In obedience to an order which arrived at Saumur one morning in the July of 1788,1 was summoned before the commandant of the school, when the following brief colloquy ensued:—
‘Maurice Tiernay,’ said he, reading from the record of the school, why are you called l’Irlandais?’
‘I am Irish by descent, sir.’
‘Ha! by descent. Your father was, then, an émigré?
‘No, sir—my great-grandfather.’
‘Parbleu! that is going very far back. Are you aware of the causes which induced him to leave his native country?’
‘They were connected with political trouble, I’ve heard, sir. He took part against the English, my father told me, and was obliged to make his escape to save his life.’ ‘You, then, hate the English, Maurice?’ ‘My ancestor certainly did not love them, sir.’
‘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.
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—
‘It’s more than likely, lad, that your regiment is not coming; but our general is not to be balked for that. Go he will; and let the Government look to themselves if he is not supported. At all events you had better see General Humbert at once; there’s no saying what that despatch may contain. Santerre, conduct him upstairs.’
A smart young fellow arose at the bidding, and beckoned me to follow him.
It was not without difficulty that we forced our way upstairs, down which porters, and sailors, and soldiers were now carrying a number of heavy trunks and packing-cases. At last we gained an anteroom, where confusion seemed at its highest, crowded as it was by soldiers, the greater number of them intoxicated, and all in a state of riotous and insolent insubordination. Amongst these were a number of the townspeople, eager to prefer complaints for outrage and robbery, but whose subdued voices were drowned amid the clamour of their oppressors. Meanwhile, clerks were writing away receipts for stolen and pillaged articles, and which, signed with the name of the general, were grasped at with eager avidity. Even personal injuries were requited in the same cheap fashion, orders on the national treasury being freely issued for damaged noses and smashed heads, and gratefully received by the confiding populace.
‘If the wind draws a little more to the southward before morning, we’ll pay our debts with the topsail sheet, and it will be somewhat shorter, and to the full as honest,’ said a man in a naval uniform.
‘Where’s the officer of the “Regiment des Guides?”’ cried a soldier from the door at the farther end of the room; and before I had time to think over the designation of rank given me, I was hurried into the general’s presence.
General Humbert, whose age might have been thirty-eight or forty, was a tall, well-built, but somewhat over-corpulent man; his features frank and manly, but with a dash of coarseness in their expression, particularly about the mouth; a sabre-cut, which had divided the upper lip, and whose cicatrix was then seen through his moustache, heightening the effect of his sinister look; his carriage was singularly erect and soldierlike, but all his gestures betrayed the habits of one who had risen from the ranks, and was not unwilling to revive the recollection.
He was parading the room from end to end when I entered, stopping occasionally to look out from an open window upon the bay, where by the clear moonlight might be seen the ships of the fleet at anchor. Two officers of his staff were writing busily at a table, whence the materials of a supper had not yet been removed. They did not look up as I came forward, nor did he notice me in any way for several minutes. Suddenly he turned towards me, and snatching the letter I held in my hand, proceeded to read it. A burst of coarse laughter broke from him as he perused the lines; and then throwing down the paper on the table, he cried out—
‘So much for Kilmaine’s contingent. I asked for a company of engineers and a squadron of “Guides,” and they send me a boy from the cavalry-school of Saumur. I tell them that I want some fellows conversant with the language and the people, able to treat with the peasantry, and acquainted with their habits, and here I have got a raw youth whose highest acquirement in all likelihood is to daub a map with water-colours, or take fortifications with a pair of compasses! I wish I had some of these learned gentlemen in the trenches for a few hours. Parbleu! I think I could teach them something they don’t learn from Citizen Carnot.—Well, sir,’ said he, turning abruptly towards me, ‘how many squadrons of the “Guides” are completed?’
‘I cannot tell, general,’ was my timid answer.
‘Where are they stationed?’
‘Of that also I am ignorant, sir.’
‘Peste!’ cried he, stamping his foot passionately; then suddenly checking his anger, he asked, ‘How many are coming to join this expedition? Is there a regiment, a division, a troop? Can you tell me with certainty that a sergeant’s guard is on the way hither?’
‘I cannot, sir; I know nothing whatever about the regiment in question.’
‘You have never seen it?’ cried he vehemently.
