CHAPTER FORTY.
MEETING WINTER.
It was a glorious day, that twelfth of June, when the _Heros_ sailedaway from the shores of Saint Domingo. Before the _Heros_ could sailquite away, it was compelled to hover, as it were, about the shadow ofthe land--to advance and retreat--to say farewell, apparently, and thento greet it again. The wind was north-east, so that a direct course wasimpossible; and the Ouverture family assembled, with the exception ofToussaint himself, upon deck, gave vent, again and again, to theirtears--again and again strained their eyes, as the mountains with theirshadowy sides, the still forests, the yellow sands, and the quietsettlements of the lateral valleys, came into view, or faded away.
L'Ouverture's cabin, to which he was strictly confined during thevoyage, had a window in the stern, and he, too, had therefore somechange of prospect. He gazed eagerly at every shifting picture of theland; but most eagerly when he found himself off Cap Samana. With hispocket-glass he explored and discovered the very point of rough groundon the height where he stood with Christophe, less than six monthsbefore, to watch the approach, and observe the rendezvous, of the Frenchfleet. He remembered, as his eye was fixed upon the point, his namingto Henri this very ship, in which he was now a prisoner, sailing away,never more to return.
"Be it so!" he thought, according to his wont. "My blacks are notconquered, and will never more be slaves."
The wind soon changed, and the voyage was a rapid one. Short as it was,it was tedious; for, with the exception of Mars Plaisir, who wasappointed to wait on him, the prisoner saw no one. Again and again hecaught the voices of his children, singing upon deck--no doubt in orderto communicate with him: but, in every instance, almost before he hadbegun to listen, the song ceased. Mars Plaisir explained that it wassilenced by the captain's order. No captain's order had power to stopthe prisoner's singing. Every night was Aimee consoled, amidst herweeping, by the solemn air of her father's favourite Latin Hymn to OurLady of the Sea: every morning was Margot roused to hope by herhusband's voice, singing his matin-prayer. Whatever might be thecaptain's apprehensions of political danger from these exercises, hegave over the opposition which had succeeded so well with the women.
"My father crossed this sea," thought Toussaint: "and little could hehave dreamed that the next of his race would cross it also, a prince anda prisoner. He, the son of a king, was seized and sold as a slave. Hisson, raised to be a ruler by the hand of Him who creates princes(whether by birth or royalty of soul), is kidnapped, and sacrificed tothe passions of a rival. Such is our life! But in its evil there isgood. If my father had not crossed this sea as a slave, Saint Domingowould have wanted me; and in me, perhaps, its freedom and civilisation.If I had not been kidnapped, my blacks might have lacked wrath toaccomplish the victory to which I have led them. If my father islooking back on this world, I doubt not he rejoices in the degradationwhich brought elevation to his race; and, as for me, I lay the few yearsof my old age a ready sacrifice on the altar of Africa."
Sometimes he amused himself with the idea of surveying, at last, theParis of which he had heard so much. Oftener, however, he dwelt withcomplacency on the prospect of seeing Bonaparte--of meeting his rival,mind to mind. He knew that Bonaparte's curiosity about him was eager,and he never doubted that he should be called to account personally forhis government, in all its details. He did not consider that the greatcaptain of the age might fear to meet his victim--might shrink from theeye of a brother-soldier whom he had treated worse than a felon.
Time and disappointment taught the prisoner this. None of his dreamswere verified. In Brest harbour he was hurried from the ship--allowed aparting embrace of his family upon deck--no more; not a sentence ofconversation, though all the ship's crew were by to hear. Mars Plaisiralone was allowed to accompany him. Two hurried whispers alone wereconveyed to his ear. Placide assured him (yet how could it be?) thatMonsieur Pascal was in France and would exert himself. And Margot toldhim, amidst her sobs, that she had done the one only thing she could--she had prayed for Bonaparte, as she promised, that night of propheticwoe at Pongaudin.
Nothing did he see of Paris but some of the dimly-lighted streets, as hewas conveyed, at night, to the prison of the Temple. During the weeksthat he was a prisoner there, he looked in vain for a summons to thepresence of the First Consul, or for the First Consul's appearance inhis apartment. One of Bonaparte's aides, Caffarelli, came indeed, andbrought messages: but these messages were only insulting inquiries aboutthe treasures--the treasures buried in the mornes;--for ever thesetreasures! This recurring message, with its answer, was all thecommunication he had with Bonaparte; and the hum and murmur from thestreets were all that he knew of Paris. When Bonaparte, nettled withthe reply--"The treasures I have lost are far other than those youseek,"--was convinced that no better answer would be obtained, he gavethe order which had been impending during those weeks of confinement inthe Temple.
