The Hour and the Man, An Historical Romance

  CHAPTER FOUR.

  WHITHER AWAY?

  Monsieur Papalier did not much relish the idea of roosting in a tree forthe night; especially as, on coming down in the morning, there would beno friend or helper near, to care for or minister to him. Habituallyand thoroughly as he despised the negroes, he preferred travelling intheir company to hiding among the monkeys; and he therefore decided atonce to do as Toussaint concluded he would--accompany him to the Spanishfrontier.

  The river Massacre, the boundary at the north between the French andSpanish portions of the island, was about thirty miles distant fromBreda. These thirty miles must be traversed between sunset and sunrise.Three or four horses, and two mules which were left on the plantation,were sufficient for the conveyance of the women, boys, and girls; andPlacide ran, of his own accord, to Monsieur Papalier's deserted stables,and brought thence a saddled horse for the gentleman, who was less ablethan the women to walk thirty miles in the course of a tropical summer'snight.

  "What will your Spanish friends think of our bringing so many women andchildren to their post?" said Papalier to Toussaint, as soon as theywere on their way. "They will not think you worth having, with all theincumbrances you carry."

  "I shall carry none," said Toussaint.

  "What do you mean to do with your wife and children?"

  "I shall put them in a safe place by the way. For your own sake,Monsieur Papalier, I must ask you what you mean to do in the Spanishpost--republican as you are. You know the Spaniards are allies of theking of France."

  "They are allies of France, and will doubtless receive any honourableFrench gentleman," said Papalier confidently, though Toussaint'squestion only echoed a doubt which he had already spoken to himself."You are acting so like a friend to me here, Toussaint, that I cannotsuppose you will do me mischief there, by any idle tales about thepast."

  "I will not; but I hear that the Marquis d'Hermona knows the politics ofevery gentleman in the colony. If there have been any tales abroad ofspeeches of yours against the king, or threats, or acts of rebellion,the Marquis d'Hermona knows them all."

  "I have taken less part in politics than most of my neighbours; andHermona knows that, if he knows the rest. But what shall I do withTherese, if your women stop short on the way? Could you make room forher with them?"

  "Not with them, but--"

  "My good fellow, this is no time for fancies. I am sorry to see you setyour girls above their condition and their neighbours. There is no harmabout poor Therese. Indeed, she is very well educated; I have had herwell taught; and they might learn many things from her, if you reallywish them to be superior. She is not a bit the worse for being afavourite of mine; and it will be their turn soon to be somebody'sfavourites, you know. And that before long, depend upon it," hecontinued, turning on his saddle to look for Genifrede and Aimee. "Theyare fine girls,--very fine girls for their age."

  When he turned again, Toussaint was no longer beside his horse. He wasat the head of the march.

  "What a sulky fellow he is!" muttered the planter, with a smile. "Theairs of these people are curious enough. They take upon them to despiseTherese, who has more beauty than all his tribe, and almost as mucheducation as the learned Toussaint himself."

  He called to the sulky fellow, however, and the sulky fellow came. WhatPapalier wanted to say was--

  "You seem to know more of these Spaniards than I. What will become ofTherese, if I take her among them; which, you see, you oblige me to do?"

  "I proposed to her," said Toussaint, "to leave her with some of ourpeople near Fort Dauphin."

  "Fort Egalite, you mean. That is its present name, you know. So youasked her! Why did you not speak to me about it? It is my affair, nothers."

  "I thought it her affair. She will not remain behind, however. Shebegged me to say nothing to you about her leaving you."

  "Indeed! I will soon settle that." And the planter immediatelyovertook the horse on which sat Therese, with her infant on her arm.Therese smiled as she saw him coming; but the first few words he said toher covered her face with tears. Blinded by these tears, she guided herhorse among the tough aloes which grew along the border of thebridle-path, and the animal stumbled, nearly jerking the infant from herarms. Her master let her get over the difficulty as she might, while herode on in the midst of the green track.

  Placide disdained to ride. He strode along, singing in a low voice,with a package on his shoulders, and his path marked by the fireflies,which new round his head, or settled on his woollen cap. Isaac had madeAimee happy by getting on her mule. Genifrede heard from the directionin which they were, sometimes smothered laughter, but, for the mostpart, a never-ending, low murmur of voices, as if they were telling oneanother interminable stories. Genifrede never could make out what Isaacand Aimee could be for ever talking about. She wondered that they couldtalk now, when every monkey-voice from the wood, every click of a frogfrom the ponds, every buzz of insects from the citron-hedge, struck fearinto her. She did not ask Placide to walk beside her horse; but shekept near that on which her mother rode, behind Denis, who held acart-whip, which he was forbidden to crack--an accomplishment which hehad learned from the driver of the plantation.

