The Hour and the Man Part 72

Mars Plaisir shook his head. He proceeded mournfully to spread the other heap of straw; but a large flake of ice had fallen upon it from the 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, now spreading his thin hands over the fire, his furrowed face now and then lighted up by the blaze which sprang fitfully through the smoke--he thought of the hall of audience at Port-au-Prince, of the gardens at Pongaudin, of the Place d'Armes at Cap Francais on review-days, of the military journeys and official fetes of the Commander-in-Chief, and he looked upon him now. He burst into tears as uncontrollable as his laughter had been before. Peeling his master's hand upon his shoulder, he considered it necessary to give a reason for his grief, and sobbed out--

"They treat your Excellency as if your Excellency were n.o.body. They give your Excellency no t.i.tle. They will not even call you General."

Toussaint laughed at this cause of grief in such a place; but Mars Plaisir insisted upon it.

"How would they like it themselves? What would the First Consul himself say if he were a prisoner, and his gaolers refused him his t.i.tles?"

"I do not suppose him to be a man of so narrow a heart, and so low a soul, 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 sobs choked him in the midst of his complaints. Toussaint turned again to the fire, and presently began to sing one of the most familiar songs of Saint Domingo. He had not sung a stanza before, as he had antic.i.p.ated, his servant joined in, rising from his att.i.tude of despair, and singing with as much animation as if he had been on the Haut-du-Cap. This was soon put a stop to by a sentinel, who knocked at the door to command silence.

"They cannot hear us if we want dry straw," said Mars Plaisir, pa.s.sionately: "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 it pleased his master. Have I not seen even you cover up the cage? But sing--sing softly, and they may not hear you."

When supper was brought, fresh straw and more firewood were granted. At his master's bidding, and under the influence of these comforts, Mars Plaisir composed himself to sleep.

Toussaint sat long beside the fire. He could not have slept. The weeks that had pa.s.sed since he left Saint Domingo had not yet reconciled his ear to the silence of a European night. At sea, the dash of the waves against the s.h.i.+p's side had lulled him to rest. Since he had landed, he had slept little, partly from privation of exercise, partly from the action of over-busy thoughts; but also, in part, from the absence of that hum of life which, to the natives of the tropics, is the incentive to sleep and its accompaniment. Here, there was but the crackle of the burning wood, and the plas.h.i.+ng of water, renewed from minute to minute, till it became a fearful doubt--a pa.s.sing doubt, but very fearful-- whether his ear could become accustomed to the dreary sound, or whether his 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 of his condition. It was a cruel aggravation of his sufferings to have his servant 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 pursuit of his supposed treasures, or the hope of mastering all his designs, real or imaginary; and he suspected that Mars Plaisir would be left long enough with him to receive the overflowings of his confidence (so hard to restrain in such circ.u.mstances as theirs!) and would then be tampered with by the agents of the First Consul. What was the nature and efficacy of their system of cross-examination, he knew; and he knew how nothing but ignorance could preserve poor Mars Plaisir from treachery.

