ON BOARD THE CHARLES QUINT.
A noble ship — Fellow-passengers — The vivandière — Husbands
and wives — A defect in the ship’s arrangements — “Why is an
Englishman never sea-sick?” — Bone — Hair-cutting made easy
— Colonel Allegro — The vivandière distinguishes herself —
A sudden change.
_Marseilles, Friday, October 14th._—The _Charles Quint_ is one
of the newest and finest of the splendid line of steamers recently
built at Glasgow for the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique of
Marseilles. She was lying in the Joliette Dock when, accompanied
by the kindly Captain A———, who seemed loth to part with me,
I boarded her this afternoon. Nothing more luxurious in the shape of
a sea-going vessel has ever met my eyes. The saloon is a marvel of
beauty and elegance. Marble walls richly gilded, luxurious arm-chairs,
crimson couches, mirrors, carpets, pictures, silver lamps, completely
destroy for the moment the notion that one is on board ship. You
seem to be seated in the splendid apartment of some palace. The
state-rooms, too, are large, airy, and well found. My own is nearly
amidships, so I am well away from the grinding of the screw, whilst
close to me is a beautiful bath-room, the accommodation of which I
have already tested, where a bath of pure white marble might tempt
even the most nervous of Frenchmen to unwonted ablutions.
But it was not the remarkable completeness and elegance of
the furnishings of this noble ship that occupied my attention
this afternoon when, having at last said good-bye to my genial
fellow-countryman, I lounged on the broad hurricane-deck awaiting the
hour of our departure, which had been fixed for five o’clock. The
starting of a steamboat is always an interesting spectacle, whether
one witnesses it in a grimy Liverpool dock, a crowded harbour in the
Levant, or here under the glaring sunshine of Southern France. But
a special interest attaches to the _Charles Quint_ on its present
voyage. She is bound for the wars, and the passengers she carries
are, in many instances, leaving their native country for the first
time in order to take part in a campaign in which the full amount of
peril must be encountered. What a mixed and picturesque company we
have on board the ship! There are a number of unmistakable Algerian
colonists, male and female, stout in figure and swart of complexion,
returning to their homes on the other side of the Mediterranean. We
talk of the French faculty of dressing. I wonder how long it would
take for England to produce, among the respectable middle classes,
such a picture of unkempt dowdiness as that which is presented by one
of our passengers, the only lady apparently who has secured a place
in the first saloon. Next to the Algerians, who have been kissing,
laughing, crying, and shouting for the last hour, as one by one they
parted from their friends, we have a number of commercial travellers;
smart fellows, who “know their way about,” and who are already
beginning to make themselves as comfortable as possible during their
sojourn on board ship.
But it is in the people who are actually bound for Tunis and the war
that I am chiefly interested. We have about a score of officers on
board, chiefly doctors and captains of infantry. Poor fellows! They
pace up and down the deck with rather melancholy faces, casting
many a longing eye towards the white houses and white hills of
Marseilles. Nobody has come to see them off. Nobody seems inclined
to take much notice of them. I should certainly not gather from the
manner in which they are regarded by the outer world that the war is
very popular in Marseilles. Nor does the army seem to occupy a very
brilliant social position in the estimation of the French people. Will
it be believed that no officer under the rank of a major is permitted
to travel first class on these boats? So our rueful-visaged captains
troop off presently with clanking swords and downcast heads, to take
their appointed places in the second saloon.
