The time for excuses and apologies is past. I merely say, as sincerity requires, that the most speedy fulfilment of treaties is ever the most honourable; and that I am guiltless of such injury as may have arisen from calling off ten thousand blacks from the peaceful pursuits of agriculture and commerce, to march them to the gates of Saint Domingo.
You, the authorities of the city, compelled me to lead them there, in enforcement of the claims of France. If warlike thoughts have sprung up in those ten thousand minds, the responsibility is not mine. I wish that nothing but peace should be in the hearts of men of all races.
Have you wishes to express, in the name of the citizens? Show me how I can gratify them."
"Don Alonzo Dovaro explains," said the interpreter, "that it will be acceptable to the Spanish inhabitants that you take the customary oath, in the name of the Holy Trinity, respecting the government of their whole region."
"It is indeed a holy duty. What is the purport of the oath?"
"In the name of the Holy Trinity, to govern wisely and well."
"Has there lived a Christian man who would take that oath?"
"Every governor of the Spanish colony in this island, from Diego, the brother of Columbus, to this day."
"What is human wisdom," said Toussaint, "that a man should swear that he will be always wise? What is human virtue, that he should pledge his salvation on governing well? I dare not take the oath."
The Spaniards showed that they understood French by the looks they cast upon each other, before Laxabon could complete his version.
"This, however, will I do," said Toussaint. "I will meet you to-morrow, at the great church in Port-au-Prince, and there bind myself before the altar, before the God who hears me now, on behalf of your people, to be silent on the past, and to employ my vigilance and my toils in rendering happy the Spanish people, now become my fellow-citizens of France."
A profusion of obeisances proved that this was satisfactory. The late governor of the city took from one of his officers the velvet cushion on which were deposited the keys of Saint Domingo, and transferred it to the hands of the Commander-in-chief. At the moment, there was an explosion of cannon from the terrace on which stood the town; the bells rang in all the churches; and bursts of military music spread over the calm bay, with the wreaths of white smoke from the guns. The flamingoes took flight again from the strand; the ships moved in their anchorage; the shouts of the people arose from the town, and those of the soldiery from the square of the great avenue. Their idol, their Ouverture, was now in command of the whole of the most beautiful of the isles of the west.
As soon as he could be heard, Toussaint introduced his brother to the Spaniards. Placing the cushion containing the keys upon the table, and laying his hand upon the keys, he declared his intention of giving to the inhabitants of the city of Saint Domingo a pledge of the merciful and gentle character of the government under which they were henceforth to live, in the person of the new governor, Paul L'Ouverture, who had never been known to remember unkindness from day-to-day. The new governor would depart for the east of the island on the morrow, from the door of the church, at the close of the celebration.
The levee was now over. Spanish, French, and the family and guests of the Commander-in-chief, were to meet at a banquet in the evening.
Meantime, Toussaint and his brother stepped out together upon the northern piazza, and the room was cleared.
"I wish," said Paul, "that you had appointed any one but me to be governor of that city. How should a poor negro fisherman like me govern a city?"
"You speak like a white, Paul. The whites say of me, `How should a poor negro postillion govern a colony?' You must do as I do--show that a negro can govern."
"But Heaven made you for a ruler."
"Who thought so while I was yet a slave? As for you--I know not what you can do till you have tried; nor do you. I own that you are not the man I should have appointed, if I had had a choice among all kinds of men."
"Then look around for some other."
"There is no other, on the whole, so little unfit as you. Henri must remain in the field while Rigaud is in arms. Jacques--" "Ay, Dessalines--and he might have a court--such a wife as he would carry."
"Dessalines must not govern a city of whites. He hates the whites. His passion of hatred would grow with power; and the Spaniards would be wretched. They are now under my protection. I must give them a governor who cannot hate; and therefore I send you. Your love of our people and of me, my brother, will rouse you to exertion and self-denial. For the rest you shall have able counsellors on the spot.
For your private guidance, I shall be ever at your call. Confide wholly in me, and your appeal shall never be unanswered."
