How far is St. Helena from a little child at play?
What makes you want to wander there with all the world between?
Oh, Mother, call your son again or else he'll run away.
(_No one thinks of winter when the grass is green!_)
How far is St. Helena from a fight in Paris street?
I haven't time to answer now--the men are falling fast.
The guns begin to thunder, and the drums begin to beat.
(_If you take the first step you will take the last!_)
How far is St. Helena from the field of Austerlitz?
You couldn't hear me if I told--so loud the cannons roar.
But not so far for people who are living by their wits.
(_'Gay go up' means 'gay go down' the wide world o'er!_)
How far is St. Helena from an Emperor of France?
I cannot see--I cannot tell--the crowns they dazzle so.
The Kings sit down to dinner, and the Queens stand up to dance.
(_After open weather you may look for snow!_)
How far is St. Helena from the Capes of Trafalgar?
A longish way--a longish way--with ten year more to run.
It's South across the water underneath a setting star.
(_What you cannot finish you must leave undone!_)
How far is St. Helena from the Beresina ice?
An ill way--a chill way--the ice begins to crack.
But not so far for gentlemen who never took advice.
(_When you can't go forward you must e'en come back!_)
How far is St. Helena from the field of Waterloo?
A near way--a clear way--the ship will take you soon.
A pleasant place for gentlemen with little left to do.
(_Morning never tries you till the afternoon!_)
How far from St. Helena to the Gate of Heaven's Grace?
That no one knows--that no one knows--and no one ever will.
But fold your hands across your heart and cover up your face,
And after all your trapesings, child, lie still!
'A Priest in Spite of Himself'
The day after they came home from the sea-side they set out on a tour of
inspection to make sure everything was as they had left it. Soon they
discovered that old Hobden had blocked their best hedge-gaps with stakes
and thorn-bundles, and had trimmed up the hedges where the blackberries
were setting.
'It can't be time for the gipsies to come along,' said Una. 'Why, it was
summer only the other day!'
'There's smoke in Low Shaw!' said Dan, sniffing. 'Let's make sure!'
They crossed the fields towards the thin line of blue smoke that leaned
above the hollow of Low Shaw which lies beside the King's Hill road. It
used to be an old quarry till somebody planted it, and you can look
straight down into it from the edge of Banky Meadow.
'I thought so,' Dan whispered, as they came up to the fence at the edge
of the larches. A gipsy-van--not the showman's sort, but the old black
kind, with little windows high up and a baby-gate across the door--was
getting ready to leave. A man was harnessing the horses; an old woman
crouched over the ashes of a fire made out of broken fence-rails; and a
girl sat on the van-steps singing to a baby on her lap. A wise-looking,
thin dog snuffed at a patch of fur on the ground till the old woman put
it carefully in the middle of the fire. The girl reached back inside the
van and tossed her a paper parcel. This was laid on the fire too, and
they smelt singed feathers.
'Chicken feathers!' said Dan. 'I wonder if they are old Hobden's.'
Una sneezed. The dog growled and crawled to the girl's feet, the old
woman fanned the fire with her hat, while the man led the horses up to
the shafts. They all moved as quickly and quietly as snakes over moss.
'Ah!' said the girl. 'I'll teach you!' She beat the dog, who seemed to
expect it.
'Don't do that,' Una called down. 'It wasn't his fault.'
'How do you know what I'm beating him for?' she answered.
'For not seeing us,' said Dan. 'He was standing right in the smoke, and
the wind was wrong for his nose, anyhow.'
The girl stopped beating the dog and the old woman fanned faster than
ever.
'You've fanned some of your feathers out of the fire,' said Una.
'There's a tail-feather by that chestnut-tot.'
'What of it?' said the old woman, as she grabbed it.
'Oh, nothing!' said Dan. 'Only I've heard say that tail-feathers are as
bad as the whole bird, sometimes.'
That was a saying of Hobden's about pheasants. Old Hobden always burned
all feather and fur before he sat down to eat.
'Come on, mother,' the man whispered. The old woman climbed into the van
and the horses drew it out of the deep-rutted shaw on to the hard road.
The girl waved her hands and shouted something they could not catch.
'That was gipsy for "Thank you kindly, Brother and Sister,"' said
Pharaoh Lee.
He was standing behind them, his fiddle under his arm.
'Gracious, you startled me!' said Una.
'_You_ startled old Priscilla Savile,' Puck called from below them.
'Come and sit by their fire. She ought to have put it out before they
left.'
They dropped down the ferny side of the shaw. Una raked the ashes
together, Dan found a dead wormy oak branch that burns without flame,
and they watched the smoke while Pharaoh played a curious wavery air.
'That's what the girl was humming to the baby,' said Una.
'I know it,' he nodded, and went on:
'Ai Lumai, Lumai, Lumai! Luludia!
Ai Luludia!'
He passed from one odd tune to another, and quite forgot the children.
At last Puck asked him to go on with his adventures in Philadelphia and
among the Seneca Indians.
'I'm telling it,' he said, staring straight in front of him as he
played. 'Can't you hear?'
'Maybe, but _they_ can't. Tell it aloud,' said Puck.
Pharaoh shook himself, laid his fiddle beside him, and began:
'I'd left Red Jacket and Cornplanter riding home with me after Big Hand
had said that there wouldn't be any war. That's all there was to it. We
believed Big Hand and we went home again--we three braves. When we
reached Lebanon we found Toby at the cottage with his waistcoat a foot
too big for him--so hard he had worked amongst the yellow-fever people.
