Time was--and that not "long, long ago"--when the arrival of a European
steamer at New York was an event, as was also the departure. There were
only "Cunarders" that came and went once a fortnight; at a later period
making the trip hebdomadally.
Any one who has crossed the Atlantic by the Cunard steamers need not be
told that, in New York, their point of landing and leaving is upon the
Jersey shore.
In the days when such things were "sensations," a crowd used to collect
at the Cunard wharf, attracted thither by the presence of the vast
leviathan.
Now and then were occasions when the motive was different or rather the
attraction--when, instead of the steamer, it was some distinguished
individual aboard of her: prince, patriot, singer, or courtesan. Gay,
unreflecting Gotham stays not to make distinction, honouring all kinds
of notoriety alike; or at all events giving them an equal distribution
of its curiosity.
One of these occasions was peculiar. It was a departure; the boat being
the _Cambria_, one of the slowest, at the same time most comfortable,
steamers on the "line."
She has been long since withdrawn from it; her keel, if I mistake not,
now ploughing the more tranquil waters of the Indian Ocean.
And her captain, the brave, amiable Shannon! He, too, has been
transferred to another service, where the cares of steam navigation and
the storms of the Atlantic shall vex him no more.
He is not forgotten. Reading these words, many hearts will be stirred
up to remember him--true hearts--still beating in New York, still
holding in record that crowd on the Jersey shore alongside the departing
steamer.
Though assembled upon American soil, but few of the individuals
composing it were American. The physiognomy was European, chiefly of
the Teutonic type, though with an intermingling of the Latinic.
Alongside the North German, with light-coloured skin and huge tawny
moustache, stood his darker cousin of the Danube; and beside both the
still swarthier son of Italy, with gleaming dark eyes, and thick
_chevelure_ of shining black. Here could be noted, too, a large
admixture of Frenchmen, some of them still wearing the blouse brought
over from their native land; most of them of that brave _ouvrier_ class,
who but the year before, and two years after, might have been seen
resolutely defending the barricades of Paris.
Only here and there could be distinguished an American face, or a word
spoken in the English language--the speaker being only a spectator who
had chanced upon the spot.
The main body of the assemblage was composed of other elements--men who
had come there out of motives quite apart from mere curiosity. There
were women, too--young girls with flaxen hair and deep blue eyes,
recalling their native Rhineland, with others of darker skin, but
equally pretty faces, from the country of Corinne.
Most of the cabin-passengers--there are no others in a Cunarder--had
ascended to the upper deck, as is usual at the departure of a steamer.
It was but a natural desire of all to witness the withdrawal of the
stage-plank--the severance of that last link binding them to a land they
were leaving with varied emotions.
Despite their private thoughts, whether of joy or sorrow, they could not
help scanning with curiosity that sea of faces spread out before them
upon the wharf.
Standing in family parties over the deck, or in rows leaning against the
rail, they interrogated one another as to the cause of the grand
gathering, as also the people who composed it.
It was evident to all that the crowd was not American; and equally so,
that not any of them were about to embark upon the steamer. There was
no appearance of baggage, though that might have been aboard. But most
of them were of a class not likely to be carried by a Cunarder.
Besides, there were no signs of leave-taking--no embracing or
hand-shaking, such as may be seen when friends are about to be separated
by the sea. For this they were on the wrong side of the Atlantic.
They stood in groups, close touching; the men smoking cigars, many of
them grand meerschaum pipes, talking gravely to one another, or more
jocosely to the girls--a crowd earnest, yet cheerful.
It was plain, too, the steamer was not their attraction. Most of them
faced from her, casting interrogative glances along the wharf, as if
looking for something expected to appear to them in this direction.
"Who are they?" was the question passed round among the passengers.
A gentleman who appeared specially informed--there is always one such in
an assemblage--vouchsafed the desired information.
"They're the refugees," he said. "French, Germans, Poles, and what not,
driven over here by the late revolutions in Europe."
"Are they going back again?" inquired one who wanted further
information.
"Some of them are, I believe," answered the first speaker. "Though not
by the steamer," he added. "The poor devils can't afford that."
"Then why are they here?"
"They have some leaders who are going. One of them, a man named
Maynard, who made some figure in the late Mexican war."
"Oh, Captain Maynard! But he's not one of them! He isn't a
_foreigner_."
"No. But the men he commanded in Mexico were, most of them! That's why
they have chosen him for their leader."
"Captain Maynard must be a fool," interposed a third speaker. "The
rising reported in Europe has no chance of success. He'll only get his
neck into a halter. Are there any Americans taking part in the
movement?"
He of supposed special information guessed not.
He guessed correctly, though it was a truth not over creditable to his
country--which, by his speech, could be no other than the "States."
At that crisis, when _filibustering_ might have been of some service to
the cause of European freedom, the only American who volunteered for it
was Maynard; and he was an _American-Irishman_! Still, to this great
country--to a residence among its people, and a study of its free
institutions--was he indebted for the inspiration that had made him what
he was--a lover of Liberty.
