The Hour and the Man Part 42

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, s.h.i.+ning 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, Therese 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 Father Laxabon had twice appeared, to know if he could not yet see Genifrede, to offer her consolation; and had withdrawn, when he found that Genifrede was not yet awake.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 Therese 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 Therese 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 pa.s.sion, which brought Jacques and me together. If the same priest were to receive their confession and ours, how would he reconcile the ways of G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sion, is too likely to be cast out, as unworthy to live among us--among us who, G.o.d knows, are in this regard more guilty than he! The time may come, when Genifrede's first pa.s.sion 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. G.o.d 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 pa.s.sing 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.

"Genifrede?" he said, anxiously, as he approached.

Therese 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 G.o.d 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 Genifrede may sleep till noon?"

Therese 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 Therese, 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 G.o.d, 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 Therese, 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 pa.s.sions 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 G.o.d it were my own!) to save and to rea.s.sure those who are left. It is my retribution that Moyse must die. As for Paul, as for Genifrede--the sin of the brother is visited upon the brother--the sin of the father upon the child."

"But," said Therese, "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 pa.s.sionate--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 Therese, shuddering, "for one's very self.

What if I were to tell you that it is not Moyse and Genifrede alone that--" She stopped.

"That hate the whites? I know it," replied Toussaint. "I know that if G.o.d 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 G.o.d that no commission to smite such is given to me."

Therese 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 G.o.d."

"But if I could prove to you, at this moment, that Moyse's enmity towards the whites is mild and harmless--his pa.s.sions moderation, compared with the tempest in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 G.o.d?"

"I leave it to no priest, Therese, but to G.o.d 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, Therese, 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--

"Genifrede?"

"I have something to tell you--something to show you," replied Therese.

"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 Therese.

"Who taught her this? Who has been tampering with her, and with her life?"

"Perhaps this may tell," said Therese, 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?"