should have foreseen of late what has now
happened, and not have been found, when last night's sun went down (and
as to-morrow night's sun shall not find me), holding a command against
the highest interests of my race--now, at length, about to be redeemed."
"You--Toussaint Breda--the loyal! If Heaven has put any of its grace
within you, it has shown itself in your loyalty; and do you speak of
deserting the forces raised in the name of your king, and acting upon
the decrees of his enemies? Explain to me, my son, how this can be. It
seems to me that I can scarcely be yet awake."
"And to me, it seems, father, that never till now have I been awake.
Yet it was in no vain dream that I served my king. If he is now where
he can read the hearts of his servants, he knows that it was not for my
command, or for any other dignity and reward, that I came hither, and
have fought under the royal flag of France. It was from reverence and
duty to him, under God. He is now in heaven; we have no king; and my
loyalty is due elsewhere. I know not how it might have been if he had
still lived; for it seems to me now that God has established a higher
royalty among men than even that of an anointed sovereign over the
fortunes of many millions of men. I think now that the rule which the
free man has over his own soul, over time and eternity--subject only to
God's will--is a nobler authority than that of kings; but, however I
might have thought, our king no longer lives; and, by God's mercy, as it
seems to me now, while the hearts of the blacks feel orphaned and
desolate, an object is held forth to us for the adoration of our
loyalty--an object higher than throne and crown, and offered us by the
hand of the King of kings."
"Do you mean freedom, my son? Remember that it is in the name of
freedom that the French rebels have committed the crimes which--which it
would consume the night to tell of, and which no one knows better, or
abhors more, than yourself."
"It is true; but they struggled for this and that, and the other right
and privilege existing in societies of those who are fully admitted to
be men. In the struggle, crime has been victorious, and they have
killed their king. The object of my devotion will now be nothing that
has to be wrenched from an anointed ruler, nothing which can be gained
by violence--nothing but that which, being already granted, requires
only to be cherished, and may best be cherished in peace--the manhood of
my race. To this must I henceforth be loyal."
"How can men be less slaves than the negroes of Saint Domingo of late?
No real change has taken place; and yet you, who wept that freedom as
rebellion, are now proposing to add your force to it."
"And was it not rebellion? Some rose for the plunder of their masters--
some from ambition--some from revenge--many to escape from a condition
they had not patience to endure. All this was corrupt; and the
corruption, though bred out of slavery, as the fever from the marshes,
grieved my soul as if I had not known the cause. But now, knowing the
cause, and others (knowing it also) having decreed that slavery is at an
end, and given the sanction of law and national sympathy to our
freedom--is not the case changed? Is it now a folly or a sin to desire
to realise and purify and elevate this freedom, that those who were
first slaves and then savages may at length become men--not in decrees
and proclamations only, but in their own souls? You do not answer,
father. Is it not so?"
"Open yourself further, my son. Declare what you propose. I fear you
are perplexing yourself."
"If I am deceived, father, I look for light from heaven through you."
"I fear--I fear, my son! I do not find in you to-night the tone of
humility and reliance upon religion in which you found comfort the first
time you opened the conflicts of your heart to me. You remember that
night, my son?"
"The first night of my freedom? Never shall I forget its agonies."
"I rejoice to hear it. Those agonies were safer, more acceptable to
God, than the comforts of self-will."
"My father, if my will ensnares me, lay open the snare--I say not for
the sake of my soul only--but for far, far more--for the sake of my
children, for the sake of my race, for the sake of the glory of God in
His dealings with men, bring me back if I stray."
"Well. Explain--explain what you propose."
"I cannot remain in an army opposed to what are now the legal rights of
the blacks."
"You will give up your command?"
"I shall."
"And your boys--what will you do with them?"
"Send them whence they came for the present. I shall dismiss them by
one road, while the resignation of my rank goes by another."
"And you yourself by a third."
"When I have declared myself to General Hermona."
"Have you thoughts of taking your soldiers with you?"
"No."
"But what is right for you is right for them."
"If they so decide for themselves. My power over them is great. They
would follow me with a word. I shall therefore avoid speaking that
word, as it would be a false first step in a career of freedom, to make
them enter upon it as slaves to my opinion and my will."
"But you will at least address them, that they may understand the course
you pursue. The festival of this morning will afford an opportunity--
after mass. Have you thought of this?--I do not say that I am advising
it, or sanctioning any part of your plan, but have you thought of this?"
