Autumn faded, and the long winter of the Jura came on, without bringing
changes of any importance to the prisoners--unless it were that, in
addition to the wood-fire, which scarcely kept up the warmth of life in
their bodies, they were allowed a stove. This indulgence was not in
answer to any request of theirs. Toussaint early discovered that Rubaut
would grant nothing that was asked for, but liked to bestow a favour
spontaneously, now and then. This was a clear piece of instruction; by
which, however, Mars Plaisir was slow to profit. Notwithstanding his
master's explanations and commands, and his own promises, fervently
given when they were alone, he could never see the Commandant without
pouting out all his complaints, and asking for everything relating to
external comfort that his master had been accustomed to at Pongaudin. A
stove, not being among the articles of furniture there, was not asked
for; and thus this one comfort was not intercepted by being named.
Books were another. Mars Plaisir had been taught to read and write in
one of the public schools in the island; but his tastes did not lie in
the direction of literature; and he rarely remembered that he possessed
the accomplishment of being able to read, except when circumstances
called upon him to boast of his country and his race. Books were
therefore brought, two at a time, with the Commandant's compliments; two
at a time, for the rule of treating the prisoners as equals was exactly
observed. This civility brought great comfort to Toussaint--the
greatest except solitude. He always chose to suppose that Mars Plaisir
was reading when he held a book: and he put a book into his hands daily
when he opened his own. Many an hour did he thus obtain for the
indulgence of his meditations; and while his servant was wondering how
he could see to read by the dim light which came in at the window--more
dim each day, as the snow-heap there rose higher--or by the fitful flame
of the fire, his thoughts were far away, beating about amidst the
struggle then probably going on in Saint Domingo; or exploring, with
wonder and sorrow, the narrow and darkened passages of that mind which
he had long taken to be the companion of his own; or springing forward
into the future, and reposing in serene faith on the condition of his
people when, at length, they should possess their own souls, and have
learned to use their human privileges. Many a time did Mars Plaisir,
looking off from a volume of the Philosophical Dictionary, which yielded
no amusement to him, watch the bright smile on his master's face, and
suppose it owing to the jokes in the Racine he held, when that smile
arose from pictures formed within of the future senates, schools,
courts, and virtuous homes, in which his dusky brethren would hereafter
be exercising and securing their lights. Not ungratefully did he use
his books the while. He read and enjoyed; but his greatest obligations
to them were for the suggestions they afforded, the guidance they
offered to his thoughts to regions amidst which his prison and his
sufferings were forgotten.
At times, the servant so far broke through his habitual deference for
his master as to fling down his book upon the table, and then beg
pardon, saying that they should both go mad if they did not make some
noise. When he saw the snow falling perpetually, noiseless as the dew,
he longed for the sheeted rains of his own winter, splashing as if to
drown the land. Here, there was only the eternal drip, drip, which his
ear was weary of months ago.
"Cannot you fancy it rain-drops falling from a palm-leaf? Shut your
eyes and try," said his master.
It would not do. Mars Plaisir complained that the Commandant had
promised that this drip should cease when the frosts of winter came.
"So it might, but for our stove. But then our ears would have been
frozen up, too. We should have been underground by this time--which
they say we are not now, though it is hard, sometimes to believe them.
However, we shall hear something by-and-by that will drown the drip.
Among these mountains, there must be thunder. In the summer, Mars
Plaisir, we may hear thunder."
"In the summer!" exclaimed Mars Plaisir, covering his face with his
hands.
"That is, not you, but I. I hope they will let you out long before the
summer."
"Does your Excellency hope so?" cried Mars Plaisir, springing to his
feet.
"Certainly, my poor fellow. The happiest news I expect ever to hear is
that you are to be released: and this news I do expect to hear. They
will not let you go home, to tell where I am; but they will take you out
of this place."
