Towards the close of the reign of Louis XIV., a plant of Mocha coffee
was brought to the king's garden, which very soon increased; and the
genius of the government of that day thought that, by transplanting
into their West India colonies this shrub, an immense source of
riches might be opened to the country. The carrying out of this idea
was entrusted to Chevalier Desclieux, who, provided with a young
coffee-plant, set out from Nantes, thence to convey it to Martinique.
Imbedded in its native mould, the precious exile was placed in an
oak-wood box, impenetrable to cold, and covered with a glass frame so
formed as to catch the least ray of the sun and double its heat; and
in case the sun did not shine, a small aperture, hermetically sealed,
could admit heated air, when it was thought proper to do so. We can
imagine all the charges Desclieux received when he entered the ship
in which he was to embark: but he did not need them; he saw at a
glance all the distinction he would gain by this expedition, which
would secure to his country an inexhaustible source of riches. It was
then, with a really patriotic feeling, that he took the plant under
his care, promising to devote himself to it as he would to his
country, and to all the duties of his profession. And when the skiff,
after having quitted the vessel, returned again to renew the charge,
and to remind Desclieux once more that the plant must be watered
every day, and that copiously, he pledged his honour that, rather
than fail in this, he would himself die of thirst.
The ship sailed; the crew was composed of about one hundred men, and
of some passengers about to settle in the Antilles, amongst whom was
an amiable family, consisting of father, mother, and their only
daughter Louisa, a beautiful and accomplished girl of eighteen. In a
vessel where people are so much thrown together, meeting constantly
for a length of time, destined perhaps to share the same death, but
little time is required to form an intimacy which often ripens into
lasting friendship; and thus it proved in the case of the parents of
Louisa and Desclieux. Scarcely had they passed the light-house of
Cordouan, glittering in the twilight of a lovely evening, when they
were already friends. Already this fresh and delicate plant,
interesting as an exile, as a flower transplanted from its own soil,
as a child torn from its mother, became a mutual object of
attraction. It was thus that Louisa pointed it out to her parents as
it lay on the deck in its glass case, exposed to the mid-day sun. She
charmed the tedium of the voyage in hourly watching the progress
which she believed visible in the feeble offset. She had felt
interested in it from the moment Desclieux had shown her all the
glory he was to gain by it for France, and then she had become
attached to it; for it is a beautiful proof of the magnanimity of
women--their love for all that is glorious. Even during the five days
they had been at sea, the little coffee-plant had evidently
increased--two small leaves of a most delicate green had appeared;
and every morning Louisa's first thought after prayer was the
cherished plant; but she could not see it till Desclieux had left his
room, for he always kept the sacred deposit with him. Every evening
he watered it abundantly, and then let hot air into the frame by
means of the tube, as he had been directed: he kept it as close as
possible to him at night, that even during sleep he might administer
heat to it. Never did bird brood over its young more fondly--never
did nurse cherish more tenderly the new-born babe.
As soon as Desclieux appeared on deck in the morning to lay his
precious charge in the sun, Louisa immediately ran thither. She
delighted to point out to her mother its growth during the night, a
growth imperceptible to indifferent eyes; but she had become attached
to it; and as the slightest emotions are visible to us in the
features of those we love, though unperceived by strangers, so she
discovered the least change even in the thickness of the stalk or the
length of the leaves; and Desclieux, seeing the young girl thus
attaching herself to what had been confided to him, and what he so
cherished, felt touched and grateful.
They met with a terrible assault when close to Madeira. It was about
the middle of a dark night, though not stormy; the vessel was gliding
along noiselessly; and all on board were asleep except the officer on
watch--and indeed he too perhaps slept, or he would have heard the
noise of the keel cutting the waves as a bird's wing cuts the air,
and he would have cried: 'Ship ahoy!' A ship was indeed quite close
to Desclieux's vessel, and the token it gave of its vicinity was a
cannonade which awoke up every one in a moment, both crew and
passengers. It was a pirate vessel of Tunis, a poor chebeck, but
formidable in the night--a time that magnifies every fear--and
formidable, too, from the desperate bravery of the banditti who
manned her. Believing themselves assailed by superior forces, the
ship's crew prepared for a resistance as vigorous, as desperate as
the attack. Better far to die than to be carried slaves to Africa!
