The Hour and the Man Part 26

"I undertake Rigaud. He shall never alarm you more. Farewell, Mademoiselle Aimee! I am going to the south. Rigaud is recruiting in the name of France; and I know France too well to allow of that. I shall stop his recruiting, and choke his blasphemy with a good French sword. Farewell, till I bring you news at Pongaudin that you may ride along the southern coast as securely as in your own cane-pieces."

"You are going?" said Aimee.

"This very hour. I south--L'Ouverture north--"

"And the rest to Pongaudin with the dawn," said Toussaint.

"What is your pleasure concerning me?" asked Moyse. "I wait your orders."

"I remember my promise," said Toussaint; "but I must not leave my family unprotected. You will attend them to Pongaudin: and then let me see you at Cap, with the speed of the wind."

"With a speed like your own, if that be possible," said Moyse.

"Is there danger, father?" asked Genifrede, trembling.

"My child, there is danger in the air we breathe, and the ground we tread on: but there is protection also, everywhere."

"You will see Afra, father," said Aimee. "If there is danger, what will become of Afra? Her father will be in the front, in any disturbance: and Government-house is far from being the safest place."

"I will not forget Afra. Farewell, my children! Go now to your mother; and, before this hour to-morrow, I shall think of you resting at Pongaudin."

They saw him mount before the courtyard, and set off, followed by one of his two trompettes--the only hors.e.m.e.n in the island who could keep up with him, and therefore his constant attendants in his most important journeys. The other was gone forward, to order horses from post to post.

Vincent, having received written instructions from the secretary, set off in an opposite direction, more gay than those he left behind.

The loftiest trees of the rich plain were still touched with golden light; and the distant bay glittered so as to make the gazers turn away their eyes, to rest on the purple mountains to the north: but their hearts were anxious; and they saw neither the glory nor the beauty of which they heard talk between the painter, the architect, and their host.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

A NIGHT OF OFFICE.

As soon as Toussaint was out of hearing of his family and suite, he put his horse to its utmost speed. There was not a moment to be lost, if the peace of the island was to be preserved. Faster than ever fugitive escaped from trouble and danger, did the negro commander rush towards them. The union between the black and white races probably depended on his reaching Cap by the early morning--in time to prevent certain proclamations of Hedouville, framed in ignorance of the state of the colony and the people, from being published. Forty leagues lay between L'Etoile and Cap, and two mountain ridges crossed his road: but he had ridden forty leagues in a night before, and fifty in a long day; and he thought little of the journey. As he rode, he meditated the work of the next day, while he kept his eye awake, and his heart open, to the beauty of the night.

He had cleared the plain, with his trompette at his heels, before the woods and fields had melted together into the purple haze of evening; and the labourers returning from the cane-pieces, with their tools on their shoulders, offered their homage to him as he swept by. Some shouted, some ran beside him, some kneeled in the road and blessed him, or asked his blessing. He came to the river, and found the ford lined by a party of negroes, who, having heard and known his horse's tread, above the music of pipe and drum, had thrown themselves into the water to point out the ford, and save his precious moments. He dashed through uncovered, and was lost in the twilight before their greeting was done.

The evening star was just bright enough to show its image in the still salt-lake, when he met the expected relay, on the verge of the mountain woods. Thence the ascent was so steep, that he was obliged to relax his speed. He had observed the birds winging home to these woods; they had reached it before him, and the chirp of their welcome to their nests was sinking into silence; but the whirring beetles were abroad. The frogs were scarcely heard from the marshes below; but the lizards and crickets vied with the young monkeys in noise, while the wood was all alight with luminous insects. Wherever a twisted fantastic cotton-tree, or a drooping wild fig, stood out from the thicket and apart, it appeared to send forth streams of green flame from every branch; so incessantly did the fireflies radiate from every projecting twig.

As he ascended, the change was great. At length there was no more sound; there were no more flitting fires. Still as sleep rose the mountain-peaks to the night. Still as sleep lay the woods below. Still as sleep was the outspread western sea, silvered by the steady stars which shone, still as sleep, in the purple depths of heaven. Such was the starlight on that pinnacle, so large and round the silver globes, so bright in the transparent atmosphere were their arrowy rays, that the whole, vault was as one constellation of little moons, and the horse and his rider saw their own shadows in the white sands of their path. The ridge pa.s.sed, down plunged the horseman, hurrying to the valley and the plain; like rocks loosened by the thunder from the mountain-top. The hunter, resting on the heights from his day's chase of the wild goats, started from his sleep, to listen to what he took for a threatening of storm. In a little while, the child in the cottage in the valley nestled close to its mother, scared at the flying tramp; while the trembling mother herself prayed for the s.h.i.+eld of the Virgin's grace against the night-fiends that were abroad. Here, there was a solitary light in the plain; there, beside the river; and yonder, behind the village; and at each of these stations were fresh horses, the best in the region, and smiling faces to tender their use. The panting animals that were left behind were caressed for the sake of the burden they had carried, and of the few kind words dropped by their rider during his momentary pause.

