The Unfortunate Sailor.
Among the many thousand pretty girls that might be seen any fine
afternoon walking down the shady side of Buchanan Street, Glasgow,
few would be found possessing more attractive features and pleasing
expression than Agnes Malcolm. Not that she was the most beautiful girl
in Glasgow, for Agnes was hardly what one would call a beauty; but there
was a something in her face that made it particularly attractive,
and caused every passer-by involuntarily to turn and look after her,
although, were the pedestrian cross-questioned as to what he found to
admire in the young lady, he would have been puzzled what to reply.
Agnes had regular features, good hazel eyes, but not unusually bright
ones, a high intellectual forehead, and tresses of a light auburn hue;
her cheeks were soft as peaches and as delicately tinted, and when she
smiled, which was often, she displayed a complete set of teeth for
which no dentist had ever received a fee. Her sister Alice was the
acknowledged belle of the circle in which the Malcolm family revolved,
and was already of a much more decided type, but Agnes had a frank,
lovable expression of countenance that brightened everywhere she went
like a sunbeam, and although she was not particularly witty (being
indeed rather reserved and shy in her manner), yet she had such a sweet
voice, and talked so naturally and with such a lack of affectation, that
it was a pleasure to hold converse with her.
Mr. Malcolm, the girl’s father, had been Captain of an ocean steamer
running between Glasgow and Baltimore and adjacent ports, he had gone
down in the good ship Cyclops, or rather the _bad ship_ Cyclops, for
she proved herself to be utterly unseaworthy, and foundered on her first
trip out, Mrs. Malcolm, being near her confinement at the time, was
taken prematurely ill, and, although she rallied for a time, she never
got fairly well again, and finally followed her husband to the grave,
leaving the two girls to the care of a married sister of their late
father, who, having educated them as became their station, was at the
time of which my narrative treats debating whether she would send them
out to earn their living, or, keeping them a little longer, bring them
out in the hope of getting them married.
Alice saved her all further deliberation by announcing in her careless,
happy style that she had engaged to marry a young ship chandler who had
frequently came to the house, but had paid so much attention to _both_
the young ladies that it was difficult to tell which, if any, of them he
was going to marry. Having made up his mind, however, he did not wish to
delay matters, so, as Alice was only too happy to start an establishment
of her own immediately, he gave notice at the kirk for the following
week, and the wedding was celebrated amidst much rejoicing. Alice was
glad to get a husband, and to be independent of her aunt. Mr. Taylor,
her husband, was delighted to get such a beautiful and accomplished
bride, and the old lady, Alice’s aunt, was heartily glad to get rid of
them both, so that never was rejoicing more universal.
But poor Agnes was not so elated. She did not mind her sister being
preferred by Mr. Taylor, for she did not want Mr. Taylor, and besides
Alice was two years her senior, and it was to be expected that she
would be married first. It was her position at home that made her feel
miserable. Whereas the work had been divided between the two girls, it
now was supposed to be done by one; moreover, Mrs. Whitcher, Agnes’s
aunt, began to bully her more than ever, wondering _aloud_ why she could
not get a husband as her sister had done, after so much money had been
spent on her education, and so forth.
Agnes could have had her choice not of one, but of _ten husbands_, had
she wished to do as her sister had done and taken the first eligible man
who offered. But the idea of marrying for an establishment never entered
her unsophisticated brain, and, as she had not yet met her _beau ideal_
of a husband, she waited patiently, bearing the scoffs and jeers of her
unsympathetic aunt without a murmur, and giving in return for her daily
bread labor that in any other establishment would have yielded her no
small remuneration, had any time in the past two years paid attention
to Agnes Malcolm, was a young man named George Fairfield, second mate
of the ship “Glenalpine,” a good looking young fellow about twenty-three
years old, who was the son of respectable English parents residing at
Liverpool. Agnes, though rather partial to the young man, had paid a
deaf ear to his addresses, not caring to marry a man unless she could
give him her whole heart, but after her sister had gone, and she was
left in utter loneliness, the rude but honest sympathy and love of the
handsome sailor went to her heart, and she consented to marry him on his
return from his next trip.
