Chapter Twenty Three.
Pangs of Office.
That night. Madame Dessalines was alone in a dimly-lighted apartment of Government-house—dimly-lighted except by the moon, shining in full at the range of windows which overlooked the gardens, so as to make the one lamp upon the table appear like a yellow taper. For most of the long hours that she had sat there, Thérèse had been alone. Denis had entered, before his departure homewards, to ask what tidings he was to carry to Pongaudin from her. Father Laxabon had twice appeared, to know if he could not yet see Génifrède, to offer her consolation; and had withdrawn, when he found that Génifrède was not yet awake. Madame Dessalines’ maid had put her head in so often as to give her mistress the idea that she was afraid to remain anywhere else; though it did not quite suit her to be where she must speak as little as possible, and that little only in whispers. So Thérèse had been, for the most part, alone since sunset. Her work was on the table, and she occasionally took up her needle for a few minutes; but it was laid down at the slightest noise without; and again and again she rose, either to listen at the chamber-door which opened into the apartment, or softly to pace the floor, or to step out upon the balcony, to refresh herself with looking down upon the calm lights and still shadows of the gardens.
In the centre of one division of these gardens was a fountain, whose waters, after springing in the air, fell into a wide and deep reservoir, from whence were supplied the trenches which kept the alleys green and fresh in all but the very hottest weeks of the year. Pour straight walks met at this fountain—walks hedged in with fences of citron, geraniums, and lilac jessamine. These walks were now deserted. Every one in the house and in the town was occupied with something far different from moonlight strolls, for pleasure or for meditation. The chequered lights and shadows lay undisturbed by the foot of any intruder. The waters gleamed as they rose, and sparkled as they fell; and no human voice, in discourse or in laughter, mingled with the murmur and the splash. Here Thérèse permitted herself the indulgence of the tears which she had made an effort to conceal within.
“These young creatures!” thought she. “What a lot! They are to be parted—wrenched asunder by death—by the same cause, for indulgence of the same passion, which brought Jacques and me together. If the same priest were to receive their confession and ours, how would he reconcile the ways of God to them and to us? The thought of my child burns at my heart, and its last struggle—my bosom is quivering with it still. For this Jacques took me to his heart, and I have ever since had—alas! not forgetfulness of my child—but a home, and the good fame that a woman cannot live without, and the love of a brave and tender heart—tender to me, however hard to those we hate. Jacques lives in honour, and in a station of command, though he hates the whites with a passion which would startle Moyse himself—hates them so that he does not even strive, as I do, to remember that they are human—to be ready to give them the cup of cold water when they thirst, and the word of sympathy when they grieve. He would rather dash the cup from their parched lips, and laugh at their woes. Yet Jacques lives in peace and honour at his palace at Saint Marc, or is, in war, at the head of troops that would die for him: while this poor young man, a mere novice in the passion, is too likely to be cast out, as unworthy to live among us—among us who, God knows, are in this regard more guilty than he! The time may come, when Génifrède’s first passion is over, when I may tell her this. Hark! that trumpet! The court-martial has broken up. Oh, I wish I could silence that trumpet! It will waken her. It is further off—and further. God grant she may not have heard it!”
She stepped in, and to the chamber-door, and listened. There was no stir, and she said to herself that her medicine had wrought well. From the window, which opened on one of the courtyards, she heard the shuffling of feet, and the passing by of many persons. She dared not look out; but she felt certain that the trial was over, that the officers were proceeding to their quarters, and the prisoner to his solitude. Her heart beat so that she was glad to return to her seat, and cover her eyes from the light. She was startled by the opening of the door from the corridor. It was L’Ouverture; and she rose, as every one habitually did, at his approach.
“Génifrède?” he said, anxiously, as he approached.
Thérèse pointed to the chamber, saying softly—
“She is there. I do not know what you will think of the means I have taken to procure her sleep. But she was so shaken—she so dreaded this night!”
“You have given her medicine. Is she asleep?”
“I gave her henbane, and she is asleep.”
“Is there a chance of her sleeping till noon?”
“If she be not disturbed. I have carefully darkened the room. What has been done?” she inquired, looking in his face. Struck with its expression, she exclaimed, “How you have suffered!”
“Yes. Life is bitter to those whom God has chosen. If Moyse did but know it, I almost envy him his rest.”
“Is it over, then? is he dead?”
“He dies at sunrise. You think Génifrède may sleep till noon?”
