Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II

How strangely came the thought to my mind, that all the peril I once incurred to reach France, the hoped-for, wished-for land, I should again brave to escape from its shores! Every dream of boyish ambition dissipated, every high hope flown, I was returning to my country as poor and humble as I left it, but with a heart shorn of all the enthusiasm that gave life its coloring. In what way I could shape my future career I was not able even to guess; a vague leaning to some of England’s distant colonies, some new world beyond the seas, being all my imagination could frame of my destiny. A sudden flash of light, illuminating the whole interior of the tower, startled me from my musings, while the sailor called out, —

“Come, wake up, friend! The cutter is standing in close, and a signal to make haste flying from her mast.”

I sprang to my legs, and looked out. The sea was all freckled with the moonlight, and the little craft shone like silver, as the bright beams glanced on her white sails. The tall cliffs alone preserved their gloom, and threw a dark and frowning shadow over the waves beneath them.

“I can see nothing close to shore,” said I, pointing to the dark rocks beneath the window.

“Thou’lt have the moon presently; she’s rising above the crest of the hill, and then the cliffs are clear as at noonday. So, make haste! strap on that knapsack on your shoulder; high up, mind; and give thine arms full play, – that’s it. Now fasten thy shoes over all; thou wert not about to wear them, surely?” said he in a tone almost derisive. “Take care, in keeping from the face of the rock, not to sway the rope; it wears the cordage. And, above all, mind well when thou reachest the cliff below; let not thy hold go before thou hast well felt thy footing. See, the moon is up already!”

As he spoke, a vast sheet of yellow light seemed to creep over the whole face of the precipice, displaying every crag and projection, and making every spot of verdure or rock brilliant in color; while, many a fathom down below, the heavy waves were seen, – now rising in all their majestic swell, now pouring back in their thousand cataracts from every fissure in the precipice. So terribly distinct did each object show, so dreadfully was each distance marked, I felt that all its former gloom and darkness were not one half so thrilling as that moonlight splendor.

“La bonne Marie guard thee now!” said the old seaman, as he wrung my hand in his strong fingers. “Be steady and cool of head, and there is no danger; and look not downwards till thou hast got accustomed to the cliff.”

As he said this, he opened a small door at the foot of the tower stair, and passing through himself, desired me to follow. I did so, and now found myself on a narrow ledge of rock, directly over the crag; below, at about ten feet, lay the chain to which the rope was attached, and to reach it was not the least perilous part of the undertaking. But in this I was assisted by the old man, who, passing a rope through a massive iron staple, gradually lowered me till my hand came opposite the chain.

“Thou hast it now,” cried he, as he saw me disengage one hand and grasp the iron links firmly.

“Yes, all safe! Good-by, friend; good-by!”

“Wait yet,” cried he again. “Let not go the cord before thou thinkest a minute or so; I have known more than one change his mind when he felt himself where thou art.”

“Mine is made up. Farewell!”

“Stay, stay!” shouted he rapidly. “See, thou hast forgotten this purse on the rock here; wait, and I will lower it with a cord.”

By this time I had grasped the chain firmly with both hands, and with the resolve of one who felt life depend on his own firmness, I began the descent. The old man’s voice, as he muttered a prayer for my safety, grew fainter and fainter, till at length it ceased to reach my ears altogether.

Then, for the first time, did my heart sink within me. The words of one human being, faint and broken by distance, suggested a sense of sympathy which nerved my courage and braced my arm; but the dreary silence that followed, only broken by the booming of the sea below, was awful beyond measure.

Hand below hand I went, the space seeming never to lessen, as I strained my eyes to catch the cliff where the first rope ended. Time, as in some fearful dream, seemed protracted to years long; and I already anticipated the moment when, my strength failing, my hands would relinquish their hold, and I should be dashed upon the dark rocks below. The very sea-birds, which I startled in my descent, wheeled round my head, piercing the air with their shrill cries, and as if impatient for a prey. Above my head the frowning cliff beetled darkly; below, a depth unfathomable seemed to stretch, from whose black abyss arose the wild sounds of beating waves. More than once, too, I thought that the rope had given way above, and that I was actually falling through the air, – and held my breath in horror; then, again, the idea flashed upon me that death inevitable awaited me, and I fancied in the singing billows I could hear the wild shouts of demons rejoicing over my doom.