George Fairfield went off as happy as if he had been suddenly appointed
Port Admiral. He felt not the ground he walked on, so light was his
heart and also his tread as he stepped home with his eyes fixed on the
stars, but his mind picturing that happy scene which had been all too
short. He whistled a bar or two of “Love’s Young Dream” as he stepped
gaily along, hoping to receive orders to sail on the morrow; not, as he
tried to explain to his lady-love, that he was anxious to get away from
her, but because he wished to be soon back again, when, receiving a
berth as first mate, he would be in a position to claim her as his
bride. The ship did not sail for a week, and when it did George would
have pleaded for one day more in spite of his previous hurry to be off,
however, there was no help for it, “For men must work and women must
weep, though storms be sudden and waters deep,” and so Mr. George took
his position at the taffrail, and contented himself with flying a blue
handkerchief over the stern of the vessel till the forms on shore
were no longer visible. Agnes returned to her every day occupation as
household drudge, sad at losing her lover, yet not so sad as she would
have been had she really given, him her whole heart unconstrainedly; she
shed a few tears as the vessel left the quay, then turning homewards she
mentally counted the weeks which were to elapse ere she should again see
the tapering masts of the “Glenalpine.” She made her preparations for
her wedding methodically and without excitement, and, following her
suitor’s instructions, bought furniture according to her taste for the
little cottage he had rented in anticipation of his exalted rank as
first officer of a clipper.
At length the _Shipping Gazette_ announced the Glenalpine as “homeward
bound,” and in due time she was entered at the Custom House. George
rushed with all speed to Mrs. Whitcher’s, and was met with open arms by
his intended bride. She was not very demonstrative, it is true, but she
was glad to see him, and as her face lit up at his approach, the poor
weather-beaten tar forgot all about a fearful gale he had just came
through and its attendant perils, and wondered whether Heaven could
possibly be an improvement on Mrs. Whitcher’s front garden.
The wedding took place (as previously arranged) the next day, and the
young couple took up their quarters at their new abode, George voting
the cottage a decided improvement on the ship and Agnes smiling with
delight at the thought of leaving Mrs. Whitcher’s for ever. The ship
remained in port about three weeks, and during that time the young
couple lived not only figuratively but literally “in clover,” as the
cottage they had taken was on the margin of a clover meadow, the sweet
perfume of which pervaded the atmosphere with its health-giving gases,
gladdening the hearts and adding to the vitality of all who came under
its influence.
But no earthly joys can last forever. George received a telegram
ordering him to be in readiness to sail at any moment and finally an
order for embarkation.
With a heavy heart he parted from his young and beautiful wife, the
hope, however, of returning a richer man, better able to make her
comfortable, cheered his manly spirit, and, clasping her once more in
his fond embrace, he jumped into the boat and gave the men the order to
pull to his vessel. His wife stood on the shore wistfully gazing at the
ship till she was no longer visible, then, with a heavy step, she turned
slowly homewards. She thought of the long weary hours she would have to
count ere she would see him again, and, although she had never loved him
passionately, she felt his departure so keenly that she wept long
and bitterly. For days she sat moodily looking out at the sea in the
direction his vessel had taken, and a sad foreboding filled her heart
that she would never see him more. Her comforter in her fitful hours was
her maid, a French-Canadian girl, who had some years previously come to
England in the capacity of stewardess on an ocean steamer, but, having
taken fever during the vessel’s stay in port, and been conveyed to the
hospital, she was obliged to take service till she could again procure a
situation on board ship. This girl--she was named Arline Bertrand--was a
native of Montreal, and at this time about twenty-four years of age
and rather good-looking. Bending over her mistress she would say: “Ah,
Madame, Monsieur Fairfield he come back _riche, riche_, with plentee
nice thing for you!”
A few weeks after the vessel’s departure Mrs. Fairfield received news
from the agents of the safe arrival of the vessel at Montreal, and
shortly afterwards she received a letter from her husband, full of joy
at the prospect of seeing her again, and of clasping her in his arms.
But, though “man proposes, God disposes,” and the programme which
poor George Fairfield had so fondly laid out and hoped to execute was
destined to be sadly altered. Weighing anchor late on Saturday night
they proceeded slowly down the river, and on the following Tuesday were
out at sea. The wind was blowing a little fresh, but that suited Captain
Fairfield admirably, for as it was a strong westerly wind, and blowing
right astern it only sent his ship on all the faster, so, crowding on
nearly all the canvas his experience had taught him was safe, he bent
over the taffrail and whistled for more wind to bear him joyously along.
