without prejudice.”
Toussaint read it again and again.
“Well!” said the priest, as Toussaint put down the paper, no longer attempting to hide with it the streaming tears which covered his face.
“Father,” said he, commanding his voice completely, “is there not hope, that if men, weakened and blinded by degradation, mistake their duty when the time for duty comes, they will be forgiven?”
“In what case, my son? Explain yourself.”
“If I, hitherto a slave, and wanting, therefore, the wisdom of a free man, find myself engaged on the wrong side—fighting against the providence of God—is there not hope that I may be forgiven on turning to the right?”
“How the wrong side, my son? Are you not fighting for your king, and for the allies of France?”
“I have been so pledged and so engaged; and I do not say that I was wrong when I so engaged and so pledged myself. But if I had been wise as a free man should be, I should have foreseen of late what has now happened, and not have been found, when last night’s sun went down (and as to-morrow night’s sun shall not find me), holding a command against the highest interests of my race—now, at length, about to be redeemed.”
“You—Toussaint Breda—the loyal! If Heaven has put any of its grace within you, it has shown itself in your loyalty; and do you speak of deserting the forces raised in the name of your king, and acting upon the decrees of his enemies? Explain to me, my son, how this can be. It seems to me that I can scarcely be yet awake.”
“And to me, it seems, father, that never till now have I been awake. Yet it was in no vain dream that I served my king. If he is now where he can read the hearts of his servants, he knows that it was not for my command, or for any other dignity and reward, that I came hither, and have fought under the royal flag of France. It was from reverence and duty to him, under God. He is now in heaven; we have no king; and my loyalty is due elsewhere. I know not how it might have been if he had still lived; for it seems to me now that God has established a higher royalty among men than even that of an anointed sovereign over the fortunes of many millions of men. I think now that the rule which the free man has over his own soul, over time and eternity—subject only to God’s will—is a nobler authority than that of kings; but, however I might have thought, our king no longer lives; and, by God’s mercy, as it seems to me now, while the hearts of the blacks feel orphaned and desolate, an object is held forth to us for the adoration of our loyalty—an object higher than throne and crown, and offered us by the hand of the King of kings.”
“Do you mean freedom, my son? Remember that it is in the name of freedom that the French rebels have committed the crimes which—which it would consume the night to tell of, and which no one knows better, or abhors more, than yourself.”
“It is true; but they struggled for this and that, and the other right and privilege existing in societies of those who are fully admitted to be men. In the struggle, crime has been victorious, and they have killed their king. The object of my devotion will now be nothing that has to be wrenched from an anointed ruler, nothing which can be gained by violence—nothing but that which, being already granted, requires only to be cherished, and may best be cherished in peace—the manhood of my race. To this must I henceforth be loyal.”
“How can men be less slaves than the negroes of Saint Domingo of late? No real change has taken place; and yet you, who wept that freedom as rebellion, are now proposing to add your force to it.”
“And was it not rebellion? Some rose for the plunder of their masters—some from ambition—some from revenge—many to escape from a condition they had not patience to endure. All this was corrupt; and the corruption, though bred out of slavery, as the fever from the marshes, grieved my soul as if I had not known the cause. But now, knowing the cause, and others (knowing it also) having decreed that slavery is at an end, and given the sanction of law and national sympathy to our freedom—is not the case changed? Is it now a folly or a sin to desire to realise and purify and elevate this freedom, that those who were first slaves and then savages may at length become men—not in decrees and proclamations only, but in their own souls? You do not answer, father. Is it not so?”
“Open yourself further, my son. Declare what you propose. I fear you are perplexing yourself.”
“If I am deceived, father, I look for light from heaven through you.”
“I fear—I fear, my son! I do not find in you to-night the tone of humility and reliance upon religion in which you found comfort the first time you opened the conflicts of your heart to me. You remember that night, my son?”
“The first night of my freedom? Never shall I forget its agonies.”
“I rejoice to hear it. Those agonies were safer, more acceptable to God, than the comforts of self-will.”
“My father, if my will ensnares me, lay open the snare—I say not for the sake of my soul only—but for far, far more—for the sake of my children, for the sake of my race, for the sake of the glory of God in His dealings with men, bring me back if I stray.”
“Well. Explain—explain what you propose.”
“I cannot remain in an army opposed to what are now the legal rights of the blacks.”
“You will give up your command?”
“I shall.”
“And your boys—what will you do with them?”
“Send them whence they came for the present. I shall dismiss them by one road, while the resignation of my rank goes by another.”
“And you yourself by a third.”
“When I have declared myself to General Hermona.”
“Have you thoughts of taking your soldiers with you?”
“No.”
“But what is right for you is right for them.”
“If they so decide for themselves. My power over them is great. They would follow me with a word. I shall therefore avoid speaking that word, as it would be a false first step in a career of freedom, to make them enter upon it as slaves to my opinion and my will.”
“But you will at least address them, that they may understand the course you pursue. The festival of this morning will afford an opportunity—after mass. Have you thought of this?—I do not say that I am advising it, or sanctioning any part of your plan, but have you thought of this?”
“I have, and dismissed the thought. The proclamation will speak for itself. I act from no information which is not open to them all. They can act, thank God, for themselves; and I will not seduce them into subservience, or haste, or passion.”
“But you will be giving up everything. What can make you think that the French at Cap, all in the interest of the planters, will receive you?”
“I do not think it; and I shall not offer myself.”
“Then you will sink into nothing. You will no longer be an officer, nor even a soldier. You will be a mere negro, where negroes are wholly despised. After all that you have been, you will be nothing.”
“I
