The Hour and the Man, An Historical Romance

by Harriet Martineau

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

  FREE.

  Day after day passed on, and the prisoner found no change in hiscondition--as far, at least, as it depended on his gaolers. He was moreill as he became enveloped in the damps of the spring; and he grew moreand more sensible of the comfort of being alone. Death by violence,however, did not come.

  He did not give over his concern for Mars Plaisir because he was glad ofhis absence. He inquired occasionally for the Commandant, hoping that,if he could see Rubaut, he might learn whether his servant was still aprisoner, and whether his release from his cell had been for freedom, orfor a worse lot than he had left behind. There was no learning fromBellines, however, whether the Commandant had returned to the fortress,or who was his lieutenant, if he had not. In the middle of April, thedoubt was settled by the appearance of Rubaut himself in the cell. Hewas civil--unusually so--but declared himself unable to give anyinformation about Mars Plaisir. He had nothing more to do with hisprisoners when they were once taken out of his charge. He had alwaysbusiness enough upon his hands to prevent his occupying himself withthings and people that were gone by. He had delivered Mars Plaisir intoproper care; and that was the last he knew of him. The man was well atthat time--as well as usual, and pleased enough to be in the open airagain. Rubaut could remember no more concerning him--in fact, had notthought of him again, from that day to the present.

  "And this is the kind of answer that you would give concerning me, if mysons should arrive hither in search of me some days after my grave hadbeen closed?"

  "Come, come! no foreboding!" said Rubaut. "Foreboding is bad."

  "If my sons should present themselves--" proceeded Toussaint--

  "They will not come here--they cannot come here," interrupted Rubaut."No one knows that you are here, but some three or four who will nevertell."

  "How," thought Toussaint, "have they secured Mars Plaisir, that he shallnever tell?" For the poor man's sake, however, he would not ask thisaloud.

  Rubaut continued: "The reason why we cannot have the pleasure of givingyou the range of the fortress is, that the First Consul thinks itnecessary to keep secret the place of your abode--for the good of thecolony, as he says. With one of our own countrymen, this seclusionmight not be necessary, as the good people of the village could hardlydistinguish features from the distance at which they are; and they haveno telescopes--no idea of playing the spy upon us, as we can upon them.They cannot distinguish features, so high up--"

  "But they could complexion."

  "Exactly so; and it might get abroad that some one of your colour washere."

  "And if it should get abroad, and some one of my sons, or my wife shouldcome, your answer would be that you remember nothing--that you cannotcharge your memory with persons and things that are gone by--that youhave had prisoners of all complexions--that some have lived and somehave died--and that you have something else to do than to remember whatbecame of each. I hope, however, and (as it would be for the advantageof the First Consul) I believe, that you would have the complaisance toshow them my grave."

  "Come, come! no foreboding! Foreboding is bad," repeated Rubaut.

  Toussaint smiled, and said--

  "What other employment do you afford me than that of looking into thepast and future, in order to avoid the present? If, turning from thesickening view which the past presents of the treachery of your race tomine, of the abuse of my brotherly trust in him by which your ruler hasafflicted our hearts if, turning from this mournful past, I look theother way, what do I see before me but the open grave?"

  "You are out of spirits," said Rubaut, building up the fire.

  "You wear well, however. You must have been very strong in your bestdays. You wear extremely well."

  "I still live; and that I do so is because the sun of my own climate,and the strength of soul of my best days, shine and glow through me now,quenching in part even these damps. But I am old, and every day heapsyears on me. However, I am as willing as you that my looking forwardshould be for others than myself. I might be able to forebode forFrance, and for its ruler."

  Rubaut folded his arms, and leaned, as if anxious to listen, against thewall beside the fire; but it was so wet that he quickly shifted hisposition; still, however, keeping his eyes fixed on his prisoner.

  "And what would you forebode for France, and for her ruler?" he asked.

  "That my country will never again be hers. Her retribution is as sureas her tyranny has been great. She may send out fleet after fleet, eachbearing an army; but the spirit of freedom will be too strong for themall. Their bodies will poison the air, and choke the sea, and the namesof their commanders will, one after another, sink in disgrace, beforethey will again make slaves of my people in Saint Domingo. How standsthe name of Leclerc at this moment in France?"

  "Leclerc is dead," said Rubaut; repenting, the next moment, that he hadsaid so much. Toussaint saw this by his countenance, and inquired nofurther.