All day long they scudded gaily onward, and although towards evening the
wind moderated a little still they went along at a pretty fair pace,
and Captain Fairfield and his ship’s company drank their grog heartily,
anticipating a pleasant and speedy voyage. At bedtime the Captain went
on deck, and, ordering the mate to keep a good lookout, went below and
“turned in.” He was not long in his berth when he heard a great running
and shouting over his head, and then the cry of “Ice ahead!” from the
look-out met his ears. With one bound he rushed on deck, and gave the
order, to “‘Bout ship,” which the mate had already given; but there was
no time to do more than port helm, and so avoid the direct shock from
the massive iceberg, into which at that moment they rushed with terrible
force, the water pouring in torrents, and many of the men being killed
by falling pieces of ice which towered several feet above the mast-head.
The boats were lowered with all speed, and were hardly clear of the
“Glenalpine” when she went down with a plunge head first, and not a
vestige of hull, spars or masts was to be seen. A few of the men had
jumped or fallen into the water; these were all picked up, and on
counting heads it was found that none were missing except the mate and
two sailors, who had been killed by the falling ice.
So great had been the hurry of shoving off that they found themselves
without chart, compass, or provisions, save a little keg of water and
a small flask of brandy. However, judging by the direction of the wind,
which the Captain had noted carefully before retiring, the boats’ heads
were put in the direction of the island of Anticosti, and, keeping as
nearly as possible together (there were three boats’ crews), they pulled
hard all night for shore. When the morning broke they fancied they
observed the loom of the land in the distance, and a shout of joy
involuntarily burst from the whole company; they were doomed, however,
to disappointment, for, on the mist clearing away, they could observe
nothing but sky and sea for miles on every hand. The Captain was
completely puzzled how to act, so, summoning a council of war in the
gig, they came to the conclusion that, as they might, instead of pulling
toward the land, pull farther away from it, there was no use wasting
their strength pulling at all, and that they had better keep a careful
look out for vessels either going to or coming from America, and trust
in Providence. The water was served carefully out, and the Captain took
the brandy into his own charge, the men encouraging each other with
tales of their past experience in situations equally trying and still
more dangerous.
All day they bobbed about on the dancing waves, the oarsmen pulling just
sufficiently to keep headway on their respective boats, but not a sign
of either land or passing vessel was visible. The last round of water
was served out, and the men tried hard to induce the Captain to
hand them over the brandy, some of them sullenly, and intimating an
inclination to take the bottle by force; but the Captain cocking his
revolver, which he had fortunately retained, they subsided into silence,
and lay moodily at the bottom of the boat. They passed the night with
heavy hearts, and when morning dawned despair seized every man of them,
for not a vestige of land was to be seen, neither was there a boat
of any kind in sight. Fortunately the weather was remarkably calm and
clear, so they had no difficulty in keeping together, and in sharing
equally their little supply of water, but now that that was gone what
were they to do?
Just as they were about to give up all hope a cry of joy from the boat
further to windward caused the occupants of the other two boats to rest
on their oars, and turn in that direction; they strained their eyes in
the endeavor to descry something beyond, but could see nothing. However,
those nearest the point in question evidently could, and so they turned
back and pulled against the wind with all their might, and in a few
minutes the boatswain sung out, “A sail ahead”! causing their hearts to
jump for joy. It was indeed a vessel which was rapidly coming towards
them. It proved to be an American brig called “Frances Smith,” which
was bound for the Mediterranean, and the Captain no sooner sighted the
signals of distress which were waved from the boats than he immediately
hove to and picked the exhausted party up. The brig was rather crowded,
as she was of small tonnage; however, the crew never murmured at the
new-comers, but consented to accept a reduction in their rations, so
that the half-famished men might receive a daily allowance.
The brig proceeded on her way, the rescued men insisting on doing their
share of the work, and greatly lightened the labors of the crew. Within
a few days, however, their powers were tried to the uttermost; the wind
freshened to a gale, and threatened to annihilate the poor old brig,
which was not in extra seaworthy condition. They were by this time more
than half-way across the Atlantic, where the seas run sometimes as high
as the yard-arm, and take several days to calm down when they have once
been lashed into fury. The ship’s timbers creaked and groaned, and the
carpenter and his men had much ado to stop the numerous leaks which
sprung in her sides. The next day it blew a hurricane, taking the fore
mast and mainmast away, together with most of the rigging, and leaving
the vessel almost a total wreck. As they were not far from the southern
coast of Ireland, the Captain ordered the boats to be got ready with
sails, arms and provisions; he also took with him a chart and compass,
by which he was enabled to steer for the Fastnat Rock. There was
scarcely room for the large party in the boats, but they all got safely
in, a few minutes before the waterlogged brig went down like a lump of
lead. They had not much to eat, but they had a good supply of water,
and, as all the boats were well fitted with sails, the Captain hoped
to make the Irish coast within a few days, the wind being much more
moderate and in their favor.
