“Are ye getting weak?” said Darby, as I staggered heavily against him,
and gasped twice or thrice for breath. “Are ye bleeding still?” was his
next question, while he passed his hand gently within the sash, and felt
my wound. I endeavored to mutter something in reply, to which he paid
no attention; but stooping down, he threw me across his shoulder,
and darting off at a more rapid pace than before, he left the more
frequented thoroughfare, and entered a narrow and gloomy alley,
unlighted by a single lamp. As he hurried onward, he stopped more than
once, as if in quest of some particular spot, but which in the darkness
he was unable to detect.
“Oh, Holy Mother!” he muttered, “the blood is soaking through me! Master
Tom, dear! Master Tom, my darlin' speak to me,--speak to me, acushla!”
But though I heard each word distinctly, I could not utter one; a dreamy
stupor was over me, and I only wished to be left quiet. “This must be
it; ay, here it is,” said Darby, as he laid me gently down on the stone
sill of the door, and knocked loudly with his knuckles.
The summons, though repeated three or four times, was unheeded; and
although he knocked loudly enough to have alarmed the neighborhood, and
called out at the top of his voice, no one came; and the only sounds we
could hear were the distant cadences of a drinking song, mingled with
wild shouts of laughter, and still wilder cries of agony and woe.
“Here they are, at last!” said Darby, as he almost staved in the door
with a heavy stone.
“Who's there?” cried a harsh and feeble voice from within.
“'Tis me, Molly; 'tis Darby M'Keown, Open quick, for the love of Heaven!
here 's a young gentleman bleedin' to death on the steps.”
“Ugh! there 's as good as ever he was, and going as fast, too, here
within,” said the crone. “Ye must take him away; he would n't mind him
now for a king's ransom.”
“I 'll break open the door this minit,” said Darby, with a horrible
oath, “av ye don't open it.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the hag. “If ye wor Darby M'Keown, ye 'd know well
how easy that is. Try it,--try it, acushla! oak timber and nails is
able to bear all you'll do!”
“See now,” said Darby, dropping his voice to a whisper; “see, Molly,
here 's five goold guineas for ye, av ye 'll let us in. 'T is a man's
life 's on it, and one I 'd give my own for twice over.”
“Av ye offered me forty,” replied she, “I dar'n't do it. Ye don't know
the sorrow that 's here this night; 't is Dan Fortescue is going. I 'm
coming, I 'm coming!” muttered she to some call from within. And then,
without waiting to hear more, she shuffled back along the passage, and
left us once more alone.
“There's nothing for it but this now,” said Darby, as, retiring a few
paces, he dashed his shoulder against the door with all his force; but
though a powerful man, and though every window rattled and trembled with
the tremendous shock, the strong panels withstood the stroke, and never
yielded in the least. “'T is no use firing through the lock,” said he,
in a tone of despair. “Blessed Joseph! what 's to be done?”
As he spoke, the light tread of a barefooted child was heard coming up
the lane, and the same moment a little girl approached the door. She
carried a cup in her hand, and held it carefully, as if fearful of
spilling its contents. As she neared the door, she seemed uncertain how
to proceed, and at last, as if gaining courage, tapped twice at it with
her knuckles.
“Don't ye know me, Nora?” said Darby; “don't ye know Darby the Blast?”
“Ah, Mister M'Keown, is this you? Ah, I'm afeard it 's little use there
is in coming here to-night; Mr. Fortescue's dying within, and Doctor
Kenagh can't leave him, I 'm bringing him this to take, but--”
“Nora, dear,” said Darby, “I 've a secret for Mr. Fortescue, and must
see him before he dies. Here 's a crown, my darlin', and don't tell any
one I gave it to ye.” Here he stooped down, and whispered rapidly some
words in her ear.
“Who 's there?” broke in the hag 's voice from within. “'T is me; Nora,”
said the child, boldly. “Are ye alone, there? do ye see any one about
the door?”
“Sorra one. Can't you let me in out of the cowld?” “Come in quick,
then,” said the crone, as she opened the door carefully, and only wide
enough to let the child pass; but the same instant Darby dashed forward
his foot, and flinging the door full wide, seized me by the collar, and
dragged me in after him, closing the door at once behind him.