"You shall be governor, then. I will wear the robes, and your head shall do the work. I will amuse the inhabitants with water-parties, and you--" "No more of this!" said Toussaint, somewhat sternly. "It seems that you are unwilling to do your part of the great duty of our age and our race.
Heaven has appointed you the opportunity of showing that blacks are men--fit to govern as to serve;--and you would rather sleep in the sunshine than listen to the message from the sky. My own brother does what he can to deepen the brand on the forehead of the negro!"
"I am ashamed, brother," said Paul, "I am not like you; but yet I will do what I can. I will go to-morrow, and try whether I can toil as you do. There is one thing I can do which Henri, and Jacques, and even you, cannot;--I can speak Spanish."
"You have discovered one of your qualifications, dear Paul. You will find more. Will you take Moyse with you?"
"Let it be a proof that I can deny myself, that I leave my son with you.
Moyse is passionate."
"I know it," said Toussaint.
"He governs both his love and his hatred before you, while with me he indulges them. He must remain with you, in order to command his passions. He inherited them from me; and I must thus far help him to master them. You are all-powerful with him. I have no power."
"You mean that Genifrede and I together are all-powerful with him. I believe it is so."
"To you, then, I commit him. Moyse is henceforth your son."
"As Genifrede is your daughter, Paul. If I die before the peace of the island is secured, there are two duties which I assign to you--to support the spirit of the blacks, and to take my Genifrede for your daughter. The rest of my family love each other, and the world we live in. She loves only Moyse."
"She is henceforth my child. But when will you marry them?"
"When Moyse shall have done some act to distinguish himself--for which he shall not want opportunity. I have a higher duty than that to my family--it is my duty to call out all the powers of every black. Moyse must therefore prove what he can do, before he can marry his love. For him, however, this is an easy condition."
"I doubt not you are right, brother; but it is well for me that the days of my love are past."
"Not so, Paul. The honour of your race must now be your love. For this you must show what you can do."
They had paced the northern piazza while conversing. They now turned into the eastern, where they came upon the lovers, who were standing half shrouded by creeping plants--Moyse's arm round Genifrede's waist, and Genifrede's head resting on her lover's shoulder. The poor girl was sobbing violently, while Moyse was declaring that he would marry her, with or without consent, and carry her with him, if he was henceforth to live in the east of the island.
"Patience, foolish boy!" cried his father. "You go not with me. I commit you to my brother. You will stay with him, and yield him the duty of a son--a better duty than we heard you planning just now."
"As soon as you prove yourself worthy, you shall be my son indeed," said Toussaint. "I have heard your plans of marriage. You shall hear mine.
I will give you opportunities of distinguishing yourself, in the services of the city and of the field. After the first act which proves you worthy of responsibility, I will give you Genifrede. As a free man, can you desire more?"
"I am satisfied--I am grateful," said Moyse. "I believe I spoke some hasty words just now; but we supposed I was to be sent among the whites--and I had so lately returned from the south--and Genifrede was so wretched!"
Genifrede threw herself on her father's bosom, with broken words of love and gratitude. It was the first time she had ever voluntarily approached so near him; and she presently drew back, and glanced in his face with timid awe.
"My Genifrede! My child!" cried Toussaint, in a rapture of pleasure at this loosening of the heart. He drew her towards him, folded his arms about her, kissed the tears from her cheek, and hushed her sobs, saying, in a low voice which touched her very soul-- "He can do great deeds, Genifrede. He is yours, my child; but we shall all be proud of him."
She looked up once more, with a countenance so radiant, that Toussaint carried into all the toils and observance of the day the light heart of a happy father.
