The Hour and the Man, An Historical Romance

by Harriet Martineau

  CHAPTER NINETEEN.

  LEISURE FOR ONCE.

  Precious to the statesman are the moments he can snatch for the commonpleasures which are strewed over the earth--meant, apparently, for theperpetual enjoyment of all its inhabitants. The child gathers flowersin the meadow, or runs up and down a green bank, or looks for birds'nests every spring day. The boy and girl hear the lark in the field andthe linnet in the wood, as a matter of course: they walk beside thegrowing corn, and pass beneath the rookery, and feel nothing of itsbeing a privilege. The sailor beholds the stars every bright night ofthe year, and is familiar with the thousand hues of the changing sea.The soldier on his march sees the sun rise and set on mountain andvalley, plain and forest. The citizen, pent up in the centre of awide-built town, has his hour for play with his little ones, hisevenings for his wife and his friends. But for the statesman, none ofthese are the pleasures of every day. Week after week, month aftermonth, he can have no eyes for the freshness of nature, no leisure forsmall affairs, or for talk about things which cannot be called affairsat all. He may gaze at pictures on his walls, and hear music from thedrawing-room, in the brief intervals of his labours; and he may now andthen be taken by surprise by a glimpse of the cool bright stars, or bythe waving of the boughs of some neighbouring tree. He may be beguiledby the grace or the freak of some little child, or struck: by somewandering flower scent in the streets, or some effect of sunlight on theevening cloud. But with these few and rare exceptions, he loses sightof the natural earth, and of its free intercourses, for weeks and monthstogether; and precious in proportion--precious beyond its utmostanticipation--are his hours of holiday when at length they come. Hegazes at the crescent moon hanging above the woods, and at the longmorning shadows on the dewy grass, as if they would vanish before hiseyes. He is intoxicated with the gurgle of the brook upon the stones,when he seeks the trout stream with his line and basket. The whirringof the wild bird's wing upon the moor, the bursting of the chase fromcover, the creaking of the harvest wain--the song of the vine-dressers--the laugh of the olive-gatherers--in every land where these sounds areheard, they make a child once more of the statesman who may for oncehave come forth to hear them. Sweeter still is the leisure hour withchildren in the garden or the meadow, and the quiet stroll with wife orsister in the evening, or the gay excursion during a whole day ofliberty. If Sunday evenings are sweet to the labourer whose toilsinvolve but little action of mind, how precious are his rarer holidaysto the state labourer, after the wear and tear of toil like his--afterhis daily experience of intense thought, of anxiety, and fear! In thepath of such should spring the freshest grass, and on their heads shouldfall the softest of the moonlight, and the balmiest of the airs ofheaven, if natural rewards are in any proportion to their purchase moneyof toil.

  The choicest holiday moments of the great negro statesman were thosewhich he could spend with his wife and children, away from observingeyes and listening ears. He was never long pent up in the city, ordetained by affairs within the walls of his palace. His business layabroad, for the most part; and he came and went continually, onhorseback, throughout every part of the island. Admirable as were hislaws and regulations, and zealously as he was served by his agents ofevery description, there was no security for the working of his systemso good as his own frequent presence among the adoring people. The samelove which made him so powerful abroad interfered with his comfort athome. There were persons ever on the watch for a glimpse of him, eagerto catch every word and every look: and the very rarest of his pleasureswas unwitnessed intercourse with his family.

  At length, when Hedouville was gone away from one port, and Rigaud fromanother--when neither spy nor foe appeared to remain--it seemed to betime for him, who had given peace and leisure to everybody else, toenjoy a little of it himself. He allowed his children, therefore, tofix a day when he should go with them on a fishing excursion round thelittle island of Gonaives, which was a beautiful object from the windowsof the house at Pongaudin, as it lay in the midst of the bay.

