"What other employment do you afford me than that of looking into the
past and future, in order to avoid the present? If, turning from the
sickening view which the past presents of the treachery of your race to
mine, of the abuse of my brotherly trust in him by which your ruler has
afflicted our hearts if, turning from this mournful past, I look the
other way, what do I see before me but the open grave?"
"You are out of spirits," said Rubaut, building up the fire.
"You wear well, however. You must have been very strong in your best
days. You wear extremely well."
"I still live; and that I do so is because the sun of my own climate,
and the strength of soul of my best days, shine and glow through me now,
quenching in part even these damps. But I am old, and every day heaps
years on me. However, I am as willing as you that my looking forward
should be for others than myself. I might be able to forebode for
France, and for its ruler."
Rubaut folded his arms, and leaned, as if anxious to listen, against the
wall beside the fire; but it was so wet that he quickly shifted his
position; still, however, keeping his eyes fixed on his prisoner.
"And what would you forebode for France, and for her ruler?" he asked.
"That my country will never again be hers. Her retribution is as sure
as her tyranny has been great. She may send out fleet after fleet, each
bearing an army; but the spirit of freedom will be too strong for them
all. Their bodies will poison the air, and choke the sea, and the names
of their commanders will, one after another, sink in disgrace, before
they will again make slaves of my people in Saint Domingo. How stands
the name of Leclerc at this moment in France?"
"Leclerc is dead," said Rubaut; repenting, the next moment, that he had
said so much. Toussaint saw this by his countenance, and inquired no
further.
"He is dead! and twenty thousand Frenchmen with him, who might at this
hour have been enjoying at home the natural wealth of my country, the
fruits of our industry. The time was when I thought your ruler and I--
the ruler, in alliance with him, of my race in Saint Domingo--were
brothers in soul, as we were apparently in duty and in fortune.
Brothers in soul we were not, as it has been the heaviest grief of my
life to learn. I spurn brotherhood of soul with one whose ambition has
been for himself. Brothers in duty we were; and, if we should yet be
brothers in fortune--if he should fall into the hands of a strong foe--
But you are saying in your heart, `No foreboding! Foreboding is bad!'"
Rubaut smiled, and said foreboding was only bad for the spirits; and the
First Consul's spirits were not likely to be affected by anything that
could be said at Joux. To predict bad fortune for him was like looking
for the sun to be put out at noonday; it might pass the time, but would
not dim the sun.
"So was it said of me," replied the prisoner, "and with the more reason,
because I made no enemies. My enemies have not been of my own making.
Your ruler is making enemies on every hand; and alas! for him if he
lives to meet the hour of retribution! If he, like myself, should fall
into the power of a strong foe--if he should pass his remaining days
imprisoned on a rock, may he find more peace than I should dare look
for, if I had his soul!"
"There is not a braver man in Europe, or the Indies either, than the
First Consul."
"Brave towards foes without and sufferings to come. But bravery gives
no help against enemies harboured within, and evils fixed in the past.
What will his bravery avail against the images of France corrupted, of
Europe outraged, of the blacks betrayed and oppressed--of the godlike
power which was put into his hands abused to the purposes of the devil!"
"But perhaps he would not view his affairs as you do."
"Then would his bravery avail him no better. If he should be so blind
as to see nothing higher and better than his own acts, then will he see
no higher nor better hope than he has lost. Then will he suffer and die
under the slow torment of personal mortifications and regrets."
"You say you are sinking under your reverses. You say you are slowly
dying."
"I am. I shall die of the sickening and pining of sense and limb--of
the wasting of bone and muscle. Day by day is my eye more dim, and my
right arm more feeble. But I have never complained of evils that the
bravery you speak of would not meet. Have I ever said that you have
touched my soul?"
Rubaut saw the fire in his eye, glanced at his emaciated hand, and felt
that this was true. He could bear the conversation no longer, now that
no disclosures that could serve the First Consul seemed likely to be
made.
"You are going?" said Toussaint.
"Yes. I looked in to-day because I am about to leave the fortress for a
few days."
"If you see the First Consul, tell him what I have now said; and add
that if, like him, I had used my power for myself, he would have had a
power over me which he has not now. I should not then have been here--
nay, you must hear me--I should not then have been here, crushed beneath
his hand; I should have been on the throne of Saint Domingo--flattered,
as he is, by assurances of my glory and security--but crushed by a
heavier weight than that of his hand; by his image, as that of one
betrayed in my infidelity to his country and nation. Tell him this;
tell him that I perish willingly, if this consequence of my fidelity to
France may be a plea for justice to my race."
"How people have misrepresented you to me!" said Rubaut, bustling about
the cell, and opening the door to call Bellines. "They told me you were
very silent--rarely spoke."
"That was true when my duty was to think," said Toussaint. "To-day my
duty has been to speak. Remember that yours, in fidelity to your ruler,
is to repeat to him what I say."
"More wood, Bellines," said Rubaut, going to the door, to give further
directions in a low voice. Returning, he said, with some hurry of
manner, that, as he was to be absent for two or three days, he had sent
for such a supply of wood and flambeaux as might last some time. More
books should also be brought.
