Behold, then, our lighthouse-builders entering a French port; Teddy
Maroon looking over the side of the vessel at the pier to which they are
drawing near, and grumbling sternly at his sad fate; John Potter beside
him, with his arms crossed, his eyes cast down, and his thoughts far
away with the opinionated Martha and the ingenious Tommy; Mr Franks and
the others standing near; all dismal and silent.
"You not seem for like ver moche to see la belle France," said the
French officer with the huge moustache, addressing Teddy.
"It's little Teddy Maroon cares whether he sees Bell France or Betsy
France," replied the Irishman, impudently. "No thanks _to you_ aither
for givin' me the chance. Sure it's the likes o' you that bring war
into disgrace intirely; goin' about the say on yer own hook, plunderin'
right an' left. It's pirate, and not privateers, ye should be called,
an' it's myself that would string ye all at the yard-arm av I only had
me own way."
"Hah!" exclaimed the Frenchman, with a scowl: "but by goot fortune you
not have your own vay. Perhaps you change you mind ven you see de
inside of French prisons, ha!"
"Perhaps I won't; ha!" cried Teddy, mimicking his captor. "Go away wid
yez, an' attind to yer own business."
The Frenchman turned angrily away. In a few seconds more they were
alongside the pier, and a gangway was run on board.
The first man who stepped on this gangway was a tall powerful gendarme,
with a huge cocked hat, and a long cavalry sabre, the steel scabbard of
which clattered magnificently as he stalked along. Now it chanced that
this dignified official slipped his foot on the gangway, and, to the
horror of all observers, fell into the water.
Impulsiveness was a part of Teddy Maroon's enthusiastic nature. He
happened to be gazing in admiration at the gendarme when he fell. In
another moment he had plunged overboard after him, caught him by the
collar, and held him up.
The gendarme could not swim. In the first agony of fear he threw about
his huge limbs, and almost drowned his rescuer.
"Be aisy, won't 'ee!" shouted Ted, holding him at arm's length, and
striving to keep out of his grasp. At the same time he dealt him a
hearty cuff on the ear.
The words and the action appeared to have a sedative effect on the
gendarme, who at once became passive, and in a few minutes the rescuer
and the rescued stood dripping on the schooner's deck.
"Thank 'ee, my friend," said the gendarme in English, extending his
hand.
"Och, ye're an Irishman!" exclaimed Teddy eagerly, as he grasped the
offered hand. "But sure," he added, in an altered tone, dropping the
hand and glancing at the man's uniform, "ye must be a poor-spirited
craitur to forsake yer native land an' become a mounseer."
"Ireland is not my native land, and I am not an Irishman," said the
gendarme, with a smile. "My mother was Irish, but my father was French,
and I was born in Paris. It is true that I spent many years in Ireland
among my mother's relations, so that I speak your language, but I am
more French than Irish."
"Humph! more's the pity," said Teddy. "If there was but wan drop o' me
blood Irish an' all the rest o' me French, I'd claim to be an Irishman.
If I'd known what ye was I'd have let ye sink, I would. Go along: I
don't think much of yez."
"Perhaps not," replied the gendarme, twirling his long moustache with a
good-humoured smile; "nevertheless I think a good deal of you, my fine
fellow. Farewell, I shall see you again."
"Ye needn't trouble yerself," replied Teddy, flinging off, testily.
It was quite evident that the unfortunate Irishman found it hard to get
reconciled to his fate. He could scarcely be civil to his mates in
misfortune, and felt a strong disposition to wrench the sword from his
captor's hand, cut off his moustached head, and then, in the language of
desperate heroes of romance, "sell his life dearly." He refrained,
however, and was soon after marched along with his mates to the
stronghold of the port, at the door of which the French commander handed
them over to the jailor, wishing Teddy all health and happiness, with a
broad grin, as he bid him farewell.