  "He is dead! and twenty thousand Frenchmen with him, who might at thishour have been enjoying at home the natural wealth of my country, thefruits of our industry. The time was when I thought your ruler and I--the ruler, in alliance with him, of my race in Saint Domingo--werebrothers in soul, as we were apparently in duty and in fortune.Brothers in soul we were not, as it has been the heaviest grief of mylife to learn. I spurn brotherhood of soul with one whose ambition hasbeen for himself. Brothers in duty we were; and, if we should yet bebrothers in fortune--if he should fall into the hands of a strong foe--But you are saying in your heart, `No foreboding! Foreboding is bad!'"

  Rubaut smiled, and said foreboding was only bad for the spirits; and theFirst Consul's spirits were not likely to be affected by anything thatcould be said at Joux. To predict bad fortune for him was like lookingfor the sun to be put out at noonday; it might pass the time, but wouldnot dim the sun.

  "So was it said of me," replied the prisoner, "and with the more reason,because I made no enemies. My enemies have not been of my own making.Your ruler is making enemies on every hand; and alas! for him if helives to meet the hour of retribution! If he, like myself, should fallinto the power of a strong foe--if he should pass his remaining daysimprisoned on a rock, may he find more peace than I should dare lookfor, if I had his soul!"

  "There is not a braver man in Europe, or the Indies either, than theFirst Consul."

  "Brave towards foes without and sufferings to come. But bravery givesno help against enemies harboured within, and evils fixed in the past.What will his bravery avail against the images of France corrupted, ofEurope outraged, of the blacks betrayed and oppressed--of the godlikepower which was put into his hands abused to the purposes of the devil!"

  "But perhaps he would not view his affairs as you do."

  "Then would his bravery avail him no better. If he should be so blindas to see nothing higher and better than his own acts, then will he seeno higher nor better hope than he has lost. Then will he suffer and dieunder the slow torment of personal mortifications and regrets."

  "You say you are sinking under your reverses. You say you are slowlydying."

  "I am. I shall die of the sickening and pining of sense and limb--ofthe wasting of bone and muscle. Day by day is my eye more dim, and myright arm more feeble. But I have never complained of evils that thebravery you speak of would not meet. Have I ever said that you havetouched my soul?"

  Rubaut saw the fire in his eye, glanced at his emaciated hand, and feltthat this was true. He could bear the conversation no longer, now thatno disclosures that could serve the First Consul seemed likely to bemade.

  "You are going?" said Toussaint.

  "Yes. I looked in to-day because I am about to leave the fortress for afew days."

  "If you see the First Consul, tell him what I have now said; and addthat if, like him, I had used my power for myself, he would have had apower over me which he has not now. I should not then have been here--nay, you must hear me--I should not then have been here,
crushed beneathhis hand; I should have been on the throne of Saint Domingo--flattered,as he is, by assurances of my glory and security--but crushed by aheavier weight than that of his hand; by his image, as that of onebetrayed in my infidelity to his country and nation. Tell him this;tell him that I perish willingly, if this consequence of my fidelity toFrance may be a plea for justice to my race."

  "How people have misrepresented you to me!" said Rubaut, bustling aboutthe cell, and opening the door to call Bellines. "They told me you werevery silent--rarely spoke."

  "That was true when my duty was to think," said Toussaint. "To-day myduty has been to speak. Remember that yours, in fidelity to your ruler,is to repeat to him what I say."

  "More wood, Bellines," said Rubaut, going to the door, to give furtherdirections in a low voice. Returning, he said, with some hurry ofmanner, that, as he was to be absent for two or three days, he had sentfor such a supply of wood and flambeaux as might last some time. Morebooks should also be brought.

  "When shall we meet again?" asked Toussaint.

  "I don't know. Indeed I do not know," said the Commandant, looking athis watch by the firelight. His prisoner saw that his hands trembled,and that he walked with some irresolution to the door.

  "Au revoir!" said Toussaint.

  Rubaut did not reply, but went out, leaving the door standing wide, andapparently no one to guard it.

  Toussaint's heart beat at the thought that this might give him one moreopportunity of being abroad in the daylight, perhaps in the sun! Herose to make the attempt; but he was exhausted by the conversation hehad held--the first for so long! His aching limbs failed him; and hesank down on his bed, from which he did not rise till long afterBellines had laid down his loads, and left the place.

  The prisoner rose, at length, to walk, as he did many times in the day,from corner to corner of his cell. At the first turn, by the door, hestruck his foot against something which he upset. It was a pitcher ofwater, which, with a loaf of bread, had been put in that unusual place.The sight was as distinct in its signification as a yawning grave. Hisdoor was to open upon him no more. He was not again to see a humanface. The Commandant was to be absent awhile, and, on returning, tofind his prisoner dead.

