The Hour and the Man Part 69

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

TRUCE NO MORE.

When Toussaint set foot on the deck of the _Heros_, on the evening of the next day, the commander stood ready to receive him--and not only the commander. Soldiers also stood ready with chains, with which they lost no time in fettering the old man's ankles and wrists. While they were doing this, Toussaint quietly said to the commander--

"By my overthrow, the trunk of the tree of negro liberty is laid low; only the trunk. It will shoot out again from the roots; and they are many and deep."

The moment the soldiers stepped back, and allowed access to him, Aimee was in his arms; and Isaac, in great agitation, presented himself.

"I will never leave you more, father!" said he. "These fetters!

Nothing should have made me believe such treatment possible. I trusted Leclerc as firmly as I trusted you. I have been living with him while he meditated chains for you. I am humbled for ever! All I can do now is to devote myself to you, as Placide did at the right time. Would I were Placide! I am humbled for ever!"

"No, my son: not for ever. It is a common lot to be humbled for the credulous confidence of youth. It is a safer and a n.o.bler error, Isaac, than its opposite. It is better than unbelief in the virtue of man."

"You torture me with your goodness, father!"

"I deal with you as with myself, Isaac. In the young days of my freedom I trusted falsely, as you have done. I believed in Bonaparte, as you have believed in Leclerc. We have both received a lesson; but I do not feel humbled for ever; nor must you."

"Would I were Placide!" was all that Isaac could say.

"You are so good to Isaac and me," said Aimee, timidly, "that perhaps you would (could you?) see Vincent."

"No, my child. Vincent is not like Isaac. He cannot be made wise by experience; and his folly is scarcely to be distinguished from treachery. I cannot see General Vincent."

No choice was allowed, however. Vincent rushed forward, knelt before Toussaint, and clasped his knees, imploring, in a convulsion of grief, pardon for the past, and permission to devote every hour of his future life to the family whom he had ruined.

"My pardon you have," said L'Ouverture. "I should rather say my compa.s.sion; for you never deliberately designed treachery, I am persuaded."

"I never did! I never did!"

"Neither had you any good design. You have been selfish, vain, and presumptuous; as far from comprehending my purposes as from having criminal ones of your own. In the new circ.u.mstances in which negroes are placed, many must fall, however firmly some may stand. You are among the infirm; and therefore, however I may mourn, I do not resent what you have done."

"Thank G.o.d! You pardon me! Thank G.o.d! Henceforth, with Aimee to watch over me--with you to guide me--"

"No, Vincent! You cannot be with me. Aimee is free as she has ever been; but you cannot be with me. I go to martyrdom: to fulfil what appears to be the solemn vocation of the Ouvertures. I go to martyrdom; and none but steady souls must travel that way with me."

"You scorn me," said Vincent, springing from his knees. "Your acts show that you scorn me. You take that poor fellow," pointing to Mars Plaisir, "and you reject me."

"My son's servant," said Toussaint, smiling. "He goes to his beloved France, free to quit us for any other service, when ours becomes too grave for his light spirit. I would not insult you by taking you on a like condition. You must leave us, Vincent," pointing to the _Creole's_ boat, now about to put off from the _Heros_. "We will pray for you.

Farewell!"

"Aimee!" said her lover, scarcely daring to raise his eyes to her face.

"Farewell, Vincent!" Aimee strove to say.

In vain Vincent endeavoured to plead. Aimee shook her head, signed to him to go, and hid her face on her father's shoulder. It was too much.

Humbled to the point of exasperation, Vincent throw himself over the s.h.i.+p's side into the boat, and never more saw the face of an Ouverture.

"I have nothing left but you," sobbed Aimee--"but you and my mother. If they kill you my mother will die, and I shall be desolate."

"Your brothers, my child."

"No, no. I have tried all. I left you to try. I loved you always; but I thought I loved others more. But--"

"But," said her father, when she could not proceed, "you found the lot of woman. To woman the affections are all: to men, even to brothers, they are not. Courage, Aimee! Courage! for you are an Ouverture.

Courage to meet your woman's martyrdom!"

"Let me rest upon your heart, father; and I can bear anything."

"Would I could, my child! But they will not allow it--these jailors.

They will part us."

"I wish these chains could bind me too--these very links--that I might never leave you," cried Aimee, kissing the fetters which bound her father's arms.

"Your mother's heart, Aimee; that remains."

"I will keep it from breaking, father, trust me."

And the mother and daughter tasted something like happiness, even in an hour like this, in their re-union. It was a strange kind of comfort to Aimee to hear from her mother how long ago her father had foreseen, at Pongaudin, that the day might come when her heart would be torn between her lover and her family. The impending blow had been struck--the struggle had taken place: and it only remained now to endure it.

"Father!" said Genifrede, appealing to Toussaint, with a grave countenance, "you say that none but brave and steady souls must go with you on your way to martyrdom. You know me to be cowardly as a slave, and unstable as yonder boat now tossing on the waves. Do you see that boat, father?"

"Surely--yes; it is Paul;" said Toussaint, looking through his gla.s.s.

"Paul is coming to say farewell."

"Let me return with him, father. Let me become his child. I am unworthy to be yours. And he and I are so forlorn!"

Her father's tender gaze encouraged her to say more. Drawing closer, she whispered--

"I have seen Moyse--I have seen him more than once in the Morne; and I cannot leave this place. Let me stay."

"Stay, my child. Seek consolation in your own way. We will all pray for you; we will all console your mother for your absence. We shall not meet again on earth, Genifrede."

"I know it, father. But the time of rest--how long it is in coming!"

"My child, our rest is in the soul--it lies not either in place or time.

Do not look for it in the grave, unless you have it first in the soul."

"Then would I had never been born!"

"How different will be your cry when you have been a daughter to Paul for a while! When you see him consoled, and reposing upon your care, you will say, 'I thank G.o.d that I have lived for this!' A great duty lies before you, my dear child; and in the heart of duty lies rest--a deeper than that of the grave. Shall I give you a duty to discharge for me?"

"Oh, yes! I will take it as your blessing."

"Convey to Christophe my last message. Bid him rejoice for me that my work is done. My work is now his. Bid him remember how we always agreed that freedom is safe. I bequeath the charge of it to him, with my blessing."

"He shall know this, if he lives, before the moon rises."