  It soon became clear that Jean had made active use of the hours since heparted from Toussaint. He must have sent messengers in many directions;for, from beneath the shadow of every cacao grove, from under thebranches of many a clump of bamboos, from the recess of a ravine here--from the mouth of a green road there, beside the brawling brook, or fromtheir couch among the canes, appeared negroes, singly or in groups,ready to join the travelling party. Among all these, there were nowomen and children. They had been safely bestowed somewhere; and thesemen now regarded themselves as soldiers, going to the camp of theallies, to serve against their old masters on behalf of the king. "Vivele Roi, et l'ancien regime!" was the word as each detachment joined--aword most irritating to Papalier, who thought to himself many timesduring this night, that he would have put all to hazard on his ownestate, rather than have undertaken this march, if he had known that hewas to be one of a company of negroes, gathering like the tempest in itsprogress, and uttering at every turning, as if in mockery of himself,"Vive le Roi, et l'ancien regime!" He grew _very_ cross, while quitesensible of the necessity of appearing in a good mood to every one--except, indeed, poor Therese.

  "We are free--this is freedom!" said Toussaint more than once as he laidhis hand on the bridle of his wife's horse, and seemed incapable, ofuttering any other words. He looked up at the towering trees, as ifmeasuring with his eye the columnar palms, which appeared to those intheir shade as if crowned with stars. He glanced into the forest withan eye which, to Margot, appeared as if it could pierce through darknessitself. He raised his face in the direction of the centralmountain-peaks, round which the white lightning was exploding frommoment to moment; and Margot saw that tears were streaming on his face--the first tears she had known him shed for years. "We are free--this isfreedom!" he repeated, as he took off his cap; "but, thank God! we havethe king for our master now."

  "You will come and see us," said she. "We shall see you sometimes whileyou are serving the king."

  "Yes." He was called away by another accession of numbers, a party offour who ran down among them from a mountain path. Toussaint brushedaway his unwonted tears, and went forward, hearing a well-known voiceinquire for Toussaint Breda.

  "Here I am, Jacques!" he exclaimed in some surprise, as he addressedhimself to a short, stout-built young negro. "You are the firsttownsman among us, Jacques. Where is old Dessalines?"

  "Here is my master," said Jacques.

  "Not the better for being a master," said the old tiler, who was himselfa negro. "I found myself no safer than Jacques in the town; so I cameaway with him, and we have been among the rocks all day, tired enough."

  "Have not you a horse for him?" asked Jacques. Toussaint stepped back,to desire Aimee and Isaac to give up their mule to Dessalines; butbefore
it was done, Dessalines was mounted on Papalier's horse. Jacqueshad told Papalier, on finding that he had not been walking at all, thathis horse was wanted, and Papalier had felt all the danger of refusingto yield it up. He was walking moodily by the side of Therese, whenToussaint offered him the mule, which he haughtily declined.

  When Dessalines was mounted, Jacques came running forward to Toussaint,to ask and to tell much concerning their singular circumstances.

  "Your party is too noisy," said he. "The whole country is up; and Isaw, not far-off, two hours ago, a party that were bringing ammunitionfrom Cap. There may be more; and, if we fall in their way, with a whitein company--"

  "True, true." And Toussaint turned back to command silence. He toldevery one that the safety of all might depend on the utmost possibledegree of quietness being observed. He separated Isaac from Aimee, asthe only way of obtaining silence from them, and warned the merry blacksin the rear that they must be still as death. He and Jacques, however,exchanged a few more words in a low whisper, as they kept in advance ofthe party.

  "How do they get ammunition from Cap?" asked Toussaint. "Have they aparty in the town? I thought the town negroes had been sent on boardship."

  "The suspected ones are. They are the silly and the harmless who havestill wit and mischief enough to give out powder and ball slyly for theplantation negroes. Once over the river, what will you do with yourparty?"

  "My wife and children will be safe with my brother Paul--you know hefishes on the coast, opposite the Seven Brothers. I shall enter theSpanish ranks; and every one else here will do as he thinks proper."

  "Do not you call yourself a commander, then! Why do you not call usyour regiment, and take the command as a matter of course, as Jean hasdone?"

  "If it is desired, I am ready. Hark!"

  There was evidently a party at some distance, numerous and somewhatnoisy, and on the approach from behind. Toussaint halted his party,quickly whispered his directions, and withdrew them with all speed andquietness within the black shade of a cacao-plantation, on the left ofthe road. They had to climb an ascent; but there they found a greenrecess, so canopied with interwoven branches that no light could enterfrom the stars, and so hedged in by the cacao plants, growing twelvefeet high among the trees, that the party could hardly have been seenfrom the road in broad daylight. There they stood crowded together inutter darkness and stillness, unless, as Genifrede feared, the beatingof her heart might be heard above the hum of the mosquito, or theoccasional rustle of the foliage.