When Bonaparte found his first leisure, after the fetes and bustleoccasioned in August by his being made First Consul for life, he issuedhis commands regarding the disposal of his West Indian prisoner: andpresently Toussaint was traversing France, with Mars Plaisir for hiscompanion in captivity--with an officer, as a guard, inside the closedcarriage; another guard on the box; and one, if not two, mounted intheir rear.
The journey was conducted under circumstances of great mystery. Theblinds of the carriage were never let down; provisions were served outwhile the party was in full career; and the few baitings that were madewere contrived to take place, either during the night, or inunfrequented places. It was clear that the complexion of the strangerswas not to be seen by the inhabitants. All that Toussaint could learnwas that they were travelling south-east.
"Have you mountains in your island?" asked the officer, letting down theblind just so much, when the carriage turned a corner of the road, as topermit to himself a glimpse of the scenery. "We are entering the Jura.Have you mountains in your island?"
Toussaint left it to Mars Plaisir to answer this question; which he didwith indignant volubility, describing the uses and the beauties of theheights of Saint Domingo, from the loftiest peaks which intercept thehurricane, to the lowest, crested with forts or spreading theirblossoming groves to the verge of the valleys.
"We too have fortresses on our heights," said the officer. "Indeed, youwill be in one of them before night. When we are on the other side ofPontarlier, we will look about us a little."
"Then, on the other side of Pontarlier, we shall meet no people,"observed Mars Plaisir.
"People! Oh, yes! we have people everywhere in France."
When Pontarlier was passed, and the windows of the carriage were thrownopen, the travellers perceived plainly enough why this degree of libertywas allowed. The region was so wild, that none were likely to comehither in search of the captives. There were inhabitants; but fewlikely to give information as to who had passed along the road. Therewere charcoal-burners up on the hill-side; there were women washingclothes in the stream which rushed along, far below in the valley; themiller was in his mill, niched in the hollow beside the waterfall; andthere might still be inmates in the convent which stood just below thefirs, on the knoll to the left of the road. But by the wayside, therewere none who, with curious eyes, might mark, and with eager tonguereport, the complexion of the strangers who were rapidly whirled alongtowards Joux.
Toussaint shivered as the chill mountain air blew in. Perhaps what hesaw chilled him no less than what he felt. He might have unconsciouslyexpected to see something like the teeming slopes of his own mountains,the yellow ferns, the glittering rocks, shining like polished metal inthe sun. Instead of these, the scanty grass was of a blue-green; thestunted firs were black; and the patches of dazzling white intermingledwith them formed a contrast of colour hideous to the eye of a native ofthe tropics.
"That is snow," exclaimed Mars Plaisir to his master, with the pride ofsuperior experience.
"I know it," replied Toussaint,
quietly.
The carriage now laboured up a steep ascent. The _brave homme_ whodrove alighted on one side, and the guard on the other, and walked upthe hill, to relieve the horses. The guard gathered such flowers as methis eye; and handed into the carriage a blue gentian which had till nowlingered on the borders of the snows,--or a rhododendron, for which hehad scaled a crag. His officer roughly ordered him not to leave thetrack.
"If we had passed this way two or three months earlier," he saidcomplacently to his prisoners, "we should have found cowslips here andthere, all along the road. We have a good many cowslips in earlysummer. Have you cowslips in your island?"
Toussaint smiled as he thought of the flower-strewn savannahs, wheremore blossoms opened and perished in an hour than in this dreary regionall the summer through. He heard Mars Plaisir compelled to admit thathe had never seen cowslips out of France.
At length, after several mountings and dismountings of the driver andguard, they seemed, on entering a defile, to apply themselves seriouslyto their business. The guard cast a glance along the road, and up thesides of the steeps, and beckoned to the horsemen behind to come on; andthe driver repeatedly cracked his whip. Silence settled down on theparty within the carriage; for all understood that they drew near thefortress. In silence they wound through the defile, till all egressseemed barred by a lofty crag. The road, however, passed round itsbase, and disclosed to view a small basin among the mountains, in themidst of which rose the steep which bore the fortress of Joux. At thefoot of this steep lay the village; a small assemblage of sordiddwellings. At this village four roads met, from as many defiles whichopened into this centre. A mountain-stream gushed along, now by theroad-side, now winding and growing quieter among the little plot ofgreen fields which lay in the rear of the castle rock. This plot ofvivid green cheered, for a moment, the eye of the captives; but a secondglance showed that it was but a swamp. This swamp, crags, firs, andsnow, with the dirty village, made up the prospect. As for theinhabitants--as the carriage stopped short of the village, none were tobe seen, but a girl with her distaff amidst a flock of goats, and somesoldiers on the castle walls above.
