Chapter Thirty Five.
Suspense.
Nature wrought with the blacks this season for the fulfilment of their hopes, and the defence of their precarious liberties. Never, within the remembrance of the young people at Pongaudin, had the heat set in so early, and the month of May been so sickly in the towns. To the eyes of such as Génifrède, who were ever on the watch for signs, it might almost seem that they saw Pestilence floating, on her poison-dropping wings, beneath the clouds which sailed from all quarters of the sky to the mountain-peaks; clouds muttering in thunder, and startling the intruders with terrific lightnings, from night-to-night. The reports of fever having broken out here and there among the invaders became more and more frequent. At first, those who were watching the times the most intently concluded that, early as the season was, “the wish” must be “father to the thought,” and believed little of what they heard. But before Toussaint had been ten days at Pongaudin, it was certain that disease was raging to such an extent among the French troops at Cap, that the Captain-General had retired to Tortuga, to join his lady, and others of the expedition who were the most carefully guarded. The garrison at Saint Marc was thinning, Thérèse sent word; and the country people conveyed to Pongaudin the news that funerals were becoming daily more frequent at Limbé, Le Dauphin, and other posts along the northern shore.
Not for this, however, was there any relaxation of the vigilance with which L’Ouverture was watched by the foe. His mode of life was simple, and open to the observation of any who chose to look on. He improved his gardens; he read much; he interested himself in Denis’s studies; he rode out daily, and conversed everywhere with the people by the wayside. He wrote many letters, sometimes with his own hand, and sometimes employing that of his friend, Monsieur Pascal, who, with his wife, resided with the Ouvertures. Toussaint also received many letters, and a perpetual succession of visitors—of applicants about matters of business, as it seemed. The only mystery was, how all his despatches were sent to their destination. This was a mystery which grew out of the French practice of intercepting his correspondence. Accidents had happened to so many of his letters during the first week, that he presently learned the necessity of some plan for securing the privacy of his correspondence: and some plan he did devise, which quite succeeded; as appeared from the French General having recourse to a new mode of surveillance—that of setting spies on the person and movements of the black chief.
Toussaint’s family were alarmed at finding his steps tracked, and his repose watched. They heard incessantly of his path being crossed in his rides; and they knew that many of the trifling messages which were brought, at all hours of the day and night, to be delivered into L’Ouverture’s own ear, were mere devices to learn whether he was at home. They saw that their grounds were never private; and felt that eyes watched them from the outer darkness when their saloon was lighted for their evening employments and amusements. Toussaint smiled at the alarms of his family, admitting the fact of this incessant espionnage, but asking what harm it did, and pointing out that it was only an inconvenience of a few weeks’ duration. He would not hear of any strengthening of his guard. To increase his guard would be to encourage and authorise the suspicions which he was now daily weakening. He had nothing to conceal; and the sooner the invaders satisfied themselves of this, the better for all parties.
In answer to Madame L’Ouverture’s frequent speculations as to what Leclerc could fix his suspicions on, Toussaint said he was probably supposed to be in communication with Dessalines. He thought so from his never approaching the mornes, in his rides, without finding French soldiers overlooking his proceedings from every point of the hills. He was not in communication with Dessalines. He did not know, and he wished not to know even where he was—whether with the Bellairs, or training his soldiers elsewhere for further warfare. Dessalines had never submitted; and while this was the case, it was obviously prudent for those who had made terms to know nothing of any plans of his to which they might wish success. Thérèse would not compromise the Ouvertures by living with them, in the present state of affairs. She remained quietly on her husband’s estate, near Saint Marc, only corresponding frequently with her friends at Pongaudin, in letters which all the world might see.
The chief subject of this correspondence was the fever-hospitals preparing at Saint Marc, as at all the other towns on the coast, for the reception of the sick whites. Whatever might be Thérèse’s feelings towards the whites, her compassion towards sick persons of every colour was stronger. Her gentle nature asserted itself whenever weakness and suffering appealed to it; and this season she began to inspire that affection in her neighbours—to establish that character for devoted charity, which afterwards made her the idol of the people. If her husband had been with her, he would probably have forbidden her to save the lives of any of that race whom he desired to exterminate. But though she could perhaps have taken away life, with her own hand, on the battlefield, with the cry of liberty in her ear, she could form no compact with such an ally as pestilence. In the season of truce and retreat, in the absence of the sounds and sights of conflict, she became all the woman—the gentle spirit—to whom the colony from this time looked up, as sent to temper her husband’s ferocity, and wisely to direct his strengthening passions. She who was so soon after “the Good Empress,” was now the Sister of Charity, actually forgetting former wrongs in present compassion for the helpless; and ministering to the sick without thought whether, on recovery, they would be friends or foes. It was matter of speculation to many besides the Ouvertures, whether the invaders omitted the opportunity of making a hostage of her, because their sick needed her services, or because they were grateful for her offices, or because they knew Dessalines well enough to be aware that, so far from such an act bringing him to submission, it would exasperate his ferocity, and draw down new sufferings and danger upon the discouraged whites.
One evening, the household of the Ouvertures were where it was now their wont to be at sunset—under the trees, on a grassy slope of the gardens, fronting the west. There they usually sat at this hour, to see the sun sink into the ocean; the darkness following almost as quickly as if that great fire were indeed quenched in the waters. On this occasion, the sun was still half-an-hour above the horizon, when Madame Dessalines appeared, in her riding-dress, and, as she said, in haste. She spoke apart with Madame L’Ouverture and Toussaint; and presently called Génifrède to the conference.
Thérèse had of late wanted help at Saint Marc—help in directing the nursing of the sick. Now she must have it. Monsieur Papalier was ill—very ill. The people of the house where he lived insisted upon sending him into the hospital this very night, if good attendance were not provided for him; and now—