We left Lieutenant Thornton and Bill Saunders scrambling over the
rough rocks, after swimming from the sunken lugger. It was not yet
daybreak, and our hero was anxious to get as far from the wreck as
possible. They never thought of the man whom they had left on board;
and whether he had swam ashore or perished by drowning they knew not.
It was a remarkably rough road over those rocks, and Bill Saunders,
as he stumbled and bruised his shins against the sharp stones, vowed
vengeance against the first Monsieur he could conveniently knock on
the head; declaring that all their misfortunes arose from not pitching
the two Frenchmen, who sought refuge in the fore cuddy of the lugger,
overboard; had he done so, they could not have set the lugger on fire.
To add to Bill’s dissatisfaction and vexation, the garments he had put
on were those of a middle-sized man—Bill, like his master, was six
feet—and being soaked through, they clung to him so tightly that he
could hardly walk.
“Serve me right,” growled Bill, “I’m sailing under false colours. The
beggar that owned these clothes had legs no bigger than handspikes.”
Just as day began to dawn, they had passed over all the rocks, and come
upon a fine sandy beach, and right before them appeared a long range of
lofty sand-hills. As the sun rose, our hero paused between two of these
sand-hills, covered here and there with stunted marine plants.
“Now, Bill,” he observed, turning to his companion, and observing with
a smile the oddity of his appearance, his trousers scarcely reaching
his knees, his coat too short, and stretched to bursting, and on his
head a red cap, like a night-cap. “Why, Bill, you made but a bad fit
of it last night; your garments are far too small.”
“Small!” repeated Bill, with infinite disgust, looking down at his
powerful limbs, encased so tightly from the wet that they seemed a part
of his skin. “They aint fit, sir, for a powder-monkey. There was no
time, you know, to try others; it’s very lucky your honour found the
skipper’s; he was a tall, powerful brute; but I had no such luck.”
“Never mind, Bill, they will fit better when dry, and as I have secured
some cash from the skipper’s desk—fair spoil in war—I will soon new rig
you when we get to a town; but mind, you must not speak a word. I shall
pass you off as being dumb.”
Bill smiled grimly and clenched his huge hand.
“Yes, sir, all right; I’ll be dumb enough, seeing as how I don’t
understand their confounded parley-voo; but they had better keep their
hands off me. I’ll never spare a couple of lubbers again, if I can get
my fingers round their throats.”
“Well, now pull off your garments; here’s a fine hot April sun; they
will dry in less than an hour.”
“Never get them off, sir, without a knife. Let them dry where they are;
it’s all the same to me. Just let me dry your clothes, sir.”
“It is not likely we shall be intruded on here,” said Lieutenant
Thornton, sticking his jacket on a stunted shrub; “and I think after we
cross this line of sand-hills, we shall not be more than three miles
from Fecamp, where, with a little skill and management, we may be able
to seize a fishing-boat, and put to sea.”
“But what are we to do for grub, sir? I feel rather queer as it is.”
“I can purchase some food,” said the Lieutenant, “at the first cottage
we come to; only mind, not a word.”
Just then Bill beheld a rabbit, and gave chase; pitched his cap and
then his shoes at it, and finally, with exceeding chagrin, saw it dart
into a hole.
“Why, Bill, you never dreamt of running down a rabbit; you have burst
your trousers.”
Bill cast a rueful glance at a fragment of cloth that fluttered in the
wind.
“The beggar carried too much sail, sir. I thought we might roast him
over a few sticks.”
“But we are not Indians, Bill, and have not their skill in eliciting
fire from two pieces of wood. Here is some twine I found in this
jacket; you had better take in that rent you have made.”
Bill sat down; thanks to his chase after the rabbit, he could get off
his garments; and, being ingenious, when he had dried, he contrived to
lengthen them, and patch them up, and after another hour’s rest they
resumed their journey with dry clothes. The sun was exceedingly hot for
the time of year, especially amongst the sand-hills.
By this time our travellers were ravenously hungry, having been
twenty-four hours without food; all they partook of on board the lugger
being wine and brandy. The sand-hills were three miles across from
north to south, and appeared to extend for many miles along the coast.
From the summit of one, the highest of the group, they obtained a
fine clear view of the country beyond, which appeared well wooded and
cultivated, with a village spire peeping out from a clump of trees.
