The Hour and the Man, An Historical Romance

by Harriet Martineau

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

  PANGS OF OFFICE.

  That night. Madame Dessalines was alone in a dimly-lighted apartment ofGovernment-house--dimly-lighted except by the moon, shining in full atthe range of windows which overlooked the gardens, so as to make the onelamp upon the table appear like a yellow taper. For most of the longhours that she had sat there, Therese had been alone. Denis hadentered, before his departure homewards, to ask what tidings he was tocarry to Pongaudin from her. Father Laxabon had twice appeared, to knowif he could not yet see Genifrede, to offer her consolation; and hadwithdrawn, when he found that Genifrede was not yet awake. MadameDessalines' maid had put her head in so often as to give her mistressthe idea that she was afraid to remain anywhere else; though it did notquite suit her to be where she must speak as little as possible, andthat little only in whispers. So Therese had been, for the most part,alone since sunset. Her work was on the table, and she occasionallytook up her needle for a few minutes; but it was laid down at theslightest noise without; and again and again she rose, either to listenat the chamber-door which opened into the apartment, or softly to pacethe floor, or to step out upon the balcony, to refresh herself withlooking down upon the calm lights and still shadows of the gardens.

  In the centre of one division of these gardens was a fountain, whosewaters, after springing in the air, fell into a wide and deep reservoir,from whence were supplied the trenches which kept the alleys green andfresh in all but the very hottest weeks of the year. Pour straightwalks met at this fountain--walks hedged in with fences of citron,geraniums, and lilac jessamine. These walks were now deserted. Everyone in the house and in the town was occupied with something fardifferent from moonlight strolls, for pleasure or for meditation. Thechequered lights and shadows lay undisturbed by the foot of anyintruder. The waters gleamed as they rose, and sparkled as they fell;and no human voice, in discourse or in laughter, mingled with the murmurand the splash. Here Therese permitted herself the indulgence of thetears which she had made an effort to conceal within.

  "These young creatures!" thought she. "What a lot! They are to beparted--wrenched asunder by death--by the same cause, for indulgence ofthe same passion, which brought Jacques and me together. If the samepriest were to receive their confession and ours, how would he reconcilethe ways of God to them and to us? The thought of my child burns at myheart, and its last struggle--my bosom is quivering with it still. Forthis Jacques took me to his heart, and I have ever since had--alas! notforgetfulness of my child--but a home, and the good fame that a womancannot live without, and the love of a brave and tender heart--tender tome, however hard to those we hate. Jacques lives in honour, and in astation of command, though he hates the whites with a passion whichwould 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 thecup of cold water when they thirst, and the word of sympathy when theygrieve. He would rather dash the cup from their parched lips, and laughat their woes. Yet Jacques lives in peace and honour at his palace atSaint 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 likelyto 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, whenGenifrede's first passion is over, when I may tell her this. Hark! thattrumpet! The court-martial has broken up. Oh, I wish I could silencethat trumpet! It will waken her. It is further off--and further. Godgrant she may not have heard it!"

  She stepped in, and to the chamber-door, and listened. There was nostir, and she said to herself that her medicine had wrought well. Fromthe window, which opened on one of the courtyards, she heard theshuffling of feet, and the passing by of many persons. She dared notlook out; but she felt certain that the trial was over, that theofficers were proceeding to their quarters, and the prisoner to hissolitude. 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 ofthe door from the corridor. It was L'Ouverture; and she rose, as everyone 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 havetaken to procure her sleep. But she was so shaken--she so dreaded thisnight!"

  "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 itsexpression, she exclaimed, "How you have suffered!"

  "Yes. Life is bitter to those whom God has chosen. If Moyse did butknow 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 isclear as noonday."

  "No escape from the sentence," said Therese, eagerly. "But there isroom for mercy yet. You hold the power of life and death over all thecolony--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 havefault enough already to answer for in this business, and I dare not sinyet further."

  "You yourself have sinned?" said Therese, with a gleam of hope in hercountenance and tone.

  "Yes. I ought to have discerned the weakness of this young man. Iought to have detected the passions that were working in him. I wasmisled by one great and prolonged effort of self-control in him. Iappointed an unworthy officer to the care of the lives and safety of thewhites. Many of them have gone to lay their deaths to my charge inheaven. All I can now do is, by one more death (would to God it were myown!) to save and to reassure those who are left. It is my retributionthat Moyse must die. As for Paul, as for Genifrede--the sin of thebrother is visited upon the brother--the sin of the father upon thechild."

  "But," said Therese, "you speak as if you had caused the innocent to bedestroyed. Some few harmless ones may have died; but the greaternumber--those who were sought by the sword's point--were factioustyrants--enemies of your Government, and of your race--men who rashlybrought their deaths upon themselves. They were passionate--they werestubborn--they were cruel."