But who is this that suddenly appears upon the hurricane-deck—a
vision, well, hardly of beauty or of joy, but still of a very
uncommon kind? Five-and-twenty years ago, at the time when
illustrated histories of the Crimean war were common, and when
my young imagination was being fed upon the stirring adventures
of the French and English allies under the walls of Sebastopol, I
was quite familiar with such a figure as this, for it was one which
was constantly appearing in the pages of the aforesaid illustrated
histories. But I had almost forgotten that such beings had ever
existed until this moment, when a real live Vivandière, clad in her
full uniform, with plumed hat, frock coat, military trousers, and
shining boots complete, stepped upon the hurricane-deck and saluted
me with bland dignity. She must be no ordinary vivandière either,
for on her breast glitters a row of medals, crosses, and decorations
of all kinds, that would do credit to a prize ox at Smithfield,
whilst round her neck is a red ribbon, which must surely be that of
the Legion of Honour. Nor are these the only distinguishing marks
she bears. On her arm is a broad band of canvas, bearing the sign of
the Red Cross. So my vivandière is not going to Tunis to sell wine,
but to succour the wounded. I think of one of Ouida’s novels, and
cry to myself, “Brava, Cigarette!” though all the time I wonder
to what extent the Arabs are likely to respect that Red Cross. She
is a brisk, comely woman of forty or thereabouts, with a sharp,
shrewd eye, a pleasant smile, and a ready jest for everybody. In
less than five minutes after her appearance on board she has made
friends with some of her fellow-passengers, and is volubly explaining
to them the mission on which she is proceeding to Africa.
At five o’clock sharp the last bell rings, and the visitors leave
the ship and range themselves alongside the dock wall. I lounge over
the rail of the upper deck, smoking my cigarette, and watching a
dozen little dramas of domestic life that are being played out under
my eyes. Wives, some tearful and others gay, are parting from their
husbands. Alas! for the “contrariness” of human nature. In my
cynical mood this afternoon I cannot but observe that where the wives
are in tears the husbands are all smiles and jokes; whilst a blithe
face on the part of a wife means a grim and melancholy countenance on
the part of her spouse. But at last the welcome sound of the screw
puts an end to my observations. The stately ship begins slowly to
glide out of the basin, and ten minutes later we are fairly clear of
the port of Marseilles, whose white towers and rocks and hills begin
slowly to fade away as the _Charles Quint_ ploughs her path onward
through the blue waters of the Gulf of Lyons. As one turns seaward
towards the Mediterranean it is impossible to forget that twelve
months ago to-day I was sailing on this same sea, in the company of as
joyous and genial a little band of travellers as ever traversed the
ocean. Alas! of that small company two of the bravest and the best
have already reached the end of the long voyage of life; whilst the
others are scattered far and wide all up and down the world; and I am
here alone to-day, the solitary Englishman on board this vessel. As
I sat after dinner smoking a last cigar on a comfortable deckseat,
and watching the stars blaze out in their southern magnificence,
whilst the ear was soothed by the solemn melody of the ocean, it was
a difficult matter to drive away those pensive feelings which must
come to all men when they revisit scenes once familiar to them,
and reflect upon the changes which have been wrought since they
last were here. But even whilst I mused I was suddenly aroused by
a very trifling yet significant incident. My cigar dropped out of
my nerveless hand, and I started up shivering, to find I had fallen
asleep on the open deck. Then I recalled the fact that I had not been
in bed last night, and made haste to turn into my comfortable cabin.
_Saturday, October 15th._—I awoke refreshed after a good night’s
rest. Presently turning out upon the deck, I found that I was in
the full enjoyment of real Mediterranean weather. The sun was bright
and hot, and one was glad to get shelter from it beneath the awning,
where the pleasant breeze produced by the rapid motion of the boat
made the temperature quite agreeable. The water was of that wonderful
blue colour which you see nowhere except in the Mediterranean; but
the waves were crested with white, and made the blank sea, upon which
not a sail was to be discovered, itself a glorious spectacle. As I
sat in the full enjoyment of the scene I could not help thinking of
last Saturday, and contrasting my surroundings then, when I found
myself one of thirty thousand human beings packed into the Leeds
Cloth Hall yard—or rather, into the fine “Gladstone Hall”
erected on that spot—with the situation in which I am placed to-day.
