The following day, Julian Arden, attired in the garments of the French
seaman, Louis Lebeau, and furnished with his papers and a good sum in
French money, took leave of his kind friends on board the Onyx, was
landed in the dusk on the French coast, actually within half a mile
of the spot where the lugger, the Vengeance, had been run ashore by
William Thornton, and his follower, Bill Saunders. Julian felt himself
perfectly secure in his character of a French seaman, but he felt also
greatly anxious to discover the fate of his dear mother; whether she
still enjoyed freedom, or was under the surveillance of the Republic.
Though he had no doubt, when daylight broke, that he should recognise
from memory many of the features of the surrounding country, still, in
the dark, he was loth to commence his journey to Coulancourt.
It was the month of June, so there was very little hardship in passing
the night under the shelter of one of the sand-hills. Stretching
himself at his ease, he lay ruminating over the past, and picturing
to himself prospects for the future. He had many visions, during his
uneasy sleep, but Cherry Packenham was the predominating one.
Julian remained quiet till about six in the morning; he then gave
himself a shake, bathed his face in an adjacent pool, and mounting
a sand-hill, cast a glance over the country before him. Like William
Thornton, he was at once attracted by the village spire, and the creek
losing itself amongst the sand-hills.
“Ah!” said Julian, joyfully, “I remember yonder village; that’s where
good Dame Moret lived. She was so fond of me when a boy, when I used to
play and romp with her daughters. My good old stepfather, the Duke, was
alive then,” soliloquised Julian; “the axe of the guillotine ended his
days.”
Then he recollected the grief and agony of his mother.
Descending the hill, he resolved to proceed to the village, to the
house of Dame Moret, have a look at the Château Coulancourt, and
afterwards be guided by circumstances.
Acting upon this resolve, he crossed the country towards the creek;
but coming upon a road where he lost sight of the village, which lay
in a thickly-wooded district, he altered his course and followed the
road to the right, and presently met a cart laden with ropes, blocks,
sails, and all kinds of seafaring requisites; three or four sailors
were walking alongside of the cart, which was drawn by three horses
harnessed with ropes. One of the men, a broad, muscular man, better
dressed than the others, and in manner and bearing like the captain of
a ship, was walking in front. He stopped as Julian came up, and looking
at him, said—
“Well, my hearty, where do you hail from, coming this road; or were you
seeking me where I am repairing the Vengeance?”
Julian gave a slight start at the name of the Vengeance, saying to
himself—
“Then, ten to one, this is the skipper of the privateer that Captain
O’Loughlin mentioned, as having caused the imprisonment of Sir Sidney
Smith and Sir Oscar de Bracy.”
This reflection did not require a second’s delay in answering the
privateer’s man, who in reality was the captain of the Vengeance.
“I hail from Rouen, messmate,” replied Julian, quite unconcernedly, and
imitating, which he could do with ease, the manner and language of a
seaman. “I have heard of the Vengeance, but I was not seeking you. I am
going on to the village, and then to Havre, to get a passage to Rouen.”
“Diable!” said the Captain, “you are out of your course; how did you
get upon this part of the coast?”
“I was landed by my own desire,” returned Julian, “from the brig
Sybille, from Bordeaux to Hamburg. The captain and I could not agree,
so we parted; he put me ashore close by here. How far is it to Havre?”
“Well, some two leagues,” answered the Captain; “but I tell you
what—you had better join my craft. She will be all right in less than
a month; I am in want of hands, and as the Vengeance is known to be one
of the fastest and most successful privateers out of any French port,
you cannot do better.”
“In a month,” observed Julian, appearing to think; “yes, that would
suit me well enough. I don’t like the merchant service, and was
thinking of serving the Republic, by entering one of their ships of
war.”
“Don’t be such a sacre fool,” said the Captain, “take my word for it,
no life like a privateer’s man.”
“Well, where shall I hear of you, if I make up my mind before the
month’s out?” inquired Julian.
“My craft is repairing at the mouth of the creek,” returned the
privateer’s man, “about a mile from here; do you intend stopping at the
village yonder?”
“Yes, for an hour or two.”
“Well, then, ask for Dame Moret; she’s my wife’s mother. She’ll give
you a good breakfast, and a glass of good eau-de-vie; and if you will
join me within the month, seek me there, you’ll hear of me; I like
young, active fellows like you. Stay, what’s your name?”
“Louis Lebeau.”
“Ah! very good; heave ahead, my lads,” said the captain to the men, who
stood leaning against the cart, smoking their pipes and listening.
