Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II

CHAPTER XXX. AN OLD SAILOR OF THE EMPIRE

No circumstance of any interest occurred on my journey to Marboeuf; my passport, made out in my own name as a sous-officier on leave, secured me against any interruption or delay; and on the third evening I reached the little wayside cabaret, about a league beyond the town, where I was informed by the count that the abbé would await me.

To my surprise, however, I discovered that the house was occupied by a detachment of the Marines of the Guard, proceeding from Marboeuf to the coast; with these, assuming the “camaraderie” of the service, I soon made acquaintance, and being possessed of some information about the army, my company was at once coveted by the sailors, who had no opportunity of learning the events of the campaign.

The flurried manner and the over-solicitous desire of the landlord to please, did not escape me; and taking the first opportunity that offered, I followed him into his room, and closed the door behind me.

“Has he arrived?” said I, assuming at once the tone of one with whom there need be no secrecy.

“Ha! you are the captain, then, and I was right?” said he, not replying to my question, but showing that he was aware who I was. But in an instant he resumed, “Alas! no, sir; the orders to have quarters ready for ten men reached me yesterday; and though I told his messenger that he might come in safety, – the marines never noticing any traveller, – he has evidently been afraid to venture. This is the 10th; on the 12th the vessel is to be off the coast; after that it will be too late.”

“But he may come yet.”

The man shook his head and sighed; then muttered half aloud, “It was a foolish choice to take a coward for a hazardous enterprise. The Comte de Chambord has been here twice to-day to see him, but in vain.”

“Where is he, then? at what distance from here?”

“No one knows. It must be some leagues away, however, for his messenger seems tired and weary when he comes, and never returns the same day.”

“Is it not possible he may have pushed on to the coast, finding this place occupied?”

“Ah, sir, it is plain you know him not; he has no daring like this, and would never seek a new path if the old were closed against him. But after all, it would be useless here.”

“How so?”

“The letters have not come yet, and without them he could not leave the coast. Meanwhile, be cautious: take care lest your absence should be remarked by the men; return to them now, and if anything occur, I will make a signal for you.”

The landlord’s advice was well timed, for I found that the party were already becoming impatient at my delay, and wondering what had caused it.

“They say, Comrade,” said a short-set, dark-featured Breton, whose black beard and mustache left little vestige of a human face visible, – “they say that the cavalry of the Guard give themselves airs with us marines, and that our company is not good enough for them. Is this the case?”

“It is the first time I have heard the remark,” replied I, “and I hope it may be the last; with us of the Eighth I know such a feeling never existed; and yet we thought ourselves not inferior to our neighbors.”

“Then why did you leave us just now?” grumbled out two or three in a breath.

“You shall know that presently,” said I, smiling; at the same time I arose and opened the door. “You may bring in the Burgundy now, Master Joseph; we are all ready for it.”

A hearty cheer welcomed this speech, and many a rude hand was stretched forth to grasp mine; at the same instant the host, accurately divining the necessity of the moment, entered with a basket containing six bottles, whose cobwebbed necks and crusted surface bespoke the choicest bin of his cellar.

“Macon! gentlemen,” said he, drawing the cork of a flask with all the steadiness of hand of one accustomed to treat Burgundy properly.

“Ah, parbleu! a generous grape, too,” said the short sailor, who spoke first, as he drained his glass and refilled it. “Allons, Comrades, ‘The Emperor! ‘”

“The Emperor!” repeated each voice in turn, even to the poor landlord, whose caution was stronger than his loyalty.

“The Emperor, and may Heaven preserve him!” said the dark-whiskered fellow.

“The Emperor, and may Heaven forgive him!” said the host, who this time uttered the true sentiments of his heart, without knowing it.

“Forgive him!” roared three or four together, – “forgive him what?”

“For not making thee an admiral of the fleet,” said the landlord, slapping the stout sailor familiarly on the shoulder.

A burst of rude laughter acknowledged the success of this speech, and by common consent the host was elected One of the company. As the wine began to work upon the party, the dark fellow, whose grade of sergeant was merely marked by a gold cord on his cuff, and which had hitherto escaped my notice, assumed the leadership, and recounted some stories of his life; which, treating of a service so novel to me in all its details, were sufficiently interesting, though the materials themselves were slight and unimportant.