I have already discovered that there is one serious defect about the
arrangements on board the _Charles Quint_. Everybody who has travelled
by sea knows that the two principal occupations of well-disposed
passengers are eating the meals provided on board and then grumbling
at the cookery and the quality of the provisions served. With a
perverse want of consideration for the passengers, the Compagnie
Transatlantique have resolved apparently to deprive them of at least
one of these occupations—and possibly the favourite one—that of
grumbling. Nothing could well be better than the manner in which
we are fed on board the _Charles Quint_. At seven in the morning
the usual French “first breakfast,” consisting of coffee and
bread and butter, is provided. After that I have my bath, and my
first walk on deck. At half-past nine comes the regular breakfast,
beautifully served in the saloon. At the head of our table sits the
captain, a handsome and refined-looking man of fifty, who speaks
French with a strong southern accent, and who is quite a model of
mingled dignity and suavity. To his right and left are seated two
smart young gentlemen in elegant uniforms, one of whom is the purser
and the other the doctor, and whom I have already christened the
Corsican Brothers, not merely because of their striking resemblance
to each other, but because they invariably walk the deck together,
and seem almost as inseparable as the Siamese Twins themselves. Then,
each of us in a comfortable revolving arm-chair, come the ten or
twelve saloon passengers.
A very sociable party we make; and how we enjoy our food, to be
sure! At breakfast this morning the following was the _menu_,
all the dishes being served in a style which would have done
credit to Champeau’s:—Radishes, anchovies (excellent), omelette of
mushrooms, calves’ head, hot lobster with sauce piquante (excellent),
filet de bœuf with potatoes, cheese, and fruit. Admirable white and red
wine is supplied in abundance during the meal, and the usual coffee and
cognac afterwards. With a _cuisine_ like this, and in so pleasant and
airy a saloon as ours, the most squeamish of travellers might fairly
tempt the “dangers of the deep.”
A very amusing conversation occupied the company at breakfast.
They thought proper to engage in an edifying discussion on
sea-sickness, accompanied by realistic—indeed, occasionally _too_
realistic—illustrations on the part of most present of the peculiar
manner in which they were affected by the malady. Eventually some
one propounded a knotty problem for solution. “How is it,”
he asked, “that Englishmen are never sea-sick?” Alas! poor
innocent. I thought of the revelation that awaited him whenever he
made his first passage from Calais to Dover; but in the meantime I
listened eagerly for the answer to his question. It came from the
captain, and was as follows: “You see it is all an affair of the
imagination, this sea-sickness. Now, the English have no imagination,
and consequently they are never sea-sick. _Voilà tout!_”
But if my friends on board have limited ideas on some subjects,
they are nevertheless—like most people in this world when you
once get to know them—very good fellows, and they have shown
an amazing amount of kindness to myself as the sole foreigner on
board. One pleasant little “commercial,” bound for Bone, has
insisted upon playing chess with me during the greater part of the
afternoon; whilst after dinner the Corsican Brothers invited me to
join them in the smoking-room at a game at dummy whist. There was a
lovely sunset this evening, and to-night the stars are shining with
marvellous brilliance, the Milky Way reflecting a perceptible track
of light upon the ocean. The moon is burning, a crescent of red fire,
high in the heavens. Before turning in for the night the long low
line of the African coast became visible in the distance. Strangely
enough, I last saw it on this very day twelve months ago.
_Sunday, October 16th._—Hardly had I fallen into my first sleep last
night when I was aroused by the din of our arrival at Bone. Everybody
on board the ship apparently seemed to think it necessary to jump
out of bed and forthwith to make the greatest possible amount of
noise. Shouting, laughing, crying, talking, and even playing the
piano in the saloon, they evidently found that in no other way
could they give expression to their feelings at having once more
come within sight of land. One would have imagined that it was a
voyage of a year instead of one of a day only that had come to an
end. Then the “horrid winch” began to work, and for a couple
of hours the uproar was really appalling. After that, apparently
because everybody was exhausted, things became quieter, and I was
able to get a few hours’ sleep.
