Necessary Sins

by Elizabeth Bell

  “You would be safer if I sent you to the far missions,” His Lordship had admitted to Joseph. “No one in North Carolina knows your family—and even if the people there did discover your heritage, fewer would care. But I cannot conscience such a waste of your education, Joseph. My seminary needs teachers, and you are qualified in every subject.”

  Now, his father stopped on the sidewalk and looked Joseph in the eyes beneath his black umbrella. “I know being a Priest doesn’t prevent you from owning slaves, and this would be in name only. Can I will Henry and May to you, son?”

  Joseph didn’t know what to say. As a boy, he’d imagined he’d own a few house slaves someday, but now that he knew what they were… If his father wanted security for Henry and May, shouldn’t he will them to someone white?

  “Will you give me your word that you’ll let them have their time? You would allow Henry and May to live where they chose. You would assist them whenever their status legally prevented them from accomplishing something. And you would never, ever sell them.”

  “Of course—I mean, of course not.”

  “Will you do this for me, Joseph? Will you do it for them?”

  Reluctantly, Joseph nodded. After all, Bishop England was proof that it was possible to be a benevolent master.

  In The Southern Patriot, Noisette’s obituary observed that “His death was much lamented by all his friends and acquaintances.” It did not mention Celestine or their children, yet it concluded: “The writer of these lines has often heard Mr. Noisette repeat this sentiment of Pope: ‘An honest man is the noblest work of God.’”

  Before his next mission to Haiti, Bishop England turned his attention to the negroes of Charleston. Slaves were forbidden to read; but it was not against the law to teach free blacks. The Protestants already had colored schools in the city, and the true Church was losing souls. So His Lordship opened a school of his own for blacks. To teach the girls, he appointed two nuns. To teach the boys, he asked two seminarians. One of them was Joseph.

  He was a Deacon now (mercifully, the ceremony had passed without incident, candle and all). He would not make the solemn promise to obey his Bishop until he was ordained a Priest, yet Joseph felt he could not refuse such a request. And how could he deny anyone the chance to read?

  To his surprise, Joseph enjoyed teaching—opening the children’s eyes to the world. Or at least, the corner of the world their color allowed them to occupy. It did trouble Joseph, the way some of the boys would peer at him. Especially the mulattos. Joseph wondered if they recognized his African blood. Did he make them proud or simply envious, hiding like this in plain sight?

  Soon His Lordship’s new school had more than eighty pupils. But in the middle of the night that July of 1835, Joseph and his Bishop were startled awake by shouting from the street below. Joseph yanked his trousers over his night-shirt. He was still pulling his braces over his shoulders when he stumbled from his bedchamber to find His Lordship already in the hall. Together they hurried down the stairs to admit their agitated visitors through the back gate. Joseph couldn’t remember the men’s names, but he knew they were Irish.

  “Have you heard about the tracts, my lord?” the taller man was asking. “The ones the Anti-Slavery Society sent?”

  “Nobody asked them to,” muttered his companion. “Meddling abolitionists.”

  “Bags and bags of tracts! To people they don’t even know, because—”

  Rubbing his temple, Bishop England interrupted: “Gentlemen, what exactly is the emergency?”

  “There was a mob, broke into the post office a couple hours ago, took the bags of tracts to the Arsenal square and made a bonfire.”

  “They also burned effigies of the abolitionists. We were curious, my lord—we saw the light of the fire and went to investigate. They didn’t know we were Catholic.”

  “Thing was, Your Lordship, we overheard the mob planning where they’d go next. ‘We should do here what they done in Charlestown,’ the men said.”

  “They were talking about burning the convents, the seminary, the cathedral, and your house!”

  “They said your name, Your Lordship! They said: ‘Did we not free ourselves from England fifty years ago?’ and ‘That Papist Bishop deserves Lynch’s law! Ain’t he been bowing to those bloodthirsty Haitians and teaching our niggers to put on airs?’”

  Joseph was now fully awake.

  What the shorter man said next arrested his heart: “We even heard the crowd saying one of your teachers is a mulatto!” He looked directly at Joseph. “Is that true?”