There appeared to be but one road up the rock--a bridle or foot road tothe right, too narrow and too steep for any carriage. Where this joinedthe main road the carriage stopped; and the prisoners were desired toalight.
"We must trouble you to walk up this hill," said the officer, "unlessyou prefer to mount, and have your horse led."
Before he had finished speaking, Toussaint was many paces in advance ofhis guards. But few opportunities had he enjoyed, of late, ofexercising his limbs. He believed that this would be the last; and hesprang up the rocky pathway with a sense of desperate pleasure. Pantingand heated, the most active of the soldiers reached the summit somemoments after him. Toussaint had made use of those few moments. He hadfixed in his memory the loading points of the landscape towards theeast--the bearings of the roads which opened glimpses into two valleyson that side--the patches of enclosure--the nooks of pasture where cowswere grazing, and children were at play--these features of the landscapehe eagerly comprehended--partly for use, in case of any opportunity ofescape; partly for solace, if he should not henceforth be permitted tolook abroad.
A few, and but a few, more moments he had, while the drawbridge waslowered, the portcullis raised, and the guard sent in with some orderfrom his officer. Toussaint well knew that that little plot of fields,with its winding stream, was the last verdure that he might ever see.The snowy summits which peered over the fir-tops were prophets of deathto him; for how should he, who had gone hither and thither under the sunof the tropics for sixty years, live chained among the snows? Well didhe know this; yet he did not wait to be asked to pass the bridge.
The drawbridge and the courtyard were both deserted. Not a soldier wasto be seen. Mars Plaisir muttered his astonishment, but his masterunderstood, that the presence of negro prisoners in the fortress was notto become known. He read in this incident a prophecy of totalseclusion.
They were marched rapidly through the courtyard, into a dark passage,where they were desired to stop. In a few moments Toussaint heard thetramp of feet about the gate, and understood that the soldiers had beenordered back to their post.
"The Commandant," the officer announced to his prisoners; and theCommandant Rubaut entered the dim passage. Toussaint formed hisjudgment of him, to a certain extent, in a moment. Rubaut endeavouredto assume a tone of good-humoured familiarity; but there appearedthrough this a misgiving as to whether he was thus either lettinghimself down, on the one hand, or, on the other, encroaching on thedignity of the person he addressed. His prisoner was a negro; but thenhe had been the recognised Commander-in-Chief of Saint Domingo. Onesymptom of awkwardness was, that he addressed Toussaint by no sort oftitle.
"We have had notice of your approach," said he; "which is fortunate, asit enables me to conduct you at once to your apartment. Will youproceed? This way. A torch, Bellines! We have been looking for youthese two days; which happens very well, as we have been enabled toprepare for you. Torches, Bellines! This way. We mount a few steps,you perceive. We are not taking you underground, though I call forlights; but this passage to the left, you perceive, is rather dark.Yes, that is our well; and a great depth it is--deeper, I assure you,than this rock is high. What do they call the depth, Chalot? Well,never mind the depth! You can follow me, I believe, without waiting fora light. We cannot go wrong. Through this apartment to the left."
Toussaint, however, chose to wait for Bellines and his torch. He choseto see what he could of the passages of his prison. If this vault inwhich he stood were not underground, it was the dreariest apartment fromwhich the daylight had ever been built out. In the moment's pauseoccasioned by his not moving on when desired, he heard the dripping ofwater as in a well.
Bellines appeared, and his torch showed the stone walls of the vaultshining with the trickling of water. A cold steam appeared to thickenthe air, oppress the lungs, and make the torch burn dim.
"To what apartment can this be the passage?" thought Toussaint. "Thegrave is warm compared with this."
A glance of wretchedness from Mars Plaisir, seen in the torchlight, asBellines passed on to the front, showed that the poor fellow's spirits,and perhaps some visions of a merry life among the soldiers, had meltedalready in the damps of this vault. Rubaut gave him a push, whichshowed that he was to follow the torch-bearer.
Through this vault was a passage, dark, wet, and slippery. In theleft-hand wall of this passage was a door, studded with iron nailsthickly covered with rust. The key was in this door. During theinstant required for throwing it wide, a large flake of ice fell fromthe ceiling of the passage upon the head of Toussaint. He shook it off,and it extinguished the torch.
"You mean to murder us," said he, "if you propose to place us here. Doyou not know that ice and darkness are the negro's poison? Snow, too,"he continued, advancing to the cleft of his dungeon wall, at the outwardextremity of which was his small grated window. "Snow piled againstthis window now! We shall be buried under it in winter."
