Sophie nodded. Mignon was squirming, so she set him down and ran to find his feather toy.
David asked permission to retire to his chamber. Joseph and Tessa granted it simultaneously.
As they watched him climb the stairs, Tessa murmured: “‘Love is never a sin.’ What a beautiful sentiment.”
“Loveis never a sin,” Joseph qualified. “Lustalways is.”
“Of course,” she whispered, and turned away.
PART VI
LAMENTATIONS
1842-1843
Charleston
But though He cause grief, yet will He have compassion according to the multitude of His mercies.
— Lamentations 3:32
CHAPTER 37
Fifteen years have I been with him, ten of them were years of happiness. I enjoyed his confidence, to me he unbosomed his cares, we lay down at the same time, we arose at the same… I alone am desolate, tho’ all are afflicted.
— Father Richard Baker, 1842 letter
To see death approaching made it no easier. Since Rome, Joseph had watched Bishop England’s vitality ebbing away. This last year had been worst of all. His Lordship drove himself to exhaustion. He led retreats for the clergy, the laity, the Sisters of Mercy. He made another tour of his diocese. He crossed the Atlantic again to raise funds and recruit Priests and nuns.
He also made another visit to Philadelphia to assist at an episcopal consecration. Castalio accompanied his master as he had on so many other journeys; but this one was different. Bishop England allowed Castalio to disappear. Philadelphia had long been a haven for runaway slaves.
Everywhere His Lordship travelled, Catholics and Protestants alike clamored to hear him speak. They would crowd into the churches and halls till many had to be turned away. He could notrefuse any opportunity to bring souls to God. Even in his fatigue, he was transcendent.Was this what it was like to witness Christ preaching His Sermon on the Mount?his listeners wondered. Certainly that was Joseph’s reaction.
In December, Bishop England had returned to Charleston in a state of collapse. At first, it seemed he would rally as he had so many times before. He was barely fifty-five years old. Surely God would not take him so soon. Now and again during Advent, His Lordship managed to celebrate Mass or preach in the cathedral. But his once-vibrant body was now stooped, his once-resounding voice now hoarse.
Soon after Christmas, Bishop England became unable to rise from his bed. For three long months, his diocese waited anxiously for either his recovery or the grace of a happy death. Not only the Catholic churches but also Protestant congregations and the Synagogue offered prayers for him.
By Holy Week, they abandoned their last hopes. His Lordship’s principal physician consulted with Joseph’s father and other doctors, but nothing more could be done. Bishop England’s affliction was complex, though it most resembled dysentery. That the holiest man Joseph had ever known should be felled by refractory bowels seemed a ridiculous injustice.
Through Father Lynch, His Lordship dictated his wishes to the Archbishop: Father Baker should be his successor. Joseph often returned from his duties to hear the younger Irishman conversing with their Bishop in low voices. His Lordship left his friend a great burden, but Father Baker knew its weight: he had served as Vicar General for years now during the Bishop’s travels.
His Lordship called the seminarians and the Sisters to his bedside in turn. He spoke of his own sister, Joanna. Stranger’s fever had taken her fifteen years before, yet in these final days, the memory of her goodness returned to him. “I should have been a better man—a better Priest—if she had remained here to guide me,” Bishop England lamented.
Every evening before he retired, Joseph knelt to kiss His Lordship’s episcopal ring. Such power had flowed through those fingersonce—the power that had made Joseph a Priest. It was painful now to see that skeletal hand, that sunken face.This will be me, Joseph thought selfishly on the day he turned thirty. He knew he would not serve in Charleston forever. In another thirty years, he too would succumb to exhaustion; he too would die alone, thousands of miles from his family.
“So much I have attempted over these two decades has ended in failure,” Bishop England observed, when Father Baker had gone. “The mission to Haiti, the school for black children… When my cathedral was first erected, it was simply pitiful. Now, it is dilapidated. This very building is falling apart.” He glanced to the stained ceiling. Though His Lordship’s face remained white as death, his eyes brightened then, and he managed a smile. “But I look at you, Joseph, and I know I have done one thing right: I have enabled an uncertain boy to become a capable Priest—and a teacher of Priests.” Weakly, Bishop England squeezed Joseph’s hand. “You are a credit to your race, son—living proof that through the grace of God, anything is possible.”
Joseph could only nod.
In April,all the Priests from the cathedral, St. Mary’s, and St. Patrick’s gathered to celebrate a Solemn High Mass for their Bishop. Afterwards, they processed across the Biblical garden to his bedchamber in order to offer him the Last Sacraments. One final time, Father Baker helped His Lordship vest in his episcopal robes.
Propped against pillows, Bishop England addressed them: “Tell my people that I love them… Be with them, be of them, win them to God. Guide and instruct them. Watch as having to render an account of their souls, that you may do it with joy and not grief. … Remember me, I beseech you, in your devotions…”
Joseph and his fellow Priests promised to obey. As they knelt around the episcopal bed, many of them were weeping. Their Bishop blessed each of them one last time.
Before dawn the next morning, his great soul went to God. HisLordship’s final word on Earth began in a moan and ended in a gurgling cry. It was: “Mercy!”
All across the city, bells tolled the news of Bishop England’s passing. Businesses remained closed that day, and courts did not meet. Even the ships in the harbor hung their flags at half-mast. Theirs was a missionary Church in a hostile land; such an honor was unprecedented. They laid His Lordship to rest beneath his episcopal chair in their sad little cathedral.