  He used all means that he could devise to ascertain whether it wereindeed so. He called Bellines from the door, in the way which Bellineshad never failed to reply to since the departure of Mars Plaisir.Bellines did not come. He sang aloud, as he had never before beenallowed to sing unchecked, since he entered the fortress. He now sangunchecked. The hour of the afternoon meal passed, and no one came. Theevening closed, and no bolt had been drawn. The case was clear.

  The prisoner now and then felt a moment's surprise at experiencing solittle recoil from such a fate. He was scarcely conscious even ofrepugnance. His tranquillity was doubtless owing, in part, to hishaving long contemplated death in this place as certain; to life havingnow little left to make its continuance desirable; and to his knowinghimself to be so reduced, that the struggle could not be very long. Buthe himself believed his composure to be owing to another cause than anyof these.

  "He who appointed me to the work of such a life as mine," thought thedying man, "is making its close easy to His servant. I would willinglyhave suffered to the extremity of His will: but my work is done; men'seyes are no longer upon me; I am alone with Him; and He is pleased tolet me enter already upon my everlasting peace. If Father Laxabon werehere, would he now say, as he has often said, and as most men say, that,looking back upon life from its close, it appears short as the time ofthe early rains? Instead of this, how long appear the sixty years thatI have lived! How long, how weary now teems the life when I was aslave--though much was done, and it was the schooling of my soul for thework preparing for my hand. My Margot! my children! how quietly did wethen live, as if no change were ever to come, and we were to sit beforeour door at Breda every evening, till death should remove us, one byone! While I was composing my soul to patience by thought and byreading, how little did I dream that I was so becoming prepared to freemy race, to reign, and then to die of cold and hunger, such as themeanest slave never knows! Then the next eight years of toil--they seemlonger than all that went before. Doubtless they were lengthened to me,to make my weak powers equal to the greatness of my task; for every dayof conducting war, and making laws, appeared to me stretched out into ayear. These late seasons of reverse have passed over more rapidly, fortheir suffering has been less. While all, even to Henri, have pitied meduring these latter years, they knew not that I was recovering the peacewhich I shall now no more lose. It is true that I erred, according tothe common estimate of affairs, in not making myself a king, andseparating my country from France, as France herself is compelling herto separate at last. It is true, I might now have been reigning there,instead of dying here; and, what is more worthy of meditation, my peoplemight now have been laying aside their arms, and beginning a long careerof peace. It might possibly have been so; but at what cost! Theircareer of freedom (if freedom it could then have been called) would havebegun in treason and in murder; and the stain would have polluted myrace for ever. Now, they will have freedom still--they cannot but haveit, though it is delayed. And upon this freedom will rest the blessingof Heaven. We have not fought for dominion, nor for plunder; nor, asfar as I could govern the passions of men, for revenge. We began ourcareer of freedom in fidelity, in obedience, and in reverence towardsthe whites; and therefore may we take to ourselves the blessing of Himwho made us to be free, and demands that we be so with clean hands and apure heart. Therefore will the freedom of Saint Domingo be but thebeginning of freedom to the negro race. Therefore may we hope that inthis race will the spirit of Christianity appear more fully than it hasyet shown itself among the proud whites--show itself in its gentleness,its fidelity, its disinterestedness, and its simple trust. The proudwhites may scorn this hope, and point to the ignorance and the passionsof my people, and say, `Is this your exhibition of the spirit of theGospel?' But not for this will we give up our hope. This ignorance,these passions, are natural to all men, and are in us aggravated andprotracted by our slavery. Remove them by the discipline and thestimulus of freedom, begun in obedience to God and fidelity to men, andthere remain the love that embraces all--the meek faith that can bear tobe betrayed, but is ashamed to doubt--the generosity that can forgiveoffences seventy-and-seven times renewed--the simple, open, joyousspirit which marks such as are of the kingdom of heaven. Lord! I thankThee that Thou hast made me the servant of this race!"

  Never, during the years of his lowliness, or the days of his grandeur,had Toussaint spent a brighter hour than now, while the spirit ofprophecy (twin-angel with death) visited him, and showed him the realmsof mind which were opening before his race--that countless host whosevan he had himself led to the confines. This spirit whispered somethingof the immortality of his own name, hidden, lost as he was in his lasthours.