Here, therefore--here, in this cell, without resource, without companions.h.i.+p, without solace of any kind, it would be necessary, perhaps, through long months, to set a watch upon his lips, as strict as when he dined with the French Commissaries at Government-House, or when he was weighing the Report of the Central a.s.sembly, regarding a Colonial const.i.tution. For the reserve which his function had imposed upon him at home, he had been repaid by a thousand enjoyments. Now, no more sympathy, no more ministering from his family!--no more could he open to Margot his glory in Placide, his hopes from Denis, his cares for his other children, to uphold them under a pressure of influences which were too strong for them; no more could he look upon the friendly face of Henri, and unbosom himself to him in sun or shade; no more could he look upon the results of his labours in the merchant fleets on the sea, and the harvests burdening the plains! No more could happy voices, from a thousand homes, come to him in blessing and in joy! No more music, no more suns.h.i.+ne, no more fragrance; no more certainty, either, that others were now enjoying what he had parted with for ever! Not only might he never hear what had ensued upon the "truce till August," but he must carefully conceal his anxiety to hear--his belief that there were such tidings to be told. In the presence of Mars Plaisir, he could scarcely even think of that which lay heaviest at his heart--of what Henri had done, in consequence of his abduction--of his poor oppressed blacks-- whether they had sunk under the blow for the time, and so delayed the arrival of that freedom which they must at length achieve; or whether they had risen, like a mult.i.tudinous family of bereaved children, to work out the designs of the father who had been s.n.a.t.c.hed from them. Of all this there could be no speech (scarcely a speculation in his secret soul) in the presence of one who must, if he heard, almost necessarily become a traitor. And then his family! From them he had vanished; and he 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 become of him. For their personal safety, now that he was helpless, he trusted there was little cause for fear; but what peace of mind could they enjoy, while in ignorance of his fate? He fancied them imploring of their guardians tidings of him, in vain; questioning the four winds for whispers of his retreat; pacing every cemetery for a grave that might be his; gazing up at the loopholes of every prison, with a fear that he might be there; keeping awake at midnight, for the chance of a visit from his injured spirit; or seeking sleep, in the dim hope that he might be revealed to them in a dream. And all this must be but a dim dream to him, except in such an hour as this--a chance hour when no eye was upon him! The reconciling process was slow--but it was no less sure than usual.

"Be it so!" was, as usual, his conclusion--"Be it so! for as long as Heaven pleases--though that cannot be long. The one consolation of being buried alive, soul or body--or both, as in this case--is, that release is sure and near. This poor fellow's spirit will die within him, and his body will then be let out--the consummation most necessary for him. And my body, already failing, will soon die, and my work be done. To die, and to die thus, is part of my work; and I will do it as willingly as in the field. Hundreds, thousands of my race have died for slavery, cooped up, pining, suffocated in slave-s.h.i.+ps, in the wastes of the sea. Hundreds and thousands have thus died, without knowing the end for which they perished. What is it, then, for one to die of cold in the wastes of the mountains, for freedom, and knowing that freedom is the end of his life and his death? What is it? If I groan, if I shrink, may my race curse me, and my G.o.d cast me out!"

A warmer glow than the dying embers could give pa.s.sed through his frame; and he presently slept, basking till morning in dreams of his sunny home.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

HALF FREE.

Autumn faded, and the long winter of the Jura came on, without bringing changes of any importance to the prisoners--unless it were that, in addition to the wood-fire, which scarcely kept up the warmth of life in their bodies, they were allowed a stove. This indulgence was not in answer to any request of theirs. Toussaint early discovered that Rubaut would grant nothing that was asked for, but liked to bestow a favour spontaneously, now and then. This was a clear piece of instruction; by which, however, Mars Plaisir was slow to profit. Notwithstanding his master's explanations and commands, and his own promises, fervently given when they were alone, he could never see the Commandant without pouting out all his complaints, and asking for everything relating to external comfort that his master had been accustomed to at Pongaudin. A stove, not being among the articles of furniture there, was not asked for; and thus this one comfort was not intercepted by being named.

Books were another. Mars Plaisir had been taught to read and write in one of the public schools in the island; but his tastes did not lie in the direction of literature; and he rarely remembered that he possessed the accomplishment of being able to read, except when circ.u.mstances called upon him to boast of his country and his race. Books were therefore brought, two at a time, with the Commandant's compliments; two at a time, for the rule of treating the prisoners as equals was exactly observed. This civility brought great comfort to Toussaint--the greatest except solitude. He always chose to suppose that Mars Plaisir was reading when he held a book: and he put a book into his hands daily when he opened his own. Many an hour did he thus obtain for the indulgence of his meditations; and while his servant was wondering how he could see to read by the dim light which came in at the window--more dim each day, as the snow-heap there rose higher--or by the fitful flame of the fire, his thoughts were far away, beating about amidst the struggle then probably going on in Saint Domingo; or exploring, with wonder and sorrow, the narrow and darkened pa.s.sages of that mind which he had long taken to be the companion of his own; or springing forward into the future, and reposing in serene faith on the condition of his people when, at length, they should possess their own souls, and have learned to use their human privileges. Many a time did Mars Plaisir, looking off from a volume of the Philosophical Dictionary, which yielded no amus.e.m.e.nt to him, watch the bright smile on his master's face, and suppose it owing to the jokes in the Racine he held, when that smile arose from pictures formed within of the future senates, schools, courts, and virtuous homes, in which his dusky brethren would hereafter be exercising and securing their lights. Not ungratefully did he use his books the while. He read and enjoyed; but his greatest obligations to them were for the suggestions they afforded, the guidance they offered to his thoughts to regions amidst which his prison and his sufferings were forgotten.

