CHAPTER XIII.

_Supposed to be a letter from Mrs Hazeldean to----Riccabocca,

Esq., The Casino; but edited, and indeed composed, by Miss

Jemima Hazeldean._

"Dear Sir,--To a feeling heart it must always be painful to

give pain to another, and (though I am sure unconsciously) you

have given the _greatest_ pain to poor Mr Hazeldean and myself,

indeed to _all_ our little circle, in so cruelly refusing

our attempts to become better acquainted with a gentleman we

so highly ESTEEM. Do, pray, dear sir, make us the _amende

honorable_, and give us the _pleasure_ of your company for a

few days at the Hall! May we expect you Saturday next?--our

dinner hour is six o'clock.

"With the best compliments of Mr and Miss Jemima Hazeldean,

"Believe me, my dear Sir,

yours truly,

H. H.

HAZELDEAN HALL."

Miss Jemima having carefully sealed this note, which Mrs Hazeldean

had very willingly deputed her to write, took it herself into the

stable-yard, in order to give the groom proper instructions to wait

for an answer. But while she was speaking to the man, Frank, equipped

for riding with more than his usual dandyism, came also into the yard,

calling for his pony in a loud voice, and singling out the very groom

whom Miss Jemima was addressing--for, indeed, he was the smartest of

all in the Squire's stables--told him to saddle the grey pad, and

accompany the pony.

"No, Frank," said Miss Jemima, "you can't have George; your father

wants him to go on a message--you can take Mat."

"Mat, indeed!" said Frank, grumbling with some reason; for Matt was a

surly old fellow, who tied a most indefensible neckcloth, and always

contrived to have a great patch in his boots;--besides, he called

Frank "Master," and obstinately refused to trot down hill;--"Mat,

indeed!--let Mat take the message, and George go with me."

But Miss Jemima had also her reasons for rejecting Mat. Mat's foible

was not servility, and he always showed true English independence in

all houses where he was not invited to take his ale in the servants'

hall. Mat might offend Signor Riccabocca, and spoil all. An animated

altercation ensued, in the midst of which the Squire and his wife

entered the yard, with the intention of driving in the conjugal gig to

the market town. The matter was referred to the natural umpire by both

the contending parties.

The Squire looked with great contempt on his son. "And what do you want

a groom at all for? Are you afraid of tumbling off the pony?"

FRANK.--"No, sir; but I like to go as a gentleman, when I pay a visit

to a gentleman!"

SQUIRE, in high wrath.--"You precious puppy! I think I'm as good a

gentleman as you, any day, and I should like to know when you ever saw

me ride to call on a neighbour, with a fellow jingling at my heels,

like that upstart Ned Spankie, whose father kept a cotton-mill. First

time I ever heard of a Hazeldean thinking a livery-coat was necessary

to prove his gentility!"

Mrs HAZELDEAN observing Frank colouring, and about to reply.--"Hush,

Frank, never answer your father,--and you are going to call on Mr

Leslie?"

"Yes, Ma'am, and I am very much obliged to my father for letting me,"

said Frank, taking the Squire's hand.

"Well, but Frank," continued Mrs Hazeldean, "I think you heard that the

Leslies were very poor."

FRANK.--"Eh, mother?"

MRS HAZELDEAN.--"And would you run the chance of wounding the pride of

a gentleman, as well born as yourself, by affecting any show of being

richer than he is?"

SQUIRE with great admiration.--"Harry, I'd give £10 to have said that!"

FRANK, leaving the Squire's hand to take his mother's.--"You're quite

right, mother--nothing could be more _snobbish_!"

SQUIRE.--"Give us your fist too, sir; you'll be a chip of the old

block, after all."

Frank smiled, and walked off to his pony.

MRS HAZELDEAN to Miss Jemima.--"Is that the note you were to write for

me?"

MISS JEMIMA.--"Yes, I supposed you did not care about seeing it, so I

have sealed it, and given it to George."

MRS HAZELDEAN.--"But Frank will pass close by the Casino on his way to

the Leslies'. It may be more civil if he leaves the note himself."

MISS JEMIMA hesitatingly.--"Do you think so?"

MRS HAZELDEAN.--"Yes, certainly. Frank--Frank--as you pass by the

Casino, call on Mr Riccabocca, give this note, and say we shall be

heartily glad if he will come."

Frank nods.

"Stop a bit," cried the Squire. "If Rickeybockey's at home, 'tis ten to

one if he don't ask you to take a glass of wine! If he does, mind, 'tis

worse than asking you to take a turn on the rack. Faugh! you remember,

Harry?--I thought it was all up with me."

"Yes," cried Mrs Hazeldean, "for heaven's sake, not a drop! Wine

indeed!"

"Don't talk of it," cried the Squire, making a wry face.

"I'll take care, sir!" said Frank, laughing as he disappeared within

the stable, followed by Miss Jemima, who now coaxingly makes it up with

him, and does not leave off her admonitions to be extremely polite

to the poor foreign gentleman, till Frank gets his foot into the

stirrup; and the pony, who knows whom he has got to deal with, gives a

preparatory plunge or two, and then darts out of the yard.

MILITARY LIFE IN NORTH AFRICA.[16]

In days of national antipathy, now happily bygone, it was a vulgar

English prejudice that Frenchmen were great only as cooks and

dancing-masters. In popular belief, the fiddle and the frying-pan were

their insignia, pirouettes and fricassees their highest achievements.

Peace and steam have exploded these exaggerated notions in the minds

even of the least intelligent. They would be inexcusable in the days

of cheap excursions to Paris and electric telegraphs beneath the

billows of the Channel. Moreover, Englishmen have learned to rival

what they once contemned; native talent has been encouraged; Britain

glories in cooks who will lower their culinary flag to no foreign

kickshaw-compounder that ever stirred a sauce or frothed a _soufflé_;

and in professors of the choregraphic who would scorn to be excelled by

any Gaul that ever carried a kit. A higher standard has been fixed for

the capacity of Frenchmen. Rivalled in cookery and capers, their claims

are admitted to first-rate excellence in two nobler sciences--the

military, namely, and the dramatic. Sometimes they unite the two.

Witness Napoleon, the greatest warrior and most consummate actor

France can boast. Certainly Frenchmen show nowhere to such advantage

as on the stage or in the field, by the light of the foot-lamps or

through the smoke of the bivouac. So strongly, indeed, are they imbued

with the military and dramatic essences, that these are continually

perceptible when they are engaged in pursuits of a most opposite

character. The conscription and national-guard system give to the whole

nation a martial tinge, from which the most pacific callings are no

preservative. In France, men whose existence passes in the measurement

of calico or the parcelling of groceries, often seem, in tone, costume,

and mustache, to pertain to the camp rather than the counter. And in

the gravest occupations, as in the most commonplace passages of life,

a large majority of Frenchmen appear to us English to be continually

acting. Their love of effect, contrast, and epigram, gives a theatrical

air to their most ordinary as to their most important proceedings.

Nations, like individuals, view each other through their own peculiar

spectacles; and the French are as much struck and amused with English

phlegm and reserve as we are with their vehemence, gesticulations,

and demonstrativeness. We are not, however, here preluding to a

dissertation on national character, but to a notice of some pleasant

military sketches by a French officer. We have the highest opinion of

Frenchmen as soldiers, not merely on account of their bravery, which

is universally admitted--by none more freely than by those who have

fought and beaten them--but by reason of their many other excellent

military qualities--of their discipline, temperance, subordination,

and of that sentiment of soldierly honour which we believe to pervade

the French troops to an extent never exceeded, and rarely equalled,

in any other European army. The works of our own military historians

abound with traits of French chivalry and heroism, as they also do

with acknowledgments of their peculiar aptitude for war, of their

cheerfulness on the march, their patience under privations, their

skill--and this is no slight virtue in soldiers--in shifting for

themselves, and making the most of a bad bivouac, uncomfortable

quarters, or a scanty ration. All these qualities are well displayed

in M. de Castellane's sketches of French military life. The date of

his campaigns is recent, the scene Africa; his opponents were Arabs

and Kabyles; his comrades, Spahis, Zouaves, Chasseurs d'Orleans, and

Chasseurs d'Afrique. To some, a brief explanation of these terms may

be useful. Spahis are Arab cavalry in the French service, officered by

Frenchmen, and with an admixture of European soldiers in the ranks. The

Zouaves are a crack infantry corps, similarly composed, and attired,

like the Spahis, in Oriental costume. The Chasseurs of Orleans are

light infantry, wonderfully active, and wearing dark uniforms. Finally,

the Chasseurs of Africa are a very fine body of French cavalry, raised

expressly for African service, dressed in light blue, well mounted, and

armed with carbine and sabre, some with lances. Like the Zouaves, this

last-named corps is a favourite with adventurous volunteers, ambitious

of distinction and the epaulet. In its fourth squadron, the author of

these sketches held an officer's commission. He writes like a gentleman

and a soldier; his style is pointed and to the purpose, and free from

egotism and affectation. He himself shared in some of the warlike

episodes he tells of; others are derived from the verbal or written

narratives of his comrades. They comprise a great variety of details,

and fully initiate us into the phases of a soldier's life in Africa.

Numerous as are the works, French, English, and German, of which French

conquest and colonisation in Africa have furnished the theme, there was

still abundant room for this one, taking up, as it does, that branch

of the subject which writers generally have had least opportunity of

appreciating--the joys and sorrows, hardships and exploits, perils

and sufferings, of the French soldier in Algeria. A fresh interest is

also imparted to it by the prominent part lately and still taken in

public affairs in France by men who have risen into distinction through

their valour and military talents during the long struggle with the

Arabs. Comparatively inattentive as we in England were to the razzias

and skirmishes of the African campaigns, the names of Changarnier,

Cavaignac, and Lamoricière can hardly be said to have dwelt in our

memories until revolution and civil strife in their own country brought

them to the front. It now is interesting to revert to those earlier

days of their career, when they fought the Bedouin on the arid plains

and in the perilous defiles of North Africa, fostering in that rough

school the sternness and tenacity of character which they since have

more than once had occasion usefully to display amidst the turmoil of

domestic discord.

"At four days' march from Milianah," says M. de Castellane, "in the

heart of the valley of the Cheliff, stand some old Roman walls, bearing

mute testimony to the power of the ancient rulers of the land. At

the foot of these walls, not far from tracts of stubble and dried

herbs, delicious gardens and orchards, orange and pomegranate trees,

and limpid springs, invite a halt; whilst luxuriant vines, trailing

from branch to branch, form bowers of verdure, and offer delightful

shelter to the fatigued wayfarer. It was at this spot that General

Changarnier's column, consisting of twelve hundred infantry, three

hundred regular cavalry, and four hundred Arab horsemen, was reposing,

in the month of September 1842, from its numerous expeditions under a

burning sun, protecting by its presence the tribes that had recently

made their submission, and giving the _aman_ to those numerous ones

which came to implore it.[17] The column had been for some time at

_El-Arour_, (the name of these gardens), when a letter reached the camp

from our Aga in the south. Menaced by Abd-el-Kader, Ahmeur-ben-Ferrah

asked succour of General Changarnier, entreating him to arrive speedily

if he did not wish soon to learn the ruin and massacre of the tribes

to whom France owed protection. It was of the utmost importance to go

quickly to his assistance. To pass by Milianah was to lengthen the

journey four days; through the mountains, on the other hand, in two

marches they would be near enough to support him. The tribes seemed

peacefully disposed. The Arab chiefs assured the French that not a

shot would be fired at them. They spoke of a very difficult defile,

but two hours, they said, would take the troops through it. Besides,

it was dangerous only in case of hostility from the tribes adjacent

to the river, whose chiefs, only the evening before, had visited

the camp in friendship. Finally, the general had under his orders

Zouaves, Chasseurs of Orleans, and Chasseurs of Africa, commanded by

Colonel Cavaignac, Major Forey, and Colonel Morris. With such valiant

troops, and such lieutenants, no danger was to be dreaded; General

Changarnier's decision was soon taken; he would pass through the

mountains."

On the 17th of the month the little band set out, marched the 18th,

receiving the submission of several tribes, and early on the morning of

the 19th reached the Oued-Foddha river. There a halt of some duration

was ordered, preparatory to entering the defile through which the river

flows. The cavalry and a small party of infantry went out foraging.

Presently, a well-sustained fire of musketry was heard, and an officer,

sent to reconnoitre, saw the foragers defending themselves bravely

against a host of white-draped Kabyles, headed by officers of the Arab

regulars, dressed in red, who ran from group to group, exciting the

men to the combat. This furious attack was rather a contrast with the

peaceable passage promised by the Arab chiefs. But retreat could not

be thought of. It would be a signal for the spread and consolidation

of the revolt, and would occasion as much loss of life as a forward

movement. The order was given to march, and the head of the column

plunged boldly into the frightful gorge of the Oued-Foddha.