“I suppose yonder village is Fecamp,” said our hero; “at least I judge
so, from the look I took at the chart on the unlucky day we ran in to
cut out that confounded lugger.”
“I hope we shall be able to get some grog, sir; upon my conscience,
your honour, I’m as empty as a dry water-cask.”
“I will get you plenty of food, Bill; only keep your mouth shut.”
“Whilst I’m eating, sir,” said Bill, with a grin.
Accordingly they made direct for the village. They passed several of
the country people on their way, who looked at the two powerful men
with evident curiosity. They at last got in the high road from the
village to some other place, and presently met two very neatly attired
country girls, with light baskets on their arms, and a farmer’s market
cart, driven by a young lad, following. Lieutenant Thornton stopped and
inquired the name of the village before them from one of the girls, a
young and very pretty one.
The girl looked at the lieutenant with considerable surprise, saying
with a curtsey:
“Ceaux, monsieur;” and then adding with some slight hesitation, “you
are strangers?”
“Yes,” returned William Thornton, “we have just been landed from an
English vessel of war. Is there a cabaret in the village, my pretty
maid?”
“Well, no there is not, monsieur,” she replied; “but as you are
strangers and may be far from your home, if you go to the house of Dame
Moret and say her daughter directed you there, she will, I know, give
you food and lodging for the asking.”
“Thank you, my good girl, I will do so, and not forget your pretty face
when I get there. Are you going far?”
The young girl smiled and said:
“Only to Havre, monsieur.”
“Havre!” repeated the lieutenant, with surprise; “why, are we so close
to Havre?”
Bill, at this time, was eyeing the eggs and fowls with a ravenous eye.
After again thanking the girl, the lieutenant moved on.
“So,” said our hero, “we are only three or four miles from Havre after
all; too close to be pleasant.”
The fact is, they had merely doubled the east Head, where the land took
a curve inwards. After a short walk they approached the village, which,
in truth, consisted of a few small cottages and a large and comfortable
farm-house and buildings. A lad pointed to the large house as Dame
Moret’s, when asked. In the front were congregated several cows, and a
girl milking them; sundry other farm-animals, in the shape of turkeys
and fowls, which a very nice and respectable-looking old woman was
carefully feeding, keeping away the old birds that the young might have
fair play.
The dame looked up as Lieutenant Thornton approached, which enabled a
sage-looking old turkey-cock to walk off with the entire of a large
barley-cake she was breaking up for the young birds.
“Ma foi!” exclaimed the old dame, making a grab at his tail, “vous êtes
un grand voleur, Maitre Jacques.”
Bill thought the barley-cake much too good for “Maitre Jacques,” so he
grabbed at him and got the cake, which proceeding created an immense
row among the turkeys; but Bill very quietly commenced demolishing the
cake, looking as innocent as a child.
“Mon Dieu,” said the dame, laughing, “you are worse than Maitre
Jacques; had you no breakfast, pauvre homme?”
“No, dame,” said our hero, laughing, and trying to be heard in the din
that ensued amongst the poultry. “Your good daughter recommended us to
come here, as there is no cabaret in this village. We have been landed
from an English ship. We have money to pay you for what you give us.”
“Ah, ça! keep your money, my handsome lad. We can afford to give you
something to eat and drink, without robbing Maitre Jacques of his
breakfast. Where did you meet my girl?”
“About a mile from here,” said the Lieutenant.
“You are a stranger to these parts,” said the dame, dismissing her
anxious audience with a shake of her apron; “come with me into the
house.”
“Lieutenant Thornton and Bill followed the dame into the kitchen of
the farm-house, where a huge iron pot was boiling over a roaring log
fire in a wide chimney, and a girl stirring the contents with a large
ladle. The smell from the steam made Bill Saunders’s eyes water, and,
forgetting his being a dummy, he rubbed his huge hands, saying:
“My eyes, here’s a smell!” and then seeing by the look of our hero that
he had committed an indiscretion, for the old dame looked at him in
surprise, he coughed with such vehemence as to startle a curly-haired
dog enjoying himself at the fire out of all propriety, for he flew at
Bill instantly.
“Eh!” said Dame Moret, “what does your comrade say?” looking into
Lieutenant Thornton’s face.
“He’s a Dutchman,” said our hero, scarcely able to keep from laughing
at the grotesque efforts Bill was making to cover his mistake.
