Madame Oge's news was too true. Monsieur Pascal had held many an
anxious conversation with L'Ouverture on the subject, before Afra showed
him her little friend's letter. In a short time an additional fact
became known--that Bonaparte had re-established the slave-trade. His
enmity to the race of blacks was now open and declared.
The first intimation which the colony at large had of what had happened,
was through the altered demeanour of their chief. From the first bright
day of the prolific, gorgeous summer, to that in which the season merged
in a fierce autumnal storm, L'Ouverture had been seen to be not less
calm and quiet than usual, but depressed and sad. Some ascribed his
gloom to the transaction at Cap, and the misery it must needs have
introduced into his home. Others, who saw how much the colony had
gained in confidence, and Toussaint's government in strength by that
act, looked for a different cause. Some reminded each other that, while
no man was more energetic in the hour of proof than their chief, his
spirits were wont to droop when others were elated. It seemed as if
some boding ghost whispered evil to him most peremptorily when the
harvests were ripest before his eyes, when the laugh and the song were
loudest in his ear, and when no one dreamed that the bright days of the
colony would ever more be overclouded.
It was even so. When Toussaint saw that his race was in peace, it
filled him with grief that this peace was not likely to last. When he
saw what the true African soul was, when cleansed from blood and anger,
and permitted to grow in freedom and in harmony, it was torture to know
(as he did too well) that new injuries were preparing for it--that it
was certain to be again steeped in passion and slaughter, and all that
was savage in it excited afresh. This, even more than the death of
Moyse, cast gloom round his soul, during the last of the series of
bright and prosperous summers that were to pass under his eye. When
autumn came, it might have made him wonder, if he had had leisure to
consider himself, to find how his spirits rose, and his heart grew
light, exactly when dismay and dread began to overcloud every face about
him, but when he saw that suspense and struggle were coming to an end.
He perceived perplexity in the countenance of his friend Pascal, even in
the presence of his bride. He met sorrow in the mild eyes of Henri; he
heard that exultation in the voice of Jacques which always struck like
discord upon his ear. He observed that in the bearing of Madame
Dessalines which carried back his memory ten years into her past
history. He saw Aimee tremble at the approach of any one who might
bring news from France; and he heard Margot weeping at her prayers, as
she implored of Heaven the safe return of her sons. Yet all this caused
to his sympathising heart scarcely a pang; so clear was his path now, so
distinct was the issue to which his duty, and the fate of his race was
brought.
"Here it ends then," said he, one day at the council-table, rising as
bespoke. "Here ends all possibility of compromise. For the blacks, it
is slavery or self-defence. It is so, Monsieur Pascal."
"It is. The terms of the new peace are proclaimed."
"And the fact substantiated that Bonaparte has declared that he will do
what he pleases with Saint Domingo."
"Such were certainly his words."
"Who is surprised?" inquired Dessalines. "I forewarned you of this,
long ago: and I said, at the same time, that, if we waited for
aggression, we might find it too late for defence."
"Not a word of fear, Jacques. Our victory is as sure as the justice of
Heaven."
"Perhaps so; but it would have been easier if you had not been training
your people, all these years, to love and cherish those whom they are
now going to resist."
"I see and admit our difficulty, Jacques. But if I had governed as you
would have had me, we should have been in a worse. I should then have
been the chief of a race of savages, instead of soldiers and citizens.
If we had been extirpating the whites all this time, we should now have
been destroying each other, instead of preparing to go forth to a
righteous war."
"True. Most true," declared Henri. "We may suffer for a time, and
fight with the more difficulty, from our habits of observance towards
those whom we must now oppose; but God will not allow the spirit of
forgiveness and love to be finally a snare."
"Never," said Toussaint. "He has appointed fierce passions for a yoke,
and mild affections for freedom. Though Bonaparte betrays and
oppresses, the Gospel stands.--It is now time for proclaiming the war
throughout the colony."
"I will prepare the proclamation this night," said Monsieur Pascal.
"If you will, my friend," said Toussaint. "But I intend to be my own
proclamation. To-morrow morning I set forth for Saint Domingo, to visit
my brother in his city. I shall examine every fort, and call together
the militia, as I go. The trip would be more effective if I could have
my council about me."
"I will go with you," said Henri.
"And I," exclaimed Jacques.
"And I?" said Raymond, inquiringly.