Thus was the plain beyond Mirbalais pa.s.sed soon after midnight. In the dark the hors.e.m.e.n swam the Artibonite, and leaped the sources of the Pet.i.te Riviere. The eastern sky was beginning to brighten as they mounted the highest steeps above Atalaye; and from the loftiest point, the features of the wide landscape became distinct in the cool grey dawn. Toussaint looked no longer at the fading stars. He looked eastwards, where the green savannahs spread beyond the reach of human eye. He looked northwards, where towns and villages lay in the skirts of the mountains, and upon the verge of the rivers, and in the green recesses where the springs burst from the hill-sides. He looked westwards, where the broad and full Artibonite gushed into the sea, and where the yellow bays were thronged with s.h.i.+pping, and every green promontory was occupied by its plantation or fis.h.i.+ng hamlet. He paused, for one instant, while he surveyed what he well knew to be virtually his dominions. He said to himself that with him it rested to keep out strife from this paradise--to detect whatever devilish cunning might lurk in its by-corners, and rebuke whatever malice and revenge might linger within its bounds. With the thought he again sprang forward, again plunged down the steeps, scudded over the wilds, and splashed through the streams; not losing another moment till his horse stood trembling and foaming under the hot sun, now touching the Haut-du-Cap, where the riders had at length pulled up. Here they had overtaken the first trompette, who, having had no leader at whose heels he must follow, had been unable, with all his zeal, quite to equal the speed of his companion. He had used his best efforts, and showed signs of fatigue; but yet they had come upon his traces on the gra.s.s road from the Gros Morne, and had overtaken him as he was toiling up the Haut-du-Cap.

Both waited for orders, their eyes fixed on their master's face, as they saw him stand listening, and glancing his eye over the city, the harbour, and the road from the Plain du Nord. He saw afar signs of trouble: but he saw also that he was not too late. He looked down into the gardens of Government-house. Was it possible that he would show himself there, heated, breathless, covered with dust as he was? No. He dismounted, and gave his horse to the trompettes, ordering them to go by the most public way to the hotel, in Place Mont Archer, to give notice of the approach of his secretary and staff; and thence to the barracks, where he would appear when he had bathed.

The trompettes would have gone round five weary miles for the honour of carrying messages from the Commander-in-chief through the princ.i.p.al streets of Cap. They departed with great zeal, while Toussaint ascended to the mountain-pool, to take the plunge in which he found his best refreshment after a long ride. He was presently walking leisurely down the sloping field, through which he could drop into the grounds of Government-house by a back gate, and have his interview with Hedouville before interruption came from the side of the town. As he entered the gardens, he looked, to the wondering eyes he met there, as if he had just risen from rest, to enjoy a morning walk in the shrubberies. They were almost ready to understand, in its literal sense, the expression of his wors.h.i.+ppers, that he rode at ease upon the clouds.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

AN OLD MAN IN NEW DAYS.

Before the sun had touched the roofs of the town of Cap--while the streets lay cool and grey under the heights, which glowed in the flames of sunrise--most of the inhabitants were up and stirring. Euphrosyne Revel was at her grandfather's chamber-door; first listening for his call, and then softly looking in, to see whether he could still be sleeping. The door opened and shut by a spring, so that the old man did not hear the little girl as she entered, though his sleep was not sound.

As Euphrosyne saw how restless he was, and heard him mutter, she thought she would rouse him: but she stayed her hand, as she remembered that he might have slept ill, and might still settle for another quiet doze, if left undisturbed. With a gentle hand she opened one of the jalousies, to let in more air; and she chose one which was shaded by a tree outside, that no glare of light might enter with the breeze.

What she saw from this window drew her irresistibly into the balcony.

It was a tree belonging to the convent which waved before the window; and below lay the convent garden, fresh with the dews of the night.

There stretched the green walks, so glittering with diamond-drops and with the gossamer as to show that no step had pa.s.sed over them since dawn. There lay the parterres--one crowded with geraniums of all hues; another with proud lilies, white, orange, and purple; and another with a flowering pomegranate in the centre, while the gigantic white and blue convolvulus coveted the soil all around, mixing with the bright green leaves and crimson blossoms of the hibiscus. No one seemed to be abroad, to enjoy the garden during this the freshest hour of the day; no one but the old black gardener, Raphael, whose cracked voice might be heard at intervals from the depths of the shrubbery in the opposite corner, singing s.n.a.t.c.hes of the hymns which the sisters sung in the chapel. When his hoa.r.s.e music ceased, the occasional snap of a bough, and movements among the bushes, told that the old man was still there, busy at his work.