All the passengers were at prayer, distracted, trembling, or half
dead. Louisa alone remained calm, for she was sustained by the
thought that to her Desclieux had entrusted his precious charge. The
fight commenced; the ship fired eight cannon on the chebeck; and it
was time, for already the captain had boarded the French ship, but
was immediately cut down by Desclieux's axe. A last discharge of guns
on each side, and the firing ceased. The pirate felt its inferiority
and retreated, while the conquerors continued their course.
Two hours of torturing suspense had passed since the terrible
awakening, which but served to make the feeling of restored security
the more delightful, and the remainder of the night was spent in
relating the events of the rencontre. Louisa's was not the least
interesting: she had been regardless of danger during the combat,
while watching over her charge; then she took it to Desclieux, who
admired her the more--loved her the more; for courage, always
beautiful, has a still greater charm when displayed by a woman.
It was a lovely morning, the sun was unusually bright and warm, and
Desclieux left the plant on deck, the glass frame half raised to
admit the fresh air and reviving heat, while he, with Louisa and her
parents, sat near and enjoyed seeing it expand its pretty leaves,
and, as it were, smilingly greet the sun's rays, which infused into
it such genial warmth, and seeming to thank them for their care. But
Desclieux's brow now kindled with higher thoughts. In this feeble
offset he saw the pretty little starry flowers, then the perfumed
berries, and the negroes gathering it abundantly, and then the ocean
bearing vessels to France laden, with its produce. All this he could
see in the few small leaves scarcely aboveground. Enthusiastically
did he tell these bright visions to Louisa, and as she kindled in her
turn, the coffee-plant became dearer and dearer to her, and she
lavished as tender care upon it as she would upon a newborn brother.
She seemed to have common sympathies with it, and if she felt that
the heat might be too much for its slender stem, she drew over it
little curtains of green silk which she had made expressly for it,
just as a tender mother curtains the cradle of her infant. And then
she read to Desclieux and her parents a long account of the coffee
of Mocha, and pictured vividly to their imagination the tree to grow
out of the nursling whose infancy they watched over. Sometimes the
conversation took a different turn, and the parents of Louisa spoke,
as if to an old familiar friend, of their fortune, of their family
interests, of their views for the establishment of their only
daughter; and Desclieux in return imparted to them his plans. By
degrees these communications led to projects of marriage between him
and Louisa. It was no unpleasing thought to either, and the very day
they crossed the line, a declaration was made, and an engagement
formed, and it was agreed that their union should take place
immediately on their return to France.
We may well think that Louisa became more attached than ever to the
plant, now become a source of distinction in which she would one day
share: imagine, then, her consternation when, one morning, she beheld
it languishing. She said nothing, hoping it might revive; but the
next morning found its leaves still more withered. She did not trust
herself to speak of it to Desclieux, who also had but too plainly
seen it. At last, the thought occurred to him that whilst in the
intense heat of the tropics, the plant would require more water; and
therefore poured on it almost his whole allowance. The effect was
immediate in restoring its life and verdure, and Louisa was again
happy. The ship was still some hundreds of leagues from Martinique,
when a violent tempest arose, apparently the last of a fearful
hurricane which had raged through the Antilles. It was found that the
ship had sprung a leak; the pumps were not sufficient: they were in
imminent danger, and the necessity of lightening the vessel was so
urgent that they were forced to throw overboard almost all the
merchandise, a part of the ballast, and even several barrels of
water. This last sacrifice was an appalling one: it was with a solemn
feeling they made it, similar to that with which one hears the earth
fall upon a coffin, or gives to the departed one the ocean for its
tomb. Indeed, these casks of water carried with them the lives of
many individuals, who had now no escape from a cruel death by thirst.
