extremely fine. The river below took a bend almost in the shape of the
crook of a man's elbow, and enclosed an island covered with houses,
connected with the shore by a large bridge. But soon we had shut the
view of the water behind us, and as we progressed inland the smell of
the sea disappeared entirely.
The man Baptiste, alongside of whom I was sitting on the second seat,
had the impassive, expressionless face of the trained servant. As he was
not disposed to be communicative, and had evidently been told to treat
me with respect, I grew reserved, and out of caution I kept silent; but
nevertheless my enjoyment was not prevented from being of the very
keenest.
I could crowd these pages by detailing my sensations. I could have sung
or shouted, so high were my spirits. And I had to keep all this to
myself; and being but a lad, as I say, it was far from easy. Two or
three times I got down to stretch my legs, and thus I found myself
walking behind the coach as we entered the little hamlet of Witney. In
fact I did not know that we were so close to a village until I saw the
guard get out his horn to toot it, as was his custom when approaching
one.
Running after the coach, I swung myself on board just as we rolled
across a bridge over a small clear stream. We had taken on fresh horses
at a place called Burford, if I remember rightly, some short time back,
and we would not have stopped at the little place we were entering at
all (the driver was pleased with himself and proud of the rate at which
we had been travelling), but as we went by the gate of a private park we
were hailed, and looking over the side, I saw two officers in
regimentals waiting to be taken up on the coach. One of them had the
uniform of the Somersetshire regiment that had been stationed at the
Stapleton prison. In fact I recognized the man before he had seated
himself as one of my former guardians. But he glanced carelessly at us,
and stared rather insolently into the face of a young country lass who
was evidently leaving home, as she had had her handkerchief to her eyes
for the past hour or more.
I need not have feared recognition if I had thought for a minute, for I
was something of a dandy in my way. My legs were encased in gray
breeches buttoned tightly from the knee to the ankle. My coat, with its
long tails, was of blue cloth, with brass buttons, and the large velvet
collar reached up behind, almost swamping my ears. My waist-coat had
wide lapels (pulled outside the coat), and was made of cream-colored
satin. My stock was of clean white linen, and my hat, that was a trifle
too small, would persist in getting rakishly over my left eye, as if it
understood that I was careless, happy, and defiant of bad fortune.
I believe I could write pages of descriptions of all I saw and felt on
this journey, but I am really most anxious myself to reach the more
interesting part of it, and so resist temptation. We arrived at Oxford
in the late afternoon. I was delighted at the glimpses of the old
college buildings and the students playing at cricket in the fields,
while through the trees I could see that we were near a river, as now
and then the water would flash into sight.
When we reached the inn at which we intended to stop, Monsieur de
Brissac, who had arrived already, sent for me to come to his room. I was
fully prepared to carry up his box or to tend him in any way, as
befitted my supposed position; but as soon as I entered the apartment he
greeted me with a smile.
"Monsieur le Marquis," he said, "be seated."
A queer tingling thrilled me as he called me by that title.
"I will explain to you," Monsieur de Brissac went on, "that in London
there are a large number of us who have been forced to take up residence
outside of France. Your own story is so remarkable that although,
believe me, I myself do not doubt it, it would not be best to tell it to
every one who might listen. Therefore, believe me, forget, as you have
said, that you were an American, put outside from you the idea, above
all things, that you have escaped from a prison of the English, and
indeed, if possible, show little knowledge of the tongue. It is a
frightful speech at the best, and racks the throat and ears. To people
whom you meet you are Jean Amédée de Brienne, son of le Marquis Henri
Amédée Lovalle de Brienne; your story is that you have come to England
from America" (he lowered his voice and looked over his shoulder) "to
join us. Ah, we need young blood and swords."