Euphrosyne wished that he would come out, within sight of the beckon of her hand. She dared not call, for fear of wakening her grandfather: but she very much wanted a flowering orange branch. A gay little humming-bird was sitting and hovering near her; and she thought that a bunch of fragrant blossoms would entice it in a moment. The little creature came and went, flew round the balcony and retired: and still old Raphael kept out of sight behind the leafy screen.

"It will be gone, pretty creature!" said Euphrosyne to herself; "and all for want of a single bough from all those thickets!"

A thought struck her. Her morning frock was tied round the waist with a cord, having ta.s.sels which hung down nearly to her feet. She took off the cord, made a noose in it, and let it down among the shrubs below, swinging the end this way and that, as she thought best for catching some stray twig. She pursued her aim for a time, sending showers of dew-drops paltering down, and knocking off a good many blossoms, but catching nothing. She was so busy, that she did not see that a grey-suited nun had come out, with a wicker cage in her hand, and was watching her proceedings.

"What are you doing, my child?" asked the nun, approaching, as a new shower of dew-drops and blossoms was shaken abroad. "If you desire to fish, I doubt not our reverend mother will make you welcome to our pond yonder."

"Oh, sister Christine! I am glad you are come out," said Euphrosyne, bending over the balcony, and speaking in a low, though eager voice.

"Do give me a branch of something sweet,--orange, or citron, or something. This humming-bird, will be gone if we do not make haste-- Hus.h.!.+ Do not call. Grandpapa is not awake yet. Please, make haste."

Sister Christine was not wont to make haste; but she did her best to gratify Euphrosyne. She went straight to the corner of the shrubbery where the abbess's mocking-bird spent all its summer days, hung up the cage, and brought back what Euphrosyne had asked. The branch was drawn up in the noose of the cord, and the nun could not but stand and watch the event.

The bough was stuck between two of the bars of the jalousie, and the girl withdrew to the end of the balcony. The humming-bird appeared, hovered round, and at last inserted its long beak in a blossom, sustaining itself the while on its quivering wings. Before proceeding to another blossom it flew away. Euphrosyne cast a smile down to the nun, and placed herself against the jalousie, holding the branch upon her head. As she had hoped, two humming-birds returned. After some hesitation, they came for more of their sweet food, and Euphrosyne felt that her hair was blown about on her forehead by the motion of their busy wings. She desired, above everything, to keep still; but this strong desire, and the sight of sister Christine's grave face turned so eagerly upwards, made her laugh so as to shake the twigs very fearfully.

Keeping her hand with the branch steady, she withdrew her head from beneath, and then stole slowly and cautiously backward within the window--the birds following. She now heard her grandfather's voice, calling feebly and fretfully. She half turned to make a signal for silence, which the old man so far observed as to sink his complaints to a mutter. The girl put the branch into a water-jar near the window, and then stepped lightly to the bed.

"What is all this nonsense?" said Monsieur Revel. "Why did not you come the moment I called?"

"Here I am, grandpapa--and do look--look at my humming-birds!"

"Humming-birds--nonsense! I called you twice."

Yet the old gentleman rubbed his eyes, which did not seem yet quite awake. He rubbed his eyes and looked through the shaded room, as if to see Euphrosyne's new plaything. She brought him his spectacles from the toilette, helped to raise him up, threw a shawl over his shoulders, and placed his pillows at his back. Perceiving that he still could not see very distinctly, she opened another blind, so as to let one level ray of suns.h.i.+ne fall upon the water-jar, and the little radiant creatures that were hovering about it.

"There! there!" cried Monsieur Revel, in a pleased tone.

"Now I will go and bring you your coffee," said Euphrosyne.

"Stop, stop, child! Why are you in such a hurry? I want to know what is the matter. Such a night as I have had!"

"A bad night, grandpapa? I am sorry."

"Bad enough! How came my light to go out? And what is all this commotion in the streets?"

Euphrosyne went to the night-lamp, and found that a very large flying beetle had disabled itself by breaking the gla.s.s, and putting out the light. There it lay dead--a proof at least that there were no ants in the room.

"Silly thing!" said Euphrosyne. "I do wish these beetles would learn to fly properly. He must have startled you, grandpapa. Did not you think it was a thief, when you were left in the dark?"

"It is very odd that n.o.body about me can find me a lamp that will serve me. And then, what is all this bustle in the town? Tell me at once what is the matter."