  The approaching troop came on, tramping, and sometimes singing andshouting. Those in the covert knew not whether most to dread a shoutingwhich should agitate their horses, or a silence which might betray amovement on their part. This last seemed the most probable. The noisesubsided; and when the troop was close at hand, only a stray voice ortwo was singing. They had with them two or three trucks, drawn by men,on which were piled barrels of ammunition. They were now very near.Whether it was that Therese, in fear of her infant crying, pressed it soclose to her bosom as to awaken it, or whether the rumbling and trampingalong the road roused its sleeping ear--the child stirred, and beganwhat promised to be a long shrill wawl, if it had not been stopped. Howit was stopped, the trembling, sickening mother herself did not know.She only knew that a strong hand wrenched the child from her grasp inthe black darkness, and that all was still, unless, as she then and everafter had a shuddering apprehension, there was something of a slightgurgle which reached her strained ear. Her own involuntary moan wasstopped almost before it became a sound--stopped by a tap on theshoulder, whose authoritative touch she well knew.

  No one else stirred for long after the troop had passed. Then Toussaintled his wife's horse down into the road again, and the party resumedtheir march as if nothing had happened.

  "My child!" said Therese, fearfully. "Give me my child!" She lookedabout, and saw that no one seemed to have the infant.

  "I will not let it cry," she said. "Give me back my child!"

  "What is it?" asked Papalier, coming beside her horse. She told hergrief, as she prepared to spring down.

  "No, keep your seat! Don't get down," said he, in a tone she dared notdisobey. "I will inquire for the child."

  He went away, and returned--without it. "This is a sad thing," said he,leading her horse forward with the rest. "No one knows anything aboutthe poor thing. Why did you let it go?"

  "Have you asked them all? Who snatched it from me? Oh, ask who tookit! Let me look for it. I will--I will--"

  "It is too late now. We cannot stop or turn back. These sad accidentswill happen at such times."

  "Leave me behind--oh, leave me in the wood! I can follow when I havefound it. Leave me behind!"

  "I cannot spare you, my dear. I should never see you again; and Icannot spare you. It is sad enough to have lost the child."

  "It was your child," said she, pleadingly.

  "And you are mine too, my dear. I cannot spare you both."

  Therese had never felt before. All that had moved her during her yetshort life--all emotions in one were nothing to the passion of thismoment--the conditional hatred that swelled her soul; conditional--for,from moment to moment, she believed and disbelieved that Papalier haddestroyed her child. The thought sometimes occurred that he was not theonly cruel one. No one seemed to pity or care for her--not even Margotor the girls came near her. She more than once was about to seek andappeal to them; but her master held her bridle, and would not permit herto stop or turn, saying occasionally that the lives of all depended onperfect quiet and order in the march. When they arrived at the cross,at the junction of the four roads, they halted, and there she told herstory, and was convinced that the grieved women knew nothing of her losstill that moment. It was too late now for anything but compassion.

  Jean Francais soon appeared with a troop so numerous, that all necessityfor caution and quiet was over. They could hardly meet an equal forceduring the remainder of the march, and might safely make the forests andravines echo to their progress. Jean took off his cocked hat insaluting Toussaint, and commended his punctuality and his arrangements.

  "Jean always admires what my husband does," observed Margot to heracquaintance Jacques. "You hear how he is praising him for what he hasdone to-night."

  "To be sure. Everybody praises Toussaint Breda," replied Jacques.

  The wife laughed with delight.

  "Everybody praises him but me," pursued Jacques. "I find fault with himsometimes; and to-night particularly."

  "Then you are wrong, Jacques. You know you have everybody against you."

  "Time will show that I am right. Time will show the mischief of sendingaway any whites to do us harm in far countries."

  "Oh, you do not blame him for helping away Monsieur Bayou!"

  "Yes, I do."

  "Why, we have been under him ever since we were children--and a kindyouth he was then. And he taught my husband to read, and made him hiscoachman; and then he made him overseer; and he has always indulged thechildren, and always bought my young guinea-fowl, and--"

  "I know that. All that will not prevent the mischief of helping himaway. Toussaint ought to have seen that if we send our masters to allthe four sides of the world, they will bring the world down upon us."

  "Perhaps Toussaint did see it," said the man himself, from the otherside of his wife's horse. "But he saw another thing, too--that anywhites who stayed would be murdered."