  Joseph couldn’t breathe, let alone answer. Had one of his students betrayed him?

  The taller man put a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “They said it was one of the nuns who teaches the white girls, Pat. I bet Deacon Lazare doesn’t even know her.”

  “You mustn’t believe every rumor you hear,” Bishop England put in.

  “We called up the Irish militia corps already, to protect Your Lordship, the nuns, and everything else,” the shorter man assured them. “They be here, ’fore you know it.”

  “I appreciate your initiative, Mr. Cleary,” Bishop England replied. Castalio had appeared from the garret. His Lordship directed his slave to wake the seminarians and their housekeeper. “Joseph, would you follow me to the cathedral and help me vest?”

  “Of course.”

  “We must pray for God’s protection and guidance. God willing, these are threats only.”

  When the mob returned to the post office the next day for more tracts, Postmaster Huger scared them off with a shotgun. For two nights, armed sentinels stood anxious guard around the Bishop’s residence, the seminary, the convents, St. Finbar’s Cathedral, and St. Mary’s Church. Thanks be to God, the vigils proved without incident.

  Finally, in the light of day, a committee came to demand that Bishop England close his colored school. His Lordship pointed out that the Protestants also had schools for free blacks. Why had his been singled out? The city then decided to close all the colored schools.

  A few days later, while they dined together, Joseph gathered the courage to ask Bishop England: “Is it true, about one of the nuns being colored?”

  His Lordship stared at his fish stew. “I spoke to her superior. At first, Madame Héry denied everything. Then, she admitted that the young woman’s papers were forged.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I can’t let her stay.” Slowly Bishop England looked up. His grey eyes added: You must understand, Joseph. “She’s in danger—and it’s against the law.”

  Had His Lordship forgotten that Joseph directed the choirboys, that in the autumn, he would be teaching seminarians? In four months, Joseph would be a Priest. His colored hands would place the Body of Christ onto the tongues of slaveholders. At each and every Baptism, Joseph’s very breath and saliva would usher their children into the Kingdom of God.

  Even if Bishop England believed the chrism of Priesthood would wash Joseph’s blood clean, did he really think Charlestonians would agree? What if someone starts a rumor about me? But Joseph’s mouth refused to ask any more questions with answers he did not want to hear.

  Perhaps this explained why His Lordship had not assigned Joseph to St. Mary’s Church. On the surface, it would have been a better fit. Its parishioners were cultured; they would appreciate a Priest trained in Rome. Most of them were French Creoles; they would welcome a confessor who spoke their language. But most of them were also slaveholders, who knew intimately the signs of African blood.

  The congregation at St. Finbar’s Cathedral was very different. It consisted mostly of lower-class Irish immigrants who could not afford to own negroes—and a small percentage of the communicants were slaves themselves. Perhaps Bishop England had reasoned: My nigger Priest will be safer there.

  Chapter 19

  Adam was but human—this explains it all. He did not want the apple for the apple’s sake, he wanted it only because it was forbidden.

  — Mark Twain, The T
ragedy of Pudd’nhead Wilson (1893)

  Every week that separated him from Ordination seemed to stretch out like a month. He should have had more than enough to keep him occupied. In addition to teaching at the seminary and directing the cathedral’s choir, Joseph had many other duties as a Deacon. Bishop England also allowed him to dine with his family once a week. Yet in the midst of it all, there were hours when Joseph felt restless.

  He suggested creating a Biblical garden on the lot between the cathedral, the seminary, and the episcopal residence. His Lordship was so delighted by the idea, he offered some of his own limited funds. Joseph’s grandmother also contributed.

  Autumn was the perfect time to begin. Joseph planned out the beds, and Henry and Castalio helped him prepare the soil. Around a statue of Saint Rose with her crown of blossoms, they began to plant herbs, bushes, and trees mentioned in the Scriptures that might grow in South Carolina as well.

  Some of the varieties he needed were available only from the nursery of Alexandre Noisette. At the discovery, Joseph blanched. This was not the time to be associating with known mulattos. He sent Henry to obtain the plants.