Desclieux, impressed, like the others, with this idea, only thought
of his precious coffee-plant. However, they were not very far from
port, and, with a favourable wind, might get in in a few days; and in
effect the tempest being over, and the leak closed with great
difficulty, a fresh breeze sprang up, and for a day and a night they
sailed fast, and the stormy state of the atmosphere had produced on
the coffee-plant the usual effect. It might almost have been said to
have flourished the more for the tempest. Louisa and Desclieux
contemplated it with a sweet joy, as at once the emblem and the omen
of domestic happiness amid the storms of life. But, alas! the wind
suddenly lulled--not the least breath to fill the sails, not a wave
broke against the motionless vessel: an awful calm succeeded; and
what is more terrible upon this scene of continual agitation than a
calm unwonted and too often fatal? The dead heat of the tropics was
felt in all its power by the helpless voyagers; they languished and
fainted with a continual thirst; and, horrible to relate, the water
was failing, for they had thrown so much overboard, that they were
limited to a very small allowance--a cupful at most.
If men, notwithstanding their energies, sunk under the sufferings
caused by the intense heat and burning thirst, what must have been
the state of the poor little plant which faded away before the eye!
It had its allowance also, but it was not enough; and every morning
and evening Desclieux gave it his, only for which it would have died.
Louisa was astonished to see the feeble plant yet bearing up; but
Desclieux carefully concealed from her the means he was using, lest
she also would deprive herself of water for it, and that he did not
wish--he preferred suffering alone; and a long sojourn in the hottest
parts of Arabia had in a great measure inured him to the climate, so
that he did not feel it so much as others. The calm was
uninterrupted, the remainder of the water was nearly exhausted, their
situation was become dreadful, and there was no hope, in their case,
of any relief from another vessel, for all were alike becalmed; and
it was sad to see the ocean without a sail in the horizon, or, if
there was one, it too was motionless. Their ration of water was now
reduced to one small liqueur glass. One drop only, just to moisten
his lips, and Desclieux poured the rest on the plant, now apparently
dying.
'Alas! how you are changed!' said Louisa to him one day: 'how pale
you have become. You are suffering: this heat is killing you.'
He knew it; but he had promised to water the plant, even though he
himself was to die of thirst; and he was faithful to his word. One
evening, when Louisa and her parents were questioning him, he thus
answered in a feeble voice, 'You are right; I die of thirst, that my
charge may live--it is my duty.' And saying these words, he laid his
parched lips upon its withered leaves, as one would kiss the hand of
an expiring friend, and continued: 'You have all promised to love me:
if I do not live, be careful of this coffee-plant, which held out to
us such brilliant prospects. I ask it of you as a favour, and
bequeath to you the distinction I hoped to have gained by it.' At the
moment they were distributing the scanty portion of water, and though
he was perishing, he threw the whole of it upon the shrub--Louisa did
the same. It was, as it were, a sacred bond between them--an
indissoluble tie. I am convinced that many of my readers have
frequently felt a lively and almost inexplicable pleasure in watering
a flower dried up by the scorching sun, and, in seeing it revive,
have felt as if benefited themselves. What pleasure, then, it must
have given to Desclieux and Louisa to see their plant raise its
sickly leaves once more!
At length the wind began to rise lightly, and the vessel moved,
though slowly. Desclieux was ill--in a burning fever; but he
continued to share with the plant his allowance of water; and Louisa
added hers. It increased their happiness that it owed its recovery to
their mutual self-denial; and it seemed as if their household life
had begun in a common endurance of suffering.
The breeze still freshened: and when the vessel anchored in the port
of St Pierre, there was not a single drop of water on board. But the
coffee-plant was saved; the colony enriched by it; Desclieux's pledge
redeemed; and, three months after, Louisa was his wife.