Note 1. I have to acknowledge that injustice is done in this work to the character of General Vincent. The writer of historical fiction is under that serious liability, in seizing on a few actual incidents, concerning a subordinate personage, that he makes himself responsible for justice to the whole character of the individual whose name he introduces into his story. Under this liability I have been unjust to Vincent, as Scott was to Edward Christian, in "Peveril of the Peak," and Campbell to Brandt, in "Gertrude of Wyoming." Like them, I am anxious to make reparation on the first opportunity. It is true that in my Appendix I avowed that Vincent was among those of my personages whose name alone I adopted, without knowing his character; but such an explanation in an appendix does not counteract the impression already made by the work. Finding this, I had thoughts of changing the name in the present edition; but I feared the character being still identified with Vincent, from its being fact that it was Vincent who accompanied Toussaint's sons to Paris, and returned with the deputation, as I have represented; I think it best, therefore, to say here that, from all I can learn, General Vincent was an honourable and useful man, and that the delineation of character under that name in my book is purely fictitious. The following extract from Clarkson's pamphlet on Negro Improvement will show in what estimation General Vincent is held by one whose testimony is of the highest value:-- "The next witness to whom I shall appeal is the estimable General Vincent, who now lives at Paris, though at an advanced age. He was a Colonel, and afterwards a General of Brigade of Artillery in Saint Domingo. He was detained there during the time both of Santhonax and Toussaint. He was also a proprietor of estates in the island. He was the man who planned the renovation of its agriculture after the abolition of slavery, and one of the great instruments in bringing it to the perfection mentioned by La Croix. In the year 1801 he was called upon by Toussaint to repair to Paris, to lay before the Directory the new Constitution, which had been agreed on in Saint Domingo. He obeyed the summons. It happened that he arrived in France just at the moment of the Peace of Amiens. Here he found, to his inexpressible surprise and grief, that Bonaparte was preparing an immense armament, under Leclerc, to restore slavery in Saint Domingo. He remonstrated against the expedition: he told him to his face that though the army destined for this purpose was composed of the brilliant conquerors of Europe, they could do nothing in the Antilles. He stated, as another argument against the expedition, that it was totally unnecessary, and, therefore, criminal; for that everything was going on well in Saint Domingo; the proprietors in peaceable possession of their estates, cultivation making rapid progress, the Blacks industrious, and beyond example happy."
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
L'ETOILE AND ITS PEOPLE.
One radiant day of the succeeding spring, a party was seen in the plain of Cul-de-Sac, moving with such a train as showed that one of the principal families of the island was travelling. Rigaud and his forces were so safely engaged in the south, that the plain was considered secure from their incursions. Port-au-Prince, surrounded on three sides by hills, was now becoming so hot, that such of its inhabitants as had estates in the country were glad to retire to them, as soon as the roads were declared safe; and among these were the family of the Commander-in-Chief, who, with tutors, visitors, and attendants, formed the group seen in the Cul-de-Sac this day. They were removing to their estate of Pongaudin, on the shores of the bay of Gonaves, a little to the north of the junction of the Artibonite with the sea; but instead of travelling straight and fast, they intended to make a three days' journey of what might have been accomplished in less than two--partly for the sake of the pleasure of the excursion, and partly to introduce their friends from Europe to some of the beauties of the most beautiful island in the world.
Madame L'Ouverture had had presents of European carriages, in which she did not object to take airings in the towns and their neighbourhood; but nowhere else were the roads in a state to bear such heavy vehicles. In the sandy bridle-paths they would have sunk half their depth; in the green tracks they would have been caught in thickets of brambles and low boughs; while many swamps occurred which could be crossed only by single horses, accustomed to pick their way in uncertain ground. The ladies of the colony, therefore, continued, as in all time past, to take their journeys on horseback, each attended by some one--a servant, if there were neither father, brother, nor lover--to hold the umbrella over her during rain, or the more oppressive hours of sunshine.
The family of L'Ouverture had left the palace early, and were bound, for an estate in the middle of the plain, where they intended to rest, either till evening, or till the next morning, as inclination might determine. As their train, first of horses, and then of mules, passed along, now under avenues of lofty palms, which constituted a deep, moist shade in the midst of the glare of the morning--now across fields of sward, kept green by the wells which were made to overflow them; and now through swamps where the fragrant flowering reeds reached up to the flanks of the horses, and courted the hands of the riders, the inhabitants of the region watched their progress, and gave them every variety of kindly greeting. The mother who was sitting at work under the tamarind-tree called her children down from its topmost branches to do honour to the travellers. Many a half-naked negro in the rice-grounds slipped from the wet plank on which, while gazing, he forgot his footing, and laughed his welcome from out of the mud and slime. The white planters who were taking their morning ride over their estates, bent to the saddle-bow, the large straw hat in hand, and would not cover their heads from the hot sun till the ladies had passed.