  "That is true enough; and murdered they ought to be. They are a race oftyrants and rebels that our warm island hates."

  "Nobody hated Monsieur Bayou," said Margot.

  "Yes, I did. Every one who loves the blacks hates the whites."

  "I think not," said Toussaint. "At least, it is not so with Him whomade them both. He is pleased with mercy, Jacques, and not withmurder."

  Jacques laughed, and muttered something about the priests having beenbrought in by the whites for a convenience; to which Toussain
t merelyreplied that it was not a priest, nor an ally of white masters, whoforgave His enemies on the cross.

  "Father," said Placide, joining the group, "why is Jean commanding yourmarch? He speaks to you as if you were under him."

  "Because he considers it his march."

  "He praised your father--very much, Placide," said his mother.

  "Yes--just as if my father were under him--as if the march were notours. We began it."

  "I command those who began it--that is, my own family, Placide. Icommand you to obey Jean, while you are with him. On the other side theriver, you shall be commander, all the way to your uncle's house. Youwill follow his lead, Margot?"

  "Oh, yes, if he leads straight. Jean is a commander, Placide. Look athis cocked hat."

  "And he calls himself commander-in-chief of the armies of France."

  "In Saint Domingo. Well, so he is," said Toussaint, smiling, andpointing to the troop. "Here are the armies of the King of France inSaint Domingo; and here Jean commands."

  At this moment, Jean made proclamation for Toussaint Breda; andToussaint joined him, leaving his wife saying, "You see he wants myhusband at every turn. I am sure he thinks a great deal of my husband."

  "Toussaint," said Jean, "I shall introduce you to the Marquis d'Hermona;and I have no doubt he will give you a command."

  "I shall introduce myself to him, Jean."

  "But he will be expecting you. He will receive you according to myreport--as a man of ability, and a most valuable officer. I sentmessengers forward to tell him of my approach with reinforcements; and Igave a prodigious report of you."

  "Still I shall speak for myself, Jean."

  "What I now have to ask of you is, that you will dress like an officer--like me. The uniform is, on the whole, of no great consequence at thisseason, when the whites wear all the linen, and as little cloth as theycan. But the hat. Toussaint--the hat! You will not show yourself tothe Marquis d'Hermona in a cap! For my sake, do not show yourself tillyou have procured a cocked hat."

  "Where did you get yours, Jean?"

  Jean could only say that it was from one who would never want it again.

  "We will go as we are," said Toussaint. "You look like a commander, asyou are--and I look what I am, Toussaint Breda."

  "But he will not believe what I shall say of you, if he sees a merecommon negro."

  "Then let him disbelieve, till I have shown what I am. We shall finddaylight on the other side this ridge."

  They had been for some time ascending the ridge which lies north andsouth between Fort Dauphin and the river Massacre, the Spanish boundary.In the covert of the woods which clothed the slope all was yetdarkness; but when the travellers could catch a glimpse upwards throughthe interwoven branches, they saw that the stars were growing pale, andthat the heavens were filling with a yellower light. On emerging fromthe woods on the summit of the ridge, they found that morning was indeedcome, though the sun was not yet visible. There was a halt, as if thetroops now facing the east would wait for his appearance. To the left,where the ridge sank down into the sea, lay Mancenillo Bay, whose darkgrey waters, smooth as glass, as they rolled in upon the shore, began toshow lines of light along their swell. A dim sail or two, small andmotionless, told that the fishermen were abroad. From this bay, theriver Massacre led the eye along the plain which lay under the feet ofthe troops, and between this ridge and another, darkly wooded, whichbounded the valley to the east; while to the south-east, the view wasclosed in by the mass of peaks of the Cibao group of mountains. At thefirst moment, these peaks, rising eight thousand feet from the plain,appeared hard, cold, and grey, between the white clouds that encumberedtheir middle height and the kindling sky. But from moment to momenttheir aspect softened. The grey melted into lilac, yellow, and a faintblushing red, till the start, barren crags appeared bathed in the huesof the soft yielding clouds which opened to let forth the sun. Themists were then seen to be stirring,--rising, curling, sailing, rolling,as if the breezes were imprisoned among them, and struggling to comeforth. The breezes came, and, as it seemed, from those peaks. Thewoods bent before them at one sweep. The banyan-tree, a grove initself, trembled through all its leafy columns, and shook off its dewsin a wide circle, like the return shower of a playing fountain. Myriadsof palms which covered the uplands, till now still as a sleeping hostbeneath the stars, bowed their plumed heads as the winds went forth, andshook off dews and slumber from the gorgeous parasitic beauties whichthey sustained. With the first ray that the sun levelled among thewoods, these matted creepers shook their flowery festoons, their twined,green ropes, studded with opening blossoms and bells, more gay than theburnished insects and gorgeous birds which flitted among their tangles.In the plain, the river no longer glimmered grey through the mists, butglittered golden among the meadows, upon which the wild cattle weredescending from the clefts of the hills. Back to the north the riverled the eye, past the cluster of hunters' huts on the margin,--past thepost where the Spanish flag was flying, and whence the early drum wassounding--past a slope of arrowy ferns here, a grove of lofty cocoa-nuttrees there, once more to the bay, now diamond-strewn, and rocking onits bosom the boats, whose sails were now specks of light in contrastwith the black islets of the Seven Brothers, which caught the eye as ifjust risen from the sea.

