“Mon père, I am charged by the First Consul of France to bring this token to you.”
Toussaint took the box onto his knee. He unfastened the catch and pushed up the lid, then unfurled a square of tricolor silk to reveal a letter. He ran his thumb under the fold to break the seal. After scanning a line or two, he refolded the paper and looked, smiling openly, up at Isaac.
“Come, sit by me, my son, and let me hear it from your lips.”
With his left hand he drew Isaac down to the sofa beside him, and at the same time he took Placide’s hand in his right. Isaac looked quickly around the room, and as Coisnon smiled and nodded, he spread the letter on his knee and began to read.
To Citizen Toussaint Louverture, General in Chief of the Army of Saint Domingue
Citizen General,
The peace with England and all the other European powers which has just seated the Republic in the first place of power and grandeur, allows at the same time for the government to occupy itself with the colony of Saint Domingue. We send to you the citizen-general Leclerc, our brother-in-law, in the capacity of Captain-General as well as First Magistrate of the colony. He is accompanied by a force suitable to assure that the sovereignty of the French people is respected. It is in these circumstances that we are pleased to hope that you are going to prove to us, and to all of France, the sincerity of the sentiments that you have constantly expressed in all the letters which you have writtento us. We have conceived an esteem for you, and we are pleased to recognize and to proclaim the great services which you have rendered to the French people; if her flag flies over Saint Domingue, it is to you and the brave blacks that it is owed.
As he moved into this section of the letter, Isaac’s voice grew warmer and stronger. Unconsciously he detached his hand from Toussaint’s and began using it to make oratorical gestures.
Summoned by your talent and the force of circumstances to the highest command, you have done away with the civil war, put a brake on the persecution of various ferocious men, returned honor to religion and the cult of God, from whom everything emanates.
The constitution which you have made, while including many good things, also contains some which are contrary to the sovereignty of the French people, of which Saint Domingue forms a portion. The circumstances in which you have found yourself, surrounded by enemieson all sides, without the Metropole being able to help you or supplyyou, once rendered legitimate the articles of that constitution which otherwise might not have been; but today when circumstances are so happily changed, you will be the first to render homage to the sovereignty of the nation which counts you among the number of its most illustrious citizens, for the services you have rendered it, and for the talents and the force of character with which nature has gifted you.
Isaac coughed lightly, and cleared his throat. He read with an air of puzzlement now, his voice softer and less assured. His free hand settled on the couch, and Toussaint covered it lightly with his own. Now he seemed to be listening more attentively than before. In Placide’s eyes, the whole room seemed to warp and bend toward Isaac’s face and hands and the paper that they held.
Any different conduct would be irreconcilable with the idea we have formed of you. It would cause you to lose your numerous rights to the gratitude of the republic, and would dig beneath you an abyss which, in swallowing you up, might also contribute to the misfortune of those brave blacks, whose courage we love, and whom it would pain us to be obliged to punish for rebellion. We have made known to your children and to their preceptor the sentiments by which we are animated, and we are sending them back to you. Assist the Captain-General with your counsel, your influence, and your talents. What is it that you can desire? The liberty of the blacks! You know that in all the countries where we have been, we have given that to those people who did not already have it. Recognition, honor, and fortune! After the services which you have rendered, which you will still render in this circumstance, together with the particular sentiments which we have for you, you must not be uncertain of your recognition, your fortune, and the honors which await you.
Make it known to the people of Saint Domingue that the solicitude which France has always held for their happiness has often been powerless because of the imperious circumstances of war, that the men come from the Continent to agitate and nourish factions were the product of factions which themselves were then tearing up the fatherland; that henceforward peace and the force of the government will assure their prosperity and liberty. Say that, if for them liberty is the first of all goods, they cannot enjoy it except with the title of French citizens, and that any act contrary to the obedience which they owe to the fatherland, and to the Captain-General who is its delegate, would be a crime against the national sovereignty which would eclipse their services and would render Saint Domingue into the theater of an unfortunate war where fathers and children would tear out each other’s throats. And you, General, reflect that if you are the first of your color who has arrived at such a great power, and if you are distinguished by your color’s bravery and military talents, you are also, before God and ourselves, the first responsible for the conduct of your people.
