CHAPTER LVII
BELOW THE LINE
Of the British Admirals then on duty, Collingwood alone, so far as nowappears, had any suspicion of Napoleon's real plan.
"I have always had an idea that Ireland alone was the object they havein view," he wrote in July, 1805, "and still believe that to be theirultimate destination--that they [i. e., the Toulon fleet] will nowliberate the Ferrol squadron from Calder, make the round of the bay, andtaking the Rochefort people with them, appear off Ushant, perhapswith 34 sail, there to be joined by 20 more. Cornwallis collecting hisout-squadrons may have 30 and upwards. This appears to be a probableplan; for unless it is to bring their great fleets and armies to somepoint of service--some rash attempt at conquest--they have been onlysubjecting them to chance of loss; which I do not believe the Corsicanwould do, without the hope of an adequate reward. This summer is bigwith events."
This was written to Lord Nelson upon his return to Europe, after chasingthat Toulon fleet to the West Indies and back again. And a day ortwo later, the same Vice-Admiral wrote to his friend very clearly, asbefore:
"Truly glad will I be to see you, and to give you my best opinion on thepresent state of affairs, which are in the highest degree intricate. Butreasoning on the policy of the present French government, who never aimat little things while great objects are in view, I have considered theinvasion of Ireland as the real mark and butt of all their operations.The flight to the West Indies was to take off the naval force, whichis the great impediment to their undertaking. The Rochefort squadron'sreturn confirmed me. I think they will now collect their force atFerrol--which Calder tells me are in motion--pick up those at Rochefort,who, I am told, are equally ready, and will make them above thirty sail;and then, without going near Ushant or the Channel fleet, proceed toIreland. Detachments must go from the Channel fleet to succour Ireland,when the Brest fleet--21 I believe of them--will sail, either to anotherpart of Ireland, or up the Channel--a sort of force that has not beenseen in those seas, perhaps ever."
Lord Nelson just lately had suffered so much from the disadvantage ofnot "following his own head, and so being much more correct in judgmentthan following the opinion of others," that his head was not at all ina receptive state; and like all who have doubted about being right,and found the doubt wrong, he was hardened into the merits of his ownconclusion. "Why have I gone on a goose-chase?" he asked; "because Ihave twice as many ears as eyes."
This being so, he stuck fast to the conviction which he had nourishedall along, that the scheme of invasion was a sham, intended to keep theBritish fleet at home, while the enemy ravaged our commerce and coloniesafar. And by this time the country, grown heartily tired of groundlessalarms and suspended menace, was beginning to view with contempt a campthat was wearing out its own encampment. Little was it dreamed in thesweet rose gardens of England, or the fragrant hay-fields, that the curlof blue smoke while the dinner was cooking, the call of milkmaids, thehaymaker's laugh, or the whinny of Dobbin between his mouthfuls, mightbe turned (ere a man of good appetite was full) into foreign shouts, andshriek of English maiden, crackling homestead, and blazing stack-yard,blare of trumpets, and roar of artillery, cold flash of steel, and thesoft warm trickle of a father's or a husband's blood.
But the chance of this hung upon a hair just now. One hundred and sixtythousand soldiers--the finest sons of Mars that demon has ever yetbegotten--fifteen thousand warlike horses, ready to devour all the oatsof England, cannons that never could be counted (because it was notalways safe to go near them), and ships that no reckoner could get tothe end of, because he was always beginning again.
Who was there now to meet all these? Admiral Darling, and CaptainStubbard, and Zebedee Tugwell (if he found them intrusive), and ErleTwemlow, as soon as he got his things from London. There might be a fewmore to come forward, as soon as they saw the necessity; but Mr. JohnPrater could not be relied on--because of the trade he might expectto drive; Mr. Shargeloes had never turned up again; and as for poorCheeseman, he had lost himself so entirely now that he made up theweight of a pound of sausages, in the broad summer light, with a tallowcandle. Like others concerned in this history, he had jumped at thestars, and cracked his head against a beam, in manner to be recorded.