"You will have good fires in winter."
"In winter! Yes! this night; or I shall never see winter."
"This night! Oh, certainly! You can have a fire, though it is notusual with us at this season. Bellines--a fire here immediately."
He saw his prisoner surveying, by the dim light from the deep window,the miserable cell--about twenty-eight feet by thirteen, built of blocksof stone, its vaulted ceiling so low that it could be touched by thehand; its floor, though planked, rotten and slippery with wet; and nofurniture to be seen but a table, two chairs, and two heaps of straw inopposite corners.
"I am happy," said the Commandant, "to have been able to avoid puttingyou underground. The orders I have had, from the First Consul himself,as to your being _mis au secret_, are very strict. Notwithstandingthat, I have been able, you see, to place you in an apartment whichoverlooks the courtyard; an
d which, too, affords you other objects"--pointing through the gratings to the few feet of the pavement without,and the few yards of the perpendicular rock opposite, which might beseen through the loop-hole.
"How many hours of the day and night are we to pass in tills place?"
"How many hours? We reckon twenty-four hours to the day and night, asis the custom in Europe," replied Rubaut; whether in ignorance or irony,his prisoner could not, in the dim twilight, ascertain. He only learnedtoo surely that no exit from this cell was to be allowed.
Firewood and light were brought. Rubaut, eager to be busy till he couldgo, and to be gone as soon as possible, found fault with somelong-deceased occupant of the cell, for having covered its archedceiling with grotesque drawings in charcoal; and then with Bellines, fornot having dried the floor. Truly the light gleamed over it as over apond. Bellines pleaded in his defence that the floor had been driedtwice since morning; but that there was no stopping the melting of theice above. The water would come through the joints till the winterfrosts set in.
"Ay, the winter frosts--they will set all to rights. They will cure themelting of the ice, no doubt." Turning to his prisoners, hecongratulated himself on not being compelled to search their persons.The practice of searching was usual, but might, he rejoiced to say, bedispensed with on the present occasion. He might now, therefore, havethe pleasure of wishing them a good evening.
Pointing to the two heaps of straw, he begged that his prisoners wouldlay down their beds in any part of the cell which pleased them best.Their food, and all that they wanted, would be brought to the doorregularly. As for the rest, they would wait upon each other. Havingthus exhausted his politeness, he quitted the cell; and lock, bolt, andbar were fastened upon the captives.
By the faint light, Toussaint then perceived that his companion wasstruggling with laughter. When Mars Plaisir perceived by his master'ssmile that he had leave to give way, he laughed till the cell rangagain, saying--
"Wait upon each other! His Excellency wait upon me! His Excellencywait upon anybody!"
"There would be nothing new in that. I have endeavoured to wait uponothers all my life. Rarely does Providence grant the favour to waitupon so many."
Mars Plaisir did not comprehend this, and therefore continued--
"These whites think that we blacks are created to be serving, servingalways--always serving."
"And they are right. Their mistake is in not seeing that the same isthe case with all other men."
In his incessant habit of serving those about him, Toussaint nowremembered that it would be more kind to poor Mars Plaisir to employhim, than to speak of things which he could not comprehend. He signedto him, therefore, to shake down the straw on each side the fireplace.Mars Plaisir sacrificed some of his own bundle to wipe down the wetwalls; but it was all in vain. During the silence, while his master wasmeditating 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 tothe 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 thefire; 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 tomake 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 theother heap of straw; but a large flake of ice had fallen upon it fromthe 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, nowspreading his thin hands over the fire, his furrowed face now and thenlighted up by the blaze which sprang fitfully through the smoke--hethought of the hall of audience at Port-au-Prince, of the gardens atPongaudin, of the Place d'Armes at Cap Francais on review-days, of themilitary journeys and official fetes of the Commander-in-Chief, and helooked upon him now. He burst into tears as uncontrollable as hislaughter had been before. Peeling his master's hand upon his shoulder,he considered it necessary to give a reason for his grief, and sobbedout--
"They treat your Excellency as if your Excellency were nobody. Theygive your Excellency no title. They will not even call you General."
Toussaint laughed at this cause of grief in such a place; but MarsPlaisir insisted upon it.
"How would they like it themselves? What would the First Consul himselfsay 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 asoul, 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 sobschoked him in the midst of his complaints. Toussaint turned again tothe fire, and presently began to sing one of the most familiar songs ofSaint Domingo. He had not sung a stanza before, as he had anticipated,his servant joined in, rising from his attitude of despair, and singingwith as much animation as if he had been on the Haut-du-Cap. This wassoon put a stop to by a sentinel, who knocked at the door to commandsilence.
