"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 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 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 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 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 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 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
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."
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 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, Therese, 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, 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?"
Therese 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 Therese, 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
Therese 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 Therese, starting up, and softly
entering the chamber. Toussaint followed with the lamp, shading it
carefully with his hand.
"Here is no pain," whispered Therese. "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 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 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 Therese, 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 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 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, Genifrede! 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 Genifrede?" 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,
Genifrede 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
Genifrede's."
"Stop!" cried Moyse, "I have something to ask. Who has dared to keep
Genifrede 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 Genifrede? 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 Genifrede 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 Genifrede 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.