The country being destitute thus of defenders--for even Stubbard'sbattery was not half manned, because it had never been wanted--the planof invasion was thriving well, in all but one particular. The fleetunder Villeneuve was at large, so was that under Lallemand, who hadsuperseded Missiessy, so was the force of Gravina and another Spanishadmiral; but Ganteaume had failed to elude the vigilance of that hero ofstorms, Cornwallis. Napoleon arrived at Boulogne on the 3rd of August,and reviewed his troops, in a line on the beach some eight miles long.A finer sight he had never seen, and he wrote in his pride: "The Englishknow not what is hanging over their ears. If we are masters of thepassage for twelve hours, England is conquered." But all depended onVilleneuve, and happily he could not depend upon his nerves.
Meanwhile the young man who was charged with a message which he wouldgladly have died to discharge was far away, eating out his heart insilence, or vainly relieving it with unknown words. At the last gasp, orafter he ceased to gasp for the time, and was drifting insensible, buthappily with his honest face still upward, a Dutchman, keeping a sharplookout for English cruisers, espied him. He was taken on board of afine bark bound from Rotterdam for Java, with orders to choose the trackleast infested by that ravenous shark Britannia. Scudamore was treatedwith the warmest kindness and the most gentle attention, for thecaptain's wife was on board, and her tender heart was moved withcompassion. Yet even so, three days passed by with no more knowledgeof time on his part than the face of a clock has of its hands; and morethan a week was gone before both body and mind were in tone and tuneagain. By that time the stout Dutch bark, having given a wide berthto the wakes of war, was forty leagues west of Cape Finisterre, underorders to touch no land short of the Cape, except for fresh water at St.Jago.
Blyth Scudamore was blest with that natural feeling of preference forone's own kin and country which the much larger minds of the presentperiod flout, and scout as barbarous. Happily our periodical blightis expiring, like cuckoo-spit, in its own bubbles; and the time isreturning when the bottle-blister will not be accepted as the good ripepeach. Scudamore was of the times that have been (and perhaps maybe coming again, in the teeth and the jaw of universal suffrage), ofresolute, vigorous, loyal people, holding fast all that God gives them,and declining to be led by the tail, by a gentleman who tacked theirtail on as his handle.
This certainty of belonging still to a firm and substantial race of men(whose extinction would leave the world nothing to breed from) made thegallant Scudamore so anxious to do his duty, that he could not do it.Why do we whistle to a horse overburdened with a heavy load uphill? Thathis mind may grow tranquil, and his ears train forward, his eyes losetheir nervous contraction, and a fine sense of leisure pervade him. Butif he has a long hill to surmount, with none to restrain his ardour, thesense of duty grows stronger than any consideration of his own good,and the best man has not the conscience needful to understand half hisemotions.
Thus the sense of duty kept Blyth Scudamore full of misery. Every daycarried him further from the all-important issues; and the chance ofreturning in time grew faint, and fainter at every sunset. The kindlyDutchman and his wife were aware of some burden on his mind, because ofits many groaning sallies while astray from judgment. But as soon as hiswits were clear again, and his body fit to second them, Blyth saw thathe could not crave their help, against the present interests of theirown land. Holland was at enmity with England, not of its own accord,but under the pressure of the man who worked so hard the great Europeanmangle. Captain Van Oort had picked up some English, and his wife coulduse tongue and ears in French, while Scudamore afforded himself and themsome little diversion by attempts in Dutch. Being of a wonderfully happynature--for happiness is the greatest wonder in this world--he could nothelp many a wholesom
e laugh, in spite of all the projects of Napoleon.
Little things seldom jump into bigness, till a man sets his microscopeat them. According to the everlasting harmonies, Blyth had not got apenny, because he had not got a pocket to put it in. A pocketful ofmoney would have sent him to the bottom of the sea, that breezy Aprilnight, when he drifted for hours, with eyes full of salt, twinklingfeeble answer to the twinkle of the stars. But he had made himself lightof his little cash left, in his preparation for a slow decease,and perhaps the fish had paid tribute with it to the Caesar of thisMillennium. Captain Van Oort was a man of his inches in length, but inbreadth about one-third more, being thickened and spread by the yearsthat do this to a body containing a Christian mind. "You will never getout of them," said Mrs. Van Oort, when he got into her husband's largesmallclothes; but he who had often jumped out of a tub felt nodespair about jumping out of two. In every way Scudamore hoped for thebest--which is the only right course for a man who has done his ownbest, and is helpless.
