Chapter Twenty.
A voice in the dark.
All Paris seemed up that morning, hurrying to the scene of the day’s wonder. There was a rumour of fighting in the streets, of guns being pointed against the sacred doors of the Convention, of tyrants fallen and heads to fall. To Paris, sick of blood and strained by terror, it seemed like the end of all things, and the people with one accord rushed eastward to witness the dawn of their new revolution.
I, who had had enough of revolutions, wandered disconsolately westward along the river-bank till the rush was over and the sounds behind me grew faint in the distance. Where next? I asked myself. Whether Citizen Robespierre fell or not, there was not much quarter to be hoped for by a runaway from the Conciergerie. Paris was a rat-trap still, and though 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, ready to drop down the stream. How I envied the two men in charge of her, to whom the barrier of the city would offer no obstacle, and who were free to go in and out of the rat-trap as they pleased!
Apparently they were not so sensible of their good fortune as I was, for they were quarrelling angrily, and filling the air with their insults and recriminations.
“Villain! robber!” I heard one say, who seemed to be assistant to the other, “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 have it here, or nowhere.”
“What, you will dare to desert! It is treason against the Republic whom we serve. I will denounce you.”
“Idiot, I defy you,” exclaimed the man, stripping off his jersey and flinging his red cap on the deck. “I spit on your Republic which does not 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 spat at the barge.
The skipper looked as if he would have followed him, but thought better of it. He shrugged his shoulders and pulled out a cigar. The other, after standing insultingly on the bank for some minutes, heaping all sorts of imprecations and taunts on his late employer, swaggered away, and was presently caught up in a knot of belated sightseers hastening to the 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, suit yourself, and give me what you like at the journey’s end.”
“I serve the Republic,” said the man.
“Vive la République,” said I. “She does not desert her sons.”
“Your name?” demanded he. “Belin,” said I, inventing a name for the occasion. “You are engaged, Belin,” said the skipper; “we start this minute.”
With a grateful heart I stepped on board and busied myself with casting loose the rope.
“Observe, Belin,” said my new master, noticing approvingly that at least I knew how to handle a rope, “your name under me is Plon, that of a vagabond scoundrel who has just deserted me, and who is named on the way-bill. There are his jersey and his cap; put them on, and keep your counsel.”
“Pardon, my captain,” said I, when I had obeyed him, “what is our business 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. Here our bill of lading was carefully scrutinised, and our cargo inspected to make 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 and saying nothing while the ceremony lasted.
But when at length we were ordered to pass, you may guess how thankfully I cast off the rope and found myself gliding down the quick current of the Seine out of that horrible city in which for nearly a year I had been cooped, expecting every day to be my last I showed my gratitude by undertaking any hard work my skipper chose to put upon me; and when he found me so willing, and on the whole so handy, he was content enough, and we became tolerably good messmates. Only I had learned enough to keep my mouth pretty close respecting matters which did not concern me. I professed to know very little of what had passed in Paris during the past few months, and in what I did to agree entirely with the opinions of Citizen Benoit, my captain. I cumbered him with few questions or opinions of my own, and was never backward to take an extra watch or trudge an extra mile on the bank beside the occasional horses which here and there we engaged to help us on.
It was a tedious and dull journey, threading our way through endless twists and between numerous islands, halting only between the late summer dusk and the early summer dawn, quitting our barge only in search of provender or a horse, parleying only with officials and returning barges.
One or two of the skippers on the latter inquired of Benoit what had become of his former assistant, and alarmed me somewhat by questioning me as to my previous calling. But my skipper’s explanation was generally enough, and I was admitted into the noble fraternity of Seine bargees without much objection. The few who did object sailed the other way, so that their objection mattered little.
Our longest stay was at Rouen, where once more my master reminded me that I was Citizen Plon, and that my policy was to hold my tongue and lie low.
The police here were very suspicious, and insisted on searching our cargo thoroughly for fugitives, of whom reports from Paris said there were a good many lying hid in boats and barges.
