Day by day, in the internals of his occupation about the defence of the
colony, did Toussaint repair to Cap Samana, to look eastwards over the
sea. Day by day was he more sure, from the information that reached
him, that the French could not be far-off. At length, he desired that
his generals should be within call from Cotuy, a small town which stood
on the banks of the Cotuy, near the western base of the mountainous
promontory of Samana--promontory at low water, island at high tide.
All was yet dark on the eastern point of this mountain, on the morning
of the 28th of December, when two watchmen, who had passed the night
under the ferns in a cleft of the steep, came out to look abroad. On
their mountain all was yet dark, for the stars overhead, though still
rolling clear and golden--visible orbs in the empty depths of the sky--
were so far dimmed by the dawn in the east as no longer to send down
their shafts of light upon the earth. The point on which these watchmen
stood was so high, that between them and the horizon the sea lay like
half a world--an immeasurable expanse, spreading as if from a vast depth
below up into the very sky. Dim and soundless lay the mass of waters--
breaking, no doubt, as for ages past, against the rocky precipice below;
but not so as to be heard upon the steep. If might have appeared dead,
but that a ray from some quarter of the heaven, capriciously touching
its surface, showed that it was heaving as was its wont. Eastwards, at
the point of junction of sea and sky, a dusky yellow light shone through
the haze of morning, as behind a curtain, and told that the sun was on
his way. As their eyes became accustomed to the dim light (which was
darkness compared to that which had visited their dreams among the
ferns), the watchmen alternately swept the expanse with their glass, and
pronounced that there was not a sail in sight.
"I believe, however, that this will be our day; the wind is fair for the
fleet," said Toussaint to Henri. "Go and bathe while I watch."
"We have said for a week past that each would be the day," replied
Henri. "If it be to-day, however, they can hardly have a fairer for the
first sight of the paradise which poets and ladies praise at the French
court. It promises to be the loveliest day of the year. I shall be
here again before the sun has risen."
And Christophe retired to bathe in the waterfall which made itself heard
from behind the ferns, and was hidden by them; springing, as they did,
to a height of twenty feet and upwards. To the murmur and gush of this
waterfall the friends had slept. An inhabitant of the tropics is so
accustomed to sound, that he cannot sleep in the midst of silence: and
on these heights there would have been everlasting silence but for the
voice of waters, and the thunders and their echoes in the season of
storms.
When both had refreshed themselves, they took their seat on some broken
ground on the verge of the precipice, sometimes indulging their full
minds with silence, but continually looking abroad over the now
brightening sea. It was becoming of a deeper blue as the sky grew
lighter, except at that point of the east where earth and heaven seemed
to be kindling with a mighty fire. There the haze was glowing with
purple and crimson; and there was Henri intently watching for the first
golden spark of the sun, when Toussaint touched his shoulder, and
pointed to the northwards. Shading his eyes with his hand, Christophe
strove to penetrate the grey mists which had gathered there.
"What is it?" said he--"a sail? Yes: there is one--three--four!"
"There are seven," said Toussaint.
Long did he gaze through the glass at these seven sail; and then he
reported an eighth. At this moment his arm was grasped.
"See! see!" cried Christophe, who was looking southwards.
From behind the distant south-eastern promontory Del Euganno, now
appeared, sail after sail, to the number of twenty.
"All French," observed Christophe. "Lend me the glass."
"All French," replied his friend. "They are, no doubt, coming to
rendezvous at this point."
While Henri explored those which were nearest, Toussaint leaned on his
folded arms against the bank of broken ground before him, straining his
eyes over the now-peopled sea.
"More! More!" he exclaimed, as the sun appeared, and the new gush of
light showed sail upon sail, as small specks upon the horizon line. He
snatched the glass; and neither he nor Henri spoke for long.
The east wind served the purposes of the vast fleet, whose three
detachments, once within each other's view, rapidly converged, showing
that it was indeed their object to rendezvous at Cap Samana. Silent,
swift, and most fair (as is the wont of evil) was this form of
destruction in its approach.
Not a word was spoken as the great ships-of-the-line bore majestically
up towards their point, while the lighter vessels skimmed the sea, as in
sport, and made haste in, as if racing with one another, or anxious to
be in waiting, to welcome their superiors. Nearer and nearer they
closed in, till the waters seemed to be covered with the foe. When
Toussaint was assured that he had seen them all--when he had again and
again silently counted over the fifty-four ships-of-war--he turned to
his friend with a countenance of anguish, such as even that friend of
many years had never seen.
"Henri," said he, "we must all perish. All France has come to Saint
Domingo!"
"Then we will perish," replied Henri.
"Undoubtedly: it is not much to perish, if that were all. But the world
will be the worse for ever. Trance is deceived. She comes, in an
error, to avenge herself, and to enslave the blacks. Trance has been
deceived."
"If we were but all together," said Henri, "so that there were no
moments of weakness to fear.--If your sons were but with us--"
"Fear no moments of weakness from me," said Toussaint, its wonted fire
now glowing in his eye. "My colour imposes on me duties above nature;
and while my boys are hostages, they shall be to me as if they no longer
existed."
"They may possibly be on board the fleet," said Christophe. "If by
caution we could obtain possession of them--"
"Speak no more of them now," said Toussaint.--Presently, as if thinking
aloud, and with his eyes still bent on the moving ships, he went on:
"No, those on board those ships are not boys, with life before them, and
eager alike for arts and arms. I see who they are that are there.