Keeping out of the usual track of commerce, because of the privateersand other pests of war waylaying it, they met no sail of either friendor foe until they cast anchor at St. Jago. Here there was no ship boundfor England, and little chance of finding one, for weeks or perhaps formonths to come. The best chance of getting home lay clearly in going yetfurther away from home, and so he stuck to the good ship still, and theyweighed for the Cape on the 12th of May. Everything set against poorScuddy--wind, and wave, and the power of man. It had been the 16th ofApril when he was rescued from the devouring sea; some days had beenspent by the leisurely Dutchman in providing fresh supplies, and thestout bark's favourite maxim seemed to be, "the more haste the lessspeed." Baffling winds and a dead calm helped to second this philosophy,and the first week of June was past before they swung to their mooringsin Table Bay.
"What chance is there now of my doing any good?" the young Englishmanasked himself, bitterly. "This place is again in the hands of the Dutch,and the English ships stand clear of it, or only receive supplies bystealth. I am friendless here, I am penniless; and worst of all, if Ieven get a passage home, there will be no home left. Too late! too late!What use is there in striving?"
Tears stood in his blue eyes, which were gentle as a lady's; and hisforehead (usually calm and smooth and ready for the flicker of a verypleasant smile) was as grave and determined as the brow of Caryl Carne.Captain Van Oort would have lent him 500 guilders with the greatestpleasure, but Scudamore would not take more than fifty, to support himuntil he could obtain a ship. Then with hearty good-will, and life-longfaith in each other, the two men parted, and Scudamore's heart wasuncommonly low--for a substance that was not a "Jack-in-the-box"--as hewatched from the shore the slow fading into dream-land of the Katterina.
Nothing except patriotic feeling may justify a man, who has done noharm, in long-continued misery. The sense of violent bodily pain, or ofperpetual misfortune, or of the baseness of all in whom he trusted, andother steady influx of many-fountained sorrow, may wear him for a time,and even fetch his spirit lower than the more vicarious woe can do. Butthe firm conviction that the family of man to which one belongs, andis proud of belonging, has fallen into the hands of traitors, eloquentliars, and vile hypocrites, and cannot escape without crawling in thedust--this produces a large deep gloom, and a crushing sense of doombeyond philosophy. Scudamore could have endured the loss and thedisillusion of his love--pure and strong as that power had been--butthe ruin of his native land would turn his lively heart into a lump ofstone.
For two or three days he roved about among the people of thewater-side--boatmen, pilots, shipping agents, store-keepers, stevedores,crimps, or any others likely to know anything to help him. Some of thesecould speak a little English, and many had some knowledge of French; butall shook their heads at his eagerness to get to England. "You maywait weeks, or you may wait months," said the one who knew most ofthe subject; "we are very jealous of the English ships. That countryswallows up the sea so. It has been forbidden to supply the Englishships; but for plenty money it is done sometimes; but the finger mustbe placed upon the nose, and upon the two eyes what you call the guinea;and in six hours where are they? Swallowed up by the mist from themountain. No, sir! If you have the great money, it is very difficult.But if you have not that, it is impossible."
"I have not the great money; and the little money also has escaped froma quicksand in the bottom of my pocket."
"Then you will never get to England, sir," this gentleman answered,pleasantly; "and unless I have been told things too severely, the bestman that lives had better not go there, without a rock of gold in hispocket grand enough to fill a thousand quicksands."
Scudamore lifted the relics of his hat, and went in search of some otherJob's comforter. Instead of a passage to England, he saw in a straightline before him the only journey which a mortal may take without payinghis fare.