Julian pursued his course. “So,” thought he, soliloquising, “the
Vengeance has met with some accident since her attempted capture. If
Captain O’Loughlin knew she was repairing within this creek, he would
assuredly land and burn her.”
He walked on, passing several persons, who paid no attention to him
further than the usual “bon jour,” and entered the village, memory
returning at the sight of some familiar object, and proceeding direct
towards Dame Moret’s farm-house. Three or four women were busily
occupied in various ways in the large yard before the dwelling-house;
groups of turkeys, with “Maitre Jacques” at their head, were gabbling
incessantly, answered in anything but harmonious tones by a flock of
geese, whilst whole flocks of pigeons kept flitting about.
“Can I see Dame Moret?” asked Julian Arden to pretty Rose Moret, who
just then came out of the house with a pail in her hand.
Rose looked up at the speaker, though she could scarcely have
remembered the curly-haired and handsome boy of twelve years old,
for she was then only eight years old herself; but she looked with
something of surprise in her manner into the young man’s bronzed and
handsome face, as she replied—
“Oui, monsieur; come in, and you will see my mother.”
“Can this be little Rose Moret?” said Julian, unintentionally
half-aloud, as he gazed with earnest and almost watery eyes into the
very pretty features of the maiden.
Rose Moret heard the words; she coloured to the temples as she started
back; but Julian, with a smile, passed the surprised girl, and entered
the lofty and wide kitchen.
Dame Moret turned round, with a large tureen in her hand, and looked
up into the stranger’s face. The dame seemed also surprised, but she
merely said—
“Well, monsieur, what can I do for you?”
“Your son-in-law, dame, whom I met half an hour or so ago, requested me
to call here; he wishes me to join his craft.”
“Ah!” said the dame, with a serious and changed expression of
countenance; “then take an old woman’s advice—be an honest seaman, and
leave privateering alone. Your face and your voice, young man, raise
strange thoughts of the past in my mind. What is your name, and where
do you come from?”
Julian looked round; the dame and he were alone, for the servant girl
had followed Rose from the kitchen.
“My name, dame,” said Julian, in a low voice; “does no recollection of
Julian Arden——”
“Ah! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!” exclaimed the old woman, clasping her
hands, and thereby letting the tureen drop to the floor, where it was
shattered to pieces; and then, throwing her arms round his neck, she
kissed him, as she often had done before, with all the warm affection
of a mother.
“Ah, Dame Moret! Dame Moret!” said Julian, looking affectionately
at his old nurse, “how vividly the past comes through the brain; it
seems as yesterday that I stood here, and romped through the dear old
building with your three girls.”
“Hush! some one is coming,” said Dame Moret.
“Recollect—I am Louis Lebeau, of Rouen, a sailor.”
He had hardly time to say more, when the clank of a steel sheath
holding a sword struck against the pavement without, and the next
instant two gendarmes, with their cocked hats, entered the kitchen.
Dame Moret was stooping down, carefully picking up the fragments of the
soup-tureen, whilst Julian, carelessly whistling an air, took a short
pipe from his pocket, and walked to the fire to light it.
“You have had a smash, Dame Moret,” said one of the men.
“Yes, misfortunes will happen, Monsieur François Perrin,” said the
dame; “what has brought you to Caux to-day—anything new?”
“No, dame, only my customary visit, you know, to the château. Monsieur
Plessis and family are arrived, and he has a friend with him, we
understand, a Monsieur de Tourville. Monsieur de Gramont, you have
heard, I dare say, is appointed maire of this arrondissement, having
quitted the army.”
“Eh, he is young,” said the dame, “to leave the army, and our country
in want of soldiers. He is married, I suppose; but will you take a
glass of my wine or brandy, eh, Monsieur Perrin?”
“Mon Dieu! avec plasir, dame; you have always a kind heart and a good
bottle of wine for a friend.” And the two men sat down at a table, but
Sergeant Perrin kept eyeing Julian Arden, who had lit his pipe, and was
sauntering out to the yard.
“Pardon me, young man,” said the Sergeant, “are you one of the crew of
Captain Gaudet’s craft, the Vengeance?”
“No, monsieur, I am not; though I think I shall join him.”
Dame Moret looked very uneasy, but she did not let the gendarmes see
that she was so. She placed a couple of bottles of wine, and glasses,
some nice oaten cake, and a jar of preserves, on the table.
“Cà, this is a luxury, dame,” said the Sergeant, but, turning to
Julian, he said, “Where do you come from, young man, and what is your
name? You are a stranger to me.”