  The excursion had answered completely. General Vincent, leaving thesouth of the island in a state of perfect tranquillity, had arrived toenjoy his honours in the presence of L'Ouverture and his family. MadameDessalines had come over from Saint Marc. As Afra was of the party,Monsieur Pascal had found it possible to leave his papers for a fewhours. Toussaint had caught as many fish as if he had been Paulhimself. He had wandered away with his girls into the wood, till he wassent to the boats again by the country people who gathered about him;and he lay hidden with Denis under the awning of the barge, playing duckand drake on the smooth water, till the islanders found out where hewas, and came swimming out, to spoil their sport. It was a day too soongone: but yet he did not consider it ended when they landed atPongaudin, at ten o'clock. The moon was high, the gardens lookedlovely; and he led his wife away from the party, among the green alloysof the shrubbery.

  "I want to know what you think," exclaimed Madame L'Ouverture, as theyemerged from a shaded walk upon a grass plot, on which the light lay,clear and strong--"I want to ask you"--and as she spoke, she lookedround to see that no one was at hand--"whether you do not think thatGeneral Vincent loves Aimee."

  "I think he does. I suspected it before, and to-day I am sure of it."

  "And are not you glad?"

  "That partly depends on whether Aimee loves him. I doubt whetherVincent, who is usually a confident fellow enough, is so happy about thematter as you are."

  "Aimee is not one who will ever show herself too ready--Aimee is veryquiet--"

  "Well, but, is she ready in her heart? Does she care about Vincent?"

  "I do not know that she does quite, yet--though I think she likes himvery much, too. But surely she will love him--she must love him--somuch as he loves her--and so delightful, so desirable a match as it is,in every way!"

  "You think it so."

  "Why, do not you? Consider how many years we have known him, and whatconfidence you had in him when you sent him with our dear boys to Paris!And now he has done great things in the south. He comes, covered withglory, to ask us for our Aimee. What could be more flattering?"

  "It was our child's future happiness that I was thinking of, when Iseemed to doubt. Vincent is full of good qualities; but he is so whollyFrench that--"

  "Not so French as Monsieur Pascal, who was born, brought up, andemployed at Paris; and you are pleased that he should marry Afra."

  "Vincent is more French than Pascal, though he is a black. He isdevoted to Bonaparte--"

  "What of that?" said Madame L'Ouverture, after a pause. "He is devotedto you also. And are you not yourself devoted to France and toBonaparte? Do we not pray together for him every day of our lives?"

  "Remember, Margot, to pray for him every day, as long as you live, if Iam separated from you by death or otherwise. Pray that such a blessingmay rest upon him as that he may be wise to see his duty, and strong todo it. If he injures us, pray that he may be forgiven."

  "I will," replied Margot, in a low voice; "but--"

  She was lost in considering what this might mean.

  "As for Vincent," resumed Toussaint, "my doubt is whether, with hisviews and tastes, he ought to ally himself with a doomed man."

  "Vincent is ambitious, my dear husband; and, even if he did not love ourchild as he does, he might be anxious to ally himself with one sopowerful--so full of honours--with so very great a man as you. I wouldnot speak exactly so if we were not alone: but it is very true, now thatthe Central Assembly has declared you supreme in the colony. Considerwhat Vincent must think of that! And he has travelled so much in theisland, that he must have seen how you deserve all that is said of you.He has seen how all the runaways have come down from the mountains, andthe pirates in from the reefs and the coves; and how they are allhonestly cultivating the fields, and fishing in the bays. He has seenhow rich the whole island is growing; and how contented, andindustrious, and honest, the people are, in this short time. He hasseen th
at all this is your work: and he may well be ambitious to be yourson-in-law."

  "Unless he has the foresight to perceive, with all this, that I am adoomed man."

  "I thought you said so--I thought I heard that word before," saidMargot, in a trembling voice; "but I could not believe it."

  Toussaint knew by her tone that some vague idea of evil agency--somealmost forgotten superstition was crossing her imagination: and hehastened to explain.

  "Do not imagine," said he, solemnly, "do not for a moment suppose thatGod is not on our side--that He will for a moment forsake us. But it isnot always His pleasure that His servants should prosper, though theirgood work prospers in the end. I firmly trust and believe that ourFather will not permit us to be made slaves again; but it may be Hiswill that I and others should fall in defending our freedom."

  "But the wars are at an end. Your battles are all over, my love."

