With the crew of the cutter I had little intercourse. They were
Jerseymen,--that hybrid race, neither French nor English,--who followed
the trade of spies and smugglers, and were true to nothing save their
own interests. The skipper, a coarse, ill-featured fellow, in no respect
superior to the others, leisurely perused the letter De Beauvais gave
me on my departure; then, tearing it slowly, threw the pieces into the
fire.
“What, then, is this?” said he, taking up a sealed packet, which I now
for the first time perceived was fastened to my knapsack. “It seems
meant for me; look at the address, 'Jacques Oloquette, on board the
“Rouge Galant.”'” And so saying, he broke the seal, and bent over the
contents.
“Oh,” cried he, in a voice of triumphant delight, “this is a prize worth
having,--the English signal-book!” And he held up the little volume
which Paul Dupont had rescued from the “Fawn.”
“How came it here?” said I, horror-struck at the loss the poor sailor
had sustained.
“Old Martin, of the 'Star,' tells me he stole it from a marine of the
Guard, and that it cost him twenty-four flasks of his best Pomard
before the fellow and his companions were drunk enough to make the theft
practicable.”
I remembered at once the eagerness of the landlord for my departure, and
the hurried anxiety of his wish that morning might find me miles off on
my journey, as well as the care he bestowed on strapping my knapsack,
and saw how all had occurred.
“I knew most of them already,” continued the skipper. “But here is one
will serve our turn well now,--the very thing we wanted, for it
saves all delay and stoppage. That flag is the signal for Admiralty
despatches, which are often brought by small craft like ours when they
can't spare cruisers. We 'll soon rig it out, you 'll see, and run down
Channel with all our canvas set.”
He went aft as he spoke; and in a few seconds the cutter's head was
directed straight towards the English coast, while, crowding on more
sail, she seemed to fly through the water.
The cheering freshness of the sea-breeze, the sense of danger past,
the hope of escape, all combining, raised my spirits and elevated my
courage; but through all, I felt grieved beyond measure at the loss
of poor Paul Dupont,--the prize the honest fellow valued next to life
itself, if not above it, taken from him in the very moment of his
exultation! Besides, I could not help feeling that suspicion must light
on me from my sudden disappearance; and my indignation was deep, to
think how such an imputation would tarnish the honor of that service I
gloried in so much. “How far may such a calumny spread?” thought I. “How
many lips may repeat the tale, and none be able to deny it?” Deep as was
my regret at the brave Breton's loss, my anger for its consequences
was still deeper; and I would willingly have perilled all my hope of
reaching England to have been able to restore the book into Paul's own
hand.
These feelings did not tend to draw me closer in intimacy with the
skipper; whose pleasure at the acquisition was only heightened by the
subtlety of its accomplishment, and who seemed never so happy as when
repeating some fragment of the landlord's letter, and rejoicing at the
discomfiture the brave sailor must have experienced on discovering
his loss. To witness the gratification a coarse nature feels in some
unworthy but successful action, is the heaviest penalty an honorable
mind can experience when unhappily its possessor has been in any way
accessory to the result. With these reflections I fell off to sleep, and
never woke till the bright sun was shining over the white-crested water,
and the craft breasting the waves with a strong breeze upon her canvas.
As we held on down Channel, we passed several ships of war beating up
for Spithead; but our blue bunting, curiously streaked with white, was a
signal which all acknowledged, and none ventured to retard. Thus passed
the first day: as night was falling, we beheld the Needles on our lee,
and with a freshening breeze, held on our course.
A second morning broke. And now the sea was covered with the white sails
of a magnificent fleet, bound for the West Indies; at least, so the
skipper pronounced it. It was indeed a glorious sight to see the mighty
vessels obeying the signals of the flag-ship, and shaping their course
through the blue water as if instinct with life and reason. They were
far seaward of us, however; for now we hugged the land, as the skipper
was only desirous of an opportunity to land me unobserved before he
proceeded on his own more immediate enterprise,--the smuggling of some
hogsheads of brandy on the coasts of Ireland.
Left to my own thoughts,--the memories of my past life,--I dreamed away
the hours unconsciously, and as the time sped on, I knew not of its
flight. Some strange sail, seen from afar off, would for an instant
arouse my attention; but it was a mere momentary effect, and I fell back
into my musings, as though they had never been interrupted. As I look
back upon that voyage now, and think of the dreamy listlessness in which
its hours were passed, I can half fancy that certain periods of our
lives are destined to sustain the part which night performs in our daily
existence, and by their monotony contribute to that renewal of energy
and vigor so essential after times of labor and exertion. It seemed to
me as though, the period of exertion past, I was regaining in rest and
repose the power for future action; and I canvassed every act of
the past to teach me more of my own heart, and to instruct me for my
guidance in life after.