Through all these maddening visions, the instinct to preserve my life held its strong sway, and I clutched the knotted rope with the eager grasp of a drowning man; when suddenly I felt my foot strike a rock beneath, and then discovered I was on the cliff of which the sailor had told me. In a few seconds the sense of security imparted a thrill of pleasure to my heart, and I uttered a prayer of thankfulness for my safety.

But the fearful conviction of greater danger as suddenly succeeded. The rope I had so long trusted terminated here; the end hung listlessly on the rock, and from thence to the brow of the cliff nothing remained to afford a grip save the short moss and the dried ferns withered with the sun. The surface of this frightful ledge sloped rapidly towards the edge where was the rock around which the rope was tied.

Fatigued by my previous exertion I sat down on that moss-grown cliff and gazed out upon the sea, along which the cutter came, proudly dashing the spray from her bows, and bending gracefully with every wave. She was standing fearlessly in, for the wind was off the land, and, as she swept along, I could have fancied her directly beneath my very feet.

Arousing myself from the momentary stupor of my faculties, I began to creep down the cliff; but so slippery had the verdure become by heat, that I could barely sustain myself by grasping the very earth with my fingers. Aloud “Halloo!” was shouted from the craft, and arose in many an echo around me; I tried to reply, but could not. A second cheer saluted me, but I did not endeavor to answer it. The moment was full of peril. I had come to the last spot which offered a hold, and below me, at some feet, lay the rock, hanging, as it were, over the precipice; it seemed to me as though a sea-bird’s weight might have sent it thundering into the depth beneath. The moon was on it, and I could see the rope coiled twice around it, and knotted carefully. What would I have given in that terrible minute for one tuft of grass, one slender bough, even enough to have sustained my weight for a second or two, until I should grasp the cord! But none was there.

A louder cry from the cutter now rang in my ears, and the dreadful thought of destruction now flashed on me. I fixed my eyes on the rock to measure the place; and then, turning with my face towards the cliff, I suffered myself to slip downwards. At first I went slowly; then faster and faster. At last my legs passed over the brow of the precipice. I was falling! My head reeled. I uttered a cry, and in an agony of despair threw out my hands. They caught the rope. Knot after knot slipped past my fingers in the descent ere my senses became sufficiently clear to know what was occurring. But even then the instinct of self-preservation was stronger than reason; for I afterwards learned from the boat’s crew with what skill I guided myself along the face of the cliff, avoiding every difficulty of the jagged rocks, and tracking my way like the most experienced climber.

I stood upon a broad fiat rock, over which white sheets of foam were dashing. Oh, how I loved to see them curling on my feet t I could have kissed the bright water on which the moonbeams sported, for the moment of danger was passed; the shadow of a dreadful death had moved from my soul. What cared I now for the boiling surf that toiled and fretted about me? The dangers of the deep were as nothing to that I escaped from; and when the cutter’s boat came bounding towards me, I minded not the oft-repeated warnings of the sailors, but plunging in, I dashed towards her on a retreating wave, and was dragged on board almost lifeless from my struggles.

The red glare of the signal-fire was blazing from the old tower as we got under weigh. I felt my eyes riveted on it as I lay on the deck of the little vessel, which now stood out to sea in gallant style. It was my last look of France, and so I felt it.

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE LANDING

With the crew of the cutter I had little intercourse. They were Jerseymen, – that hybrid race, neither French nor English, – who followed the trade of spies and smugglers, and were true to nothing save their own interests. The skipper, a coarse, ill-featured fellow, in no respect superior to the others, leisurely perused the letter De Beauvais gave me on my departure; then, tearing it slowly, threw the pieces into the fire.

“What, then, is this?” said he, taking up a sealed packet, which I now for the first time perceived was fastened to my knapsack. “It seems meant for me; look at the address, ‘Jacques Oloquette, on board the “Rouge Galant."’” And so saying, he broke the seal, and bent over the contents.

