"These whites think that we blacks are created to be serving, serving
always--always serving."
"And they are right. Their mistake is in not seeing that the same is
the case with all other men."
In his incessant habit of serving those about him, Toussaint now
remembered that it would be more kind to poor Mars Plaisir to employ
him, than to speak of things which he could not comprehend. He signed
to him, therefore, to shake down the straw on each side the fireplace.
Mars Plaisir sacrificed some of his own bundle to wipe down the wet
walls; but it was all in vain. During the silence, while his master was
meditating at the window, the melancholy sound of falling water--drip,
drip--plash, plash--was heard all around, within and without the cell.
When he had wiped down the walls, from the door in the corner round to
the door again, the place from which he had set out was as wet as ever,
and his straw was spoiled. He angrily kicked the wet straw into the
fire; the consequence of which was that the cell was filled with smoke,
almost to suffocation.
"Ask for more," said Toussaint.
Mars Plaisir shouted, knocked at the door, and used every endeavour to
make himself heard; but in vain. No one came.
"Take some of mine," said Toussaint. "No one can lie on this floor."
Mars Plaisir shook his head. He proceeded mournfully to spread the
other heap of straw; but a large flake of ice had fallen upon it from
the corner of the walls, and it was as wet as that which he had burned.
This was too much for poor Mars Plaisir. He looked upon his master, now
spreading his thin hands over the fire, his furrowed face now and then
lighted up by the blaze which sprang fitfully through the smoke--he
thought of the hall of audience at Port-au-Prince, of the gardens at
Pongaudin, of the Place d'Armes at Cap Francais on review-days, of the
military journeys and official fetes of the Commander-in-Chief, and he
looked upon him now. He burst into tears as uncontrollable as his
laughter had been before. Peeling his master's hand upon his shoulder,
he considered it necessary to give a reason for his grief, and sobbed
out--
"They treat your Excellency as if your Excellency were nobody. They
give your Excellency no title. They will not even call you General."
Toussaint laughed at this cause of grief in such a place; but Mars
Plaisir insisted upon it.
"How would they like it themselves? What would the First Consul himself
say if he were a prisoner, and his gaolers refused him his titles?"
"I do not suppose him to be a man of so narrow a heart, and so low a
soul, as that such a trifle could annoy him. Cheer up, if that be all."
Mars Plaisir was far from thinking this all; but his tears and sobs
choked him in the midst of his complaints. Toussaint turned again to
the fire, and presently began to sing one of the most familiar songs of
Saint Domingo. He had not sung a stanza before, as he had anticipated,
his servant joined in, rising from his attitude of despair, and singing
with as much animation as if he had been on the Haut-du-Cap. This was
soon put a stop to by a sentinel, who knocked at the door to command
silence.
"They cannot hear us if we want dry straw," said Mars Plaisir,
passionately: "and yet we cannot raise a note but they must stop us."
"We are caged birds; and you know Denis's canary might sing only when it
pleased his master. Have I not seen even you cover up the cage? But
sing--sing softly, and they may not hear you."
When supper was brought, fresh straw and more firewood were granted. At
his master's bidding, and under the influence of these comforts, Mars
Plaisir composed himself to sleep.
Toussaint sat long beside the fire. He could not have slept. The weeks
that had passed since he left Saint Domingo had not yet reconciled his
ear to the silence of a European night. At sea, the dash of the waves
against the ship's side had lulled him to rest. Since he had landed, he
had slept little, partly from privation of exercise, partly from the
action of over-busy thoughts; but also, in part, from the absence of
that hum of life which, to the natives of the tropics, is the incentive
to sleep and its accompaniment. Here, there was but the crackle of the
burning wood, and the plashing of water, renewed from minute to minute,
till it became a fearful doubt--a passing doubt, but very fearful--
whether his ear could become accustomed to the dreary sound, or whether
his self-command was to be overthrown by so small an agency as this.