"Meanwhile, on the right (the left bank of the river, for they were

marching southwards, whilst the Oued-Foddha flows towards the north,)

Captain Ribain's company of Chasseurs d'Orleans, sent to cover

the foraging, steadily retired upon the column; from brushwood to

brushwood, from tree to tree, each man retreated, seeking a favourable

position, a good ambuscade; and often the same obstacle concealed

a Kabyle on one side, and a chasseur on the other, each seeking an

opportunity to kill his opponent. When they reached the last platform

the bugle sounded the gymnastic step, and forthwith the chasseurs,

rolling and sliding down the slopes, rapidly rejoined the rearguard,

now about to enter the pass. The real combat was beginning; already

the Kabyles shouted from the summits on either hand, 'You have entered

your tomb, and will never leave it:' but they reckoned without our

soldiers, without the chief who commanded them. Calm, impassible,

General Changarnier rode with the rearguard, wrapped in his little

_caban_ of white wool,[18] a target for every bullet, giving his

orders with a coolness and precision that reassured the troops and

redoubled their ardour. A description of the ground is essential to

a clear comprehension of this terrible struggle. A hundred feet wide

of sandy soil, furrowed by the bed of the torrent, was the ground

they fought upon; right and left were steep slaty precipices, fringed

with pine-trees; from the peaks of the mountains, which towered

like obelisks, the balls poured down: such was the theatre of the

combat. Imagine this ravine, these rocks, these mountains, covered

with a multitude exciting themselves by their own yells, intoxicating

themselves with the smell of powder, blind to danger, and rushing upon

a handful of men, who opposed the coolness of energy, and the regular

action of discipline, to their disorderly fury. But never for a moment

did our soldiers cease to be worthily commanded. The officers set

the example; the chief had not hesitated an instant, but had at once

made up his mind, and imparted to his troops his own promptitude and

decision. His plan was to march quickly, so as to pass the peaks, which

were separated by impenetrable ravines, before the mass of Kabyles

could get from one to the other: to effect this he occupied one of

those positions indispensable to the safety of the column; and the

rearguard, when too hard pressed, extricated itself by vigorous charges

with the bayonet.

"Fortunately the tribes to the east did not take part in the attack,

so that the defence was at first confined to the right. Nevertheless,

the column was advancing with difficulty, when it reached one of

those passages that must be occupied. Some rocky precipices impended

over the bed of the river, in front of a marabout or tomb, surrounded

by lentisk trees; the rifle company of the Chasseurs d'Orleans were

ordered to take these rocks; they sprang forward, full of ardour,

but the steeps were frightful, and a week's provisions are a heavy

load. Their lieutenant, Ricot, who had rushed forward without looking

whether he was followed, was the first upon the platform. Two balls

pierced his breast. Lieutenant Martin and two men, hastening to his

assistance, were likewise shot down. The surviving officer, hurrying in

their footsteps, was checked by a terrible wound. The company, deprived

of their officers and sergeant major, and exposed, without guide or

leader, to a storm of bullets, was compelled to retreat, rescuing M.

Martin, who was still alive. The other wounded were torn to pieces in

sight of the column, amidst the ferocious cries of the Kabyles.

"The General immediately ordered a halt; the Zouaves and three

companies of the Chasseurs of Orleans were to assault the position,

whilst the cavalry drove back the enemy in the bed of the river. The

charge was sounded, with Colonel Cavaignac and Major Forey at the

head of the troops; the General sprang forward and surmounted the

steep flanks of the mountain, closely followed by his eager soldiers.

Fury was at its height, and the struggle terrible. M. Laplanche, a

staff officer attached to the Zouaves, was killed, a major had his

horse killed, a captain his epaulet shot off; the General himself

was indebted for his life to a bugler, who killed a Kabyle whose

musket-muzzle was at his breast. At last we were masters of the

position. In the river the charge of cavalry had also been completely

successful: numerous dead bodies lay there, including some of women,

who threw themselves on our soldiers, mixed with the Kabyles, fighting

like men, and cutting off, for bloody trophies, the heads of the slain.

"These two vigorous offensive movements procured us a little respite;

soon, however, the combat was renewed with fresh ardour. The officers,

foremost in danger, were also the first hit. Five officers of Zouaves,

three of the Chasseurs d'Orleans, had already fallen, and it was but

the middle of the day. Colonel Cavaignac, with his Zouaves, persisted

in revenging his officers. It was no longer courage, but fury; every

man was worth a score, and seemed to multiply himself to face all

perils. As to the General, the bullets and the danger only increased

his audacious coolness; his eyes beamed, and wherever he passed he

inspired all with new energy. Amidst the noise of the musketry, which

the mountain echoes repeated like the howling of a storm, the column

advanced; the cavalry marching in front, with orders to halt, towards

nightfall, in the first favourable position.

"The troops had reached a spot where the two lofty banks of the

ravine, bending inwards, again left but a narrow passage. Both banks

were now occupied by the Kabyles; and whilst two companies were sent

to repel them on the left, Captain Ribains, with a detachment of

Chasseurs d'Orleans, was ordered to occupy the right-hand position.

It was a vertical cascade of rocks and slaty soil, covered with firs

and brushwood; a rivulet flowed across and soaked the ground, upon

its way to the river. The captain dislodged the Arabs, occupied the

position, thus assuring the free passage of the column; but, when he

would have rejoined the main body, the Kabyles threw themselves upon

his little band. A few men, the foremost files, tried to descend in a

straight line; their feet slipped upon the slope, rendered slippery

by the water, and nine of them were precipitated from an elevation

of eighty feet. They rolled from rock to rock, from cliff to cliff,

trying, but in vain, to cling to the bushes, and fell at last into the

bed of the river. The rest of the company had inclined to the right

towards a ravine, letting themselves drop from tree to tree, to rejoin

the column. One soldier, Calmette by name, separated from his comrades

and surrounded by Kabyles, was driven to the brink of the precipice.

With his rifle he shot down one, two others fell by his bayonet; then,

finding that he must fall, he seized two Kabyles, and sought to avenge

his fate by making them share it. The rock was perpendicular; they fell

from its summit, and, by unheard of good luck, the Kabyle to whom the

chasseur most closely clung fell under him, and by his death saved his

enemy's life. As to Captain Ribains, he was descending last of all, and

seemed to defy the hostile bullets, when three Kabyles rushed upon him,

fired, and fractured his shoulder. Fortunately his men managed to carry

him off. All who witnessed still remember his being borne past the

General, who congratulated him on his glorious conduct; his energetic

countenance expressed the legitimate pride of duty done, and blood

nobly poured out."

At last night approached, and the bivouac was established at a place

where the bed of the river expanded. Tents were pitched for the General

and the wounded; the soldiers received fresh ammunition; a battalion

was ordered to march, in profound silence, at two in the morning, to

occupy the heights along the river bank, by which the morrow's march

would lead. The French, still excited by the contest, conversed eagerly

round their bivouac fires. Their Arab allies were discouraged, and

sat gloomily beside their saddled horses, wrapped in their _burnous_

and without fire. There were but three surgeons in the camp, and

their hands were full. Most of the wounds had been received at the

musket's muzzle, and were very painful. Eight amputations took place

during the night. The quarter of the bivouac where the hospital was

established, resounded with groans and cries of anguish. Examples of

heroic endurance were not wanting. "For three quarters of an hour the

chief surgeon probed and tortured the arm of Captain Ribains, saving

the limb by his skill. During this long operation, the captain, seated

on a biscuit box, amidst the dead and dying, showed as much fortitude

as he had previously displayed courage. Not a complaint did he utter;

only, from time to time, he could not help turning to the surgeon and

saying--'Really, doctor, you hurt me.' Amongst the wounded of the 4th

Chasseurs d'Afrique was a soldier named Cayeux. Feeling his death

approach, he sent for his captain. After giving him a last message

for his mother: 'Give my thanks, also,' said the soldier, 'to Colonel

Tartas; he is a good man--he has always loved those he commanded; tell

him that one of his soldiers thanks him with his dying breath.'" An

affecting trait, honourable alike to soldier and to chief. There was

much to do that night: it was all done, and well done. Litters were

required for the wounded: trees were cut down, and the litters were

made. The dead were to be buried: an hour before daybreak they were

collected; a detachment of engineers, diverting the course of the

stream, dug a hole, in which the bodies were deposited, and over which

the water was again allowed to flow. This was to protect the corpses

from Kabyle profanation. At dawn the march was resumed, amidst the

shouts of the Kabyles, summoning each other to the massacre of the

French. Their surprise and rage were excessive on finding the positions

along the line of march all occupied. Notwithstanding the disadvantage

of ground, the French now had the best of it, and several times during

that day's march they turned upon their pursuers with terrible effect,

the Zouaves especially distinguishing themselves. "After one of these

rallies, they passed, to the great joy of all, through some magnificent

vines, and quenched their thirst with the ripe grapes--the General

himself, to whom the soldiers hastened to offer the first-fruits of

the vintage, setting the example. Just then Colonel Cavaignac passed

by. 'Here, my dear colonel,' said General Changarnier, offering him

a splendid bunch of grapes, 'you must need refreshment after such

glorious fatigues.' And they fell into chat, the balls falling thickly

around them, until Colonel Cavaignac was called away to one of his

captains, shot down at a few paces' distance, and who wished to

recommend to him his mother and sister, and to give him his cross of

officer of the Legion of Honour."

A short time brought the column out of the defile upon ground which,

although mountainous, appeared by contrast an open plain, and where

the cavalry could act with advantage. The Kabyles were beaten off; and

the next day halt was made, to rest the men, look after the wounded,

and execute a plan of reprisals devised by Changarnier. His spies had

informed him where the flocks and families of his late antagonists were

assembled. A razzia was ordered in the night, and its result was eight

hundred prisoners and twelve thousand head of cattle. Thus encumbered

with captives, spoil, and wounded, the little band, which originally

numbered barely two thousand men, now notably reduced by two days'

severe fighting, completed a march of fifty leagues, to the utter

astonishment of the natives, who could not believe that such a handful

of troops had made their way, amidst the storm of Kabyle bullets,

through those terrible ravines, which the Arabs designate the defiles

of death. The affair of the Oued-Foddha is still celebrated in the

French army as one of the most heroic achievements of the African war.

All who were engaged did their duty well, taking example from their

commander, of whom M. de Castellane speaks in the highest terms. Eight

months after this affair the Kabyles had made their submission, and

the war was at an end in the province--for a time, at least. General

Changarnier was about to return to France. M. de Castellane accompanied

him to the coast.

"I well remember that, on our road from Milianah to Algiers, the Arab

chiefs came to greet him on his passage, and amongst them I met an

old Caïd of the Hadjouts, whom I had known at Blidah. We spoke of

the numerous razzias and nocturnal expeditions that had destroyed

his warlike tribe. 'His name, with us,' he said to me, speaking of

General Changarnier, 'signifies the _subduer of pride, the conqueror

of enemies_;[19] and he has justified his name.' Then pointing to the

long line of mountains which border the Mitidja from Chenouan to

the sea, 'When the storm comes,' he continued, 'the lightning runs

in an instant along all those mountains, penetrating their inmost

recesses. Thus did his glance discover us. And when he had seen us,

the bullet reaches not its aim more rapidly!' The old Arab spoke the

truth. General Changarnier's characteristics are a quick and sound

judgment, and dauntless energy: he knows how to command. His courage

rises with danger; then, if you approach him, his vigour communicates

itself to you, and you cannot doubt of success. At Constantina he first

distinguished himself, and since then he has never for a day been

inferior to the glorious reputation he there acquired. If ever you find

yourself at the bivouac, or under the soldier's little tent, with one

of those old African bands, get them to talk to you of their numerous

expeditions under his orders, and you will see what they say of him."

It was in March 1843 that M. de Castellane and some other officers left

Algiers for Blidah, there to join General Changarnier, and commence,

under his orders, a campaign in the interior. Their mid-day halt was at

Bouffarik, an unwholesome town, frequently ravaged by fever, but which,

nevertheless, enjoys a certain degree of prosperity, due to its central

position. Here they refreshed themselves, according to invariable

custom, at the celebrated coffee-house of _la Mère Gaspard_, a veteran

sutler, who, after following the drum ever since the first landing of

the French in 1830, had wearied of wandering, and pitched her tent at

Bouffarik. There she greatly prospered, and in a few years had land

of her own, a splendid hotel and coffee-house. "The place was adorned

with paintings, marbles, and mirrors, and especially with some very

fine engravings from Horace Vernet's pictures, which had been placed

there by the hand of the celebrated artist. One day, dying of thirst,

Vernet alighted at Mother Gaspard's. There he was offered drink, and

land to buy. He drank and he bought some land, but, when signing

the bargain, he perceived that the walls were covered with wretched

lithographs after his pictures. Like a good neighbour, he promised to

send the engravings, and he kept his word. Mother Gaspard, proud of the

gift, never fails to relate the incident, and in my turn I repeat the

tale." Between Bouffarik and Blidah, the traveller comes to a monument

erected in honour of a sergeant and fifteen men who perished there in

1840. They and five others were escorting the post-bag from Bouffarik,

when they were set upon by some four hundred mounted Arabs. Forming a

miniature square, they made a valiant defence, but five only survived

when a squadron of Spahis came to the rescue.

At Blidah, a perfect labyrinth of streets, squares and lanes, the

travellers were greatly puzzled to find the General's quarters, when

an obliging Arab volunteered to guide them to the residence of the

_Changarlo_. It was a very humble habitation for the commander of a

great province. A single sentry stood at the door; a great fig tree,

the refuge of countless pigeons, shot up in the middle of the court;

a small chamber, the only one upon the first floor, was the General's

sleeping room; upon the ground floor, a large apartment answered the

double purpose of orderly-room and of an aide-de-camp's bed-chamber.