"No, Raymond; stay at Port-au-Prince, to report my proceedings to the
legislature. And you, Monsieur Pascal, remain here to receive the
despatches which may arrive from France. My brethren-in-arms of the
council will be with me. When we have satisfied ourselves, we will let
you know whether or not those who would have loved and served France for
ever as a guardian angel, can cast her off when she becomes an incubus."
It was a time of high excitement--that in which L'Ouverture, attended by
four of his generals, and a train of inferior officers, traversed the
island, to communicate or confirm the intelligence that an expedition
was believed to be setting sail from France, for the purpose of wresting
from the blacks the freedom which was theirs by the law of the land.
Toussaint found, not only that all hearts were ready for the assertion
of freedom, but that all eyes were so fixed upon him, all ears so open
to his lightest word, that there was every probability of his purposes
being fully understood and completely executed. At a word from him, the
inhabitants of Cap Francais and Port-au-Prince began to remove their
property into the fastnesses of the interior, and to prepare to burn
those towns at the moment of the French attempting to land. It was
useless to think of preventing a landing, so exposed was the greater
part of the coast. The more rational hope was so to distress the foe on
shore as to make them glad to go on board their ships again. Equally
satisfactory was the disposition of the interior. The municipal bodies
throughout the colony, previously brought under one system, now acted in
concert. Their means of communication had been improved, so that each
settlement was no longer like an encampment in the wilderness: on the
contrary, every order given by L'Ouverture seemed to have been echoed by
the mountain-tops around, so promptly was it transmitted, and so
continually did he find his commands anticipated. As he went, his four
generals parted off, to examine the forts on either hand, and to inspect
and animate the militia. Everywhere the same story was told, and
everywhere was it received with the same eagerness and docility. "The
French are coming to make slaves of us again; but there shall never more
be a slave in Saint Domingo. They are coming; but they are our
countrymen till they have struck the first blow. We will demand of them
an account of our brethren in Cayenne, in Guadaloupe, and in Martinique.
We will ask of them concerning our brethren on the coasts of Africa.
If, in return, they throw us chains and the whip, we shall know how to
answer. But not a blow must be struck till they have shown whether they
are brethren or foes. Our dark skin is no disgrace; but the first drop
of a brother's blood dyes us all in infamy. Let the infamy be theirs
who assault us. At this moment our first duty is to our white brethren
of this island; in this time of our high excitement, they are full of
grief; they are guiltless of this attack upon our liberty; they are as
willing as we to live and die under the rule of L'Ouverture: and under
the special protection of L'Ouverture, they shall, if they please, live
and die. Beware of imputing to them the sins of their colour; protect
them from your hearts--defend them with your lives. In the hour of
danger, as you invoke the blessing of Heaven, save first the Creole
whites, and next your wives and your children."
Such were the exhortations spoken everywhere by Christophe, La Plume,
and Clerveaux. It could not be expected of Dessalines that he should
deliver the last clauses with perfect fidelity. The solemnity of the
hour had, however its tranquillising effect, even upon his ruling
passion. Even his heart, which usually turned to stone at the sight of
a white, was moved by the visible distress of the proprietors of that
race, who were, with scarcely an exception, in despair. In private,
they execrated the spirit and conduct of their former neighbours, now in
Paris, whose representations were the chief cause of the expedition now
projected. Instead of remaining or returning, to ascertain the real
state of things in Saint Domingo--instead of respecting the interests
and wishes of those who were entirely satisfied under the government of
L'Ouverture, they had prejudiced the mind of the First Consul, and
induced him to bring back the ruin and woe which had passed away. The
ladies wept and trembled within their houses; their fathers, husbands,
and brothers flocked to every point where L'Ouverture halted, to assure
him of their good-will to his government, and to remind him of the
difficulty and danger of the position in which they were placed. These
last carried some comfort home with them. All who had seen Toussaint's
face had met there the gaze of a brother. If there were two or three
who went with doubtful minds, prepared to exult at the depression of the
blacks, but thinking it well to bespeak protection, in case of the
struggle ending the wrong way--if there was a sprinkling of such among
the throng of whites who joined the cavalcade from the cross-roads, they
shrunk away abashed before the open countenance of the Deliverer, and
stole homewards to wait the guidance of events.
