by Anya Seton
Joseph made a few half-hearted attempts to clear his own name, suffered an extremely uncomfortable interview with Blennerhassett. The Irishman was now also imprisoned and standing trial with his 'sovereign in expectancy,' and, while he remained loyal to Aaron, he did not scruple to hide his contempt for Joseph.
Joseph regretted having come, though he was relieved to see that the trial was progressing more favorably for Aaron than he had expected. He took himself home again, heartily sick of the whole matter, and more profoundly uneasy about his wife than he had ever been. She dwelt in some remote borderland where all human relationships—save one—seemed shadowy. In her feverish concentration on her father, even concern for her child seemed not to touch her. 'He is all right with Eleanore,' she said. 'He does not need me as I am needed here.'
And as for me, thought Joseph, she never considers my rights or needs at all. And he traveled alone back to his plantation.
On September first the long ordeal ended. It had, after all, been impossible to prove that Aaron had committed any overt act of war. That he had intended to do so, no one doubted, but in the absence of conclusive proof of an overt act, the law could not touch him.
Had it been given, even Meriwether Lewis's testimony would probably not have affected the outcome, because no act of war had occurred. The conspiracy had been checked before it had matured.
The verdict was unaccompanied by any demonstration. The courtroom was weary of the proceedings. From the moment of hearing Judge Marshall's calm summing-up, no one could fail to guess the result.
The jury took but a few minutes, then, shuffling their feet and staring at the floor, they returned sullenly to their box.
'Not guilty because not proved,' said the foreman, with ill grace.
Theo repressed a cry of joy, but Aaron leapt to his feet to protest against this ambiguous ' Scotch' verdict.
'Either I am guilty or I am not guilty!' he cried. 'I demand that the jury alter the wording of its verdict.'
A lengthy and bitter verbal battle ensued. The judge, jury, counsel, and Aaron all took part to a buzz of interested comment from the spectators. The high moment of acquittal petered out into something like a cat-fight. After an hour of acrimony, the jury consented to a compromise. The verdict was accepted as rendered, but entered on the record simply as 'Not guilty. '
Chief Justice Marshall bowed briefly to Aaron and disappeared. The jury trailed out, still grumbling, followed by the prosecuting attorneys.
Aaron's guards touched their caps, swung open the door of the prisoner's box, and he was free. He was congratulated, of course, Luther Martin clapping him on the back and emitting roars of triumph. His Richmond supporters wrung his hand and suggested immediate celebration at the tavern. Theo clung to him, laughing a bit hysterically, giddy with relief.
Washington Irving, approaching the father and daughter to offer his own congratulations, thought, There is something spurious in all this. It doesn't ring true. Though he has beer grudgingly acquitted here, what can he do now? Jefferson is not appeased. There will be more persecution. The people believe him guilty. Moreover, they say he is heavily in debt. Poor Theo. She has hitched her wagon to a very dim star. He clasped her hand, murmuring his congratulations while his eyes were warm with sympathy.
Theo saw the sympathy and resented it. Why should anyone dare to pity them now? Aaron was exonerated.
The burst of elation, the happiness of triumph, were short lived. During the weeks that followed, it became all too clear to Aaron that escape from the gallows in Richmond conferred no such certainty anywhere else. Ohio and Mississippi indicted him on the instigation of Jefferson. He had wriggled out in Virginia, wriggled out even from a subsequent anticlimactic trial for misdemeanor there, but there were other States. In New York and New Jersey he was still wanted for the ' murder' of Hamilton. A Baltimore mob tried to lynch him on general principles——
'Apparently there is not a jail nor a gallowstree in the States but yearns to tender me its gentle hospitality,' he told Theo. 'Can such popularity be deserved?'
Theo was too sick at heart to answer. She had passed beyond outcry at the injustice done him. The unrelenting persecution now seemed to her like a formless black monster. One did not expect justice from a monster: one tried one's puny best to escape.
'Yes,' said Aaron, reading her mind, because of late they had discussed this only solution. 'I shall have to go abroad for a while. Without my presence here, they will cool down or find another quarry. In England I shall find supporters, and in France.'