‘Never, sir.’
‘This exceeds all belief,’ exclaimed he, with a crash of his closed fist upon the table. ‘Three weeks letter-writing! Estafettes, orderlies, and special couriers to no end! And here we have an unfledged cur from a cavalry institute, when I asked for a strong reinforcement. Then what brought you here, boy?’
‘To join your expedition, general.’
‘Have they told you it was a holiday-party that we had planned? Did they say it was a junketing we were bent upon?’
‘If they had, sir, I would not have come.’
‘The greater fool you, then, that’s all,’ cried he, laughing; ‘when I was your age I’d not have hesitated twice between a merry-making and a bayonet charge.’
While he was thus speaking, he never ceased to sign his name to every paper placed before him by one or other of the secretaries.
‘No, parbleu! he went on, ‘La maîtresse before the mitraille any day for me. But what’s all this, Girard? Here I’m issuing orders upon the national treasury for hundreds of thousands without let or compunction.’
The aide-de-camp whispered a word or two in a low tone.
‘I know it, lad; I know it well,’ said the general, laughing heartily; ‘I only pray that all our requisitions may be as easily obtained in future.—Well, Monsieur le Guide, what are we to do with you?’
‘Not refuse me, I hope, general,’ said I diffidently.
‘Not refuse you, certainly; but in what capacity to take you, lad, that’s the question. If you had served—if you had even walked a campaign——’
‘So I have, general—this will show you where I have been’; and I handed him the livret which every soldier carries of his conduct and career.
He took the book, and casting his eyes hastily over it, exclaimed—
‘Why, what’s this, lad? You’ve been at Kehl, at Emmendingen, at Rorschach, at Huningen, through all that Black Forest affair with Moreau! You have seen smoke, then. Ay! I see honourable mention of you besides, for readiness in the field and zeal during action. What! more brandy, Girard. Why, our Irish friends must have been exceedingly thirsty. I’ve given them credit for something like ten thousand “velts” already! No matter, the poor fellows may have to put up with short rations for all this yet—and there goes my signature once more. What does that blue light mean, Girard?’ said he, pointing to a bright blue star that shone from a mast of one of the ships of war.
‘That is the signal, general, that the embarkation of the artillery is complete.’
‘Parbleu!’ said he with a laugh, ‘it need not have taken long; they’ve given in two batteries of eights, and one of them has not a gun fit for service. There goes a rocket, now. Isn’t that a signal to heave short on the anchors? Yes, to be sure. And now it is answered by the other! Ha! lads, this does look like business at last!’
The door opened as he spoke, and a naval officer entered.
‘The wind is drawing round to the south, general; we can weigh with the ebb if you wish it.’
‘Wish it!—if I wish it! Yes, with my whole heart and soul I do! I am just as sick of La Rochelle as is La Rochelle of me. The salute that announces our departure will be a feu de joie to both of us! Ay, sir, tell your captain that I need no further notice than that he is ready. Girard, see to it that the marauders are sent on board in irons. The fellows must learn at once that discipline begins when we trip our anchors. As for you,’ said he, turning to me, ‘you shall act upon my staff with provisional rank as sous-lieutenant: time will show if the grade should be confirmed. And now hasten down to the quay, and put yourself under Colonel Serasin’s orders.’
Colonel Serasin, the second in command, was, in many respects, the very opposite of Humbert Sharp, petulant, and irascible, he seemed quite to overlook the fact, that, in an expedition which was little better than a foray, there must necessarily be a great relaxation of the rules of discipline, and many irregularities at least winked at, which, in stricter seasons, would call for punishment. The consequence was, that a large proportion of our force went on board under arrest, and many actually in irons. The Irish were, without a single exception, all drunk; and the English soldiers, who had procured their liberation from imprisonment on condition of joining the expedition, had made sufficiently free with the brandy-bottle, to forget their new alliance, and vent their hatred of France and Frenchmen in expressions whose only alleviation was, that they were nearly unintelligible.