"I have, and dismissed the thought. The proclamation will speak for
itself. I act from no information which is not open to them all. They
can act, thank God, for themselves; and I will not seduce them into
subservience, or haste, or passion."
"But you will be giving up everything. What can make you think that the
French at Cap, all in the interest of the planters, will receive you?"
"I do not think it; and I shall not offer myself."
"Then you will sink into nothing. You will no longer be an officer, nor
even a soldier. You will be a mere negro, where negroes are wholly
despised. After all that you have been, you will be nothing."
"I shall be a true man."
"You will sink to less than nothing. You will be worse than useless
before God and man. You will be held a traitor."
"I shall; but it will be for the sake of a higher fidelity."
There was a long pause, after which Laxabon said, in a tone half severe,
and half doubting--
"So, here ends your career! You will dig a piece of ground to grow
maize and plantains for your family; you will read history in your
piazza, and see your daughters dance in the shade, while your name will
never be mentioned but as that of a traitor. So here ends your career!"
"From no one so often as you, father, have I heard that man's career
never ends."
The priest made no reply.
"How lately was it," pursued Toussaint, "that you encouraged my
children, when they, who fear neither the wild bull nor the tornado,
looked somewhat fearfully up to the eclipsed moon? Who was it but you
who told them, that though that blessed light seemed blotted out from
the sky, it was not so; but that behind the black shadow, God's hand was
still leading her on, through the heaven, still pouring radiance into
her lamp, not the less bright because it was hidden from men? A thick
shadow is about to pass upon my name; but is it not possible, father,
that God may still be feeding my soul with light--still guiding me
towards Himself? Will you not once more tell me, that man's career
never ends?"
"In a certain sense--in a certain sense, that is true, my son. But our
career here is what God has put into our own hands: and it seems to me
that you are throwing away His gift and His favour. How will you answer
when He asks you, `What hast thou done with the rank and the power I put
into thy hand? How hast thou used them?' What can you then answer, but
`I flung them away, and made myself useless and a reproach.' You know
what a station you hold in this camp--how you are prized by the General
for the excellence of the military discipline you have introduced; and
by me, and all the wise and religious, for the sobriety of manners and
purity of morals of which you are an example in yourself, and which you
have cherished among your troops, so that your soldiers are the boast of
the whole alliance. You know this--that you unite the influence of the
priest with the power of the commander; and yet you are going to cast
off both, with all the duties which belong to them, and sink yourself in
infamy--and with yourself, the virtues you have advocated. How will you
answer this to God?"
"Father, was there not One in whose path lay all the kingdoms of the
world and the glory of them, and who yet chose ignominy--to be despised
by the world, instead of to lead it? And was God severe with Him?
Forgive me, father; but have you not desired me to follow Him, though
far-off as the eastern moon from the setting sun?"
"That was a case, my son, unique in the world. The Saviour had a lot of
His own. Common men have rulers appointed them whom they are to serve;
and, if in rank and honour, so much the greater the favour of God. You
entered this service with an upright mind and pure intent; and here,
therefore, can you most safely remain, instead of casting yourself down
from the pinnacle of the temple, which, you know, the Son of God refused
to do. Remember His words, `Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.' Be
not tempted yourself, by pride of heart, to compare your lot with that
of Christ, which was unique."
"He devoted Himself for the whole race of man: He, and He alone. But it
seems to me that there may be periods of time when changes are appointed
to take place among men--among nations, and even among races; and that a
common man may then be called to devote himself for that nation, or for
that race. Father, I feel that the hour may be come for the negro race
to be redeemed; and that I, a common man, may so far devote myself as
not to stand in the way of their redemption. I feel that I must step
out from among those who have never admitted the negroes' claims to
manhood. If God should open to me a way to serve the blacks better, I
shall be found ready. Meantime, not for another day will I stand in the
light of their liberties. Father," he continued, with an eagerness
which grew as he spoke, "you know something of the souls of slaves. You
know how they are smothered in the lusts of the body, how they are
debased by the fear of man, how blind they are to the providence of God!
You know how oppression has put out the eyes of their souls, and
withered its sinews. If now, at length, a Saviour has once more for
them stretched out His healing hand, and bidden them see, and arise and
be strong, shall I resist the work? And you, father, will you not aid
it? I would not presume; but if I might say all--"
"Say on, my son."