One feature struck me in particular through all he said, and gave a character most distinctive to the service he belonged to, and totally unlike what I had observed among the soldiers of the army. With them the armies of all Europe were accounted the enemy, – the Austrian, the Russian, the Italian, and the Prussian were the foes he had met and conquered in so many fields of glory. The pride he felt in his triumphs was a great but natural sentiment; involving, however, no hatred of his enemy, nor any desire to disparage his courage or his skill. With the sailor of the Empire, however, there was but one antagonist, and that one he detested with his whole heart: England was a word which stirred his passion from its very inmost recesses, and made his blood boil with intense excitement. The gay insolence of the soldier, treating his conquest as a thing of ease and certainty, had no resemblance to the collected and impassioned hate of the sailor, who felt that his victories were not such as proclaimed his superiority by evidence incontestable. The victories on land contrasted, too, so strongly with even what were claimed as such at sea, that the sailors could not control their detestation of those who had robbed them of a share of their country’s praise, and made the hazardous career they followed one of mere secondary interest in the eyes of France.

A more perfect representative of this mingled jealousy and hate could not be found than Paul Dupont, the sous-officier in command of this little party. He was a Breton, and carried the ruling trait of his province into the most minute feature of his conduct. Bold, blunt, courageous, open-hearted, and fearless, but passionate to the verge of madness when thwarted, and unforgiving in his vengeance when insulted, he only believed in Brittany, and for the rest of France he cared as little as for Switzerland. His whole life had been spent at sea, until about two years previous, when from boatswain he was promoted to be a sergeant of the Marines of the Guard, – a step he regretted every day, and was now actually petitioning to be restored to his old grade, even at the sacrifice of pay and rank; such was the impression a short life ashore had made on him, and so complete his contempt for any service save that in blue water.

“Come, old ‘sea-wolf,’” – such was the sobriquet Paul went by among his comrades, – “thou art dull to-night,” said an old sailor with a head as white as snow. “I haven’t seen thee so low of heart this many a day.”

“What wonder, Comrade, if I am so?” retorted Paul, gruffly. “This shore service is bad enough, not to make it worse by listening to such yarns as these we have been hearing, about platoons and squadrons; of charges here and counter-marches there. Ventre d’enfer! that may amuse those who never saw a broadside or a boarding; but as for me, look ye, Comrade!” – here he addressed himself to me, laying his great hand upon my shoulder as he spoke, – “until ye can bring your mounted lines to charge up to the mouth of a battery vomiting grape and roundshot, ye must not tell your stories before old sailors, ay, though they be only Marines’ of the Guard, some of them.”

“Don’t be angry with old Paul, Comrade,” said the man who spoke before; “he does not mean to offend you.”

“Who told you that?” said Paul, sternly. “Why can’t you sheer off, and leave me to’ lay alongside of my enemy my own way?”

“You must not call me by such a name,” said I; “we all serve the Emperor, and have no enemies save his. Come, Paul, let us have a cup of wine together.”

“Agreed! an ye promise to tell no more tales of dragoons and hussars, and such like cattle, I’ll drink with you. Bah! it’s not Christianlike to fight a-horse-back, – it’s only fit for Turks and Arabs; but for men that are made to stand fast on their own stout timbers, they have no need of four-footed beasts to carry them against an enemy. Here’s my hand, Comrade; is it a bargain?”

“Willingly,” said I, laughing. “If you consent, instead, to tell us some of your own adventures, I promise faithfully not to trouble you with one of mine.”

“That’s like a man,” said Paul, evidently flattered by the successful assertion of his own superiority. “And now, if the host will let us have some more wine, I’m ready.”

“Ay, ay,” cried several together; “replenish the basket once more.”

“This time, gentlemen, you must permit me to treat you. It is not every day such guests assemble under my poor roof,” said the landlord, bowing courteously, “nor am I likely soon to pass so pleasant an evening.”