The screams of the hag, though loud and vehement, were as unheeded as
were Darby's own efforts to attract notice half an hour before.
“Be quiet, I say; hush yer crying, or be the sowl o' the man that 's
dyin' I 'll dhrive a ball through ye.” The sight of a pistol barrel
seemed at last to have its effect, and she contented herself with a low
wailing kind of noise, as she tottered after us along the passage.
The cold air of the street and the rest combined had given me strength,
and I was able to follow Darby as he led the way through many a passage
and up more than one stair.
“Here it is,” said the child, in a whisper, as she stopped at the door
of a room which lay half ajar.
We halted in silence, and listened to the breathings of a man whose
short, sobbing respiration, broken by hiccup, denoted the near approach
of death.
“Go on,” cried a deep, low voice, in a tone of eagerness; “ye 'll not
have the cough now for some time.”
The sick man made no reply, but his hurried breathing seemed to show
that he was making some unwonted effort.
At last he spoke, but in a voice so faint and husky, we could not
hear the words. The other, however, appeared to listen, and by a stray
monosyllable, dropped at intervals, to follow the tenor of his speech.
At last the sound ceased, and all was still.
“Go in now,” said Darby, in a whisper, to the child; “I 'll follow you.”
The little girl gently pushed the door and entered, followed by M'Keown,
who, however, only advanced one foot within the room, as if doubting
what reception he should meet with.
By the uncertain light of a wood fire, which threw in fitful flashes
its glare around, I perceived that a sick man lay on a mean-looking,
miserable bed in one corner of a dark room; beside him, seated on a low
stool, sat another, his head bent down to catch the low breathings which
the dying man gave forth from time to time. The heavy snoring sound of
others asleep directed my eyes to a distant part of the chamber, where I
saw three fellows lying on the floor, partly covered by a blanket. I
had barely time to see this much, when the figure beside the bed sprang
forward, and in a low but menacing tone, addressed M'Keown.
The last words only could I catch, as he said, “And if he wakes up, he
may know you still.”
“And if he does,” said Darby, doggedly, “who cares? Isn't there as good
blood as his shed for the cause? Look here!”
He dragged me forward as he spoke, and, tearing open my coat, pointed to
the sash that was now saturated with the blood that flowed at every stir
from my wound. The other looked fixedly at me for a second or two, took
my hand within his, and letting it fall heavily, he whispered a word to
M'Keown, and turned away.
“No, no!” cried Darby, violently. “By the holy Mass! ye 'll not trate
me that way. Sit down, Master Tom,” said he, as he forced me into an
old armchair beside the fire. “Here, take a drink of water. Come here,
doctor; come here, now; stop the bleeding. Stand by me this wonst, and
by this--”
Here he crossed his fingers before him, and looked fervently upwards.
But at this instant the sick man sprang up in his bed, and looked wildly
about him.
“Isn't that Darby? isn't that M'Keown there?” cried he, as he pointed
with his finger. “Darby,” he continued, in a low, clear whisper, “Darby,
see here, my boy. You often said I 'd do nothing for the cause. Is this
nothing?” He threw back the bedclothes, as he spoke, and disclosed a
ghastly wound that divided his chest, exposing the cartilage of the
ribs, which stood out amid the welling blood that oozed forth with every
respiration he made. “Is it nothing that I gave up rank, and place, and
fortune; the broad acres that were in my family for three centuries; all
my hopes, all my prospects--”
“And if you did,” interrupted M'Keown, hastily, “you knew what for.”
“I knew what for!” repeated the sick man, as a deadly smile played upon
his livid face and curled his white lip. “I know it now, at least. To
leave my inheritance to a bastard; to brand my name with disgrace and
dishonor; to go down to the grave a traitor; and, worse still--”
He shuddered violently here, and though his mouth moved, no sound came
forth; he sank back, worn out and exhausted.
“Was he there,” said Darby to the doctor, with a significant emphasis on
the word,--“was he there to-night?”
