CHAPTER TWENTY.
A VOICE IN THE DARK.
All Paris seemed up that morning, hurrying to the scene of the day'swonder. There was a rumour of fighting in the streets, of guns beingpointed against the sacred doors of the Convention, of tyrants fallenand heads to fall. To Paris, sick of blood and strained by terror, itseemed like the end of all things, and the people with one accord rushedeastward to witness the dawn of their new revolution.
I, who had had enough of revolutions, wandered disconsolately westwardalong the river-bank till the rush was over and the sounds behind megrew faint in the distance. Where next? I asked myself. WhetherCitizen Robespierre fell or not, there was not much quarter to be hopedfor by a runaway from the Conciergerie. Paris was a rat-trap still, andthough large, I should be cornered sooner or later.
As I ruminated thus, I came to a bridge below which was moored a barge,laden with goods and spread over with its great waterproof sheet, readyto drop down the stream. How I envied the two men in charge of her, towhom the barrier of the city would offer no obstacle, and who were freeto go in and out of the rat-trap as they pleased!
Apparently they were not so sensible of their good fortune as I was, forthey were quarrelling angrily, and filling the air with their insultsand recriminations.
"Villain! robber!" I heard one say, who seemed to be assistant to theother, "I demand what is due to me."
"It will be paid you at Rouen, fool," said the other.
"I shall not be there to receive it," snarled the other. "I will haveit here, or nowhere."
"What, you will dare to desert! It is treason against the Republic whomwe serve. I will denounce you."
"Idiot, I defy you," exclaimed the man, stripping off his jersey andflinging his red cap on the deck. "I spit on your Republic which doesnot pay its debts!"
"I promise you shall receive all arrears at Rouen," replied the other."I am under penalties to reach Havre in a week."
The mutineer laughed savagely.
"Pay me what you owe me, and you shall reach it."
"At Rouen," persisted the skipper.
"No! here, I tell you."
The skipper's reply was to make a grab at his companion, who, however,was quick enough to elude him and jump ashore.
"There, thief and robber, villain and assassin, I wash my hands of you!I have done with you. Reach Havre when you like. Adieu!" and he spatat the barge.
The skipper looked as if he would have followed him, but thought betterof it. He shrugged his shoulders and pulled out a cigar. The other,after standing insultingly on the bank for some minutes, heaping allsorts of imprecations and taunts on his late employer, swaggered away,and was presently caught up in a knot of belated sightseers hastening tothe scene of the insurrection.
I waited till the coast was clear, and then descended to the river side.
"Citizen bargee," said I, with a salute, "do you want a man to-day?"
The skipper looked up at me and took his cigar from his lips.
"Can you sail a barge?" said he.
"Ay, and tow it too if you like," said I. "And as for wages, suityourself, and give me what you like at the journey's end."
"I serve the Republic," said the man.
"_Vive la Republique_," said I. "She does not desert her sons."
"Your name?" demanded he. "Belin," said I, inventing a name for theoccasion. "You are engaged, Belin," said the skipper; "we start thisminute."
With a grateful heart I stepped on board and busied myself with castingloose the rope.
"Observe, Belin," said my new master, noticing approvingly that at leastI knew how to handle a rope, "your name under me is Plon, that of avagabond scoundrel who has just deserted me, and who is named on theway-bill. There are his jersey and his cap; put them on, and keep yourcounsel."
"Pardon, my captain," said I, when I had obeyed him, "what is ourbusiness for the Republic?"
"We carry coats and boots for the Army of the North."
"Long live the Army of the North," said I devoutly.
We soon reached the bridge which marked the boundary of the city. Hereour bill of lading was carefully scrutinised, and our cargo inspected tomake sure we carried no fugitive hidden in the midst of it.
As for me, I took my skipper's advice, and sat smoking my cigar andsaying nothing while the ceremony lasted.
But when at length we were ordered to pass, you may guess how thankfullyI cast off the rope and found myself gliding down the quick current ofthe Seine out of that horrible city in which for nearly a year I hadbeen cooped, expecting every day to be my last I showed my gratitude byundertaking any hard work my skipper chose to put upon me; and when hefound me so willing, and on the whole so handy, he was content enough,and we became tolerably good messmates. Only I had learned enough tokeep my mouth pretty close respecting matters which did not concern me.I professed to know very little of what had passed in Paris during thepast few months, and in what I did to agree entirely with the opinionsof Citizen Benoit, my captain. I cumbered him with few questions oropinions of my own, and was never backward to take an extra watch ortrudge an extra mile on the bank beside the occasional horses which hereand there we engaged to help us on.
It was a tedious and dull journey, threading our way through endlesstwists and between numerous islands, halting only between the latesummer dusk and the early summer dawn, quitting our barge only in searchof provender or a horse, parleying only with officials and returningbarges.
One or two of the skippers on the latter inquired of Benoit what hadbecome of his former assistant, and alarmed me somewhat by questioningme as to my previous calling. But my skipper's explanation wasgenerally enough, and I was admitted into the noble fraternity of Seinebargees without much objection. The few who did object sailed the otherway, so that their objection mattered little.
Our longest stay was at Rouen, where once more my master reminded methat I was Citizen Plon, and that my policy was to hold my tongue andlie low.
The police here were very suspicious, and insisted on searching ourcargo thoroughly for fugitives, of whom reports from Paris said therewere a good many lying hid in boats and barges.
However, they found none with us. How I toiled and sweated to assisttheir search! and what a reputation poor Plon acquired for zeal in theservice of the Republic One and Indivisible!
