"MY NATIVE LAND, GOOD-NIGHT"
The room we entered was destitute of furniture and blackened with smoke. Heaps of broken fragments impeded our entrance and lay on the floor. A man sitting on the ground was restlessly taking up one piece after another, and laying them down again, muttering to himself, without noticing us.
"I know not why they should have done so," he said hurriedly; "the poor chairs and tables could not hurt. And, after all, when they hung me up I gave in, and kissed the cross made by their swords; and they knocked me about after that. If that was justice, I don't know what justice is. They hurt my wife, too, or she would not have shrieked out so. And her word always had been—'Hold out; pain may be borne; and they dare not kill us!' But when she saw them tie me up, she cried out, 'Oh, Pierre, Pierre, give in—give in!' So what was I to do? Answer me that."
"This poor fellow has lost his senses," said Antoine, softly. "Wait here a minute. I will soon return."
I stood where I was. It seemed to me from the charred remains that the furniture had been just broken up and then partially burnt. There was a great beam across the ceiling, with large iron hooks on which to hang bacon, onions, and such-like. From one of these hooks dangled a strong chain.
"They drew me up with that," said he, turning his dull eyes on me, and the next instant looking away. "They passed the chain under one of my armpits, and so suspended me; and then beat me. I was not going to stand that, you know. My wife ran away, calling on me to give in; so what could I do? Could I help it? Am I a renegade?"
I said, "Let us remember David's words—'Have mercy on me, O Lord, for my sin is great.' He did not say, 'for my sin is little—a very little one—the first I ever sinned;' but 'my sin is great;' and therefore have mercy on me. Say it after me. 'Have mercy on me, for my sin is great.'"
—"For my sin is great," repeated he, melting into tears. And again and again he repeated, weeping, "For my sin is great—my sin is great. Have mercy on me, O Lord, for my sin is great."
"He also hath forgiven the wickedness of thy sin," said I. "Let us turn unto the Lord, for he will heal us, and not be angry with us for ever."
Antoine drew me away. We left the poor man in tears, and went into the yard, where stood a cart, with a sorry horse in it, and a heap of loose fagots and pieces of broken furniture beside it.
"Get you in here, sir, and lie down," said he. "I will pile the wood over you as lightly as I can."
I did as he desired. He bestowed the wood over me as carefully as he could, and then led the horse out.
"Whither away?" said somebody, passing.
"To dispose of this rubbish," said he, carelessly. "Poor Pierre's chattels have been reduced to mere firewood. If a trifle can be got for them, it may buy him bread."
I thought of the two messengers to King David, whom a woman concealed in a well at Bahurim, spreading a covering over the well's mouth, and spreading ground corn thereon. I was startled when the man said,
"I have a mind to buy it of you: it will do to heat my oven."
"But this load is engaged already," said Antoine.
"Why did you not say so at first? You said you were going to see if you could get a trifle for it."
"I confess I expressed myself badly. My poor brother's sad state has bewildered me. Go you, and look in on him, and see what a pitiable object he is."
"Well, I think I will. What is the value of this load, as it stands?"
Antoine seemed so disposed to haggle for it that I confess I quaked; however, he set such a high value on it that the other demurred.
Happily we got out of the town without further molestation. I was very much cramped, but that was no matter. The church-bells began to ring; and Antoine said, in a low voice, "How pitiable are the poor people who are now going to vespers on compulsion! Where will all this end? Can it be that he who now goeth forth weeping, and bearing good seed, shall return again in joy, bringing his sheaves with him?"
I said, "The Lord's hand is not straitened, that he cannot save. What is impossible with man is possible with God."
"Oh that we may live to see it, sir."
We came up with a wagon, with the driver of which Antoine fell into conversation for some time, but what they said I could not well hear. At length we reached the water-side, at a landing-place where a boat laden with kitchen stuff was awaiting us. Here Antoine saw me safely placed in charge of the boatman, who bade me never fear, for he would safely carry me to Bordeaux. We pushed off: the moon shone cold and bright; the air on the river felt fresh and chill. The boatman threw a warm covering on me, bade me sleep, and began a monotonous boat-song. I soon slept.
When I awoke it was late in the morning, for the bright October sun overhead was making the rapid Garonne quiver in a sheen of golden light. I found we had made good progress, and were not many hours from our destination. I found it inexpressibly pleasant to float down that bright river, as it carried me to new scenes, which love, hope, and inexperience painted in pleasing colors. My feet were sufficiently painful for me to be glad to lie idly among the piles of cabbages and while the time in day-dreams. Aged confessors might go forth sighing, "How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?" but to the young and buoyant, change of occupation and foreign travel have great allurement, even when rudely come by.
The boatman seemed an honest poor fellow. Sometimes he exchanged greetings and jokes with other boatmen; sometimes he sang snatches of plaintive songs, such as
"N'erount très frères
N'erount très frères
N'haut qu'une soeur à marida:"
for his mother was from Languedoc. At other times he talked to me quietly.