“He was,” replied the other. “He thinks, too, he fired the shot that did
it; but, poor fellow! he was down before that. The boys brought him off.
That child is going fast,” continued he, as his eye fell upon me.
“Look to him, then, and don't be losin' time,” said Darby, fiercely.
“Look to him,” he added more mildly, and “the Heavens will bless
ye! Here 's twenty goolden guineas,--it's all I've saved these eight
years,--here they 're for you, and save his life.”
The old man knelt down beside me, and slipping a scissors within the
scarf that lay fastened to my side with clotted blood, he proceeded to
open and expose the situation of my wound. A cold, sick feeling, a kind
of half-fainting sensation, followed this, and I could hear nothing of
the dialogue that passed so near me. An occasional sting of pain shot
through me as the dressing proceeded; but save this, I had little
consciousness of anything.
At length, like one awakening from a heavy slumber, with faculties
half clouded by the dreamy past, I looked around me. All was still and
motionless in the room. The doctor sat beside the sick man's bed; and
Darby, his eyes riveted on me, knelt close to my chair, and held his
hand upon the bandage over my wound.
A gentle tap here came to the door, and the child I had seen before
entered noiselessly, and approaching the doctor, said, “the car is come,
sir.”
The old man nodded in silence, and then, turning towards Darby, he
whispered something in his ear. M'Keown sprang to his legs at once, his
cheek flushed deeply, and his eyes sparkled with animation.
“I have it! I have it!” cried he, “There never was such luck for us
before.”
With that he drew the old man to one side, and speaking to him in a
low but rapid tone, evinced by the violence of his gestures and the
tremulous eagerness of his voice how deeply he was interested.
“True enough, true enough,” said the old man, after a pause. “Poor Dan
has but one more journey before him.”
“Is he able to bear it, doctor?” said Darby, pointing towards me with
his finger; “that's all I ask. Has he the strength in him?”
“He'll do now,” replied the other, gruffly; “there's little harm done
him this time. Let him taste that whenever you find him growing weak;
and keep his head low, and there 's no fear of him.”
As he spoke, he took from a cupboard in the wall a small phial, which
he handed to M'Keown, who received the precious elixir with as much
reverence as though it contained the very wellspring of human existence.
“And now,” said Darby, “the less time lost now the better; it will soon
be daylight on us. Master Tom, can you rise, acushla? are you able to
stand up?”
I made the effort as well as I could, but my limbs seemed chained down,
and even my arm felt like lead beside me.
“Take him on your back,” said the old man, hurriedly; “you 'll stay here
till sunrise. Take him downstairs, on your back, and when you have him
in the open air, turn him towards the wind, and keep his head low,--mind
that.”
I made another attempt to stand up; but before I could effect it,
Darby's strong arms were round my waist, and I felt myself lifted on his
shoulder and borne from the room, A muttered good-by passed between
the others, and Darby began to descend the stairs cautiously, while the
little child went before with a candle. As the street door was opened, I
could perceive that a car and horse stood in waiting, accompanied by two
men, who, the moment they saw me, sprang forward to Darby's assistance,
and helped to place me on the car. M'Keown was soon beside me, and
supporting my head upon his shoulder, he contrived to hold me in a
leaning position, giving me at the same time the full benefit of the
cool breeze, which already refreshed and restored me.
The vehicle now moved on in darkness and in silence. At first our pace
was slow, but it gradually quickened as we passed along the quay; for as
such I recognized it by the dull sound of the river near us. The bright
lamps of the greater thoroughfares soon made their appearance; and as
we traversed these, I could mark that our pace slackened to a walk,
and that we kept the very middle of the wide street, as if to avoid
observation. Gradually we emerged from this, and, as I heard by the roll
of the wheels, reached the outskirts of the town. We had not been many
minutes there when the horse was put to his speed, and the car whirled
along at a tremendous rate. Excepting a sense of weight and stiffness
in the side, I had no painful feeling from my wound; while the rapidity
with which we passed through the air imparted a sensation of drowsiness
far from unpleasant.