If it had not been that the city of Saint Domingo was at the end of this
march, Toussaint would have traversed the colony with a higher spirit
and a lighter heart than during any of his serener days of power; but
the city of his brother's government was before him, and, at its gate,
Paul, whom he had not met since the death of Moyse. He had not been
forgetful of his sorrowing brother; he had immediately sent to him
Father Laxabon--the best consoler, as the last confidant of the
departed. Letter upon letter had Toussaint sent--deed upon deed of
kindness had he attempted towards his brother; but still Father Laxabon
had written, "Come not yet;" "He must have time;" "Give him time if
there is to be peace between you." Now it had become necessary that
they should meet; and far readier was Toussaint to encounter the armies
of France than the countenance of his brother. For ever, in the midst
of the excitements of the journey, he found himself asking in his own
mind where and how Paul would meet him; and whether he had cut off from
himself his brother, as well as his brother's son.
Meantime, the party rode proudly on, through the interior of the island,
signs of welcome spreading around them at every step. From the
grass-farms, in the wide savannahs, the herdsmen hastened, with promises
to drive their flocks up into the mornes, where no enemy should
penetrate while a man remained to guard the passes. At each salute from
the forts that rose at intervals along the way, the wild cattle rushed
towards the steeps; while the parties of hunters turned back from their
sports, to offer themselves as scouts and messengers on behalf of the
colony. From some glade of the woods appeared the monk, charged with
the blessing of his convent; or the grazier, with a string of horses--
his gift, for the service of the army. Around the crosses which, half
concealed by the long grass of the plains, yet served to mark the road,
were gathered groups of women, bearing bags of money, or ornaments of
gold and silver, which they would have thrust upon him, to whom they
declared that they owed their all; while every settlement displayed its
company of armed men, standing in military order, and rending the air
with shouts, on the approach of their chief. La Plume and Clerveaux, to
whom such demonstrations were less familiar than to the other generals,
no longer doubted that all would be well. They pronounced that the
colony already showed itself invincible. Toussaint thought that he
might have been of the same opinion, if the expected foe had been any
other than French. The event must show whether the pains he had taken
to unite his race with their fellow-citizens as brethren would now
weaken or strengthen his cause--whether it would enhance or mitigate the
bitterness of the impending quarrel.
On the morning of the last day of their survey of the interior, the
party emerged from the shade of the woods, and, crossing the grassy
levels of the Llanos, reached the ferry by which the Ozama was to be
crossed near its mouth. On the opposite bank were horsemen, who, on
observing the party approaching the ferry, put spurs to their horses,
and galloped southwards, in the direction of the city. They need not so
have hastened; for the Deliverer was stopped at every fishing hamlet--
almost at every hut along the shores of the bay, to receive the loyal
homage of the inhabitants--Spanish as well as French. In the midst of
these greetings the eye and the soul of the chief were absent--looking
to what lay before him. There, at some distance, springing from the
level of the plain, rose the cathedral of Saint Domingo, and other lofty
buildings, whose outline was distinctly marked against the glittering
sea which spread immediately behind. An ungovernable impatience seized
him at length, and he broke away, bursting through the throngs upon the
road, and resolving not to stop till he should have seen his fate, as a
brother, in his brother's eyes.
A procession of priests was issuing from the city gates as he
approached. They were robed, and they bore the Host under a canopy. At
the first sound of their chant, the generals and their suite threw
themselves from their horses, and prostrated themselves upon the grass.
On rising, they perceived that the whole city had come out to meet them.
"The whole city," Toussaint heard his companions say: and his heart
throbbed when he strained his sight to see if the Governor of the city
was the only one left at home. The procession of priests had now
turned, and was preceding him--slowly--so slowly, that he would fain
have dispensed with the solemnity. The people crowded round his horse
and impeded his way. He strove to be present to the occasion; but all
was like a troubled dream--the chanting, the acclamation, the bursts of
military music from a distance--all that at other times had fired his
soul was now disturbance and perplexity. A few faithless persons in the
crowd, on the watch for information with which they might make interest
with the French on their arrival, noted the wandering of the eye and the
knitting of the brow, and drew thence a portent of the fall of the
Deliverer.
