master, I know nothing,” replied Henri. “You say you shall meet Toussaint. I will ride with you till you meet him, if you will. Our people all know him and me.”
“Do so, Henri. Do not wait to look for another horse. Jump up behind me. Mine is a strong beast, and will make no difficulty, even of your weight. Never mind your apron. Keep it for a flag of truce, in case we meet the enemy.”
They were off, and presently emerged from the comparative darkness of the streets into the light of the fires. None of the three spoke, except to urge on the horses up the steep, sandy road, which first presented an ascent from the town, and then a descent to the plain, before it assumed the level which it then preserved to the foot of the opposite mountains, nearly fifty miles off. No one appeared on the road; and the horsemen had, therefore, leisure to cast glances behind them, as they were slowly carried up the ascent. The alarm-bell was now sending its sullen sounds of dismay far and wide in the air, whose stillness was becoming more and more disturbed by the draughts of the spreading fires, as the canes caught, like torches, up the slopes to the right. Pale twinkling lights, sprinkled over the cape and the harbour-lights which looked like glow-worm tapers amidst the fiery atmosphere, showed that every one was awake and stirring in the town, and on board the ships; while an occasional rocket, mounting in the smoky air, from either the Barracks or Government-House, showed that it was the intention of the authorities to intimate to the inhabitants of the remoter districts of the plain that the Government was on the alert, and providing for the public safety.
On surmounting the ridge, Henri stretched out his hand, and pulled the bridle of Monsieur Bayou’s horse to the left, so as to turn it into a narrow, green track which here parted from the road.
“What now, sir?” cried Papalier, in a tone of suspicion, checking his horse, instead of following.
“You may, perhaps, meet two thousand devils, if you keep the high road to the plain,” answered Henri, quietly. To Monsieur Bayou he explained that Toussaint would probably choose this road, through Madame Ogé’s plantation.
“Come on, Papalier; do not lose time. All is right enough,” said Bayou. “The grass-tracks are the safest to-night, depend upon it.”
Papalier followed, in discontented silence. In a few moments, Henri again pulled the bridle—a decided check this time—stopping the horse.
“Voices,” he whispered. Bayou could hear none. In a moment, Henri continued.
“It is Toussaint, I thought we should meet him hereabouts.”
The next turn of the path brought them upon Toussaint, who was advancing with the led horse from Breda. Not far behind him was Madame Ogé’s house, the door standing wide, and, seen by the light within, a woman in the doorway. Toussaint pulled up, Henri leaped down, and ran to shake hands with his friend. Papalier took the opportunity to say, in a low voice, to Bayou—
“You must send your fellow there on board ship. You must, there is no doubt of it. The Governor, and all the householders in Cap, are doing so with their cleverest negroes; and if there is a clever one in the colony, it is Toussaint.”
“I shall do no such thing,” said Bayou. “I have trusted Toussaint for these thirty years; and I shall not distrust him now—now when we most need those we can best confide in.”
“That is exactly what Monsieur Clement said of his postillion; and it was his postillion that struck him to the heart. You must send Toussaint on board ship; and I will tell you how—”
Papalier stopped, perceiving that the two negroes were not talking, but had their eyes fixed on him.
“What is that?” said Henri. “Is Toussaint to go on board ship?”
“No, no; nonsense,” said Bayou; “I am not going to send anybody on board ship. All quiet at Breda, I suppose, Toussaint?”
“All quiet, sir, at present. Monsieur Papalier—on board ship I will not go.”
“As your master pleases. It is no concern of mine, Toussaint,” said Papalier.
“So I think,” replied Toussaint.
“You see your faithful hands, your very obedient friends, have got a will of their own already,” whispered Papalier to Bayou, as they set their horses forward again: Henri turning homewards on the tired horse which had carried double, and Bayou mounting that which Toussaint had brought.
“Will you go round, or pass the house?” Toussaint asked of his master. “Madame Ogé is standing in the doorway.”
Bayou was about to turn his horse’s head, but the person in the doorway came out into the darkness, and called him by his name. He was obliged to go forward.
“Madame,” said he, “I hope you have no trouble with your people. I hope your people are all steady.”
“Never mind me and my people,” replied a tremulous voice. “What I want to know is, what has happened at Cap. Who have risen? Whose are these fires?”
“The negroes have risen on a few plantations: that is all. We shall soon—”
“The negroes!” echoed the voice. “You are sure it is only the negroes?”
“Only the negroes, madame. Can I be of service to you? If you have any reason to fear that your force—”
“I have no reason to fear anything. I will not detain you. No doubt you are wanted at home, Monsieur Bayou.”
And she re-entered her house, and closed the doors.
“How you have disappointed her!” said Papalier. “She hoped to hear that her race had risen, and were avenging her sons on us. I am thankful to-night,” he continued, after a pause, “that my little girls are at Paris. How glad might that poor woman have been, if her sons had stayed there! Strange enough, Paris is called the very centre of disorder, and yet it seems the only place for our sons and daughters in these days.”
“And strangely enough,” said Bayou, “I am glad that I have neither wife, son, nor daughter. I felt that, even while Odeluc, was holding forth about the age of security which we were now entering upon—I felt at the moment that there must be something wrong; that all could not be right, when a man feels glad that he has only himself to take care of. Our negroes are better off than we, so far. Hey, Toussaint?”
“I think so, sir.”
“How many wives and children have you, Toussaint?” asked Papalier.
“I have five children, sir.”
“And how many wives in your time?”
Toussaint made no answer. Bayou said for him—
“He has such a good wife that he never wanted more. He married her when he was five-and-twenty—did not you, Toussaint?”
Toussaint had dropped into the rear. His master observed that Toussaint was rather romantic, and did not like jesting on domestic affairs. He was more prudish about such matters than whites fresh from the mother-country. Whether he had got it out of his books, or whether it really was a romantic attachment to his wife, there was no knowing; but