  One fair Tuesday in early November, Joseph was transporting a pomegranate sapling in a wheelbarrow when he heard something so beautiful, so ethereal, he thought he must be imagining it. Or, on the eve of his Ordination, was God granting him a Heavenly visitation, an experience like Saint Teresa’s?

  As he pushed the wheelbarrow deeper into the garden, the lilting sounds grew more distinct: a woman’s clear, pure soprano, singing words Joseph did not understand, though he suspected the language was Irish. Then, between the statue of Saint Rose and his pear sapling, he saw a burst of blue: the bodice and skirt of a graceful figure seated on one of the stone benches. He stopped, afraid to frighten her, as if she were a songbird instead of a woman.

  The morning sunlight caught the gold in her resplendent brown hair. She wore it in braids that encircled her head like a halo, adorned with a pink camellia. A few wisps dangled beside a face he could not quite see as she rocked a red-haired little boy in her arms. Madonna and child. She was singing a lullaby, Joseph realized. He felt a ridiculous stab of envy that his own mother had never soothed him so sweetly.

  The young woman must have felt his eyes on her; she looked up. Her singing broke off, and her lips opened in a gasp instead. Her face was as beautiful as Bernini’s Saint Teresa; it possessed a perfection of shape and proportion only an artist could explain. Her eyes were the same remarkable shade as her hair: a complex brown as glorious as metal, but infinitely softer. She was twenty at most, her child perhaps two. Her day dress, worn but clean, was the breathtaking blue of woad. “I’m so sorry—should I not be here?”

  It took Joseph a moment to find his voice. He kept it low, so he would not wake the little boy. “Of course you should. I created this garden for you. I mean: for visitors.” Joseph knew he was staring. He set down his burden and dropped his eyes to the pockets of his leather gardening apron. “So that people can see what hyssop and spikenard look like—all the plants from the Bible I can make thrive.” Since he didn’t actually need anything from his pockets, he could not resist glancing up again.

  “What a brilliant idea!” The young mother looked around herself at the half-bare beds. Her lips turned up in a smile that lit her whole countenance. Her accent was not as heavy as some of the other Irish he knew, but it possessed that musical rhythm. “I shall have to tell my brother Daniel—he is a gardener. So there will be olives and grapes and lilies? I love the scent of lilies!”

  He loved her enthusiasm. “All of those, eventually.” Joseph pulled out his garden plan and pretended to examine it. “Plus a few other appropriate plants—Passion-flower, perhaps.”

  Now she frowned. “Passion-flower? How is that holy?”

  Joseph realized her mistake and grinned. “It was named after Christ’s Passion.”

  The young mother blushed, covered her face with her hand, and tucked her head over her child’s, exposing the camellia in her hair again. “One of my brother’s books said Passion-flowers grow in hot countries, so I assumed…” Her voice was hurried and hushed, as if she were admonishing herself more than speaking to him. “You must think me so ignorant—perhaps even wicked.”

  “Not at all,” Joseph chuckled as he put away his plan. This pomegranate needed transplanting, he reminded himself. He picked up his wheelbarrow again.

  “I am a Catholic in good standing with the Church.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” He set down the sapling beside the bed he’d chosen earlier.

  “Silentium est aurem—I should leave you to your work.”

  Now Joseph had to stare. “You know Latin?”

  “Only a little.” She shifted the weight of her slumbering child. “Mostly proverbs. My father is a schoolmaster.”

  Silence was not golden when one’s companion had a voice and a mind like hers. What else did she know? “Quid plura?”

  The young mother considered. She decided on: “Vita sine libris mors est. ‘Life without books is death.’ ’Tis one of my father’s favorites, and mine as well.”

  Joseph withdrew his shovel and watering-pot from the wheelbarrow. “Optimus magister bonus liber.”

  “‘The best teacher is a good book,’” the young mother translated slowly, and beamed at her success.

  He could not help smiling back. She knew more than she thought.

