The French proclamation was efficiently published along the line of
march of the blacks. They shouted and sang the tidings of their
freedom, joining with them the name of Toussaint Breda. These tidings
of freedom rang through the ravines, and echoed up the sides of the
hills, and through the depths of the forests, startling the wild birds
on the mountain-ponds and the deer among the high ferns; and bringing
down from their fastnesses a multitude of men who had fled thither from
the vengeance of the whites and mulattoes, and to escape sharing in the
violence of the negro force which Jean Francais had left behind him, to
pursue uncontrolled their course of plunder and butchery. Glad, to
such, were the tidings of freedom, with order, and under the command of
one whose name was never mentioned without respect, if not enthusiasm.
The negro who did not know that there was any more world on the other
side the Cibao peaks, had yet learned to be proud of the learning of
Toussaint. The slave who conceived of God as dwelling in the innermost
of the Mornes, and coming forth to govern His subjects with the fire of
the lightning and the scythe of the hurricane, was yet able to revere
the piety of Toussaint. The black bandit who had dipped his hands in
the blood of his master, and feasted his ear with the groans of the
innocent babes who had sat upon his knee, yet felt that there was
something impressive in the simple habit of forgiveness, the vigilant
spirit of mercy which distinguished Toussaint Breda from all his
brethren in arms--from all the leading men of his colour, except his
friend Henri Christophe. At the name of Toussaint Breda, then, these
flocked down into the road by hundreds, till they swelled the numbers of
the march to thousands. The Spanish soldiers, returning to their camp
by such by-ways as they could find, heard again and again from a
distance the cries of welcome and of triumph; and one or two of them
chanced to witness from a high point of rock, or through a thick screen
of foliage, the joyous progress of the little army, hastening on to find
their chief. These involuntary spies gathered at every point of
observation news which would gall the very soul of Jean Francais, if
they should get back to the camp to tell it.
Jacques knew where to seek his friend, and led the way, on descending
from the hills, straight across the plain to the Breda estate, where
Toussaint meant to await his family. How unlike was this plantation to
what it was when these negroes had seen it last! The cane-fields,
heretofore so trim and orderly, with the tall canes springing from the
clean black soil, were now a jungle. The old plants had run up till
they had leaned over with their own weight, and fallen upon one another.
Their suckers had sprung up in myriads, so that the racoon which
burrowed among them could scarcely make its way in and out. The grass
on the little enclosed lawns grew so rank, that the cattle, now wild,
were almost hidden as they lay down in it; and so uneven and unsightly
were the patches of growth, that the blossoming shrubs with which it had
been sprinkled for ornament, now looked forlorn and out of place,
flowering amidst the desolation. The slave-quarter was scarcely
distinguishable from the wood behind it, so nearly was it overgrown with
weeds. A young foal was browsing on the thatch, and a crowd of
glittering lizards darted out and away on the approach of human feet.
Jacques did not stay at the slave-quarter; but he desired his company to
remain there and in the neighbouring field, while he went with Therese
to bring out their chief to them. They went up to the house; but in no
one of its deserted chambers did they find Toussaint.
"Perhaps he is in his own cottage," said Therese.
"Is it possible," replied Jacques, "that, with this fine house all to
himself, he should take up with that old hut?"
"Let us see," said Therese; "for he is certainly not here."
When they readied Toussaint's cottage, it was no easy matter to know how
to effect an entrance. Enormous gourds had spread their network over
the ground, like traps for the feet of trespassers. The front of the
piazza was completely overgrown with the creepers which had been brought
there only to cover the posts, and hang their blossoms from the eaves.
They had now spread and tangled themselves, till they made the house
look like a thicket. In one place, however, between two of the posts,
they had been torn down, and the evening wind was tossing the loose
coils about. Jacques entered the gap, and immediately looked out again,
smiling, and beckoning Therese to come and see. There, in the piazza,
they found Toussaint, stretched asleep upon the bench--so soundly
asleep, for once, that the whispers of his friends did not alter, for a
moment, his heavy breathing.
"How tired he must be!" said Jacques. "At other times I have known his
sleep so light, that he was broad awake as quick as a lizard, if a
beetle did but sail over his head."
"He may well be tired," said Therese. "You know how weary he looked at
mass this morning. I believe he had no rest last night; and now this
march to-day--"
"Well! He must rouse up now, however; for his business will not wait."
And he called him by his name.
"Henri!" cried Toussaint, starting up.
"No, not Henri. I am Jacques. You are not awake yet, and the place is
dark. I am your friend Jacques, five inches shorter than Henri. You
see?"
"You here, Jacques! and Therese! Surely I am not awake yet."
"Yes, you are, now you know Therese--whom you will henceforth look upon
as my wife. We are both free of the whites now, for ever."
"Is it possible?"