“You can land now, whenever you please,” said the skipper to me, as by a
faint moonlight we moved along the waveless sea. “We can put you ashore
at any moment here.”
I started with as much surprise as though the thought had never occurred
to me; and without replying, I leaned over the bulwark, and gazed at the
faint shadows of tall headlands about three miles distant.
“How do you call that bluff yonder?” said I, carelessly.
“Wicklow Head.”
“Wicklow Head! Ireland!” cried I, with a thrill of ecstasy my heart had
never felt for many a day before. “Yes, yes; land me there,--now, at
once!” said I, as a thousand thoughts came rushing to my mind, and hopes
too vague for utterance, but palpable enough to cherish.
With the speed their calling teaches, the crew lowered the boat, and as
I took my place in the stern, pulled vigorously towards the shore. As
the swift bark glided along the shallow sea, I could scarce restrain
my impatience from springing out and rushing on land. Without family or
friend, without one to welcome or meet me, still it was home,--the only
home I ever had.
The sharp keel grated on the beach; its sound vibrated within my heart.
I jumped on shore; a few words of parting, and the men backed their
oars; the boat slipped fast through the water. The cutter, too, got
speedily under weigh again, and I was alone. Then the full torrent of my
feelings found their channel, and I burst into tears. Oh! they were not
tears of sorrow; neither were they the outpourings of excessive joy.
They were the utterance of a heart loaded with its own unrelieved
griefs, who now found sympathy on touching the very soil of home. I felt
I was no longer friendless. Ireland, my own dear native country, would
be to me a place of kindred and family, and I fell upon my knees, and
blessed it.
Following a little path, which led slantingly up the cliff, I reached
the top as day was beginning to break, and gained a view of the country.
The range of swelling hills, dotted with cottages and waving with
wood; the fields of that emerald green one sees not in other lands;
the hedge-rows bounding the little farms,--all so unlike the spreading
plains of France,--struck me with delight, and it was with a rapture of
happiness I called the land my country.
Directing my steps towards Dublin, I set out at a good pace, but
following a path which led near the cliffs, in preference to the
highroad; for I was well aware that my appearance and dress would expose
me to curiosity, and perhaps subject me to more serious annoyance. My
first object was to learn some news of my brother; for although the
ties of affection had been long since severed between us, those of blood
still remained, and I wished to hear of, and it might be to see him,
once more. For some miles I had kept my eyes directed towards a little
cabin which crowned a cliff that hung over the sea; and this I reached
at last, somewhat wearied and hungry.
As I followed a little footpath which conducted to the door, a fierce
terrier rushed out as if to attack me, but was immediately restrained
by the voice of a man within, calling, “Down, Vicksey! down, you baste!”
and the same moment a stout, middle-aged man appeared at the door.
“Don't be afeard, sir; she's not wicked, but we're unused to strangers
down here.”
“I should think so, friend, from my path,” said I, throwing a glance
at the narrow footway I had followed for some miles, over hill and
precipice; “but I am unacquainted with the country, and was looking out
for some house where I might obtain a breakfast.”
“There's a town about three miles down yonder, and a fine inn, I 'm
tould, sir,” replied he, as he scrutinized my appearance with a shrewd
eye; “but if I might make so bould, maybe you 'd as lief not go there,
and perhaps you 'd take share of what we have here?”
“Willingly,” said I, accepting the hospitable offer as freely as it was
made, and entered the cabin at once.
A good-featured countrywoman and some young children were seated at the
table, where a large dish of potatoes and some fresh fish were smoking,
a huge jug of milk occupying the middle of the board. The woman blushed
as she heard that her husband had invited a gentleman to partake of his
humble meal; but the honest fellow cared little for the simple fare he
offered with so good a grace, and placed my chair beside his own with
the air of one who was more anxious for his guest's comfort than caring
what impression he himself might make upon him.
After some passing words about the season and the state of the
tides,--for my host was a fisherman,--I turned the conversation on the
political condition of the country, avowing frankly that I had been for
some years absent, and was ignorant of what had occurred meantime.
“'Twas that same I was thinking, sir,” said he, replying to the first
and not the latter part of my remark. “When I saw your honor's face, and
the beard you wore, I said to myself you wor a Frenchman.”