His eyes narrowed, and she knew that he was thinking of Napoleon. Let him but once establish contact with the great conqueror, and he felt confident of enthusiastic support. Here they were provincial and panicky: they had no vision. In the Old World it would be different: the Emperor would understand.
'Jerome Bonaparte, whom I entertained at Richmond Hill, is now King of Westphalia,' he remarked, pursuing this line of thought.
Theo brightened. 'And surely he will be hospitable to you in return, will help you to see his brother.'
Aaron had no doubt of it. Gradually Theo again found hope. Aaron had never lost it. 'X' was, after all, still possible. Europe would provide the proper theater for the next act. The necessity for exile was perhaps only a blessing in disguise.
With decision reached, they were both galvanized into action. The Swartwout home in New York was opened to them. The brothers Swartwout had never wavered in their faith and affection. Aaron arrived at night and was smuggled to an upstairs room which he dared not leave during the weeks of negotiation for a passage to Europe.
The lack of money, as usual, made the situation even more uncomfortable than it would otherwise have been. The Swartwouts gave what they could; a handful of the disbanded Burrites were entrusted with the secret and contributed, but the total was not enough to pay his passage and allow him to live decently on the other side.
'If only the people who owe you money—would pay,' wailed Theo one evening, as they bent together over the table in Aaron's room mulling yet again over the inexorable figures.
'Why should they?' asked Aaron cheerfully. 'I do not pay the people to whom I owe money either. '
' All the same, I'm going to try again'. She rose and put on her cloak. It was one of many discreet and humiliating calls which she made in New York. She must infallibly conceal his presence here, and yet sound out his former friends, and, while trying to extract money from his debtors on the one hand, avoid his creditors on the other.
Nor was she very successful. Intimates from Richmond Hill days sent down word by their servants that they were not at home. Or, if they received her, it was with cold politeness which changed to glassy silence at any mention of her father.
'I know, my dear,' said Aaron. 'It's quite useless. Your efforts have been wonderful, but it is useless.'
She sat down beside him with a weary sigh. If only Joseph could help! But that resource was cut off; for even if he were willing, he was no longer able. He had given fifty thousand dollars to the cause and it had melted away. Moreover, Jefferson's recent Embargo Act had crippled him badly. Rice might no longer be shipped abroad, and, without that plentiful revenue, he was much embarrassed for ready cash. Every letter informed Theo of the unpleasant fact.
'Well,' she said, sighing again, 'there's only one thing left to do. We must sell the necklace.'
Aaron silently put his arm around her and drew her head to his shoulder. He had reached that conclusion some time before.
Samuel Swartwout undertook the commission. A Spanish Jew on Pearl Street, crying to Heaven that it was robbery, nevertheless handed over a hundred guineas. It was not a quarter of its worth, but Aaron accepted it with thanks.
Passage was booked on the packet Clarissa, bound via Halifax for Falmouth. It was booked for G. H. Edwards. The vessel would sail June first.
On the night of May thirty-first, Aaron and Theodosia sat together and watched the June morning of their separation dawn above the
chimney-pots and tiles of the city. They had had wine for dinner, far more than was their wont. Now, as the moon paled, the hazy courage the wine instilled had worn off. They had said all the casual farewell things that people say when they wish to forget the real anguish before them. There had been welcome last-minute details. She had packed and repacked his cowhide chest, folding his suits and frilled shirts with loving care. The chest was marked ' A. B'. in brass nails, an oversight. 'A. B'. were not the initials for a gentle man named G. H. Edwards. The nails had been uprooted and skillfully replaced. Before the trunk was closed, Aaron laid across the piled clothes, just under the lid where it would be uncrushed, Theo's portrait painted five years ago by Vanderlyn. They both stared down at the unframed canvas.
'It shall never leave me for a moment,' said Aaron softly.
'I shall talk to it. When I write you, I shall prop it up before me and imagine you with me.'
'Oh, Father, if I only could go with you——'
He shook his head. 'You know how dearly I wish it too. It is impossible.'