"But, Monsieur le Marquis," I interrupted, intending to blurt out the
truth and abide by the consequences, "there is just one thing I--"
Monsieur de Brissac playfully touched me on the shoulder. "Never mind
about that now," he said; "you will understand everything in a short
time. Perhaps some day your grandfather's great estates shall belong to
you, as they must in the sight of God and the saints, and as the blessed
Church allows it to be true. Then," he exclaimed--"then we will whip
this _canaille_, lash these dogs into shape, or drown them as they
drowned us, eh? Ah, yes, that we will do. The bubble will soon burst,
and they will be glad to take our crumbs. But no more for to-day.
To-morrow you shall be informed. I know that you are to be trusted,
monsieur. Say nothing. It is my pleasure to serve you. Be cautious with
others."
Of course this touched me, and I do not doubt I showed it as I bowed
myself out of Monsieur de Brissac's apartments, that were the best the
place afforded. Our conversation had been held in French, of course, and
in setting this down I have condensed it somewhat, but the gist of what
he said is here.
I had begun to grow very much attached to my kind patron, for such I
call him in this recounting; and I also was much taken with the elder
man, the Marquis de Senez; but he was not so frank or, if I may say it,
so simple as the other.
* * * * *
Well! I have taken a leap over two weeks of time as the very best way to
avoid falling into the error of becoming verbose.
It is a great shift of scene. Here I was, seated in a low-backed
soft-cushioned chair, with my feet on another, a linen napkin tucked in
about my throat, and over me was bending a strange little old man who
addressed me as "monsieur le marquis," as he curled my hair with a pair
of hot irons. Now truly this was a change from being a prisoner at
Stapleten, a scarecrow-clad figure doddering along the highway, or even
from the position of a gentleman's gentleman riding outside of a coach
on the post-road. Yet all these three had I been almost within the
fortnight, and what was I now? Why, "le Marquis de Brienne," who dined
with noblemen, and had learned in these few short days to make pretty
speeches to ladies of quality in silks and satins. What is more, I was
fairly launched as a conspirator.
I hope that none who reads this will suppose that I was not sailing a
proper course, or that I was living a life of deceit for the purpose of
gain, for the reason that it is evident that I am gifted with an
adaptable temperament. Oh no! I hope I can say that what money I had I
came by honestly, for it had been given to me with the intention that I
should pay it back at some future time (I have paid it long since, to
the last penny), and I was imposing on no one, unless it was my friend
Monsieur de Brissac, whose pleasure it was to do anything for me, and
lastly there is nothing in all this that is intended as an apology of my
position.
It cannot be said that I was luxuriously surrounded, despite that I was
lolling in an easy-chair and having my hair curled by my own private
servant. I was living in lodgings on the top floor of a house not far
from Orchard Street, off Piccadilly, a house that had more the dignity
of age in its appearance than an air of prosperity. I was the possessor
of a suite of four rooms under the roof.
The click of the irons ceased for a minute.
"Ah, Monsieur le Marquis, I remember well your grandfather when I was a
young man, and he not much older! He wore his own hair, monsieur. I
never remember seeing him in anything else. It was much handsomer than a
wig. You resemble him much, monsieur."
[Illustration: "IF MARY COULD ONLY SEE ME NOW."]
This speech had called me back to myself, for at that moment I had been
thinking of Mary Tanner and the old days on the hill-side at Belair.
Yes, there was no doubt about it, she was much prettier than the
Comtesse de Navarreins, with whom I had danced a quadrille the previous
evening. What a strange career I had had! Oh, if Mary could see me now!
How fine it was to be the nobleman! How Mary's eyes would open!
But the old servant was waiting for me to speak.
"Ah, Gustave," I replied, making a wry face at myself in the glass, for
the old man had given my hair a tremendous twist with the tongs, "I
doubt that we shall see the old days again. From what I hear, France
seems to be getting ahead fairly well without such men as my
grandfather. The people seem to be able to look out for themselves and
struggle on."
I glanced at the reflection of the old man's face. On it was a compound
of expressions.
"Monsieur le Marquis," he said, quietly, "had they not killed the
kindest master in the world I should be one of them to-day. It is that
alone that made me leave my country. Could I but forget the guillotine
and the days of horror, and that I really loved my King, I could rejoice
in France's every victory."