“You mistook there, then; I am your countryman, but have passed a good
many years in France.”
“Fighting for Boney?” said he, as his eyes opened wide with surprise to
behold one actually before him who might have served under Napoleon.
“Yes, my good friend, even so; I was in the army of the Emperor.”
“Tare an ages! then, are they coming over here now?” cried he, almost
gasping in his eagerness.
“No, no,” replied I, gravely; “and be thankful, too, for it, for your
own and your children's sakes, that you see not a war raging in the
fields and cities of your native land. Be assured, whatever wrongs you
suffer,--I will not dispute their existence, for, as I told you, I am
ignorant of the condition of the country,--but whatever they may be, you
can pay too dearly for their remedy.”
“But sure they 'd be on our side, would n't they?”
“Of course they would; but think you that they 'd fight your battles
without their price? Do you believe that Frenchmen so love you here
that they would come to shed their blood in your cause without their own
prospect of advantage?”
“They hate the English, I'm tould, as bad as we do ourselves.”
“They do so, and with more of justice for their hate. But that dislike
might suffice to cause a war; it never would reward it. No, no; I know
something of the spirit of French conquest. I glory in the bravery and
the heroism that accomplished it; but I never wish to see my own country
at the mercy of France. Whose soldier would you become if the Emperor
Napoleon landed here to-morrow?--his. Whose uniform would you wear,
whose musket carry, whose pay receive, whose orders obey?--his, and his
only. And how long, think you, would your services be limited to home?
What should prevent your being sent away to Egypt, to Poland, or to
Russia? How much favor would an Irish deserter receive from a French
court-martial, think you? No, good friend; while you have this warm roof
to shelter you, and that broad sea is open for your industry and toil,
never wish for foreign aid to assist you.”
I saw that the poor fellow was discouraged by my words, and gradually
led him to speak of those evils for whose alleviation he looked
to France. To my surprise, however, he descanted less on political
grievances than those which affect the well-being of the country
socially. It was not the severity of a Government, but the absence of
encouragement to industry,--the neglect of the poor,--which afflicted
him. England was no longer the tyrant; the landlord had taken her place.
Still, with the pertinacity of ignorance, he visited all the wrongs on
that land from which originally his first misfortunes came, and with
perverse ingenuity would endeavor to trace out every hardship he
suffered as arising from the ill-will and hatred the Saxon bore him.
It was easy to perceive that the arguments he used were not of his own
devising; they had been supplied by others, in whose opinion he had
confidence; and though valueless and weak in reality, to him they were
all-convincing and unanswerable,--not the less, perhaps, that they
offered that value to self-love which comes from attributing any
evils we endure to causes outside and independent of ourselves. These,
confronted with extravagant hopes of what would ensue should national
independence be established, formed his code; and however refuted on
each point, a certain conviction, too deeply laid to be disturbed by any
opposing force, remained; and in his “Well, well, God knows best!
and maybe we'll have better luck yet,” you could perceive that he was
inaccessible to any appeal except from the quarter which ministered to
his discontent and disaffection.
One thing was clear to me from all he said, that if the spirit of open
resistance no longer existed towards England, it was replaced by as
determined and as rancorous hatred,--a brooding, ill-omened dislike had
succeeded, to the full as hostile, and far less easily subdued. How it
would end,--whether in the long-lingering fear which wastes the energies
and saps the strength of a people, or in the conflict of a civil war,
the prospect was equally ruinous.
Sadly pondering on these things, I parted with my humble host, and set
out towards the capital. If my conversation with the Irishman had taught
me somewhat of the state of feeling then current in Ireland, it also
conveyed another and very different lesson; it enabled me to take some
account of the change years had effected in my own sentiments. As a
boy, high-flown, vague, and unsettled ideas of national liberty and
independence had made me look to France as the emancipator of Europe.
As a man, I knew that the lust of conquest had extinguished the love of
freedom in Frenchmen; that they who trusted to her did but exchange the
dominion of their old masters for the tyranny of a new one; while such
as boldly stepped forward in defence of their liberties, found that
there was neither mercy nor compassion for the conquered.
I had seen the Austrian prisoners and the Russian led captive through
the streets of Paris; I had witnessed the great capital of Prussia in
its day of mourning after Jena; and all my idolatry for the General
scarce balanced my horror of the Emperor, whose vengeance had
smitten two nations thus heavily: and I said within my heart, “May my
countrymen, whatever be their day of need, never seek alliance with
despotic France!”