Yes, impossible. She would impede him: even had there been enough money, even had she been willing to desert her child. Could she only have taken Gampy too-
'It won't be for long'. Aaron used the reassurance they had been giving each other since first the decision was reached.
It brought no comfort now. Theo leaned her head against the wall, staring out the window. The glimpse of harbor over the roofs was changing from gray to blue in the waxing light.
' If only I could believe in a benevolent God and Heaven——Don't you ever feel the need of those, Father? Don't you ever fear death?'
'No,' he answered her after a thoughtful moment. 'I don't fear death. I wish to avoid it as long as I can. But bless me, my dear, we must all die. And when it comes, let us at least die game.'
'Yes, I know. But there is scant comfort in that.'
'On the contrary, my child, there is comfort in that. Courage is a religion in itself: the only religion which is real to me. I do not know whether death is final, but it will be interesting to find out some day. New projects have ever attracted me, as you know'. He laughed, the bantering, ten der laugh which had never failed to elicit her quick response.
She tried to smile, but she could not. She put her hands to her face to hide the rush of tears. 'We're fooling ourselves. It will be a long separation. I know it. I feel it.'
He pulled her close to him, her head fell against his shoulder. He smoothed back her hair, drew out his handkerchief and wiped her eyes. 'And if it should be, will that change our feeling for each other? Will time or distance diminish our affection?'
'No,' she whispered, 'nothing could do that: not even death, I think.'
'Well, then, no more tears or forebodings, I entreat you. I cannot stand them just now.'
He rose and paced quickly up and down the rug before her and turned to the kettle which purred gently on the hob beside a small fire.
'I'll make you a cup of tea, my dear,' he said briskly. 'It's curious how many sorrows may be alleviated by a glass of wine, a cup of tea, or a good cigar. No, it's true. Don't look at me as though I were an unfeeling monster. There is much solace in the little things of life.'
She accepted the steaming cup and choked down some of its contents. 'Dolly Madison said something like that to me once. '
' And Dolly was right. She is a clever woman'. He went to the window and stared out at the risen sun.
'It's time, isn't it?' she said hoarsely.
He nodded. 'So wish me Godspeed, Theodosia, but remember we have been parted many times before. This is no different because my journey is longer. Discipline yourself; never relax your habits of study and thought. Train Gampy for the high destiny he may yet achieve, and write to me, as I will you, constantly.'
His eyes glistened; he kissed her quickly on the forehead and smiled at her. It was that smile—tender, seductive, brilliant—which comforted her after he was gone. It made him seem young and supremely confident. It banished fear. He had known great misfortune, he had been cruelly used, but it was over now. This time in this new venture he would succeed. Her desolation lightened.
Far out to sea with all sails set the schooner Clarissa sped merrily toward Europe, and on the poop deck Mr. G. H. Edwards, huddled in a greatcoat, strained his eyes for a last glimpse of American shores. He had embarked upon a four-year exile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THEODOSIA traveled back to Carolina, using the public conveyances, as there was no vessel in New York Harbor ready to sail for the South. She did not write Joseph of her coming, knowing that she herself was traveling with the mail and would reach the Waccamaw at the same time that a letter would.
It was June, and Gampy was no doubt at Debordieu with Eleanore, but even of this she was not sure. She hired a carriage at Conway, where she left the mail coach, and drove down the Waccamaw Neck to the Oaks. Here she would learn of the whereabouts of her husband and son.
The Oaks was deserted; no pickaninnies were in sight around the wide white steps. The blinds were drawn, and the house at first sight gave an impression of blank emptiness. This she had expected. Joseph would not be here during the fever season; he might be at Columbia, Debordieu, or Sullivan's Island. But the servants could tell her where, of course. They would be on their 'street,' and she debated asking there first, but on impulse tried the front door and found it open.
The drawing-room, with its furniture shrouded in dustcloths, its rugs rolled, seemed cool and faintly inviting. She sat down to rest a moment on the swathed sofa, and looked up, startled, at the ceiling. Above her head there was a murmur of voices, a woman's throaty laugh.
