“Yield! You are pardoned, Hector,”
cried Mr. Edwards, in a loud voice.
“You are pardoned, my friend!” repeated
Caesar.
Hector, incapable at this instant of listening to
anything but revenge, sprang forwards, and plunged
his knife into the bosom of Caesar. The faithful
servant staggered back a few paces: his master
caught him in his arms. “I die content,”
said he. “Bury me with Clara.”
He swooned from loss of blood as they were carrying
him home; but when his wound was examined, it was
found not to be mortal. As he recovered from
his swoon, he stared wildly round him, trying to recollect
where he was, and what had happened. He thought
that he was still in a dream, when he saw his beloved
Clara standing beside him. The opiate, which the
pretended sorceress had administered to her, had ceased
to operate; she wakened from her trance just at the
time the Koromantyn yell commenced. Caesar’s
joy!—we must leave that to the imagination.
In the mean time, what became of the rebel negroes,
and Mr. Edwards?
The taking the chief conspirators prisoners did not
prevent the negroes upon Jefferies’ plantation
from insurrection. The moment they heard the
war-whoop, the signal agreed upon, they rose in a body;
and, before they could be prevented, either by the
whites on the estate, or by Mr. Edwards’ adherents,
they had set fire to the overseer’s house, and
to the canes. The overseer was the principal
object of their vengeance—he died in tortures,
inflicted by the hands of those who had suffered most
by his cruelties. Mr. Edwards, however, quelled
the insurgents before rebellion spread to any other
estates in the island. The influence of his character,
and the effect of his eloquence upon the minds of the
people, were astonishing: nothing but his interference
could have prevented the total destruction of Mr.
Jefferies and his family, who, as it was computed,
lost this night upwards of fifty thousand pounds.
He was never afterwards able to recover his losses,
or to shake off his constant fear of a fresh insurrection
among his slaves. At length, he and his lady
returned to England, where they were obliged to live
in obscurity and indigence. They had no consolation
in their misfortunes but that of railing at the treachery
of the whole race of slaves. Our readers, we
hope, will think that at least one exception may be
made, in favour of THE GRATEFUL NEGRO. [Empty page]
“Oh this detestable To-morrow!—a
thing always expected, yet never found.”—JOHNSON.
It has long been my intention to write my own history,
and I am determined to begin it to-day; for half the
good intentions of my life have been frustrated by
my unfortunate habit of putting things off till to-morrow.
When I was a young man, I used to be told that this
was my only fault; I believed it, and my vanity or
laziness persuaded me that this fault was but small,
and that I should easily cure myself of it in time.