Poor George Fairfield was sick at heart. He was so anxious to get home
to his darling wife, and there he was for the second time at sea in an
open boat, without the means of communicating with his loved Agnes, or
of telling her why he was not at her side. Nevertheless he accepted the
state of affairs with calm resignation, and he and the American Captain
laid their heads together to find out exactly where they were and what
course they had best pursue.
As they had had time to take with them a sextant chromometer and
Palinurus, they had no difficulty next day in taking observations, and
found themselves about five hundred miles W.N.W. of Mizen Head. As
it was no use depending on being picked up they made all sail in that
direction, and so rapidly did the strong west wind propel them that
on taking observations the next day they found themselves nearly one
hundred and fifty miles nearer land. It was fortunate that they made
such headway, for they had only one day’s provisions left, and the water
was getting pretty scarce; however, the wind continued favorable, and
in less than three days more, half famished and thoroughly chilled
from exposure, they found themselves at midnight a few miles from the
entrance of Queenstown Harbor.
Furling their sales, they took to the oars with a will and pulled wildly
towards the landing-place, where they were pleased to hear voices in
conversation. Just then a long whistle was heard from shore, and a husky
voice half whispered, “Boat ahoy!” “Aye, aye,” was the glad response
as the shipwrecked men threw the painter to the owner of the voice,
and taking their arms and instruments, bounded on shore. Imagine their
surprise to find themselves surrounded, their muskets knocked from their
hands, and the latter speedily encircled with a pair of manacles. The
Captain of the Brig tried to remonstrate with the commander of the
party, but a navy revolver was pointed at his head, and he was forbidden
to utter a word. Finding resistance and remonstrance altogether out
of the question, the unfortunate men marched on silently as directed,
mentally endeavoring to explain this sample of Irish hospitality, and
confident that there must be a mistake somewhere, but of the precise
nature of that error they had not the faintest idea.
Arrived at the gaol, they were severally incarcerated and their
handcuffs taken off. Then, as they signified that they were hungry, they
were liberally supplied with buttermilk and oatmeal porridge, which many
of them thought the best and most sensible part of the whole proceeding.
As it was past midnight, and they were all nearly exhausted they allowed
their curiosity to wait till the morrow, and, without any questioning
or speculation, fell fast asleep, most of them remaining quiescent unfed
late the following afternoon. When they awoke they found a warm meal
awaiting them, but no reply as to the reason for their detention could
be got out of the turnkey, who seemed to think their question one of the
greatest jokes ever perpetrated within the precincts of that edifice. At
last Fairfield summoned the turnkey. There was something commanding
in his tone which bade the gaoler treat him with respect, and to his
enquiry as to whether he could see a lawyer the man replied that he
could send for one immediately, but would vouchsafe no information.
In a short time Councillor Quinn called in answer to Captain Fairfield’s
summons, when the latter asked him to explain what reason the
authorities had for treating him in this fashion. The eminent legal
practitioner evidently thought this as great a joke as did Mr.
Fitzgerald, the turnkey, for he thrust his tongue in his cheek, and
remained silent. On Fairfield reiterating the question in a stern tone
he became more serious and said affably “My dear sir, do you not know
what you are arrested for?”
Fairfield then became angry and said “If I did, why would I send for you
to tell me? Is this your boasted Irish hospitality, in the exercise of
which you lock up every man who happens to be cast away on your shores,
and then laugh at him when he asks you a civil question?”
On seeing that Fairfield had really lost his temper, the astonished
barrister said “Did you not command the party of armed men who were
captured last night in the harbor?”
“I commanded a crew of shipwrecked sailors, as also did my companion in
ill-treatment, Captain Westover.”
“Ah! Well of course you can put in that plea if you wish at your trial,
but I am afraid it will avail you little. Your arms, too, are of an
American pattern, similar to that known to be used by the Fenians.”