“Dutchman!” said the old dame; “very like English. I had a noble lady
once for a mistress,” and the dame sighed, “and she was English, though
her second husband was a Frenchman. But sit down; I love the English,
and if he or you either are English, you are quite safe with me. To
tell the truth, though you do speak the language very well, you don’t
look like Frenchmen, and your big comrade seems like a man squeezed
into a boy’s clothes.”
“Well, dame,” returned our hero, struck forcibly by the woman’s words,
“I will not deceive you; we are English.”
“Ah! monsieur, you will upset the pot,” said the dame, turning round,
for Bill seeing the girl trying to lift the heavy utensil, and the girl
being a very good-looking one, went to help her, instigated by the
cravings of his stomach, which prompted a speedy replenishing. But Bill
very scientifically finished the operation, put the logs together, and
laughing, gave the girl a kiss, for which he received a box in the face
by the laughing and by no means displeased damsel, for Bill was a very
handsome specimen of an English tar.
“I had better put you both into my little parlour,” said Dame Moret
with a smile, “for the girls and the men will be coming in to their
mid-day meal; and this comrade of yours, monsieur, for I see you are
not of the same grade, will probably betray you, and that would not do.”
“You must be more discreet, Bill,” said our hero, seriously, after the
good dame had left them in a neat little chamber, as clean as a new
pin, with some pretty plants creeping all over the window, and an image
of some saint in a glass case over the little chimney-piece.
“I thought to pass you off for a Dutchman when you so indiscreetly
showed that you were neither dumb nor blind. You must not be kissing
the girls that way.”
“Me a Dutchman, your honour!” said Bill, trying to look behind him,
“Lord love ye, sir, I’m not Dutch built; and as to kissing the girl,
’twas the force of hunger. It’s human nature, we must have food, sir,
of some kind.”
“Well, I agree with you there, Bill, though I never classed kisses
with our other articles of consumption for the stomach. But in future
be steady, for I assure you a head is worth very little in France at
this moment.”
“Well, blow me if they shall have my head or tail either,” said Bill,
putting his hand up to see if his pig-tail, which he had thrust under
the collar of his jacket, was safe.
Dame Moret just then entered the room with a smoking hot dish, of
what we should call in England a beggar’s dish, or Irish stew. This
she placed on a clean cloth, with two wooden platters and knives and
forks. There was so much genuine kindness in the old dame’s actions,
and her manner and language were so different from a provincial farm
woman, that Lieutenant Thornton, who had not ceased pondering over the
words she had said, of having once served an English lady whose second
husband was a Frenchman, hazarded a remark, looking the dame in the
face.
“I once,” he commenced, “performed a service for an English lady, whose
second husband was a Frenchman. She was then called the Duchess of
Coulancourt.”
“Eh! mon Dieu!” exclaimed Dame Moret, nearly dropping a bottle of wine
she was taking from a cupboard, “what is that you say? Is it possible
then you are the brave English lad who saved the duchess’s daughter at
Toulon?”
“I am,” said our hero, greatly astonished.
“Mon Dieu! how rejoiced I am;” and putting her arm round his neck, her
eyes filled with tears, she kissed his cheek with the affection of a
mother.
“My eyes! Ah! Blow me if this aint a go!” exclaimed Bill, who not
understanding a word, and beholding his officer kissed by an old woman,
was confounded.
“Talk of kissing,” he muttered to himself, eyeing the mess on the dish,
“keel haul me, if I wouldn’t rather kiss that young one outside for a
week. Ax your pardon, ma’am,” said the seaman, starting back, seeing
the dame turn round to him, “if your going to buss me, if you please
let me have a pull at the mess there first.”
“Hallo! Dame Moret,” shouted a coarse, loud voice from the kitchen,
“where the diable have you stowed yourself? Show your nose out here. I
want you.”
Dame Moret started, looked frightened, but immediately put her hand on
the door, saying—
“I’m coming, Pierre Gaudet! I’m coming!” and then whispered to our
hero, who stood confounded, for Gaudet was the name of the Captain
of the privateer Vengeance, “Do not speak out loud; I will lock the
door; remain quiet. That is a fierce man outside, though he is my
son-in-law;” and then the dame passed out, locking the door after her,
and putting the key in her pocket.