"It is true; and we will fell you all presently. But first explain why
you called me Henri as you woke. If we could see Henri--Why did you
name Henri--"
"Because he was the next person I expected to see. I met one on the way
who knew where he was, and took a message to him."
"If we could learn from Henri--" said Jacques.
"Here is Henri," said the calm, kindly, well-known voice of the powerful
Christophe, who now showed himself outside. The other went out to him,
and greeted him heartily.
"What news, Henri?" asked Toussaint. "How are affairs at Cap? What is
doing about the proclamation there?"
"Affairs are going badly at Cap. The mulattoes will no more bear our
proclamation than the whites would bear theirs. They have shut up
General Laveaux in prison; and the French, without their military
leader, do not know what to do next. The commissary has no authority,
and talks of embarking for France; and the troops are cursing the
negroes, for whose sake, they say, their General is imprisoned, and will
soon die of the heats."
"We must deliver General Laveaux," said Toussaint. "Our work already
lies straight before us. We must raise a force. Henri, can you bring
soldiers?"
"Ay, Henri," said Jacques, "what force can you bring to join ours?
General Toussaint Breda has six thousand here at hand, half of whom are
disciplined soldiers, well armed. The rest are partially armed, and
have strong hearts and ready hands."
Toussaint turned round, as if to know what Jacques could mean.
"General," said Jacques, "the army I speak of is there, among those
fields, burning to greet you their commander; but in the meantime, I
believe, supping heartily on whatever they can find in your wilderness
here, in the shape of maize, pumpkins, and plantains--and what else, you
know better than? That is right, Therese; rest yourself in the piazza,
and I will bring you some supper, too."
"Six thousand, did you say, Jacques?" said Henri. "I can rally two
thousand this night, and more will join on the way."
"We must free Laveaux before sunrise," said Toussaint. "Will our troops
be fit for a march after this supper of theirs, Jacques--after supper
and three hours' rest?"
"They are fit at this moment to march over the island--to swim from
Saint Domingo to France, if you will only lead them," replied Jacques.
"Go to them, and they will do what you will."
"So be it!" said Toussaint, his bosom for a moment heaving with the
thought that his career, even as viewed by Father Laxabon, was not
ended. "Henri, what is the state of the plain? Is the road open?"
"Far from it. The mulattoes are suspicious, and on the watch against
some danger--I believe they are not clear what. I avoided some of their
scouts; and the long way they made me go round was the reason of my
being late."
Observing that Toussaint looked thoughtful, he proceeded: "I imagine
there is no force in the plain that could resist your numbers, if you
are sure of your troops. The road is open, if they choose that it be
so."
"I am sure of only half of them; and then there is the town. It seems
to me, Jacques, that I may more depend upon my troops, in their present
mood, for a merry night march, though it be a long one, than for a
skirmish through the plain, though it be a short one."
Jacques assented. It was agreed that the little army should proceed by
the mountain tracts, round by Plaisance and Gros Morne, so as to arrive
by the Haut-du-Cap, in which direction it was not likely that a foe
should be looked for. Thus they could pour into the town from the
western heights before sunrise, while the scouts of the mulatto rebels
were looking for them across the eastern plain.
This settled, Jacques went down among his forces, to tell them that
their general was engaged in a council of war--Henri Christophe having
joined from Cap, with a promise of troops, and with intelligence which
would open the way to victory and freedom. The general allowed them ten
minutes more for refreshment, and to form themselves into order; and he
would then present himself to them. Shouting was forbidden, lest any
foe should be within hearing; but a murmur of delight and mutual
congratulation ran through the ranks, which were beginning to form while
the leader of their march was yet speaking. He retreated, carrying with
him the best arms he could select for the use of his general.
While he was gone, Toussaint stepped back into the piazza, where Therese
sat quietly watching the birds flitting in and out among the foliage and
flowers.
"Therese," said he, "what will you do this night and to-morrow? Who
will take care of you?"
"I know not--I care not," said she. "There are no whites here; and I am
well where they are not. Will you not let me stay here?"
"Did Jacques say, and say truly, that you are his wife?"
"He said so, and truly. I have been wretched, for long--"
"And sinful. Wretchedness and sin go together."
"And I was sinful; but no one told me so. I was ignorant, and weak, and
a slave. Now I am a woman and a wife. No more whites, no more sin, no
more misery! Will you not let me stay here?"
"I will: and here you will presently be safe, and well cared for, I
hope. My wife and my children are coming home--coming, probably in a
few hours. They will make this a home to you till Jacques can give you
one of your own. You shall be guarded here till my Margot arrives.
Shall it be so?"
"Shall it? Oh, thank God! Jacques," she cried, as she heard her
husband's step approaching. "Oh, Jacques! I am happy. Toussaint Breda
is kind--he has forgiven me--he welcomes me--his wife will--"