He beat me for running off with the Indians, but 'twas worth it--I was
glad to see him,--and when we went back to Philadelphia for the winter,
and I was told how he'd sacrificed himself over sick people in the
yellow fever, I thought the world and all of him. No I didn't neither.
I'd thought that all along. That yellow fever must have been something
dreadful. Even in December people had no more than begun to trinkle back
to town. Whole houses stood empty and the niggers was robbing them out.
But I can't call to mind that any of the Moravian Brethren had died. It
seemed like they had just kept on with their own concerns, and the good
Lord he'd just looked after 'em. That was the winter--yes, winter of
Ninety-three--the Brethren bought a stove for the Church. Toby spoke in
favour of it because the cold spoiled his fiddle hand, but many thought
stove-heat not in the Bible, and there was yet a third party which
always brought hickory coal foot-warmers to service and wouldn't speak
either way. They ended by casting the Lot for it, which is like pitch
and toss. After my summer with the Senecas, church-stoves didn't highly
interest me, so I took to haunting round among the French _emigres_
which Philadelphia was full of. My French and my fiddling helped me
there, d'ye see. They come over in shiploads from France, where, by what
I made out, every one was killing every one else by any means, and they
spread 'emselves about the city--mostly in Drinker's Alley and Elfrith's
Alley--and they did odd jobs till times should mend. But whatever they
stooped to, they were gentry and kept a cheerful countenance, and after
an evening's fiddling at one of their poor little proud parties, the
Brethren seemed old-fashioned. Pastor Meder and Brother Adam Goose
didn't like my fiddling for hire, but Toby said it was lawful in me to
earn my living by exercising my talents. He never let me be put upon.
'In February of Ninety-four--No, March it must have been, because a new
ambassador called Fauchet had come from France, with no more manners
than Genet the old one--in March, Red Jacket came in from the
Reservation bringing news of all kind friends there. I showed him round
the city, and we saw General Washington riding through a crowd of folk
that shouted for war with England. They gave him quite rough music, but
he looked 'twixt his horse's ears and made out not to notice. His stirrup
brished Red Jacket's elbow, and Red Jacket whispered up, "My brother knows
it is not easy to be a chief?" Big Hand shot just one look at him and
nodded. Then there was a scuffle behind us over some one who wasn't hooting
at Washington loud enough to please the people. We went away to be out of
the fight. Indians won't risk being hit.'
'What do they do if they are?' Dan asked.
'Kill, of course. That's why they have such proper manners. Well, then,
coming home by Drinker's Alley to get a new shirt which a French
Vicomte's lady was washing to take the stiff out of (I'm always choice
in my body-linen) a lame Frenchman pushes a paper of buttons at us. He
hadn't long landed in the United States, and please would we buy. He
sure-ly was a pitiful scrattel--his coat half torn off, his face cut,
but his hands steady; so I knew it wasn't drink. He said his name was
Peringuey, and he'd been knocked about in the crowd round the
Stadt--Independence Hall. One thing leading to another we took him up to
Toby's rooms, same as Red Jacket had taken me the year before. The
compliments he paid to Toby's Madeira wine fairly conquered the old man,
for he opened a second bottle and he told this Monsieur Peringuey all
about our great stove dispute in the Church. I remember Pastor Meder and
Brother Adam Goose dropped in, and although they and Toby were direct
opposite sides regarding stoves, yet this Monsieur Peringuey he made 'em
feel as if he thought each one was in the right of it. He said he had
been a clergyman before he had to leave France. He admired at Toby's
fiddling, and he asked if Red Jacket, sitting by the spinet, was a
simple Huron. Senecas aren't Hurons, they're Iroquois, of course, and
Toby told him so. Well, then, in due time he arose and left in a style
which made us feel he'd been favouring us, instead of us feeding him.
I've never seen that so strong before--in a man. We all talked him over
but couldn't make head or tail of him, and Red Jacket come out to walk
with me to the French quarter when I was due to fiddle at a party.
Passing Drinker's Alley again we saw a naked window with a light in it,
and there sat our button-selling Monsieur Peringuey throwing dice all
alone, right hand against left.
'Says Red Jacket, keeping back in the dark, "Look at his face!"
'I was looking. I protest to you I wasn't frightened like I was when Big
Hand talked to his gentlemen. I--I only looked, and I only wondered that
even those dead dumb dice 'ud dare to fall different from what that face
wished. It--it _was_ a face!
'"He is bad," says Red Jacket. "But he is a great chief. The French have
sent away a great chief. I thought so when he told us his lies. Now I
know."
'I had to go on to the party, so I asked him to call round for me
afterwards and we'd have hymn-singing at Toby's as usual.
'"No," he says. "Tell Toby I am not Christian to-night. All Indian." He
had those fits sometimes. I wanted to know more about Monsieur
Peringuey, and the _emigre_ party was the very place to find out. It's
neither here nor there of course, but those French _emigre_ parties they
almost make you cry. The men that you bought fruit of in Market Street,
the hairdressers and fencing-masters and French teachers, they turn back
again by candlelight to what they used to be at home, and you catch
their real names. There wasn't much room in the wash-house, so I sat on
top of the copper and played 'em the tunes they called for--"_Si le Roi
m'avait donne_," and such nursery stuff. They cried sometimes. It hurt
me to take their money afterwards, indeed it did. And there I found out
about Monsieur Peringuey. He was a proper rogue too! None of 'em had a
good word for him except the Marquise that kept the French
boarding-house on Fourth Street. I made out that his real name was the
Count Talleyrand de Perigord--a priest right enough, but sorely come
down in the world. He'd been King Louis' ambassador to England a year or
two back, before the French had cut off King Louis' head; and, by what I
heard, that head wasn't hardly more than hanging loose before he'd run
back to Paris and prevailed on Danton, the very man which did the
murder, to send him back to England again as Ambassador of the French
Republic! That was too much for the English, so they kicked him out by
Act of Parliament, and he'd fled to the Americas without money or
friends or prospects. I'm telling you the talk in the wash-house. Some
of 'em was laughing over it. Says the French Marquise, "My friends, you
laugh too soon. That man will be on the winning side before any of us."