Two tolerably furnished rooms were allotted to visitors. At Blidah,

as in camp, General Changarnier's hospitality was proverbial, even

amongst the Arabs. M. de Castellane and his comrades found a cordial

reception. But they were not long to enjoy themselves beneath the

shadow of the General's fig-tree. The march was ordered for the next

morning; Blidah's quiet streets and unfrequented shops swarmed with

soldiers, providing themselves with coffee and tobacco, and such other

comforts as their pocket-money allowed. The French soldier receives

twopence half-penny every five days--no great fund for luxuries. On

all sides, fatigue-parties were hurrying to the stores; and at night,

until tattoo was beaten, every wine-house, was thronged for a parting

carouse. At daybreak, with well-packed knapsacks and a week's rations

on their backs, the column set out for Milianah. No apprehensions of

perils or fatigues ruffled their joyous humour. They were all old

soldiers, hardened in many campaigns; and besides, as they themselves

said, in their barrack-room style, "with Changarnier there is always

a smell of mutton." The allusion was to the numerous flocks they had

captured under his orders. The success of his frequent razzias had

made the saying proverbial amongst the troops. "On the 13th June 1849,

the sixth battalion of Chasseurs, who had so long served under General

Changarnier in Africa, having received orders to charge the insurgents

in the streets of Paris, set off laughing and repeating to each other,

to the great astonishment of the national guards, the old African

proverb: 'This smells of mutton.'"

The town of Milianah had twice been preserved to the French by the

skill and enterprise of General Changarnier. In June 1840, that officer

was colonel of the 2d Light Infantry, a regiment celebrated in African

annals, and whose exploits have been repeatedly recorded on the canvass

of Horace Vernet. The French army, commanded by Marshal Valée, was

assembled, exhausted by many fatigues, beneath the walls of Medeah.

Milianah, then but recently occupied by the French, was in want of

provisions. All the generals deemed its relief impossible; the distance

was too great, the men were too weary. Colonel Changarnier thought

otherwise, and volunteered the service. By a march of twenty-four

leagues in thirty hours, he evaded the enemy and accomplished his

task, returning to Medeah four days afterwards, to receive the

congratulations of the whole army. The stores and succours thus thrown

into Milianah would suffice, it was hoped and expected, until the end

of the autumn. But the hot season brought sickness in its train; vermin

destroyed part of the provisions; the cattle died: famine was imminent.

"Pent up within the ramparts and hard pressed by hunger, the soldiers

ate whatever they could lay hands upon, even boiling and devouring

weeds and mallows. This unwholesome nourishment, acting on the brain,

induced nostalgia and suicide. Of twelve hundred men, seven hundred

and fifty had perished; four hundred were in hospital, the others were

little better than invalids, and had hardly strength to carry their

muskets. The officers themselves were obliged to stand sentry, and the

fatal day was near at hand when, for want of defenders, the town must

be taken. No letters, no news--the spies had all been killed. At last a

despatch from the governor escaped the Arabs, and intelligence reached

Algiers of the sad condition of the garrison. Colonel Changarnier,

who had become general since his first relief of Milianah, had

increased, by further feats, his reputation for skill and audacity,

and to him Marshal Valée again had recourse. Only two thousand men

could be spared, wherewith to brave the attacks of the whole forces of

Abd-el-Kader, who then had scarcely passed the zenith of his power. But

Changarnier did not hesitate. The greater the peril, the more glorious

the success."

By spreading reports of a march in a contrary direction, the daring

leader gained a day upon the enemy, and then cut his way to Milianah,

reaching it in time to save the remnant of the unfortunate garrison.

But three years had greatly changed the aspect of affairs; and when

M. de Castellane reached Milianah in 1843, he found five thousand

effective soldiers waiting the orders of Changarnier. There ensued a

period of idleness for the men, but of great activity for the General

and staff. The plan of campaign was to be sketched out; information was

to be obtained concerning the nature of the country.

"Everyday the Aga of the Beni-Menacers, Ben-Tifour, came to the

General's quarters with men of his tribe, and there, by dint of

questioning, by asking the same things ten times over and of ten

different individuals, the chief of the province succeeded in obtaining

exact notions of the country, the halting places, the water, the

bivouacs. During this time a constant communication was kept up with

Cherchell by means of spies. Some of the letters sent cost five hundred

francs postage, for the carriers risked their lives. At last, after

mature reflection, the General's plan was decided upon and written

down; and his orders were given with that clearness and precision which

leaves no doubt or ambiguity. This was one of General Changarnier's

characteristics. With him obedience was always easy, because the duty

was never doubtful."

At Milianah the French officers had a club, a pleasant pavilion in the

middle of a garden. A library and a coffee house were attached to it.

For evening amusement there was the theatre. Ay, a theatre at Milianah!

How could Frenchmen, even in the heart of Algeria, exist without a

vaudeville? The soldiers were actors. The _vivandières_ lent their caps

and gowns to dress up the female characters. "I well remember," says M.

de Castellane, "seeing _Le Caporal et la Payse_ played at Milianah. The

Dejazet of the company, a mettlesome _Artémise_, excited the laughter

of the whole audience, even that of General Changarnier, who often

attended the performance, in his box of painted paper. It is impossible

to say how much these amusements, which some may deem futile,

contributed to keep up the spirits of the troops, and to dispel those

gloomy ideas which in Africa are often the forerunners of nostalgia and

death."

Not all these diversions and resources, however, could reconcile M. de

Castellane to a fortnight's halt at Milianah. He beguiled his anxiety

for action by researches into the history of certain Arab tribes. The

three principal families of Milianah were those of Omar, Sidi-Embarek,

and Ouled-ben-Yousef. At that time, Sidi-Embarek was organising amongst

the Kabyles a vigorous resistance to the French, to whom Omar was

friendly. The recent annals of the Omars are highly curious, and form a

chapter of the purest Oriental romance. In the valley of the Cheliff,

"at Oued-Boutan, the new Hakem of the town of Milianah, Omar Pacha, of

the illustrious family of the pacha of that name, was waiting for us.

There we had a fresh proof of the deep traces the Turks have left in

this country. After more than thirteen years, the remembrance of them

is still so lively amongst the people, that the son of the Pacha Omar

was surrounded by the respect of all these chiefs as in the day of his

family's power."

"The most celebrated of the Omars was one of those Turkish soldiers,

each one of whom may say, when he dons the uniform--'If it is written,

I shall be a pacha!' Mehemet Ali, putting into Metelin on his way

to Egypt, met Omar, whose brother had for some years past held high

office under the Pacha of Algiers. Mehemet Ali and Omar formed a close

friendship, and set out together to seek their fortune, but scarcely

had they reached Egypt when Omar received a letter from his brother

Mahomed, summoning him to his side. The two friends parted, with a vow

that the first who succeeded in life should share his prosperity with

the other. At Oran, where his brother had become Caliphate of the Bey,

Omar's fine figure, his eye, whose gaze none could endure, his long

black mustaches, and his brilliant beauty, procured him the surname of

_chaous_. Soon afterwards, the daughter of a Turk of Milianah, named

Jemna, whom all cited as a marvel of loveliness, became his wife. But

Omar's prosperity was of short duration. His brother Mahomed, whose

credit with the Pacha of Algiers gave umbrage to the Bey of Oran, was

thrown into prison, and the Bey ordered his death. Omar was compelled

to share his brother's dungeon, and when the executioner entered, he

would have defended him; but Mahomed prevented it. 'The hour of my

death is come,' he said. 'It is not given to man to resist the power

of the Most High; but pray to him daily that he may choose thee as my

avenger; and bear in mind that you are the husband of my wife and the

father of my children.' Thenceforward, revenge was Omar's sole thought;

and when, by the Pacha's order, the Bey sent him to Algiers, he used

all his efforts to elevate himself, in order to hasten the hour of

retaliation. Soon he became Caïd of the Arabs; and his wife Jemna,

who at first had been prevented leaving Oran, managed to join him,

through a thousand dangers, escorted by her father, Si-Hassan, and by a

faithful servant, Baba-Djelloull.

"The troops of Tunis marched against Algiers; a battle took place,

and the Turks were giving way, when Omar, dashing forward with thirty

horsemen, made a daring charge, rallied the army by his example, and

decided the victory. On his return to Algiers, the troops clamorously

demanded him as their Aga. Meanwhile, Mehemet Ali's fortune had also

made progress. The massacre of the Mamelukes consolidated his power,

and he testified his recollection of his friend, by sending him a

magnificent tent.

"The country flourished under the administration of the new Aga. Stone

bridges were built over the Isser and the Cheliff. In the words of

the Arab chronicle, victory everywhere accompanied Omar. His name was

a terror to his enemies, and he was blessed by all the people, when

the Bey of Oran, still detesting the brother of Mahomed, and dreading

this new power, persuaded the Pacha of Algiers that Omar was planning

to usurp his throne. Fortunately, an intercepted letter warned Omar,

who hurried to the barracks, and assembled the troops. 'It is you

who have raised me,' he said, 'and in none others do I recognise the

right to cast me down. I place myself in your hands; either kill me or

deliver me from my enemies.' The furious soldiery ran to the Pacha's

palace, stabbed him, (1810) and would have named Omar in his stead; but

Omar refused, and the _khrasnadji_, or treasurer, was then elected.

All-powerful, Omar saw the hour of revenge at hand. The Bey of Oran

having revolted, he marched against him, took his enemy prisoner, and

had him flayed alive. In the province of Oran you are still told of

_Bey el messeloug_, the flayed Bey.

"In 1816, fearing the Coulouglis,[20] the Pacha planned their massacre,

and confided his project to Omar, who, far from countenancing it, had

the Pacha stifled in his bath. This time he was obliged to accept the

Pachalik. When sending the customary present to the Porte, he intrusted

Si-Hassan and his son Mahomed with rich presents for Mehemet Ali, who

was named Pacha almost at the same time. For the space of two years,

Omar made head against all manner of misfortunes--against the plague,

the locusts, and Lord Exmouth's bombardment; but poor Jemna had lost

her peace of mind, for she knew that all Deys die a violent death. In

1818, she was in the pains of childbed when she heard discharges of

artillery. Seized with alarm, she desired to see Omar, and, contrary

to etiquette, she sent her faithful attendant, old Baba-Djelloull, to

seek him; but the old man soon returned, and returned alone. Jemna

understood, and swooned away. At the same instant, numerous blows were

struck on the door of her apartments. It was the _chaous_ of the new

Dey, coming to take possession of Omar's treasures."

The treasures were enormous in amount. M. Roche, the French

consul-general at Tangiers, to whom M. de Castellane declares himself

indebted for this very interesting history of the Omar family, derived

his account of them from a son of Jemna, apparently that one whose

birth she was hourly expecting when she was shocked by the intelligence

of her husband's violent death. "Omar's palace contained a hundred

negroes, three hundred negresses, ten Georgians, twenty Abyssinians,

forty thoroughbred horses, ten mares from the Desert. The entire

furniture of one saloon was of gold and silver, adorned with precious

stones; another room was full of chests of gold and silver coin, silk

brocade, and cloth of gold. Jemna changed her dress every week, and

attached to each costume was a complete set of diamonds, consisting of

a diadem, an aigret and earrings, a collar of fifteen rows of pearls,

two clasps, bracelets, twelve rings for the fingers and two for the

ankles, and a tunic of cloth-of-gold, studded with precious stones."

Omar's murderer and successor would fain have wedded his widow, but she

spurned his offer. He then seized her treasures, and, in the moment of

good-humour which their great amount occasioned him, he allowed her to

retire with her children to Milianah, where her father had property.

After a few months' sway, the new Pacha was assassinated in his turn,

and his successor, Hadj-Mohamed, went to inhabit the Casbah palace,

in defiance of a prophetic inscription announcing an invasion by

Christians during the reign of a Pacha whose residence should be the

Casbah.

He died of the plague; and Hassan, who succeeded him, and who had

been an _iman_ under Omar, showed his gratitude to his former master

by magnificent presents to his widow, and great kindness to his sons.

Jemna had almost forgotten past sorrows in present happiness, when the

arrival of the French brought her fresh disasters and sufferings. Her

sons allied themselves with the invaders, thereby incurring hatred

and persecution from Abd-el-Kader. They were stripped of all they

possessed: Omar, the youngest of them, was loaded with fetters, and

placed in a dungeon; Jemna escaped the bastinado only by the mercy

of an executioner, who inflicted it upon a negress in her stead. At

last the intervention of some Arab chiefs procured the liberty of both

mother and son, and the progress of the French enabled them to take

up their residence in safety at Milianah, where Omar was appointed

_hakem_, an office equivalent to mayor. In 1843, M. de Castellane

was present at an interview between Marshal Bugeaud and Jemna, whose

countenance, in spite of lapse of years and many sorrows, still

retained traces of great beauty.