It rather surprised me to hear the old man speak thus, for his language
was better than one might expect to hear from the lips of one who had
been born and bred a lackey. But they set me to thinking, and his next
question chimed in well with my thoughts.
"You have seen France, Monsieur le Marquis?" he asked.
"No, Gustave, I have never been there," I replied. "I have lived my life
in far-off America."
Now with this word a surge of pride came over me. What was this France
that I had never seen to me? What were the plottings of the little band
of nobles who had been despoiled of what they called their rights? Why,
_I_ was an American! There was my heart! Could I ever truly enter in
with all my will and spirit for the cause or the factions of another
exiled government? What reward was there for me? Ay, what reward? I
remembered those brave men whom I had left in prison. (Ah, one can learn
patriotism in a prison!) Sutton, the boatswain's mate, with the stars
and stripes as big as your two hands tatooed across his broad chest,
came in my mind's eye. His country's flag was mine! The watchword of
Lawrence, that had been brought to us by the prisoners from the
_Chesapeake_, rang in my ears as it had rung through the crowded prison,
"Don't give up the ship!" Of a truth I was no Frenchman, though I could
pass as such, and had done so.
Wondering what my messmates had been saying about my strange
disappearance, I fell into a reverie of retrospection. Where were
Captain Temple and the _Young Eagle_? Where was Cy Plummer, who had
loaned me his belongings, and who, in my mind's eye, I could see with
his bundle over his shoulder, chanting his song as he went over the
hill? Where was the brave sailor who had thrown his severed hand at the
feet of the English officer, and what was I but a person who was
allowing himself to become deeper embroiled in a cause in which he had
no heart, and becoming committed deeper and deeper every day to plots
and conspiracies for whose methods he had no stomach (yes, I may set it
down--assassination, dagger, and pistol, were spoken of). Truly I had no
place here, and a great wish came over me that I could exchange this
borrowed finery, and this assumption of being what I was not, for a
sailor's toggery, the wide sweep of the sea, and take up again my life
on a vessel to whose peak I might look up and see the flag for whose
sake _my_ countrymen were dying, for whose sake I should and would be
fighting as soon as God would let me.
The door of the little room opened. Gustave had long since had my hair
arranged to his satisfaction, and I had been sitting in silence I know
not how long. But with the draught of air from the hallway I turned my
head and saw a small dwarf of a man, who was a sort of a servant and
boots in the house, standing there with the morning paper. I took
it--the London _Times_--and read the head-lines in the first column,
"England's Disgrace," in big black letters. And below it, "Has Another
Vessel Been Lost in Single Action to the United States?" Hastily I read
the reported rumor (pity 'twas nothing else) of the capture of another
forty-four-gun frigate by the _Constitution_. I laughed aloud at the
_Times_'s expressions of astonishment that such things should be, and
then I threw the paper down and burst into a loud huzza.
Gustave had been watching me as if he thought I had suddenly turned
madman.
"Is Napoleon defeated?" he inquired.
"No, no; not that," I answered, smiling to myself, and I think truly
that the old man gave a sigh of relief. At this moment there was a tap
on the door, and the old servant laid down the fine plum-colored coat
that he had been preparing for my wearing, and Monsieur de Brissac was
ushered in by him with a low bow. The nobleman closed the door behind
him. "Mon ami," he said, hurriedly, "I would speak to you alone."
Gustave (he had been "loaned" to me by De Senez) was too old a servant
to be told. He picked up a pair of boots and went out into the hallway.
"It is arranged!" cried Monsieur de Brissac, speaking quickly and
excitedly. "Three of us must leave for Paris. A cipher letter has been
received. The time is most opportune, my dear Blondin."
He gave me an embrace, to which I confess I replied, because he was my
friend, and then he continued. "You are the one to go with us," he said.
"De Senez and you and myself. We can face the danger bravely, mon ami.
Consider the reward!"
Ay, there it was again, "the reward." What did I really care for it?
"I have an invitation for you to be one of a little partie carrée this
evening," Monsieur de Brissac went on. "I judge it is best that you
attend. Eh, what's the matter?"
