rank of colonel, and had assumed an office of which Jean could not be jealous—that of physician to the forces—an office for which he was qualified by an early and extensive acquaintance with the common diseases of the country, and the natural remedies provided by its soil. When the Marquis d’Hermona had insisted upon his resuming his command, as the best officer the negro forces could boast, Jean had purposed to arrest him on some frivolous charge, and the foolish act had only been prevented by a frank and strong remonstrance from his old friend. All this time, Toussaint’s military successes had been great; and his name now struck such awe into the lawless forces of the insurgent blacks, that it was unnecessary for him to shed their blood. He held the post of Marmalade, and from thence was present with such unheard-of rapidity of march, wherever violence was expected, that the spirit of outrage throughout the colony was, at length, kept in check. This peaceful mode of standing by the rights of the king was more acceptable to the gentle Toussaint than the warfare by which he had gained his power over his own race; but he knew well that things could not go on as they were—that order of some kind must be established—order which could be reached only through a fierce final struggle; and of what nature this order was to be, depended wholly upon the turn which affairs took in Europe.
He rarely brought good news from abroad. His countenance always grew sad when Margot asked what ships had arrived from France since his last visit. First he had to tell her that the people of Paris had met in the Champ de Mars, and demanded the dethronement of the king; then, that Danton had audaciously informed the representatives of France that their refusal to declare the throne vacant would be the signal for a general insurrection. After this, no national calamity could surprise the loyal colonists, Toussaint said; for the fate of Louis as a king, if not as a man, was decided. Accordingly, there followed humiliations, deposition, imprisonment, during which little could be known of the mind, and even of the condition of the king: and those who would have served him remained in anxious suspense. It happened, one warm day in the spring, when every trace of the winter hail-storms had passed away, that the whole party were amusing themselves in trying to collect enough of the ripening sea-side grape for a feast. The bright round leaves were broad and abundant; but the clusters of the fruit were yet only of a pale yellow, and a berry here and there was all that was fit for gathering. The grape-gathering was little more than a pretence for basking in the sun, or for lounging in the shade of the abundant verdure, which seemed to have been sown by the hurricane, and watered by the wintry surf, so luxuriantly did it spring from the sands and the salt waves. The stately manchineel overhung the tide; the mangroves sprang out of the waters; the sea-side grape overspread the sands with a thick green carpet, and kept them cool, so that as the human foot sought the spot, the glittering lizards forsook it, and darted away to seek the hot face of the rock. For full half a mile this patch of verdure spread; and over this space were dispersed Margot and her household, when Toussaint crossed the ridge, on one of his frequent visits. As he descended, he heard laughter and singing; and among the singing voices, the cracked pipe of old Dessalines. Toussaint grieved to interrupt this mirth, and to think that he must leave dull and sad those whom he found so gay. But he came with bad news, and on a mournful errand, and there was no help for it. As he pricked on his horse towards the party, the young people set up a shout and began to run towards him, but stopped short on seeing how unusually large a train he brought. Five or six mounted soldiers, instead of one, followed him this time, and they led several horses.
“Oh, you are come to take us home!” cried Margot, joyfully, as she met him.
He shook his head as he replied—“No, Margot, not yet. But the time may come.”
“I wish you could tell us when it would come,” said Dessalines. “It is all very well gathering these things, and calling them grapes, for want of better; but give me the grapes that yield one wine. I wonder who has been gathering the grapes from my trellis all this time, while, the whole rainy season through, not a drop did I taste? I wish you had left your revolutions and nonsense till after my time, that I might have sat under my own vine and my own fig-tree, as the priest says, till the end of my days.”
“Indeed I wish so too, Dessalines. But you shall have some wine.”
“Ay, send us some. Jacques will tell you what I like. Don’t forget, Toussaint Breda. They talk of palm wine in the season; but I do not believe we shall get any worth drinking from the palms hereabouts.”
“What is the matter with our palms?” cried Moyse, firing up for the honour of the northern coast. “I will get you a cabbage for dinner every day for a month to come,” he added, moderating his tone under his uncle’s eye—“every day, till you say that our palms, too, are as good as any you have in the plain; and as for palm wine, when the season comes—”
“No, let me—let me cut the cabbage!” cried Denis. “I can climb as quick as a monkey now—a hundred feet in two minutes. Let me climb the palmetto, Moyse.”
“First take back my horse to those soldiers, my boy,” said his father, setting Denis upon his horse, “and then let us all sit down here in the shade.”
“All those horses,” said Margot, anxiously: “what is to be done with them to-day? There are so many!”
“They will return presently,” replied her husband. “I am not going to stay with you to-day. And, Margot, I shall take the lads with me, if they are disposed to go.”
“The lads! my boys!”
“Yes,” said Toussaint, throwing himself down in the shade. “Our country and its people are orphaned; and the youngest of us must now make himself a soldier, that he may be ready for any turn of affairs which Providences may appoint. Do you hear, my boys?”
“Yes, father,” answered Placide in an earnest tone.
“They have then murdered the king?” asked Margot; “or did he die of his imprisonment?”
“They brought him to trial, and executed him. The apes plucked down the evening star, and quenched it. We have no king. We and our country are orphaned.”
After a pause, Paul said—
“It is enough to make one leave one’s fishing, and take up a gun.”
“I rejoice to hear you say so, brother,” said Toussaint.
“Then, father, you will let me go,” cried Moyse. “You will give me your gun, and let me go to the camp.”
“Yes, Moyse: rather you than I. You are a stout lad now, and I know nothing of camps. You shall take the gun, and I will stay and fish.”
“Leave your father his gun, if he chooses to remain, Moyse. We will find arms for you. Placide! Isaac!” he continued, looking from one to the other of his sons.
“And Denis,” cried the boy, placing himself directly in his father’s eye, as he returned breathless from the discharge of his errand.
“Yes, my boy, by-and-bye, when you are as strong as Placide. You shall come to the camp when we want you.”
“I will go to-day, father,” said Placide.
“What to do?” said Isaac. “I do not understand.”
Other eyes besides Aimée’s were fixed on Toussaint’s face, in anxiety for his reply.
“I do not know, my son, what we are to do next. When the parent of a nation dies, it may take some time to decide what is the duty of those who feel themselves bereaved. All I now am sure of is, that it cannot but be right for my children to be fitted
