Twenty-four hours must elapse before Kossuth and his companion--or
rather Captain Maynard and his servant--could set out on their perilous
expedition.
It was of rigorous necessity that a passport should be obtained--either
from the consular agent of France, or the British Foreign Office; and
for this purpose daylight would be needed--in other words, it could not
be had before the next day.
Kossuth chafed at the delay; and so, too, his new master--cursing, not
for the first time, the vile system of passports.
Little thought either, that this delay was a fortunate thing for them--a
circumstance to which they were perhaps indebted for the saving of their
lives!
Maynard preferred taking out the passport from the French consular
agency. This, on account of less trouble and greater despatch, the
British Foreign Office, in true red tape style, requiring the applicant
to be _known_! Several days are often consumed before John Bull, going
abroad, can coax his minister to grant him the scrap of paper necessary
to his protection!
He must be first endorsed, by a banker, clergyman, or some other of the
noted respectabilities of the land! John's master don't encourage
vagabondage.
The French passport agent is more accommodating. The meagre emolument
of his office makes the cash perquisite a consideration. For this
reason the service is readily rendered.
Maynard, however, did not obtain the document without some difficulty.
There was the question of his servant, who ought to have been there
along with him!
The flunkey must present himself in _propria persona_! in order that his
description should be correctly given upon the passport.
So said the French functionary in a tone of cold formality that seemed
to forbid expostulation!
Although Maynard knew, that by this time, the noble Magyar had
sacrificed his splendid beard, his fine face was too well-known about
London to escape recognition in the streets. Especially would it be in
danger of identification in the French consular office, King William
Street, either by the passport agent himself or the half-score of
lynx-eyed spies always hanging around it.
Kossuth's countenance could never be passed off for the visage of a
valet!
But Maynard thought of a way to get over the difficulty. It was
suggested by the seedy coat, and hungry look, of the French official.
"It will be very inconvenient," he said. "I live in the West End, full
five miles off. It's a long way to go, and merely to drag my servant
back with me. I'd give a couple of sovereigns to be spared the
trouble."
"I'm sorry," rejoined the agent, all at once becoming wonderfully civil
to the man who seemed to care so little for a couple of sovereigns.
"It's the regulation, as monsieur must know. But--if monsieur--"
The man paused, permitting the "but" to have effect.
"You would greatly oblige by saving me the necessity--"
"Could monsieur give an exact description of his servant?"
"From head to foot."
"_Tres bien_! Perhaps that will be sufficient." Without farther
parley, a word-painting of the ex-dictator of Hungary was done upon
stamped paper.
It was a full-length portrait, giving his height, age, the hue of his
hair, the colour of his skin, and the capacity in which he was to serve.
From the written description, not a bad sort of body-servant should be
"James Dawkins."
[This is an actual fact. I still have in my possession the passport.
E.R.]
"Exceedingly obliged, monsieur!" said Maynard, receiving the sheet from
the agent, at the same time slipping into the hand that gave it a couple
of shining sovereigns. Then adding, "Your politeness has saved me a
world of trouble," he hastened out of the office, leaving the Frenchman
in a state of satisfied surprise with a grimace upon his countenance
that only a true son of Gaul can give.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Early in the afternoon of that same day, master and man were quite ready
to start.
The portmanteaus were packed, their travelling gear arranged, and
tickets had been secured for the night mail, via Dover and Calais.
They only waited for the hour of its departure from London.
It was a singular conclave--that assembled in one of the rooms of
Kossuth's residence in Saint John's Wood.
It consisted of eight individuals; every one of whom bore a title either
hereditary or honourably acquired.
All were names well-known, most of them highly distinguished. Two were
counts of Hungary, of its noblest blood--one a baron of the same
kingdom; while three were general officers, each of whom had commanded a
_corps d'armee_.
The seventh, and lowest in rank, was a simple captain--Maynard himself.
And the eighth--who was he?
A man dressed in the costume of a valet, holding in his hand a cockaded
hat, as if about to take departure from the place.
It was curious to observe the others as they sate or stood around this
semblance of a lacquey; counts, barons, and generals, all like him, hats
in hand; not like him intending departure. They were only uncovered out
of respect!
They talked with him in a tone not obsequious, though still in the way
one speaks to a superior; while his answers were received with a
deference that spoke of the truest esteem!
If there ever was proof of a man's greatness, it is when his associates
in prosperity honour him alike in the hour of his adversity.
And such was the case with the ex-dictator of Hungary, for it is scarce
necessary to say that the disguised valet was Kossuth.
Even in those dark dreary hours of his exile, when his cause seemed
hopeless, and the cold world frowned scornfully upon him, he might be
seen surrounded, not by a circle of needy sycophants, but the noblest
blood of Hungary, all deferent, all with hats in hand, honouring him as
in that hour when the destinies of their beloved country, as their own,
were swayed by his will!
The writer of this tale has witnessed such a scene, and regards it as
the grandest triumph of mind over matter, of truth over charlatanism,
that ever came under his eyes.
The men now assembled around him were all in the secret of Kossuth's
design. They had heard of the insurrectionary rising at Milan. It was
the subject of their conversation; and most of them, like Kossuth
himself, were making ready to take part in the movement.
Most, too, like him, believed it to be an imprudent step on the part of
Mazzini--for it was Mazzini who was citing it. Some of them pronounced
it madness!
The night was a dark one, and favourable for taking departure. It
needed this; for they knew of the spies that were upon them.
But Maynard had taken precautions to elude the vigilance of these cur
dogs of despotism.
He had designed a _ruse_ that could not be otherwise than successful.
There were two sets of portmanteaus--one empty, to leave Kossuth's house
in the cab that carried the captain and his servant. This was to draw
up at the north entrance of the Burlington Arcade, and remain there
until its hirers should return from some errand to the shops of that
fashionable promenade.
At the Piccadilly entrance another hansom would be found, holding the
real luggage of the travellers, which had been transported the night
before to the residence of the soldier-author.
They would be sharp detectives whom this scheme would not outwit.
Cunning as it was, it was never carried out. Thank God it was not!
From what became known afterward, both Kossuth and Captain Maynard might
well repeat the thanksgiving speech.
Had they succeeded in running the gauntlet of the English spies, it
would have been but a baneful triumph. In less than twenty hours after,
they would have been both inside a French prison--Kossuth to be
transferred to a more dangerous dungeon in Austria; his pretended
master, perhaps, to pine long in his cell, before the flag of his
country would be again extended for his extradition.
They did not enter upon the attempt; not even so far as getting into the
cab that stood waiting at Kossuth's gate. Before this preliminary step
was taken, a man rushing into the house prevented their leaving it.