Among those listening to the conversation was a group of three
individuals: a man of more than fifty years of age, a girl of less than
fourteen, and a woman whose summers and winters might number about
midway between.
The man was tall, with an aspect of the kind usually termed
aristocratic. It was not stern; but of that mild type verging upon the
venerable--an expression strengthened by hair nearly white, seen under
the selvedge of his travelling-cap.
The girl was an interesting creature. She was still but a mere child
and wearing the dress of one--a gown sleeveless, and with short skirt--
the hair hanging loose over her shoulders.
But under the skirt were limbs of a _tournure_ that told of approaching
puberty; while her profuse locks, precious on account of their rich
colour, appeared to call for pins and a comb.
Despite the difficulty of comparing the features of a man of fifty and a
child of fourteen, there was enough resemblance between these two to
give the idea of father and daughter. It was confirmed by the relative
position in which they stood; he holding her paternally by the hand.
Between them and the woman the relationship was of quite a different
nature, and needed only a glance to make it known. The buff complexion
of the latter, with the "white turban" upon her head, told her to be a
servant.
She stood a little behind them.
The man alone appeared to heed what was being said; the girl and servant
were more interested in the movements of the people upon the wharf.
The brief conversation ended, he approached the original speaker with
the half-whispered question:
"You say there are no Americans in this movement. Is Captain Maynard
not one?"
"I guess not," was the reply. "He's been in the American army; but I've
heard say he's Irish. Nothing against him for that."
"Of course not," answered the aristocratic-looking gentleman. "I merely
asked out of curiosity."
It must have been a strong curiosity that caused him, after retiring a
little, to take out his note-book, and enter in it a memorandum,
evidently referring to the revolutionary leader.
Furthermore, the information thus received appeared to have increased
his interest in the crowd below.
Dropping the hand of his daughter, and pressing forward to the rail, he
watched its evolutions with eagerness.
By this time the assemblage had warmed into a more feverish state of
excitement. Men were talking in a louder strain, with more rapid
gesticulations--some pulling out their watches, and looking impatiently
at the time. It was close upon twelve o'clock--the hour of the
steamer's starting. She had already sounded the signal to get aboard.
All at once the loud talk ceased, the gesticulation was suspended, and
the crowd stood silent, or spoke only in whispers. A spark of
intelligence had drifted mysteriously amongst them.
It was explained by a shout heard afar off, on the outer edge of the
assemblage.
"He is coming?"
The shout was taken up in a hundred repetitions, and carried on to the
centre of the mass, and still on to the steamer.
It was succeeded by a grand huzza, and the cries: "_Nieder mit dem
tyrannen_!" "A bas les tyrants! Vive la Republique!"
Who was coming? Whose advent had drawn forth that heart-inspiring
hail--had elicited those sentiments of patriotism simultaneously spoken
in almost every language of Europe?
A carriage came forward upon the wharf. It was only a common street
hack that had crossed in the ferryboat. But men gave way for it with as
much alacrity as if it had been a grand gilded chariot carrying a king!
And those men far more. Ten, twenty times quicker, and a thousand times
more cheerfully, did they spring out of its way. Had there been a king
inside it, there would have been none to cry, "God bless His Majesty!"
and few to have said, "God help him!"
A king in that carriage would have stood but slight chance of reaching
the steamer in safety.
There were two inside it--a man of nigh thirty, and one of maturer age.
They were Maynard and Roseveldt.
It was upon the former all eyes were fixed, towards whom all hearts were
inclining. It was his approach had called forth that cry: "He is
coming?"
And now that he had come, a shout was sent from the Jersey shore, that
echoed along the hills of Hoboken, and was heard in the streets of the
great Empire City.
Why this wonderful enthusiasm for one who belonged neither to their race
nor their country? On the contrary, he was sprung from a people to them
banefully hostile!
It had not much to do with the man. Only that he was the representative
of a principle--a cause for which most of them had fought and bled, and
many intended fighting, and, if need be, bleeding again. He was their
chosen chief, advancing toward the van, flinging himself forward into
the post of peril--for man's and liberty's sake, risking the chain and
the halter. For this was he the recipient of such honours.
The carriage, slowly working its way through the thick crowd, was almost
lifted from its wheels. In their enthusiastic excitement those who
surrounded it looked as if they would have raised it on their shoulders
and carried it, horses included, up the staging of the steamer.
They did this much for Maynard. Strong-bearded men threw their arms
around him, kissing him as if he had been a beautiful girl, while
beautiful girls clasped him by the hand, or with their kerchiefs waved
him an affectionate farewell.
A colossus, lifting him from his feet, transported him to the deck of
the steamer, amidst the cheers of the assembled multitude.
And amidst its cheers, still continued, the steamer swung out from the
wharf.
"It is worth while to be true to the people," said Maynard, his breast
glowing with proud triumph, as he heard his name rise above the parting
hurrah.
He repeated the words as the boat passed the Battery, and he saw the
German Artillery Corps--those brave scientific soldiers who had done so
much for their adopted land--drawn up on the esplanade of Castle Garden.
And once again, as he listened to their farewell salvo, drowning the
distant cheers sent after him across the widening water.