Such a scene of uproar, discord, and insubordination never was seen. The relative conditions of guard and prisoner elicited national animosities that were scarcely even dormant, and many a bloody encounter took place between those whose instinct was too powerful to feel themselves anything but enemies. A cry, too, was raised, that it was meant to betray the whole expedition to the English, whose fleet, it was asserted, had been seen off Oleron that morning; and although there was not even the shadow of a foundation for the belief, it served to increase the alarm and confusion. Whether originating or not with the Irish, I cannot say, but certainly they took advantage of it to avoid embarking; and now began a schism which threatened to wreck the whole expedition, even in the harbour.
The Irish, as indifferent to the call of discipline as they were ignorant of French, refused to obey orders save from officers of their own country; and although Serasin ordered two companies to ‘load with ball and fire low,’ the similar note for preparation from the insurgents induced him to rescind the command and try a compromise.
In this crisis I was sent by Serasin to fetch what was called the ‘Committee,’ the three Irish deputies who accompanied the force. They had already gone aboard of the Dedalus, little foreseeing the difficulties that were to arise on shore.
Seated in a small cabin next the wardroom, I found these three gentlemen, whose names were Tone, Teel-ing, and Sullivan. Their attitudes were gloomy and despondent, and their looks anything but encouraging as I entered. A paper on which a few words had been scrawled, and signed with their three names underneath, lay before them, and on this their eyes were bent with a sad and deep meaning. I knew not then what it meant, but I afterwards learned that it was a compact formally entered into and drawn up, that if, by the chance of war, they should fall into the enemy’s hands, they would anticipate their fate by suicide, but leave to the English Government all the ignominy and disgrace of their death.
They seemed scarcely to notice me as I came forward, and even when I delivered my message they heard it with a half indifference.
‘What do you want us to do, sir?’ said Teeling, the eldest of the party. ‘We hold no command in the service. It was against our advice and counsel that you accepted these volunteers at all We have no influence over them.’
‘Not the slightest,’ broke in Tone. ‘These fellows are bad soldiers and worse Irishmen. The expedition will do better without them.’
‘And they better without the expedition,’ muttered Sullivan dryly.
‘But you will come, gentlemen, and speak to them,’ said I. ‘You can at least assure them that their suspicions are unfounded.’
‘Very true, sir,’ replied Sullivan, ‘we can do so, but with what success? No, no. If you can’t maintain discipline here on your own soil, you’ll make a bad hand of doing it when you have your foot on Irish ground.
And, after all, I for one am not surprised at the report gaining credence.’
‘How so, sir?’ asked I indignantly.
‘Simply that when a promise of fifteen thousand men dwindles down to a force of eight hundred; when a hundred thousand stand of arms come to be represented by a couple of thousand; when an expedition, pledged by a Government, has fallen down to a marauding party; when Hoche or Kléber—— But never mind, I always swore that if you sent but a corporal’s guard that I ‘d go with them.’
A musket-shot here was heard, followed by a sharp volley and a cheer, and, in an agony of anxiety, I rushed to the deck. Although above half a mile from the shore, we could see the movement of troops hither and thither, and hear the loud words of command. Whatever the struggle, it was over in a moment, and now we saw the troops descending the steps to the boats. With an inconceivable speed the men fell into their places, and, urged on by the long sweeps, the heavy launches swept across the calm water of the bay.
If a cautious reserve prevented any open questioning as to the late affray, the second boat which came alongside revealed some of its terrible consequences. Seven wounded soldiers were assisted up the side by their comrades, and in total silence conveyed to their station between decks.
‘A bad augury this!’ muttered Sullivan, as his eye followed them. ‘They might as well have left that work for the English!’
A swift six-oar boat, with the tricolour flag floating from a flagstaff at her stern, now skimmed along towards us, and as she came nearer we could recognise the uniforms of the officers of Humbert’s staff, while the burly figure of the general himself was soon distinguishable in the midst of them.
As he stepped up the ladder, not a trace of displeasure could be seen on his broad bold features. Greeting the assembled officers with a smile, he asked how the wind was.
‘All fair, and freshening at every moment,’ was the answer.
‘May it continue!’ cried he fervently. ‘Welcome a hurricane, if it only waft us westward!’
The foresail filled out as he spoke, the heavy ship heaved over to the wind, and we began our voyage.