There are the troops of the Rhine--troops that have conquered a fairer
river than our Artibonite, storming the castles on her steeps, and
crowning themselves from her vineyards. There are the troops of the
Alps--troops that have soared above the eagle, and stormed the clouds,
and plucked the ice-king by the beard upon his throne. There are the
troops of Italy--troops that have trodden the old Roman ways, and fought
over again the old Roman wars--that have drunk of the Tiber, and once
more conquered the armies of the Danube. There are the troops of
Egypt--troops that have heard the war-cry of the desert tribes, and
encamped in the shadow of the pyramids."
"Yet he is not afraid," said Henri to himself, as he watched the
countenance of his friend.
"All these," continued Toussaint, "all these are brought hither against
a poor, depressed, insulted, ignorant race--brought as conquerors, eager
for the spoil before a blow is struck. They come to disembarrass our
paradise of us, as they would clear a fragrant and fruitful wood of apes
and reptiles. And if they find that it takes longer than they suppose
to crush and disperse us, France has more thousands ready to come and
help. The labourer will leave his plough at a word, and the
vine-dresser his harvest, and the artisan his shop--France will pour out
the youth of all her villages, to seize upon the delights of the
tropics, and the wealth of the savages, as they are represented by the
emigrants who will not take me for a friend, but eat their own hearts
far away, with hatred and jealousy. All France is coming to Saint
Domingo!"
"But--" interposed Christophe.
"But, Henri," interrupted his friend, laying his hand on his shoulder,
"not all France, with her troops of the Rhine, of the Alps, of the Nile,
nor with all Europe to help her, can extinguish the soul of Africa.
That soul, when once the soul of a man, and no longer that of a slave,
can overthrow the pyramids and the Alps themselves, sooner than be again
crushed down into slavery."
"With God's help," said Christophe, crossing himself.
"With God's help," repeated Toussaint. "See here," he continued, taking
up a handful of earth from the broken ground on which they stood, "see
here what God has done! See, here are shells from the depth of yonder
ocean, lying on the mountain-top. Cannot He who thus uprears the dust
of His ocean floor, and lifts it above the clouds, create the societies
of men anew, and set their lowest order but a little below the stars?"
"He can," said Christophe, again crossing himself.
"Then let all France come to Saint Domingo! She may yet be undeceived--
What now?" he resumed, after a pause of observation. "What manoeuvre is
this?"
The ships, almost before they had drawn together, parted off again;
nearly two-thirds retiring to the north, and the rest southwards.
"They are doing as we supposed they would," said Christophe; "preparing
to attack Cap Francais and our southern or western towns at once;
perhaps both Saint Domingo and Port-au-Prince."
"Be it so; we are ready for them," replied Toussaint. "But now there is
no time to lose. To Cotuy, to give our orders, and then all to our
posts!"
Once more he took a survey of the vast fleet, in its two divisions, and
then spread his arms in the direction of his chief cities, promising the
foe to be ready to meet them there. In another moment he was striding
down the mountain.
His generals were awaiting him at Cotuy, and the horses of the whole
party were saddled.
"The French are come?" they asked.
"The French are come in great force. Fifty-four ships-of-war, carrying
probably ten or twelve thousand men."
"We have twenty thousand regular troops," cried Dessalines. "The day of
the proud French has arrived!"
L'Ouverture's calm eye checked his exultation.
"Ten or twelve thousand of the elite of the armies of France," said
Toussaint, "are sailing along our shores; and large reinforcements may
be following. Our twenty thousand troops are untried in the field
against a European foe; but our cause is good. Let us be bold, my
friends; but the leaders of armies must not be presumptuous."
All uncovered their heads, and waited only his dismissal.
"General Christophe, Cap Francais and its district are waiting for you.
Let the flames of the city give us notice when the French land."
Christophe embraced his friend, and was gone.
"General Dessalines, to your command in the west! Preserve your line of
messengers from Leogane to my gate at Pongaudin, and let me not want for
tidings."
The tramp of Dessalines' horse next died away.
"General La Plume, it is probable that your eye will have to be busier
than your hands. You will be ever ready for battle, of course; but
remember that I rely on you for every point of the south-west coast
being watched, from Leogane round to Aux Cayes. Send your
communications through Dessalines' line of scouts."
La Plume withdrew, and Toussaint gazed after him in reverie, till he was
out of sight.
"And I?" said Clerveaux, the only general officer now left in
attendance.
"Your pardon, General Clerveaux. This your department in the east is
likely at present to remain tranquil, as I forewarned you. I now
forewarn you that it may hereafter become the seat of war, when you will
have your day. Meantime, I may at any time call upon your reserve; and
you will take care that the enemy shall find no solace in your
department, if they should visit it. Let it be bare as the desert
before them. Farewell; I leave you in command of the east."
Clerveaux made his obeisance with an alacrity which caused Toussaint to
say to himself, as he mounted--
"Is he glad that the hour is come, or that his post is in the rear of
the battle?"
Toussaint's own road lay homewards, where he had assembled the choicest
troops, to be ready for action on any point where they might first be
wanted, and where the great body of the cultivators, by whom his
personal influence was most needed, were collected under his eye. As he
now sped like the lightning through the shortest tracks, his trompettes
proclaiming the invasion through all the valleys, and over all the
plains as they went, he felt strong and buoyant in heart, like the eagle
overhead, which was scared from its eyrie in Cibao by the proclamation
of war. For ever, as he rode, the thought recurred to fire his soul,
"He is my rival now, and no longer my chief. I am free. It is his own
act, but Bonaparte has me for a rival now."