In this state I scarcely was conscious of what passed about me. Now and
then some occasional halt, some chance interruption, would momentarily
arouse me, and I could faintly hear the sound of voices; but of what
they spoke I knew nothing. Darby frequently questioned me, but my utmost
effort at reply was to press his hand. By times it would seem to me as
though all I felt were but the fancies of some sick dream, which the
morning should dispel and scatter. Then I thought that we were flying
from an enemy, who pressed hotly on us, and gained at every stride;
a vague, shadowy sense of some horrible event mingling with all, and
weighing heavily on my heart.
As the time wore on, my senses became clearer, and I saw that we were
travelling along the seaside. The faint gray light of breaking day
shed a cold gleam across the green water, which plashed with a mournful
cadence on the low, flat shore. I watched the waves as they beat with a
heavy sough amid the scattered weeds, where the wild cry of the curlew
mingled with the sound as he skimmed along the gloomy water, and my
heart grew heavier. There is something--I know not what--terribly in
unison with our saddest thoughts, in the dull plash of the sea at night:
the loudest thunders of the storm, when white-crested waves rise
high and break in ten thousand eddies on the dark rocks, are not so
suggestive of melancholy as the sighing moan of the midnight tide.
Long-buried griefs, long-forgotten sorrows, rise up as we listen; and
we feel as though that wailing cry were the funeral chant over cherished
hopes and treasured aspirations.
From my dark musings I was roused suddenly by Darby's voice, asking of
the men who sat at the opposite side how the wind was.
“Westing by south,” replied one; “as fair as need be, if there was
enough of it. But who knows, we may have a capful yet, when the sun gets
up.”
“We 'll not have long to wait for that,” cried the other; “see there!”
I lifted my eyes as he spoke, and beheld the pink stain of coming day
rising above the top of a large mountain.
“That's Howth,” said Darby, seizing with eagerness the proof of my
returning senses.
“Come, press on as fast as you can,” said one of the men; “we must catch
the ebb, or we'll never do it.”
“Where does she lie?” said Darby, in a low whisper.
“Under the cliffs, in Bolskaton Bay,” said the last speaker, whom I now
perceived by his dress and language to be a sailor.
My curiosity was now excited to the utmost to know whither we were
bound; and with an effort I articulated the one word, “Where?”
Darby's eyes brightened as I spoke; he pressed my hand firmly within
his, but made no reply. Attributing his silence to caution, I pressed
him no further; and indeed, already my former indifference came back on
me, and I felt listless as before.
“Turn off there to the right,” cried the sailor to the driver. And
suddenly we left the highroad, and entered a narrow byway, which seemed
to lead along the side of the mountain close to the water's edge. Before
we had proceeded far in this direction, a long, low whistle was heard
from a distance.
“Stop there, stop!” said the sailor, as he knelt upon the car, and
replied to the signal. “Ay, all right; there they are,” said he, as,
pointing to a little creek between the rocks below us, we saw a small
rowboat with six men lying on their oars.
“Can't he walk?” said the sailor, in a half whisper, as he stood beside
the car. “Well, let 's lose no more time; we 'll take him down between
us.”
“No, no,” said Darby; “put him on my back; I 'll do it myself.”
“The ground's slippier than you take it,” said the other; “my way 's the
safest.”
With that he lifted me from the car, and placing me between Darby and
himself, they grasped each other's hands beneath me, and soon began a
descent which I saw would have been perfectly impracticable for one man
to have accomplished with another on his back.
During the time, my desire to know where they were bringing me again
grew stronger than ever; and as I turned to ask Darby, I perceived that
the tears were coursing each other fast down his weatherbeaten cheeks,
while his lips shook and trembled like one in an ague.
“Mind your footing there, my man, I say,” cried the sailor, “or you'll
have us over the cliff.”
“Round the rock to the left there,” cried a voice from below. “That's
it, that's it; now you're all right. Steady there; give me your hand.”
As he spoke, two men advanced from the boat, and assisted us down
the sloping beach, where the wet seaweed made every step a matter of
difficulty.
“Lay him in the stern there; gently, lads, gently,” said the voice of
one who appeared the chief amongst them. “That's it; throw those jackets
under his head. I say, piper, ar'n't you coming with us?”