These planters' wives and daughters, seated at the shaded windows, or in the piazzas of their houses, rose and curtsied deep to the ladies L'Ouverture. Many a little black head rose dripping from the clear waters, gleaming among the reeds, where negro children love to watch the gigantic dragon-flies of the tropics creeping from their sheaths, and to catch them as soon as they spread their gauzy wings, and exhibit their gem-like bodies to the sunlight. Many a group of cultivators in the cane-grounds grasped their arms, on hearing the approach of numbers-- taught thus by habitual danger--but swung back the gun across the shoulder, or tucked the pistol again into the belt, at sight of the ladies; and then ran to the road-side to remove any fancied obstruction in the path; or, if they could do no more, to smile a welcome. It was observable that, in every case, there was an eager glance, in the first place, of search for L'Ouverture himself; but when it was seen that he was not there, there was still all the joy that could be shown where he was not.
The whole country was full of song. As Monsieur Loisir, the architect from Paris, said to Genifrede, it appeared as if vegetation itself went on to music. The servants of their own party sang in the rear; Moyse and Denis, and sometimes Denis' sisters, sang as they rode; and if there was not song already on the track, it came from behind every flowering hedge--from the crown of the cocoa-nut tree--from the window of the cottage. The sweet wild note of the mocking-bird was awakened in its turn; and from the depths of the tangled woods, where it might defy the human eye and hand, it sent forth its strain, shrill as the thrush, more various than the nightingale, and sweeter than the canary. But for the bird, the Spanish painter, Azua, would have supposed that all this music was the method of reception of the family by the peasantry; but, on expressing his surprise to Aimee, she answered that song was as natural to Saint Domingo, when freed, as the light of sun or stars, when there were no clouds in the sky. The heart of the negro was, she said, as naturally charged with music as his native air with fragrance. If you dam up his mountain-streams, you have, instead of fragrance, poison and pestilence; and if you chain up the negro's life in slavery, you have, for music, wailing and curses. Give both free course, and you have an atmosphere of spicy odours, and a universal spirit of song.
"This last," said Azua, "is as one long, but varied, ode in honour of your father. Men of some countries would watch him as a magician, after seeing the wonders he has wrought. Who, looking over this wide level, on which plenty seems to have emptied her horn, would believe how lately and how thoroughly it was ravaged by war?"
"There seems to be magic in all that is made," said Aimee; "so that all are magicians who have learned to draw it forth. Monsieur Loisir was showing us yesterday how the lightning may now be brought down from the thunder-cloud, and carried into the earth at some given spot. Our servants, who have yearly seen the thunderbolt fire the cottage or the mill, tremble, and call the lightning-rods magic. My father is a magician of the same sort, except that he deals with a deeper and higher magic."
"That which lies in men's hearts--in human passions."
"In human affections; by which he thinks more in the end is done than by their passions."
"Did you learn this from himself?" asked Azua, who listened with much surprise and curiosity to this explanation from the girl by whose side he rode. "Does your father explain to you his views of men, and his purposes with regard to them?"
"There is no need," she replied. "From the books he has always read, we know what he thinks of men's minds and ways: and from what happens, we learn his purposes; for my father always fulfils his purposes."
"And who led you to study his books, and observe his purposes?"
"My brother Isaac."
"One of those who is studying at Paris? Does he make you study here, while he is being educated there?"
"No; he does not make me study. But I know what he is doing--I have books--Isaac and I were always companions--He learns from me what my father does--But I was going to tell you, when you began asking about my father, that this plain will not appear to you throughout so, flourishing as it does now, from the road. When we reach the Etoile estate, you will see enough of the ravages of war."
"I have perceived some signs of desertion in a house or two that we have passed," said Azua. "But these brothers of yours--when will they return?"
"Indeed I wish I knew," sighed Aimee. "I believe that depends on the First Consul."
"The First Consul has so much to do, it is a pity their return should depend upon his memory. If he should forgot, you will go and see Paris, and bring your brothers home."
