Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune

‘Nor can you, boy, ever forgive their having exiled your family from country and home; every man of honour retains the memory of such injuries.’

‘I can scarcely deem that an injury, sir, which has made me a French citizen,’ said I proudly.

‘True, boy – you say what is perfectly true and just; any sacrifice of fortune or patrimony is cheap at such a price; still you have suffered a wrong – a deep and irreparable wrong – and as a Frenchman you are ready to avenge it.’

Although I had no very precise notion, either as to the extent of the hardships done me, nor in what way I was to demand the reparation, I gave the assent he seemed to expect.

‘You are well acquainted with the language, I believe?’ continued he.

‘I can read and speak English tolerably well, sir.’

‘But I speak of Irish, boy – of the language which is spoken by your fellow-countrymen,’ said he rebukingly.

‘I have always heard, sir, that this has fallen into disuse, and is little known save among the peasantry in a few secluded districts.’

He seemed impatient as I said this, and referred once more to the paper before him, from whose minutes he appeared to have been speaking.

‘You must be in error, boy. I find here that the nation is devotedly attached to its traditions and literature, and feels no injury deeper than the insulting substitution of a foreign tongue for their own noble language.’

‘Of myself I know nothing, sir; the little I have learned was acquired when a mere child.’

‘Ah, then, you probably forget, or may never have heard the fact; but it is as I tell you. This, which I hold here, is the report of a highly distinguished and most influential personage, who lays great stress upon the circumstance. I am sorry, Tiernay, very sorry, that you are unacquainted with the language.’

He continued for some minutes to brood over this disappointment, and at last returned to the paper before him.

‘The geography of the country – what knowledge have you on that subject?’

‘No more, sir, than I may possess of other countries, and merely learned from maps.’

‘Bad again,’ muttered he to himself. ‘Madgett calls these “essentials”; but we shall see.’ Then addressing me, he said, ‘Tiernay, the object of my present interrogatory is to inform you that the Directory is about to send an expedition to Ireland to assist in the liberation of that enslaved people. It has been suggested that young officers and soldiers of Irish descent might render peculiar service to the cause, and I have selected you for an opportunity which will convert these worsted epaulettes into bullion.’

This at least was intelligible news, and now I began to listen with more attention.

‘There is a report,’ said he, laying down before me a very capacious manuscript, ‘which you will carefully peruse. Here are the latest pamphlets setting forth the state of public opinion in Ireland; and here are various maps of the coast, the harbours, and the strongholds of that country, with all of which you may employ yourself advantageously; and if, on considering the subject, you feel disposed to volunteer – for as a volunteer only could your services be accepted – I will willingly support your request by all the influence in my power.’

‘I am ready to do so at once, sir,’ said I eagerly; ‘I have no need to know any more than you have told me.’

‘Well said, boy; I like your ardour. Write your petition and it shall be forwarded to-day. I will also try and obtain for you the same regimental rank you hold in the school’ – I was a sergeant – ‘it will depend upon yourself afterwards to secure a further advancement. You are now free from duty; lose no time, therefore, in storing your mind with every possible information, and be ready to set out at a moment’s notice.’

‘Is the expedition so nearly ready, sir?’ asked I eagerly.

He nodded, and with a significant admonition as to secrecy, dismissed me, bursting with anxiety to examine the stores of knowledge before me, and prepare myself with all the details of a plan in which already I took the liveliest interest. Before the week expired, I received an answer from the Minister, accepting the offer of my services. The reply found me deep in those studies, which I scarcely could bear to quit even at meal-times. Never did I experience such an all-devouring passion for a theme as on that occasion. ‘Ireland’ never left my thoughts; her wrongs and sufferings were everlastingly before me; all the cruelties of centuries – all the hard tyranny of the penal laws – the dire injustice of caste oppression – filled me with indignation and anger; while, on the other hand, I conceived the highest admiration of a people who, undeterred by the might and power of England, resolved to strike a great blow for liberty.