'"I did not know you were so fond of priests, Marquise," says the
Vicomte. His lady did my washing, as I've told you.
'"I have my reasons," says the Marquise. "He sent my uncle and my two
brothers to Heaven by the little door,"--that was one of the _emigre_
names for the guillotine. "He will be on the winning side if it costs
him the blood of every friend he has in the world."
'"Then what does he want here?" says one of 'em. "We have all lost our
game."
'"My faith!" says the Marquise. "He will find out, if any one can,
whether this canaille of a Washington means to help us to fight England.
Genet (that was my ambassador in the _Embuscade_) has failed and gone
off disgraced; Fauchet (he was the new man) hasn't done any better, but
our abbe will find out, and he will make his profit out of the news.
Such a man does not fail."
'"He begins unluckily," says the Vicomte. "He was set upon to-day in the
street for not hooting your Washington." They all laughed again, and one
remarks, "How does the poor devil keep himself."
'He must have slipped in through the wash-house door, for he flits past
me and joins 'em, cold as ice.
'"One does what one can," he says. "I sell buttons. And you, Marquise?"
'"I?"--she waves her poor white hands all burned--"I am a cook--a very
bad one--at your service, abbe. We were just talking about you."
'They didn't treat him like they talked of him. They backed off and
stood still.
"'I have missed something then," he says. "But I spent this last hour
playing--only for buttons, Marquise--against a noble savage, the
veritable Huron himself."
'"You had your usual luck, I hope?" she says.
'"Certainly," he says. "I cannot afford to lose even buttons in these
days."
'"Then I suppose the child of nature does not know that your dice are
usually loaded, Father Tout-a-tous," she continues. I don't know whether
she meant to accuse him of cheating. He only bows.
'"Not yet, Mademoiselle Cunegonde," he says, and goes on to make himself
agreeable to the rest of the company. And that was how I found out our
Monsieur Peringuey was Count Charles Maurice Talleyrand de Perigord.'
Pharaoh stopped, but the children said nothing.
'You've heard of him?' said Pharaoh.
Una shook her head.
'Was Red Jacket the Indian he played dice with?' Dan asked.
'He was. Red Jacket told me the next time we met. I asked if the lame
man had cheated. Red Jacket said no--he had played quite fair and was a
master player. I allow Red Jacket knew. I've seen him, on the
Reservation, play himself out of everything he had and in again. Then I
told Red Jacket all I'd heard at the party concerning Talleyrand.
'"I was right," he says. "I saw the man's war-face when he thought he
was alone. That is why I played him. I played him face to face. He is a
great chief. Do they say why he comes here?"
'"They say he comes to find out if Big Hand makes war against the
English," I said.
'Red Jacket grunted. "Yes," he says. "He asked me that too. If he had
been a small chief I should have lied. But he is a great chief. He knew
I was a chief, so I told him the truth. I told him what Big Hand said to
Cornplanter and me in the clearing--'There will be no war.' I could not
see what he thought. I could not see behind his face. But he is a great
chief. He will believe."
'"Will he believe that Big Hand can keep his people back from war?" I
said, thinking of the crowds that hooted Big Hand whenever he rode out.
'"He is as bad as Big Hand is good, but he is not as strong as Big
Hand," says Red Jacket. "When he talks with Big Hand he will feel this
in his heart. The French have sent away a great chief. Presently he will
go back and make them afraid."
'Now wasn't that comical? The French woman that knew him and owed all
her losses to him; the Indian that picked him up, cut and muddy on the
street and played dice with him; they neither of 'em doubted that
Talleyrand was something by himself--appearances notwithstanding.'
'And was he something by himself?' asked Una.
Pharaoh began to laugh, but stopped. 'The way _I_ look at it,' he said,
'Talleyrand was one of just three men in this world who are quite by
themselves. Big Hand I put first, because I've seen him.'
'Ay,' said Puck. 'I'm sorry we lost him out of Old England. Who d'you
put second?'
'Talleyrand: maybe because I've seen him too,' said Pharaoh.
'Who's third?' said Puck.
'Boney--even though I've seen him.'
'Whew!' said Puck. 'Every man has his own weights and measures, but
that's queer reckoning.'
'Boney?' said Una. 'You don't mean you've ever met Napoleon Bonaparte?'