"The First Consul forgets nothing," replied Aimee. "He knows and heeds all that we do here, at the distance of almost half the world. He never forgets my brothers: he is very kind to them."
"All that you say is true," said Vincent, who was now on the other side of Aimee. "Everything that you can say in praise of the First Consul is true. But yet you should go and see Paris. You do not know what Paris is--you do not know what your brothers are like in Paris--especially Isaac. He tells you, no doubt, how happy he is there?"
"He does; but I had rather see him here."
"You have fine scenery here, no doubt, and a climate which you enjoy: but there! what streets and palaces--what theatres--what libraries and picture-galleries--and what society!"
"Is it not true, however," said Azua, "that all the world is alike to her where her brother is?"
"This is L'Etoile," said Aimee. "Of all the country houses in the island, this was, not perhaps the grandest, but the most beautiful. It is now ruined; but we hear that enough remains for Monsieur Loisir to make out the design."
She turned to Vincent, and told him that General Christophe was about to build a house; and that he wished it to be on the model of L'Etoile, as it was before the war. Monsieur Loisir was to furnish the design.
The Europeans of the party were glad to be told that they had nearly arrived at their resting place; for they could scarcely sit their horses, while toiling in the heat through the deep sand of the road.
They had left far behind them both wood and swamp; and, though the mansion seemed to be embowered in the green shade, they had to cross open ground to reach it. At length Azua, who had sunk into a despairing silence, cried out with animation-- "Ha! the opuntia! what a fence! what a wall!"
"You may know every deserted house in the plain," said Aimee, "by the cactus hedge round it."
"What ornament can the inhabited mansion have more graceful, more beautiful?" said Azua, forgetting the heat in his admiration of the blossoms, some red, some snow-white, some blush-coloured, which were scattered in profusion over the thick and high cactus hedge which barred the path.
"Nothing can be more beautiful," said Aimee, "but nothing more inconvenient. See, you are setting your horse's feet into a trap." And she pointed to the stiff, prickly green shoots which matted all the ground. "We must approach by some other way. Let us wait till the servants have gone round."
With the servants appeared a tall and very handsome negro, well-known throughout the island for his defence of the Etoile estate against Rigaud. Charles Bellair was a Congo chief, kidnapped in his youth, and brought into Saint Domingo slavery; in which state he had remained long enough to keep all his detestation for slavery, without losing his fitness for freedom. He might have returned, ere this, to Africa, or he might have held some military office under Toussaint; but he preferred remaining on the estate which he had partly saved from devastation, bringing up his little children to revere and enthusiastically obey the Commander-in-chief--the idol of their colour. The heir of the Etoile estate did not appear, nor transmit his claim. Bellair, therefore, and two of his former fellow bondsmen, cultivated the estate, paying over the fixed proportion of the produce to the public funds.
Bellair hastened to lead Madame L'Ouverture's horse round to the other side of the house, where no prickly vegetation was allowed to encroach.
His wife was at work and singing to her child under the shadow of the colonnade--once an erection of great beauty, but now blackened by fire, and at one end crumbling into ruins.
"Minerve!" cried Madame, on seeing her.
"Deesha is her name," said Bellair, smiling.
"Oh, you call her by her native name! Would we all knew our African names, as you know hers! Deesha!"
Deesha hastened forward, all joy and pride at being the hostess of the Ouverture family. Eagerly she led the way into the inhabited part of the abode--a corner of the palace-like mansion--a corner well covered in from the weather, and presenting a strange contrast of simplicity and luxury.
The courtyard through which they passed was strewed with ruins, which, however, were almost entirely concealed by the brushwood, through which only a lane was kept cleared for going in and out. The whole was shaded, almost as with an awning, by the shrubs which grew from the cornices, and among the rafters which had remained where the roof once was. Ropes of creepers hung down the wall, so twisted, and of so long a growth, that Denis had climbed half-way up the building by means of this natural ladder, when he was called back again. The jalousies were decayed--starting away from their hinges, or hanging in fragments; while the window-sills were gay with flowering weeds, whose seeds even took root in the joints of the flooring within, open as it was to the air and the dew. The marble steps and entrance-hall were kept clear of weeds and dirt, and had a strange air of splendour in the midst of the desolation. The gilding of the balustrades of the hall was tarnished; and it had no furniture but the tatters of some portraits, whose frame and substance had been nearly devoured by ants; but it was weather-tight and clean. The saloon to the right constituted the family dwelling.