  "How can we be sure of that, when Bonaparte has yet to learn what theAssembly has done? Hedouville is on the way home, eager to report ofthe blacks, while he is ignorant of their minds, and prejudiced abouttheir conduct. Monsieur Papalier and other planters are at Paris, atthe ear of Bonaparte, while his ear is already so quickened by jealousy,that it takes in the lightest whisper against me and my race. How canwe say that my battles are over, love, when every new success and honourmakes this man, who ought to be my brother, yet more my foe?"

  "Oh, write to him! Write to him, and tell him how you would have him bea brother to you!"

  "Have I not written twice, and had no reply but neglect? I wrote to himto announce the earliest prospect of entire peace. I wrote again, toexplain my intercourse with his agent Roume, and requested his sanctionof what I had done. There has been no reply."

  "Then write again. Write this very night!"

  "I wrote yesterday, to inform him fully concerning the new constitutionframed by the Assembly. I told him that it should be put in forceprovisionally, till the pleasure of his government is made known."

  "Oh, then, that must bring an answer."

  Toussaint was silent.

  "He must send some sort of answer to that," pursued Margot. "Whatanswer do you think it will be?"

  "You remember the great eagle that I shot, when we lived under themountains, Margot? Do you remember how the kids played in the pasture,with the shadow of that huge eagle floating above them?"

  Margot, trembling, pressed closer to her husband's side.

  "You saw to-day," he continued, "that troop of gay dolphins, in thesmooth sea beyond the island. You saw the shark, with its glaring eyes,opening its monstrous jaws, as it rose near the pretty creatures, andhovered about them."

  "But you shot the eagle," cried Margot; "and Denis wounded the shark."

  "Heaven only knows how it may end with us," said Toussaint; "but we havethe shadow of Bonaparte's jealousy over us, and danger all about us.The greater our prosperity, the more certain is it to bring all Francedown upon us."

  "Oh, can Bonaparte be so cruel?"

  "I do not blame him for this our danger; and any future woe must all goto the account of our former slavery. We negroes are ignorant, and havebeen made loose, deceitful, and idle, by slavery. The whites have beenmade tyrannical and unjust, by being masters. They believe us nowambitious, rebellious, and revengeful, because it would be no wonder ifwe were so. All this injustice comes of our former slavery. God forbidthat I should be unjust too, and lay the blame where it is not due! Fornothing done or feared in Saint Domingo do I blame Bonaparte."

  "Then you think--Oh! say you think there is no danger for Placide andIsaac. Bonaparte is so kind to them! Surely Placide and Isaac can bein no danger!"

  "There is no fear for their present safety, my love."

  Toussaint would not for the world have told of his frequent dailythought and nightly dream, as to what might be the fate of thesehostages, deliberately sent to France, and deliberately left there now.He would not subject himself to entreaties respecting their return whichhe dared not listen to, now that their recall would most certainlyexcite suspicions of the fidelity of the blacks. Not to save hischildren would L'Ouverture do an act to excite or confirm any distrustof his people.

  "Bonaparte is kind to them, as you say, Margot. And if Vincent shouldwin our Aimee, that will be another security for the lads; for no onedoubts his attachment to France."

  "I hope Vincent will win her. But when will you send for the boys?They have been gone very long. When will you send?"

  "As soon as affairs will allow. Do not urge me, Margot. I think of itday and night."

  "Then there is some danger. You would not speak so if there were not.Oh! my husband! marry Vincent to Aimee! You say that will be asecurity."

  "We must not forget Aimee herself, my love. If she should hereafterfind her heart torn between her lover and her parents--if the hourshould come for every one here to choose between Bonaparte and me, andVincent should still adore the First of the Whites, what will become ofthe child of the First of the Blacks? Ought not her parents to haveforeseen such a struggle?"

  "Alas! what is to become of us all, Toussaint?"

  "Perhaps Genifrede is the happiest of our children, Margot. She looksanxious to-day; but in a few more days, I hope even her trembling heartwill be at rest."

  "It never will," said. Margot, mournfully. "I think there is some evilinfluence upon our poor child, to afflict her with perpetual fear. Shestill fears ghosts, rather than fear nothing. She enjoys nothing,except when Moyse is by her side."