The chief of the Sidi-Embarek, a family which, although of Arab race,

had enjoyed great respect and influence in the country for some

centuries before Turkish rule was terminated by French usurpation,

had actively stimulated the persecution of the family of Omar, whose

personal enemy he was. M. de Castellane gives the following account

of the founder of the Sidi-Embarek:--"In 1580, a man of the Hachems

of the west, named Si-Embarek, left his tribe, with two servants, and

went to Milianah. There, on account of his poverty, he discharged his

servants, who settled upon the banks of the Cheliff, and gave birth to

the tribe of Hachems still existing there. Sidi-Embarek then went to

Coleah, and engaged himself as _rhamès_ (a sort of subordinate farmer)

to a certain Ismael; but, instead of working, he slept; and meanwhile,

marvellous to relate, the yoke of oxen intrusted to him ploughed by

themselves, and, at the close of day, he had done more work than

anybody else. This prodigy was reported to Ismael, who, desirous of

witnessing it with his own eyes, hid himself one day, and saw Embarek

sleeping under a tree whilst the oxen ploughed. Thereupon Ismael knelt

before him, and exclaimed--'You are the elect of God; 'tis I who am

your servant, and you are my master;' and, taking him home, he treated

him with profound respect. Embarek's reputation for holiness spread

far and wide; multitudes thronged to solicit his prayers and make him

offerings, and he speedily acquired great riches." The grandson, many

times removed, of this miraculous ploughman, was a Marabout or saint

by right of descent; but he was also a very considerable fighting

man, and a most efficient lieutenant of Abd-el-Kader. We make his

acquaintance under very striking circumstances, in the course of M. de

Castellane's curious account of the Spahis of Mascara. The corps of

Spahis had its origin in the necessities of African service. Excellent

and most efficient as are the regiments of light dragoons known as

_Chasseurs d'Afrique_, they were not all that was wanted in the way

of cavalry. It was found expedient to make Arab fight Arab. Knowledge

of the country, and of the habits of the foe, was as essential as

good soldiership. The prospect of gain brought abundant recruits; the

discipline exacted was less rigid than in French regiments; the sole

uniform was a red _burnous_, stripped off in an instant, when desirable

to conceal the military character of the wearer. Europeans not being

excluded from the corps, many roving and desultory blades, tempted by

the adventurous nature of the service, and to whom the routine and

strict discipline of a more regular one would have been irksome, have,

at different periods, served in the ranks of the Spahis, and sometimes

sabred their way to a commission--"strange adventurers," says M. de

Castellane, "whose lives resembled some tale of former days cut out

of an old book." And he gives an account of two such persons whom he

met with in the Mascara squadron, with which his own was for some time

brigaded. One was a French _maréchal-de-logis_ or sergeant, named

Alfred Siquot, a man of good family and eccentric character,--a great

humourist, whose gloomy air and silent laugh had procured him from

his comrades the surname of Jovial. There does not appear, however,

to have been mystery in his previous life, which was open to all, nor

any particular romance or adventures in its incidents previously to

his service in Africa. The case was very different with his comrade,

Mohamed-Ould-Caïd-Osman, who had the rank of native officer. "The Arab

name concealed a Prussian one, and an agitated life, full of duels

and adventures--of condemnations to death, and executions in effigy.

Clever and well-informed, there was a great charm in his bluntness of

manner, and his bravery, justly celebrated, procured him the respect of

all. He was the very type of the officer of fortune--of the lansquenet

of former days. His double-barrelled gun, as much dreaded by the

Arabs as by the partridges--his dog Tom--his sorrel charger, a beast

of famous bottom--were his sole friends in the field. In garrison, a

fourth affection found a place in his heart--a little Spanish girl, who

never opened her mouth, and was as devoted to him as his dog. Tom, the

_Chica_, the Caïd, made but one. Their life, with its joys and sorrows,

was in common. Now and then Siquot went and smoked his pipe in the

midst of the three friends.

"As to the Caïd's African life, it was well known, and its accidents

had more than once beguiled the leisure of the bivouac. He had been

twice seen at Algiers, but in very different circumstances. The

first time, in all his splendour, he was travelling with Prince

Puckler-Muskau, who speaks of him in his _Letters_, designating him by

his initials. The second time, in 1840, he had assumed the knapsack of

the infantry soldier, and was marching to the defile of Mouzaia, in the

ranks of the foreign legion."

The ruined gentleman, however, could not accustom himself to walking,

and after a severe campaign, in which three-fourths of his company

perished, he procured a substitute and left the legion. Once more a

free agent, his roving propensities were checked for a while by the

fascinations of a fair Moor. "Halfway up the hill leading to Mustapha,

stood a cheerful white house, embowered in foliage and commanding a

splendid view of the Bay of Algiers. The Armida of that enchanting spot

was named Aïcha, and never did Eastern poet dream of a more charming

creature. What wonder, then, if beneath these shades six months of

peace, calm, and repose elapsed. Each morning the smiling beauty seated

herself at Osman's feet, whilst he wrote, upon a little Arab table, in

the midst of perfumes and flowers, the life of a Protestant missionary

whom he had met in one of his rambles."[21] The Rinaldo of the foreign

legion might, one would think, have been well content to linger long

in such a retreat and such society. Aïcha was fond and constant, and

was rapidly acquiring German. But after six months of this Capuan

existence, the vagabond again got the upper-hand in the restless soul

of the Caïd. Like the celebrated Lord Lovel, he loved and he rode away;

the horse, in this case, being represented by a steamer, which carried

him off westwards one fine morning, his gun on his shoulder, and in

his pocket a letter of recommendation, now two years old, for General

Lamoricière, whom he had formerly known in command of a battalion of

Zouaves. What became of Aïcha--whether she cried her eyes out, or took

arsenic, or another lover--the little dog, as Mr Commissary Capsicum

would say, forgot to mention.

"The province of Oran, in 1841, was far from tranquil; a stout heart

and a strong arm had then abundant opportunities of distinction.

Mohamed-Ould-Caïd-Osman, inscribed under this Arab name on the

muster-roll of the Spahis, and Siquot, who enlisted at the same

period, did not miss such opportunities. Soon afterwards, Siquot was

wounded, the Caïd had his horse killed under him, and their names

appeared in the orders of the army. Heroes, whether illustrious or

unknown, always find enviers; take as an example Sergeant Froidefond, a

grumbling old trooper, who thought proper to tell the Caïd he was good

for nothing but cleaning his nails. On their return to Mascara, they

fought at twelve paces: Froidefond fired first, and the Caïd fell, shot

through the buttock. The seconds ran forward to pick him up. 'Stop!'

he cried, 'it is my turn to fire;' and raising himself on his elbow,

he shot Froidefond dead. He himself was then carried to the hospital,

where he found Siquot, who was getting cured of a wound. On hearing

what had happened, the Chica--who had then been about a year mixed up

in his existence, without very well knowing why, like the dogs who

attach themselves to a squadron--hastened to the hospital to nurse him,

and in three months he was on his legs again."

The Caïd had returned to his duty when, in 1813, M. de Castellane's

regiment entered Mascara with trumpets sounding, escorting Marshal

Bugeaud. Abd-el-Kader was at no great distance, and Generals

Lamoricière and Tempoure had been operating against him until the

cavalry of the province had great need of repose to recruit and

remount. One night a Spanish deserter came over from the Emir, and gave

Marshal Bugeaud important information, fully confirming the reports

of the spies. An hour later, orders were given for an expedition in

pursuit of Abd-el-Kader's battalions of regulars, of whom Sidi-Embarek

had just taken the command. General Tempoure had charge of the column,

which consisted of two battalions of infantry, four hundred and fifty

French dragoons, fifty Spahis, including Siquot and the Caïd Osman, and

a few irregular horse.

"If the official reports in the _Moniteur_ were not there to confirm

its truth, the narrative of this expedition would risk being deemed a

fable. Cavalry and infantry marched three days and three nights: in the

morning they halted for one hour and a half--at night, from six o'clock

till midnight. From the moment when the trail of the enemy was first

struck, the drum was not once beaten. They followed the scent, like

dogs pursuing their prey. Thirty Spahis, with some horsemen belonging

to the Arab office at Mascara, preceded the column; they _read the

earth_ during the night. What all exciting time that was! We came to

bivouacs whose fires were still burning; the enemy had left them only

that morning, and in all haste we resumed our march. At last, after

forty-eight hours, our Arab scouts, hovering round the flanks of the

column, captured two Arabs of the tribe of Djaffra. These refused at

first to speak; but a musket-muzzle, applied to their heads, untied

their tongues, and we learned that the regulars were at Taouira on the

previous evening. We were on the right road, therefore, and should end

by overtaking them. The march was resumed, the Spahis still leading.

Not a pipe was alight; profound silence was observed, broken only by

the noise of a fall, when some sleepy foot-soldier stumbled over an

obstacle. Day broke, and a slight smoke was seen; the fires had just

expired, the regulars were gone. The hope which had hitherto sustained

the soldiers' strength suddenly abandoned them; nothing was heard but

cries and maledictions. Everyone grumbled at the general. The morning

halt was called in a hollow, and whilst the soldiers ate, the scouts

reported that the traces of the enemy were quite fresh. For a second

General Tempoure hesitated; then his decision was taken, and the order

for instant march given. A great clamour arose in the bivouac. 'He

wants to kill us all!' cried the soldiers, who during seventy hours

had had but a few moments of repose. They obeyed, however, and the

march was resumed. In an hour's time, the track turned southwards. In

that direction there was no certainty of water. No matter, advance we

must. But the traces grew fresher and fresher: here a horse had been

abandoned; a little farther, a jackass. 'We have got the rascals!'

said the soldiers, and their strength revived. At last, towards eleven

o'clock, whilst the column was passing through a deep ravine, a thick

smoke was seen behind a hill. This time the enemy was assuredly

there. Fatigue vanished as by enchantment. In an instant cloaks were

rolled, priming renewed, horses girthed up; all was ready, and the

troops formed for the attack. Three hundred infantry supported three

columns of cavalry; the centre was commanded by Colonel Tartas of the

4th Chasseurs. The advance began; just then there was the report of a

musket; it was a vedette whom our scouts had been unable to surprise.

The Arab galloped up the hill, waving his _burnous_. At the same

moment, the drums of the regulars beat to arms; there was a stir in

our ranks. The cavalry broke into a trot; the infantry, forgetting

forced marches, followed at a run, and from the top of the hill we

saw the two battalions of regulars, who had been unable to reach the

opposite summit, halt half way up. Away went the cavalry, sabre in

hand, horses at a gallop, Colonel Tartas at their head. They were met

by a volley of musketry; some fell, but the avalanche broke through

the obstacle, and the Arabs were cut down on all sides. Their horsemen

try to escape--some flying to the left, others straight forward. They

are pursued by all whose horses are not yet knocked up; and the Caïd

Osman rolls over with his charger, which is hit in the head. M. de

Caulaincourt, admirably mounted, continues the race; he kills one of

the Emir's horsemen; but, separated by a ridge of ground from his

soldiers, whom he has outstripped, he is surrounded by enemies. Without

losing his presence of mind, he spurred his horse and broke through

the circle, sabre in hand; when, just as he was about to rejoin his

men, an Arab, issuing from a glade, shot him with a pistol, close to

the eye. The horse galloped on, and carried back the wounded officer

to his troop. The blood streamed, the flesh hung in shreds; M. do

Caulaincourt, however, was still conscious. Lifted from his horse, a

soldier took him on his back and carried him to the surgeon, traversing

the scene of the combat, a true field of the dead. In a narrow space

lay five hundred corpses, nearly all frightfully mutilated by the

sabres of our chasseurs.

"A steep bank of rock had checked the progress of those horsemen who

had fled to the left. Several alighted, and, jerking their horses with

the bridle, surmounted the obstacle. Only one of them rode at a walk

along the foot of this rocky wall. The whiteness of his garments and

beauty of his equipments marked him as a chief. Siquot, a corporal of

chasseurs, and Captain Cassaignoles, rode after him. The ground was

very bad, full of impediments. The corporal was the first to reach him;

just as his horse's nose touched the crupper of the Arab's charger, the

horseman, turned round with the utmost coolness, took aim, and laid

him dead on the spot. At the same moment Siquot came up and wounded

the Arab, but received a pistol-ball through his left arm, the same

shot killing the horse of Captain Cassaignoles, who was a little lower

down the slope. The tall cavalier then rose in his stirrups, and struck

Siquot on the head with his heavy pistol-butt, when Corporal Gerard of

the Chasseurs, riding up on the top of the bank, shot him through the

breast. The horse was caught; it was a splendid animal, which a wound

in the shoulder had alone prevented from saving its master's life.

'See if that Arab is blind of an eye,' cried Captain Cassaignoles.

They looked; an eye was wanting. 'It is Sidi-Embarek; let his head be

cut off.' And Gerard, with a knife, separated the head from the body,

that the Arabs might not have a doubt of his death. Then all obeyed

the recall, which was sounding. The chase was over; the regulars were

broken and destroyed; cruel fatigue had been rewarded by complete

success. General Tempoure returned to Mascara, and a month later each

man received, according to the Arab expression, _the testimony of

blood_, the cross so glorious to the soldier.

"The chances of war then separated us from the Caïd: I also learned

the return of Siquot to France, where, by an odd coincidence, he

received from his Paris friends the same surname as from his African

comrades. As to the German lansquenet, he marked every corner of the

province of Oran by some daring feat, and always fortunate, invariably

escaped unhurt. Within three years of service, he was five times

named in orders, and passed through the noncommissioned grades to the

rank of cornet. When I next met with him in 1846, Tom, the horse, the

Chica, formed, as before, his whole family. Poor Chica, who in all her

life had never had but one ambition, that of wearing a silk dress! In

garrison, Tom was purveyor; he and his master started at daybreak and

returned at night, weary but content, and with a well-filled game-bag.

The Chica, who had passed the day singing, laid the table, and the

three friends supped together.