The enthusiasm of the people – the ardent daring of a valour whose impetuosity was its greatest difficulty – their high romantic temperament – their devotion – their gratitude – the childlike trustfulness of their natures, were all traits, scattered through the various narratives, which invariably attracted me, and drew me more strongly to their cause – more from affection than reason.

Madgett’s memoir was filled with these; and he, I concluded, must know them well, being, as it was asserted, one of the ancient nobility of the land, and who now desired nothing better than to throw rank, privilege, and title into the scale, and do battle for the liberty and equality of his countrymen. How I longed to see this great man, whom my fancy arrayed in all the attributes he so lavished upon his countrymen, for they were not only, in his description, the boldest and the bravest, but the handsomest people of Europe.

As to the success of the enterprise, whatever doubts I had at first conceived, from an estimate of the immense resources of England, were speedily solved, as I read of the enormous preparations the Irish had made for the struggle. The Roman Catholics, Madgett said, were three millions, the Dissenters another million, all eager for freedom and French alliance, wanting nothing but the appearance of a small armed force to give them the necessary organisation and discipline. They were somewhat deficient, he acknowledged, in firearms – cannon they had none whatever; but the character of the country, which consisted of mountains, valleys, ravines and gorges, reduced war to the mere chivalrous features of personal encounter. What interminable descriptions did I wade through of clubs and associations, the very names of which were a puzzle to me – the great union of all appearing to be a society called ‘Defenders,’ whose oath bound them to ‘fidelity to the united nations of France and Ireland!’

So much for the one side. For the other, it was asserted that the English forces then in garrison in Ireland were beneath contempt; the militia, being principally Irish, might be relied on for taking the popular side; and as to the Regulars, they were either ‘old men or boys,’ incapable of active service; and several of the regiments being Scotch, greatly disaffected to the Government. Then, again, as to the navy, the sailors in the English fleet were more than two-thirds Irishmen, all Catholics, and all disaffected.

That the enterprise contained every element of success, then, who could doubt? The nation, in the proportion of ten to one, were for the movement. On their side lay not alone the wrongs to avenge, but the courage, the energy, and the daring. Their oppressors were as weak as tyrannical, their cause was a bad one, and their support of it a hollow semblance of superiority.

If I read these statements with ardour and avidity, one lurking sense of doubt alone obtruded itself on my reasonings. Why, with all these guarantees of victory, with everything that can hallow a cause, and give it stability and strength – why did the Irish ask for aid? If they were, as they alleged, an immense majority – if there was all the heroism and the daring – if the struggle was to be maintained against a miserably inferior force, weakened by age, incapacity, and disaffection – what need had they of Frenchmen on their side? The answer to all such doubts, however, was ‘the Irish were deficient in organisation.’

Not only was the explanation a very sufficient one, but it served in a high degree to flatter our vanity. We were, then, to be organisers of Ireland; from us were they to take the lessons of civilisation, which should prepare them for freedom – ours was the task to discipline their valour, and train their untaught intelligence. Once landed in the country, it was to our standard they were to rally; from us were to go forth the orders of every movement and measure; to us this new land was to be an El Dorado. Madgett significantly hinted everywhere at the unbounded gratitude of Irishmen, and more than hinted at the future fate of certain confiscated estates. One phrase, ostentatiously set forth in capitals, asserted that the best general of the French Republic could not be anywhere employed with so much reputation and profit. There was, then, everything to stimulate the soldier in such an enterprise – honour, fame, glory, and rich rewards were all among the prizes.

It was when deep in the midst of these studies, poring over maps and reports, taxing my memory with hard names, and getting off by heart dates, distances, and numbers, that the order came for me to repair at once to Paris, where the volunteers of the expedition were to assemble. My rank of sergeant had been confirmed, and in this capacity, as sous-officier, I was ordered to report myself to General Kilmaine, the adjutant-general of the expedition, then living in the Rue Ghantereine. I was also given the address of a certain Lestaing – Rue Tailbout – a tailor, from whom, on producing a certificate, I was to obtain my new uniform.

