The Hour and the Man, An Historical Romance. Harriet Martineau

admitted the negroes’ claims to manhood. If God should open to me a way to serve the blacks better, I shall be found ready. Meantime, not for another day will I stand in the light of their liberties. Father,” he continued, with an eagerness which grew as he spoke, “you know something of the souls of slaves. You know how they are smothered in the lusts of the body, how they are debased by the fear of man, how blind they are to the providence of God! You know how oppression has put out the eyes of their souls, and withered its sinews. If now, at length, a Saviour has once more for them stretched out His healing hand, and bidden them see, and arise and be strong, shall I resist the work? And you, father, will you not aid it? I would not presume; but if I might say all—”

      “Say on, my son.”

      “Having reproved and raised the souls of slaves, would it not henceforth be a noble work for you to guide their souls as men? If you would come among us as a soldier of Christ, who is bound to no side in earthly quarrels—if you would come as to those who need you most, the lowest, the poorest, the most endangered, what a work may lie between this hour and your last! What may your last hour be, if, day by day, you have trained our souls in the glorious liberty of the children of God! The beginning must be lowly; but the kind heart of the Christian priest is lowly: and you would humble yourself first to teach men thus—‘you were wrong to steal’—‘you were wrong to drink’—‘you were wrong to take more wives than one, and to strike your children in passion.’ Thus humbly must you begin; but among free men, how high may you not rise? Before you die, you may have led them to rule their own spirits, and, from the throne of that sovereignty, to look far into the depths of the heavens, and over the history of the world; so that they may live in the light of God’s countenance, and praise Him almost like the angels—for, you know, He has made us, even us, but a little lower than they.”

      “This would be a noble work,” said Laxabon, much moved: “and if God is really about to free your race, He will appoint a worthy servant for the office. My duty, however, lies here. I have here souls in charge, without being troubled with doubts as to the intentions of God and of men. As I told you, the General does not think so much as you do of this event; nor even does Jean Français. If you act rashly, you will repent for ever having quitted the path of loyalty and duty. I warn you to pause, and see what course events will take. I admonish you not hastily to desert the path of loyally and duty.”

      “If it had pleased God,” said Toussaint, humbly, “to release me from the ignorance of slavery when He gave me freedom, I might now be able to lay open my heart as I desire to do; I might declare the reasons which persuade me so strongly as I feel persuaded. But I am ignorant, and unskilful in reasoning with one like you, father.”

      “It is therefor that we are appointed to guide and help you, my son. You now know my mind, and have received my admonition. Let us proceed to confession; for the morning draws on towards the hour for mass.”

      “Father, I cannot yield to your admonition. Reprove me as you will, I cannot. There is a voice within me stronger than yours.”

      “I fear so, my son; nor can I doubt what that voice is, nor whence it comes. I will pray for you, that you may have strength to struggle with the tempter.”

      “Not so, father; rather pray that I may have strength to obey this new voice of duty, alone as I am, discountenanced as I shall be.”

      “Impossible, my son. I dare not so pray for one self-willed and precipitate; nor, till you bring a humble and obedient mind, can I receive your confession. There can be no absolution where there is reservation. Consider, my dear son! I only desire you to pause.”

      “Delay is treachery,” said Toussaint. “This day the decree and proclamation will be made known through the forces; and if I remain, this night’s sun sets on my condemnation. I shall not dare to pray, clothed in my rank, this night.”

      “Go now, my son. You see it is dawning. You have lost the present opportunity; and you must now leave me to my duties. When you can return hither to yours, you will be welcome.”

      Toussaint paid him his wonted reverence, and left the tent.

      Arrived in his own, he threw himself on the couch like a heart-broken man.

      “No help! no guidance!” thought he. “I am desolate and alone. I never thought to have been left without a guide from God. He leaves me with my sins upon my soul, unconfessed, unabsolved; and, thus burdened and rebuked, I must enter upon the course which I dare not refuse. But this voice within me which bids me go—whence and what is it? Whence is it but from God? And how can I therefore say that I am alone? There is no man that I can rely on—not even one of Christ’s anointed priests; but is there not He who redeemed men? and will He reject me if, in my obedience, I come to Him? I will try—I will dare. I am alone; and He will hear and help me.”

      Without priest, without voice, without form of words, he confessed and prayed, and no longer felt that he was alone. He arose, clear in mind and strong in heart: wrote and sealed up his resignation of his commission, stepped into the next tent to rouse the three boys, desiring them to dress for early mass, and prepare for their return to their homes immediately afterwards. He then entered his own inner apartment, where Papalier was sleeping so soundly that it was probable the early movements of saint’s-day festivities in the camp would not awaken him. As he could not show himself abroad till the General’s protection was secured, his host let him sleep on; opening and shutting his clothes’ chest, and going through the whole preparation for appearance on the parade in full uniform, without disturbing his wearied guest, who hardly moved even at the roll of the drum, and the stir of morning in the camp.

Chapter Seven.

       Table of Contents

      The Act.

      Papalier was probably the only person in the valley who did not attend mass on this saint’s-day morning. The Spanish general was early seen, surrounded by his staff, moving towards the rising ground, outside the camp, on which stood the church, erected for the use of the troops when the encampment was formed. The soldiers, both Spanish and negro, had some time before filed out of their tents, and been formed for their short march; and they now came up in order, the whites approaching on the right, and the blacks on the left, till their forces joined before the church. The sun had not yet shone down into the valley, and the dew lay on the grass, and dropped like rain from the broad eaves of the church-roof—from the points of the palm-leaves with which it was thatched.

      This church was little more than a covered enclosure. It was well shaded from the heat of the sun by its broad and low roof; but, between the corner posts, the sides could hardly be said to be filled in by the bamboos which stood like slender columns at intervals of several inches, so that all that passed within could be seen from without, except that the vestry and the part behind the altar had their walls interwoven with withes, so as to be impervious to the eye. The ground was strewn thick with moss—cushioned throughout for the knees of the worshippers. The seats were rude wooden benches, except the chair, covered with damask, which was reserved for the Marquis d’Hermona.

      Here the General took his place, his staff ranging themselves on the benches behind. Jean Français entered after him, and seated himself on the opposite range of benches. Next followed Toussaint Breda, alone, having left his sons outside with the soldiers. Some few more advanced towards the altar; it being understood that those who did so wished to communicate. An interval of a few empty benches was then left, and the lower end of the church was thronged by such of the soldiery as could find room; the rest closing in round the building, so as to hear the voice of the priest, and join in the service.

      There was a gay air about the assemblage, scarcely subdued by the place, and the occasion which brought them to it. Almost every man carried a stem of the white amaryllis, plucked from among the high grass, with which it grew thickly intermixed all over the valley; and beautiful to the eye were the snowy, drooping blossoms, contrasted with the rich dark green of their leaves. Some few brought twigs of the orange