"When shall we meet again?" asked Toussaint.
"I don't know. Indeed I do not know," said the Commandant, looking at
his watch by the firelight. His prisoner saw that his hands trembled,
and that he walked with some irresolution to the door.
"Au revoir!" said Toussaint.
Rubaut did not reply, but went out, leaving the door standing wide, and
apparently no one to guard it.
Toussaint's heart beat at the thought that this might give him one more
opportunity of being abroad in the daylight, perhaps in the sun! He
rose to make the attempt; but he was exhausted by the conversation he
had held--the first for so long! His aching limbs failed him; and he
sank down on his bed, from which he did not rise till long after
Bellines had laid down his loads, and left the place.
The prisoner rose, at length, to walk, as he did many times in the day,
from corner to corner of his cell. At the first turn, by the door, he
struck his foot against something which he upset. It was a pitcher of
water, which, with a loaf of bread, had been put in that unusual place.
The sight was as distinct in its signification as a yawning grave. His
door was to open upon him no more. He was not again to see a human
face. The Commandant was to be absent awhile, and, on returning, to
find his prisoner dead.
He used all means that he could devise to ascertain whether it were
indeed so. He called Bellines from the door, in the way which Bellines
had never failed to reply to since the departure of Mars Plaisir.
Bellines did not come. He sang aloud, as he had never before been
allowed to sing unchecked, since he entered the fortress. He now sang
unchecked. The hour of the afternoon meal passed, and no one came. The
evening closed, and no bolt had been drawn. The case was clear.
The prisoner now and then felt a moment's surprise at experiencing so
little recoil from such a fate. He was scarcely conscious even of
repugnance. His tranquillity was doubtless owing, in part, to his
having long contemplated death in this place as certain; to life having
now little left to make its continuance desirable; and to his knowing
himself to be so reduced, that the struggle could not be very long. But
he himself believed his composure to be owing to another cause than any
of these.
"He who appointed me to the work of such a life as mine," thought the
dying man, "is making its close easy to His servant. I would willingly
have suffered to the extremity of His will: but my work is done; men's
eyes are no longer upon me; I am alone with Him; and He is pleased to
let me enter already upon my everlasting peace. If Father Laxabon were
here, would he now say, as he has often said, and as most men say, that,
looking back upon life from its close, it appears short as the time of
the early rains? Instead of this, how long appear the sixty years that
I have lived! How long, how weary now teems the life when I was a
slave--though much was done, and it was the schooling of my soul for the
work preparing for my hand. My Margot! my children! how quietly did we
then live, as if no change were ever to come, and we were to sit before
our door at Breda every evening, till death should remove us, one by
one! While I was composing my soul to patience by thought and by
reading, how little did I dream that I was so becoming prepared to free
my race, to reign, and then to die of cold and hunger, such as the
meanest slave never knows! Then the next eight years of toil--they seem
longer than all that went before. Doubtless they were lengthened to me,
to make my weak powers equal to the greatness of my task; for every day
of conducting war, and making laws, appeared to me stretched out into a
year. These late seasons of reverse have passed over more rapidly, for
their suffering has been less. While all, even to Henri, have pitied me
during these latter years, they knew not that I was recovering the peace
which I shall now no more lose. It is true that I erred, according to
the common estimate of affairs, in not making myself a king, and
separating my country from France, as France herself is compelling her
to separate at last. It is true, I might now have been reigning there,
instead of dying here; and, what is more worthy of meditation, my people
might now have been laying aside their arms, and beginning a long career
of peace. It might possibly have been so; but at what cost! Their
career of freedom (if freedom it could then have been called) would have
begun in treason and in murder; and the stain would have polluted my
race for ever. Now, they will have freedom still--they cannot but have
it, though it is delayed. And upon this freedom will rest the blessing
of Heaven. We have not fought for dominion, nor for plunder; nor, as
far as I could govern the passions of men, for revenge. We began our
career of freedom in fidelity, in obedience, and in reverence towards
the whites; and therefore may we take to ourselves the blessing of Him
who made us to be free, and demands that we be so with clean hands and a
pure heart. Therefore will the freedom of Saint Domingo be but the
beginning of freedom to the negro race. Therefore may we hope that in
this race will the spirit of Christianity appear more fully than it has
yet shown itself among the proud whites--show itself in its gentleness,
its fidelity, its disinterestedness, and its simple trust. The proud
whites may scorn this hope, and point to the ignorance and the passions
of my people, and say, `Is this your exhibition of the spirit of the
Gospel?' But not for this will we give up our hope. This ignorance,
these passions, are natural to all men, and are in us aggravated and
protracted by our slavery. Remove them by the discipline and the
stimulus of freedom, begun in obedience to God and fidelity to men, and
there remain the love that embraces all--the meek faith that can bear to
be betrayed, but is ashamed to doubt--the generosity that can forgive
offences seventy-and-seven times renewed--the simple, open, joyous
spirit which marks such as are of the kingdom of heaven. Lord! I thank
Thee that Thou hast made me the servant of this race!"