"Yours seems a contented, merry life, said I.
"Well, I make it so," said he. "Where is the good of picking up troubles? they come sure enough. Once I was foolish enough to think 'What a poor lot is this, to be pulling a market-boat up and down stream, with greens for the seafaring men, while others go riding on horseback or in carriages, wear fine clothes, feast every day, and go to theatres at night.' But when the dragoons came I was thankful to be what I was. Did you hear what happened to Collette at our place? Collette was the prettiest girl of our village, and a good girl, but a thought too vain. Perhaps it is too much to expect a woman not to be vain when she is pretty, but all are not. Collette's skin was like lilies and roses. When the dragoons were let loose on us they burnt her father's furniture, and beat him within an inch of his life. They asked Collette if she would go to mass: she said, 'I will not.' They pulled her hair, beat her, pinched her, but she only said the more, 'I will not.' Then a dragoon said, 'This girl is too pert, her conceit must be lowered a little.' And he took a comb off her toilette, and drew it down her face two or three times, quite hard, till it was scratched and scored all over. Conceive how the poor thing was cut up! She burst into tears, and said, 'Take me to a convent; I don't care where I go now, so that I am not seen. I shall never be worth looking at again.'"
"But what an unworthy motive for an unworthy act!" cried I.
"But only think how she was goaded to it!" said he. "Women think so much of their looks. I am told the dragoons have tried that trick with many ladies of quality."
"If they deserved the name of men they would be ashamed of it."
"Well, I think so too; but see how they treat the men! Have you seen a chain of galley-slaves on their way to Marseilles? Certainly no treatment can be too bad for the infamous, but that nobles and gentlemen should be fettered along with felons, forgers, murderers, and such-like—ah, 'tis too bad!"[1]...
"But now we come to Bordeaux," said he, at length; and in fact, the increase of traffic on the water was sufficient of itself to tell us that we were approaching an important commercial city, while in the distance were seen the masts of ships of many nations. Nearer at hand the richly-wooded heights were studded with the country seats of opulent merchants, many of whom either were Huguenots or had made their fortunes by Huguenots. It was to be supposed, therefore, that we had many friends here; and, indeed, many were favoring our escape as much as they could without compromising themselves; but such jealous watch was being kept on the port that this was extremely difficult. Soon my companion ran his boat in between two others similarly laden—as far as vegetables when, that is, for I know not they held any fugitives; and a great war of words ensued, in which it was difficult to know whether they were really quarrelling or not.
At length I got ashore, and found my way to the counting-house of my father's correspondent, Monsieur Bort. He was a very business-looking man, with a short, hard, dry way of speaking. I found him immersed in his books. Directly he saw me, he said, abruptly.
"You are young Bonneval. You come too late. The others are gone."
"Oh" And I dropped into a seat, quite stunned by this reverse.
"Mais que voulez-vous?" said he. "They could not wait. The opportunity would have been lost."
"Are they really off, and safe?"
"Off they are, but whether safe—." He shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. However, seeing my chagrin, he added, "I imagine they are in the river Thames by this time."
"Do you mean they are ascending the river to London?"
"Precisely. It may not be so, but we may hope the best. And you?"—eyeing me inquiringly.
"What am I to do, sir? Did my father leave me no word of direction?"
"He left you his blessing, and bade you be a good boy, and submit yourself to my direction."
"That I will gladly do, if you will direct me."
"Well, I am pledged to do the best I can for you. But, unhappily, the surveillance is now so strict that I know not how to smuggle you on board."
"In a box—in a cask," said I, desperately.
"Have you really courage to be packed in that manner?"
"Yes, if there is no alternative."
"Come, you are un brave garçon! I respect you for your resolution. There is a vessel of mine being loaded now, and if you will really go on board in such a way as you propose I think we can manage it, and your durance will not last more than a few hours. You will be a Regulus without the nails."
Smiling grimly at this allusion, he went out, and left me to meditate on what lay before me. It was not pleasant, certainly; but then the incentive was so great!—to join all whom I held dear, in a free land! The light affliction would be but for a moment.
Monsieur Bort returned. "All is arranged," said he complacently. "I have taken the porter who will roll you into the secret. He promises to be as careful of you as he can. An officer on board is likewise in my confidence: he engages you shall be released as soon as the vessel is fairly under weigh. So take heart; it will be but a short trial compared with what many Huguenots are put to. Take this money and these papers—"
After some business directions he accompanied me to the warehouse, where the cask awaited me, with some hay to soften my journey in it.
"You are a pipe of Bordeaux, going as a present to my particular friend in London," said he, smiling. "Now, behave yourself as a good pipe of wine should; and don't cry out even if you are hurt. See, there are some air-holes. You won't stifle."