If there have been ill wishers who said to the individuals who played the first role in the troubles of Saint Domingue that we have come to look into what they have done during the times of anarchy, assure them that we will not inform ourselves of anything but their conduct during this final circumstance, and that we will not explore the past except to familiarize ourselves with the traits which distinguished them in the war which they maintained against the Spanish and the English who have been our enemies.
Count without reserve upon our esteem, and conduct yourself as one of the first citizens of the greatest nation in the world ought to do.
Paris, Brumaire 27, Year Ten {November 18, 1801}
The First Consul (signed) BONAPARTE
Isaac folded the letter and extended it to his father. Toussaint accepted it and shuffled the leaves, leaning his head back so that he seemed to squint at the paper from the bottoms of his eye sockets.
“But this letter is dated four months ago,” he said suddenly. “The Captain-General Leclerc has been very dilatory in bringing it to me.”
“There are of course the weeks of the sea passage,” Coisnon said, with a downward turn of his palms. “And as you’ve heard, the First Consul would extend to you every friendship.”
“Yes, while his representative, his brother-in-law, enters the country with fire and sword,” Toussaint said shortly, “—and sends me no word of his own.”
Coisnon opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of whatever he had thought to say. Toussaint, meanwhile, had laid the letter aside and picked up the box, which he opened and shut, examining its hinges and fastening. He wrapped the letter in the tricolor cloth, replaced it in the box, and snapped shut the catch. The small click echoed from the walls.
“Your voyage cannot account for so long a delay,” he said, “nor even for half of it, as you must know. Have the sentiments of the First Consul changed since it was written? I cannot help but think so, given what I see—the actions of his subordinate who introduces fire and ruin here wherever his men go. And why does not the Captain-General write to me himself? Perhaps he has no explanation for his conduct.”
Coisnon made to speak again, but Isaac was on his feet, gesticulating.
“Mon père, I can assure you that the regard of the First Consul for you—for us all!—is warm and sincere. His commitment to the liberty of our race is absolute. It is the pledge of all France. Has not liberty for us and for our people forever been the first and last of your intentions?”
Toussaint cocked back his head and caged his fingertips together. “You speak compellingly,” he said. “But how are you so sure of this commitment?”
“Why—we have heard it made ourselves, out of his own lips. And . . . he bade us to dine with himself and his family, the Captain-General Leclerc, who is married to his own sister. Papa, she is known now
as the greatest beauty in all France! Colonel Vincent was there as well, and others you have always trusted. And also . . .” Isaac looked down on his gaudy uniform, the wide polished belt with its ornate weapons, “. . . the First Consul presented us these arms with his own hands.”
Somehow the sword and the chased pistols did not have the same glow they’d had at the Tuileries—though they were still brilliant, their radiance was overshadowed by the dimness of the candlelit room. Now Isaac looked to Placide for help, but Placide could say nothing. A weight lay on his lips. What unease had he felt that evening, during the grand dinner with Bonaparte and his connections? It must have been a premonition of how brittle all that show would seem, before his father.
“Well spoken.” Now Toussaint was standing on the carpet, turning to include Placide at the same moment he brushed Isaac’s epaulette. “But now you must go to your rest, my boys, for your journey has been long.” He touched Isaac’s cheek and turned from him, to raise Placide from the sofa with both hands. Stooping, Placide laid his face for a moment against his father’s collarbone, and felt the quick, hard pulse of Toussaint’s hands in the center of his back. Then he disengaged and, his eyes a little blurry, followed his brother out of the room. Suzanne, her face a mask, went after them.
On an inlaid chess table near the sofa stood a small bronze orary, designed to show the phases of the moon. The clockwork was oiled and the metal polished to a high shine, though Coisnon noticed that the arrangement of the spheres bore no relationship to this month’s almanac.