"Some months later, after an absence of three weeks, one of our

squadrons returned to Mascara from the outposts. We were moving down

the street that leads to the cavalry barracks, when we saw the officers

of the garrison assembled before the Caïd's little house. They advanced

to greet and shake hands with us, and they told us that the Chica, the

Caïd's companion, the friend of all, was dead.

"The poor little thing had suffered for some time; the evening before,

however, she had got up. There was a bright warm sun, and the air was

full of perfume. 'Chico,' said she to the Caïd, 'give me your arm,

I should like to see the sun once more.' She took a few steps, wept

as she gazed on the budding foliage and the beauty of the day: then,

as she returned to her arm-chair, 'Ah! Chico,' she exclaimed, 'I am

dying!' And in sitting down she expired, without agony or convulsion,

still smiling and looking at the Caïd.

"At this moment the Chica's coffin was borne out of the house; all

present uncovered their heads, and we joined the officers who followed

her to her grave.

"The cemetery of Mascara, planted with olive and forest trees, is

situated in the midst of gardens: everything there breathes peace,

calm, and repose. The Chica's grave had been dug under a fig-tree.

The Spahis who carried her stopped, all present formed a circle; two

soldiers of the Engineers took the light bier, and lowered the poor

Chica into her final dwelling-place. The Caïd was at the foot of the

grave. One of the soldiers presented him with the spadeful of earth:

the Spahi's hard hand trembled as he took it; and when the earth,

falling on the coffin, made that dull noise so melancholy to hear, a

big tear, but half suppressed, glistened in his eyes.

"Thenceforward Tom, whom the Chica loved, was the Caïd's only friend."

Some may suspect M. de Castellane of giving a romantic tint to his

African experiences. We do not partake the suspicion. Even in the

nineteenth century, generally esteemed prosaic and matter-of-fact,

there is far more romance in real life than in books; and the

Prussian-Arab Osman is but one of scores, perhaps hundreds, of military

adventurers who have fought in various services during the last twenty

years, and the events of whose career, truly noted, would in many cases

be set down by the supporters of circulating libraries as overstrained

and improbable fiction. In that chapter of M. de Castellane's work

which consists of the journal of an officer of Zouaves, we find an

account of another singular wanderer, who in the year 1840 deserted

from the Arabs, (having previously served with the French,) and came

into the town of Medeah, where the Zouaves were in garrison. He was a

very young man, a Bavarian, of the name of Glockner, son of a former

commissary in the service of France, and nephew of a Bavarian officer

of the highest rank. "A cadet at the military school at Munich, he was

sent, in consequence of some pranks he played, to serve in a regiment

of light dragoons; but his ardent imagination and love of adventure

led him to fresh follies; he deserted into France. Coldly received,

as all deserters are, he was enrolled in the foreign legion. He had

hardly reached Africa when he became disgusted with the service, and,

yielding to the craving after novelty which constantly tormented him,

he deserted to the Arabs. He remained with them three years. Kidnapped

at first by the Kabyles, he was taken to a market in the interior,

and sold to a chief of the tribe of the Beni-Moussa. After being his

servant for a year, he managed to escape from his master's tent, and,

with legs bare, a _burnous_ on his shoulders, a camel rope round his

waist, and a pilgrim's staff in his hands, he marched at random in a

southerly direction. In this manner he reached the Desert, passing

his nights with the different tribes he encountered, amongst whom he

announced himself by the Mussulman's habitual salutation, 'Eh! the

master of the Douar! A guest of God!' Thereupon he was well received;

food and shelter were given him, and he departed the next morning

unquestioned as to his destination. It concerned no one, and no Arab

ever asked the question. He followed his destiny. Thus did Glockner

cross a part of the Sahara, and reach the town of Tedjini, Aïn Mhadi;

thence he went to Boghar, Taza, Tekedempt, Mascara, Medeali, and

Milianah; then, enrolled by force amongst the regulars of El Berkani,

he made the campaigns of 1839 and 1840 in their ranks. Decorated by

Abd-el-Kader in consequence of a wound received the 31st December

1839--a wound inflicted, as he believes, by a captain of the 2d Light

Infantry--he again returned to us, after other adventures, like the

prodigal child, lamenting his follies, weeping at thoughts of his

family, especially of his father, and entreating as a favour to be

received as a French soldier. They talked of sending him back to the

foreign legion, but he begged to be admitted into the Zouaves, and was

accordingly enlisted as an Arab, under the name of Joussef. He was

then but one-and-twenty years old, was fresh as a child, timid as a

young girl, and marvellously simple in his bearing and language." The

end of this young fellow's history, as far as M. de Castellane became

acquainted with it, is on a par with its commencement. "In the Zouaves

his conduct was admirable. In every engagement in which he shared, his

name deserved mention. Made a corporal, then a sergeant, he was sent to

Tlemcen on the formation of a third battalion of Zouaves. Recommended

by Colonel Cavaignac to General Bedeau, he rendered great services by

his intelligence and knowledge of the Arab tongue. His father, to whom

they had written in Bavaria, had confirmed the truth of his story. He

was happy, and treated with consideration, when, one fine morning, he

took himself off with a political prisoner who had just been set at

liberty, and deserted into Morocco. He remained there a long time; then

he went to Tangiers, and, denounced by the French consul as a deserter,

he was going to be tried by a court-martial, when, in consideration

of his former services, they continued to treat him as an Arab. His

mania for rambling is really extraordinary; and he declares that he

cannot approach a strange country without being seized with a desire to

explore it."

It is surprising that the African campaigns have not been more

prolific of military sketches and memoirs from the pens of French

officers. Although tolerably familiar for many years past with

French literature, we can remember but few such works. _La Captivité

d'Escoffier_, noticed, in conjunction with an English volume upon an

analogous subject, in a former Number,[22] is the only French book of

the kind we have met with for a long time; and that was of inferior

class, and of less authentic appearance, than M. de Castellane's

agreeable _Souvenirs_. We should have thought the war in Africa, the

adventurous and often severe marches of the troops, the exploits of

the hunting-field, the humours of garrison life, and the tales of the

bivouac, would have found innumerable chroniclers amongst the better

educated portion of French officers. The French soldier is a good

study for painter or humourist; whether as the stolid recruit with the

ploughman's slouch and the smell of the furrow still hanging about him,

or the smart and wide-awake trooper of four or five years' service,

or the weather-beaten old sergeant, all bronze and wrinkles, with his

grizzled moustache, his scrap of red ribbon, his tough yarns and his

mixture of simplicity and shrewdness, his lingering prejudices against

English and Germans, and his religious veneration of Napoleon the

Great. We believe M. de Castellane would be successful in portraiture

of French military character and eccentricities, and we regret he has

been so sparing of it. Here and there we find a characteristic bit of

camp-life, or a pleasant sketch by the watch-fire.

"During our marches, we were never weary of admiring the constancy of

the infantry-man, so heavily loaded that, in mockery of himself, he

has taken the surname of the _Soldat-chameau_. It was really wonderful

to see them make those long marches, under a burning sun, across

frightful mountains, always gay and cheerful, and amusing themselves

with the merest trifle.... It is on their arrival at the bivouac that

their industry is displayed to the greatest advantage. Pause beside

this little tent, and watch the chief of the squad; they bring him

crabs, tortoises, water serpents, all manner of creatures that have no

name, but a flavour, and which experience teaches may be eaten without

danger. Or they bring a mess-kettle full of bullock's blood. Thrice

boiled and suffered to grow cold, bullock's blood forms a sort of black

cheese. Spread upon biscuit, with a little salt, this is tolerable

food, and a precious resource for famished stomachs." In presence of

such messes as these, it is easy to understand the popularity of a

general who, like Changarnier, classed a greasy haversack amongst a

soldier's first necessaries, and rarely allowed his men to lack mutton,

of either Arab or Kabyle growth. For the loss of their flocks and

herds the natives retaliated, when opportunity offered, by the theft

of French horses. "In the night we had an alarm; we were in a friendly

district, but our friends were not the less arrant thieves. Two horses

were taken away. According to their custom, some bold fellows, stark

naked and well anointed with grease, so as to slip through detaining

fingers, glided between the tents, crawling like snakes. On coming

to two fine horses, they cut the thongs that shackled them, jumped

on their backs, and were off at a gallop, clearing all obstacles

and crouched upon the animals' necks to avoid the bullets of the

advanced sentries. A few hours later, another of these gentry was less

fortunate. The soldier on guard over the piled muskets, remarked, as

he perambulated his beat, a bush of dwarf palm. It was upon his right

hand. A minute afterwards the bush had changed its place, and stood

upon his left. This struck the sentry as looking like mischief. He took

no notice, but quietly cocked his musket and continued his walk. The

bush continued to change its place, gaining ground little by little;

suddenly it made a rapid advance, and a Kabyle, dagger in hand, sprang

upon the soldier; but the soldier received him on the point of his

bayonet. The thrust was mortal, and the living bush rose no more." The

Kabyles might have taken lessons from the Thugs of India and the Red

men of North America. On a large scale, as well as in petty details,

stratagem was a prominent feature of the war in Africa. Beneath the

spacious tent of one of the Arab allies of the French, M. de Castellane

listened one evening, in an atmosphere fragrant with the vapours of

pipes and coffee, to the extempore stanzas of a native poet. When the

improvisatore had come to an end, and had received his tribute of

praise, an old sergeant of the Spahis of Orleansville narrated the

death of the Aga of Ouarsenis.

"It was on the 20th July of this year," he said; "Hadj Hamet had gone,

with his _goum_[23] and twenty Spahis, to seek at Mazouna the betrothed

of his son. His heart was joyful, and happiness reigned around him,

when the young girl was delivered to him. After a night of rejoicing,

the escort set out. On arriving at Oued-Meroui, we saw at a distance

a _goum_ of Arabs. Hadj Hamet thought it was the Aga of the Sbehas,

advancing with his horsemen to perform the _fantasia_ before the

bride, and at a sign from him his followers formed in two lines, to

give the strangers free passage. The troop came up at a gallop, dashed

in between the double row of horsemen, and then, turning right and

left, sent a volley into their faces. It was Bon Maza in person. Thus

unexpectedly attacked, the _goum_ broke and fled; the Spahis alone

stood by old Hadj Hamet, who defended his daughter until loss of blood,

which already flowed from several wounds, left him no longer strength.

At last he fell dead. Of the twenty Spahis, ten had fallen; all was

over; the other ten cut their way through, and reached Orleansville."

Formidable as many of the Arabs are--owing to their excellent

horsemanship and skill in arms--in single-handed conflicts, in large

bodies they rarely await the charge even of far inferior numbers

of disciplined cavalry. Near the confluence of the Cheliff and the

Mina, on an October day in 1845, two squadrons of dragoons, under

Colonel Tartas, were in quest of the aforesaid Bou Maza, who had been

committing razzias upon tribes friendly to the French. Reinforced

by a native ally, Sidi-el-Aribi, with a handful of horsemen, and

notwithstanding the heavy load of four days' rations for man and horse,

they pressed on at a rapid pace, and on surmounting a ridge of ground,

beheld, "numerous as the sands on the sea-shore, the hostile Arabs

firmly waiting our attack. In the centre floated an immense green

banner, and the wings, forming a horse shoe, seemed ready to enclose

us. "Walk!" cried Colonel Tartas, and we advanced at a walk, sabre in

scabbard. In his loud parade-voice, the colonel then gave his orders,

and the squadrons formed front, each keeping a division in reserve.

Between the two squadrons marched the colonel and his standard; at his

side was Sidi-el-Aribi; behind him a little escort; on our flanks,

the handful of Arab horse. "Where is the rallying place?" asked the

adjutant. "Behind the enemy, round my standard," replied the colonel;

and then, connected as by a chain, the squadrons broke into a trot,

with sabres still sheathed. At musket-shot distance, "Draw swords!"

shouted the colonel; and the two hundred and fifty sabres were drawn

as by one hand. A hundred paces further we changed to a gallop, still

in line like a wall. Suddenly, on beholding this hurricane of iron,

so calm and so strong, advancing towards them, our innumerable foe

hesitated; a dull noise, like the sound of the waves in a storm, arose

in the midst of the multitude. They crowded together, wavered to and

fro, and suddenly disappeared like dust before the gale. In a quarter

of an hour we drew bridle. A hundred of the enemy were on the ground;

and our Arab allies, pursuing the fugitives, secured much spoil. As

for us, without hospital train, without troops to support us, at three

leagues and a half from all assistance, the least hesitation would have

been perdition. Coolness and audacity had saved us; and there, where

our only hope was a glorious death, we obtained a triumph.

"Pressing round Colonel Tartas, near his standard, which two balls had

rent, all these men of _great tent_,[24] all these bronze-complexioned

Arab chiefs, their eyes lighted up by the excitement of the fight,

thanked him as their saviour. At their head, Sidi-el-Aribi, with that

majestic dignity which never deserted him, lavished expressions of

gratitude upon the colonel; whilst around them, like a frame to the

picture, the foaming horses, the dragoons leaning on their saddles, the

arms and floating garments of the Arabs, the heads which some of them

had fastened to their saddle-bows, and a nameless something in the air

which told of victory, combined to give to the scene somewhat of the

noble and savage grandeur of primitive times."