Our unfortunates crossed a stone court with walls that appeared to rise
into the clouds; then they traversed a dark stone passage, at the end of
which stood an open door with a small stone cell beyond. Into this they
were desired to walk, and as several bayonet points glittered in the
passage behind them, they felt constrained to obey. Then locks were
turned, and bars were drawn, and bolts were shot. The heavy heels of
the jailer and guard were heard retiring. More locks and bars and bolts
were turned and drawn and shot at the farther end of the stone passage,
after which all remained still as the grave.
"Och hone!" groaned Teddy, looking round at his companions, as he sat on
a stone seat, the picture of despair: "To be kilt is a trifle; to fight
is a pleasure; to be hanged is only a little trying to the narves. But
to be shut up in a stone box in a furrin land--"
Words failed him here, but another groan told eloquently of the
bitterness of the spirit within.
"We must just try to be as cheery as we can, mates," said John Potter.
"The Lord can deliver us out o' worse trouble than this if He sees fit."
"Oh, it's all very well for you to talk like that," growled Isaac
Dorkin, "but I don't believe the Almighty is goin' to pull down stone
walls and iron gates to set us free, an' you know that we haven't a
friend in all France to help us."
"I _don't_ know that, Isaac. It certainly seems very unlikely that any
one should start up to befriend us here, but with God all things are
possible. At the worst, I know that if we are to remain here, it's His
will that we should."
"Humph! I wish ye much comfort o' the thought: it doesn't give much to
me," remarked Stobbs.
Here, Mr Franks, who had hitherto sat in sad silence, brightened up,
and said, "Well, well, lads, don't let us make things worse by
disputing. Surely each man is entitled to draw comfort from any source
he chooses. For my part, I agree with John Potter, in this at all
events,--that we should try to be as cheery as we can, and make the best
of it."
"Hear, hear!" exclaimed the others. Acting on this advice, they soon
began to feel a little less miserable. They had straw to sleep on, and
were allowed very poor fare; but there was a sufficiency of it. The
first night passed, and the second day; after which another fit of
despair seized some of the party. Then John Potter managed to cheer
them up a bit, and as he never went about without a small Testament in
his pocket, he was able to lighten the time by reading portions of it
aloud. After that they took to relating their "lives and adventures" to
each other, and then the inventive spirits among them took to "spinning
long-winded yarns." Thus a couple of weeks passed away, during which
these unfortunate prisoners of war went through every stage of feeling
between hope and despair over and over again.
During one of his despairing moods, Teddy Maroon declared that he had
now given up all hope, and that the first chance he got, he would kill
himself, for he was quite certain that nobody would ever be able to find
out where they were, much less "get them out of that fig."
But Teddy was wrong, as the sequel will show.
Let us leap now, good reader, to the Tuileries,--into the apartments of
Louis XIV. From a prison to a palace is an unusual leap, no doubt,
though the reverse is by no means uncommon! The old King is pacing his
chamber in earnest thought, addressing an occasional remark to his
private Secretary. The subject that occupies him is the war, and the
name of England is frequently on his lips. The Secretary begs leave to
bring a particular letter under the notice of the King. The Secretary
speaks in French, of course, but there is a peculiarly rich tone and
emphasis in his voice which a son of the Green Isle would unhesitatingly
pronounce to be "the brogue."
"Read it," says the King hurriedly: "but first tell me, who writes?"
"A gendarme, sire: a poor relation of mine."
"Ha: an Irishman?"
"No, sire: but his mother was Irish."
"Well, read," says the King.
The Secretary reads: "Dear Terrence, will you do me the favour to bring
a matter before the King? The commander of a French privateer has done
an act worthy of a buccaneer: he has attacked the men who were
re-building the famous Eddystone lighthouse, and carried them prisoners
of war into this port. I would not trouble you or the King about this,
did I not know his Majesty too well to believe him capable of
countenancing such a deed."
"What!" exclaims the King, turning abruptly, with a flush of anger on
his countenance, "the Eddystone lighthouse, which so stands as to be of
equal service to all nations having occasion to navigate the channel?"
"The same, sire; and the officer who has done this expects to be
rewarded."
