Unde Malum
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3 December 1859, 4:25 P.M. Sheppard's Boardinghouse, Washington D.C. John Brown's hanging has given newspapers from Boston to Atlanta the occasion to rehash his ill-fated plan to free the South of slavery. I have heard that Harper's Weekly is already considering a biography. History will reserve a generous portion for this man, although whether as a champion or damnable villain has yet to be decided. My contribution to this debate has been delayed. I lost two journals that chronicled my eight weeks in Harper's Ferry and Charlestown, drafts of newspaper articles and my copy of John Brown's last written words. Two days before John Brown's hanging, John Avis, Charlestown's jailer, escorted me to the condemned man's cell. It was the first time I had seen the white-haired bearded man since his November 2d sentencing. I found him resting quietly on a narrow cot, the same cot on which he had lain during most of his trial, stricken with fever. He awaited his execution with the peaceful repose of an angel. As I entered he sat up, chains clanking. Those same passionate eyes I had seen at his sentencing were now focused on me. I recalled his final oration before Judge Parker, the jury, and a packed courtroom. "I see a book kissed, which I suppose to be the Bible," his voice rang out in the courtroom, "or at least the New Testament, which teaches me that all things whatsoever I would that men should do to me, I should do to them. It teaches me further to remember them that are in bonds, as bound with them. I endeavored to act up to that instruction." As I faced him in the cell I was unprepared for what proved the most peculiar interview of my journalistic career. No sooner had the cell door closed behind me, than did John Brown place a hand over his heart and begin to speak. "Christ is the great captain of liberty, as well as of salvation, and who began his mission, as foretold of him by proclaiming it, saw fit to take from me a sword of steel. But he has put another sword in my hand, the Sword of the Spirit. I pray to God to make me a faithful soldier wherever he may send me. "Tell your fellow Southerners that the gallows do not frighten me. My value to the cause of righteousness, the cause of Christ, is much greater as a corpse swinging from a rope, than any other fate. Tell your readers also: let them fear what God shall do to them in their sleep." The force of his presence and his shrewd insight amazed me. He had hoped to exploit the greatest fear of a Southerner's heart: the fear of a Negro uprising, of knives, axes, hoes, and picks wielded in the deep of the night against their masters; of men, women, and children slain in their beds while they slept and dreamed--a fear that drove normal, family men to a blood frenzy. Yes, John Brown understood the mechanics of fear. I squatted down and leaned back against a wall, scribbling his words without a reply. When I raised my pencil from the page, John Brown lifted his fiery eyes heavenward. "If I must sacrifice my life for the cause of justice, and mingle my blood with those upon whom this wicked curse be laid, let me do so to the Glory of my God and Savior." I write hastily now as the Lord's Spirit brings his words again to my memory. Did this man cry, "Yes, Lord! Yes!" just as I had when I knelt beneath an old oak tree three years ago? To which lord had he submitted? The Lord in heaven, or the Devil? I wanted to tell him of my own distress, my own anger! I too had suffered loss in my attempt to be a faithful soldier of the Lord. I wanted to tell him of Nikki, of Victoria, of how she freed her slaves, how my family paid the price of liberty with blood! But to John Brown, I was a Southern reporter. He would not accept my motives for remaining a son of the South who, in his judging eyes, was like Ishmael, the unfavored son. When I looked up, I found him again staring straight into my soul; in his terrible eyes I saw elements of both brilliant light and deep darkness. I broke my gaze from his, looked down and transcribed his words. There was a pounding on the cell door: my time was up. John Avis ushered me out. I paused and gazed back one last time into those incredible eyes that followed my every step. Two days later he swung from the rope. John Avis approached me and gave me a copy of a note John Brown had written on the way to the gallows: I, John Brown, am now quite certain that the crimes of this guilty land will never be purged away but with blood. I had, as I now think, vainly flattered myself that without very much bloodshed it might be done.Where does his soul now rest? In comfort in the bosom of Abraham? Or in the agony of Hell's fire? I reflect on John Brown's final words. Was he correct that the land must be purged of its sin through the blood of men? Does he imply a righteous judgment in this bloodletting? Or is his prophecy nothing more than a rallying cry for war? Is this Your plan, Lord, to set brother against brother? Could You be the author of such a thing? I now believe that these questions were answered in full through my encounter with an old, hunchbacked Catholic priest. I recall him shuffling toward me, just as it happened that bright noon following John Brown's hanging. The priest's black habit and dark hair rustled in the wind as his arms and hands reached out, his eyes open wide and wild with emotions. He stopped and leaned wearily on the end of the wall where I sat. I could tell from the way he moved that walking hurt him but the furtive look in his eyes was not the result of physical pain. "You are a Christian, no?" he said, pointing excitedly at my Bible which lay open on top of the journal in my lap. I had been reading Ecclesiastes and meditating on my copy of the grim, prophetic note John Brown had written on his way to the