“Oh,” cried he, in a voice of triumphant delight, “this is a prize worth having, – the English signal-book!” And he held up the little volume which Paul Dupont had rescued from the “Fawn.”

“How came it here?” said I, horror-struck at the loss the poor sailor had sustained.

“Old Martin, of the ‘Star,’ tells me he stole it from a marine of the Guard, and that it cost him twenty-four flasks of his best Pomard before the fellow and his companions were drunk enough to make the theft practicable.”

I remembered at once the eagerness of the landlord for my departure, and the hurried anxiety of his wish that morning might find me miles off on my journey, as well as the care he bestowed on strapping my knapsack, and saw how all had occurred.

“I knew most of them already,” continued the skipper. “But here is one will serve our turn well now, – the very thing we wanted, for it saves all delay and stoppage. That flag is the signal for Admiralty despatches, which are often brought by small craft like ours when they can’t spare cruisers. We ‘ll soon rig it out, you ‘ll see, and run down Channel with all our canvas set.”

He went aft as he spoke; and in a few seconds the cutter’s head was directed straight towards the English coast, while, crowding on more sail, she seemed to fly through the water.

The cheering freshness of the sea-breeze, the sense of danger past, the hope of escape, all combining, raised my spirits and elevated my courage; but through all, I felt grieved beyond measure at the loss of poor Paul Dupont, – the prize the honest fellow valued next to life itself, if not above it, taken from him in the very moment of his exultation! Besides, I could not help feeling that suspicion must light on me from my sudden disappearance; and my indignation was deep, to think how such an imputation would tarnish the honor of that service I gloried in so much. “How far may such a calumny spread?” thought I. “How many lips may repeat the tale, and none be able to deny it?” Deep as was my regret at the brave Breton’s loss, my anger for its consequences was still deeper; and I would willingly have perilled all my hope of reaching England to have been able to restore the book into Paul’s own hand.

These feelings did not tend to draw me closer in intimacy with the skipper; whose pleasure at the acquisition was only heightened by the subtlety of its accomplishment, and who seemed never so happy as when repeating some fragment of the landlord’s letter, and rejoicing at the discomfiture the brave sailor must have experienced on discovering his loss. To witness the gratification a coarse nature feels in some unworthy but successful action, is the heaviest penalty an honorable mind can experience when unhappily its possessor has been in any way accessory to the result. With these reflections I fell off to sleep, and never woke till the bright sun was shining over the white-crested water, and the craft breasting the waves with a strong breeze upon her canvas.

As we held on down Channel, we passed several ships of war beating up for Spithead; but our blue bunting, curiously streaked with white, was a signal which all acknowledged, and none ventured to retard. Thus passed the first day: as night was falling, we beheld the Needles on our lee, and with a freshening breeze, held on our course.

A second morning broke. And now the sea was covered with the white sails of a magnificent fleet, bound for the West Indies; at least, so the skipper pronounced it. It was indeed a glorious sight to see the mighty vessels obeying the signals of the flag-ship, and shaping their course through the blue water as if instinct with life and reason. They were far seaward of us, however; for now we hugged the land, as the skipper was only desirous of an opportunity to land me unobserved before he proceeded on his own more immediate enterprise, – the smuggling of some hogsheads of brandy on the coasts of Ireland.

Left to my own thoughts, – the memories of my past life, – I dreamed away the hours unconsciously, and as the time sped on, I knew not of its flight. Some strange sail, seen from afar off, would for an instant arouse my attention; but it was a mere momentary effect, and I fell back into my musings, as though they had never been interrupted. As I look back upon that voyage now, and think of the dreamy listlessness in which its hours were passed, I can half fancy that certain periods of our lives are destined to sustain the part which night performs in our daily existence, and by their monotony contribute to that renewal of energy and vigor so essential after times of labor and exertion. It seemed to me as though, the period of exertion past, I was regaining in rest and repose the power for future action; and I canvassed every act of the past to teach me more of my own heart, and to instruct me for my guidance in life after.

“You can land now, whenever you please,” said the skipper to me, as by a faint moonlight we moved along the waveless sea. “We can put you ashore at any moment here.”

