Chapter 18
No thief hugging his ill-gotten gains; no murderer, fleeing from city to city, like a deer chased by the hounds, passing night after night in but fitful slumbers, ever was haunted more by fear of discovery, or lived in greater suspense.
Shortly before Easter, Joseph agreed to accompany his father to the funeral Mass for Philippe Noisette.
Afterwards, they stood in St. Mary’s churchyard in the drizzle, watching Celestine, five of her children, and three grandchildren pay their last tearful respects to the Frenchman.
Joseph asked his father in a low voice: “What will become of them now?”
“Philippe did all he could for them. He sent Louis to apprentice with his brother in France, so at least he is safe. Philippe has two other siblings—hopefully they won’t contest his will.
He recognized all his children and made arrangements to support them and Celestine through the sale of his estate, which is considerable.
But the only way to guarantee their freedom is for the Noisettes to leave the South—and they want to stay.
Philippe’s eldest son, Alexandre, wants to continue his father’s business at the garden.
Philippe named Joel Poinsett and Francis Duquereron his executors—good men and powerful ones.
If they become, at least nominally, the Noisettes’ masters, Philippe’s family can remain in Charleston. ”
His father walked Joseph back to the seminary, still clearly troubled.
“I don’t intend to die anytime soon, but neither will I live forever; I need to make my own provisions.
Agathe and your grandmother’s maid will probably predecease me, but I’ve been thinking a great deal about Henry and May.
They have family here—brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews—owned by other masters.
But if Henry and May stay in South Carolina, they will always be slaves. I can’t free them in my will.”
“As long as Mama is alive, she’ll need someone in the household who understands sign.”
“Henry and May have agreed to help teach their successors—who will be free men or women, I’m determined on that.
I have agreed to reduce Henry and May’s tasks as they age.
Then, they deserve a few years of rest—and they will need a protector who is free.
Cathy and Perry are leaving next year, and all the other men I trust are my own age or older.
But Dr. England tells me he wants to keep you in Charleston. ”
“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 hesitated. If they wanted security for Henry and May, shouldn’t his father 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.” What a burden his father was offering him—what a privilege, to someday serve the people who had served his family for so many years.
“Will you do this for me, Joseph? Will you do it for them?”
“I will.” South Carolina law couldn’t be any more complicated than Canon law.
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 the color from Joseph’s body, 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 negro Priest will be safer there.