This new violence had for its object the few whites who were rash and
weak enough to insist on the terms of Hedouville's intended
proclamation, instead of abiding by that of L'Ouverture. The
cultivators on the estates of these whites left work, rather than be
reduced to a condition of virtual slavery. Wandering from plantation to
plantation, idle and discontented, they drew to themselves others who,
from any cause, were also idle and discontented. They exasperated each
other with tales, old and new, of the tyranny of the whites. Still,
further mischief might have been prevented by due vigilance and firmness
on the part of him in whose charge the town and district of Cap Francais
now lay. Stories, however, passed from mouth to mouth respecting
General Moyse--anecdotes of the words he had dropped in dislike of the
whites--of the prophecies he had uttered of more violence before the old
masters would be taught their new place--rumours like these spread, till
the gathering mob at length turned their faces towards the town, as if
to try how far they might go. They went as far as the gates, having
murdered some few of the obnoxious masters, either in their own houses,
or, as in the case of Monsieur Revel, where they happened to meet them.
On the Haut-du-Cap they encountered General Moyse coming out against
them with soldiery. At first he looked fierce; and the insurgents began
to think each of getting away as he best might. But in a few moments,
no one seemed to know how or why, the aspect of affairs changed. There
was an air of irresolution about the Commander. It was plain that he
was not really disposed to be severe--that he had no deadly intentions
towards those he came to meet. His black troops caught his mood. Some
of the inhabitants of the town, who wore on the watch with glasses from
the gates, from the churches, and from the roofs of houses, afterwards
testified to there having been a shaking of hands, and other amicable
gestures. They testified that the insurgents crowded round General
Moyse, and gave, at one time cheers, at another time groans, evidently
on a signal from him. No prisoners were made--there was not a shot
fired. The General and his soldiers returned into the town, and even
into their quarters, protesting that no further mischief would happen,
but the insurgents remained on the heights till daylight; and the
inhabitants, feeling themselves wholly unprotected, sent off expresses
to the Commander-in-Chief, and watched, with arms loaded, till he, or
one of his more trustworthy Generals, should arrive. These expresses
were stopped and turned back, by order of General Moyse, who ridiculed
the idea of further danger, and required the inhabitants to be satisfied
with his assurances of protection. Fortunately, however, one or two
messengers who had been sent off a few hours before, on the first alarm,
had reached their destination, while General Moyse was yet on the
Haut-du-Cap.
The first relief to the anxious watchers was on seeing the heights
gradually cleared at sunrise. The next was the news that L'Ouverture
was entering the town, followed by the ringleaders from Limbe, whom he
was bringing in as prisoners. He had proceeded directly to the scene of
insurrection, where the leaders of the mob were delivered up to him at
his first bidding. It now remained to be seen what he would do with
those, within the town, high or low in office, who were regarded by the
inhabitants as accessories.
This kind of speculation was not abated by the sight of L'Ouverture, as
he passed through the streets. Grave as his countenance usually was,
and at times melancholy, never had it been seen so mournful as to-day.
Years seemed to have sunk down upon him since he was last seen--so
lately that the youngest prattler in the Cap had not ceased to talk of
the day. As he walked his horse through the streets, many citizens
approached, some humbly to ask, others eagerly to offer information.
With all these last he made appointments, and rode on. His way lay past
Monsieur Revel's door; and it happened to be at the very time that the
funeral (an affair of hurry in that climate) was about to take place.
At the sight, L'Ouverture stopped, opposite the door. When the coffin
was brought out, he took off his hat, and remained uncovered till it
moved on, when he turned his horse, and followed the train to the corner
of the street. There were many present who saw his face, and by whom
its expression of deep sorrow was never afterwards forgotten. When he
again turned in the direction of Government-house, he proceeded at a
rapid pace, as if his purposes had been quickened by the sight.
His aides, who had been dispersed on different errands, entered the town
by its various avenues; and some of them joined him in the Jesuits'
Walk. At the gate of Government-house he was received by General Moyse,
who had been almost the last person in Cap to hear of his arrival.
L'Ouverture acknowledged his military greeting; and then, turning to his
aides, said in a calm tone, which yet was heard half-way down the Walk,
and thence propagated through the town, as if by echoes--
"General Moyse is under arrest."
As Moyse was moving off towards the apartment in which he was to be
guarded, he requested an interview with the Commander-in-Chief.
"After your business with the court-martial is concluded," was the
reply. "On no account before."
General Moyse bowed, and proceeded to his apartment.
For some hours after, there was every indication of the rapid
transaction of business in Government-house. Messengers were sent to
Fort Dauphin, to the commanding officer at Limbe, and to every military
station within thirty miles. Orders were issued for the garrison of Cap
to be kept close within their quarters. Not a man was to be allowed, on
any pretence whatever, to pass the barrack-gates, which were
well-guarded by the Commander-in-Chief's own guards, till troops for the
service of the town could arrive from Fort Dauphin. As L'Ouverture was
closeted with his secretary, message after message was reported; letter
upon letter was delivered by his usher. Among these messages came, at
length, one which made him start.
"Mademoiselle L'Ouverture begs to be permitted to see General Moyse."
Before he could reply, a note by another messenger was put into his
hands.
"I implore you to let me see Moyse. I do not ask to see you. I do
not wish it. I will disturb no one. Only give me an order to see
Moyse--for his sake, and that of your unhappy
"Genifrede."