"Ha: he shall not be disappointed; he shall have his reward," exclaims
the King. "Let him be placed in the prison where the English men now
lie, to remain there during our pleasure; and set the builders of the
Eddystone free. Let them have gifts, and all honourable treatment, to
repay them for their temporary distress, and send them home, without
delay, in the same vessel which brought them hither. We are indeed at
war with England, but not with mankind!"
The commands of kings are, as a rule, promptly obeyed. Even although
there were neither railways nor telegraphs in those days, many hours had
not elapsed before the tall gendarme stood in the prison-cell where John
Potter and his friends were confined. There was a peculiar twinkle in
his eye, as he ordered a band of soldiers to act as a guard of honour in
conducting the Englishmen to the best hotel in the town, where a
sumptuous collation awaited them. Arrived there, the circumstances of
their case were explained to them by the chief magistrate, who was in
waiting to receive them and present them with certain gifts, by order of
Louis XIV.
The fortunate men looked on at all that was done, ate their feast, and
received their gifts in speechless amazement, until at length the
gendarme (who acted as interpreter, and seemed to experience intense
enjoyment at the whole affair) asked if they were ready to embark for
England? To which Teddy Maroon replied, by turning to John Potter and
saying, "I say, John, just give me a dig in the ribs, will 'ee: a good
sharp one. It's of no use at all goin' on draimin' like this. It'll
only make it the worse the longer I am o' wakin' up."
John Potter smiled and shook his head; but when he and his friends were
conducted by their guard of honour on board of the schooner which had
brought them there, and when they saw the moustached commander brought
out of his cabin and led ashore in irons, and heard the click of the
capstan as the vessel was warped out of harbour, and beheld the tall
gendarme take off his cocked hat and wish them "_bon voyage_" as they
passed the head of the pier, they at length became convinced that "it
was all true;" and Teddy declared with enthusiastic emphasis, that "the
mounseers were not such bad fellows after all!"
"Oh, John, John!" exclaimed Mrs Potter, about thirty hours after that,
as she stood gazing in wild delight at a magnificent cashmere shawl
which hung on her husband's arm, while Tommy was lost in admiration at
the sight of a splendid inlaid ivory work-box, "where ever got 'ee such
a helegant shawl?"
"From King Louis, of France, lass," said John, with a peculiar smile.
"Never!" said Mrs Potter, emphatically; and then she gave it forth as
one of her settled convictions, that, "Kings wasn't such fools as to go
makin' presents like that to poor working men."
However, John Potter, who had only just then presented himself before
the eyes of his astonished spouse, stoutly asserted that it was true;
and said that if she would set about getting something to eat, for he
was uncommonly hungry, and if Tommy would leave off opening his mouth
and eyes to such an unnecessary extent, he would tell them all about it.
So Mrs Potter was convinced, and, for once, had her "settled
convictions" unsettled; and the men returned to their work on the
Eddystone; and a man-of-war was sent to cruise in the neighbourhood to
guard them from misfortune in the future; and, finally, the Rudyerd
lighthouse was completed.
Its total height, from the lowest side to the top of the ball on the
lantern, was ninety-two feet, and its greatest diameter twenty-three
feet four inches. It took about three years to build, having been
commenced in 1706, the first light was put up in 1708, and the whole was
completed in 1709.
Teddy Maroon was one of the first keepers, but he soon left to take
charge of a lighthouse on the Irish coast. Thereupon John Potter made
application for the post. He was successful over many competitors, and
at last obtained the darling wish of his heart: he became principal
keeper; his surly comrade, Isaac Dorkin, strange to say, obtaining the
post of second keeper. Mrs Potter didn't like the change at first, as
a matter of course.
"But you'll come to like it, Martha," John would say when they referred
to the subject, "`Absence,' you know, `makes the heart grow fonder.'
We'll think all the more of each other when we meet during my spells
ashore, at the end of every two months."
Tommy also objected very much at first, but he could not alter his
father's intentions; so John Potter went off to the Eddystone rock, and
for a long time took charge of the light that cast its friendly beams
over the sea every night thereafter, through storm and calm, for upwards
of six-and-forty years.
That John's life in the lighthouse was not all that he had hoped for
will become apparent in the next chapter.