Our voyage was very uneventful, but not without anxiety, since, to avoid the English cruisers and the Channel fleet, we were obliged to hold a southerly course for several days, making a great circuit before we could venture to bear up for the place of our destination. The weather alternated between light winds and a dead calm, which usually came on every day at noon, and lasted till about sunset. As to me, there was an unceasing novelty in everything about a ship; her mechanism, her discipline, her progress, furnished abundant occupation for all my thoughts, and I never wearied of acquiring knowledge of a theme so deeply interesting. My intercourse with the naval officers, too, impressed me strongly in their favour in comparison with their comrades of the land service. In the former case, all was zeal, activity, and watchfulness. The lookout never slumbered at his post; and an unceasing anxiety to promote the success of the expedition manifested itself in all their words and actions. This, of course, was all to be expected in the discharge of the duties peculiarly their own; but I also looked for something which should denote preparation and forethought in the others; yet nothing of the kind was to be seen. The expedition was never discussed even as table-talk; and for anything that fell from the party in conversation, it would have been impossible to say if our destination were China or Ireland. Not a book nor a map, not a pamphlet nor a paper that bore upon the country whose destinies were about to be committed to us, ever appeared on the tables. A vague and listless doubt how long the voyage might last was the extent of interest any one condescended to exhibit; but as to what was to follow after—what new chapter of events should open when this first had closed, none vouchsafed to inquire.
Even to this hour I am puzzled whether to attribute this strange conduct to the careless levity of national character, or to a studied and well ‘got up’ affectation. In all probability both influences were at work; while a third, not less powerful, assisted them—this was the gross ignorance and shameless falsehood of some of the Irish leaders of the expedition, whose boastful and absurd histories ended by disgusting every one. Among the projects discussed at the time, I well remember one which was often gravely talked over, and the utter absurdity of which certainly struck none amongst us. This was no less than the intention of demanding the West India Islands from England as an indemnity for the past woes and bygone misgovernment of Ireland. If this seem barely credible now, I can only repeat my faithful assurance of the fact, and I believe that some of the memoirs of the time will confirm my assertion.
The French officers listened to these and similar speculations with utter indifference; probably to many of them the geographical question was a difficulty that stopped any further inquiry, while others felt no further interest than what a campaign promised. All the enthusiastic narratives, then, of high rewards and splendid trophies that awaited us, fell upon inattentive ears, and at last the word Ireland ceased to be heard amongst us. Play of various kinds occupied us when not engaged on duty. There was little discipline maintained on board, and none of that strictness which is the habitual rule of a ship-of-war. The lights were suffered to burn during the greater part of the night in the cabins; gambling went on usually till daybreak; and the quarter-deck, that most reverential of spots to every sailor-mind, was often covered by lounging groups, who smoked, chatted, or played at chess, in all the cool apathy of men indifferent to its claim for respect.
Now and then, the appearance of a strange sail afar off, or some dim object in the horizon, would create a momentary degree of excitement and anxiety; but when the ‘lookout’ from the mast-head had proclaimed her a ‘schooner from Brest,’ or a ‘Spanish fruit-vessel,’ the sense of danger passed away at once, and none ever reverted to the subject.
With General Humbert I usually passed the greater part of each forenoon—a distinction, I must confess, I owed to my skill as a chess-player, a game of which he was particularly fond, and in which I had attained no small proficiency. I was too young and too unpractised in the world to make my skill subordinate to my chiefs, and beat him at every game with as little compunction as though he were only my equal, till, at last, vexed at his want of success, and tired of a contest that offered no vicissitude of fortune, he would frequently cease playing to chat over the events of the time, and the chances of the expedition.
It was with no slight mixture of surprise and dismay that I now detected his utter despair of all success, and that he regarded the whole as a complete forlorn-hope. He had merely taken the command to involve the French Government in the cause, and so far compromise the national character that all retreat would be impossible. We shall be all cut to pieces or taken prisoners the day after we land,’ was his constant exclamation, ‘and then, but not till then, will they think seriously in France of a suitable expedition.’ There was no heroism, still less was there any affectation of recklessness in this avowal. By nature he was a rough, easy, good-tempered fellow, who liked his profession less for its rewards than for its changeful scenes and moving incidents—his one predominating feeling being that France should give rule to the whole world, and the principles of her Revolution he everywhere pre-eminent. To promote this consummation the loss of an army was of little moment. Let the cause but triumph in the end, and the cost was not worth fretting about.