We will not contrast with the picture thus vividly painted by M. de

Castellane, the less romantic episodes of grubbing for silos, (buried

stores of corn,) driving cattle, or smoking unfortunate Arab families

out of their caves of refuge. Of all these matters the chasseur speaks,

if not altogether admiringly, yet as necessities of that war, and

stands forth with plausible sophisms in defence of the barbarities of

the razzia system. We did not take up his sketches with disputatious

intentions, and are quite content with the interest and amusement we

have extracted from them, without attempting to drive their author from

positions which, we suspect, he would find it as difficult to defend as

the Arabs did to maintain those assailed by the gallant charges of the

African Chasseurs.

THE GREEN HAND.

A "SHORT YARN."

A WIND-UP.

"No, Westwood," said I, "it can't be the right one--nor any of these,

indeed!" And on looking at the chart, which was one not meant for

anything but navigation in open water, with the channels laid down

clearly enough, but evidently rather off-hand as to the islands, Jones

himself seemed to get uncertain about the matter; partly owing to the

short glimpse he'd had of the other chart, and partly to its being,

as he thought, an old one made for a purpose, by a hand that knew the

islands well. After two or three days' sail, we were getting into the

thick of the Maldives, where the reefs and sand-banks stretching out

on every side, and beginning to lap in upon each other, made it more

and more dangerous work; but at any rate the islands we saw were either

very small, or else low and muddy-like, with a few scrubby-looking

cocoas upon them, like bulrushes growing out of a marsh. No runaway

sailors would ever think of taking up their quarters hereabouts, even

if we hadn't caught sight of a smoke now and then, and once of some

native craft with a couple of brown mat-sails and an out-rigger, that

showed the clusters hereaway to have people about them. Besides there

was no pretext any Indiaman could have for steering near enough to such

a jungle of mud and water, to give a boat the chance of making towards

it with any certainty. I saw at once that the spot in question must lie

tolerably for the course of a ship to western India, otherwise they

wouldn't have appeared so sure of their mark as Jones said they did.

All this, at the same time, kept me the more bent on searching the

matter out ere I did aught else, seeing that in fact the Indiaman's

attempt to get rid of the schooner was the very thing likely to bring

her on this track; fancying, as she would, that we were either in chase

of her toward Bombay, or off on our own course again. Now, on the one

hand, nothing could fit better for the said runaway scheme of Harry

Foster's; and on the other hand, nothing would have pleased me more,

and greatly eased my mind too, than to catch him and his chums on their

spree ashore. The worst of it was, that I began to have my doubts of

Jones again. He was the only man that could put us on the right scent;

yet he seemed either to have lost it, or to have something creeping

on his mind that made him unwilling to carry it out. "Mr Jones," said

I, as the schooner was hove to, and he stood musing gloomily by the

binnacle, with a glance now and then in at the compass, and out at the

chart again, "if you're at a loss now, sir, just say--and I shall try

my own hand for want of better!" "No, Lieutenant Collins!" answered

he suddenly, in a husky voice--"no, sir, that's not it, but--God help

me! no, there's no use standing against fate, I see. Whatever it costs

me, Mr Collins," he went on, firmly, "I'm with you to the end of it;

but--there _is_ something horrible about all this!" "How! what do

you mean?" said I, startled by the difference in his manner, and the

quiver of his lip. "Oh," said he, "as for the present matter, there

may be nothing more in it than what I heard on the ship's boom yonder.

The truth is, I didn't know at first but this cluster here might have

been the one--though I see now there is only _one_ island in the whole

chain that can answer the description, and that is not here." With

that he pointed to another piece of the chart, showing no more than

a few spots upon the paper, not to speak of shades in it standing

for reefs and shoals, towards the "Head" of the Maldives; one spot

lying away from the rest, with the single name of Minicoy for them

all. I asked him hastily enough what it was called, and all about it,

for the whole affair made me more and more uneasy; but on this point

Jones seemed inclined to keep close, plainly not liking the topic,

except that I found it went by several names, one of which I had heard

before, myself--White-water Island. About the time I was a boy in a

merchantman's forecastle, 'twas a sort of floating yarn amongst some

seamen, this White-water Island, I remembered; but I never met with

a man that had seen it, every one having had it from a shipmate last

voyage, though a terrible place it had been, by all accounts, without

one's knowing exactly where it was. One craft of some kind had gone to

find out a treasure that was buried in it, and she never was heard of

more; a man took a fancy to live ashore in it, like Robinson Crusoe,

and he went mad; while the reason there were no "natives" was owing to

the dreadful nature of it, though at the same time it was as beautiful

as a garden. The right name, however, according to Jones, was Incoo.

"There's no good in blinding one's self to it, Mr Collins," he went

on--"that's the island the men meant; only their chart set me wrong

owing to the greater size of it--you had better beat out of this at

once, and keep up for the eight-degrees channel there."

We were in open sea again, out of sight of land from the mast-head,

steering for somewhere about north-north-east, with a very light

breeze from nearly the monsoon quarter, and sometimes a flying squall,

sometimes no more than a black pour of rain, that left it hotter than

before. The clear deep blue of the Indian ocean got to a sickly heavy

sort of dead colour towards noon, like the bottoms of old bottles,

and still we were standing on without signs of land, when, almost

all at once, I noticed the water in the shadow of the schooner had a

brown coffee-like tint I had never exactly seen hitherto; indeed, by

the afternoon, it was the same hue to the very horizon, with a clean

seaboard on all sides. I had the deep-sea lead-line hove at length, and

found no soundings with a hundred and fifty fathoms; there was neither

land nor river, I knew, for hundreds and hundreds of miles to the coast

of Arabia; as for current, no trial I could think of showed any; and

there were now and then patches of small glittering sea-jellies and

sea-lice to be seen amongst a stalk or two of weed on the soft heave

of the water, going the way of the breeze. A dozen or so of Portuguese

men-of-war, as they call them, held across our bows one time; little

pink blubbers, with their long shining roots seen hanging down in

the clear of the surface, and their little blue gauze sails with the

light through them, ribbed like leaves of trees, as they kept before

the wind. Westwood and I both fancied we could feel a queer sulphury

smell as we leant over the side, when a surge came along the bends.

Not a single fish was to be seen about us, either, except the long

big black-fish that rose one after the other at a distance, as the

wind got lighter. One while you heard them groaning and gasping in the

half-calm, as if it were the breathing of the sea far and wide every

time it swelled; another, one saw them in a cluster of black points

against the bright sky-line, like so many different-shaped rocks with

the foam round them, or a lot of long-boats floating bottom up, with

their back-horns for humps on the keel. As for Jones, he looked graver

and graver, till all of a sudden we saw him go below; but after a

little he came up with an almanac in his hand, and his finger fixed

where the time of the next new moon was given, as I found when I took

it from him, for he seemed not inclined to speak. "Why, what has that

to do with the thing?" I said; "we are heading fair for the Minicoy

cluster, I think." "Yes, sir," said he; "if one needed anything to

prove that, he has only to look at the sea--at this season, I _knew_

how it would turn out." "Well, that's what I can't understand, Mr

Jones," said I; "the water seems as deep as St Paul's Cathedral thrice

over!" "Do you not know then, sir, why that island is called--what it

is?" was the answer,--"but wait--wait--till _night_!" and with that

Jones turned round to the bulwarks, leaning his arms on the rail. In

the mean time, Jacobs and some of the men had drawn a bucket of water,

which we noticed them tasting. A pannikin full of it was handed along

to the quarterdeck, and the taste struck you at once, owing to the want

of the well-known briny twang of real blue-water, and instead of that

a smack as it were of iron, though it was as clear as crystal. Every

one had a trial of it but Jones himself: indeed, he never once looked

round, till it had occurred to me to pour the tin of water into a glass

and hold it with my hand over it inside the shade of the binnacle, when

I thought I made out little specks and sparks shooting and twisting

about in it, as if the water had a motion of itself; then it seemed to

sink to the bottom, and all was quiet. Just then I looked up and caught

Jones' scared restless sort of glance, as if he were uneasy. There was

a strange life in that man's brain, I felt, that none could see into;

but owing as it plainly was to something far away from the present

matter, I knew it was best to let him alone. In fact, his doing as he

did showed well enough he meant fair by ourselves. Nothing on earth

ever gave me more the notion of a wreck in a man, than the kind of gaze

out of Jones' two eyes, when he'd turn to the light and look at you,

half keen, half shrinking, like a man that both felt himself above you,

and yet, somehow or other, you'd got him under you. I'm blessed if I

didn't trust him more because he had been too desperate a character

in his deeds beforehand to turn his mind to little ones now, than for

anything good in him; being one of those fellows that work their way

from one port to another in ships' forecastles, and get drunk ashore,

though, all the time, you'd say there wasn't one aboard with them, from

the skipper to the chaplain, knew as much or had flown as high some

time. Some day at sea the hands are piped round the grating, hats off,

and the prayer-book rigged,--down goes "Jack Jones" with a plash and a

bubble to his namesake, old "Davy," and you hear no more of him!

Well, just after sundown, as the dusk came on, Westwood and I left the

deck to go down to supper with the Planter, the midshipman being in

charge. There was nothing in sight, sail or land; indeed, the queer

dark-brown tint of the horizon showed strongly against the sky, as if

it had been the mahogany of the capstan-head inside its brass rim; the

night was cloudy, with a light breeze, and though the stars came out, I

expected it to get pretty dark. As I went down the companion, I heard

nothing but the light wash of the water from her bows, and the look-out

stepping slowly about betwixt her knightheads on the forecastle: while

it struck me the smooth face of the sea seemed to show wonderfully

distinct into the dusk, the completer it got, as if a sort of light

rose up from off it. Down below we felt her stealing pleasantly through

all, and Tom and I sat for I didn't know how long, trying to settle our

differences on the main point--about the Seringapatam, of course, and

which way she was likely to be gone. Tom plumed himself mightily on his

common-sense view of a thing, and having by this time got back a good

deal of his cheerfulness, he and Mr Rollock almost laughed me over to

his line of thinking.

We agreed that the ship must be at present edging up on one side or

other of the Maldives, but both of them thought the less we had to say

to her the better. "I say, though," exclaimed the Planter, whose face

was turned the opposite way to ours, "I'd no idea it was moonlight!"

"Moonlight!--there's no moon till morning," I said. "Look into the

stern-cabin there, then!" said Rollock; and I turned round, seeing into

the door of the after-cabin, where, to my no small surprise, there was

a bright white glare through the little square stern-light, gleaming

on the rim of the sill, and seemingly off both the air and the water

beyond. Quite confounded, as well as wondering what Snelling could be

about, I hurried up the companion, the Planter and Westwood hard at my

heels.

For so long as I had kept at sea, and a good many different latitudes

I had been into--yet I must say I never in my life before saw such a

strange sight as broke on us the instant we put our heads out of the

booby-hatch, fresh from the lamp-light in the cabin. Indeed, I can't

but own to my first feeling being fright; for what it was I couldn't

understand, unless we were got into a quarter of the world where things

weren't natural. There were a few stray clouds in the sky, scattered

away ahead, and clearing eastward to settle along before the breeze;

all aloft of us, high over the sharp dark edge of the sails and gaffs,

the air seemed to open away out pale and glimmering like a reflection

in the ice; all round you caught a glimpse of the stars weakening and

weakening toward the horizon. But the water itself--that was the sight

that bewildered one! On every side the whole sea lay spread out smooth,

and as white as snow--you couldn't fancy how wide it might stretch

away astern or on our lee-beam, for not a mark of horizon was to be

seen, save on the northwest, where you made it out, owing to the sky

there being actually darker than the sea--but all the time the wide

face of it was of a dead ghastly paleness, washing with a swell like

milk to our black counter as we forged ahead. It wasn't that it shone

in the least like blue water at night in the ordinary tropics--by

Jove! that would have been a comfort--but you'd have thought there

was a winding-sheet laid over all, or we were standing across a level

country covered with snow--only when I stood up, and watched the bows,

there was a faint hissing sparkle to be seen in the ripple's edge,

that first brought me to myself. The Lascars had woke up where they

lay about the caboose, and were cowering together for sheer terror;

the men standing, each one in his place, and looking; while Jones, who

had relieved the midshipman, leant by himself with his head on the

capstan, as if to keep out the sight of it all: the schooner's whole

dusky length, in fact, with every black figure on her decks, and her

shape up to the lightest stick or rope of her aloft, appearing strange

enough, in the midst of the broad white glare, to daunt any one that

wasn't acquainted with the thing. "Mr Jones," said I quickly, on going

up to him, "what the devil is this? I'll be hanged if I didn't begin to

believe in witchcraft or something. Where are we getting to?" "Nothing,

nothing, sir," said he, lifting his head; "'tis natural enough; only

the milk sea, as they call it--the white water, sir, that comes down

twice a-year hereabouts from God knows where--you only see it so at--at

_night_!" "Oh, then, according to that," I said, "we shan't be long

of sighting your island. I suppose?" "No," said he, "if the breeze

freshens at all, keeping our present course, the mast-head ought to

hail it in two or three hours; but God knows, Lieutenant Collins,

natural though the sight is, there's something a man can't get rid of,

especially if"--He stood up, walked to the side, and kept facing the

whole breadth of the awful-looking sea, as it were till it seemed to

blind him. "I tell you what, sir," said he slowly, "if that water had

any use, a priest would say, 'twas sent to wash that same island clean

of what's been done on it; but it couldn't, Mr Collins, it couldn't,

till the day of judgment!" He leant over till his dark face and his

shoulders, to my notion, made the milk-white surge that stole up to the

schooner's bends take a whiter look. "If that water could wash _me_,

now," muttered he, "ay, if it could only take the soul out of me, curse

me, but I'd go down, down this moment to the bottom!" With that he gave

a sudden move that made me catch him by the arm. "No, no, Mr Collins,"

said he, turning round; "the truth is, I mean to go through with it:

by G--, I'll let it carry me where I'm bound for! D--n it, wasn't I

born without asking my leave, and I'll kick the bucket the same way,

if it was on a blasted dunghill!" "Come, come, Mr Jones," said I, in a

soothing sort of way, "go below for a little, and sleep; when we hail

the land, I'll have you called." "I'd rather not, sir," said Jones,

quietly; "the truth is, it strikes me there's something strange in my

happening to be aboard here, at this particular season, too; and see

that same island, _now_, I must! It's fate, Lieutenant Collins," added

he; "and I must say, I think it's the more likely something may turn

out there. Either you'll see that ship, or the men, or else _I_'ll be

there myself, in some way or other!"