At length the gate was reached; and there, in the shadow of the portal,
surrounded by his attendants, stood Paul. On the arrival of his brother
at the threshold, he took from an officer the velvet cushion on which
the keys of the city were deposited, and advancing to the stirrup of the
Commander-in-chief, offered them, according to custom. For an instant,
Toussaint gazed on the aged, worn, melancholy countenance beside him,
and then stooped from his horse, to fling his arms round the neck of his
brother, breathing into his ear, "If _you_ are in your duty at such a
time as this, who else dare fail me? I thank God! I thank God! We
cannot fail."
Paul withdrew himself, without speaking. His action was sullen. He led
the way, however, towards the Governor's house, evidently expecting to
be followed. Not another word passed between them on the way. Through
one wide street after another L'Ouverture was led; and from the
balconies of whole ranges of fine houses, from the roof of many a
church, and the porch of many a convent, was he hailed, before he could
catch another glimpse of the countenance of the brother who preceded
him. At the gate of the Governor's house there was a pause; and way was
made for the chief to pass in first. He did so; and the next moment
turned round in the vestibule, to speak to Paul; but Paul had
disappeared. Glancing round, Toussaint saw Father Laxabon awaiting him
at the foot of the staircase. Each advanced to the other.
"Father, he is wretched," whispered Toussaint. "Bring me to him."
"Follow me," said the priest; and, instead of mounting the marble
staircase, L'Ouverture and the father were seen to enter a passage, into
which every one else was forbidden to follow. Father Laxabon tapped
softly at a door, and was desired to enter. He opened it, and closed it
behind Toussaint, keeping watch outside, that the brothers might not be
disturbed.
Paul started to his feet from the conch on which he had thrown himself.
He stood waiting. Now was the decisive moment; and Toussaint knew it
was. Yet he stood speechless.
"I left my son in your charge," said Paul, at length.
"You did: and I--"
"And you murdered him."
"No, Paul! I executed justice upon him. Hear me, brother, once for
all. I am heart-broken for you as a brother: but as a magistrate, I
will admit no censure. As his father in your stead, I was, as the event
has proved, too ambitious for him: but, as a ruler, I did but my duty."
"Yes! You have been ambitious! You have chosen your duty!"
"My ambition was for him, Paul. As for my duty--remember that I have
too a child whom, by that act, I doomed to worse than death."
"You see what liberty has brought to us. Look at the family of
Ouverture--consider what has befallen since your struggle for liberty
began; and then, perhaps, you will give over struggling. Welcome the
French--go back to Breda--send me home to my hut on the shore, that I
may die in such peace as is left to a childless man. Why do you not
answer me, Toussaint? Why will you not give us a last chance of peace?
I must obey you at the city gate; but I will importune you here. Why
will you not do as I say?"
"Because I know that some--and the Ouvertures among them--were not born
to live at ease--to pass their days in peace. I feel that some--and the
Ouvertures among them--are born to suffer--to struggle and to die for
their race. If you would know why, ask their Creator. I myself would
fain know why. Meantime, the will of God is so clear, that I have
devoted, not myself only, but my children. My sons, you know--"
"And not your children only, but your brother and his child."
"No. Moyse cast himself away. And, as for you, your hut still stands,
as you say. Go to it, if you will; or make friends with the French, if
you desire to be a slave again. You have suffered too much by me for me
to ask you ever to serve me more. I shall never desire you to dedicate
yourself anew to pain, in this crisis. Go and seek for ease. I shall
incessantly pray that you may find it."
"I shall not seek what is not to be found, Toussaint. I have never
dared wretchedness as you have: but since I am and must be wretched, I
will be an Ouverture. Your eye and your voice make me an Ouverture
again, even yet. Give me your commands."
"Read this proclamation, with the eye of an Ouverture. Well! Do you
like it? How do you understand it?"
"You declare your allegiance to France, declaring, at the same time, its
limits, and appealing to your soldiers, in the event of aggression. It
is plain from this that you mean to defend yourself, and anticipate
war."
"It is well. That is what I intend to convey. You will publish this
proclamation, in your city and district, under the date of this 18th of
December, 1801. You will then concert with General Clerveaux the
measures for the defence of this city, and report your decisions to me,
on my return from Cap Samana. Shall it be so, brother?"
"Be it so."
"And we are friends?"
"We are fellow-citizens--we are Ouvertures--and therefore faithful. I
shall not betray you."
"That is all I can ask, I know. We are old men, Paul. Fidelity for a
while! Beyond the grave, perhaps more."
"You are going already?"
"To Cap Samana; and alone. Farewell!"