Jacques. “At other times I have known his sleep so light, that he was broad awake as quick as a lizard, if a beetle did but sail over his head.”
“He may well be tired,” said Thérèse. “You know how weary he looked at mass this morning. I believe he had no rest last night; and now this march to-day—”
“Well! He must rouse up now, however; for his business will not wait.” And he called him by his name.
“Henri!” cried Toussaint, starting up.
“No, not Henri. I am Jacques. You are not awake yet, and the place is dark. I am your friend Jacques, five inches shorter than Henri. You see?”
“You here, Jacques! and Thérèse! Surely I am not awake yet.”
“Yes, you are, now you know Thérèse—whom you will henceforth look upon as my wife. We are both free of the whites now, for ever.”
“Is it possible?”
“It is true; and we will fell you all presently. But first explain why you called me Henri as you woke. If we could see Henri—Why did you name Henri—”
“Because he was the next person I expected to see. I met one on the way who knew where he was, and took a message to him.”
“If we could learn from Henri—” said Jacques.
“Here is Henri,” said the calm, kindly, well-known voice of the powerful Christophe, who now showed himself outside. The other went out to him, and greeted him heartily.
“What news, Henri?” asked Toussaint. “How are affairs at Cap? What is doing about the proclamation there?”
“Affairs are going badly at Cap. The mulattoes will no more bear our proclamation than the whites would bear theirs. They have shut up General Laveaux in prison; and the French, without their military leader, do not know what to do next. The commissary has no authority, and talks of embarking for France; and the troops are cursing the negroes, for whose sake, they say, their General is imprisoned, and will soon die of the heats.”
“We must deliver General Laveaux,” said Toussaint. “Our work already lies straight before us. We must raise a force. Henri, can you bring soldiers?”
“Ay, Henri,” said Jacques, “what force can you bring to join ours? General Toussaint Breda has six thousand here at hand, half of whom are disciplined soldiers, well armed. The rest are partially armed, and have strong hearts and ready hands.”
Toussaint turned round, as if to know what Jacques could mean.
“General,” said Jacques, “the army I speak of is there, among those fields, burning to greet you their commander; but in the meantime, I believe, supping heartily on whatever they can find in your wilderness here, in the shape of maize, pumpkins, and plantains—and what else, you know better than? That is right, Thérèse; rest yourself in the piazza, and I will bring you some supper, too.”
“Six thousand, did you say, Jacques?” said Henri. “I can rally two thousand this night, and more will join on the way.”
“We must free Laveaux before sunrise,” said Toussaint. “Will our troops be fit for a march after this supper of theirs, Jacques—after supper and three hours’ rest?”
“They are fit at this moment to march over the island—to swim from Saint Domingo to France, if you will only lead them,” replied Jacques. “Go to them, and they will do what you will.”
“So be it!” said Toussaint, his bosom for a moment heaving with the thought that his career, even as viewed by Father Laxabon, was not ended. “Henri, what is the state of the plain? Is the road open?”
“Far from it. The mulattoes are suspicious, and on the watch against some danger—I believe they are not clear what. I avoided some of their scouts; and the long way they made me go round was the reason of my being late.”
Observing that Toussaint looked thoughtful, he proceeded: “I imagine there is no force in the plain that could resist your numbers, if you are sure of your troops. The road is open, if they choose that it be so.”
“I am sure of only half of them; and then there is the town. It seems to me, Jacques, that I may more depend upon my troops, in their present mood, for a merry night march, though it be a long one, than for a skirmish through the plain, though it be a short one.”
Jacques assented. It was agreed that the little army should proceed by the mountain tracts, round by Plaisance and Gros Morne, so as to arrive by the Haut-du-Cap, in which direction it was not likely that a foe should be looked for. Thus they could pour into the town from the western heights before sunrise, while the scouts of the mulatto rebels were looking for them across the eastern plain.
This settled, Jacques went down among his forces, to tell them that their general was engaged in a council of war—Henri Christophe having joined from Cap, with a promise of troops, and with intelligence which would open the way to victory and freedom. The general allowed them ten minutes more for refreshment, and to form themselves into order; and he would then present himself to them. Shouting was forbidden, lest any foe should be within hearing; but a murmur of delight and mutual congratulation ran through the ranks, which were beginning to form while the leader of their march was yet speaking. He retreated, carrying with him the best arms he could select for the use of his general.
While he was gone, Toussaint stepped back into the piazza, where Thérèse sat quietly watching the birds flitting in and out among the foliage and flowers.
“Thérèse,” said he, “what will you do this night and to-morrow? Who will take care of you?”
“I know not—I care not,” said she. “There are no whites here; and I am well where they are not. Will you not let me stay here?”
“Did Jacques say, and say truly, that you are his wife?”
“He said so, and truly. I have been wretched, for long—”
“And sinful. Wretchedness and sin go together.”
“And I was sinful; but no one told me so. I was ignorant, and weak, and a slave. Now I am a woman and a wife. No more whites, no more sin, no more misery! Will you not let me stay here?”
“I will: and here you will presently be safe, and well cared for, I hope. My wife and my children are coming home—coming, probably in a few hours. They will make this a home to you till Jacques can give you one of your own. You shall be guarded here till my Margot arrives. Shall it be so?”
“Shall it? Oh, thank God! Jacques,” she cried, as she heard her husband’s step approaching. “Oh, Jacques! I am happy. Toussaint Breda is kind—he has forgiven me—he welcomes me—his wife will—”
Tears drowned her voice. Toussaint said gently—
“It is not for me to forgive, Thérèse, whom you have never offended. God has forgiven, I trust, your young years of sin. You will atone (will you not?) by the purity of your life—by watching over others, lest they suffer as you have done. You will guard the minds of my young daughters: will you not? You will thank God through my Génifrède, my Aimée?”
“I