'There, I knew you wouldn't have patience with the rest of my tale after
hearing that! But wait a minute. Talleyrand he come round to Hundred and
Eighteen in a day or two to thank Toby for his kindness. I didn't
mention the dice-playing, but I could see that Red Jacket's doings had
made Talleyrand highly curious about Indians--though he would call him
the Huron. Toby, as you may believe, was all holds full of knowledge
concerning their manners and habits. He only needed a listener. The
Brethren don't study Indians much till they join the church, but Toby
knew 'em wild. So evening after evening Talleyrand crossed his sound leg
over his game one and Toby poured forth. Having been adopted into the
Senecas I, naturally, kept still, but Toby 'ud call on me to back up
some of his remarks, and by that means, and a habit he had of drawing
you on in talk, Talleyrand saw I knew something of his noble savages
too. Then he tried a trick. Coming back from an _emigre_ party he turns
into his little shop and puts it to me, laughing like, that I'd gone
with the two chiefs on their visit to Big Hand. _I_ hadn't told. Red
Jacket hadn't told, and Toby, of course, didn't know. 'Twas just
Talleyrand's guess. "Now," he says, "my English and Red Jacket's French
was so bad that I am not sure I got the rights of what the President
really said to the unsophisticated Huron. Do me the favour of telling it
again." I told him every word Red Jacket had told him and not one word
more. I had my suspicions, having just come from an _emigre_ party where
the Marquise was hating and praising him as usual.
'"Much obliged," he said. "But I couldn't gather from Red Jacket exactly
what the President said to Monsieur Genet, or to his American gentlemen
after Monsieur Genet had ridden away."
'I saw Talleyrand was guessing again, for Red Jacket hadn't told him a
word about the white man's pow-wow.'
'Why hadn't he?' Puck asked.
'Because Red Jacket was a chief. He told Talleyrand what the President
had said to him and Cornplanter; but he didn't repeat the talk, between
the white men, that Big Hand ordered him to leave behind.'
'Oh!' said Puck. 'I see. What did _you_ do?'
'First I was going to make some sort of tale round it, but Talleyrand
was a chief too. So I said, "As soon as I get Red Jacket's permission to
tell that part of the tale, I'll be delighted to refresh your memory,
abbe." What else could I have done?
'"Is that all?" he says, laughing. "Let me refresh your memory. In a
month from now I can give you a hundred dollars for your account of the
conversation."
'"Make it five hundred, abbe," I says.
'"Five, then," says he.
'"That will suit me admirably," I says. "Red Jacket will be in town
again by then, and the moment he gives me leave I'll claim the money."
'He had a hard fight to be civil but he come out smiling.
'"Monsieur," he says. "I beg your pardon as sincerely as I envy the
noble Huron your loyalty. Do me the honour to sit down while I explain."
'There wasn't another chair, so I sat on the button-box.
'He was a clever man. He had got hold of the gossip that the President
meant to make a peace treaty with England at any cost. He had found
out--from Genet, I reckon, who was with the President on the day the two
chiefs met him. He'd heard that Genet had had a huff with the President
and had ridden off leaving his business at loose ends. What he
wanted--what he begged and blustered to know--was just the very words
which the President had said to his gentlemen _after_ Genet had left,
concerning the peace treaty with England. He put it to me that in
helping him to those very words I'd be helping three great countries as
well as mankind. The room was as bare as the palm of your hand, but I
couldn't laugh.
'"I'm sorry," I says, when he wiped his forehead. "As soon as Red Jacket
gives permission----"
'"You don't believe me, then?" he cuts in.
'"Not one little, little word, abbe," I says; "except that you mean to
be on the winning side. Remember, I've been fiddling to all your old
friends for months."
'Well, then, his temper fled him and he called me names.
'"Wait a minute, ci-devant," I says at last. "I _am_ half English and
half French, but I am not the half of a man. I will tell thee something
the Indian told me. Has thee seen the President?"
'"Oh yes!" he sneers, "I had letters from the Lord Lansdowne to that
estimable old man."
'"Then," I says, "thee will understand. The Red Skin said that when thee
has met the President thee will feel in thy heart he is a stronger man
than thee."
'"Go!" he whispers. "Before I kill thee, go."
'He looked like it. So I left him.'
'Why did he want to know so badly?' said Dan.
'The way I look at it is that if he _had_ known for certain that
Washington meant to make the peace treaty with England at any price,
he'd ha' left old Fauchet fumbling about in Philadelphia while he went
straight back to France and told old Danton--"It's no good your wasting
time and hopes on the United States, because she won't fight on our
side--that I've proof of!" Then Danton might have been grateful and
given Talleyrand a job, because a whole mass of things hang on knowing
for sure who's your friend and who's your enemy. Just think of us poor
shopkeepers, for instance.'
'Did Red Jacket let you tell, when he came back?' Una asked.
'Of course not. He said, "When Cornplanter and I ask you what Big Hand
said to the whites you can tell the Lame Chief. All that talk was left
behind in the timber, as Big Hand ordered. Tell the Lame Chief there
will be no war. He can go back to France with that word."
'Talleyrand and me hadn't met for a long time except at _emigre_
parties. When I give him the message he just shook his head. He was
sorting buttons in the shop.
'"I cannot return to France with nothing better than the word of an
unsophisticated savage," he says.
'"Hasn't the President said anything to you?" I asked him.
'"He has said everything that one in his position ought to say, but--but
if only I had what he said to his Cabinet after Genet rode off I believe
I could change Europe--the world, maybe."
'"I'm sorry," I says. "Maybe you'll do that without my help."
'He looked at me hard. "Either you have unusual observation for one so
young, or you choose to be insolent," he says.
'"It was intended for a compliment," I says. "But no odds. We're off in
a few days for our summer trip, and I've come to make my good-byes."
'"I go on my travels too," he says. "If ever we meet again you may be
sure I will do my best to repay what I owe you."
'"Without malice, abbe, I hope," I says.
'"None whatever," says he. "Give my respects to your adorable Dr.