But Darby could not speak one word. A livid pallor was over his
features, and the tears fell, drop by drop, upon his cheek.
“Master Tom,” said he, at length, as his lips almost touched me, “my
child, my heart's blood, you won't forget poor Darby. Ye 'll be a great
man yet; ye 'll be all I wish ye. But will you remember a poor man like
me?”
“Jump ashore there, my good fellow,” cried the coxswain; “we'll have
enough to do to round the point before the tide ebbs.”
“One minit more, and God love ye for it,” said Darby, in a voice of
imploring accent. “Who knows will we ever meet again; 't is the last
time, maybe, I 'll ever look on him.”
I could but press his hand to my heart; for my agitation increased the
debility I felt, and every effort to speak was in vain.
“One half minit more,--if it 's only that he 'll be able to say, 'God
bless you, Darby!' and I 'll be happy.”
“Push off, my lads!” shouted the sailor, sternly; and as he spoke the
oars plashed heavily in the sea, and the boat rocked over with the
impulse. Twice the strong stroke of the oars sent the craft through
the clear water, when the piper clasped his arm wildly around me, and
kissing me on the cheek, he sprang over the side. The waves were nearly
to his shoulders; but in a few seconds he had buffeted through them, and
stood upon the shore.
With a last effort I waved my hand in adieu; and as I sank back
exhausted, I heard a wild cry burst from him, half in triumph, half in
despair. One glance more I caught of his figure as we stood out to sea;
he was kneeling on the beach, bareheaded, and as if in prayer. The tears
gushed from my eyes as I beheld him, and the long pent up sorrow at last
broke forth, and I sobbed like a child.
“Come, come, my lad! don't feel downhearted,” said the sailor, laying
his hand on my shoulder; “the world can scarce have been over rough
to one so young as you are. Lift up your head, and see what a glorious
morning we 've got! And there comes the breeze over the water. We hadn't
such weather the last time we made this trip, I assure you.”
I looked up suddenly; and truly never did such a scene of loveliness
meet my eyes. The sun had risen in all his glorious brilliancy, and
poured a flood of golden light across the bay, tipping with a violet hue
the far-off peaks of the Wicklow mountains, and lighting up the wooded
valleys at their feet. Close above us rose the rugged sides of Howth in
dark shadow; the frowning rocks and gloomy caverns contrasting with the
glittering tints of the opposite coast, where every cottage and cliff
sparkled in the dancing sunlight.
As we rounded the point, a cheer broke from the men, and was answered at
once. I turned my head, and saw beneath the tall cliffs the taper spars
of a small vessel, from which the sails hung listlessly, half brailed to
the mast.
“There she lies,” said the skipper. “That 's the 'Saucy Sal,' my master;
and if you're any judge of a craft, I think you 'll like her. Give way,
lads,--give way; when that rock yonder 's covered, the tide is at the
flood.”
The boat sprang to the strong jerk of their brawny arms, and in a
few minutes glided into the little creek where the “Saucy Sal” lay at
anchor.
Lifting me up, they placed me on board the little vessel; while, without
losing a moment, they proceeded to ship the anchor and shake out the
canvas. In less than five minutes the white sails bent to the breeze,
the water rustled at the prow, and we stood out to sea.
“Where to?” said I, in a faint whisper, to the sailor who held the
tiller beside me.
“Down Channel, sir.”
“And then?” asked I once more,--“and then?”
“That must depend on the revenue cruisers, I believe,” said he, more
gruffly, and evidently indisposed to further questioning.
Alas! I had too little interest in life to care for where, and laying my
head upon my arm, fell into a heavy stupor for several hours.
The hot sun, the breeze, the unaccustomed motion, and worse than all,
the copious libations of brandy and water I was forced from time to
time to take, gradually brought on fever; and before evening, a burning
thirst and throbbing headache seized me, and my senses, that hitherto
had been but lethargic, became painfully acute, and my reason began to
wander. In this state I remained for days, totally unconscious of the
flight of time; frightful images of the past pursuing each other through
my heated brain, and torturing me with horrors unspeakable.