"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 itpleased his master. Have I not seen even you cover up the cage? Butsing--sing softly, and they may not hear you."
When supper was brought, fresh straw and more firewood were granted. Athis master's bidding, and under the influence of these comforts, MarsPlaisir composed himself to sleep.
Toussaint sat long beside the fire. He could not have slept. The weeksthat had passed since he left Saint Domingo had not yet reconciled hisear to the silence of a European night. At sea, the dash of the wavesagainst the ship's side had lulled him to rest. Since he had landed, hehad slept little, partly from privation of exercise, partly from theaction of over-busy thoughts; but also, in part, from the absence ofthat hum of life which, to the natives of the tropics, is the incentiveto sleep and its accompaniment. Here, there was but the crackle of theburning 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 whetherhis 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 ofhis condition. It was a cruel aggravation of his sufferings to have hisservant 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 pursuitof his supposed treasures, or the hope of mastering all his designs,real or imaginary; and he suspected that Mars Plaisir would be left longenough with him to receive the overflowings of his confidence (so hardto restrain in such circumstances as theirs!) and would then be tamperedwith by the agents of the First Consul. What was the nature andefficacy of their system of cross-examination, he knew; and he knew hownothing but ignorance could preserve poor Mars Plaisir from treachery.Here, therefore--here, in this cell, without resource, withoutcompanionship, without solace of any kind, it would be necessary,perhaps, through long months, to set a watch upon his lips, as strict aswhen he dined with the French Commissaries at Government-House, or whenhe was weighing the Report of the Central Assembly, regarding a Colonialconstitution. For the reserve which his function had imposed upon himat home, he had been repaid by a thousand enjoyments. Now, no moresympathy, no more ministering from his family!--no more could he open toMargot his glory in Placide, his hopes from Denis, his cares for hisother children, to uphold them under a pressure of influences which weretoo strong for them; no more could he look upon the friendly face ofHenri, and unbosom himself to him in sun or shade; no more
could he lookupon the results of his labours in the merchant fleets on the sea, andthe harvests burdening the plains! No more could happy voices, from athousand homes, come to him in blessing and in joy! No more music, nomore sunshine, no more fragrance; no more certainty, either, that otherswere now enjoying what he had parted with for ever! Not only might henever hear what had ensued upon the "truce till August," but he mustcarefully conceal his anxiety to hear--his belief that there were suchtidings to be told. In the presence of Mars Plaisir, he could scarcelyeven think of that which lay heaviest at his heart--of what Henri haddone, in consequence of his abduction--of his poor oppressed blacks--whether they had sunk under the blow for the time, and so delayed thearrival of that freedom which they must at length achieve; or whetherthey had risen, like a multitudinous family of bereaved children, towork out the designs of the father who had been snatched from them. Ofall this there could be no speech (scarcely a speculation in his secretsoul) in the presence of one who must, if he heard, almost necessarilybecome a traitor. And then his family! From them he had vanished; andhe 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 becomeof him. For their personal safety, now that he was helpless, he trustedthere was little cause for fear; but what peace of mind could theyenjoy, while in ignorance of his fate? He fancied them imploring oftheir guardians tidings of him, in vain; questioning the four winds forwhispers of his retreat; pacing every cemetery for a grave that might behis; gazing up at the loopholes of every prison, with a fear that hemight be there; keeping awake at midnight, for the chance of a visitfrom his injured spirit; or seeking sleep, in the dim hope that he mightbe revealed to them in a dream. And all this must be but a dim dream tohim, except in such an hour as this--a chance hour when no eye was uponhim! The reconciling process was slow--but it was no less sure thanusual.
"Be it so!" was, as usual, his conclusion--"Be it so! for as long asHeaven pleases--though that cannot be long. The one consolation ofbeing buried alive, soul or body--or both, as in this case--is, thatrelease is sure and near. This poor fellow's spirit will die withinhim, and his body will then be let out--the consummation most necessaryfor him. And my body, already failing, will soon die, and my work bedone. To die, and to die thus, is part of my work; and I will do it aswillingly as in the field. Hundreds, thousands of my race have died forslavery, cooped up, pining, suffocated in slave-ships, in the wastes ofthe sea. Hundreds and thousands have thus died, without knowing the endfor which they perished. What is it, then, for one to die of cold inthe wastes of the mountains, for freedom, and knowing that freedom isthe end of his life and his death? What is it? If I groan, if Ishrink, 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 sunnyhome.