I was standing with my back to him looking out of the window, when he
approached and placed his hand upon my shoulder. I turned, and his eyes
met mine. I was constrained to speak at once of what was uppermost in my
thoughts. It required some courage.
"Monsieur de Brissac," I asked, "what do you really think of me?"
"I think you are one who can be trusted," he replied. "In fact, on that
I would stake my life; but--" He hesitated.
"But what?" I inquired.
"I pray you not to take offence," my kind friend went on; "but why
should I not tell you? The manner of your joining us was certainly most
strange, and in some minds has excited a suspicion. That there have been
spies among us, I know well; but you--"
I interrupted him. "Believe me, my dear friend, I would rather die than
betray a single word of what I have heard or know by being told. But
listen"--I spoke earnestly and slowly--"one can be honest with a friend.
I truly doubt the ultimate success of any scheming to restore the old
French régime. I have thought everything over carefully, and have come
to a decision, my first statement put aside."
Monsieur de Brissac said nothing, but stood there listening, with one
elbow on the mantel-piece, whilst I continued speaking. It was some
minutes before I had finished, but I told him frankly of my position,
and what I considered right for me to do. He was most attentive, and
although once or twice I saw that he felt like making some interruption,
he restrained himself.
"I shall not ask," he said at last, "why you did not tell me this thing
before; but, believe me, even at this late hour, monsieur, I appreciate
the confidence that you have placed in me. As to your misgivings in
regard to our attempts to restore the better things, I shall say
nothing. If you have weighed carefully the matter, I shall not attempt
to dissuade you. But one thing, spoken as a friend, I must tell you: Do
not, for your life, breathe a word of this to De Senez or to any of the
others."
"Tell me, what am I to do?" I asked. "I am in your power--your hands."
"It would be wrong," the Marquis replied, musingly, but with a sad tone
in his words, "not to help you, aside from the requirements of
friendship. So do not fear."
"I do not fear; I do not fear," I reiterated. "But what shall I do?"
"You must come with us to France," Monsieur de Brissac answered,
speaking in the same low tone of voice. "Despite the embargo laid on
trade and importations by the usurper, money works corruption,
corruption means many things. It is a known fact that licenses to enter
French ports have been sold to both American and English vessels. You
are not safe in this country. Come with us to where danger will be no
less, but chances to follow your own ideas the better. I can explain
that you have left for some French port when you leave us, and if you do
not return, I shall join in the mourning, that is all. We will increase
our party by one in order to keep up the original number. I shall let
you know to-night how we intend to leave England. Good-by, until this
evening. Au revoir, monsieur."
When he had gone I began to think and ponder over what had passed. Had I
been foolish in being so frank and clear spoken? A word from the
Marquis, and I might be returned to the hulks or the prison-yard. Yet in
getting out of England lay my only chance. From what had gone before, I
understood that it was intended to make a voyage across the Channel in
one of the small smuggling vessels that plied an adventurous and
remunerative trade along the coast of England, despite the careful
watching of the coast-guard vessels and the war-ships. But Monsieur de
Brissac's manner had chilled towards me--I felt that. My words had
killed the enthusiasm with which he had always addressed me. I half
feared that I had been rash.
Notwithstanding this, we made rather a merry party at the gathering that
evening. To all intents, nothing had occurred, and not until it came to
the breaking up of the little poverty-stricken court, which was held at
the mansion of the Comtesse de Navarreins, was there anything said of
the approaching departure; but as we left, De Brissac ran his arm
through mine, at the same time saying, "I shall walk home with you, if
you will permit me, Monsieur de Brienne." We strolled in silence, I
waiting for my friend to speak. At last he did so, at my door. "At
twelve o'clock to-night you and I will start northwards in a chaise, and
to-morrow evening," he whispered, softly, "we will find ourselves in the
neighborhood of N----, where we will meet the others, and debark, if the
weather permits, in one of the little luggers that cut deeply into the
King's revenue. If we land safely on the other side, you had best leave
us at once. Leave it all to me. In an hour I call for you."