“Good Heavens! do they take me for a Fenian?” said Fairfield,--“why,
I am an English officer, captain of a merchant vessel of the port of
Glasgow.”
“Have you any papers to prove this?” said the lawyer.
“No, they all went down with the vessel, but they can easily find out
whether my statements be correct by communicating with the agents.”
“That will be for you to do, when you are brought to trial, which
may not be for some time, as there is a surplus of work on hand this
session.”
“But can I not demand a trial?”
“No, the _Habeas Corpus_ Act is suspended, and you must just make
yourself as comfortable as you can under the circumstances.”
Poor Fairfield wrung his hands and stamped the floor with rage. He
cursed Ireland and her people and laws, or rather the want of them;
then, as reason took the place of passion, he sat down and wrote a
letter to his wife, informing her of his deplorable condition, and
urging her to communicate with the agents of his vessel immediately.
This letter never reached her, for, having heard of the wreck of the
Glenalpine (some portions of the bows being found by a homeward-bound
steamer imbedded in a large block of ice), she never doubted for an
instant but that her husband had gone down with the vessel. The poor
girl now felt almost broken down. But for the sake of the child which
she expected she would have likely died with grief. The Canadian girl,
Arline Bertrand, had told her so much of Canada, especially of Montreal,
that she decided to follow the girl to her native land, and try to earn
a living for herself and child, should God spare it, there, particularly
as her aunt, Mrs. Whitcher, seemed to be afraid poor Agnes should return
to her. Mrs. Fairfield accordingly sold her little household goods,
and soon after bid her aunt and sister farewell, and took passage on
a Montreal steamer, Bertrand having secured for herself a place as
stewardess. Arrived in Montreal, she visited the girl’s parents, hoping
to find reasonable lodgings during her approaching sickness, but the
girl’s mother did not believe her daughter’s story about her young
mistress, but thought her a young unfortunate girl who had come to
Canada to hide her shame. She offered kindly to bring and introduce
her to the nuns of St. Pélagie as the most proper place for her in her
condition. Mrs. Fairfield, thanking her, was glad to find so suitable
a shelter. Paying her board a week in advance, she retired to her room,
but found to her surprise that room had several more occupants all
in the same condition. The manner and language of those unfortunate
creatures did not suit Mrs. Fairfield at all, and as she mentioned her
disappointment at not having a room to herself to one of the nuns, she
was informed that a private room was three times the amount. The sister
also told her that the babe when born could not be cared for there, but
would have to be sent to the Grey Nunnery, and that she had better part
with it as soon as born. This frightened poor Agnes so much that she
resolved not to stay there, come what might. Asking the next morning
permission to take a walk, she had great trouble to get it granted, the
nun informing her that the people in Montreal were so very bad, and that
she would run great danger to go out alone. But Agnes thought she would
risk this danger. She accordingly went up Campeau street, at which
corner St. Pélagie is situated. She walked and walked till she came to
St. Mary street. There inquiring for the residence of a physician, some
kind person directed her to Dr. P----‘s drug store on Notre Dame street.
To him she told her story and her desire to find a more suitable place.
He gave her the address of my house, and advised her to come under
my care. On hearing her story I could not for a moment doubt her
truthfulness, and received her gladly at, my place, sending the servant
with a note for Mrs. F----‘s things to St. Pélagie in the afternoon,
which were, after some little delay and trouble, handed out to her, no
doubt the sisters feeling sorry that the fair young English lady did
not return. Her former servant, Arline Bertrand, having returned as
stewardess to England again, Mrs. Fairfield did not care to let the
girl’s mother know that she had left the convent, hoping to find means
to let Arline know her whereabouts later, as the old lady had certainly
meant well enough when bringing her to St. Pélagie. Mrs. Fairfield was
only three weeks at my house when a baby boy was born to her. Then her
sorrows seemed to be greater than ever. She thought of having lost her
husband, the father of the innocent baby, so early seemed almost to kill
her, and I frequently heard her implore God to take them both. But
it was not in his wise ordination to grant her wish. She regained her
strength gradually, and with it grew the love for her child which in all
unconsciousness grew quite a stout little fellow who wanted to be fed,
clothed and cared for, which obligations fell alone on its mother, and
as her means became always smaller, she decided to take a situation
with a wealthy family from Savannah who were staying at this time at
my house, the Southern lady having taken a great interest from the
beginning of their meeting in Mrs. Fairfield, offered her a comfortable
home and fair compensation if she would accompany them, attend to
the wants of the lady and her baby during their travels, and act as
companion and housekeeper when at their Southern home. Mrs. Fairfield
took it very hard to part from her little boy, but leaving it with a
reliable nurse, and under my special observation, she was reconciled at
last. Hoping to return in one year, she left. Every thing went on well.