At times, the servant so far broke through his habitual deference for his master as to fling down his book upon the table, and then beg pardon, saying that they should both go mad if they did not make some noise. When he saw the snow falling perpetually, noiseless as the dew, he longed for the sheeted rains of his own winter, splas.h.i.+ng as if to drown the land. Here, there was only the eternal drip, drip, which his ear was weary of months ago.

"Cannot you fancy it rain-drops falling from a palm-leaf? Shut your eyes and try," said his master.

It would not do. Mars Plaisir complained that the Commandant had promised that this drip should cease when the frosts of winter came.

"So it might, but for our stove. But then our ears would have been frozen up, too. We should have been underground by this time--which they say we are not now, though it is hard, sometimes to believe them.

However, we shall hear something by-and-by that will drown the drip.

Among these mountains, there must be thunder. In the summer, Mars Plaisir, we may hear thunder."

"In the summer!" exclaimed Mars Plaisir, covering his face with his hands.

"That is, not you, but I. I hope they will let you out long before the summer."

"Does your Excellency hope so?" cried Mars Plaisir, springing to his feet.

"Certainly, my poor fellow. The happiest news I expect ever to hear is that you are to be released: and this news I do expect to hear. They will not let you go home, to tell where I am; but they will take you out of this place."

"Oh, your Excellency! if you think so, would your Excellency be pleased to speak for me--to ask the Commandant to let me out? If you will tell him that my rheumatism will not let me sleep--I do not want to go home-- I do not want to leave your Excellency, except for your Excellency's good. I would say all I could for you, and kneel to the First Consul; and, if they would not set you free, I would--" Here his voice faltered, but he spoke the words--"I would come back into your Excellency's service in the summer--when I had got cured of my rheumatism. If you would speak a word to the Commandant!"

"I would, if I were not sure of injuring you by doing so. Do you not see that nothing is to be granted us that we ask for? Speak not another word of liberty, and you may have it. Ask for it, and you are here for life--or for my life. Remember!"

Mars Plaisir stood deep in thought.

"You have never asked for your liberty?" said his master. "No. I knew that, for my sake, you had not. Has no one ever mentioned liberty to you? I understand," he continued, seeing an expression of confusion in the poor fellow's face. "Do not tell me anything; only hear me. If freedom should be offered to you, take it. It is my wish--it is my command. Is there more wood? None but this?"

"None but this damp wood that chokes us with smoke. They send us the worst wood--the green, damp wood that the poorest of the whites in the castle will not use," cried Mars Plaisir, striving to work off his emotions in a fit of pa.s.sion. He kicked the unpromising log into the fireplace as he exclaimed--

"They think the worst of everything good enough for us, because we are blacks. Oh! oh!" Here his wrath was aggravated by a twinge of rheumatism. "They think anything good enough for blacks."

"Let them think so," said his master, kindly. "G.o.d does not. G.o.d did not think so when He gave us the soil of Africa, and the sun of Saint Domingo. When he planted the gardens of the world with palms, it was for the blacks. When He spread the wide shade of the banyan, He made a tent for the blacks. When He filled the air with the scent of the cinnamon and the cacao, was it not for the blacks to enjoy the fragrance? Has He not given them music? Has he not given them love and a home? What has He not given them? Let the whites think of us as they will! They shall be welcome to a share of what G.o.d gave the blacks, though they return us nothing better than wet wood, to warm us among their snows."

"It is true," said Mars Plaisir, his complacency completely restored--"G.o.d thinks nothing too good for the blacks. I will tell the First Consul so, if--"

"The First Consul would rather hear something else from you: and you know, Mars Plaisir, the whites laugh at us for our boastings. However, tell the First Consul what you will."