Thérèse could not reply, and he proceeded—
“He is found guilty, and sentenced. There was no escape. His guilt is clear as noonday.”
“No escape from the sentence,” said Thérèse, eagerly. “But there is room for mercy yet. You hold the power of life and death over all the colony—a power like that of God, and put into your hand by Him.”
“A power put into my hand by Him, and therefore to be justly used. Moyse’s crime is great, and mercy to him would be a crime in me. I have fault enough already to answer for in this business, and I dare not sin yet further.”
“You yourself have sinned?” said Thérèse, with a gleam of hope in her countenance and tone.
“Yes. I ought to have discerned the weakness of this young man. I ought to have detected the passions that were working in him. I was misled by one great and prolonged effort of self-control in him. I appointed an unworthy officer to the care of the lives and safety of the whites. Many of them have gone to lay their deaths to my charge in heaven. All I can now do is, by one more death (would to God it were my own!) to save and to reassure those who are left. It is my retribution that Moyse must die. As for Paul, as for Génifrède—the sin of the brother is visited upon the brother—the sin of the father upon the child.”
“But,” said Thérèse, “you speak as if you had caused the innocent to be destroyed. Some few harmless ones may have died; but the greater number—those who were sought by the sword’s point—were factious tyrants—enemies of your Government, and of your race—men who rashly brought their deaths upon themselves. They were passionate—they were stubborn—they were cruel.”
“True—and therefore were they peculiarly under my charge. I have guaranteed the safety of the whites; and none need my protection so much as those who do not, by justice, obedience, and gentleness, by gaining the good-will of their neighbours, protect themselves.”
“But Moyse did not murder any. He was not even present at any death.”
“It has just been proved that, while he knew that slaughter was going on, he took no measures to stop it. The ground of his guilt is plain and clear. The law of the revolution of Saint Domingo, as conducted by me, is No retaliation. Every breach of this law by an officer of mine is treason; and every traitor to the whites must die.”
“Alas! why so harsh now—only now? You have spared the guilty before, by tons, by hundreds. Why, now, cause all this misery for this one young life?”
“Those whom I have spared were my personal foes; and I spared them not so much for the sake of their separate lives, as for the sake of the great principles for which I live and govern—reconciliation and peace. For this end I pardoned them. For this end I condemn Moyse.”
“You make one tremble,” said Thérèse, shuddering, “for one’s very self. What if I were to tell you that it is not Moyse and Génifrède alone that—” She stopped.
“That hate the whites? I know it,” replied Toussaint. “I know that if God were to smite all among us who hate His children of another race, there would be mourning in some of the brightest dwellings of our land. I thank God that no commission to smite such is given to me.”
Thérèse was silent.
“My office is,” said Toussaint, “to honour those (and they are to be found in cottages all through the island) who forgive their former oppressors, and forget their own wrongs. Here, as elsewhere, we may take our highest lesson from the lowliest men. My office is to honour such. As for the powerful, and those who think themselves wise—their secret feelings towards all men are between themselves and God.”
“But if I could prove to you, at this moment, that Moyse’s enmity towards the whites is mild and harmless—his passions moderation, compared with the tempest in the breasts of some whom you employ and cherish—would not this soften you—would it not hold your hand from inflicting that which no priest can deny is injustice in God?”
“I leave it to no priest, Thérèse, but to God Himself, to vindicate His own justice, by working as He will in the secret hearts, or before the eyes of men. He may have, for those who hate their enemies, punishments too great for me, or any ruler, to wield; punishments to which the prison and the bullet are nothing. You speak of the tempest within the breast: I know at this moment, if you do not, that years of imprisonment, or a hundred death-strokes, are mercy compared to it. But no more of this! I only say, Thérèse, that while Jacques—”
“Say me too!”
“While Jacques and you secretly hate, I have no concern with it, except in my secret heart. But if that hatred, be it more or less than that of this young man, should interfere with my duty to friend or foe, you see, from his fate, that I have no mercy to grant. Jacques is my friend: Moyse was to have been my son.”
Neither could immediately speak. At length, Toussaint signed once more to the chamber-door, and once more said—
“Génifrède?”
“I have something to tell you—something to show you,” replied Thérèse. “Her sleep or stupor came upon her suddenly: but she kept a strong grasp upon the bosom of her dress. When I laid her on the bed, she kept her hands clasped one upon the other there. As she slept more heavily, the fingers relaxed; her hands fell, and I saw one end of this.”
She produced a phial.
“Ha! the red water!” exclaimed Toussaint.