Full as I was of the whole theme, thinking of the expedition by day, and dreaming of it by night, I was still little prepared for the enthusiasm it was at that very moment exciting in every society of the capital. For some time previously a great number of Irish emigrants had made Paris their residence; some were men of good position and ample fortune; some were individuals of considerable ability and intelligence. All were enthusiastic, and ardent in temperament – devotedly attached to their country – hearty haters of England, and proportionally attached to all that was French. These sentiments, coupled with a certain ease of manner, and a faculty of adaptation, so peculiarly Irish, made them general favourites in society; and long before the Irish question had found any favour with the public, its national supporters had won over the hearts and good wishes of all Paris to the cause.

Well pleased, then, as I was with my handsome uniform of green and gold, my small chapeau, with its plume of cock’s feathers, and the embroidered shamrock on my collar, I was not a little struck by the excitement my first appearance in the street created. Accustomed to see a hundred strange military costumes – the greater number, I own, more singular than tasteful – the Parisians, I concluded, would scarcely notice mine in the crowd. Not so, however; the print-shops had already given the impulse to the admiration, and the ‘Irish Volunteer of the Guard’ was to be seen in every window, in all the ‘glory of his bravery.’ The heroic character of the expedition, too, was typified by a great variety of scenes, in which the artist’s imagination had all the credit. In one picture the jeune Irlandais was planting a national flag of very capacious dimensions on the summit of his native mountains; here he was storming Le Château de Dublin, a most formidable fortress, perched on a rock above the sea; here he was crowning the heights of La Citadelle de Cork, a very Gibraltar in strength; or he was haranguing the native chieftains, a highly picturesque group – a cross between a knight crusader and a South-sea islander.

My appearance, therefore, in the streets was the signal for general notice and admiration, and more than one compliment was uttered, purposely loud enough to reach me, on the elegance and style of my equipment. In the pleasant flurry of spirits excited by this flattery, I arrived at the general’s quarters in the Rue Chantereine. It was considerably before the time of his usual receptions, but the glitter of my epaulettes, and the air of assurance I had assumed, so far imposed upon the old servant who acted as valet, that he at once introduced me into a small saloon, and after a brief pause presented me to the general, who was reclining on a sofa at his breakfast. Although far advanced in years, and evidently broken by bad health, General Kilmaine still preserved traces of great personal advantages, while his manner exhibited all that polished ease and courtesy which was said to be peculiar to the Irish gentleman of the French Court. Addressing me in English, he invited me to join his meal, and on my declining, as having already breakfasted, he said, ‘I perceive, from your name, we are countrymen, and as your uniform tells me the service in which you are engaged, we may speak with entire confidence. Tell me then, frankly, all that you know of the actual condition of Ireland.’

Conceiving that this question applied to the result of my late studies, and was meant to elicit the amount of my information, I at once began a recital of what I had learned from the books and reports I had been reading, My statistics were perfect – they had been gotten off by heart; my sympathies were, for the same reason, most eloquent; my indignation was boundless on the wrongs I deplored, and in fact, in the fifteen minutes during which he permitted me to declaim without interruption, I had gone through the whole ‘cause of Ireland,’ from Henry n. to George n.

‘You have been reading Mr. Madgett, I perceive,’ said he, with a smile; ‘but I would rather hear something of your own actual experience. Tell me, therefore, in what condition are the people at this moment, as regards poverty?’

‘I have never been in Ireland, general,’ said I, not without some shame at the avowal coming so soon after my eloquent exhortation.

‘Ah, I perceive,’ said he blandly, ‘of Irish origin, and a relative probably of that very distinguished soldier, Count Maurice de Tiernay, who served in the Garde du Corps.’

‘His only son, general,’ said I, blushing with eagerness and pleasure at the praise of my father.

‘Indeed!’ said he, smiling courteously, and seeming to meditate on my words. ‘There was not a better nor a braver sabre in the corps than your father – a very few more of such men might have saved the monarchy – as it was, they dignified its fall. And to whose guidance and care did you owe your early training, for I see you have not been neglected?’

A few words told him the principal events of my early years, to which he listened with deep attention. At length he said, ‘And now you are about to devote your acquirements and energy to this new expedition?’

‘All, general! Everything that I have is too little for such a cause.’