It was in one of my violent paroxysms I tore the bandage from my side,
and reopening my half-healed wound, became in a moment deluged with
blood. I have no memory of aught that followed; the debility of almost
death itself succeeded, and I lay without sense or motion. To this
circumstance I owed my life, for when I next rallied the fever had left
me, my senses were unclouded, my cheek no longer burned, nor did my
temples throb; and as the sea breeze played across my face, I drank it
in with ecstasy, and felt once more the glorious sensations of returning
health.
It was evening; the faint wind that follows sunset scarce filled the
sails as we glided along through the waveless sea. I had been listening
to the low, monotonous song of one of the sailors as he sat mending a
sail beside me, when suddenly I heard a voice hail us from the water.
The skipper jumped on the halfdeck, and immediately replied. The words
I could not hear, but by the stir and movement about me I saw something
unusual had occurred, and by an effort I raised my head above the
bulwark and looked about me. A long, low craft lay close alongside us,
filled with men, whose blue caps and striped shirts struck me as strange
and uncommon, not less than their black belts and cutlasses, with which
every man was armed. After an interchange of friendly greetings with our
crew,--for such they seemed, although I could not catch the words,--she
moved rapidly past us.
“There's their flotilla, sir,” said the helmsman, as he watched my eye
while it wandered over the water.
I crept up higher, and followed the direction of his finger. Never shall
I forget that moment. Before me, scarce as it seemed a mile distant,
lay a thousand boats at anchor, beneath the shadow of tall sandhills,
decorated with gay and gaudy pennons, crowded with figures whose bright
colors and glittering arms shone gorgeously in the setting sunlight. The
bright waves reflected the myriad tints, while they seemed to plash in
unison with the rich swell of martial music that stole along the water
with every freshening breeze. The shore was covered with tents, some of
them surmounted with large banners that floated out gayly to the breeze;
and far as the eye could reach were hosts of armed men dotted over
the wide plain beside the sea. Vast columns of infantry were there,--
cavalry and artillery, too,--their bright arms glittering, and their
gay plumes waving, but all still and motionless, as if spellbound. As I
looked, I could see horsemen gallop from the dense squares, and riding
hurriedly to and fro. Suddenly a blue rocket shot into the calm sky, and
broke in a million glittering fragments over the camp; the deep roar of
a cannon boomed out; and then the music of a thousand bands swelled high
and full, and in an instant the whole plain was in motion, and the turf
trembled beneath the tramp of marching men. Regiment followed regiment,
squadron poured after squadron, as they descended the paths towards the
beach; while a long, dark line wound through the glittering mass, and
marked the train of the artillery, as with caissons and ammunition
wagons they moved silently over the grassy surface.
All that I had ever conceived of warlike preparation was as nothing to
the gorgeous spectacle before me. The stillness of the evening air, made
tremulous with the clang of trumpets and the hoarse roar of drums;
the mirror-like sea, colored with the reflection of bright banners and
waving pennants; and then the simultaneous step of the mighty army,--so
filled up every sense that I feared lest all might prove the mere
pageant of a dream, and vanish as it came.
“What a glorious sight!” cried I, at length, half wild with enthusiasm.
“Where are we?”
“Where are we?” repeated the skipper, smiling. “Look out, and you 'll
soon guess that. Are those very like the uniforms of King George? When
did you see steel breastplates and helmets before? This is France, my
lad!”
“France! France!” said I, stupefied with the mere thought.
“Yes, to be sure. That 's the Army of England, as they call it, you see
yonder; they are practising the embarkation. See the red rockets! There
they go,--three, four, five, six,--that's the signal. In less than half
an hour thirty thousand men will be ready to embark. Mark how they press
on faster and faster! and watch the cavalry, as they dismount and lead
their horses down the steep! See how the boats pull in shore! But, hallo
there! we shall get foul of the gunboats,--already we 've run in too
close. Down helm, my lad; keep the headland yonder on your lee.”