Pangloss (that was one of his side-names for Toby) and the Huron." I
never _could_ teach him the difference betwixt Hurons and Senecas.
'Then Sister Haga came in for a paper of what we call "pilly buttons,"
and that was the last I saw of Talleyrand in those parts.'
'But after that you met Napoleon, didn't you?' said Una.
'Wait just a little, dearie. After that, Toby and I went to Lebanon and
the Reservation, and, being older and knowing better how to manage him,
I enjoyed myself well that summer with fiddling and fun. When we came
back, the Brethren got after Toby because I wasn't learning any lawful
trade, and he had hard work to save me from being apprenticed to
Helmbold and Geyer the printers. 'Twould have ruined our music together,
indeed it would; and when we escaped that, old Mattes Roush, the
leather-breeches maker round the corner, took a notion I was cut out for
skin-dressing. But we were rescued. Along towards Christmas there comes
a big sealed letter from the Bank saying that a Monsieur Talleyrand had
put five hundred dollars--a hundred pounds--to my credit there to use as
I pleased. There was a little note from him inside--he didn't give any
address--to thank me for past kindnesses and my believing in his future
which he said was pretty cloudy at the time of writing. I wished Toby
to share the money. _I_ hadn't done more than bring Talleyrand up to
Hundred and Eighteen. The kindnesses were Toby's. But Toby said, "No!
Liberty and Independence for ever. I have all my wants, my son." So I
gave him a set of new fiddle-strings and the Brethren didn't advise us
any more. Only Pastor Meder he preached about the deceitfulness of
riches, and Brother Adam Goose said if there was war the English 'ud
surely shoot down the Bank. _I_ knew there wasn't going to be any war,
but I drew the money out and on Red Jacket's advice I put it into
horse-flesh, which I sold to Bob Bicknell for the Baltimore
stage-coaches. That way, I doubled my money inside the twelvemonth.'
'You gipsy! You proper gipsy!' Puck shouted.
'Why not? 'Twas fair buying and selling. Well, one thing leading to
another, in a few years I had made the beginning of a worldly fortune
and was in the tobacco trade.'
'Ah!' said Puck, suddenly. 'Might I inquire if you'd ever sent any news
to your people in England--or in France?'
'O' course I had. I wrote regular every three months after I'd made
money in the horse trade. We Lees don't like coming home empty-handed.
If it's only a turnip or an egg, it's something. Oh yes, I wrote good
and plenty to Uncle Aurette, and--Dad don't read very quickly--Uncle
used to slip over Newhaven way and tell Dad what was going on in the
tobacco trade.'
'I see--
'Aurettes and Lees--
Like as two peas.
Go on, Brother Square-toes,' said Puck. Pharaoh laughed and went on.
'Talleyrand he'd gone up in the world same as me. He'd sailed to France
again, and was a great man in the Government there awhile, but they had
to turn him out on account of some story about bribes from American
shippers. All our poor _emigres_ said he was surely finished this time,
but Red Jacket and me we didn't think it likely, not unless he was quite
dead. Big Hand had made his peace treaty with Great Britain, just _as_
he said he would, and there was a roaring trade 'twixt England and the
United States for such as 'ud take the risk of being searched by British
and French men-of-wars. Those two was fighting, and just _as_ his
gentlemen told Big Hand 'ud happen--the United States was catching it
from both. If an English man-o'-war met an American ship he'd press half
the best men out of her, and swear they was British subjects. Most of
'em was! If a Frenchman met her he'd, likely, have the cargo out of her,
swearing it was meant to aid and comfort the English; and if a Spaniard
or a Dutchman met her--they was hanging on to England's coat-tails
too--Lord only knows what _they_ wouldn't do! It came over me that what
I wanted in my tobacco trade was a fast-sailing ship and a man who could
be French, English, or American at a pinch. Luckily I could lay my hands
on both articles. So along towards the end of September in the year '99
I sailed from Philadelphia with a hundred and eleven hogshead o' good
Virginia tobacco, in the brig _Berthe Aurette_ named after mother's
maiden name, hoping 'twould bring me luck, which she didn't--and yet she
did.'
'Where was you bound for?' Puck asked.
'Er--any port I found handiest. I didn't tell Toby or the Brethren. They
don't understand the inns and outs of the tobacco trade.'
Puck coughed a small cough as he shifted a piece of wood with his bare
foot.
'It's easy for you to sit and judge,' Pharaoh cried. 'But think o' what
_we_ had to put up with! We spread our wings and run across the broad
Atlantic like a hen through a horse-fair. Even so, we was stopped by an
English frigate, three days out. He sent a boat alongside and pressed
seven able seamen. I remarked it was hard on honest traders, but the
officer said they was fighting all creation and hadn't time to argue.
The next English frigate we escaped with no more than a shot in our
quarter. Then we was chased two days and a night by a French privateer,
firing between squalls, and the dirty little English ten-gun brig which
made him sheer off had the impudence to press another five of our men.
That's how we reached to the chops of the Channel. Twelve good men
pressed out of thirty-five; an eighteen-pound shot-hole close besides
our rudder; our mainsail looking like spectacles where the Frenchman had
hit us--and the Channel crawling with short-handed British cruisers. Put
_that_ in your pipe and smoke it next time you grumble at the price of
tobacco!
'Well, then, to top it off, while we was trying to get at our leaks, a
French lugger come swooping at us out o' the dusk. We warned him to keep
away, but he fell aboard us, and up climbed his jabbering red-caps. We
couldn't endure any more--indeed we couldn't. We went at 'em with all we
could lay hands on. It didn't last long. They was fifty odd to our
twenty-three. Pretty soon I heard the cutlasses thrown down and some one
bellowed for the _sacre_ captain.