To save himself from this gratuitous tour, he earned a little money ina porter's gang, till his quick step roused the indignation of the rest.With the loftiest perception of the rights of man, they turned himout of that employment (for the one "sacred principle of labour" is toplay), and he, understanding now the nature, of democracy, perceivedthat of all the many short-cuts to starvation, the one with the fewestelbows to it is--to work.
While he was meditating upon these points--which persons of big wordslove to call "questions of political economy"--his hat, now become apatent ventilator, sat according to custom on the back of hishead, exposing his large calm forehead, and the kind honesty of hiscountenance. Then he started a little, for his nerves were not quiteas strong as when they had good feeding, at the sudden sense of beingscrutinized by the most piercing gaze he had ever encountered.
The stranger was an old man of tall spare frame, wearing a shovel-hatand long black gown drawn in with a belt, and around his bare neck was asteel chain supporting an ebony cross. With a smile, which displayed thefirm angles of his face, he addressed the young man in a language whichScudamore could not understand, but believed to be Portuguese.
"Thy words I am not able to understand. But the Latin tongue, as it ispronounced in England, I am able to interpret, and to speak, nottoo abundantly." Scudamore spoke the best Latin he could muster at amoment's notice, for he saw that this gentleman was a Catholic priest,and probably therefore of good education.
"Art thou, then, an Englishman, my son?" the stranger replied, in thesame good tongue. "From thy countenance and walk, that opinion stoodfast in my mind at first sight of thee. Every Englishman is to mebeloved, and every Frenchman unfriendly--as many, at least, as nowgovern the state. Father Bartholomew is my name, and though most menhere are heretical, among the faithful I avail sufficiently. What saiththe great Venusian? 'In straitened fortunes quit thyself as a man ofspirit and of mettle.' I find thee in straitened fortunes, and wouldgladly enlarge thee, if that which thou art doing is pleasing to the Godomnipotent."
After a few more words, he led the hapless and hungry Englishman toa quiet little cot which overlooked the noble bay, and itself wasoverlooked by a tall flag-staff bearing the colours of Portugal. Here inthe first place he regaled his guest with the flank of a kid served withcucumber, and fruit gathered early, and some native wine, scarcely goodenough for the Venusian bard, but as rich as ambrosia to Scudamore. Thenhe supplied him with the finest tobacco that ever ascended in spiralincense to the cloud-compelling Jove. At every soft puff, away flew theblue-devils, pagan, or Christian, or even scientific; and the brightnessof the sleep-forbidden eyes returned, and the sweetness of the smileso long gone hence in dread of trespass. Father Bartholomew, neithereating, drinking, nor smoking, till the sun should set--for this was oneof his fast-days--was heartily pleased with his guest's good cheer, andsmiled with the large benevolence which a lean face expresses with moredecision than a plump and jolly one. "And now, my son," he began again,in Latin more fluent and classical than the sailor could compass afterCicero thrown by, "thou hast returned thanks to Almighty God, for whichI the mor
e esteem thee. Oblige me, therefore, if it irk thee not, amongsmoke of the genial Nicotium, by telling thy tale, and explaining whathard necessity hath driven thee to these distant shores. Fear not, forthou seest a lover of England, and hater of France the infidel."
Then Scudamore, sometimes hesitating and laughing at his own bad Latin,told as much of his story as was needful, striving especially to makeclear the importance of his swift return, and his fear that even so itwould be too late.
"Man may believe himself too late, but the Lord ariseth early," the goodpriest answered, with a smile of courage refreshing the heart of theEnglishman. "Behold how the hand of the Lord is steadfast over those whoserve him! To-morrow I might have been far away; to-day I am in time tohelp thee. Whilst thou wert feeding, I received the signal of a swiftship for Lisbon, whose captain is my friend, and would neglect nothingto serve me. This night he will arrive, and with favourable breezes,which have set in this morning, he shall spread his sails againto-morrow, though he meant to linger perhaps for three days. Be of goodcheer, my son; thou shalt sail to-morrow. I will supply thee with allthat is needful, and thank God for a privilege so great. Thou shalt havemoney as well for the passage from Lisbon to England, which is notlong. Remember in thy prayers--for thou art devout--that old man, FatherBartholomew."
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