‘You say truly, boy,’ said he warmly; ‘would that so good a cause had better leaders. I mean,’ added he hurriedly, ‘wiser ones. Men more conversant with the actual state of events, more fit to cope with the great difficulties before them, more ready to take advantage of circumstances, whose outward meaning will often prove deceptive. In fact, Irishmen of character and capacity, tried soldiers and good patriots. Well, well, let us hope the best. In whose division are you?’

‘I have not yet heard, sir. I have presented myself here to-day to receive your orders.’

‘There again is another instance of their incapacity,’ cried he passionately. ‘Why, boy, I have no command, nor any function. I did accept office under General Hoche, but he is not to lead the present expedition.’

‘And who is, sir?’

‘I cannot tell you. A week ago they talked of Grouchy, then of Hardy; yesterday it was Humbert; to-day it may be Bonaparte, and to-morrow yourself! Ay, Tiernay, this great and good cause has its national fatality attached to it, and is so wrapped up in low intrigue and falsehood, that every Minister becomes in turn disgusted with the treachery and mendacity he meets with, and bequeaths the question to some official underling, meet partisan for the mock patriot he treats with.’

‘But the expedition will sail, general?’ asked I, sadly discomfited by this tone of despondency.

He made me no answer, but sat for some time absorbed in his own thoughts. At last he looked up, and said, ‘You ought to be in the army of Italy, boy; the great teacher of war is there.’

‘I know it, sir, but my whole heart is in this struggle. I feel that Ireland has a claim on all who derived even a name from her soil. Do you not believe that the expedition will sail?’

Again he was silent and thoughtful.

‘Mr. Madgett would say yes,’ said he scornfully, ‘though, certes, he would not volunteer to bear it company.’

‘Colonel Cherin, general!’ said the valet, as he flung open the door for a young officer in a staff uniform. I arose at once to withdraw, but the general motioned to me to wait in an adjoining room, as he desired to speak with me again.

Scarcely five minutes had elapsed when I was summoned once more before him.

‘You have come at a most opportune moment, Tiernay,’ said he; ‘Colonel Cherin informs me that an expedition is ready to sail from Rochelle at the first favourable wind. General Humbert has the command; and if you are disposed to join him I will give you a letter of presentation.’

Of course I did not hesitate in accepting the offer; and while the general drew over his desk to write the letter, I withdrew towards the window to converse with Colonel Cherin.

‘You might have waited long enough,’ said he, laughing, ‘if the affair had been in other hands than Humbert’s. The delays and discussions of the official people, the difficulty of anything like agreement, the want of money, and fifty other causes, would have detained the fleet till the English got scent of the whole. But Humbert has taken the short road in the matter. He only arrived at La Rochelle five days ago, and now he is ready to weigh anchor.’

‘And in what way has he accomplished this?’ asked I, in some curiosity.

‘By a method,’ replied he, laughing again, ‘which is usually reserved for an enemy’s country. Growing weary of a correspondence with the Minister, which seemed to make little progress, and urged on by the enthusiastic stories of the Irish refugees, he resolved to wait no longer; and so he has called on the merchants and magistrates to advance him a sum on military requisition, together with such stores and necessaries as he stands in need of.’

‘And they have complied?’ asked I.

‘Parbleu! that have they. In the first place, they had no other choice; and in the second, they are but too happy to get rid of him and his ‘Legion Noir,’ as they are called, so cheaply. A thousand louis and a thousand muskets would not pay for the damage of these vagabonds each night they spent in the town.’

I confess that this description did not tend to exalt the enthusiasm I had conceived for the expedition; but it was too late for hesitation – too late for even a doubt. Go forward I should, whatever might come of it. And now the general had finished his letter, which, having sealed and addressed, he gave into my hand, saying – ‘This will very probably obtain your promotion, if not at once, at least on the first vacancy. Good-bye, my lad; there may be hard knocks going where you will be, but I’m certain you’ll not disgrace the good name you bear, nor the true cause for which you are fighting. I would that I had youth and strength to stand beside you in the struggle!