The niggers, she thought angrily. Can they possibly have the effrontery to use the bedrooms? She ran upstairs. The murmurs came from Joseph's room. Without hesitation, without the slightest presentiment, she flung open the door.
For a blind instant she thought her surmise was confirmed. There was a flash of amber-colored skin and a scream. 'Niggers ——' The epithet strangled, unuttered. She stood paralyzed, staring. I'm going to be sick, she thought, with impersonal interest. She put her hand to her mouth to choke down the sensation of retching.
Not 'niggers' in the plural, but Venus and Joseph. Vaguely she saw his sweating face, white as paste, his coarse hair ludicrously mussed, clutching his dressing-gown around him, his eyes popping at her. She saw him but vaguely because her entire attention was concentrated on Venus. The girl in a white shift had a savage beauty. If she had felt shame for a second, it was gone. Her tigerish eyes were yellow with malignancy and triumph. She tilted back her head on its long column of throat, the color and texture of yellowed ivory. And she laughed.
'Welcome, Mistiss. You'm onexpected, enty?' Her insolence was alive, like a beast springing.
From the moment we saw each other, it has been leading to this, thought Theo, and abruptly she became calm. The first nauseating shock vanished. The girl has always hated me, been jealous of me. She thinks she has her revenge now.
'Theodosia——For God's sake. What arc you going to do?'
She turned and contemplated Joseph. He was in real anguish, in an agony of remorse that transcended shame. Even though he had been caught in the most embarrassing situation known to man, he had recaptured some dignity. He no longer looked ridiculous.
' What is there for me to do?' she said quietly.
Venus darted forward, her thin, voluptuous face raised defiantly. 'Yo' speak truth. Yo' kain' do nothin'. You'm no wife. You'm cold as graveyard stone. Ober and ober yo' go way off and leave him. Always yo' pleasure yo'self. Dat's howcome yo' los' yo' man.'
'Shut up, you bitch!' Joseph dealt her a clout across the mouth.
She fell back against the bedpost, her lips swelling, but still defiant. 'Yo' kin hit me effen yo' want ter, it ain' gwine wipe out the feel of Venus's arms about yo'. Yo' got me in your blood, Maussa. She ain' nothin' to yuh.'
Joseph did not hear her. 'Theo,' he mumbled, 'don't lo
ok at me like that. It was a madness you can't understand——'
There came a flicker of doubt into Venus's sneering eyes. She had been so sure of her power, of her revenge. In her slender golden body she had thought to possess the sure instrument of revenge against her slavery, against the white woman. And now she wasn't sure. The white woman should have been screaming, ranting, livid with fury. This quiet silence—what did that mean? She kain' do nothin' to me, thought Venus frantically. She kain' make him have me lashed, or sell me to the Floridas. I'll git a conjuh that'll work I'll kill myself—or her. Her eyes narrowed. There were poisons——
'Go now, Venus,' said Theodosia. Her voice held neither anger nor contempt. To her own amazement she felt none. A curious detachment had descended on her. She saw that the girl was seething with hatred and fear, and it did not touch her; she even felt a twinge of pity.
Venus stumbled over to Joseph, tugged at his arm in frantic appeal. 'Don' let her do nothin' to me. Yo' promise me I kin hab clothes an' a fine new cabin. Yo' promise me I could live like buckra. Yo' kain' go back on dat, Maussa'. Her long, nearly straight black hair fell forward, hiding her convulsed face. She buried it on his arm.
He shook her off. 'Get out, nigger!' He spat the last word at her, giving it its full force of insult.
Venus lifted her head. 'I ain' no nigger,' she panted. 'I'm a Berber. I'd be a princess in my own land'. She flung her slender arms upward. 'I wish God would strike yuh both daid.
She was terrifying. Joseph stepped back involuntarily, then, quickly recovering, raised his clenched fist. Before he could strike, Venus gave a choking cry, her thin shoulders quivered, and she stumbled out through the door.
Joseph sank on the bed and buried his face in his hands.