Her letters were full of gratitude. Her Southern friends never allowed
her to feel her subordinate position for a moment. She also remitted
regularly the wages for the nurse, and little George was, when fifteen
months old, a lovely fair boy, and as large as a child two years old.
Some months passed during which I did not hear from Mrs. Fairfield, nor
did the nurse receive her payment. I wrote to Savannah, but received
no answer. The nurse, poor woman, naturally could not keep the child
without payment, and brought him one fine afternoon to my house to leave
him, and also demanding the back pay. My own children, being delighted
with the dear little fellow, we decided to keep and bring him up as our
own child should his mother never return. And many of my fair patients
will remember the lovely, little curly-headed fellow who would run into
the parlor uninvited, but whose large blue eyes would appeal so sweetly
to be allowed to stay. Indeed we all became so attached to him that we
hoped nobody would ever claim him. And, as twelve months had passed, I
gave up all hope of ever hearing from Mrs. Fairfield again.
Fairfield had been confined in Pentenville, having been convicted on a
charge of felony-treason, and sentenced to five years’ imprisonment. His
wife and, friends not having heard of his trial, no one was present
to bear testimony in his favor, and both he and his men (many of whom
happened to be Irishmen) were imprisoned. The Americans claimed
the protection of their flag, a covering which proved sufficiently
substantial to protect them, but the only flag which could have been
claimed by poor unfortunate George was the very one he was accused of
attacking.
As the British Government did not wish to deal harshly with Fenian
prisoners, or, as its enemies said, was afraid to trample any longer on
the Irish people, George Fairfield and his companions, in common with
many real Fenians, were liberated some years before the expiration of
their term of servitude. Fairfield at once sought his late home, hoping
to find his wife and child still alive, and cursing his fate, which had
cast him twice on the pitiless ocean, only to be arrested and imprisoned
as soon as he got to land. But the worst had yet to come. When he
arrived at his old home and found it occupied by strangers his heart
sank within him; on enquiring for Mrs. Fairfield he was informed that
she had gone to America with her servant Bertrand. Grasping the railings
to keep himself from falling, the poor stricken man gazed wildly at
his informant, as though stunned by a severe blow; then gasping out an
apology of some kind he rushed along the street like a madman, stopping
not till he had got far out into the open country. There, throwing
himself headlong on the grass, he shed tears of anguish, moaning as
if in bodily pain. “Why did I not go down with the ship?” he cried
bitterly; “Was it for this I toiled twice over on the open sea? Ah, why
was I ever born to be tossed about, imprisoned, and deserted?”
For hours he lay insensible on the grass, till the cool evening air,
bringing his mind once more into activity, he arose with a groan, and
slowly retraced his steps, not caring whither he went. Passing along the
quay he looked at the dark, sullen water, and for a moment was impelled
to cast himself in and so put an end to his misery, but something in his
better nature restrained him, and he walked moodily along to where an
ocean steamer lay preparing for sea. Anything was better than inaction,
so, as his money was all gone and he would have some difficulty in
obtaining a position as Captain or even as mate, he shipped as a
foremast hand, and took his place with the crew. Right glad would he
have been to have changed places with any one of the jolly tars around
him; their songs and jests, however, diverted the current of his
thoughts and kept him from his bitter reflections for a time at least.
In a short time they were out at sea and, having plenty of work to do
handing sails, reefing and steering, he almost forgot his great and deep
heart-wound, and, although he could not be prevailed upon to sing a song
or even to join in a chorus, yet he listened attentively to the yarns of
the sailors, and always applauded their songs.