At seven o’clock, when I rose and dressed, I found the vessel moored
alongside the quay of Bone, and consequently lying snugly in the best
harbour on the coast of Algiers. Bone is one of the most flourishing
towns in the French colony in North Africa, and it attracts a
considerable number of commercial travellers like those who have
come with me in the _Charles Quint_. For the uncommercial traveller
it has other attractions of a special kind. Thus the sportsman comes
here because the railway from this place takes him to the nearest
spot to England where that noblest of all the beasts of the forest,
the lion, is to be found; whilst those who are interested in the past
visit Bone because here St. Augustine lived and wrote his burning
“Confessions,” and because near here his tomb is now to be seen.
The morning was bright and beautiful, though on the brown hills
behind the town some rather ominous clouds were hanging. As I was
about to take my first walk on the soil of Africa, I thought it
advisable to array myself in my lightest attire, and accordingly I
presently sallied forth in a guise which would have brought a mob to
my heels in any English town. The scene was very picturesque. The
town is of semi-French architecture, with a wide boulevard and a
little square, besides many narrow streets. Everywhere Arabs, clad
in the flowing white _burnous_ and in the blue or red _jebbas_,
were to be seen. Hundreds of black and brown children—genuine
street Arabs these—were gambolling about the doors of the houses;
and amid the swarthy elders of the famous race and their half-naked
offspring, there strolled about, with that air of dignity which
the conqueror, wherever he may be found, seldom forgets to wear,
numbers of Frenchmen.
Sunday morning though it was, the shops were all open. Those best
worth examining were the photograph and coral shops. Coral is obtained
in large quantities upon this coast; La Calle, a port a few miles to
the east, being one of the seats of the coral fishery. The articles
I was shown in the different shops were very cheap, but were poor
in quality. I strolled into the fish and vegetable markets. In
the former were many curious fishes, as well as some very fine
ones. Among the curious fish were large quantities of a creature
very like the octopus, which I was told was a favourite delicacy
among all classes. In the vegetable market, besides an abundant
supply of such vegetables as are only produced in England during
the summer, there were great quantities of melons, oranges, lemons,
and pomegranates. In the centre of the town is a small garden, in
which tropical plants and trees were growing luxuriantly. Everywhere
one could see traces of the struggle between the old and the new,
and everywhere proofs were to be found of the success with which the
French are establishing their own institutions on the soil of Africa,
in spite of the dogged opposition of one of the most conservative
races in the world.
The church bells were ringing, and I could not resist the temptation
to attend the Catholic service in the town in which St. Augustine
once ministered. In coming back towards the ship, I noticed that in
many cases a bottle of live leeches was suspended as a sign in front
of the barbers’ shops. In an evil moment I was induced to enter
one of these establishments, and trust myself to the tender mercies
of an Algerian hairdresser. It was a wonderful operation which I
had to undergo. I had chosen the most fashionable establishment of
the kind in Bone, and a stately Frenchwoman, seated at that little
counter which is so dear to the ladies of her race, superintended
the work of the shop, and received with dignity the fees of the
shorn. The barber to whose care I was intrusted began by covering
my head and beard with violet powder, causing me to look amazingly
like an overgrown baby. This was not the worst of what I had to
submit to, however, for when the hair-cutting was concluded, my
tormentor produced an article, the sight of which recalled my own
nursery days, to wit, a small tooth comb, and proceeded to apply it
with exemplary diligence to my head! It was not without a feeling
of profound thankfulness that I at last escaped from his grasp, and,
returning to the _Charles Quint_, partook of the admirable breakfast
which the _chef_ had served up. This breakfast began with oysters
and melons—which might have grown among the fields of far-away
Cassaba—and ended with new oranges and curaçao.