"Having reproved and raised the souls of slaves, would it not henceforth
be a noble work for you to guide their souls as men? If you would come
among us as a soldier of Christ, who is bound to no side in earthly
quarrels--if you would come as to those who need you most, the lowest,
the poorest, the most endangered, what a work may lie between this hour
and your last! What may your last hour be, if, day by day, you have
trained our souls in the glorious liberty of the children of God! The
beginning must be lowly; but the kind heart of the Christian priest is
lowly: and you would humble yourself first to teach men thus,--`you were
wrong to steal'--`you were wrong to drink'--`you were wrong to take more
wives than one, and to strike your children in passion.' Thus humbly
must you begin; but among free men, how high may you not rise? Before
you die, you may have led them to rule their own spirits, and, from the
throne of that sovereignty, to look far into the depths of the heavens,
and over the history of the world; so that they may live in the light of
God's countenance, and praise Him almost like the angels--for, you know,
He has made us, even us, but a little lower than they."
"This would be a noble work," said Laxabon, much moved: "and if God is
really about to free your race, He will appoint a worthy servant for the
office. My duty, however, lies here. I have here souls in charge,
without being troubled with doubts as to the intentions of God and of
men. As I told you, the General does not think so much as you do of
this event; nor even does Jean Francais. If you act rashly, you will
repent for ever having quitted the path of loyalty and duty. I warn you
to pause, and see what course events will take. I admonish you not
hastily to desert the path of loyally and duty."
"If it had pleased God," said Toussaint, humbly, "to release me from the
ignorance of slavery when He gave me freedom, I might now be able to lay
open my heart as I desire to do; I might declare the reasons which
persuade me so strongly as I feel persuaded. But I am ignorant, and
unskilful in reasoning with one like you, father."
"It is therefor that we are appointed to guide and help you, my son.
You now know my mind, and have received my admonition. Let us proceed
to confession; for the morning draws on towards the hour for mass."
"Father, I cannot yield to your admonition. Reprove me as you will, I
cannot. There is a voice within me stronger than yours."
"I fear so, my son; nor can I doubt what that voice is, nor whence it
comes. I will pray for you, that you may have strength to struggle with
the tempter."
"Not so, father; rather pray that I may have strength to obey this new
voice of duty, alone as I am, discountenanced as I shall be."
"Impossible, my son. I dare not so pray for one self-willed and
precipitate; nor, till you bring a humble and obedient mind, can I
receive your confession. There can be no absolution where there is
reservation. Consider, my dear son! I only desire you to pause."
"Delay is treachery," said Toussaint. "This day the decree and
proclamation will be made known through the forces; and if I remain,
this night's sun sets on my condemnation. I shall not dare to pray,
clothed in my rank, this night."
"Go now, my son. You see it is dawning. You have lost the present
opportunity; and you must now leave me to my duties. When you can
return hither to yours, you will be welcome."
Toussaint paid him his wonted reverence, and left the tent.
Arrived in his own, he threw himself on the couch like a heart-broken
man.
"No help! no guidance!" thought he. "I am desolate and alone. I never
thought to have been left without a guide from God. He leaves me with
my sins upon my soul, unconfessed, unabsolved; and, thus burdened and
rebuked, I must enter upon the course which I dare not refuse. But this
voice within me which bids me go--whence and what is it? Whence is it
but from God? And how can I therefore say that I am alone? There is no
man that I can rely on--not even one of Christ's anointed priests; but
is there not He who redeemed men? and will He reject me if, in my
obedience, I come to Him? I will try--I will dare. I am alone; and He
will hear and help me."
Without priest, without voice, without form of words, he confessed and
prayed, and no longer felt that he was alone. He arose, clear in mind
and strong in heart: wrote and sealed up his resignation of his
commission, stepped into the next tent to rouse the three boys, desiring
them to dress for early mass, and prepare for their return to their
homes immediately afterwards. He then entered his own inner apartment,
where Papalier was sleeping so soundly that it was probable the early
movements of saint's-day festivities in the camp would not awaken him.
As he could not show himself abroad till the General's protection was
secured, his host let him sleep on; opening and shutting his clothes'
chest, and going through the whole preparation for appearance on the
parade in full uniform, without disturbing his wearied guest, who hardly
moved even at the roll of the drum, and the stir of morning in the camp.