  “But—with respect, sir—I’m not sure I agree. Much as I adore them, books cannot answer questions. May I ask how Passion-flowers earned their name?”

  Joseph tried to concentrate on his digging. “Jesuit missionaries thought parts of the plant resembled the Instruments of Christ’s Passion: the scourge, the Crown of Thorns, the nails.”

  “I look forward to seeing such a plant. I imagine I shall have to wait till next spring?”

  “For Passion-flowers, we’ll have to wait till July. But I’m trying to plant something for every season.”

  “I’m amazed there are still things in bloom here—so different from County Clare in November.” The young mother touched the camellia in her hair. “This had already fallen, I promise.”

  “I never thought otherwise,” Joseph assured her. The roseate bloom could have no better setting, though her beauty needed no embellishment. Joseph swallowed and lowered his eyes again. Admire her—chastely—on the vine, he reminded himself. Even if he were free, she was not—there was the child, living proof of her union with another. “Your lullaby—it was Irish?”

  “’Twas.”

  “It was beautiful.” In a few days, he would be granted the grace of the Priesthood, and he would no longer struggle like this.

  The young mother was blushing anew as she caressed the red hair of her sleeping son. She was particularly lovely when she blushed. “I had to do something to calm him. Thomas and I had quite a fright earlier; we saw a snake. We don’t have them in Ireland, thanks to Saint Patrick.”

  If Joseph could not look without lust, he must not look at all. “Was the snake dark with yellow stripes?”

  “Yes! You’ve seen it here before?”

  With his eyes on the earth, he could still hear her mellifluous voice. From her lips, the simplest of phrases were like caresses. She is not pleasing you purposefully. “It’s a garter-snake. They’re harmless.”

  “Thomas will be relieved.”

  She is a mother. She is your sister in Christ.

  “And who is this watching over us?” At the corner of his vision, the young mother nodded toward the statue at the center of the garden.

  “Saint Rose of Lima. She was the first American saint and a gardener, so I thought her appropriate.”

  “Lima in Peru?”

  “You know your geography.”

  “Remember, I’m a schoolmaster’s daughter. I helped my father with the younger children. But I never knew there was a Saint Rose. Can you tell me anything else about her?”

  Perfect. Recalling the saint’s mort
ifications would help chastise his own flesh. “Rose was a mystic and ascetic. That crown of roses on her head—underneath, it’s full of metal spikes.” Joseph kept digging. “Rose fasted constantly, surviving only on gall, bitter herbs, and the Blessed Sacrament. Sometimes she slept on a bed of thorns and broken glass. God rewarded her with ecstasies that lasted for hours. Rose also made a vow of chastity, but she was as beautiful as her name, so men still pursued her. Finally she offered her beauty to God by cutting off her hair and burning her face with lye.”

  “To be that strong…”

  When Joseph glanced up, the young mother’s eyes were closed, her brow troubled, as if she also felt the saint’s pain. He wanted to comfort her.

  The child was safe to look at. He was still sleeping.

  “Are there any saints from the United States?”

  “None have been canonized yet. They may be living among us.” Joseph measured the hole he’d dug.

  “What are you planting now?”

  “A pomegranate.”

  “I remember a pomegranate in the myth of Persephone. They’re in the Bible as well?”

  Joseph nodded before he lifted the sapling from the wheelbarrow. “They’re mentioned in the Canticles—but more importantly, many scholars believe this was the Tree of Knowledge.” He lowered the pomegranate into its new home. “Apples don’t grow very well in Mesopotamia, where the Garden of Eden must have been.”

  “The forbidden fruit was really a pomegranate?” Her voice skipped with delight, the way his heart did every time something marvelous took him by surprise. The way his heart was skipping right now.

  “Quite probably, yes.” Fill the hole. Whatever you do, do not look at her. “When you see one, you’ll understand—pomegranates are even more appealing than apples.”

  “I cannot wait to tell my father and my brother. If it weren’t for you, we’d never have known.”

  “Pomegranates are also messier than apples—the juice leaves permanent stains.” Joseph forced himself to layer water and soil around the little tree.