  "Be it so!" thought he, "if my name can excite any to devotedness, orgive to any the pleasure of being grateful. If my name live, thegoodness of those who name it will be its life; for my true self-willnot be in it. No one will the more know the real Toussaint. Theweakness that was in me when I felt most strong, the reluctance when Iappeared most ready, the acts of sin from which I was saved by accidentalone, the divine constraint of circumstances to which my best deedswere owing--these things are between me and my God. If my name and mylife are to be of use, I thank God that they exist; but this outwardexistence of them is nothing between Him and me. To me henceforwardthey no more belong than the name of Epaminondas, or the life of Tell.Man stands naked on the brink of the grave, his name stripped from him,and his deeds laid down as the property of the society he leaves behind.Let the name and deeds I now leave behind be a pride to generations yetto come--a more innocent pride than they have sometimes, alas! been tome. I have done with them."

  Toussaint had often known what hunger was--in the mornes he had enduredit almost to extremity.
He now expected to suffer less from it thanthen, from being able to yield to the faintness and drowsiness which hadthen to be resisted. From time to time during his meditations, he feltits sensations visiting him, and felt them without fear or regret. Hehad eaten his loaf when first hungry, and had watched through the firstnight, hoping to sleep his long sleep the sooner, when his fire shouldat length be burned out. During the day, some faint sounds reached himfrom the valley--some tokens of the existence of men. During the twolast nights of his life, his ear was kept awake only by the dropping ofwater--the old familiar sound--and the occasional stir of the brandsupon the hearth. About midnight of the second night, he found he couldsit up no longer. With trembling hands he laid on such pieces of woodas he could lift, lighted another flambeau, and lay down on his straw.He raised himself but once, hastily and dizzily in the dawn (dawn tohim, but sunrise abroad). His ear had been reached by the song of theyoung goatherds, as they led their flock abroad into another valley.The prisoner had dreamed that it was his boy Denis, singing in thepiazza at Pongaudin. As his dim eye recognised the place, by theflicker of the expiring flambeau, he smiled at his delusion, and sankback to sleep again.

  The Commandant was absent three days. On his return, he summonedBellines, and said, in the presence of several soldiers--

  "How is the prisoner there?" pointing in the direction of Toussaint'scell.

  "He has been very quiet this morning, sir."

  "Very quiet? Do you suppose he is ill?"

  "He was as well as usual the last time I went to him."

  "He has had plenty of everything, I suppose?"

  "Oh, yes, sir. Wood, candle, food, water--everything."

  "Very well. Get lights, and I will visit him."

  Lights were brought. A boy, who carried a lantern, shivered as he sawhow ghastly Bellines' face looked in the yellow gleam, in the dark vaulton the way to the cell, and was not sorry to be told to stay behind,till called to light the Commandant back again.

  "Have you heard anything?" asked Rubaut of the soldier, in a low voice.

  "Not for many hours. There was a call or two, and some singing, justafter you went; but nothing since."

  "Hush! Listen!"

  They listened motionless for some time; but nothing was heard but theeverlasting plash, which went on all around them.

  "Unbar the door, Bellines."

  He did so, and held the door wide for the Commandant to enter. Rubautstalked in, and straight up to the straw bed. He called the prisoner ina somewhat agitated voice, felt the hand, raised the head, and declaredthat he was gone. The candle was burned completely out. Rubaut turnedto the hearth, carefully stirred the ashes, blew among them, and raiseda spark.

  "You observe," he said to Bellines; "his fire was burning when we foundhim."

  "Yes, sir."

  "There is more wood and more candle?"

  "Yes, sir; the wood in this corner, and the candle on the table--justunder your hand, sir."

  "Oh, ay, here. Put on some wood, and blow up a flame. Observe, wefound his fire burning."

  "Yes, sir."

  They soon re-appeared in the courtyard, and announced the death of theprisoner. Rubaut ordered a messenger to be in readiness to ride toPontarlier, by the time he should have written a letter.

  "We must have the physicians from Pontarlier," observed the Commandant,aloud, "to examine the deceased, and declare what he died of. The oldman has not been well for some time past. I have no doubt thephysicians will find that he died of apoplexy, or something of thekind."

  "No wonder, poor soul!" said a sutler's wife to another woman.

  "No wonder, indeed," replied the other. "My husband died of the heat inSaint Domingo; and they took this poor man (don't tell it, but he was ablack; I got a sight of him, and he came from Saint Domingo, you maydepend upon it)--they took him out of all that heat, and put him intothat cold, damp place there! No wonder he is dead."

  "Well, I never knew we had a black here!"

  "Don't say I told you, then."

  "I have no doubt--yes, we found his fire burning," said Bellines to theinquirers round him. "They will find it apoplexy, or some such thing, Ihave no doubt of it."

  And so they did, to the entire satisfaction of the First Consul.

  Yet it was long before the inquiring world knew with certainty what hadbecome of Toussaint L'Ouverture.