* * * * *
Before daylight of the next morning Monsieur de Brissac and myself were
some thirty miles north of London, driving through the county of Essex.
At about ten o'clock we breakfasted at a way-side tavern, where we
exchanged our tired horse for two saddle beasts, I having quite a tussle
with mine as I mounted, and then we pressed ahead all the afternoon,
expecting to be near the little village of N---- some time in the
evening. It was damp and chilly for this time of the year; the prospect
was not fine in the way of scenery, and my companion was in no talkative
frame of mind. It was strange; I was, so to speak, a blind man in the
power of his guide, for if I should lose Monsieur de Brissac, I should
be in a bad way. At last I knew we were near the sea, for I could smell
it in the air long before it burst in view.
I wondered greatly at my patron's knowledge of the road and the by-ways
by which we reached this particular bit of the coast. For hours we had
ridden across a wind-swept plateau, seamed by many deep-worn paths
running in all directions. In the earlier part of the afternoon
gibbetlike sign-posts had helped to point us to the right direction, but
as it grew toward dusk we saw none of them, and yet never once had
Monsieur de Brissac faltered; turning and twisting and yet keeping the
same general direction, until he had brought us to the edge of the
narrow height along which we were riding. Finally we sighted a little
cluster of huts, whose roofs we looked down upon from the top of a
great, high sand cliff, and then Monsieur de Brissac pointed.
"Your eyes are good," he said. "Can you see whether there is anything
hanging from the window of the house nearest yonder small dock?"
I gazed intently. In the growing darkness I could make out a white rag
or something fluttering from the window-sill, and so I reported.
"The signal," was the response to my information. "They are ahead of us,
and all is well."
It was no easy job to urge our tired nags down the steep runway, and had
my mount backed and filled the way he had when I first put my leg over
him, we might both of us have pitched headlong upon the roofs of some of
the outlying huts, for they were scarcely more.
I suppose that this little village was considered of too small
importance to be watched closely by the government, but it must have
been apparent that it was not fishing or net-mending that kept so many
stalwart sailor-men there.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
CAPTAIN LEARY'S SAMOAN EXPERIENCE.
SOME STIRRING INCIDENTS IN RECENT AMERICAN NAVAL HISTORY.
BY FRANKLIN MATTHEWS.
[Illustration: CAPTAIN LEARY AT SAMOA.]
No man can deny that there are times when war, with all its horrors, is
necessary and honorable. One of these times is when war is waged for the
rights of common humanity. Some of the most stirring episodes in our
history have been associated with this kind of noble effort. Many a time
have the decks of our men-of-war been cleared for action in such a
cause. Many a time has some one of our naval officers, thousands of
miles away from home, with no means of asking for instructions, taken
action which meant warfare, with its loss of life and great expenditure
of money, simply because he knew he was doing what was right, and really
was acting for the civilized nations of the world. We thundered at the
gates of Japan. We have fired on and punished pirates. Only recently we
cleared our ships for action in the harbor of Rio de Janeiro. More than
fifty years ago one of the bravest men that ever wore the naval uniform
of the United States defied the power of Austria in her own waters
because she would not give up an American citizen confined on one of her
war-ships, and the roar of "Old Ingraham," as he ordered his ship
cleared for action when he knew that in a fight he would probably be
beaten, was heard around the world.
Most of these "minor episodes" of our navy have been associated with the
misdeeds of half-civilized nations. Occasionally one has had to do with
a nation of first rank. One of these was the stand of Ingraham in
Austria. I want to tell of another deed which, in my judgment, was as
important as that of Ingraham, and which came within a hair's-breadth of
involving us, in 1889, in war with Germany, then, as now, a nation of
great military prowess. It is a story the full details of which have
never been made known, and one that should make American blood tingle
with pride. The story reveals the heroism of one of our naval officers
who has always refused to exalt his part of the work, saying he merely
did his duty; he did not hesitate, even if war with Germany should
result, to uphold the honor of our flag, and to protect women and
children and the sick and infirm in the name of humanity.