Toussaint pushed at the gears so that the bronze balls moved a few inches on their levers. He looked cannily at Coisnon.
“Perhaps my sons now have a knowledge of such instruments.”
“A little,” Coisnon said. It was Placide who’d taken an independent interest in astronomy.
“General Louverture,” Coisnon said. “Though the Captain-General Leclerc has not committed it to writing, I can tell you assuredly that he invites you to become his second in command. Go to him now! I know that you will understand each other.” He paused. “I will remain here myself, if you accept it, as a guarantee of your security, and of the honesty of what I say.”
“Monsieur.” Toussaint’s long fingers passed across his mouth, to flick away the shadow of a smile. “For the care you have given to my sons, I offer you all gratitude and my highest regard. And for your offer too, which is brave as it is generous. But it is now too late for what you propose. The war has already begun.”
Coisnon said nothing, for he felt certain that these would be Toussaint’s last words. The hand passed over the mouth again, and this time it seemed more like it was pressing down a pain. Toussaint had moved to leave the room, but he stopped and turned in the doorway.
“The people are possessed by a spirit of destruction,” he said. “Do you know?—when such a spirit has been called, it will not depart before it has eaten its fill. My officers have already begun to sack and burn everything. But if Leclerc will stop his hostilities, I will do the same on my side.”
Placide slept in a blank oblivion, as if he were hiding from fear. At the end of an hour he woke like a shot and rushed in his nightshirt to the window. Outside there was no alarming sound, only muttering and the chink of harness rings as Toussaint’s escort remounted their horses. The standards wavered on their rods. His father was leaving then, already, and Placide felt riven by abandonment; after the years of separation, Toussaint had seen them no more than one hour. In the hollow of his father’s collarbone, he had caught Toussaint’s familiar scent, submerged but unforgotten during all their time in France—an odor of oiled leather and horsehair, and beneath these a faint musk all Toussaint’s own.
His father was in the saddle now, supple and straight and ready to ride, revealed in a generous spill of moonlight. He turned to salute Placide with a sweep of his hat, and the release of one of his rare unconcealed smiles . . . as if he’d known Placide would be there at the window to watch him go, as if they shared a secret understanding.
Soon after first light, before the heat had risen, Elise and Isabelle, with Doctor Hébert and Captain Daspir, set out from Ennery toward Gonaives, on a mission to buy saltwater fish. Or it was this aspect of their journey which most intrigued Captain Daspir, who rode between the ladies, prattling of the fine points of cuisine. The doctor scarcely listened to their talk. He was still stunned by yesterday’s journey, but remained watchful as they rode now, though the way was quiet, out of the cleft in the green hills from Ennery onto the wider, tree-shaded road that ran to the south. From the mango sellers on the crossroads, he learned that Papa Toussaint had also come and gone from Ennery during the night just past.
A pale wisp of moon hung in the cloudless sky as they came onto the white dusty plain that, below Gonaives, rolled on into the Savane Désolée. They overtook files of market women, singing and moving with dancers’ rhythm as they balanced their baskets toward the markets of the town. There was no sign of any alarm or disturbance on the road or in the square of Gonaives. Perhaps the black soldiers bunched on the street corners looked a little more edgy than usual, that was all.
Isabelle was hailed by an acquaintance, a refugee from Le Cap like herself, who’d seen Toussaint at mass that morning. Indeed, she said, he had only just left the church and sealed himself up in the headquarters building on the next street, with a gang of secretaries, to draft his correspondence. There’d been a great scouring of the town for well-lettered folk, she said, with several hauled from their beds before dawn. Meanwhile, Toussaint had communed with his usual devotion, as Isabelle’s ladyfriend hissed in a piercing whisper, “—the hypocrite, and when he went to the confessional, did he admit he is the author of our ruin?”