"Oh, your Excellency! if you think so, would your Excellency be pleased
to speak for me--to ask the Commandant to let me out? If you will tell
him that my rheumatism will not let me sleep--I do not want to go home--
I do not want to leave your Excellency, except for your Excellency's
good. I would say all I could for you, and kneel to the First Consul;
and, if they would not set you free, I would--" Here his voice faltered,
but he spoke the words--"I would come back into your Excellency's
service in the summer--when I had got cured of my rheumatism. If you
would speak a word to the Commandant!"
"I would, if I were not sure of injuring you by doing so. Do you not
see that nothing is to be granted us that we ask for? Speak not another
word of liberty, and you may have it. Ask for it, and you are here for
life--or for my life. Remember!"
Mars Plaisir stood deep in thought.
"You have never asked for your liberty?" said his master. "No. I knew
that, for my sake, you had not. Has no one ever mentioned liberty to
you? I understand," he continued, seeing an expression of confusion in
the poor fellow's face. "Do not tell me anything; only hear me. If
freedom should be offered to you, take it. It is my wish--it is my
command. Is there more wood? None but this?"
"None but this damp wood that chokes us with smoke. They send us the
worst wood--the green, damp wood that the poorest of the whites in the
castle will not use," cried Mars Plaisir, striving to work off his
emotions in a fit of passion. He kicked the unpromising log into the
fireplace as he exclaimed--
"They think the worst of everything good enough for us, because we are
blacks. Oh! oh!" Here his wrath was aggravated by a twinge of
rheumatism. "They think anything good enough for blacks."
"Let them think so," said his master, kindly. "God does not. God did
not think so when He gave us the soil of Africa, and the sun of Saint
Domingo. When he planted the gardens of the world with palms, it was
for the blacks. When He spread the wide shade of the banyan, He made a
tent for the blacks. When He filled the air with the scent of the
cinnamon and the cacao, was it not for the blacks to enjoy the
fragrance? Has He not given them music? Has he not given them love and
a home? What has He not given them? Let the whites think of us as they
will! They shall be welcome to a share of what God gave the blacks,
though they return us nothing better than wet wood, to warm us among
their snows."
"It is true," said Mars Plaisir, his complacency completely
restored--"God thinks nothing too good for the blacks. I will tell the
First Consul so, if--"
"The First Consul would rather hear something else from you: and you
know, Mars Plaisir, the whites laugh at us for our boastings. However,
tell the First Consul what you will."
Again was Mars Plaisir silenced, and his countenance confused.
Perpetually, from this hour did he drop words which showed an
expectation of seeing the First Consul--words which were never noticed
by his master. Every time that the increasing weakness and pain under
which Toussaint suffered forced themselves on his servant's
observation--whenever the skeleton hands were rubbed in his own, to
relieve cramps and restore warmth; or the friendly office was returned,
in spite of the shame and confusion of the servant at finding himself
thus served--with every drift of snow which blocked up the window--and
every relaxation of frost, which only increased the worse evil of the
damp--Mars Plaisir avowed or muttered the persuasive things he would say
to the First Consul.
Toussaint felt too much sympathy to indulge in much contempt for his
companion. He, too, found it hard to be tortured with cramps, and wrung
by spasms--to enjoy no respite from vexations of body and spirit. He,
too, found the passage to the grave weary and dreary. And, as for an
interview with Bonaparte, for how long had this been his first desire!
How distinctly had it of late been the reserve of his hope! Reminding
himself, too, of the effects on the wretched of an indefinite hope, such
as the unsettled mind and manners of his servant convinced him, more and
more, had been held out--he could not, in the very midst of scenes of
increasing folly and passion, despise poor Mars Plaisir. He mistrusted
him, however, and with a more irksome mistrust continually, while he
became aware that Mars Plaisir was in the habit of lamenting Saint
Domingo chiefly for the sake of naming Christophe and Dessalines, the
companies in the mornes, the fever among the whites, and whatever might
be most likely to draw his master into conversation on the hopes and
resources of the blacks. He became more and more convinced that the
weakness of his companion was practised upon, and possibly his
attachment to his master, by promises of good to both, on condition of
information furnished. He was nearly certain that he had once heard the
door of the cell closed gently, as he was beginning to awake, in the
middle of the night; and he was quite sure that he one day saw Mars
Plaisir burn a note, as he replenished the fire, while he thought his
master was busy reading. Not even these mysterious proceedings could
make Toussaint feel anything worse than sorrowing pity for Mars Plaisir.