'"Here I am!" I says. "I don't suppose it makes any odds to you thieves,
but this is the United States brig _Berthe Aurette_."
'"My aunt!" the man says, laughing. "Why is she named that?"
'"Who's speaking?" I said. 'Twas too dark to see, but I thought I knew
the voice.
'"Enseigne de Vaisseau Estephe L'Estrange," he sings out, and then I was
sure.
'"Oh!" I says. "It's all in the family, I suppose, but you _have_ done a
fine day's work, Stephen."
'He whips out the binnacle-light and holds it to my face. He was young
L'Estrange, my full cousin, that I hadn't seen since the night the smack
sank off Telscombe Tye--six years ago.
'"Whew!" he says. "That's why she was named for Aunt Berthe, is it?
What's your share in her, Pharaoh?"
'"Only half owner, but the cargo's mine."
'"That's bad," he says. "I'll do what I can, but you shouldn't have
fought us."
'"Steve," I says, "you aren't ever going to report our little fall-out
as a fight! Why, a Revenue cutter 'ud laugh at it!"
'"So'd I if I wasn't in the Republican Navy," he says. "But two of our
men are dead, d'ye see, and I'm afraid I'll have to take you to the
Prize Court at Le Havre."
'"Will they condemn my 'baccy?" I asks.
'"To the last ounce. But I was thinking more of the ship. She'd make a
sweet little craft for the Navy if the Prize Court 'ud let me have her,"
he says.
'Then I knew there was no hope. I don't blame him--a man must consider
his own interests--but nigh every dollar I had was in ship or cargo, and
Steve kept on saying, "You shouldn't have fought us."
'Well, then, the lugger took us to Le Havre, and that being the one time
we _did_ want a British ship to rescue us, why o' course we never saw
one. My cousin spoke his best for us at the Prize Court. He owned he'd
no right to rush alongside in the face o' the United States flag, but we
couldn't get over those two men killed, d'ye see, and the Court
condemned both ship and cargo. They was kind enough not to make us
prisoners--only beggars--and young L'Estrange was given the _Berthe
Aurette_ to re-arm into the French Navy.
'"I'll take you round to Boulogne," he says. "Mother and the rest'll be
glad to see you, and you can slip over to Newhaven with Uncle Aurette.
Or you can ship with me, like most o' your men, and have a turn at King
George's loose trade. There's plenty pickings," he says.
'Crazy as I was, I couldn't help laughing.
'"I've had my allowance of pickings and stealings," I says. "Where are
they taking my tobacco?" 'Twas being loaded on to a barge.
'"Up the Seine to be sold in Paris," he says. "Neither you nor I will
ever touch a penny of that money."
'"Get me leave to go with it," I says. "I'll see if there's justice to
be gotten out of our American Ambassador."
'"There's not much justice in this world," he says, "without a Navy."
But he got me leave to go with the barge and he gave me some money. That
tobacco was all I had, and I followed it like a hound follows a snatched
bone. Going up the river I fiddled a little to keep my spirits up, as
well as to make friends with the guard. They was only doing their duty.
Outside o' that they were the reasonablest o' God's creatures. They
never even laughed at me. So we come to Paris, by river; along in
November, which the French had christened Brumaire. They'd given new
names to all the months, and after such an outrageous silly piece o'
business as _that_, they wasn't likely to trouble 'emselves with my
rights and wrongs. They didn't. The barge was laid up below Notre Dame
church in charge of a caretaker, and he let me sleep aboard after I'd
run about all day from office to office, seeking justice and fair
dealing, and getting speeches concerning liberty. None heeded me.
Looking back on it I can't rightly blame 'em. I'd no money, my clothes
was filthy mucked; I hadn't changed my linen in weeks, and I'd no proof
of my claims except the ship's papers, which, they said, I might have
stolen. The thieves! The doorkeeper to the American Ambassador--for I
never saw even the Secretary--he swore I spoke French a sight too well
for an American citizen. Worse than that--I had spent my money, d'ye
see, and I--I took to fiddling in the streets for my keep; and--and, a
ship's captain with a fiddle under his arm--well, I _don't_ blame 'em
that they didn't believe me.
'I come back to the barge one day--late in this month Brumaire it
was--fair beazled out. Old Maingon, the caretaker, he'd lit a fire in a
bucket and was grilling a herring.
'"Courage, mon ami," he says. "Dinner is served."
'"I can't eat," I says. "I can't do any more. It's stronger than I am."
'"Bah!" he says. "Nothing's stronger than a man. Me, for example! Less
than two years ago I was blown up in the _Orient_ in Aboukir Bay, but I
descended again and hit the water like a fairy. Look at me now," he
says. He wasn't much to look at, for he'd only one leg and one eye, but
the cheerfullest soul that ever trod shoe-leather. "That's worse than a
hundred and eleven hogshead of 'baccy," he goes on. "You're young, too!
What wouldn't I give to be young in France at this hour! There's nothing
you couldn't do," he says. "The ball's at your feet--kick it!" he says.
He kicks the old fire bucket with his peg-leg. "General Buonaparte, for
example!" he goes on. "That man's a babe compared to me, and see what
he's done already. He's conquered Egypt and Austria and Italy--oh! half
Europe!" he says, "and now he sails back to Paris, and he sails out to
St. Cloud down the river here--_don't_ stare at the river, you young
fool!--and all in front of these pig-jobbing lawyers and citizens he
makes himself Consul, which is as good as a King. He'll _be_ King, too,
in the next three turns of the capstan--King of France, England, and the
world! Think o' that!" he shouts, "and eat your herring."