But Isabelle hushed her quickly, and the doctor moved a little away from these two as their voices fell, wondering why he had not been called to Toussaint’s escritoire himself, where he often did assist in the black general’s minute phrasing and rephrasing of the many, many letters he drafted and only sometimes sent. Maybe Toussaint had not known the doctor was at Ennery, or maybe he would not trust a white man with the correspondence of this moment. The doctor knew that Toussaint rarely missed a morning mass any day of the week, and that his faithful attendance was worthless to predict his actions for the rest of the day.
They rode on to the waterfront, where Elise and Isabelle bargained with the fishermen who’d come in with their dug-out canoes and little sailboats, for a supply of shrimp and sole and little Caribbean lobsters to be cooked for a banquet at Thibodet that night. With their purchase wrapped in layers of damp leaves to preserve its freshness, they started back the same way they had come. Two blocks past the pale brick headquarters building, they were overtaken by four of Toussaint’s silver-helmed honor guard, escorting Monsieur Granville, who was the tutor of Toussaint’s youngest son, Saint-Jean. Though Granville was also bound for Ennery, he was close-mouthed about his errand, tight and drawn about the lips. The doctor guessed that he must have served as Toussaint’s scribe that morning, as he was sometimes pressed to do, and that the slightly eerie quietude of Gonaives had found its mirror in his mood.
When Captain Cyprien learned from Granville that the latter was charged with a letter from Toussaint to Leclerc, he said that they must set out at once.
“But the lobsters!” Daspir burst out, his stomach fisting at the news.
“Lobsters!” Cyprien said. “You may dream of lobsters on the road. No, don’t trouble to dismount, we are leaving as soon as our own horses are brought up—now where are Toussaint’s elder sons?”
Though Daspir did doze in the saddle through the afternoon and night as they rode through the mountain passes, no lobsters were featured in his dreams, though their imagined aroma did torment his waking thoughts. They did not stop for any meal at all, but ate dry, slightly molded ship’s biscuit found in one of their saddlebags. There was little talk along the way, only Granville muttering that the citizens of Gonaives were all inspired with a terrible
fear for their lives and property, by the news from the Le Cap refugees who’d begun to flood the town, in combination with Toussaint’s inscrutable aspect when he’d passed rapidly, briefly among them on his way from headquarters to the church and back. Placide and Isaac said nothing at all. They were both bedraggled from exhaustion, and Daspir thought that nervousness had drained the blood from their dark faces.
The waxing moon lit their way from Limbé down to Le Cap. In the small hours of the morning they roused Leclerc from his camp in the scorched shell of the Governor’s residence (where some reconstruction had already begun, Daspir noted). The Captain-General patted down his hair with one hand, smoothed back his silky blond sidewhiskers. He broke the seal on the letter and read Toussaint’s reproaches—that Leclerc had come to replace him with cannon fire, and failed to deliver the letter of the First Consul until it was months out of date—these actions made doubtful, Toussaint complained, both his own services and the rights of his color.
Those rights impose upon me duties higher than those of nature; I am prepared to sacrifice my children to my color; I send them back to you in order that you will not believe that I am bound by their presence. Should they remain among the French, that will not hinder me from acting in the best interests of the inhabitants of Saint Domingue. It will require some time to decide which course I am to take; meanwhile I beg you—stop the march of your troops, that we may spare the effusion of blood, of which too much has already been spilled.
Leclerc crumpled the paper and threw it from him. He began to shout and stamp his foot, though his bare heel made no sound on the stone floor.
“This is nothing but a mask for outright rebellion—Toussaint is the most false and deceiving man who has ever lived on the earth. Does he not know that the south has submitted, and the northwest peninsula must soon yield to our attack? My General Boudet is on the march from Port-au-Prince and will not stop till he has reached the banks of the Artibonite. And Toussaint would give me his brats again—well, I send them back to him, but let him beware that I will come for them when it pleases me—with God’s plenty of cannon fire, indeed. Take them away!”
The Stone that the Builder Refused Page 32