“That’s as you please it,” said Paul, carelessly. “If you are too good a fellow to care for money, there’s three naps for the poor of the village; mayhap there may be an old sailor amongst them.”

A murmur of satisfaction at their comrade’s conduct ran round the circle, as the host disappeared for the fresh supply of wine. In an instant he was back again, carrying a second basket under his arm, which he placed carefully on the table, saying, “Pomard of ‘87, gentlemen; I wish it were Chambertin for your sakes.”

“Tête bleue!that’s what I call wine,” said one, smacking his lips, as he tasted the generous liquor.

“Yes,” said Paul, “that’s better than drinking the pink water they serve us out on service. Morbleu! how we ‘d fight, if they’d tap an aume of that when they beat to quarters.”

The bottle now passed freely from hand to hand; and Paul, leaning back in his chair, crossed his arms before him, as, with his eyes half closed, he seemed to be occupied in remembering some long passed occurrence.

“Ay, Comrades,” said he, after a long pause, “the landlord was not so far out as you may think him. I might have been, if not an admiral of the fleet, at least a captain or a commodore by this time, if I only wished it, but I wouldn’t.”

“You wouldn’t, Paul?” cried three or four in a breath. “How do you mean, you wouldn’t? Is it that you didn’t like it?”

“That’s it: I didn’t like it,” replied he, glaring around him as he spoke, with a look which had repressed any tendency to mirth, if such an inclination existed in the party. “Mayhap there are some here don’t believe this,” he continued, as if anxious to extort a contradiction from any one bold enough to adventure it; but none seemed disposed to meet his wishes. He resumed. “The way of it was this: —

“We sailed from Brest, seven sail and two frigates, on a cruise, in the Messidor of the year ‘13, (it was the time of the Republic then), and our orders were to keep together, and afford protection to all vessels of our flag; and wherever an opportunity offered to engage the enemy, to do so, if we had a fair chance of success. There was one heavy sailer of the fleet, the ‘Old Torch,’ and by good luck I was in her; and so, before we were eight days out, it came on to blow a hurricane from the northeast, with a great sea that threatened to poop us at every stroke. How the others weathered it I can’t say; we rolled so badly that we carried away our mainmast and half our bulwarks, and when day broke we could see nothing of the rest. We were lying floundering there in the trough of the sea, with nothing left but a storm-jib to keep her head straight, and all hands at the pumps; for in working she had opened her old seams, and leaked like a basket. Well, we cut away the wreck of the mast, and we threw twelve of our guns over, – short eighteens they were, and all heavy metal, – and that lightened her a bit, and we began to have hopes of weathering out the gale, when the word was passed of a strange sail to windward.

“We looked, and there saw a great vessel looming, as large as a three-decker, coming down towards us with close-reefed topsails, but going through the water like a swordfish. At first we hoped it was one of our own; but that hope did not last long, for as she neared us we saw floating from the peak that confounded flag that never boded us good fortune. She was an English eighty-gun ship; the ‘Blanche’ they called her. Ventrebleu! I didn’t know how they ever got so handsome a model; but, I learned after, she was a French ship, and built at Toulon, – for you see, Comrades, they never had such craft as ours. Well, down they came, as if they were about to come right over us, and never once made a signal, nor took any notice of us whatever, till quite close; when a fellow from the poop-deck shouted out in French, – bad enough it was, too, – desiring us to keep close till the sea went down a bit, and then to send a boat to them. Sacristi!there was no more about it than that; and they made a prize of us at once.

“But our captain was not one of that mould, and he answered by beating to quarters; and just as the ‘Blanche’ swept past, up flew our ports, and eight carronades threw in a fire of grape along her deck that made them dance to the music. Diable! the fun was short, though. Round she came in stays like a pinnace, down helm, and passed us again; when, as if her sides slit open, forty guns flashed forth their flame, and sent us a broadside that made the craft tremble again, and left our deck one mass of dead and wounded. There was no help for it now. The clear water came gushing up the hatchways from many a shothole; the craft was settling fast, and so we hauled down the ensign and made the signal of distress. The answer was, ‘Keep her afloat if you can.’ But, faith, our fellows didn’t care much to save a prize for the English, and they would n’t lend a hand to the pumps, but crossed their arms and stood still, waiting for her to go down; when what did we see but two boats lowered from the ‘Blanche’ and dropped into the sea, which was then running mountains high. Feu d’enfer! they don’t know where there is danger and where not, these English; and that’s the reason they seem so brave! For a minute or two we thought they were swamped, for they were hidden entirely; then we saw them on the top of a wave, balancing, as it might be; and again they disappeared, and the huge dark swell seemed to have swallowed them. And so we strained eyes after them, just as if our own danger was not as great as theirs; when suddenly a fearful cry for’ed was heard, and a voice called out. ‘She is sinking by the head!’