'I says something about Boney. If he hadn't been fighting England I
shouldn't have lost my 'baccy--should I?
'"Young fellow," says Maingon, "you don't understand."
'We heard cheering. A carriage passed over the bridge with two in it.
'"That's the man himself," says Maingon. "He'll give 'em something to
cheer for soon." He stands at the salute.
'"Who's t'other in black beside him?" I asks, fairly shaking all over.
'"Ah! he's the clever one. You'll hear of him before long. He's that
scoundrel-bishop, Talleyrand."
'"It is!" I said, and up the steps I went with my fiddle, and run after
the carriage calling, "Abbe, abbe!"
'A soldier knocked the wind out of me with the back of his sword, but I
had sense to keep on following till the carriage stopped--and there just
was a crowd round the house-door! I must have been half-crazy else I
wouldn't have struck up "_Si le Roi m'avait donne, Paris la grande
ville!_" I thought it might remind him.
'"That is a good omen!" he says to Boney sitting all hunched up; and he
looks straight at me.
'"Abbe--oh, abbe!" I says. "Don't you remember Toby and Hundred and
Eighteen Second Street?"
'He said not a word. He just crooked his long white finger to the guard
at the door while the carriage steps were let down, and I skipped into
the house, and they slammed the door in the crowd's face.
'"You go there," says a soldier, and shoves me into an empty room, where
I catched my first breath since I'd left the barge. Presently I heard
plates rattling next door--there were only folding doors between--and a
cork drawn. "I tell you," some one shouts with his mouth full, "it was
all that sulky ass Sieyes' fault. Only my speech to the Five Hundred
saved the situation."
'"Did it save your coat?" says Talleyrand. "I hear they tore it when
they threw you out. Don't gasconade to me. You may be in the road of
victory, but you aren't there yet."
'Then I guessed t'other man was Boney. He stamped about and swore at
Talleyrand.
'"You forget yourself, Consul," says Talleyrand, "or rather you remember
yourself--Corsican."
'"Pig!" says Boney, and worse.
'"Emperor!" says Talleyrand, but, the way he spoke, it sounded worst of
all. Some one must have backed against the folding doors, for they flew
open and showed me in the middle of the room. Boney whipped out his
pistol before I could stand up. "General," says Talleyrand to him, "this
gentleman has a habit of catching us canaille _en deshabille_. Put that
thing down."
'Boney laid it on the table, so I guessed which was master. Talleyrand
takes my hand--"Charmed to see you again, Candide," he says. "How is the
adorable Dr. Pangloss and the noble Huron?"
'"They were doing very well when I left," I said. "But I'm not."
'"Do _you_ sell buttons now?" he says, and fills me a glass of wine off
the table.
'"Madeira," says he. "Not so good as some I have drunk."
'"You mountebank!" Boney roars. "Turn that out." (He didn't even say
"man," but Talleyrand, being gentle born, just went on.)
'"Pheasant is not so good as pork," he says. "You will find some at that
table if you will do me the honour to sit down. Pass him a clean plate,
General." And, as true as I'm here, Boney slid a plate along just like a
sulky child. He was a lanky-haired, yellow-skinned little man, as
nervous as a cat--and as dangerous. I could feel that.
'"And now," said Talleyrand, crossing his game leg over his sound one,
"will you tell me your story?"
'I was in a fluster, but I told him nearly everything from the time he
left me the five hundred dollars in Philadelphia, up to my losing ship
and cargo at Le Havre. Boney began by listening, but after a bit he
dropped into his own thoughts and looked at the crowd sideways through
the front-room curtains. Talleyrand called to him when I'd done.
'"Eh? What we need now," says Boney, "is peace for the next three or
four years."
'"Quite so," says Talleyrand. "Meantime I want the Consul's order to the
Prize Court at Le Havre to restore my friend here his ship."
'"Nonsense!" says Boney. "Give away an oak-built brig of two hundred and
seven tons for sentiment? Certainly not! She must be armed into my Navy
with ten--no, fourteen twelve-pounders and two long fours. Is she strong
enough to bear a long twelve forward?"
'Now I could ha' sworn he'd paid no heed to my talk, but that wonderful
head-piece of his seemingly skimmed off every word of it that was useful
to him.
'"Ah, General!" says Talleyrand. "You are a magician--a magician without
morals. But the brig is undoubtedly American, and we don't want to
offend them more than we have."
'"Need anybody talk about the affair?" he says. He didn't look at me,
but I knew what was in his mind--just cold murder because I worried him;
and he'd order it as easy as ordering his carriage.
'"You can't stop 'em," I said. "There's twenty-two other men besides
me." I felt a little more 'ud set me screaming like a wired hare.
'"Undoubtedly American," Talleyrand goes on. "You would gain
something if you returned the ship--with a message of fraternal
good-will--published in the _Moniteur_" (that's a French paper like
the Philadelphia _Aurora_).
'"A good idea!" Boney answers. "One could say much in a message."
'"It might be useful," says Talleyrand. "Shall I have the message
prepared?" He wrote something in a little pocket ledger.
'"Yes--for me to embellish this evening. The _Moniteur_ will publish it
to-night."
'"Certainly. Sign, please," says Talleyrand, tearing the leaf out.