Part of its roof had been repaired with a thatch of palm-leaves, which formed a singular junction with the portion of the ceiling which remained, and which exhibited a blue sky-ground, with gilt stars. An alcove had been turned into the fireplace, necessary for cooking. The kitchen corner was partitioned off from the sitting-room by a splendid folding screen of Oriental workmanship, exhibiting birds-of-paradise, and the blue rivers and gilt pagodas of China. The other partitions were the work of Bellair's own hands, woven of bamboo and long grass, dyed with the vegetable dyes, with whose mysteries he was, like a true African, acquainted. The dinner-table was a marble slab, which still remained cramped to the wall, as when it had been covered with plate, or with ladies' work-boxes. The seats were benches, hewn by Bellair's axe.
On the shelves and dresser of unpainted wood were ranged together porcelain dishes from Dresden, and calabashes from the garden; wooden spoons, and knives with enamelled handles. A harp, with its strings broken, and its gilding tarnished, stood in one corner; and musical instruments of Congo origin hung against the wall. It was altogether a curious medley of European and African civilisation, brought together amidst the ruins of a West Indian revolution.
The young people did not remain long in the house, however tempting its coolness might have appeared. At one side of the mansion was the colonnade, which engrossed the architect's attention; on the other bloomed the garden, offering temptations which none could resist--least of all those who were lovers. Moyse and his Genifrede stepped first to the door which looked out upon the wilderness of flowers, and were soon lost sight of among the shrubs.
Genifrede had her sketch-book in her hand. She and her sister were here partly for the sake of a drawing lesson from Azua; and perhaps she had some idea of taking a sketch during this walk with Moyse. He snatched the book from her, however, and flung it through the window of a garden-house which they passed, saying-- "You can draw while I am away. For this hour you are all my own."
"And when will you be away? Wherever you go, I will follow you. If we once part, we shall not meet again."
"We think so, and we say so, each time that we part; and yet we meet again. Once more, only the one time when I am to distinguish myself, to gain you--only that once will we be parted; and then we will be happy for over."
"Then you will be killed--or you will be sent to France, or you will love some one else and forget me--" "Forgot you!--love some one else! Oh! Heaven and earth!" cried Moyse, clasping her in his arms, and putting his whole soul into the kisses he impressed on her forehead. "And what," he continued, in a voice which thrilled her heart, "what would you do if I were killed?"
"I would die. Oh, Moyse! if it should be so, wait for me! Let your spirit wait for mine! It shall not be long."
"Shall my spirit come--shall I come as a ghost, to tell you that I am dead? Shall I come when you are alone, and call you away?"
"Oh! no, no!" she cried, shuddering. "I will follow--you need not fear.
But a ghost--oh! no, no!" And she looked up at him, and clasped him closer.
"And why?" said Moyse. "You do not fear me now--you cling to me. And why fear me then? I shall be yours still. I shall be Moyse. I shall be about you, haunting you, whether you see and hear me or not. Why not see and hear me?"
"Why not?" said Genifrede, in a tone of assent. "But I dare not--I will not. You shall not die. Do not speak of it."
"It was not I, but you, love, that spoke of it. Well, I will not die.
But tell me--if I forget you--if I love another--what then?" And he looked upon her with eyes so full of love, that she laughed, and withdrew herself from his arms, saying, as she sauntered on along the "Then I will forget you too."
Moyse lingered for a moment, to watch her stately form, as she made a pathway for herself amidst the tangled shrubs. The walk, once a smooth-shaven turf, kept green by trenches of water, was now overgrown with the vegetation which encroached on either hand. As the dark beauty forced her way, the maypole-aloe shook its yellow crown of flowers, many feet above her head; the lilac jessamine danced before her face; and the white datura, the pink flower-fence, and the scarlet cordia, closed round her form, or spread themselves beneath her feet. Her lover was soon again by her side, warding off every branch and spray, and saying-- "The very flowers worship you: but they and all--all must yield you to me. You are mine; and yet not mine till I have won you from your father. Genifrede, how shall I distinguish myself? Show me the way, and I shall succeed."