The vessel was trading between Glasgow and Montreal, and within a short
time they were anchored at the latter port; the sailors all went ashore
as soon as the vessel was safely moored, and Fairfield having nothing
else to occupy his mind, went up the wharf in search of Bertrand’s
parents house. He was directed to a house on St. Bonaventure street,
where he found the mother of Arline Bertrand all right, but her daughter
was not at home. She had gone as stewardess abroad again and married
there. She had promised to visit her parents at some future time. When
Captain Fairfield enquired about the lady she had come out with three
years previous, the old lady broke out into sobs, and told him that the
lady had died during her confinement in St. Pélagie, but that the nuns
would give him more information about it if he would go there. If the
babe had lived she did not know, but the sisters had offered to give to
her daughter the lady’s clothes and trunk if she came herself to demand
it. This last blow seemed to be the hardest in all his sorrow. Thinking
himself so near to find his beloved wife, and now all gone and forever,
it seemed to hard. But he would go and see the nuns and hear how she had
died, and if his child had lived or was alive now. This thought gave
him new hopes, and, Madame Bertrand offering to accompany him,
they proceeded to St. Pélagie to obtain an interview with the Lady
Superioress. He had never thought of the child before, but now it was
his whole thought and hope to find it alive.
Arriving at the convent he had not to wait very long to see the desired
lady, and on informing her of his wishes she most kindly consented to
search all records, but, as the number of patients received every year
is very large he had to content himself till the following day when she
would give him all the information he desired. The next day seemed
never coming. But at last poor George felt as if his worst doom would be
sealed now. The lady in waiting informed him that she felt happy to be
able to tell him that his child (a little girl) was alive and at that
present moment at a convent in Cemetery street, where he could see it
and take it out on payment of its maintenance. The lady’s clothes had
been disposed of. As already stated, a long time had elapsed since
her death. Capt. Fairfield, with a few lines from the sisters of St.
Pélagie, proceeded to the St. Joseph’s Home, on Cemetery street, and, on
handing the note, a little girl about three years old was shown to him
to be his child. The poor little girl seemed afraid to look at him, and
as the child could only speak French he felt as if a board was between
him and the child; but her looks, he thought, were somewhat like his
beloved Agnes. The child’s little curls had been cut a few days before,
so a nun told him. What was he to do with the child? He was not a
Captain now, and would have to make first a position for himself again,
and then he could claim his child. The child seemed happy, and the nuns
offering to keep it for a moderate price he decided to give what money
he had earned during his passage and come again and again till the
little girl could speak English to him, which the nuns promised to teach
her, and then, to take her home to his native land. He had no parents
alive, but he thought when going back to England he would call and see
Mrs. Taylor, Agnes’ sister Alice. He had never visited her, and he felt
so bad to think that she had not helped her sister in distress. He well
remembered his wife’s spirit and independence, and that made him think
that his wife had never made her wants known to them. However, the ship
sailed again. He brought toys and sweetmeats to his darling little girl,
to whom he felt with every visit more and more attached, and the parting
was harder than he could have imagined.
Returned to Glasgow. On a later voyage, he proceeded at once to
Mrs. Taylor’s house, and was struck at the happy appearance of his
sister-in-law, who, when she recognized him, became quite alarmed and
was near fainting. When Mr. Taylor, who was struck for a moment also,
regained his self-possession, he allowed poor George to tell his sad
story, both listening with interest. But when he related how his wife
had died and he had at last found his child--Alice broke out, “She is
not dead! She is not dead, George! We had a letter only a week ago. She
is in Paris.” George Fairfield was thunderstruck at this revelation.
Alice brought the letter, which he saw was from his Agnes. But how
could be this mistake with the deceased lady in the convent and the
child,--whose child was it!
Agnes wrote to her sister that she had intended travelling with the
Southern family to the Continent. When on the oceans the Franco-Prussian
war was declared. They had to stop at Southampton and, instead of going
to Germany, they went to the South of France, and, as she had no letters
from me for some time, she was almost beside herself. The Southern lady
being in such delicate state of health she could not think of leaving
her, but had to accompany her. All letters sent from or sent to France
were carefully inspected by the Government, and thus it happened that
I had not received any communication for a long time. She had at last
expected that her letters had gone astray, then she had written to her
sister, Mrs. Taylor, asking her to write to me and try to obtain in this
way information about her boy.
Captain Fairfield would have liked to start at once in search of his
darling wife, but Mr. Taylor, who saw the danger for him in going to
France at this time, prevented him from acting rashly, also fearing that
the sudden shock to Agnes in seeing her husband whom she had bemoaned
so long would be of great injury to her health, so it was decided that
Alice should write first, saying in her letter that there were some
hopes of Captain Fairfield being alive. The next mail should bring a
letter from the Captain himself to his wife. Both letters were duly
posted, but when the steamer on which George Fairfield was mate was
ready to sail again no answer had been received from, France, and George
had to cross the ocean again.