Now there was something in all this that began at moments quite to

bewilder one, the more excited the state was it put you in. There was

nothing for it but to push on, and see what might come of it. Indeed,

the weather favoured us better on our present course than on any

other; and I felt, if I didn't keep active, I should go distracted.

'Twas almost as if what Jones said had a truth in it, and a sort of a

power beyond one were drawing the schooner the way she steered; while,

at the same time, there was every little while somewhat new in the

extraordinary looks of things to hold you anxious. Even a flying touch

of a squall we had about midnight didn't the least do away with the

whiteness of the water all around: on the contrary, as the dark cloud

crept down upon us, widening on both sides like smoke, the face of the

sea seemed to whiten and whiten, casting up a ghastly gleam across the

cloud, with its ripples frothing and creaming: till, not knowing _how_

things might go hereabouts, you almost expected the first rush of the

wind to send it all in a flame to our mastheads. Then up she rose on

a surge like a snow-drift, and off we drove heeling over to it, gaffs

lowered and canvass down, everything lost sight of, save the white

sea heaving up against the mist; while the clear-coloured plash of

it through our weather bulwarks showed it was water sure enough. The

squall went off to leeward, however, the rain hissing like ink into

the swell it left, and spotting it all over till the last drops seemed

to sink in millions of separate sparkles as far as you could see. The

schooner rose from one heave to another to an even keel on the smooth

length of it, hoisting her spanking gaffs, hauling aft the sheets,

and slipping ahead once more to a breeze fed by the rain. As the sky

cleared, the dead white glare the water sent up into it was such, you

didn't know the one from the other toward the horizon; and in the midst

there was only the smooth faint surface, brushing whiter with the

breeze, as if it was nothing else kept it from going out of sight; with

a few streaky clouds turning themselves out like wool in a confused

rift of the air aloft; the schooner walking in it without ever a

glimpse of a shadow on one side or another; while, as for seeing a sail

on the horizon, you might as well have looked for a shred of paper. It

wasn't light, neither, nor was it haze; nothing but a dead colour off

the very sea's face--for the schooner rose and plunged without letting

you see a hair's-breadth of her draught below the water-line. Every man

rubbed his eyes, as if it were all some kind of a dream, and none the

less when suddenly we were right upon a long patch of black stripes

winding away through the white, like so many sea-serpents, come up to

breathe, with both ends of them lost in the faintness. Nobody stirred,

or said, "Look-out;" stripe after stripe she went slipping through them

as if they'd been ghosts, without a word or an extra turn of the wheel.

I daresay, if we had commenced to rise in the air, every man would have

held on like grim death, but he wouldn't have wondered much; 'twas

just, "whatever might happen to please them as had the managing of it,"

which was Jacob's observation when we talked of it after.

Mr Snelling was the only one that ventured to pass a joke; when Jones,

who I thought was out of hearing, looked at the reefer with such a

fierce glance, and so scornful at the same time, that I couldn't help

connecting what happened the very next moment with it--for without

the slightest warning, both of us were flung to leeward, and Snelling

pitched into the scuppers, as a huge rolling ridge of the white water

came down upon our beam; while the schooner broached to in the wind,

floundering on the swell with her sails aback. Had the breeze been

stronger, I think it would have fairly swamped us with the sternway she

had; and heave after heave swelled glaring and weltering out of the

pale blind sky, till our decks swam with light in the dusk under the

bulwarks, and about the dark mouths of the hatchways. Just as suddenly

the rollers seemed to sink in the smooth of the sea, and at last we

payed off with the breeze as before, at the cost of a good fright

and a famous ducking. Two or three times in the course of the middle

watch did this happen, except that we were taken less by surprise, and

had the hatches closed, with every rope ready to let go; the breeze

strengthening all the time, and the same sort of look continuing all

round and aloft.[25]

About four o'clock or so, the appearance of the sky near where the

horizon ought to be, right ahead, struck Westwood and me as stranger

than ever; owing to a long lump of shadow, as it were, lying northward

like the shape of a bow or the round back of a fish miles long, though

it softened off at one end into the hollow of the air, and the gleam of

the white water broke past the other like the streaks of the northern

lights in a frosty night toward the Pole, save for the thin shadowy

tint of it, and the stars shining plainly through. I'd have fancied

it was high land; when suddenly the half-moon was seen to ooze like

a yellow spot out of the shapeless sort of steam to eastward, like a

thing nobody knew, shedding a faint brown glimmer far below where you

hadn't seen there was water at all. The bank of shadow softened away

towards her, till in little more than five minutes the dark rippling

line of the sea was made out, drawn across the dusk as if it had

been the wide mouth of a frith in the polar ice, opening far on our

weather-bow. A soft blue shimmering tint stole out on it by contrast,

leaving the milk-white glare still spread everywhere else, astern,

ahead, and on our lee-beam, into the sightless sky: 'twas the old

blue water we caught sight of once more, with the natural night and

the stars hanging over it; and the look-out aloft reported blue water

stretching wide off to the nor'ard. There was one full hurrah from the

seamen in the bows, and they ran of themselves naturally enough to the

ropes, standing by to haul the schooner on a wind--to head up for the

old salt sea, no doubt.

"Lieutenant Collins," said Jones, in a low voice, "do you mean to

steer for that island, sir?" "Yes," I said, "certainly, Mr Jones--I

shall see this matter out, whatever the upshot may be!" "Then keep

on, sir," said he, firmly, "keep in the white water--'tis your only

plan to near it safely, sir!" This I didn't well understand; but,

by Jove! there was so much out of the common way hereabouts, that I

had made up my mind to follow his advice. Another hail from aloft,

at length--"Something black on our lee-bow, sir--right in the eye of

the white it is, sir!" We were now running fast down in the direction

where there was least possibility of seeing ahead at all, although,

in fact, the little moonshine we had evidently began to make this

puzzling hue of the surface less distinct--turning it of a queer ashy

drab, more and more like the brown we noticed by day-time; while the

light seemed as it were to scoop out the hollow of the sky aloft, when

a dark spot or two could be observed from the deck, dotting the milky

space over one bow--you couldn't say whether in the air or the water,

as they hung blackening and growing together before us through below

the foot of the jib. Larger and larger it loomed as we stood before

the breeze, till there was no doubt we had the bulk of a small low

island not far to windward of us, a couple of points or thereabouts

on our larboard bow when she fell off a little--lying with the ragged

outline of it rising to a top near one end, its shape stretched black

and distinct in the midst of the pale sea; while the white water was

to be seen taking close along the edge of the island, showing every

rock and point of it in the shadow from the moon, till it seemed to

turn away all of a sudden like a current into the broad dreamy glimmer

that still lay south-eastward. On the other side of the island you saw

the dark sea-ripples flickering to the faint moonlight, and some two

or three more patches of flat land just tipping the horizon, with the

thin cocoa-nut trees on them like reeds against the stars and the dusk;

while the one nearest us was sufficiently marked out to have saved

me the trouble even of the look I gave Jones, which he answered by

another. "You have seven or eight fathoms water here, sir," added he;

"and as soon as she rounds the point yonder, we can shoal it by degrees

to any anchorage you like, as long as we keep in the white water--but

we must hold to _it_!" It was accordingly found so with the lead, and

ere long, having kept past the point, the same milky hue could be

noticed as it were jagging off through the darker water, and winding

away hither and thither all round the other side, till you lost it.

However, here we brailed up and hauled down everything, letting go an

anchor, little more than half a mile from a small sloping beach, where

the strange water actually surged up through the shadow of the land, in

one glittering sheet like new-fallen snow, while the back-wash seethed

down into it all along the edge in perfect fire. Nothing stirred on it,

apparently; not a sound came from it, save the low wash of the surf on

that lonely bare beach; and you only made out that part of the island

was covered with trees, with the ground rising to a flat-topped hummock

toward one end. So being pretty wearied by this time, impatient though

I was for a clearer view of matters, most of us turned in, leaving the

deck to a strong anchor watch, in charge of Jones--especially as it was

towards morning, and the breeze blowing fresh over the island through

our ropes. But if ever a man walked the deck overhead in a fashion to

keep you awake, it was Jones that morning: faster and faster he went,

till you'd have thought he ran; then there was a stop, when you felt

him _thinking_, and off he posted again. No wonder, by George! I had

ugly dreams!

I could scarce believe it wasn't one still, when, having been called

half-an-hour after daybreak, I first saw the change in the appearance

of things all about us. The horizon lay round as clear as heart could

wish--not a speck in sight save the little dingy islets at a distance;

the broad blue ocean sparkling far away on one side, and the water

to windward, in the direction we had come, showing the same brownish

tint we had seen the day before, while it took the island before us

in its bight, and turned off eastward with the breeze till it spread

against the open sky. The top of the land was high enough to shut out

the sea-line, and, being low water at the time, it was plain enough now

why Jones wished to keep the white streaks over-night; for, where the

dingy-coloured ripples melted on the other side toward the blue, you

could see by the spots of foam, and the greenish breaks here and there

in the surface, that all that coast of the island was one network of

shoals and reefs, stretching out you didn't know how wide. White-water

Island, in fact, was merely the head of them--the milky stream that had

so startled us just washing round the deep end of it, and edging fair

along the side of the reefs, with a few creeks sent in amongst them,

as it were, like feelers, ere it flowed the other way: we couldn't

otherwise have got so near as we were. But the island itself was the

sight to fasten you, as the lovely green of it shone out in the morning

sun, covering the most part of it close over, and tipping up beyond

the bare break where it was steepest, with a clump of tall cocoas

shooting every here-and-there out of the thick bush; indeed, there was

apparently a sort of split lengthways, through the midst, where, upon

only walking to the schooner's bow, one could see the bright greenwood

sinking down to a hollow out of sight, under the clear gush of the

breeze off a dark blue patch of the sea that hung beyond it like a

wedge. As the tide made over the long reefs, till the last line of surf

on them vanished, it went up the little sandy cove opposite us with

a plash on the beach that you could hear: the place was just what a

sailor may have had a notion of all his life, without exactly seeing it

till then; and though, as yet, one had but a rough guess of its size,

why, it couldn't be less than a couple of miles from end to end, with

more than that breadth, perhaps, at the low side toward the reefs. Not

a soul amongst the man-o'-war'smen, I daresay, as they pressed together

in the schooner's bows to see into it, but would have taken his traps

that moment, if I'd told him, and gone ashore on the chance of passing

his days there; so it wasn't hard to conceive, from the state it seemed

to put their rough sunburnt faces in, honest as they looked, how a

similar fancy would work with Master Harry Foster, even if it tried his

virtue a little.

I had no more doubt in my own mind, by this time, of it's being

the fellow's intended "hermitage," than I had of it's being the

same White-water Island I had heard of myself, or the spot which

Jones seemed to know so well: 'twas likely the foremast-man had got

inkling of it somewhat in the way I did; and lying, as it happened

to do, between no less than three channels which the Indiaman might

take, after dodging us in this fashion round the long cluster of

the Maldives, she couldn't make north-westward again for the open

sea, without setting Foster and his mates pretty well upon their

trip. Indeed, if she were to eastward of the chain at present, as I

was greatly inclined to believe, the course of the breeze made it

impossible for her to do otherwise; but there was one thing always

kept lurking about my mind, like a cover to something far worse that

I didn't venture to dwell upon--namely, that Captain Finch might get

wind of their purpose, and drive them on another tack by knocking it

on the head, either at the time or beforehand, without the courage to

settle _them_. Nothing in the world would have pleased me better than

to pounce upon ugly Harry, at his first breakfast ashore here; but

the bare horizon, and the quiet look of the island since ever we hove

in sight of it, showed this wasn't to be. At any rate, however, I was

bent on seeing how the land lay, and what sort of a place it was; so

accordingly, as soon as the hands had got breakfast, Westwood and I

at once pulled ashore with a boat's-crew well armed, to overhaul it.

We found the sandy beach covered, for a good way up, with a frothy

slime that, no doubt, came from the water on that side, with ever so

many different kinds of blubber, sea-jelly, star-fish, and shell;

while the rocky edge round to windward was hung with weed that made

the blocks below it seem to rise out of every surge, like green-headed

white-bearded mermen bathing. Glad enough we were to get out of the

queer sulphury smell all this stuff gave out in the heat--letting the

men take every one his own way into the bushes, which they enjoyed like

as many schoolboys, and making, ourselves, right for the highest point.