gallows. "You believe in God, in a living Christ?" he asked, wagging his finger. "Yes," I said, caught completely off-guard. "I'm a Methodist." The priest's deep blue eyes brightened as he studied my face. He clasped a small crucifix that hung around his neck, his eyes narrowing. "And what of the Devil, my brother? Do you believe in him?" "Yes, I do!" "Miraculous--a Protestant who still believes in the Devil!" The priest eyed me warily, his voice cracking. "It must be God, then, who brings us together! He has answered my prayers." He stepped closer, placing his freckled hand gently on my arm. "I am Father Gibault." "The name's Sam--Sam MacDonald." I mumbled, still utterly astounded. "Will you follow me to my chapel?" the priest asked. "I have a story to tell you." I closed my journal and followed him to a secluded stone chapel nestled on a rocky hillside. The smell of burning wax filled the simple, rectangular room lit only by candles behind the altar at the opposite end. Directly above the altar hung a huge wooden crucifix suspended by wire cables. An altar stood at the head of a narrow aisle that ran down the middle of four rows of wooden benches. He led me to the front row and instructed me to sit. To the left was a small table with three candles which he paused to light. Beside it stood a simple, ladder-back chair which the priest took for himself. His eyes followed my hands encouragingly as I opened my journal and prepared to write. "I am a Frenchman, born in France's darkest days, the days of the Revolution! And it is of a most fateful day in my country's history, that I must tell you. "On January 21, 1793, King Louis XVI was sent to the guillotine. I was but seven years old, the third son of a poor Parisian shoemaker. He was not so poor, however, that he could not close his shop and take his son to the execution. I remember that cold, foggy January day as I pushed my way through the crowds. Such crowds they were, thousands upon thousands, all swarming like bees to honey! This was a special day, when King Louis would pay for his injustice against the citizens of France." The Frenchman clapped his hands together, startling me. I sat erect on the bench. "If you have never stood in the Place de la Revolution, you cannot appreciate that moment when a sea of men, women, and children swept into the square surrounding the tall scaffold and guillotine, much like the scaffold on which John Brown was hung. I worked my way to a place directly in front of the guillotine. The king stepped from the carriage less than twenty paces from me. The chief executioner, Charles-Henri Sanson, allowed the king to make a final statement to the people. I shall never forget his words. "`I am innocent of all the crimes laid to my charge; I pardon those who have occasioned my death; and I pray to God that the blood you are going to shed may never be visited on France.' "Being but a young child at the time, I did not really understand what an execution was all about. I played a foolish, little game, my friend. I watched and imitated Charles-Henri's every move. It was a silly pantomime, perhaps the very thing that attracted the attention of someone I wish I had never met. "Copying Sanson, I tipped my hat and rubbed my hands up and down the front of my coat. Then the king was forced into the guillotine. I stood below the scaffold, in front. I could see the king's eyes staring into the red wicker basket. Then Sanson pulled the lever that released the tranchoir. Like the executioner, I pulled my own imaginary lever. Then suddenly, my childish play ceased. "The real blade did not completely sever the king's head. Sanson and his son, Henri, had to force the blade down. The king's head popped off and fell into the wicker basket. A sickening feeling knotted in my stomach and I touched my cold fingers to my neck. "Sanson's son grabbed the king's head and excitedly paraded it about the scaffold for all to see. I tell you, he was filled with madness! "The Captain of the Guard rode in front of the crowd and started a chant. `Vive la Republique! Vive la Republique!' Charles-Henri stood paralyzed by the maddening crowd. The sound of thousands of voices grew with each passing moment. Then, a handful of men and women broke ranks and ran beneath the scaffold. "I was knocked to the ground, then helped up by an old, gray-haired man in a tattered coat." Gibault's eyes narrowed. "He is the one I wish I had never met. He led me forward, between the soldiers and cannon to a spot beneath the guillotine. The king's body had been left in the guillotine and his blood had begun to seep between the planks in the scaffold's floor. I watched in horror as the crowd lifted their hands and washed them in his blood! "The old man, his hand resting upon my head, looked down at me and said, `Yes, Thomas Gibault, it is like washing your hands.' "His hand felt like hot wax on my head as he turned to me, his dark, piercing eyes staring into mine. He quoted Scripture about the crucifixion of Jesus and of Pilate. Then, as the blood began to drip through the floor above us, he rolled his eyes up into his head and said, `His blood be on us and on our children.' "I backed away and ran through the ring of cannon and soldiers into the crowd. From a distance, I turned and watched. The old man's features changed before my eyes, his face sharpened, his nose now looked like the beak of a bird and his unkempt hair as black as coal. The old man cupped and lifted his gnarled hands, then drank the blood of the dead king. Then I knew that it was no mere man who could read my thoughts and tell me my name, but the Devil himself! "You do not believe this old priest," Gibault said, his despairing eyes searching mine. "Let me finish before you judge my words!" "I uttered the Lord's Prayer. When I finished, I looked up, but the old man had disappeared. I