'"But that's the order to return the brig," says Boney. "Is that
necessary? Why should I lose a good ship? Haven't I lost enough ships
already?"
'Talleyrand didn't answer any of those questions. Then Boney sidled up
to the table and jabs his pen into the ink. Then he shies at the paper
again: "My signature alone is useless," he says. "You must have the
other two Consuls as well. Sieyes and Roger Ducos must sign. We must
preserve the Laws."
'"By the time my friend presents it," says Talleyrand, still looking out
of the window, "only one signature will be necessary."
'Boney smiles. "It's a swindle," says he, but he signed and pushed the
paper across.
'"Give that to the President of the Prize Court at Le Havre," says
Talleyrand, "and he will give you back your ship. I will settle for the
cargo myself. You have told me how much it cost. What profit did you
expect to make on it?"
'Well, then, as man to man, I was bound to warn him that I'd set out to
run it into England without troubling the Revenue, and so I couldn't
rightly set bounds to my profits.'
'I guessed that all along,' said Puck.
'There was never a Lee to Warminghurst--
That wasn't a smuggler last and first.'
The children laughed.
'It's comical enough now,' said Pharaoh. 'But I didn't laugh then. Says
Talleyrand after a minute, "I am a bad accountant and I have several
calculations on hand at present. Shall we say twice the cost of the
cargo?"
'Say? I couldn't say a word. I sat choking and nodding like a China
image while he wrote an order to his secretary to pay me, I won't say
how much, because you wouldn't believe it.
'"Oh! Bless you, abbe! God bless you!" I got it out at last.
'"Yes," he says, "I am a priest in spite of myself, but they call me
bishop now. Take this for my episcopal blessing," and he hands me the
paper.
'"He stole all that money from me," says Boney over my shoulder. "A Bank
of France is another of the things we must make. Are you mad?" he shouts
at Talleyrand.
'"Quite," says Talleyrand, getting up. "But be calm; the disease will
never attack you. It is called gratitude. This gentleman found me in the
street and fed me when I was hungry."
'"I see; and he has made a fine scene of it and you have paid him, I
suppose. Meantime, France waits."
'"Oh! poor France!" says Talleyrand. "Good-bye, Candide," he says to
me. "By the way," he says, "have you yet got Red Jacket's permission to
tell me what the President said to his Cabinet after Monsieur Genet rode
away?"
'I couldn't speak, I could only shake my head, and Boney--so impatient
he was to go on with his doings--he ran at me and fair pushed me out of
the room. And that was all there was to it.'
Pharaoh stood up and slid his fiddle into one of his big skirt pockets
as though it were a dead hare.
'Oh! but we want to know lots and lots more,' said Dan. 'How you got
home--and what old Maingon said on the barge--and wasn't your cousin
surprised when he had to give back the _Berthe Aurette_, and----'
'Tell us more about Toby!' cried Una.
'Yes, and Red Jacket,' said Dan.
'Won't you tell us any more?' they both pleaded.
Puck kicked the oak branch on the fire, till it sent up a column of
smoke that made them sneeze. When they had finished the Shaw was empty
except for old Hobden stamping through the larches.
'They gipsies have took two,' he said: 'my black pullet and my liddle
gingy-speckled cockrel.'
'I thought so,' said Dan, picking up one tail-feather the old woman had
overlooked.
'Which way did they go? Which way did the runagates go?' said Hobden.
'Hobby!' said Una. 'Would you like it if we told Keeper Ridley all your
goings and comings?'
'POOR HONEST MEN'
Your jar of Virginny
Will cost you a guinea,
Which you reckon too much by five shillings or ten;
But light your churchwarden
And judge it according
When I've told you the troubles of poor honest men.
From the Capes of the Delaware,
As you are well aware,
We sail with tobacco for England--but then
Our own British cruisers,
They watch us come through, sirs,
And they press half a score of us poor honest men.
Or if by quick sailing
(Thick weather prevailing)
We leave them behind (as we do now and then)
We are sure of a gun from
Each frigate we run from,
Which is often destruction to poor honest men!
Broadsides the Atlantic
We tumble short-handed,
With shot-holes to plug and new canvas to bend,
And off the Azores,
Dutch, Dons and Monsieurs
Are waiting to terrify poor honest men!
Napoleon's embargo
Is laid on all cargo
Which comfort or aid to King George may intend;
And since roll, twist and leaf,
Of all comforts is chief,
They try for to steal it from poor honest men!
With no heart for fight,
We take refuge in flight,
But fire as we run, our retreat to defend,
Until our stern-chasers
Cut up her fore-braces,
And she flies off the wind from us poor honest men!
Twix' the Forties and Fifties,
South-eastward the drift is,
And so, when we think we are making Land's End,
Alas, it is Ushant
With half the King's Navy,
Blockading French ports against poor honest men!
But they may not quit station
(Which is our salvation),
So swiftly we stand to the Nor'ard again;
And finding the tail of
A homeward-bound convoy,
We slip past the Scillies like poor honest men.
Twix' the Lizard and Dover,
We hand our stuff over,
Though I may not inform how we do it, nor when;
But a light on each quarter
Low down on the water
Is well understanded by poor honest men!
Even then we have dangers
From meddlesome strangers,
Who spy on our business and are not content
To take a smooth answer,
Except with a handspike ...
And they say they are murdered by poor honest men!
To be drowned or be shot
Is our natural lot,
Why should we, moreover, be hanged in the end--
After all our great pains
For to dangle in chains,
As though we were smugglers, not poor honest men?