"They are very small—"
"How can that be helped? Who would have doors and windows in a wine-cask? You will get on board alive, will be released when well to sea, and must not mind a little discomfort."
We shook hands, and I stepped in and settled myself as well as I could, with my mouth close to one of the air-holes; and the cask was closed upon me. The next minute I was rolled slowly off; and a most odd sensation it was! I advise you to try it, if you would like something perfectly new; but have bigger air-holes if you can; and even then let your experiment be short.
I verily believe the porter did his best for me; but how slowly he rolled: and even then what bumps and jolts I had when we came to uneven ground! Now and then he stopped, to wipe his face and rest, seemingly—then on we trundled again Meanwhile I was getting exceedingly hot; all the blood in my body seemed mounting into my head: and unpleasant ideas of smothering obtruded themselves. The noises around me told me we were on the wharf; then the jolting and bumping became worse than before: I fancied I could tell we passed up a sloping plank and were on shipboard. Then, without the least warning, I was rolled over and over, and then set upon my head! but a loud cry outside drowned a smothered cry within; and I was placed in a horizontal position again, with feelings impossible to describe.
I think I became sleepy after that; or else in a painless state of insensibility. When I woke I was numb all over, and had to rub my dazzled eyes as the bright daylight broke in on them.
"He seems to like his quarters so well as to have no mind to turn out," said a rough voice.
"He wants assistance," said some one, in a kinder tone; and a handsome, frank-looking man laid hold of my arm, and helped me to rise. Above me were the sails and cordage of a ship; all around me the sparkling blue waves, leaping in freedom. I clasped my hands, and raised them to heaven.
"You do well to give thanks where thanks are due," said the mate. "Now come into the cabin."
Seeing me stagger, he took me by the arm, and kindly assisted me into the presence of the captain, saying, "Here is one of the noble army of martyrs."
The captain gave me a most kind reception, made me dine with him, and asked me a great many questions. He then told me many moving stories of other Huguenots who had escaped or tried to escape to England; and he related such instances of the kindness of the English to the fugitives that my heart warmed towards them with gratitude and hope.
After this I suffered much from seasickness, and lay two or three days in my cot, where we were buffeted of the winds, and tossed. We were chased by a strange ship, and had to put on all the sail we could to escape being overhauled; and this led to our being driven out of our course; so that, what with one thing and another, we we did not reach Gravesend till the 8th of November. Then the captain went ashore with his ship's papers, and, after transacting business, started for London, and took me with him.
What a day it was for forming one's first impressions of that much-longed-for capital! There was a thick November fog, through which street-lamps sent an imperfect light; and shops were lighted up with candles. Vehicles ran against one another in the streets, in spite of link-boys darting between the horses, fearless of danger, and scattering sparks from their fiery torches. The noise, the unknown language, the strange streets and lanes bewildered me. The captain called a hackney-coach, and in this we made our way to Fenchurch street, where lived his shipping agent, Mr. Smith. We went upstairs to his counting-house, and found him talking to some one, who turned round as we entered.
I exclaimed "Oh, my father!" and precipitated myself into his arms. He embraced me with transport.
"Where is my mother? Where is Madeline?"
"Safe and well, at the country-house of our esteemed friend Mr. Smith. Thither I will speedily take you, my dear boy. I came here to gather tidings of you."
"How long it seems since we lost sight of one another!"
"Long, indeed! And how much we have to tell each other! But we are in smooth water now. In this free, happy land people are no longer persecuted for their faith. We must begin the world again, my son; but what does that signify? You have youth and energy; I have experience and patience."
The captain and Mr. Smith looked on with sympathy at our mutual felicitations. Soon I was with my father in a stage-coach on our way to Walthamstow. There, in an old-fashioned red-brick mansion, I found my mother, brothers and sisters, my Madeleine, and Gabrielle. What joy! What affection!
In short, we were all, without one exception, among the four hundred thousand persons who forsook France rather than renounce their faith. Of that number, a very great many perished of famine, hardships, and fatigue; but we were among the many who safely reached this hospitable country and commenced life anew. Many of us settled without the city walls in the open ground of Spital Fields, which we gradually covered with houses and silk-factories. Here we spoke our own language, sang our own songs, had our own places of worship, and built our dwellings in the old French style, with porticoes and seats at the doors, where our old men sat and smoked on summer evenings, and conversed with one another in their own tongue.
At first our starving refugees were relieved by a Parliamentary grant of £15,000 a year; but, God prospering our industry our trade went on steadily increasing till that, now, in 1713, three hundred thousand of us are maintained by it in England. And many others of us in friendly countries abroad, where we have been driven. Prosperity to those among whom we have settled has followed. The native land that cast us forth has been impoverished. Happy are the people whom the Lord hath blessed. Yea, happy are they who have the Lord for their God.