Again was Mars Plaisir silenced, and his countenance confused.

Perpetually, from this hour did he drop words which showed an expectation of seeing the First Consul--words which were never noticed by his master. Every time that the increasing weakness and pain under which Toussaint suffered forced themselves on his servant's observation--whenever the skeleton hands were rubbed in his own, to relieve cramps and restore warmth; or the friendly office was returned, in spite of the shame and confusion of the servant at finding himself thus served--with every drift of snow which blocked up the window--and every relaxation of frost, which only increased the worse evil of the damp--Mars Plaisir avowed or muttered the persuasive things he would say to the First Consul.

Toussaint felt too much sympathy to indulge in much contempt for his companion. He, too, found it hard to be tortured with cramps, and wrung by spasms--to enjoy no respite from vexations of body and spirit. He, too, found the pa.s.sage to the grave weary and dreary. And, as for an interview with Bonaparte, for how long had this been his first desire!

How distinctly had it of late been the reserve of his hope! Reminding himself, too, of the effects on the wretched of an indefinite hope, such as the unsettled mind and manners of his servant convinced him, more and more, had been held out--he could not, in the very midst of scenes of increasing folly and pa.s.sion, despise poor Mars Plaisir. He mistrusted him, however, and with a more irksome mistrust continually, while he became aware that Mars Plaisir was in the habit of lamenting Saint Domingo chiefly for the sake of naming Christophe and Dessalines, the companies in the mornes, the fever among the whites, and whatever might be most likely to draw his master into conversation on the hopes and resources of the blacks. He became more and more convinced that the weakness of his companion was practised upon, and possibly his attachment to his master, by promises of good to both, on condition of information furnished. He was nearly certain that he had once heard the door of the cell closed gently, as he was beginning to awake, in the middle of the night; and he was quite sure that he one day saw Mars Plaisir burn a note, as he replenished the fire, while he thought his master was busy reading. Not even these mysterious proceedings could make Toussaint feel anything worse than sorrowing pity for Mars Plaisir.

The Commandant had ceased to visit his prisoners. During the rest of the winter, he never came. He sent books occasionally, but less frequently. The supply of firewood was gradually diminished; and so was the quant.i.ty of food. The ailments of the prisoners were aggravated, from day-to-day; and if the Commandant had favoured them with his presence, he would have believed that he saw two dusky shadows amidst the gloom of their cell, rather than men.

One morning, Toussaint awoke, slowly and with difficulty, from a sleep which appeared to have been strangely sound for one who could not move a limb without pain, and who rarely, therefore, slept for many minutes together. It must have been strangely long, too; for the light was as strong as it had ever been at noon in this dim cell. Before he rose, Toussaint felt that there was suns.h.i.+ne in the air; and the thought that spring was come, sent a gleam of pleasure through his spirit. It was true enough. As he stood before the window, something like a shadow might be seen on the floor. No sky--not a shred the breadth of his hand--was to be seen. For six months past, he had behold neither cloud, nor star, nor the flight of a bird. But, casting a glance up to the perpendicular rock opposite, he saw that it faintly reflected suns.h.i.+ne.

He saw, moreover, something white moving--some living creature upon this rock. It was a young kid, standing upon a point or ledge imperceptible below--by its action, browsing upon some vegetation which could not be seen so far-off.

"Mars Plaisir! Mars Plaisir!" cried Toussaint. "Spring is come! The world is alive again, even here. Mars Plaisir!" There was no answer.

"He has slept deeply and long, like myself," said he, going, however, into the darker corner of the cell where Mars Plaisir's bed was laid.

The straw was there, but no one was on it. The stove was warm, but there was no fire in the fireplace. The small chest allowed for the prisoners' clothes was gone--everything was gone but the two volumes in which they had been reading the night before. Toussaint shook these books, to see if any note had been hidden in them. He explored them at the window, to discover any word of farewell that might be written on blank leaf or margin. There was none there; nor any sc.r.a.p of paper hidden in the straw, or dropped upon the floor. Mars Plaisir was gone, and had left no token.