“I thought it was,” said Thérèse.
“Who taught her this? Who has been tampering with her, and with her life?”
“Perhaps this may tell,” said Thérèse, showing the ivory ring.
Toussaint closely examined the ring, and then drew his hand across his brows.
“How strange,” said he, “are old thoughts, long forgotten! This bit of ivory makes me again a young man, and a slave. Do you remember that I once had the care of the sick at Breda, and administered medicines?”
Thérèse shuddered. She remembered that when her infant was taken ill, Papalier had sent for Toussaint, because, though Toussaint was no longer surgeon to the quarter at Breda, he was thought to have great knowledge and skill. Toussaint remembered nothing of this particular incident, and was not aware how he had touched her feelings. He went on:
“I began that study as all of my race have begun it, till of late, in superstition. With what awe did I handle charms like this! Can it be possible that my poor child has been wrought upon by such jugglery? What do you know about it?”
“No more than that the charm and the poison were hidden in her bosom.”
“It is hard to trouble a dying man,” said Toussaint, “but the survivor must be cared for. If Moyse has poisoned her mind, as I much fear, he would have poisoned her body—But no—it is an atrocious thought. If I wrong him—if his love for her is faithful, he will be glad to tell me what he knows, that her sick mind may be well tended. Father Laxabon is coming presently, to go to Moyse, and leave him no more. I will go with him.”
“How you suffer! How you must suffer!” said Thérèse, again speaking her thoughts, as she looked in his face.
“It is worse than going to my death,” replied he; “but for my child’s sake—for my poor brother’s sake, too—it must be done.”
He could say no more. Till Father Laxabon came, he paced the room—he listened at the chamber-door—he went out upon the balcony, to hide, as Thérèse well understood, his tears of agony. He again entered, listened again at the chamber-door, and, hastily approaching the table, took up the phial, saying—
“Are you certain that this is all? Are you certain that she only sleeps, and is not dying—or dead?”
“Indeed, I am not certain,” exclaimed Thérèse, starting up, and softly entering the chamber. Toussaint followed with the lamp, shading it carefully with his hand.
“Here is no pain,” whispered Thérèse. “She breathes quietly. There is no pain. Satisfy yourself.”
She took the light from his hand, and saw him stoop above his sleeping child, extending his hands over her, as if in the act of prayer or blessing.
“No pain, thank God!” he repeated, as they returned to the salon, where they found Father Laxabon.
“Are you prepared, father, to deal with a spirit as perturbed as that of the dead who cannot rest?”
“Christ will strengthen me for my office, my son.”
“And the other sufferers?”
“My brethren are engaged with them. Every man of the black troops will be shriven this night.”
“Are there more doomed?” asked Thérèse, faintly.
“There are. There are many guilty; and of some I must make an example. They know that they are guilty; but they know not yet which and how many are to be spared. The discipline of this night will, I trust, impress upon them that principle of our revolution which they have hitherto failed to learn, or have been tempted to forget. This night, father, will establish your precept and mine, and that of our Master—no retaliation. If not, may God direct us, by whatever suffering, to some other method of teaching it; for, at whatever cost, it must be learned! Let us begone.”
“One moment,” exclaimed Thérèse, in agitation. “You have not told me when—where—”
“He dies on the Place, at sunrise—a military, not an ignominious death. Father Laxabon and I shall both be near at hand when Génifrède wakes. Your task shall be shared, though we must leave you now.”
Moyse had been permitted to remain in the same apartment which had been assigned to him after his arrest. When he heard the key turn in the lock, he sprang from his seat to the door, exclaiming—
“You have come at last! Oh, Génifrède! to have kept me waiting this last night—”
He turned, and walked back to his seat, when he saw his uncle and the priest.
“You expected Génifrède?” asked Toussaint.
“I did—naturally.”
“She is asleep, and she must not be awakened. You would be the last to wish it, Moyse.”
“Must not be awakened,” repeated Moyse to himself, with something of doubt in his tone—something of triumph in his countenance.
“Perhaps you think,” said Toussaint, fixing his eyes on the young man’s face, “that she cannot be awakened. Perhaps you think that she may have drunk the red water?”