  "Well, Moyse will presently be by her side; and for life.--I was proudof him, Margot, last week, at Cap. I know his military talents, fromthe day when we used to call the boy General Moyse. I saw by his eye,when I announced him as General Moyse in Cap, that he remembered thoseold days on the north shore. Oh, yes, I was aware of his talents inthat direction, from his boyhood; but I found in him power of anotherkind. You know what a passionate lover he is."

  "Yes, indeed. Never did I see such a lover!"

  "Well, he puts this same power and devotedness into his occupation ofthe hour, whatever it may be."

  "Do you mean that he forgets Genifrede, when he is away from her?"

  "I rather hope that it is the remembrance of her that animates him inhis work. I'm sure that it is so; for I said a few words to him abouthome, which made him very happy. If I were to see him failing, as weonce feared he would--if I saw him yielding to his passions--to theprejudices and passions of the negro and the slave, my reproof would be,`You forget Genifrede.' Moyse has yet much to learn--and much toovercome; yet I look upon Genifrede as perhaps the most favoured of ourchildren. It is so great a thing to be so beloved!"

  "It is indeed the greatest thing." Margot stopped, as a turn in thewalk brought them in view of the house. The long ranges of verandahstood in the moonlight, checkered with the still shadows of theneighbouring trees. Every window of the large white mansion gave out astream of yellow light, to contrast with the silvery shining of themoon. "This is very unlike the hut we went to when we were married,Toussaint. Yet I was quite happy and contented. It is indeed thegreatest thing to be loved."

  "And have you not that greatest thing here too? Do I not love you, myMargot?"

  "Oh, yes! Yes, indeed, we love each other as much as we did then--inthat single room, with its earthen floor, and its cribs against thewall, and the iron pot in the fireplace, and the hen pecking before thedoor. But, Toussaint, look at the difference now! Look at thisbeautiful house, and all the gardens and cane-pieces--and think of ourpalace at Port-au-Prince--and think of the girls as they look at church,or in the boat to-day--and how the country is up, rejoicing, whereveryou go--and how the Assembly consider you--think of all that hashappened since, the wedding-day of ours at Breda! It is so fine--sowonderful, that you shall not frighten me about anything that canhappen. I am sure the blessing of God is upon you, my husband; and youshall not make me afraid."

  "I would have none be afraid while God
reigns, Margot. May you ever saythat you will not fear! The blessing of God may be on us now, love; butit was never more so than when we went home to our hut at Breda. When Ilay under the trees at noon, taking care of the cattle, how many thingsI used to think of to say to you when I came home!"

  "And so did I, as I kneeled at my washing by the brook-side, and youwere driving Monsieur Bayou, twenty miles off, and were expected home inthe evening. How much there was to say at the end of those days!"

  "It was not for ourselves then, Margot, that we have been raised to whatwe are. We were as happy drawing water in the wood, and gatheringplantains in the negro-grounds, as we have ever been in theseshrubberies. We were as merry in that single room at Breda as in thismansion, or in our palace. It is not for our own sakes that we havebeen so raised."

  "It is pleasant for our children."

  "It is. And it is good for our race. It is to make us their servants.Oh! Margot, if ever you find a thought of pride stirring at your heart,remember that if the blacks were less ignorant and more wise, it wouldnot matter whether we lived as we used to do, or as we live now. It isbecause we negroes are vain and corrupted, that show and state arenecessary: and the sight of our show and state should, therefore, humbleus."

  "I am sure you are not fond of show and state. You eat and drink, andwait upon yourself, as you did at Breda; and your uniform is the onlyfine dress you like to wear. I am sure you had rather have no court."

  "Very true. I submit to such state as we have about us, for the sake ofthe negroes who need it. To me it is a sacrifice; but, Margot, we mustmake sacrifices--perhaps some which you may little dream of, whilelooking round upon our possessions, and our rank, and our children,worshipped as they are. We must carry the same spirit of sacrifice intoall our acts; and be ready to suffer, and perhaps to fall, for the sakeof the blacks. The less pride now, Margot, the less shame and sorrowthen!"