"They drugged me--hence my long sleep," thought Toussaint. "They knew the poor fellow's weakness, and feared his saying too much, when it came to parting. I hope they will treat him well, for (thanks to my care for him!) he never betrayed me to them. I treated him well in taking care that he should not betray me to them, while they yet so far believed that he might as to release him. It is all well; and I am alone! It is almost like being in the free air. I am almost as free as yonder kid on the rock. My wife! my children! I may name you all now--name you in my thoughts and in my song. Placide! are you rousing the nations to ask the tyrant where I am? Henri! have you buried the dead whites yet in Saint Domingo? and have your rains done weeping the treason of those dead against freedom? Let it be so, Henri! Your rains have washed out the blood of this treason; and your dews have brought forth the verdure of your plains, to cover the graves of the guilty and the fallen. Take this lesson home, Henri! Forget--not me, for you must remember me in carrying on my work--but forget how you lost me. Believe that I fell in the mornes, and that you buried me there; believe this, rather than shed one drop of blood for me. Learn of G.o.d, not of Bonaparte, how to bless our race. Poison their souls no more with blood. The sword and the fever have done their work, and tamed your tyrants. As for the rest, act with G.o.d for our people! Give them harvests to their hands; and open the universe of knowledge before their eyes. Give them rest and stillness in the summer heats: and shelter them in virtuous and busy homes from the sheeted rains. It is enough that blood was the price of freedom--a heavy price, which has been paid. Let there be no such barter for vengeance. My children, hear me! Wherever you are--in the court of our tyrant, or on the wide sea, or on the mountain-top, where the very storms cannot make themselves heard so high--yet let your father's voice reach you from his living grave! No vengeance!

Freedom--freedom to the last drop of blood in the veins of our race!

Let our island be left to the wild herds and the reptiles, rather than be the habitation of slaves: but if you have established freedom there, it is holy ground, and no vengeance must profane it. If you love me and my race, you must forgive my murderers. Yes, murderers," he pursued in thought, after dwelling a while on the images of home and familiar faces, "murderers they already are, doubtless, in intent. I should have been sent hence long ago, but for the hope of reaching my counsels through Mars Plaisir. From the eyes of the world I have already disappeared; and nothing hinders the riddance of me now. Feeble as I am, the waiting for death may yet be tedious. If tedious for him who has this day done with me, how tedious for me, who have done with him and with all the world!--done with them, except as to the affections with which one may look back upon them from the clear heights on the other side of the dark valley. That I should pine and s.h.i.+ver long in the shadows of that valley would be tedious to him who drove me there before my time, and to me. He has never submitted to what is tedious, and he will not now."

The door of the cell was here softly opened, a head showed itself, and immediately disappeared. Toussaint silently watched the kid, as it moved from point to point on the face of the rock: and it was with some sorrow that he at last saw it spring away. Just then, Bellines entered with the usual miserable breakfast. Toussaint requested fire, to which Bellines a.s.sented. He then asked to have the window opened, that the air of the spring morning might enter. Bellines shrugged his shoulders, and observed that the air of these March mornings was sharp. The prisoner persisted, however; and with the fresh air, there came in upon him a fresh set of thoughts. Calling Bellines back, he desired, in a tone of authority, to see the Commandant.

It was strange to him--he wondered at himself on finding his mind filled with a new enterprise--with the idea of making a last appeal to Rubaut for freedom--an appeal to his justice, not to his clemency. With the chill breeze, there had entered the tinkle of the cow-bell, and the voices of children singing. These called up a vivid picture of the valley, as he had seen it on entering his prison--the small green level, the gus.h.i.+ng stream, the sunny rock, the girl with her distaff, tending the goats. He thought he could show his t.i.tle to, at least, a free sight of the face of nature; and the impulse did not immediately die.

During the morning, he listened for footsteps without. After some hours, he smiled at his own hope, and nearly ceased to listen. The face of the rock grow dim; the wind rose, and sleet was driven in at the window: so that he was compelled to use his stiff and aching limbs in climbing up to shut it. No one had remembered, or had chosen to make his fire; and he was s.h.i.+vering, as in an ague fit, when, late in the afternoon, Bellines brought in his second meal, and some fuel.

"The Commandant?"