‘Good-bye.’ He shook me affectionately by both hands; the colonel, too, bade me adieu not less cordially; and I took my leave with a heart overflowing with gratitude and delight.

CHAPTER XVII. LA ROCHELLE

La Rochelle is a quiet little town at the bottom of a small bay, the mouth of which is almost closed up by two islands. There is a sleepy, peaceful air about the place – a sort of drowsy languor pervades everything and everybody about it, that tells of a town whose days of busy prosperity have long since passed by, and which is dragging out life, like some retired tradesman – too poor for splendour, but rich enough to be idle. A long avenue of lime-trees incloses the harbour; and here the merchants conduct their bargains, while their wives, seated beneath the shade, discuss the gossip of the place over their work. All is patriarchal and primitive as Holland itself; the very courtesies of life exhibiting that ponderous stateliness which insensibly reminds one of the land of dikes and broad breeches. It is the least ‘French’ of any town I have ever seen in France; none of that light merriment, that gay volatility of voice and air which form the usual atmosphere of a French town. All is still, orderly, and sombre; and yet on the night in which – something more than fifty years back – I first entered it, a very different scene was presented to my eyes.

It was about ten o’clock, and by a moon nearly full, the diligence rattled along the covered ways of the old fortress, and crossing many a moat and drawbridge, the scenes of a once glorious struggle, entered the narrow streets, traversed a wide place, and drew up within the ample portals of ‘La Poste.’

Before I could remove the wide capote which I wore, the waiter ushered me into a large salon where a party of about forty persons were seated at supper. With a few exceptions they were all military officers, and sous-officiers of the expedition, whose noisy gaiety and boisterous mirth sufficiently attested that the entertainment had begun a considerable time before.

A profusion of bottles, some empty, others in the way to become so, covered the table, amidst which lay the fragments of a common table-d’hôte supper – large dishes of cigars and basins of tobacco figuring beside the omelettes and the salad.

The noise, the heat, the smoke, and the confusion – the clinking of glasses, the singing, and the speech-making, made a scene of such turmoil and uproar, that I would gladly have retired to some quieter atmosphere, when suddenly an accidental glimpse of my uniform caught some eyes among the revellers, and a shout was raised of ‘Holloa, comrades! here’s one of the “Guides” among us.’ And at once the whole assembly rose up to greet me. For full ten minutes I had to submit to a series of salutations, which led to every form, from hand-shaking and embracing to kissing; while, perfectly unconscious of any cause for my popularity, I went through the ceremonies like one in a dream.

‘Where’s Kilmaine?’ ‘What of Hardy?’ ‘Is Grouchy coming?’ ‘Can the Brest fleet sail?’ ‘How many line-of-battle ships have they?’ ‘What’s the artillery force?’ ‘Have you brought any money?’ This last question, the most frequent of all, was suddenly poured in upon me, and with a fortunate degree of rapidity, that I had no time for a reply, had I even the means of making one.

‘Let the lad have a seat and a glass of wine before he submits to this interrogatory,’ said a fine, jolly-looking old chef d’escadron at the head of the table, while he made a place for me at his side. ‘Now tell us, boy, what number of the “Guides” are to be of our party?’

I looked a little blank at the question, for in truth I had not heard of the corps before, nor was I aware that it was their uniform I was then wearing.

‘Come, come, be frank with us, lad,’ said he; ‘we are all comrades here. Confound secrecy, say I.’

‘Ay, ay,’ cried the whole assembly together – ‘confound secrecy. We are not bandits nor highwaymen; we have no need of concealment.’

‘I’ll be as frank as you can wish, comrades,’ said I; ‘and if I lose some importance in your eyes by owning that I am not the master of a single state secret, I prefer to tell you so, to attempting any unworthy disguise. I come here, by orders from General Kilmaine, to join your expedition; and except this letter for General Humbert, I have no claim to any consideration whatever.’

The old chef took the letter from my hands and examined the seal and superscription carefully, and then passed the document down the table for the satisfaction of the rest.

While I continued to watch with anxious eyes the letter on which so much of my own fate depended, a low whispering conversation went on at my side, at the end of which the chef said —