However, they found none with us. How I toiled and sweated to assist their search! and what a reputation poor Plon acquired for zeal in the service of the Republic One and Indivisible!
After leaving Rouen we used our sail a good deal in the broad reaches of the river. Monsieur Benoit (who had quite forgotten my pay) was good enough to compliment me on my skill in handling canvas, and as we neared our destination his civility became almost embarrassing. He sought to engage me as his permanent lieutenant, and promised to make all sorts of excellent reports on my behalf to the officials. I humoured him as best I could; but the scent of the sea-breezes as we gradually reached the wide estuary and saw before us the masts and towers of the city of Havre, set me longing for old Ireland, and determined me, Benoit or no Benoit, to set my foot once more on Fanad.
I requested of Benoit a few days’ leave of absence, after our stores were duly delivered at the depôt, which he agreed to on the understanding that my wages should not be paid me till I returned to the barge. In this way he imagined he made sure of me, and I was content to leave 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, I began to realise that France itself was only a trap on a larger scale than Paris. True, I might possibly find a berth as an able-bodied sailor on a French ship; but that was not what I wanted. As for English ships, it was a time of war, and none durst show their prows in the harbour, save under a false flag. Yet the longing for home was so strong in me, that I think, had I found one, I would even have seized a small rowing-boat and attempted to cross the Channel in it single-handed.
For two days I prowled hither and thither, vainly looking for a chance of escape, and was beginning to wonder whether after all I should have to return to Benoit, when I chanced one evening on a fellow who, for all his French airs and talk, I guessed the moment he spoke to be an Irishman. He was, I must confess, not quite sober, which perhaps made him less careful about appearances than he should have been.
It was on the cliffs of La Hève we foregathered. He was walking so unsteadily on the very margin that I deemed it only brotherly to lend him an arm.
“Thank you, my lad,” said he, beginning the speech in French, but relapsing into his native tongue as he went on; “these abominable French cliffs move about more than the cliffs at Bantry. Nothing moves there—not even custom-house runners. Bless your dear heart, we can land our bales there under their very noses! Steady, my friend, you were nearly slipping 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 many teeth. What did I come ashore for now? Not to see you, was it? ’Pon my word, monsieur, I owe you a hundred pardons. I quite forgot. You look a worthy fellow. I press you into the service, and the man that objects shall have an ounce of lead through him. Come, my lad, row me aboard. The anchor’s apeak, and we’re off for the ould country, and a murrain on this land of yours!”
So saying he stumbled along, down a zigzag path that led to the foot of the cliff, where lay moored a small boat and two men in her.
“Belay there, hearties! I’ve got the villain. Clap him in irons, I say! 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. The wind’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, made no demur, and laid on with their oars. Presently I volunteered to lend a hand, which was readily accepted. The captain meanwhile lay in a comfortable slumber in the stern-sheets, uttering occasional greetings to the world at large, and to me in particular.
“Where does she lie?” said I presently to the man in front of me in plain 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. “I should 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 a cargo 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 more questions were asked.
When we reached the Kestrel it was pitch dark, but we could tell by the grating of the chain as we came up that no time was to be lost in getting under way.
Not a light was shown, only a whistle from our men, answered by another from the ship and a voice over the bulwarks,—
“Boat ahoy!”
“Kestrel ahoy!” sang out our men, and in a moment a rope was thrown to us and we were alongside.
Captain Keogh, happily asleep, was hauled up the gangway, and we followed.
“A new hand, lieutenant,” said my comrade, pointing at me with his thumb over 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. It called to mind days spent under the drifting clouds at the edge of Fanad, boyish quarrels and battles, winter nights over the peat fire of our 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 breast so that I could scarcely hold it?
Just now, however, I was hurried forward to the business of weighing anchor, 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 sails spread out to the wind, the welcome splash of the bows proclaimed that we had way on us already, and the twinkling lights of Havre in the distance reminded us that France, land of terrors, was dropping astern at every pitch we took.
But the excitement of all this was as nothing to the echo in my ears of that voice in the dark.