Toussaint left the room, and was but too well directed by the
countenances of his servants to the room where Genifrede was lying, with
her face hidden, upon a sofa. Denis was standing silent at a window
which overlooked the Walk. Both were covered with dust from their
journey.
Genifrede looked up, on hearing some one enter. When she saw that it
was her father, she again buried her face in the cushions, saving only--
"Oh, why did you come?"
"Stay, my child, why did you come? How--why--"
"I always know," said she, "when misery is near; and where misery is,
there am I. Do not be angry with Denis, father. I made him come."
"I am angry with no one, Genifrede. I am too much grieved to be angry.
I am come to take you to Moyse. I cannot see him myself, at present;
but I will take you to the door of the salon where he is."
"The salon!" said Genifrede, as if relieved. She had probably imagined
him chained in a cell. This one word appeared to alter the course of
her ideas. She glanced at her travel-soiled dress, and hesitated. Her
father said--
"I will send a servant to you. Refresh yourself; and in half-an-hour I
will come again."
When he rejoined her, she was still haggard and agitated, but appeared
far less wretched than before.
"Genifrede!" cried Moyse, as she entered and leaned against the wall,
unable to go farther. "Genifrede! And was not that your father who
admitted you? Oh, call him, Genifrede! Call him back! I must see him.
If you ask him, he will come. Call him back, Genifrede!"
"If you are engaged, Moyse," said she in a sickening voice, "if I am in
your way, I will go."
"No, no, my love. But I must see your father. Everything may depend
upon it."
"I will go--as soon as I can," said the poor girl, beginning to sink to
the floor.
"You shall not go, my love--my Genifrede," cried Moyse, supporting her
to a sofa. "I did not know--I little thought--Are you all here?"
"No; I came to see you, Moyse. I told you how it would be if we
parted."
"And how will it be, love?"
"Oh, how can you make me say it? How can you make me think it?"
"Why, Genifrede, you cannot suppose anything _very_ serious will happen.
What frightens you so? Once more I ask you the old question that we
must both be weary of--what frightens you so?"
"What frightens me!" she repeated, with a bewildered look in her face.
"Were we not to have been married as soon as you were relieved from your
command here? And are you not a prisoner, waiting for trial--and that
trial for--for--for your life?"
"Never believe so, Genifrede! Have they not told you that the poor
blacks behaved perfectly well from the moment they met me? They did not
do a single act of violence after I went to them. Not a hand was raised
when they had once seen me; and after I had put them into good-humour,
they all went to their homes."
"Oh, is it so? Is it really so? But you said just now that everything
depended on your seeing my father."
"To a soldier, his honour, his professional standing, are everything--"
Seeing a painful expression in Genifrede's face, he explained that even
his private happiness--the prosperity of his love, depended on his
professional honour and standing. She must be as well aware as himself
that he was now wholly at her father's mercy, as regarded all his
prospects in life; and that this would justify any eagerness to see him.
"At his mercy," repeated Genifrede; "and he is merciful. He does acts
of mercy every day."
"True--true. You see now you were too much alarmed."
"But, Moyse, how came you to need his mercy? But two days ago how proud
he was of you! and now--Oh! Moyse, when you knew what depended on these
few days, how could you fail?"
"How was it that, he put me into an office that I was not fit for? He
should have seen--"
"Then let us leave him, and all these affairs which make us so
miserable. Let us go to your father. He will let us live at Saint
Domingo in peace."
Moyse shook his head, saying that there were more whites at Saint
Domingo than in any other part of the island; and the plain truth was,
he could not live where there were whites.
"How was it then that you pleased my father so much when Hedouville went
away? He whispered to me, in the piazza at Pongaudin, that, next to
himself, you saved the town--that many whites owed their lives and their
fortunes to you."
"I repent," cried Moyse, bitterly, "I repent of my deeds of that day. I
repent that any white ever owed me gratitude. I thank God, I have
shaken them off, like the dust from my feet! Thank God, the whites are
all cursing me now!"
"What do you mean? How was it all?" cried Genifrede, fearfully.
"When Hedouville went away, my first desire was to distinguish myself,
that I might gain you, as your father promised. This prospect, so near
and so bright, dazzled me so that I could not see black faces from
white. For the hour, one passion put the other out."
"And when--how soon did you begin to forget me?" asked Genifrede,
sorrowfully.
"I have never forgotten you, love--not for an hour, in the church among
the priests--in the square among the soldiers, any more than here as a
prisoner. But I thought my point was gained when your father stooped
from his horse, as he rode away, and told me there would be joy at home
on hearing of my charge. I doubted no more that all was safe. Then I
heard of the insufferable insolence of some of the whites out at Limbe--
acting as if Hedouville was still here to countenance them. I saw
exultation on account of this in all the white faces I met in Cap. The
poor old wretch Revel, when my officers and I met his carriage, stared
at me through his spectacles, and laughed in my face as if--"
"Was his grandchild with him? She was? Then he was laughing at some of
her prattle. Nothing else made him even smile."
"It looked as if he was ridiculing me and my function. I was growing
more angry every hour, when tidings came of the rising out at Limbe. I
knew it was forced on by the whites. I knew the mischief was begun by
Hedouville, and kept up by his countrymen; and was it to be expected
that I should draw the sword for them against our own people? Could I
have done so, Genifrede?"
"Would not my father have restored peace without drawing the sword at
all?"
"That was what I did. I went out to meet the insurgents; and the moment
they saw that the whites were not to have their own way, they returned
to quietness, and to their homes. Not another blow was struck."
"And the murderers--what did you do with them?"