Next to this sentiment was his hatred of England, and all that was English. Treachery, falsehood, pride, avarice, grasping covetousness, and unscrupulous aggression, were the characteristics by which he described the nation; and he made the little knowledge he had gleaned from newspapers and intercourse so subservient to this theory, that I was an easy convert to his opinion; so that, ere long, my compassion for the wrongs of Ireland was associated with the most profound hatred of her oppressors.
To be sure, I should have liked the notion that we ourselves were to have some more active share in the liberation of Irishmen than the mere act of heralding another and more successful expedition; but even in this thought there was romantic self-devotion, not unpleasing to the mind of a boy; but, strange enough, I was the only one who felt it.
The first sight of land to one on sea is always an event of uncommon interest; but how greatly increased is the feeling when that land is to be the scene of a perilous exploit—the cradle of his ambition, or perhaps his grave! All my speculations about the expedition—all my daydreams of success, or my anxious hours of dark forebodings—never brought the matter so palpably before me as the dim outline of a distant headland, which, I was told, was part of the Irish coast.
This was on the 17th of August, but on the following day we stood further out to sea again, and saw no more of it.
The three succeeding ones we continued to beat up slowly to the northward against a head wind and a heavy sea; but on the evening of the 21st the sun went down in mellow splendour, and a light air from the south springing up, the sailors pronounced a most favourable change of weather—a prophecy that a starry night and a calm sea soon confirmed.
The morning of the 22nd broke splendidly—a gentle breeze from the south-west slightly curled the blue waves, and filled the canvas of the three frigates, as in close order they sailed along under the tall cliffs of Ireland. We were about three miles from the shore, on which now every telescope and glass was eagerly directed. As the light and fleeting clouds of early morning passed away we could descry the outlines of the bold coast, indented with many a bay and creek, while rocky promontories and grassy slopes succeeded each other in endless variety of contrast. Towns, or even villages, we could see none—a few small wretched-looking hovels were dotted over the hills, and here and there a thin wreath of blue smoke bespoke habitation, but, save these signs, there was an air of loneliness and solitude which increased the solemn feelings of the scene.
All these objects of interest, however, soon gave way before another to the contemplation of which every eye was turned. This was a small fishing-boat, which, with a low mast and ragged piece of canvas, was seen standing boldly out for us: a red handkerchief was fastened to a stick in the stern, as if for a signal, and on our shortening sail, to admit of her overtaking us, the ensign was lowered as though in acknowledgment of our meaning.
The boat was soon alongside, and we now perceived that her crew consisted of a man and a boy, the former of whom, a powerfully built, loose fellow, of about five-and-forty, dressed in a light-blue frieze jacket and trousers, adroitly caught at the cast of rope thrown out to him, and having made fast his skiff, clambered up the ship’s side at once, gaily, as though he were an old friend coming to welcome us.
‘Is he a pilot?’ asked the officer of the watch, addressing one of the Irish officers.
‘No; he’s only a fisherman, but he knows the coast perfectly, and says there is deep water within twenty fathoms of the shore.’
An animated conversation in Irish now ensued between the peasant and Captain Madgett, during which a wondering and somewhat impatient group stood around, speedily increased by the presence of General Humbert himself and his staff.
‘He tells me, general,’ said Madgett, ‘that we are in the Bay of Killala, a good and safe anchorage, and, during the southerly winds, the best on all the coast.’
‘What news has he from the shore?’ asked Humbert sharply, as if the care of the ship was a very secondary consideration.
‘They have been expecting us with the greatest impatience, general; he says the most intense anxiety for our coming is abroad.’
‘What of the people themselves? Where are the national forces? Have they any headquarters near this? Eh, what says he? What is that? Why does he laugh?’ asked Humbert, in impatient rapidity, as he watched the changes in the peasant’s face.
‘He was laughing at the strange sound of a foreign language, so odd and singular to his ears,’ said Madgett; but for all his readiness, a slight flushing of the cheek showed that he was ill at ease.
‘Well, but what of the Irish forces? Where are they?’
For some minutes the dialogue continued in an animated strain between the two; the vehement tone and gestures of each bespeaking what sounded at least like altercation; and Madgett at last turned half angrily away, saying, ‘The fellow is too ignorant; he actually knows nothing of what is passing before his eyes.’