The Commandant had ceased to visit his prisoners. During the rest of
the winter, he never came. He sent books occasionally, but less
frequently. The supply of firewood was gradually diminished; and so was
the quantity of food. The ailments of the prisoners were aggravated,
from day-to-day; and if the Commandant had favoured them with his
presence, he would have believed that he saw two dusky shadows amidst
the gloom of their cell, rather than men.
One morning, Toussaint awoke, slowly and with difficulty, from a sleep
which appeared to have been strangely sound for one who could not move a
limb without pain, and who rarely, therefore, slept for many minutes
together. It must have been strangely long, too; for the light was as
strong as it had ever been at noon in this dim cell. Before he rose,
Toussaint felt that there was sunshine in the air; and the thought that
spring was come, sent a gleam of pleasure through his spirit. It was
true enough. As he stood before the window, something like a shadow
might be seen on the floor. No sky--not a shred the breadth of his
hand--was to be seen. For six months past, he had behold neither cloud,
nor star, nor the flight of a bird. But, casting a glance up to the
perpendicular rock opposite, he saw that it faintly reflected sunshine.
He saw, moreover, something white moving--some living creature upon this
rock. It was a young kid, standing upon a point or ledge imperceptible
below--by its action, browsing upon some vegetation which could not be
seen so far-off.
"Mars Plaisir! Mars Plaisir!" cried Toussaint. "Spring is come! The
world is alive again, even here. Mars Plaisir!" There was no answer.
"He has slept deeply and long, like myself," said he, going, however,
into the darker corner of the cell where Mars Plaisir's bed was laid.
The straw was there, but no one was on it. The stove was warm, but
there was no fire in the fireplace. The small chest allowed for the
prisoners' clothes was gone--everything was gone but the two volumes in
which they had been reading the night before. Toussaint shook these
books, to see if any note had been hidden in them. He explored them at
the window, to discover any word of farewell that might be written on
blank leaf or margin. There was none there; nor any scrap of paper
hidden in the straw, or dropped upon the floor. Mars Plaisir was gone,
and had left no token.
"They drugged me--hence my long sleep," thought Toussaint. "They knew
the poor fellow's weakness, and feared his saying too much, when it came
to parting. I hope they will treat him well, for (thanks to my care for
him!) he never betrayed me to them. I treated him well in taking care
that he should not betray me to them, while they yet so far believed
that he might as to release him. It is all well; and I am alone! It is
almost like being in the free air. I am almost as free as yonder kid on
the rock. My wife! my children! I may name you all now--name you in my
thoughts and in my song. Placide! are you rousing the nations to ask
the tyrant where I am? Henri! have you buried the dead whites yet in
Saint Domingo? and have your rains done weeping the treason of those
dead against freedom? Let it be so, Henri! Your rains have washed out
the blood of this treason; and your dews have brought forth the verdure
of your plains, to cover the graves of the guilty and the fallen. Take
this lesson home, Henri! Forget--not me, for you must remember me in
carrying on my work--but forget how you lost me. Believe that I fell in
the mornes, and that you buried me there; believe this, rather than shed
one drop of blood for me. Learn of God, not of Bonaparte, how to bless
our race. Poison their souls no more with blood. The sword and the
fever have done their work, and tamed your tyrants. As for the rest,
act with God for our people! Give them harvests to their hands; and
open the universe of knowledge before their eyes. Give them rest and
stillness in the summer heats: and shelter them in virtuous and busy
homes from the sheeted rains. It is enough that blood was the price of
freedom--a heavy price, which has been paid. Let there be no such
barter for vengeance. My children, hear me! Wherever you are--in the
court of our tyrant, or on the wide sea, or on the mountain-top, where
the very storms cannot make themselves heard so high--yet let your
father's voice reach you from his living grave! No vengeance!