“She has told, then. A curse upon woman’s cowardice and woman’s treachery! Who would not have sworn that if ever a woman loved, Génifrède loved me? And now, when put to the test—”
“Now, when put to the test,” interrupted Toussaint, “my poor child was prepared to die with you, though you had perplexed her mind with superstition—terrified her with spells and charms—”
“You do not know her, uncle. She herself told me that she dared not die with me, though it was the only—”
“And you wished it—you required it! You have striven to destroy her, body and soul, because you yourself were lost—and now you curse a woman’s cowardice and treachery! I leave you with Father Laxabon. Hasten to confess and cleanse your soul, Moyse; for never soul needed it more. I leave you my pity and my forgiveness, and I engage for Génifrède’s.”
“Stop!” cried Moyse, “I have something to ask. Who has dared to keep Génifrède from me? She is mine.”
“Think of her no more, except to implore Heaven’s pardon for your intent towards her.” And Toussaint produced the ivory ring and phial.
“Yes,” exclaimed Moyse, “with that ring we obtained that water, which we were to have drunk together.”
“Here, then, I break the bond by which she was yours.” And Toussaint crushed the ring to dust with the heel of his boot, and dashed the phial against the ceiling, from whence the poisonous water sprinkled the floor.
“You spoke of treachery just now,” said Moyse. “How do you propose to answer to my father for the charge he left you in me?”
“Be silent, my poor son,” said Father Laxabon. “Do not spend your remaining moments in aggravating your crimes.”
“A few minutes’ patience, father. I never before ventured to speak freely to my uncle. Not on account of any severity of his—he never was severe to me—but on account of a certain awe I felt of him—an awe which the events of this day have had a wonderful power to dispel.”
“It is well,” said Toussaint. “There should be no awe of the creature when but a moment’s darkness separates one from the Creator. Speak freely and fearlessly, Moyse.”
“I ask,” said Moyse, in a somewhat softened tone, “how you will answer to my father for the charge he left you in me?”
“Not by revealing to him the vices of the spirit he gave me to guide. If your father’s heart must be broken for you, it shall be for having thus lost a noble and gallant son, and not for— But it is no time for reproach from me. Let me go now, my poor boy.”
“Not yet, uncle. It is far from sunrise yet. How do you mean to report of me to Génifrède? Will you make her detest me? Will you work upon her fears—her fears of my ghost—to make her seek refuge with another? Will you trample on the memory of the dead, to drive her into the arms of some living lover, that you may no longer be reminded of the poor wretch that you first fostered, and then murdered?”
“Leave us!” said Laxabon to Toussaint. “He is desperate. Leave him to me, that he may not plunge deeper into sin with every word he speaks.”
“Presently, father.—Moyse, what Génifrède hears of you will be according to what Father Laxabon has to report of your last hours. Be assured that I shall not interpose between you and her. It rests with yourself to justify her love, and engage her affections to your memory. She has been laid to sleep this night, not out of enmity to you, but to save her brain. As Providence has decreed, it has also saved her life. When she awakes, she will regard you as a martyr to a professional necessity. A woman’s love is sanctified and made immortal when baptised in the blood of martyrdom. Hers may be so, if your last moments are full of holy contrition, and purged from passion. Of Father Laxabon, and not of me, will Génifrède inquire concerning you.”
“This is kind—this is generous,” said Moyse, looking wistfully in his uncle’s face.
“And now,” said Toussaint, “I have to ask you to be generous to me. I need and implore your pardon, Moyse. While you were yet weak and wayward, I neglected the necessary watch over you. Too prone to ease and satisfaction, for my child’s sake and my own, I too soon concluded you a man, and imposed upon you the duties of a man. Your failure is my condemnation. I have cut short your discipline, and enabled you to throw away your life. All this, and much more, am I answerable for. Whether or not God may have mercy, can you yield me your pardon? I implore it, Moyse.”
Moyse gazed at him in astonishment, and then cast himself at his uncle’s feet, clinging to his knees, and crying—
“Save me! uncle, save me! You can—you will—”
“No, Moyse, I will not—I cannot,” declared Toussaint, in a voice which silenced even that most piercing of all sounds—the cry for life.
“Not one word!” continued L’Ouverture. “Keep your entreaties for Him who alone can help you. Kneel to Him alone. Rise, Moyse, and only say, if you can say it, that your last prayer for me shall be for pardon.”
The awe of man was not destroyed in Moyse. He looked humbly upon the ground, as he again stood before his uncle, and said—
“My destruction is my own work; and I have felt this throughout. But if you have ever done me wrong, may it be forgotten before God, as it is by me! I know of no such wrong.”
“Thank God!” cried Toussaint, pressing him to his breast. “This is the temper which will win mercy.”
“Leave us now,” said Father Laxabon, once more; and this time he was obeyed.