  "True--and therefore were they peculiarly under my charge. I haveguaranteed the safety of the whites; and none need my protection so muchas those who do not, by justice, obedience, and gentleness, by gainingthe 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 goingon, he took no measures to stop it. The ground of his guilt is plainand clear. The law of the revolution of Saint Domingo, as conducted byme, is No retaliation. Every breach of this law by an officer of mineis 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 oneyoung life?"

  "Those whom I have spared were my personal foes; and I spared them notso much for the sake of their separate lives, as for the sake of thegreat 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 alonethat--" She stopped.

  "That hate the whites? I know it," replied Toussaint. "I know that ifGod 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."

  Therese was silent.

  "My office is," said Toussaint, "to honour those (and they are to befound in cottages all through the island) who forgive their formeroppressors, and forget their own wrongs. Here, as elsewhere, we maytake our highest lesson from the lowliest men. My office is to honoursuch. As for the powerful, and those who think themselves wise--theirsecret feelings towards all men are between themselves and God."

  "But if I could prove to you, at this moment, that Moyse's enmitytowards the whites is mild and harmless--his passions moderation,compared with the tempest in the breasts of some whom you employ andcherish--would not this soften you--would it not hold your hand frominflicting that which no priest can deny is injustice in God?"

  "I leave it to no priest, Therese, but to God Himself, to vindicate Hisown justice, by working as He will in the secret hearts, or before theeyes of men. He may have, for those who hate their enemies, punishmentstoo great for me, or any ruler, to wield; punishments to which theprison and the bullet are nothing. You speak of the tempest within thebreast: I know at this moment, if you do not, that years ofimprisonment, or a hundred death-strokes, are mercy compared to it. Butno 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, exceptin my secret heart. But if that hatred, be it more or less than that ofthis 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 moreto 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 graspupon the bosom of her dress. When I laid her on the bed, she kept herhands clasped one upon the other there. As she slept more heavily, thefingers 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 herlife?"

  "Perhaps this may tell," said Therese, showing the ivory ring.

  Toussaint closely examined the ring, and then drew his hand across hisbrows.

  "How strange," said he, "are old thoughts, long forgotten! This bit ofivory makes me again a young man, and a slave. Do you remember that Ionce had the care of the sick at Breda, and administered medicines?"

  Therese shuddered. She remembered that when her infant was taken ill,Papalier had sent for Toussaint, because, though Toussaint was no longersurgeon to the quarter at Breda, he was thought to have great knowledgeand 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, insuperstition. With what awe did I handle charms like this! Can it bepossible 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 survivormust be cared for. If Moyse has poisoned her mind, as I much fear, hewould have poisoned her body--But no--it is an atrocious thought. If Iwrong him--if his love for her is faithful, he will be glad to tell mewhat he knows, that her sick mind may be well tended. Father Laxabon iscoming presently, to go to Moyse, and leave him no more. I will go withhim."

  "How you suffer! How you must suffer!" said Therese, again speaking herthoughts, as she looked in his face.

  "It is worse than going to my death," replied he; "but for my child'ssake--for my poor brother's sake, too--it must be done."

  He could say no more. Till Father Laxabon came, he paced the room--helistened at the chamber-door--he went out upon the balcony, to hide, asTherese well understood, his tears of agony. He again entered, listenedagain at the chamber-door, and, hastily approaching the table, took upthe phial, saying--

  "Are you certain that this is all? Are you certain that she onlysleeps, and is not dying--or dead?"

  "Indeed, I am not certain," exclaimed Therese, starting up, and softlyentering the chamber. Toussaint followed with the lamp, shading itcarefully with his hand.

  "Here is no pain," whispered Therese. "She breathes quietly. There isno pain. Satisfy yourself."

  She took the light from his hand, and saw him stoop above his sleepingchild, extending his hands over her, as if in the act of prayer orblessing.

  "No pain, thank God!" he repeated, as they returned to the salon, wherethey found Father Laxabon.

  "Are you prepared, father, to deal with a spirit as perturbed as that ofthe 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 willbe shriven this night."

  "Are there more doomed?" asked Therese, 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 manyare to be spared. The discipline of this night will, I trust, impressupon them that principle of our revolution which they have hithertofailed to learn, or have been tempted to forget. This night, father,will establish your precept and mine, and that of our Master--noretaliation. If not, may God direct us, by whatever suffering, to someother method of teaching it; for, at whatever cost, it must be learned!Let us begone."

  "One moment," exclaimed Therese, in agitation. "You have not told mewhen--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 Genifrede wakes.Your task shall be shared, though we must leave you now."