From such a question he turned, by an effort, to consider other evils of
his condition. It was a cruel aggravation of his sufferings to have his
servant shut up with him. It imposed upon him some duties, it was true;
and was, in so far, a good; but it also imposed most painful restraints.
He had a strong persuasion that Bonaparte had not given up the pursuit
of his supposed treasures, or the hope of mastering all his designs,
real or imaginary; and he suspected that Mars Plaisir would be left long
enough with him to receive the overflowings of his confidence (so hard
to restrain in such circumstances as theirs!) and would then be tampered
with by the agents of the First Consul. What was the nature and
efficacy of their system of cross-examination, he knew; and he knew how
nothing but ignorance could preserve poor Mars Plaisir from treachery.
Here, therefore--here, in this cell, without resource, without
companionship, without solace of any kind, it would be necessary,
perhaps, through long months, to set a watch upon his lips, as strict as
when he dined with the French Commissaries at Government-House, or when
he was weighing the Report of the Central Assembly, regarding a Colonial
constitution. For the reserve which his function had imposed upon him
at home, he had been repaid by a thousand enjoyments. Now, no more
sympathy, no more ministering from his family!--no more could he open to
Margot his glory in Placide, his hopes from Denis, his cares for his
other children, to uphold them under a pressure of influences which were
too strong for them; no more could he look upon the friendly face of
Henri, and unbosom himself to him in sun or shade; no more could he look
upon the results of his labours in the merchant fleets on the sea, and
the harvests burdening the plains! No more could happy voices, from a
thousand homes, come to him in blessing and in joy! No more music, no
more sunshine, no more fragrance; no more certainty, either, that others
were now enjoying what he had parted with for ever! Not only might he
never hear what had ensued upon the "truce till August," but he must
carefully conceal his anxiety to hear--his belief that there were such
tidings to be told. In the presence of Mars Plaisir, he could scarcely
even think of that which lay heaviest at his heart--of what Henri had
done, in consequence of his abduction--of his poor oppressed blacks--
whether they had sunk under the blow for the time, and so delayed the
arrival of that freedom which they must at length achieve; or whether
they had risen, like a multitudinous family of bereaved children, to
work out the designs of the father who had been snatched from them. Of
all this there could be no speech (scarcely a speculation in his secret
soul) in the presence of one who must, if he heard, almost necessarily
become a traitor. And then his family! From them he had vanished; and
he must live as if they had vanished from his very memory. They were,
doubtless, all eye, all ear: for ever watching to know what had become
of him. For their personal safety, now that he was helpless, he trusted
there was little cause for fear; but what peace of mind could they
enjoy, while in ignorance of his fate? He fancied them imploring of
their guardians tidings of him, in vain; questioning the four winds for
whispers of his retreat; pacing every cemetery for a grave that might be
his; gazing up at the loopholes of every prison, with a fear that he
might be there; keeping awake at midnight, for the chance of a visit
from his injured spirit; or seeking sleep, in the dim hope that he might
be revealed to them in a dream. And all this must be but a dim dream to
him, except in such an hour as this--a chance hour when no eye was upon
him! The reconciling process was slow--but it was no less sure than
usual.
"Be it so!" was, as usual, his conclusion--"Be it so! for as long as
Heaven pleases--though that cannot be long. The one consolation of
being buried alive, soul or body--or both, as in this case--is, that
release is sure and near. This poor fellow's spirit will die within
him, and his body will then be let out--the consummation most necessary
for him. And my body, already failing, will soon die, and my work be
done. To die, and to die thus, is part of my work; and I will do it as
willingly as in the field. Hundreds, thousands of my race have died for
slavery, cooped up, pining, suffocated in slave-ships, in the wastes of
the sea. Hundreds and thousands have thus died, without knowing the end
for which they perished. What is it, then, for one to die of cold in
the wastes of the mountains, for freedom, and knowing that freedom is
the end of his life and his death? What is it? If I groan, if I
shrink, may my race curse me, and my God cast me out!"
A warmer glow than the dying embers could give passed through his frame;
and he presently slept, basking till morning in dreams of his sunny
home.