Having received my address from Mrs. Taylor he intended to come and see
me on his arrival in this port, and this time he was more fortunate:
the ship made a quick voyage, and as Mrs. Taylor had written to me by a
previous steamer, informing me of all these strange incidents, I looked
out for him.
One afternoon in the month of August, 1871, when I was driving along
the wharf, I saw a steamer coming in, and on enquiring the name of it I
found it was the one with which I expected Mr. Fairfield. I drove home
with all speed, and as it was late in the afternoon Master George had
his little white frock pretty well soiled; but, on telling him his papa
would soon, be here to see him, he consented readily to leave his play
and undergo an extra bathing--his little skin being so fair the least
speck would show--and scarcely had we finished the operation when the
door-bell rang and a weather-beaten gentlemen inquired for me. His
surprise was great when he found I had expected him, and on seeing his
beautiful child his happiness knew no bounds.
As soon as he had a little rested he related to us all his trials and
miseries, which seemed like a fairy tale. But when would Mrs. Fairfield
return and meet her husband, was the next question, and where? He came
every day and spent many an hour at our house playing with his child
and wishing for his wife to return. He often said it would be almost
too much happiness for him; that he was afraid something might cross his
plans again. I had written to Savannah again to hear if the family would
return from Europe soon. At last a letter came informing me that the
family, as also Mrs. Fairfield, had embarked on a New York steamer, and
would be expected home within a short time. When Captain Fairfield heard
the good news he made arrangements not to return with his vessel to
Glasgow but await the arrival of his long lost wife. He telegraphed to
the agents in New York, desiring them to deliver a telegram at once
to Mrs. Fairfield on her arrival. The message read thus: “Mrs. Capt.
Fairfield is wanted in Montreal immediately. Important business.
Answer.” In two days we had an answer which read: “Will start at once,
hope all well, Agnes Fairfield.” Late in the evening the same day the
New York train arrived rather late, but with it Captain Fairfield’s
wife. When the Captain saw his wife approaching he dropped the boy and
ran towards her, calling her by her name, but she no sooner saw him than
she fell senseless just inside the hall door. I would have raised her;
but shoving me aside he took her tenderly in his arms and carried her
upstairs. Then calling her by all sorts of endearing terms he conjured
here to open her eyes and speak to him. After a time she revived.
When she came to herself, she gazed wildly around the room, enquiring
eagerly, Where is he? I had persuaded Captain Fairfield to retire to
an adjoining room for a while, and then brought little George to her
pretending her enquiries were meant for him; but her mind was perfectly
clear, and she demanded an explanation. I then told her in short what
had occurred, when she broke out in an hysterical cry. I called Captain
Fairfield to her, imploring him to try and dry her tears. But he let his
head sink into his hands and wept like a child himself. Little George
did not care for this proceeding at all, so he said he rather would keep
me for his mamma because I did not cry. I hope he never will have the
tenth part of the trial both his parents had.
For some time the now happy family stayed at Montreal, but at last
Captain Fairfield had to resume his duties, but as he would never part
from his wife and child again, he took both on the steamship with him.
The parting from the dear little child George nearly broke my children’s
hearts, who had looked upon him as their baby brother, and I promised to
myself then never to take a strange child into my house if I could not
keep it for ever, for even my old heart fretted after him.
The little girl in the asylum whom Captain Fairfield thought his child
he did not forget, but took with him to England on a later trip, where
Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, who had no family, adopted her. The nuns at St.
Pélagie were surprised when they heard of the mistake which was made,
but could never find out who was the young English girl who died alone
there. God has certainly taken care of her child, for it is in a good
home, well provided for, and much beloved. Captain, Mrs., and little
George Fairfield visited, before their final departure, the parents
of Arline Bertrand, on Bonaventure street, and informed them of their
existence. The old lady was so surprised that it took a long time to
explain, but she promised to let her daughter know all about it.
Captain Fairfield is not crossing the ocean any more, having received
the appointment as harbor-master in an English port. He does not want
his son George, who is in College yet, to show any liking for the sea.
But I hope to see once more before I die the young man whom we all loved
so dearly when a baby-boy.
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