"Do not ask me," she replied, sighing.
"Nay, whom should I ask?"
"I never desired you to distinguish yourself."
"You do not wish it?"
"No."
"Not for your sake?"
"No."
And she looked around her with wistful eyes, in which her lover read a wish that things would ever remain as they were now--that this moment would never pass away.
"You would remain here--you would hide yourself here with me for ever!"
cried the happy Moyse.
"Here, or anywhere;--in the cottage at Breda;--in your father's hut on the shore;--anywhere, Moyse, where there is nothing to dread. I live in fear; and I am wretched."
"What is it that you fear, love? Why do you not trust, me to protect you?"
"Then I fear for you, which is worse. Why cannot we live in the woods or the mountains, where there would be no dangerous duties, and no cares?"
"And if we lived in the woods, you would be more terrified still. There would never be a falling star, but your heart would sink. You would take the voices of the winds for the spirits of the woods, and the mountain mists for ghosts. Then, there are the tornado and the thunderbolt. When you saw the trees crashing, you would be for making haste back to the plain. Whenever you heard the rock rolling and bounding down the steep, or the cataract rising and roaring in the midst of the tempest, you would entreat me to fly to the city. It is in this little beating heart that the fear lies."
"What then is to be done?"
"This little heart must beat yet a while longer; and then, when I have once come back, it shall rest upon mine for ever."
"Beside my father? He never rests. Your father would leave us in peace; but he has committed you to one who knows not what rest is."
"Nor ever will," said Moyse. "If he closed his eyes, if he relaxed his hand, we should all be sunk in ruin."
"We? Who? What ruin?"
"The whole negro race. Do you suppose the whites are less cruel than they were? Do you believe that their thirst for our humiliation, our slavery, is quenched? Do you believe that the white man's heart is softened by the generosity and forgiveness of the blacks?"
"My father believes so," replied Genifrede; "and do they not adore him-- the whites whom he has reinstated? Do they not know that they owe to him their lives, their homes, the prosperity of the island? Does he not trust the whites? Does he not order all things for their good, from reverence and affection for them?"
"Yes, he does," replied Moyse, in a tone which made Genifrede anxiously explore his countenance.
"You think him deceived?" she said.
"No, I do not. It is not easy to deceive L'Ouverture."
"You do not think--no, you cannot think, that he deceives the whites, or any one."
"No. L'Ouverture deceives no one. As you say, he reveres the whites.
He reveres them for their knowledge. He says they are masters of an intellectual kingdom from which we have been shut out, and they alone can let us in. And then again.--Genifrede, it seems to me that he loves best those who have most injured him."
"Not best," she replied. "He delights to forgive: but what white has he ever loved as he loves Henri? Did he ever look upon any white as he looked upon me, when--when he consented? Moyse, you remember?"
"I do. But still he loves the whites as if they were born, and had lived and died, our friends, as he desires they should be. Yet more--he expects and requires that all his race should love them too."
"And you do not?" said Genifrede, timidly.
"I abhor them."
"Oh! hush! hush! Speak lower. Does my father know this?"
"Why should he? If he once knew it--" "Nay, if he knew it, he would give up his purposes of distinction for you; and we might live here, or on the shore."
"My Genifrede, though I hate the whites, I love the blacks. I love your father. The whites will rise upon us at home, as they are always scheming against us in France, if we are not strong and as watchful as we are strong. If I and others leave L'Ouverture alone to govern, and betake ourselves to the woods and the mountains, the whites will again be masters, and you and I, my Genifrede, shall be slaves. But you shall not be a slave, Genifrede," he continued, soothing her tremblings at the idea. "The bones of the whites shall be scattered over the island, like the shells on the sea-shore, before my Genifrede shall be a slave. I will cut the throat of every infant at every white mother's breast,