“And so it was. A crash like falling timber was heard above the storm and the sea, and the ‘Torch’ rolled heavily from side to side, and then plunged bowsprit down, and the boiling surf met over her. There was a wild yell; some said it was a cheer; I thought it like a drowning cry, – and I remember no more. That is, I have a kind of horrid dreamy remembrance of buffeting in the waves, and shaking off a hand that grasped me by the shoulder, and then feeling the water gathering over me as I grew more and more exhausted. But the end of it was, I came to my senses some hours after, and found myself in a hammock on board the ‘Blanche,’ with twenty-eight of my comrades. All the rest – above two hundred and fifty – had perished, the captain and the officers among them.

“The ‘Blanche’ was under orders for St. Domingo, and was in no way anxious to have our company; and before a week was over we were drafted into a small sloop of war, carrying eight guns, and called the ‘Fawn,’ She was bound for England with despatches from Nelson, – one of their English admirals they ‘re always talking about. This little craft could sail like the wind, but she was crowded with sick and invalided men from some foreign station, and there was not a place the size of a dog-kennel on board of her that was not occupied. As for us, we were only prisoners, and you may think they were n’t very particular about our comforts; and so they ranged us along under the bulwarks to leeward, – for they would n’t spoil her sailing trim by suffering us to sit to windward; and there we were, drenched to the skin, and shivering from day to dark.

“Four days went over in this way, when, on the fifth, about eight o’clock in the morning, the lookout announced several strange sail in sight; and the same instant we perceived the officers setting the glasses to observe them. We could remark that the sight did not seem to please them much; but more we knew not, for we were not allowed to stand up nor look over the bulwarks. The lieutenant of the watch called up the commander; and when he came on deck he ordered the men to cram on more sail, and hold her head a point or so off the wind; and as soon as it was done, the rushing noise at the cutwater told the speed she was making through the sea. It was a fine day, with a fresh breeze and a nice curl from the water; and it was a handsome thing to see how the sloop bent to the gale and rose again, her canvas white as snow and steady as a board; and we soon knew, from the manner of the officers and the anxious looks they ‘d give to leeward from time to time, that another vessel was in chase of the ‘Fawn.’ Not a man stirred on the deck save the lieutenant of the watch, who walked the quarterdeck with his glass in his hand; now lifting it to his eye, and now throwing a glance aloft to see how the sails were drawing.

“‘She’s gaining on us, sir,’ cried the boatswain, as he went aloft, to the lieutenant. ‘Shall we ease her off a little more?’

“‘No, no,’ said he, impatiently. ‘She’s coming handover-hand now. Clear the deck, and prepare for action.’

“My heart jumped to my throat as I heard the words; and waiting until the lieutenant’s back was turned, I stole my eyes above the bulwark, and beheld the tall masts and taper spars of a frigate, all covered with canvas, about two miles astern of us. She was a good-sized craft, apparently of thirty-eight guns; but what I liked best about her was the broad tricolor that fluttered from her masthead. Every curl that floated on the breeze whispered liberty to my heart.

“‘You know her?’ said the lieutenant, laying his hand on my shoulder, before I was aware he was behind me. ‘What is she?’

“‘Lend me your glass, Lieutenant, and perhaps I can tell you,’ said I; and with that he gave the telescope into my hand, and leaned on the bulwark beside me. ‘Ha!’ said I, as soon as I caught the side of her hull, ‘I ought to know her well; I sailed in her for two years and a half. She’s the “Créole,” of thirty-eight guns, the fastest frigate in our navy; she has six carronades on her quarterdeck, and never goes to sea without three hundred and twenty men.’