turned my eyes toward the scaffold on which the king had lost his head. And then I saw the old man again, standing beside Charles-Henri Sanson, the chief executioner of Paris. Charles-Henri had a hungry, ravenous look. and a long, dark scar ran from the corner of his mouth to the corner of his left eye. He stared toward the west. "Then, someone in the crowd bumped against me. I momentarily lost my concentration. When I returned my gaze to the scaffold, the old man was gone, vanished, I tell you. Into thin air! Charles-Henri stood alone! And there was no scar on his face. Did my eyes somehow deceive me?" Father Gibault unfolded his hands. The fearful look on his face deepened. "You must believe me when I say that the Devil, the old man, has come to this place, today. I saw him this very afternoon, under the scaffold where John Brown's body hung. And behind him I saw a dark, wiry man with hungry eyes and a red wound on his cheek! "Did my eyes deceive me again? As I stood this afternoon, paralyzed by the Devil's presence, a soldier crossed in front of me. When he passed, the old man was not there. The dark, wiry man turned and walked away before I could see his face a second time. "Surely God himself has revealed the Darkness to me! Has not the Devil come to shed blood in this land as he did upon France's soil? He has come to profane our nation, our government, our people, to desecrate God's Holy Church, the Bride of Christ! And he moves openly, because the Church denies his very existence. But he has not changed; he has been a liar and a murderer from the beginning." The Frenchman's voice softened, he lowered his head and stared at the wooden floor. "Because of what happened to me sixty-six years ago I left my home, vowed myself to God and to His Holy Church. Though I served God with a simple-minded devotion and a reverence for the Scriptures, I learned that those who ruled over me were of a different faith. They were an apostate priesthood who were devoted to accumulating wealth. And because they did not know God, or understand His ways, they could not shepherd France, their Holy Charge, but left it prey to the Devil who came through an open gate to ravage and destroy the Master's flocks. "God would not be mocked. When I was ten, at the height of the Terror, our monastery was burned to the ground, our bishop and priests killed. I was spared the guillotine, though I was whipped so brutally that I have been crippled ever since. "My faith was not deterred. I maintained my love for God, and continued to serve him. I left France and came to America in 1824 in obedience to him. When I moved to Charlestown in 1850, it was solely at his direction. Now, nine years later, at the hanging of John Brown, I am called by God to witness the old man, the Devil, once again. At my moment of dismay, I saw you seated on a low, stone wall, Bible in hand, your eyes fixed on the word of God, rather than John Brown's body as it swayed beneath the scaffold. "The guiding hand of Christ has remained faithful to the end." The old Frenchman turned his head and stared briefly into the candles, his eyes gleaming in their light. He looked up, his eyes locking with mine. "Throughout my life I have been ridiculed for my belief in the Devil. Now, old and crippled, I am ready to go home to God. He has given me an audience who has ears to hear, eyes to see, and a heart to believe." We sat in silence for a few minutes. His eyes were clouded with tears. He seemed certain that I believed him, sure that Providence had brought us together. He breathed deeply, then rose from his chair. He seemed taller, more erect. Perhaps it was only a trick of the flickering candlelight. As we stepped outside onto the cobblestone walk, he put his hand on my shoulder. "Sam MacDonald, you have my testimony concerning our adversary. I have nothing more to offer you, no other words that could add wisdom to your knowledge. I have been but a watchman on Jerusalem's walls, and I have sounded the trumpet lest the blood be on my own head. The defense of God's Holy City belongs to another generation. I will pray for you, that they who sleep within her walls will awaken. "Do not let men deceive you. The Church Fathers have a saying, Nullus diabolus nullus redemptor: no Devil, no Redeemer. If the Devil can be excised from the Scriptures, then Christ will be soon to follow! Au revoir, mon ami." And with that, he turned on his heel and slowly walked back inside the chapel through a sudden gust of wind that snapped the bottom of his black habit against his ankles. I am conscious of Grandpa Will's Long Knife which rests in the corner of the room. His sword is an ever-present reminder of the sin and destruction birthed in the hearts of men and nations. O that the Church would be the conscience of this Nation! But no--the Southern churches use their pulpits to justify their injustice to the Negro. And the Northern churches preach the shedding of blood to preserve the Union. We worship the same God, yet we accuse each other of being the Devil's servants. We read the same Scriptures, but only to justify our own consciences. We have become two separate nations, two separate peoples, two separate faiths. Solomon was the wisest man in all the earth, yet his kingdom was severed in two. He was seduced by the Devil's children--Milcom, Ashtoreth, Chemosh. The unfaithful kings of Judah and Israel caused their children to pass through fire, fashioned idols, practiced sorcery and divination. King Louis XVI's final, impassioned plea could not save his nation from the bloodbath that followed. France submitted its members to her enlightened god called reason, butchering herself with the guillotine and tumbling into choas and anarchy. What bloody sacrifices will the gods of our own making require?
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