All the saloon passengers who came with me from Marseilles have
left the ship, but we have some new-comers in their place. The most
important of these is Colonel Allegro, the notorious adventurer,
who for a time filled the post of Tunisian Consul at Bone, and who,
although in the service of the Bey, is well known as one of the most
determined and relentless Arab-hunters in North Africa. He is now
on his way to Tunis accompanied by Arab horses, Arab servants, and
an immense amount of camp equipments, having just been offered the
command of the cavalry in one of the columns which are destined to
march upon Kairwan. A swarthy man with keen black eyes and resolute
mouth, the colonel does not promise much in the way of agreeable
companionship during our voyage to Tunis. The other new-comers are
a young Italian with his remarkably pretty wife and their baby. This
gentleman lives at Susa, one of the Arab coast-towns in the Gulf of
Hammamet, and is returning to his dreary home after a pleasure-trip
to Paris. His wife seems quite content at the prospect of exchanging
the delights of Paris for the dull confinement of a house in such a
place as Susa. The husband has already taken me into his confidence
so far as to express his opinion not only about Colonel Allegro in
particular, but about the French in general. There is clearly no
love lost between Frenchmen and Italians at this moment.
Whilst we have been waiting here discharging or taking in
cargo, my fair friend the vivandière has been distinguishing
herself. Yesterday, smooth though the sea was, she kept her berth,
and doubtless nourished those feelings towards the rest of the human
race which only the sea-sick know. To-day she had recovered her
equanimity, her good looks, and, I hope, her benevolence. At all
events, she stepped ashore early this morning arrayed in her most
gorgeous costume, feathers flying from her hat, and stars and medals
glittering on her bosom. A crowd of a hundred solemn-faced Arabs,
among whom a few lively-looking Frenchmen were mingled, quickly
formed round her, and escorted by this guard of honour she set off
into the town. She returned at twelve o’clock in the highest state
of delight. Her guard had increased from one to five hundred, whilst
she enjoyed the satisfaction of being tenderly supported on either
side by a private soldier of the line. I must say these soldiers
looked rather sheepish, half proud and half ashamed, in fact. Not so
mademoiselle, however. It was evidently one of the brightest moments
of her life. She embraced her two friends with fervour on parting from
them; and then, leaning over the bulwarks of the _Charles Quint_, she
discharged a whole armoury of messages of remembrance and affection
to her brave comrades of the 91st regiment. How the Arabs stared;
and how the jolly handsome-looking young negroes on the quay showed
their gleaming white teeth as they grinned at the amazing spectacle.
They had something else to grin at presently. A shuffling young
fellow, aged twenty or thereabouts, in the red breeches and blue
coat of the infantry, came listlessly along in the direction of
our vessel. As soon as she saw him our vivandière became greatly
excited. “Ho! Adolphe! Adolphe! Venez ici!” she shouted at the
top of her somewhat shrill voice. Adolphe seemed not particularly
anxious to respond to the invitation. He grinned idiotically; thrust
his hands deeper than ever into his breeches’ pockets, and blushed
vividly. But he made no motion towards the gangway connecting the
ship with the shore. For a moment mademoiselle seemed puzzled as to
what she should do: then, after telling him that he was nothing but
a great stupid, she tripped lightly down the ladder, sprang upon the
quay, seized Adolphe’s ear between her dainty little finger and
thumb, and amidst the loud laughter of the spectators conducted him
in triumph on board the _Charles Quint_. Why she wanted him there
goodness only knows. Perhaps to scold, perhaps to pet him. I do not
know. But in a couple of minutes she reappeared with her captive at
the gangway, bestowed upon him two sounding kisses, and then patting
him on the back, sent him down the ladder looking more doltish than
ever. I think she must have seen a suspicious twinkle in my eye. At
all events she turned to me, and with a mocking little curtsey said,
“_C’est mon cousin, monsieur!_” But I confess I have my own
ideas about that kind of cousinship.