I started with as much surprise as though the thought had never occurred to me; and without replying, I leaned over the bulwark, and gazed at the faint shadows of tall headlands about three miles distant.

“How do you call that bluff yonder?” said I, carelessly.

“Wicklow Head.”

“Wicklow Head! Ireland!” cried I, with a thrill of ecstasy my heart had never felt for many a day before. “Yes, yes; land me there, – now, at once!” said I, as a thousand thoughts came rushing to my mind, and hopes too vague for utterance, but palpable enough to cherish.

With the speed their calling teaches, the crew lowered the boat, and as I took my place in the stern, pulled vigorously towards the shore. As the swift bark glided along the shallow sea, I could scarce restrain my impatience from springing out and rushing on land. Without family or friend, without one to welcome or meet me, still it was home, – the only home I ever had.

The sharp keel grated on the beach; its sound vibrated within my heart. I jumped on shore; a few words of parting, and the men backed their oars; the boat slipped fast through the water. The cutter, too, got speedily under weigh again, and I was alone. Then the full torrent of my feelings found their channel, and I burst into tears. Oh! they were not tears of sorrow; neither were they the outpourings of excessive joy. They were the utterance of a heart loaded with its own unrelieved griefs, who now found sympathy on touching the very soil of home. I felt I was no longer friendless. Ireland, my own dear native country, would be to me a place of kindred and family, and I fell upon my knees, and blessed it.

Following a little path, which led slantingly up the cliff, I reached the top as day was beginning to break, and gained a view of the country. The range of swelling hills, dotted with cottages and waving with wood; the fields of that emerald green one sees not in other lands; the hedge-rows bounding the little farms, – all so unlike the spreading plains of France, – struck me with delight, and it was with a rapture of happiness I called the land my country.

Directing my steps towards Dublin, I set out at a good pace, but following a path which led near the cliffs, in preference to the highroad; for I was well aware that my appearance and dress would expose me to curiosity, and perhaps subject me to more serious annoyance. My first object was to learn some news of my brother; for although the ties of affection had been long since severed between us, those of blood still remained, and I wished to hear of, and it might be to see him, once more. For some miles I had kept my eyes directed towards a little cabin which crowned a cliff that hung over the sea; and this I reached at last, somewhat wearied and hungry.

As I followed a little footpath which conducted to the door, a fierce terrier rushed out as if to attack me, but was immediately restrained by the voice of a man within, calling, “Down, Vicksey! down, you baste!” and the same moment a stout, middle-aged man appeared at the door.

“Don’t be afeard, sir; she’s not wicked, but we’re unused to strangers down here.”

“I should think so, friend, from my path,” said I, throwing a glance at the narrow footway I had followed for some miles, over hill and precipice; “but I am unacquainted with the country, and was looking out for some house where I might obtain a breakfast.”

“There’s a town about three miles down yonder, and a fine inn, I ‘m tould, sir,” replied he, as he scrutinized my appearance with a shrewd eye; “but if I might make so bould, maybe you ‘d as lief not go there, and perhaps you ‘d take share of what we have here?”

“Willingly,” said I, accepting the hospitable offer as freely as it was made, and entered the cabin at once.

A good-featured countrywoman and some young children were seated at the table, where a large dish of potatoes and some fresh fish were smoking, a huge jug of milk occupying the middle of the board. The woman blushed as she heard that her husband had invited a gentleman to partake of his humble meal; but the honest fellow cared little for the simple fare he offered with so good a grace, and placed my chair beside his own with the air of one who was more anxious for his guest’s comfort than caring what impression he himself might make upon him.

After some passing words about the season and the state of the tides, – for my host was a fisherman, – I turned the conversation on the political condition of the country, avowing frankly that I had been for some years absent, and was ignorant of what had occurred meantime.

“‘Twas that same I was thinking, sir,” said he, replying to the first and not the latter part of my remark. “When I saw your honor’s face, and the beard you wore, I said to myself you wor a Frenchman.”

“You mistook there, then; I am your countryman, but have passed a good many years in France.”

“Fighting for Boney?” said he, as his eyes opened wide with surprise to behold one actually before him who might have served under Napoleon.