As he spoke, the light craft bent over to the breeze, and skipped freely
over the blue water. Each moment wafted us farther away from the bright
scene, and soon a projecting point shut out the whole, save the swell of
the brass bands as it floated on the breeze, and I might have believed
it a mere delusion.
“They practise that manoeuvre often enough to know it well,” said the
skipper, “sometimes at daybreak, now at noonday, and again, as we see,
at sunset; and no one knows at what moment the attack that seems a feint
may not turn out to be real. But here we are now alongside; our voyage
is ended.”
The anchor plashed from our bow, while a signal was made from the shore
and answered by us; and in an instant we were surrounded with boats.
“Ha, Antoine!” cried a sous-officier in a naval uniform, who sat on the
gunwale of a long eight-oar gig, and touched his hat in recognition of
our skipper; “what news _outre mer_? what are we doing in Ireland?”
“My young friend here must tell you that,” replied the skipper,
laughingly, as he laid his hand on my shoulder. “Let me present him to
you: Mr. Burke,--Lieutenant Brevix.”
The lieutenant saluted me politely; and then, springing up, he jumped
gayly on board of us, and shook our hands with great appearance of
cordiality.
“They 'll want to see you ashore, Antoine, as soon as may be; there are
despatches going off to-night for Paris, and they 'll be glad to send
the last accounts of the state of the Channel.”
“Light winds and no cruisers are all I have to tell them, then,” said
the skipper.
The lieutenant now took him aside, and they conversed for some time in
a low tone, during which I occupied myself by watching the sentinels who
paraded incessantly to and fro along a low wooden pier that stretched
out into the sea, and formed, with a promontory at some distance, a
small harbor. Their watch seemed of the most vigilant, if I might judge
from the low but continued cry which passed from mouth to mouth of
“Sentinelle, prenez garde a vous;” while from each boat across the
harbor a sing-song note chanted in response the monotonous sounds, “Bon
quart!” as each quarter of an hour stole past.
These precautions against the approach of any strange craft extended, as
I afterwards learned, along the entire coast from Dieppe to Ostend; yet
were they not sufficient to prevent frequent visits from the English
spies, who penetrated into every quarter of the camp, and even had the
hardihood to visit the theatre of the town, and express loudly their
disapprobation of the performance.
“You 'd better come ashore with me, sir,” said the lieutenant; “Colonel
Dorsenne will be glad to ask you some questions. What papers have you
got?”
“None, save a few private letters,” said I, somewhat confused at the
question.
“No matter,” said he, gayly. “I hear from Antoine you wish to join the
service here. That wish is your best recommendation to the colonel; he
'll not trouble you for reasons, I warrant you. Conduct monsieur to
the quartier-général,” said the lieutenant to a corporal, who, with his
party of four men, stood awaiting at the landing-place the arrival of
any one from the boats; and in an instant, the men falling to each side
of me, took their way along the pier.
I could mark as we went that more than once their looks were bent on me
with an expression of compassion and pity, which at the time I was at a
loss to explain. I knew not then that the road we were taking was
that which so often led to death; and that it was only on the very day
before, two Englishmen were shot for having ventured on shore without
authority.
The consigne of the corporal passed us through one post after another,
until we reached the open plain, over which now the night was falling
fast. A lantern at some distance off marked the quarters of the officer
on duty; and thither we directed our steps, and at last reached a small
wooden hut, from within which the sounds of mirth and revelry proceeded.
The voice of the sentinel who challenged us brought an officer to the
door, who the moment his eyes fell on me stepped back, and passing his
hand hurriedly across his forehead muttered, half inaudibly, “Another
already!”
While he retired into an inner apartment, I had time to look at the
singular decorations which adorned the walls of the antechamber. Around
on every side, and arranged like trophies, were grouped the weapons of
different arms of the service, surmounted with some device emblematic
of their peculiar character; or sometimes the mere record of some famous
battle in which they had pre-eminently distinguished themselves. Here
were the long, straight swords of the cuirassier crossed above the steel
breastplate, and surmounted by the heavy helmet half hid in leopard
skin, and bearing the almost effaced word “Arcole” in front; there was
the short carbine of the voltigeur, over which hung the red cap and its
gay gold tassel, with the embroidered motto “En avant” in gold letters.