“‘If she had three tiers of them we ‘d not flinch from her,’ said a voice behind. It was the commander himself, who was now in full uniform, and wore a belt with four pistols stuck around it.

“There is no use in denying it, – the English prepared for action like brave fellows, and soon cleared the deck of everything in the way of the guns. But what use was it? In less than an hour the ‘Créole’ worked to windward, and opened a fire from her long guns to which the other could make no reply. There they came plumping in, – some into the hull, some splintering through the bulwarks, and some crashing away through the rigging; and all the crew could do was to repair the mischief the distant cannonade was making.

“‘It’s a cowardly way your countrymen come into action, after all,’ said the lieutenant, as he watched the shot hopping and skipping along the water to leeward. ‘With four times our strength, they don’t bear down and encourage us.’

“As he spoke, a shot cut the peak halyards in two, and down came the spar with a crash, carrying with it in its fall that ensign they ‘re so proud of. It was all we could do, prisoners as we were, not to cheer at this; but the faces around us did not encourage us to such a course, and we sat silently watching them.

“The moment the accident happened, twenty stout fellows were clambering up the rigging, and as many more engaged to repair the mischief. But suddenly the commander whispered something to the lieutenant; the men were called down again, and the craft was let fall off the wind, trailing the sails and the tangled rigging over her sides.

“‘And the prisoners, sir?’ said the lieutenant, at the close of something I could not hear.

“‘Send them below,’ was the short reply.

“‘We cannot; the space between decks is crowded to suffocation. But here she comes.’ And, as he spoke, the frigate came bearing down in gallant style, her whole deck swarming with men.

“‘Down, men, down!’ whispered the lieutenant, and he dropped on his knee behind the bulwark, and motioned to the rest to kneel. And I now perceived that every sailor had a drawn cutlass in his hand and pistols in his belt, as he lay crouching on the deck.

“The frigate was now so close, I could hear the commands of the officers on the quarterdeck, and the words ‘Bas les branles’ – the signal to board – passed from mouth to mouth. The next instant, she closed on us, and showed her tall sides towering above us.

“‘Now, men!’ cried the commander of the ‘Fawn,’ ‘now, forward! ‘All who care to live, there’s your ground,’ said he, pointing to the frigate. ‘Such as like to die on a British deck, remain with me.’ The boarders sprang up the side of the ‘Créole’ before the crew could fasten the grapples. Tonnerre de Dieu! what a moment it was! The fellows cheered like madmen, as they poured in to certain death; the lieutenant himself was one of the first on board, and fell back the same instant, dead upon his own deck. The struggle was a bloody but brief one; for a few minutes the English pressed our men back, and gained a footing on the quarterdeck, but a murderous fire from the tops cut them down in numbers, and they now fought, not for victory, but vengeance.

“‘Now, Captain, now!’ screamed a youth, in a lieutenant’s uniform, but all covered with blood, and his face gashed with a cutlass-wound, as he leaned over the bulwark of the ‘Créole,’ and waved his cap in the air.

“‘I’m ready,’ replied the English commander, and sprang down the main hatchway as he spoke, with a pistol in his hand. At the same instant, a fearful cry burst forth from the prisoners; for, with the instinct of despair, they guessed his desperate resolve was to blow up the vessel. We were tied, wrist to wrist, and the rope run through the blocks at our back in such a way as to prevent our moving more than a few inches. But what will not the fear of a dreadful death do? With one unanimous effort we tore the lashings in pieces, and got free. I was myself the first at liberty, and sprang towards the ‘Creole.’ Alas! they had divined the awful doom awaiting us, and were endeavoring to shove off at once. Already there were some ten or twelve feet between the vessels. I rushed forward to gain the bowsprit, a vague hope of escape suggesting the effort. As I did so, my eyes caught sight of a book, which, with his hat, the captain threw from him as he hastened below. I stooped down and put it in my bosom, – why, I know not. Life, and life only, was my thought at that moment. Then, with lightning’s speed, I ran along the deck, and out on the bowsprit.