Freedom--freedom to the last drop of blood in the veins of our race!
Let our island be left to the wild herds and the reptiles, rather than
be the habitation of slaves: but if you have established freedom there,
it is holy ground, and no vengeance must profane it. If you love me and
my race, you must forgive my murderers. Yes, murderers," he pursued in
thought, after dwelling a while on the images of home and familiar
faces, "murderers they already are, doubtless, in intent. I should have
been sent hence long ago, but for the hope of reaching my counsels
through Mars Plaisir. From the eyes of the world I have already
disappeared; and nothing hinders the riddance of me now. Feeble as I
am, the waiting for death may yet be tedious. If tedious for him who
has this day done with me, how tedious for me, who have done with him
and with all the world!--done with them, except as to the affections
with which one may look back upon them from the clear heights on the
other side of the dark valley. That I should pine and shiver long in
the shadows of that valley would be tedious to him who drove me there
before my time, and to me. He has never submitted to what is tedious,
and he will not now."
The door of the cell was here softly opened, a head showed itself, and
immediately disappeared. Toussaint silently watched the kid, as it
moved from point to point on the face of the rock: and it was with some
sorrow that he at last saw it spring away. Just then, Bellines entered
with the usual miserable breakfast. Toussaint requested fire, to which
Bellines assented. He then asked to have the window opened, that the
air of the spring morning might enter. Bellines shrugged his shoulders,
and observed that the air of these March mornings was sharp. The
prisoner persisted, however; and with the fresh air, there came in upon
him a fresh set of thoughts. Calling Bellines back, he desired, in a
tone of authority, to see the Commandant.
It was strange to him--he wondered at himself on finding his mind filled
with a new enterprise--with the idea of making a last appeal to Rubaut
for freedom--an appeal to his justice, not to his clemency. With the
chill breeze, there had entered the tinkle of the cow-bell, and the
voices of children singing. These called up a vivid picture of the
valley, as he had seen it on entering his prison--the small green level,
the gushing stream, the sunny rock, the girl with her distaff, tending
the goats. He thought he could show his title to, at least, a free
sight of the face of nature; and the impulse did not immediately die.
During the morning, he listened for footsteps without. After some
hours, he smiled at his own hope, and nearly ceased to listen. The face
of the rock grow dim; the wind rose, and sleet was driven in at the
window: so that he was compelled to use his stiff and aching limbs in
climbing up to shut it. No one had remembered, or had chosen to make
his fire; and he was shivering, as in an ague fit, when, late in the
afternoon, Bellines brought in his second meal, and some fuel.
"The Commandant?"
"The Commandant is not in the castle. He is absent to-day."
"Where?"
"They say the First Consul has business with him."
"With me rather," thought Toussaint. He said aloud, "Then he is gone
with my servant?"
"May be so. They went the same road; but that road leads to many
places."
"The road from Pontarlier?"
"Any road--all our roads here lead to many places," said Bellines, as he
went out.
"Poor Mars Plaisir!" thought Toussaint, as he carefully placed the wood
so as to tempt the feeble blaze. "Our road has seemed the same for the
last eight months; but it leads to widely different points. I rejoice
for him that his has parted off to-day; and for myself, though it shows
that I am near the end of mine. Is it this soldier, with comrades, who
is to end me? Or is it this supper, better drugged than that of last
night? Or will they wait to see whether solitude will kill a busy,
ambitious Commander-in-Chief, as they think me?"