After leaving Rouen we used our sail a good deal in the broad reaches ofthe river. Monsieur Benoit (who had quite forgotten my pay) was goodenough to compliment me on my skill in handling canvas, and as we nearedour destination his civility became almost embarrassing. He sought toengage me as his permanent lieutenant, and promised to make all sorts ofexcellent reports on my behalf to the officials. I humoured him as bestI could; but the scent of the sea-breezes as we gradually reached thewide estuary and saw before us the masts and towers of the city ofHavre, set me longing for old Ireland, and determined me, Benoit or noBenoit, to set my foot once more on Fanad.
I requested of Benoit a few days' leave of absence, after our storeswere duly delivered at the depot, which he agreed to on theunderstanding that my wages should not be paid me till I returned to thebarge. In this way he imagined he made sure of me, and I was content toleave him in that simple faith.
But now, as I wandered through the squalid streets of the city of Havre,and looked out at the great Atlantic waves beating in on the shore, Ibegan to realise that France itself was only a trap on a larger scalethan Paris. True, I might possibly find a berth as an able-bodiedsailor on a French ship; but that was not what I wanted. As for Englishships, it was a time of war, and none durst show their prows in theharbour, save under a false flag. Yet the longing for home was sostrong in me, that I think, had I found one, I would even have seized asmall rowing-boat and attempted to cross the Channel in it single-handed.
For two days I prowled hither and thither, vainly looking for a chanceof escape, and was beginning to wonder whether after all I should haveto return to Benoit, when I ch
anced one evening on a fellow who, for allhis French airs and talk, I guessed the moment he spoke to be anIrishman. He was, I must confess, not quite sober, which perhaps madehim less careful about appearances than he should have been.
It was on the cliffs of La Heve we foregathered. He was walking sounsteadily on the very margin that I deemed it only brotherly to lendhim an arm.
"Thank you, my lad," said he, beginning the speech in French, butrelapsing into his native tongue as he went on; "these abominable Frenchcliffs move about more than the cliffs at Bantry. Nothing moves there--not even custom-house runners. Bless your dear heart, we can land ourbales there under their very noses! Steady, my friend, you were nearlyslipping there. You French dogs never could walk on your hind legs.There she lies, as snug and taut as a revenue cutter, and just as manyteeth. What did I come ashore for now? Not to see you, was it? 'Ponmy word, monsieur, I owe you a hundred pardons. I quite forgot. Youlook a worthy fellow. I press you into the service, and the man thatobjects shall have an ounce of lead through him. Come, my lad, row meaboard. The anchor's apeak, and we're off for the ould country, and amurrain on this land of yours!"
So saying he stumbled along, down a zigzag path that led to the foot ofthe cliff, where lay moored a small boat and two men in her.
"Belay there, hearties! I've got the villain. Clap him in irons, Isay! He tried to send me over the cliff, but-- how are you, my friend?Give us your hand. You're one of the right sort.--Pull away, boys. Thewind's in the east, and the tide's swung round the _cap_. This time to-morrow we shall be scraping the nose of ould Ireland--glory to her!"
The men, who evidently were used to their captain's eccentricities, madeno demur, and laid on with their oars. Presently I volunteered to lenda hand, which was readily accepted. The captain meanwhile lay in acomfortable slumber in the stern-sheets, uttering occasional greetingsto the world at large, and to me in particular.
"Where does she lie?" said I presently to the man in front of me inplain English.
He turned round sharply.
"What! you're not a Frenchman then?" said he.
"Heaven forbid! I'm as good an Irishman as you."
"How came you to know Captain Keogh?"
"Sure he found me out and engaged me."
"It's no lie," gurgled Captain Keogh from the bottom of the boat. "Ishould have been over but for him. Enter him as sailing-master or cook,for he's the right sort."
"We're for the _Kestrel_. She lies a mile or two up the coast, with acargo for Bantry."
"Lace; I know that. I've been in the business before," said I.
This completed my recognition as a proper shipmate, and no morequestions were asked.
When we reached the _Kestrel_ it was pitch dark, but we could tell bythe grating of the chain as we came up that no time was to be lost ingetting under way.
Not a light was shown, only a whistle from our men, answered by anotherfrom the ship and a voice over the bulwarks,--
"Boat ahoy!"
"_Kestrel_ ahoy!" sang out our men, and in a moment a rope was thrown tous and we were alongside.
Captain Keogh, happily asleep, was hauled up the gangway, and wefollowed.
"A new hand, lieutenant," said my comrade, pointing at me with his thumbover his shoulder.
"All right. Send him forward to help with the anchor."
At the sound of this voice in the dark I staggered like one struck. Itcalled to mind days spent under the drifting clouds at the edge ofFanad, boyish quarrels and battles, winter nights over the peat fire ofour little cabin. Who but Tim had that ring in his voice? Whose voice,if it was not his, could set my heart beating and swelling in my breastso that I could scarcely hold it?
Just now, however, I was hurried forward to the business of weighinganchor, and the lieutenant had gone aft to take charge of the helm.
In a minute or two the _Kestrel_ floated free on the water. The sailsspread out to the wind, the welcome splash of the bows proclaimed thatwe had way on us already, and the twinkling lights of Havre in thedistance reminded us that France, land of terrors, was dropping asternat every pitch we took.
But the excitement of all this was as nothing to the echo in my ears ofthat voice in the dark.
Kilgorman: A Story of Ireland in 1798 Page 21