Here we saw over, through the cocoa-nut trees and wild trailing-plants

below, down upon a broad bushy level toward the reefs. It was far the

widest way of the island; indeed making it apparently several miles

to go round the different points; and as the men were to hold right

to windward, and meet again after beating the entire ground, Westwood

and I struck fair through amongst the tangle of wood, to see the flat

below. We roused out a good many small birds and parroquets, and

several goats could be noticed looking at us off the grassy bits of

crag above the trees, though they didn't seem to know what we were. As

for most of the wood, it was mainly such bushes and brush as thrive

without water, with a bright green flush of grass and plants after the

rain at the monsoon, the prickly pear creeping over the sandy parts,

till we came on a track where some spring or other apparently oozed

down from the height, soaking in little rank spots amongst the ground

leaves, with here and there a small rusty plash about the grass-blades,

as if there were tar or iron in it. Here there were taller trees of

different kinds on both sides, dwindling off into the lower bush,

while, to my surprise, some of them were such as you'd never have

expected to meet with on an island of the size, or so far off the

land--bananas, mangoes, a shaddock or two, and a few more, common

enough in India; though here they must evidently have been planted, the

cocoas being the only sort natural to the place--and of them there were

plenty below. Suddenly it led down into a shady hollow, out of sight of

the sea altogether, where we came on what seemed to have been a perfect

garden some time or other; there were two or three large broad-leaved

shaddock trees, and one or two others, with a heap of rubbish in the

midst of the wild Indian corn and long grass; some broken bamboo stakes

standing, besides a piece of plank scattered here and there about the

bushes. Right under the shade of the trees was a hole like the mouth

of a draw-well, more than brimful at the time with the water from the

spring; for, owing to the late rains, it made a pool close by the

side, and went trickling away down amongst the brushwood. Every twig

and leaf grew straight up or out, save in a narrow track toward the

rising ground--no doubt made by the goats, as we noticed the prints

of their hoofs on the wet mud. 'Twas evident no human being had been

there for heaven knew how long; since, by the care that had been taken

with the place, it was probably the only spring in the island--perhaps

for leagues and leagues round, indeed. Trees, branches, green grass,

and all--they had such a still moveless air under the heat and light,

in the lee of the high ground, with just a blue spot or two of the sea

seen high up through the sharp shaddock leaves, and the cool-looking

plash of water below them, that Westwood and I sat down to wait till

we heard the men. Still there was a terribly distinct, particular

cast about the whole spot, which, taken together with the ruin and

confusion, as well as the notion of Foster and his shipmates actually

plotting to come there, gave one almost an idea of the whole story

beforehand, dim as that was: the longer you looked, the more horrid it

seemed. Neither natives nor single man could have brought the different

trees to the island, or contrived a tank-well of the kind, seeing it

was apparently deep enough to supply a ship's casks; while, at the same

time, I couldn't help thinking some one had lived there since it was

made, or perhaps much used. By the space taken up with the hut that

had been there, and the little change in the wild state of things,

most likely it was by himself he had been, and for no short time. It

looked, however, as if he had been carried off in the end, otherwise

his bones would have been hereabouts; probably savages, as Westwood

and I concluded from the scatter they had made of his premises. For

my own part, I wondered whether Jones mightn't have been the man, in

which case most of that disturbed mind he showed lately might come of

remembering the dreary desolate feelings one must have, living long

on a desert island. No doubt they had "marooned" him for something or

other, such as not being a bloody enough captain; and I could as easily

fancy one having a spice of madness in him, after years ashore here,

as in Captain Wallis after a French prison. Still it startled one to

see one's face in the black of the well; and we couldn't make up our

minds to drink out of it. Even the pool at its side had a queer taste,

I thought--but that may have been all a notion. All at once, by the

edge of this same pool, Westwood pointed out two or three marks that

surprised us both, being quite different from what the goats could

have made; and on observing closer, they were made out to be more like

the paws of a wild beast stamped in the mud. "By Jove!" I said, "no

wolves on the island, surely!" "All of them seem to stick to the pool

in preference to the well, at any rate," said Tom; "they appear to have

the same crotchet with ourselves, Ned!" "Strange!" said I, "what the

devil can it be?" Westwood eyed the prints over and over. "What do

you think of--a _dog_?" he asked. "Good heavens!" exclaimed I, looking

down--"yes!" and there we sat gazing at the thing, and musing over it

with somehow or other a curious creeping of the blood, for my part,

that I can't describe the reason of. At last we heard the men hallooing

to each other on the level beneath, when we hurried down, and coasted

round till we came upon the boat again, where the coxswain was amusing

himself gathering shells for home--and we pulled back to the schooner.

My first resolve after this was to keep before the breeze again, try

to get sight of the ship, and tell Finch out and out, as I ought to

have done at once, what was afoot amongst his crew; or else to let Sir

Charles Hyde know of it, and make him a bold offer of a passage to

Calcutta. However, I soon saw this wouldn't do; and a regular puzzle

I found myself in, betwixt inclining to stick to the island and catch

Foster if he came, and wishing to know how the Indiaman stood on her

course if he didn't. Jones must have read my thoughts as I leant upon

the capstan, looking from White-water Island to the horizon and back

again; for he stepped aft and said in a low voice, "Lieutenant Collins,

there's one thing I didn't tell you about that island before, because,

as I said, I wasn't at first sure it was the one the men meant; it

may help to decide you, sir," said he gravely. "Ah?" I said. "In that

island," he went on, his ordinarily dark face as pale as death, "there

is enough gold at this moment to buy half an English county--ay, and

better than gold, seeing that only one man knows the spot where it

is, and _he_ would rather sail round the world without a shirt to his

back than touch one filing of the--hell's dross!" I looked at Jones

in perfect amaze as he added, "You may fancy now, Mr Collins, whether

if a man of the kind happened to get wind of this, he would not stir

heaven and earth to reach the place? But, rather than that gold should

come into living hands," said he fiercely, "I would _wait for them_

by myself--ay, alone--alone," and a shudder seemed to run through him

as he gave another glance to the island. For my part, I drew a long

breath. What he mentioned had all at once relieved my mind wonderfully;

for if this was Master Foster's cue, as I now saw it must have been

the whole voyage over, why, he would be just as sure not to spread

the thing widely, as he would be to get here some time, if he could.

On second thoughts, it wasn't so plain how the rest of the crew might

work with it, on the least inkling; but inclined as I naturally was to

look upon the best side of the matter, you needn't wonder at my making

up my mind as I did. The short and the long of it was that, in an hour

more, Jones and myself, with Jacobs and four other good hands--and,

somewhat to my annoyance, Mr Rollock, who persisted in coming--were

pulling back for the island; while the schooner, under care of Westwood

and Snelling, was hauled on a wind to stand up across the Nine Degrees

Channel, which the Indiaman would no doubt take as the safest course

for western India, if all went well, and supposing I had reckoned

correctly why we missed her so long. In that case, three or four days

at most couldn't fail to bring her up; and on first sighting her at the

horizon, they could easily enough strip the schooner to her sticks,

keeping her stern on so as to let the ship pass without noticing the

loom of so small a craft; whereas if they didn't see her at all, in

that time, they were to bear up before the wind again for the island.

Of all things, and every circumstance being considered, I agreed with

Westwood it was best not to come across her again, if we could help it.

For our own part, in the boat, we were fully provisioned and armed for

all the time we could need, not to speak of what the island itself

afforded; and after watching the schooner stand heeling off to sea,

round the deep end of it, we cruised close along, not for the beach

this time, but seeking for a cove in the rocks where the boat could be

hauled up out of sight, and safe from the surf at high water. This we

weren't very long of finding behind some blocks that broke the force

of the surge, where the wild green trailers from above crept almost

down to the seaweed; and after helping them a little to hide her

perfectly, the whole of us scrambled ashore. The first thing was to

post a look-out on the highest point, the sharp little peak next to

the reef-side, overlooking the spring and the level ground between: on

the other side of the long green valley, full of bush in the midst,

was the flat-topped rise towards the brown water, from which I and the

Planter watched the schooner softening for an hour or two, till she

reached the blue sea-gleam, and lessened to a speck. By that time,

the men had pitched a little canvass tent on the slope opposite to

us, over the hollow--Jones evidently being anxious to keep clear of

the spot, which somebody else had picked out beforehand: in fact the

highest ground was betwixt us and it; and on coming down through the

thicket to our quarters, after a stroll in which Rollock shot a couple

of rose-coloured parroquets, declaring them to be splendid eating, we

found Jones had had to send over the other way for water.

I woke up in the tent perhaps an hour before midnight, as I judged on

looking through the opening at the stars that shone in the dark sky

through the north-east end of the valley above the sea. At the other

end, being higher, you just saw the scattered heads of the bushes

against a pale floating glimmer of air, with a pale streak of horizon.

Behind us was the height where we had the look-out, and in front the

flat top of the crag drawn somehow or other as distinct as possible

upon the faint starlight in that quarter, roughening away down on

both sides into the brushwood and dwarf cocoa-nut trees. With the

stillness of the place all round, the bare sight of that particular

point gave me a dreamy, desolate, ghastly sort of feeling, beyond aught

I ever saw in my life before: it was choking hot and heavy inside,

and seemingly throughout the hollow, though a good deal of dew began

to fall, glistening on the dark-green bushes nearest us, and standing

in drops on the fern-like cocoa leaves which Jacobs and the other men

had roofed themselves with. They were sound asleep; and the glimpse of

the soles of their shoes and their knees, sticking out of the shadow

you saw their rough faces in, with the sight of their cutlass-hilts,

served to give one a still wilder notion of the place. One felt scarce

sure of being able to wake them, in case of anything turning up; and,

at any rate, a dread came over you of its being possibly somewhat

unnatural enough to make the thing useless. On the other hand, the

Planter kept up such a confounded snoring inside the canvass close by

me, that although there was no doubt of his being alive, the sound of

it put stranger thoughts into your head: sometimes his breath would

be jogging on like that of a tolerably ordinary mortal, then get by

degrees perfectly quiet; and then all of a sudden go rising and rising,

faster and faster, as if some terrible dream had hold of him, or there

was some devilish monster hard in chase of his soul, till out it broke

into a fearful snort that made your very heart jump--whereupon he'd

lie as if he were finished, then go through the whole story again. I

can't tell you how that cursed noise troubled me; 'twas no use shoving

and speaking to him, and all the time the old boy was evidently quite

comfortable, by something he said at last about "indigo being up."

The best I could do was to get out and leave him to himself: in fact,

where Jones had gone at the time I didn't know, till suddenly I caught

sight of his dark figure standing on the rise at the back of our post,

and went up to him. Jones was certainly a strange mixture, for here

had he been all round the low side of the island by himself, yet I

found him leaning bareheaded on the barrel of his musket, listening

like a deer: he assured me solemnly he thought he had heard voices for

the last hour on the other side, where he hadn't been, and asked me

if I would go with him to see. Then down came our look-out from the

peak, rolling through the bushes like a sea-cow, to report his not

having seen anything, and to say they'd forgot to relieve him aloft;

so rousing up Jacobs, I sent them both back together, while Jones and

I held the opposite way for the other height. The moment we got to it,

_there_ was the same faint blotted-out horizon as we had had all astern

of us the night before, the same strange unnatural paleness cast off

the face of the sea, making it look black by contrast to north-eastward

and east, against the blue shadow with the bright stars in it, where

the sea rippled as usual; while the keenest glare in the middle seemed

to stream right to the breast of the island, like the reflection of

daylight down a long break in the ice--only it was dead and ghastly

to behold. The white water washed round under the black edge of the

rocks before us, to the bare sloping beach, where it came up fairly

like a wide plash of milk, glimmering and sparkling back amongst the

little sea-creatures you fancied you saw moving and crawling out or

in; till it ran along by where the reefs were, and turned off to the

dim sky again. Everything else was still, and Jones drew a breath like

one relieved. "Nothing after all, I think, sir!" said he: but to my

mind there was something a long sight more awful in the look of that

unaccountable white water bearing down like snow upon the island, as

it were, with the wrinkles and eddies to be seen faintly in it here

and there back toward the glaring breadth of it, and the floating

streaks in the sky above. Especially when he told me he thought it was

owing to millions upon millions of living things in it, that made the

same show there at two different seasons in the year, for a week or

so at a time--the appearance of it getting less distinct every night.

However, I had begun to grow uneasy again about the Indiaman, and the

schooner too, as well as doubtful of the fellows coming to the island

it all; on the contrary, as I said to Jones, if they saw the schooner,

and Westwood didn't manage as I told him, why both she, the ship, and

ourselves might possibly get the finishing-stroke altogether. "The more

I think of it," said I, "the more cursedly foolish it seems to be here

instead of aboard!" "Why it is, Mr Collins, I don't know," replied

Jones, "yet I feel as sure these men will land here as if I heard them

in the woods: and if I wasn't aware how one crime breeds another, for

my part I shouldn't be here at present, sir. Many a night afloat has

the thought of this place weighed on me, lest there was something new

doing in it: but what's buried here I'm resolved no man shall stir up,

if I can help it, sir!" A little after, as we got up and went down to

the beach, all of a sudden--like a thing he couldn't avoid--Jones began

to give me some snatches of what had happened here some years before,

which, according to him, he had got from a shipmate of his that died;

and I must say it made the blood creep in me to listen to it.