  "No windmills here! No cattle-mills!" the negroes were heard saying toone another. "No canes, no sugar-houses, no teams, no overseers'houses, no overseers! By God, it is a fine place, this! So we aregoing down there to be soldiers to the king! those cattle are wild, andyonder are the hunters going out! By God, it is a fine place!"

  In somewhat different ways, every one present, but Papalier and Therese,was indulging the same mood of thought. There was a wildness in thescene which made the heart beat high with the sense of freedom. Forsome the emotion seemed too strong. Toussaint pointed out to his boysthe path on the other side of the river which would lead them to thepoint of the shore nearest to Paul's hut, instructed them how to find ormake a habitation for their mother and sisters till he could visit them,gave his wife a letter to his brother, and, except to bid his family abrief farewell for a brief time, spoke no more till he reached theSpanish post, and inquired for the General.

  Jean stepped before him into the general's presence, taking possessionof the centre of the green space before the tent, where the Marquisd'Hermona was enjoying the coolness of the morning. After having dulydeclared his own importance, and announced the accession of numbers hewas likely to bring, Jean proceeded to extol Toussaint as one of thevaluables he had brought. After apologising for his friend's want of acocked hat, he proceeded to exhibit his learning, declaring that he hadstudied "Plutarch", "Caesar's Commentaries", "Epictetus", "MarshalSaxe's Military Reveries--"

  Here he was stopped by the grasp of Toussaint's hand upon his arm.Toussaint told the General that he came alone, without chief and withoutfollowers: the few men who had left Breda with him having rangedthemselves with the force of Jean Francais. He came alone to offer thestrength of his arm, on behalf of his king, to the allies of royalistFrance.

  The Spanish soldiers, who glittered all around in their arms and brightuniform, looked upon the somewhat gaunt negro in his plantation dress,dusty with travel, and his woollen cap in hand, and thought, probably,that the king of France would not be much aided by such an ally. It isprobable; for a smile went round, in which Jean joined. It is probablethat the Marquis d'Hermona thought differently, for he said--

  "The strength of your arm! Good! And the strength of your head, too, Ihope. We get more arms than heads from your side of the frontier. Isit true that you have studied the art of war?"

  "I have studied it in books."

  "Very well. We want officers for our black troops--all we can raise inthe present crisis. You will have the rank of colonel in a regiment tobe immediately organised. Are you content?"

  Toussaint signified his assent, and orders were given for a tent to beprepared for his present rep
ose. He looked around, as if for some onewhom he did not see. On being asked, he said that if there was at thepost a priest who spoke French, he could wish to converse with him.

  "Laxabon understands French, I think," said the marquis to a gentlemanof his staff. The aide assented.

  "Your excellent desire shall be gratified," said the General. "I doubtnot Father Laxabon will presently visit you in your tent."

  Father Laxabon had heard rumours of the horrors perpetrated in theFrench colony within the last two nights. On being told that hisattendance was equally desired by a fugitive negro, he recoiled for amoment from what he might have to hear.

  When he entered the tent, he found Toussaint alone, on the ground, hisbosom bursting with deep and thick-coming sobs, "How is this, my son?"said the priest. "Is this grief, or is it penitence?"

  "I am free," said Toussaint, "and I am an oppression to myself. I didnot seek freedom. I was at ease, and did not desire it, seeing how menabuse their freedom."

  "You must not, then, abuse your freedom, my son," said the priest,wholly relieved.

  "How shall I appear before God--I who have ever been guided, and whoknow not whether I can guide myself--my master gone--my employmentgone--and I, by his will, a free man, but unprepared, unfit?--Receive myconfession, father, and guide me from this time."

  "Willingly, my son. He who has appointed a new lot to you will enableme to guide you in it."

  The tent was closed; and Toussaint kneeled to relieve his full heartfrom its new sense of freedom, by subjecting himself to a task-master ofthe soul.