  Moyse had been permitted to remain in the same apartment which had beenassigned to him after his arrest. When he heard the key turn in thelock, he sprang from his seat to the door, exclaiming--

  "You have come at last! Oh, Genifrede! to have kept me waiting thislast night--"

  He turned, and walked back to his seat, when he saw his uncle and thepriest.

  "You expected Genifrede?" asked Toussaint.

  "I did--naturally."

  "She is asleep, and she must not be awakened. You would be the last towish it, Moyse."

  "Must not be awakened," repeated Moyse to himself, with something ofdoubt in his tone--something of triumph in his countenance.

  "Perhaps you think," said Toussaint, fixing his eyes on the young man'sface, "that she cannot be awakened. Perhaps you think that she may havedrunk the red water?"

  "She has told, then. A curse upon woman's cowardice and woman'streachery! Who would not have sworn that if ever a woman loved,Genifrede loved me? And now, when put to the test--"

  "Now, when put to the test," interrupted Toussaint, "my poor child wasprepared to die with you, though you had perplexed her mind withsuperstition--terrified her with spells and charms--"

  "You do not know her, uncle. She herself told me that she dared not diewith 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 awoman's cowardice and treachery! I leave you with Father Laxabon.Hasten to confess and cleanse your soul, Moyse; for never soul needed itmore. I leave you my pity and my forgiveness, and I engage forGenifrede's."

  "Stop!" cried Moyse, "I have something to ask. Who has dared to keepGenifrede from me? She is mine."

  "Think of her no more, except to implore Heaven's pardon for your intenttowards her." And Toussaint produced the ivory ring and phial.

  "Yes," exclaimed Moyse, "with that ring we obtained that water, which wewere to have drunk together."

/>   "Here, then, I break the bond by which she was yours." And Toussaintcrushed the ring to dust with the heel of his boot, and dashed the phialagainst the ceiling, from whence the poisonous water sprinkled thefloor.

  "You spoke of treachery just now," said Moyse. "How do you propose toanswer to my father for the charge he left you in me?"

  "Be silent, my poor son," said Father Laxabon. "Do not spend yourremaining moments in aggravating your crimes."

  "A few minutes' patience, father. I never before ventured to speakfreely to my uncle. Not on account of any severity of his--he never wassevere to me--but on account of a certain awe I felt of him--an awewhich the events of this day have had a wonderful power to dispel."

  "It is well," said Toussaint. "There should be no awe of the creaturewhen but a moment's darkness separates one from the Creator. Speakfreely and fearlessly, Moyse."

  "I ask," said Moyse, in a somewhat softened tone, "how you will answerto 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 havingthus lost a noble and gallant son, and not for--But it is no time forreproach from me. Let me go now, my poor boy."

  "Not yet, uncle. It is far from sunrise yet. How do you mean to reportof me to Genifrede? Will you make her detest me? Will you work uponher 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 armsof some living lover, that you may no longer be reminded of the poorwretch that you first fostered, and then murdered?"

  "Leave us!" said Laxabon to Toussaint. "He is desperate. Leave him tome, that he may not plunge deeper into sin with every word he speaks."

  "Presently, father.--Moyse, what Genifrede hears of you will beaccording to what Father Laxabon has to report of your last hours. Beassured that I shall not interpose between you and her. It rests withyourself 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 tosave her brain. As Providence has decreed, it has also saved her life.When she awakes, she will regard you as a martyr to a professionalnecessity. A woman's love is sanctified and made immortal when baptisedin the blood of martyrdom. Hers may be so, if your last moments arefull of holy contrition, and purged from passion. Of Father Laxabon,and not of me, will Genifrede inquire concerning you."

  "This is kind--this is generous," said Moyse, looking wistfully in hisuncle's face.

  "And now," said Toussaint, "I have to ask you to be generous to me. Ineed and implore your pardon, Moyse. While you were yet weak andwayward, I neglected the necessary watch over you. Too prone to easeand satisfaction, for my child's sake and my own, I too soon concludedyou a man, and imposed upon you the duties of a man. Your failure is mycondemnation. I have cut short your discipline, and enabled you tothrow 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? Iimplore it, Moyse."

  Moyse gazed at him in astonishment, and then cast himself at his uncle'sfeet, 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 whichsilenced even that most piercing of all sounds--the cry for life.

  "Not one word!" continued L'Ouverture. "Keep your entreaties for Himwho 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 theground, as he again stood before his uncle, and said--

  "My destruction is my own work; and I have felt this throughout. But ifyou have ever done me wrong, may it be forgotten before God, as it is byme! I know of no such wrong."

  "Thank God!" cried Toussaint, pressing him to his breast. "This is thetemper which will win mercy."

  "Leave us now," said Father Laxabon, once more; and this time he wasobeyed.