The long and graceful weapon of the lancer, the curved sabre of
the _chasseur à cheval_, even the axe of the pioneer was not
wanting,--displaying at a glance some trait of every branch of the
mighty force that bore the proud designation of “La Grande Armée.”
I was busily engaged inspecting these when the door opened, and an
officer in full uniform appeared. His figure was above the middle size,
strongly and squarely built; and his bronzed features, and high, bold
forehead, gave him a soldier-like air.
“Your name, sir,” said he, quickly, as he drew himself up before me, and
looked sternly in my face.
“Burke,--Thomas Burke.”
“Write it down, Auguste,” said he, turning to a young officer, who
stood, pen in hand, behind him.
“Your rank or profession?”
“Gentilhomme,” said I, not knowing that the word expressed nobility.
“Ah, _pardieu_,” cried he, as he showed his white teeth in a grin;
“produce your papers, if you have any.”
“I have nothing save those letters,” said I, handing him those of De
Meudon.
Scarce had his eye glanced over them, when I saw his color heighten and
his cheek tremble.
“What!” cried he, “are you the same young Irishman who is mentioned
here, the constant companion and friend of poor Charles? He was my
schoolfellow; we were at Brienne together. What a mistake I was about to
fall into! How did you come, and when?”
Before I could reply to any of his many questions, the naval officer I
had met at the harbor entered, and delivered his report.
“Yes, yes; I know it all,” said Dorsenne, hurriedly throwing his eye
over it. “It 's all right, perfectly right, Brevix. Let Capitaine
Antoine be examined at the quartier-général. I 'll take care of monsieur
here. And, to begin; come and join us at supper.”
Passing his arm familiarly over my shoulder, he led me into the
adjoining room, where two other officers were seated at a table covered
with silver dishes and numerous flasks of wine. A few words sufficed for
my introduction; and a few glasses of champagne placed me as thoroughly
at my ease as though I had passed my life amongst them, and never heard
any other conversation than the last movement of the French army, and
their projects for future campaigns.
“And so,” said the colonel, after hearing from me a short account of the
events which had induced me to turn my eyes to France,--“and so you'd be
a soldier? _Eh bien!_ see nothing better going myself. There 's Davernac
will tell you the same, though he has lost his arm in the service.”
“Oui, pardieu,” said the officer on my right; “I am not the man to
dissuade him from a career I 've ever loved.”
“À vous, mon ami,” said the young officer who first addressed me on my
arrival, as he held out his glass and clinked it against mine. “I
hope we shall have you one of these days as our guide through the dark
streets of London. The time may not be so distant as you think; never
shake your head at it.”
“It is not that I would mean,” said I, eagerly.
“What then?” said the colonel. “You don't suppose such an expedition as
ours could fail of success?”
“Nor that either,” replied I; “I am not so presumptuous as to form an
opinion on the subject.”
“Diantre, then! what is it?”
“Simply this: that whatever fortune awaits me, I shall never be found
fighting against the country under whose rule I was born. England may
not be--alas! she has not been--just to us. But whatever resistance I
might have offered in the ranks of my countrymen, I shall never descend
to in an invading army. No, no; if France have no other war than
with England,--if she have not the cause of Continental liberty at
heart,--she 'll have no blood of mine shed in her Service.”
“Sacristi!” said the colonel, sipping his wine coolly, “you had better
keep these same opinions of yours to your self. There 's a certain
little General we have at Paris who rarely permits people to reason
about the cause of the campaign. However, it is growing late now, and we
'll not discuss the matter at present. Auguste, will you take Burke to
your quarters? And to-morrow I 'll call on the general about his brevet
for the Polytechnique.”
I felt now that I had spoken more warmly than was pleasing to the party;
but the sentiments I had announced were only such as in my heart I had
resolved to abide by, and I was pleased that an opportunity so soon
offered to display them. I was glad to find myself at rest at last; and
although events pressed on me fast and thick enough to have occupied my
mind, no sooner had I laid my head on my pillow than I fell into a sound
sleep.