“My name is Louis Lebeau,” said Julian, coolly; “I am going to Rouen in
a few days, after I have settled with Captain Pierre Gaudet.”
“Sacre bleu! mon garçon, do not hesitate. Captain Gaudet is a brave
man, and the Vengeance, if she ever gets afloat again, is the best
craft out of Havre, or Brest either. She took more prizes than any
privateer on the coast, till that sacre frigate Anglais came in, and
thought to cut her out of Havre in the very face of the forts.”
“How so?” said Julian, quietly sitting down, Dame Moret handing him a
glass, and putting a bottle of wine beside him, feeling quite relieved
from her fears, seeing him take the questioning so coolly, and knowing,
as far as manner and language went, that he was a perfect Frenchman.
“Why, you see, those devils of English will do anything when there’s
gold to be had. One of their frigates came to an anchor in the south
road, and the captain with his boats thought to walk off with the
Vengeance privateer. She was at anchor before the town. Diable! their
insolence is wonderful, to think of taking, as it were, the bit out of
your mouth.”
“Just like them,” said Julian, filling his glass. “Your health,
sergeant. Those islanders would take the teeth out of your mouth if you
kept it open!”
“Sacre, oui! I believe you; but they were caught in a trap, you see,
for there was no wind, and the tide was against them, whilst the boats
from the town, full of soldiers, and an armed lugger, and the guns of
the fort opened on them, and so the vessel was retaken, and the English
Captain, Monsieur Got-dam, and his crew were taken prisoners and sent
to Paris.”
“Were all the officers taken,” said Julian, “and sent to Paris?”
“No, there’s some obscurity about the rest of the affair,” said the
gendarme. “The captain and a midshipman only were sent to Paris. It
seems Captain Pierre Gaudet made prisoner of one of the officers of the
frigate—a regular diable—who shot his brother-in-law, he says, and took
his schooner, so he thought he had a right to this prisoner himself. So
he fastened him and a sailor taken with him down in the cabin of the
Vengeance, and in the evening came ashore leaving five or six men in
the lugger. Sacre! would you believe it? but this tonnerre de diable of
an Englishman got loose with his man, and actually sliced the gizzards
of the five men on board, and ran off with the Vengeance.”
“Mon Dieu!” said Julian, greatly interested, for he was now learning
something about Sir Oscar de Bracy, “those two men were diables!”
“Corbleu! you will say so when you hear the end. The next day news
reached Havre that the Vengeance had caught fire, and was run ashore
near here under Lyon point, and burnt to the water’s edge.”
“You surprise me, Monsieur le Sergeant,” said Julian. “Then what became
of lieutenant——”
“Lieutenant!” said the gendarme. “I said nothing about a lieutenant.”
“He must have been a lieutenant,” said Julian, quite determinedly; “the
lieutenant always accompanies his captain on an expedition of that
kind.”
“Well, perhaps so,” said the Sergeant; “you are a sailor—I am not.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Julian. “I was mate of a fine brig, and young
as I am I have seen a good deal of service. But what became of those
Englishmen that got the Vengeance under weigh, and took her out? If she
caught fire, they must either have been burnt in her, drowned, or got
on shore.”
“Well, mon garçon,” returned the gendarme, “there’s a deal of mystery
about those two dare-devils. Some say they were surely drowned, for
no man will stay to be burnt that can escape that death by drowning.
Neither modes of going out of the world are pleasant,” and the sergeant
and his companion got up, having finished their wine. “But some of
the country people who were attracted to the top of the cliff by the
burning lugger swear they saw two figures on board when she struck,
and that they threw themselves out of her; but when daylight came
there were no signs of them. Myself and comrade here, when we heard
of the affair, traversed all about the coast, but could get no trace
of strangers; so I fancy they only threw themselves overboard to be
drowned, and the tide washed back their bodies out to sea. By the way,”
added the Sergeant, “have you got your papers with you?”
“Oh, yes,” returned Julian, taking out Louis Lebeau’s pocket-book;
“here they are, all right.”
“All right—all right,” said the Sergeant, without taking them. “Don’t
trouble yourself, but take my advice, and join Captain Pierre Gaudet’s
privateer; he’s a lucky man, though he did get his lugger half burnt.
“Bon jour, Dame Moret,” continued the Sergeant. “I shall take a walk
across the fields to the old château; good day, and many thanks.”
“You are heartily welcome, Monsieur le Sergeant,” returned the dame.
“You know you will always find a bottle of good wine here; so bon
jour;” and the gendarmes departed.