“Yes, my good friend, even so; I was in the army of the Emperor.”

“Tare an ages! then, are they coming over here now?” cried he, almost gasping in his eagerness.

“No, no,” replied I, gravely; “and be thankful, too, for it, for your own and your children’s sakes, that you see not a war raging in the fields and cities of your native land. Be assured, whatever wrongs you suffer, – I will not dispute their existence, for, as I told you, I am ignorant of the condition of the country, – but whatever they may be, you can pay too dearly for their remedy.”

“But sure they ‘d be on our side, would n’t they?”

“Of course they would; but think you that they ‘d fight your battles without their price? Do you believe that Frenchmen so love you here that they would come to shed their blood in your cause without their own prospect of advantage?”

“They hate the English, I’m tould, as bad as we do ourselves.”

“They do so, and with more of justice for their hate. But that dislike might suffice to cause a war; it never would reward it. No, no; I know something of the spirit of French conquest. I glory in the bravery and the heroism that accomplished it; but I never wish to see my own country at the mercy of France. Whose soldier would you become if the Emperor Napoleon landed here to-morrow? – his. Whose uniform would you wear, whose musket carry, whose pay receive, whose orders obey? – his, and his only. And how long, think you, would your services be limited to home? What should prevent your being sent away to Egypt, to Poland, or to Russia? How much favor would an Irish deserter receive from a French court-martial, think you? No, good friend; while you have this warm roof to shelter you, and that broad sea is open for your industry and toil, never wish for foreign aid to assist you.”

I saw that the poor fellow was discouraged by my words, and gradually led him to speak of those evils for whose alleviation he looked to France. To my surprise, however, he descanted less on political grievances than those which affect the well-being of the country socially. It was not the severity of a Government, but the absence of encouragement to industry, – the neglect of the poor, – which afflicted him. England was no longer the tyrant; the landlord had taken her place. Still, with the pertinacity of ignorance, he visited all the wrongs on that land from which originally his first misfortunes came, and with perverse ingenuity would endeavor to trace out every hardship he suffered as arising from the ill-will and hatred the Saxon bore him.

It was easy to perceive that the arguments he used were not of his own devising; they had been supplied by others, in whose opinion he had confidence; and though valueless and weak in reality, to him they were all-convincing and unanswerable, – not the less, perhaps, that they offered that value to self-love which comes from attributing any evils we endure to causes outside and independent of ourselves. These, confronted with extravagant hopes of what would ensue should national independence be established, formed his code; and however refuted on each point, a certain conviction, too deeply laid to be disturbed by any opposing force, remained; and in his “Well, well, God knows best! and maybe we’ll have better luck yet,” you could perceive that he was inaccessible to any appeal except from the quarter which ministered to his discontent and disaffection.

One thing was clear to me from all he said, that if the spirit of open resistance no longer existed towards England, it was replaced by as determined and as rancorous hatred, – a brooding, ill-omened dislike had succeeded, to the full as hostile, and far less easily subdued. How it would end, – whether in the long-lingering fear which wastes the energies and saps the strength of a people, or in the conflict of a civil war, the prospect was equally ruinous.

Sadly pondering on these things, I parted with my humble host, and set out towards the capital. If my conversation with the Irishman had taught me somewhat of the state of feeling then current in Ireland, it also conveyed another and very different lesson; it enabled me to take some account of the change years had effected in my own sentiments. As a boy, high-flown, vague, and unsettled ideas of national liberty and independence had made me look to France as the emancipator of Europe. As a man, I knew that the lust of conquest had extinguished the love of freedom in Frenchmen; that they who trusted to her did but exchange the dominion of their old masters for the tyranny of a new one; while such as boldly stepped forward in defence of their liberties, found that there was neither mercy nor compassion for the conquered.

I had seen the Austrian prisoners and the Russian led captive through the streets of Paris; I had witnessed the great capital of Prussia in its day of mourning after Jena; and all my idolatry for the General scarce balanced my horror of the Emperor, whose vengeance had smitten two nations thus heavily: and I said within my heart, “May my countrymen, whatever be their day of need, never seek alliance with despotic France!”