  "I wish not to be proud," said Margot, trembling--"I pray that I may notbe proud; but it is difficult--Hark! there is a footstep! Let us turninto this alley."

  "Nay," said Toussaint; "it is Monsieur Pascal. No doubt I am wanted."

  "For ever wanted!" exclaimed Margot. "No peace!"

  "It was not so at Breda," said Toussaint, smiling. "I was just speakingof sacrifice, you know: and this is not the last night that the moonwill shine.--News, Monsieur Pascal?"

  "News from Cap," replied Monsieur Pascal, in a depressed tone. "Badnews! Here are dispatches. Not a moment is to be lost."

  "There is light enough," said Toussaint, turning so that the moonlightfell upon the page.

  While he read, Monsieur Pascal told Madame L'Ouverture that messengershad brought news of a quarrel at Cap--a quarrel between the races,unhappily, about Hedouville's proclamation again;--a quarrel in whichseveral whites had been killed. All was presently quiet; but the whiteswere crying out for vengeance.

  "No peace, as you say, Margot," observed Toussaint, when he had run overthe letters. "See what a strong hand and watchful eye our poor peoplerequire! The curse of slavery is still upon us."

  "How is Moyse? Tell me only that. What is Moyse doing?"

  "I do not understand Moyse, nor what he is doing," said Toussaintgloomily. "Monsieur Pascal--"

  "Your horses are coming round," said Pascal, "and I shall be therealmost as soon as you."

  "Right: and Laxabon. From me, ask the favour of Father Laxabon tofollow without delay. Margot, take care of poor Genifrede. Farewell!"

  As he passed through the piazza, to mount his horse, Toussaint sawGenifrede standing there, like a statue. He embraced her, and found hercold as marble. He returned to his family for an instant, to beg thatshe might not be immediately disturbed. In an hour or two she might beable to speak to her mother or sister; and she could not now. Once morehe whispered to her that he would send her early news, and was gone.

  Again and again Aimee looked timidly forth, to see if she might ventureto approach her sister. Once Madame L'Ouverture went to her, and onceTherese; but she would say nothing but "Leave me!" From her they wentto Afra, who wept incessantly, though she did not reject theirconsolations. The night wore on wearily and drearily. When the moonset, and the damps were felt wherever the air penetrated, MadameL'Ouverture went once more to Genifrede, determined to take her to herown chamber, and win her to open her heart. But Genifrede was notthere, nor in her chamber. The mother's terror was great, till acultivator came to say that Mademoiselle L'Ouverture had gone a journey,on horseback, with her brother Denis to take care of her. Denis's bedwas indeed found empty: and two horses were gone from the stables. Theyhad fled to Moyse, no doubt. The hope was that they might fall in withFather Laxabon on the road, who would surely bring the poor girl back.There was another road, however: and by this road Therese declared thatshe would follow.

  "Yes, yes--go!" exclaimed Madame L'Ouverture. "She will heed you, ifany one. She thinks you understand her. She says--"

  "She loves me," said Therese, sighing, "because--I hardly know--butHeaven forgive me, if it be as she says!"

  "She says you hate the whites," declared Aimee. "If it be so, mayindeed Heaven forgive you! Moyse hates the whites: and you see howwretched we are!"

  "Aimee, do not be hard. We are made to love--my heart inclines to allwho are about me:--but if there are some--if one cannot--Oh, Aimee, donot be hard!"

  "It is those who hate who are hard," said Aimee, whose tears fell fast,in sympathy with Afra's. "Is it not so, Afra?"

  "Well, I will go," said Therese, gently. "One kiss, Aimee, forGenifrede's sake!"

  "For your own," said Aimee, tenderly embracing her. "Bring back poorGenifrede! Tell her we will devote ourselves to her."

  "Bring back my child," said Margot. "Be sure you tell her that theremay be good news yet. Moyse may have explanations to give;--he may dogreat things yet."

  These words renewed Afra's weeping, in the midst of which Theresehastened away: when the remnant of the anxious family retired to theirchambers, not to sleep, but to pray and wait.