Never, during the years of his lowliness, or the days of his grandeur,
had Toussaint spent a brighter hour than now, while the spirit of
prophecy (twin-angel with death) visited him, and showed him the realms
of mind which were opening before his race--that countless host whose
van he had himself led to the confines. This spirit whispered something
of the immortality of his own name, hidden, lost as he was in his last
hours.
"Be it so!" thought he, "if my name can excite any to devotedness, or
give to any the pleasure of being grateful. If my name live, the
goodness of those who name it will be its life; for my true self-will
not be in it. No one will the more know the real Toussaint. The
weakness that was in me when I felt most strong, the reluctance when I
appeared most ready, the acts of sin from which I was saved by accident
alone, the divine constraint of circumstances to which my best deeds
were owing--these things are between me and my God. If my name and my
life are to be of use, I thank God that they exist; but this outward
existence of them is nothing between Him and me. To me henceforward
they no more belong than the name of Epaminondas, or the life of Tell.
Man stands naked on the brink of the grave, his name stripped from him,
and his deeds laid down as the property of the society he leaves behind.
Let the name and deeds I now leave behind be a pride to generations yet
to come--a more innocent pride than they have sometimes, alas! been to
me. I have done with them."
Toussaint had often known what hunger was--in the mornes he had endured
it almost to extremity. He now expected to suffer less from it than
then, from being able to yield to the faintness and drowsiness which had
then to be resisted. From time to time during his meditations, he felt
its sensations visiting him, and felt them without fear or regret. He
had eaten his loaf when first hungry, and had watched through the first
night, hoping to sleep his long sleep the sooner, when his fire should
at length be burned out. During the day, some faint sounds reached him
from the valley--some tokens of the existence of men. During the two
last nights of his life, his ear was kept awake only by the dropping of
water--the old familiar sound--and the occasional stir of the brands
upon the hearth. About midnight of the second night, he found he could
sit up no longer. With trembling hands he laid on such pieces of wood
as he could lift, lighted another flambeau, and lay down on his straw.
He raised himself but once, hastily and dizzily in the dawn (dawn to
him, but sunrise abroad). His ear had been reached by the song of the
young goatherds, as they led their flock abroad into another valley.
The prisoner had dreamed that it was his boy Denis, singing in the
piazza at Pongaudin. As his dim eye recognised the place, by the
flicker of the expiring flambeau, he smiled at his delusion, and sank
back to sleep again.
The Commandant was absent three days. On his return, he summoned
Bellines, and said, in the presence of several soldiers--
"How is the prisoner there?" pointing in the direction of Toussaint's
cell.
"He has been very quiet this morning, sir."
"Very quiet? Do you suppose he is ill?"
"He was as well as usual the last time I went to him."
"He has had plenty of everything, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes, sir. Wood, candle, food, water--everything."
"Very well. Get lights, and I will visit him."
Lights were brought. A boy, who carried a lantern, shivered as he saw
how ghastly Bellines' face looked in the yellow gleam, in the dark vault
on the way to the cell, and was not sorry to be told to stay behind,
till called to light the Commandant back again.
"Have you heard anything?" asked Rubaut of the soldier, in a low voice.
"Not for many hours. There was a call or two, and some singing, just
after you went; but nothing since."
"Hush! Listen!"
They listened motionless for some time; but nothing was heard but the
everlasting plash, which went on all around them.
"Unbar the door, Bellines."
He did so, and held the door wide for the Commandant to enter. Rubaut
stalked in, and straight up to the straw bed. He called the prisoner in
a somewhat agitated voice, felt the hand, raised the head, and declared
that he was gone. The candle was burned completely out. Rubaut turned
to the hearth, carefully stirred the ashes, blew among them, and raised
a spark.
"You observe," he said to Bellines; "his fire was burning when we found
him."
"Yes, sir."
"There is more wood and more candle?"
"Yes, sir; the wood in this corner, and the candle on the table--just
under your hand, sir."
"Oh, ay, here. Put on some wood, and blow up a flame. Observe, we
found his fire burning."
"Yes, sir."
They soon re-appeared in the courtyard, and announced the death of the
prisoner. Rubaut ordered a messenger to be in readiness to ride to
Pontarlier, by the time he should have written a letter.
"We must have the physicians from Pontarlier," observed the Commandant,
aloud, "to examine the deceased, and declare what he died of. The old
man has not been well for some time past. I have no doubt the
physicians will find that he died of apoplexy, or something of the
kind."
"No wonder, poor soul!" said a sutler's wife to another woman.
"No wonder, indeed," replied the other. "My husband died of the heat in
Saint Domingo; and they took this poor man (don't tell it, but he was a
black; I got a sight of him, and he came from Saint Domingo, you may
depend upon it)--they took him out of all that heat, and put him into
that cold, damp place there! No wonder he is dead."
"Well, I never knew we had a black here!"
"Don't say I told you, then."
"I have no doubt--yes, we found his fire burning," said Bellines to the
inquirers round him. "They will find it apoplexy, or some such thing, I
have no doubt of it."
And so they did, to the entire satisfaction of the First Consul.
Yet it was long before the inquiring world knew with certainty what had
become of Toussaint L'Ouverture.