CHAPTER XLIII. ESCAPE FROM SAN SEBASTIAN, AND RETURN TO ENGLAND.
“A sad miscalculation about distance
Made all their naval matters incorrect.”
Don Juan.
“She look’d as if she sate at Eden’s door.
And griev’d for those who could return no more.”
Ibid.
The fosterer and I lost no time in making a hasty toilet—and in five minutes our outer men had assumed as ruffianly an appearance as that of any contrabandista in Biscay. The tower clock of the cathedral struck two; and I remembered that Cammaran had mentioned that this would be the hour on which the garrison would sally. Excepting the hollow moaning of the wind, and the occasional drifting of the rain against the casements, all around was still; and, dark as the night was, I remained gazing at the court-yard expecting the appearance of Rawlings and his associates, with all the intensity of hope and fear which a man will feel, when on the eve of an attempt that will achieve his liberty at once, or rivet his chains more closely than before. All was quiet—no ghost appeared—no tinkle of “the light guitar” was audible—when, suddenly, a dull discharge was heard from La Mota, and a shell, bursting over the bay, “gave signal dread of dire debate,” and announced that the sortie was being made.
Within ten minutes the din of war “disturbed the night’s propriety.” The guns of San Sebastian opened, the Chefre batteries thundered their reply, while a hewy fusilade on the isthmus, pointed to the place where the besieged and the besiegers were fiercely fighting; and where, for a doubtful result, death or distinction, Cammaran played the desperate game a soldier ventures. The fire went rolling forward, therefore, the French gained ground, and so far the surprise had been successful. At the moment a hand touched my shoulder—a voice whispered that “all was ready;” I turned—the speaker was William Rawlings.
Had I stood upon ceremony, and wished to bid Senhor La Pablo, and that comely dame, his lady, “a fair good night,” neither of the parties allowed the opportunity; consequently, I descended at once to the courtyard, and there found two ill-favoured gentlemen in attendance, and, under their guidance, wc proceeded to effect—or at least attempt—our deliverance.
The effort was admirably timed. The sally of the besiegers had been checked, repelled, repulsed; and the spattering fire which had hitherto rolled steadily forward across the suburb of San Roman, now rapidly receded, while, from the trenches, the fusilade became every moment more heavy and more sustained.
On quitting the court-yard of La Pablos, we made a sudden turning, entered a dark lane, and found two men in waiting. A few short sentences were interchanged in low whispers, and we proceeded under the guidance of one who seemed to have undertaken to pioneer the party. The firing every moment became more violent; and, as the scene of strife was on the land-side, the attention of the sentries stationed on the defences next the bay was misdirected. We gained the centre of a curtain connecting two bastions, unperceived; and, by means prepared already for effecting a descent, glided down the wall unchallenged, and reached the beach in safety.
So far the work went bravely on but the most hazardous part of the feat was yet to be performed. Although my poor mother’s secret treasure had been required by the contrabandistas—according to their story to pay for the hire of a chasse-marée, as Jack Falstaff kept “his charge of foot” in light marching order, properly considering that linen was to be found on every hedge, so, our naval contractors prudently declined “taking up a vessel” especially for our transport, when one might as easily be borrowed without troubling the proprietor to become a consenting party to the loan. This arrangement was made known to Rawlings and myself, for the first time, when we had actually reached the water: but the Biscayan assured us that “nearly a dozen chasse-marées were anchored at a stone’s cast from the shore, and beside us there was a small fishing-boat, ready for the launching; we had only to row quietly out, slip into the first vessel we could find, take a peaceable possession, if allowed, and if not, forcibly eject the owners for want of civility; “cut our lucky” and their cable by the same operation, and then stand boldly out to sea.
“Why, honest José,” observed the sailor to the leader of the smugglers, “it appears that we are to pay for our deliverance first, and fight for it afterwards.”
The person addressed returned an evasive answer.
“Well, no matter—it seems the business must be done,” continued Rawlings, “and the sooner we go about it the better. Lend a hand, lads—Softly with the launch! we may be nearer our intended prize than we imagine. How fast the wind rises! Upon my soul, on a darker night or more unpromising weather, men never went on a cutting-out party.”
In another minute the fisher’s boat was in the water, and we embarked. It was one of those small skiffs in which women are frequently seen fishing on the eastern coast, and hence, we were crowded so closely as to render the least movement dangerous, the water reaching to the wash-streak of the boat. As the wind was dead off the beach we had no occasion to use our oars for any purpose but to direct our course, and out we went, drifting in the dark, and upon what the fosterer termed “the devil’s expedition.”
“What,” he remarked, “was swimming the Sedana to this? Everybody knew that a river had a bank; but here, the first land we would touch on might be Achil Head or Gibraltar—and he, Mark Antony, would be glad to know what was provided in the eating-and-drinking line for this voyage of discovery?”
But these speculations as to our final destination were speedily interrupted, for William Rawlings’ practised eye had caught the dim outline of two or three small craft riding at anchor. Silence was rigidly enjoined, and the Englishman steered the skiff upon the centre chasse-marée, and desired us, in a whisper, to board the moment the boat’s gunnel scraped the vessel’s side.
It was quite evident that we were not to be so fortunate as to effect a capture by surprise. The heavy firing of the cannonade and musquetry, attendant on the sortie, had roused the crews, whom we heard distinctly conversing from deck to deck, as our boat neared their anchorage. Fortunately, from the extreme darkness, and the diminutive dimensions of the skiff, we were within an oar’s length of the chasse-marées before we were discovered. To a hasty challenge, a contrabandista replied that we were friends—an assertion on his part, which subsequent experience proved much at variance with our proceedings.
The lowness of her deck allowed us to board the coaster without trouble, and a short, scuffling fight ensued which was over in a minute. Although more numerous by half, the surprise of this nightly visitation distracted the Frenchmen, and they made but a feeble stand. One was flung overboard by a smuggler, an example promptly imitated by the fosterer, who took the same liberty with the person of the skipper—while three or four took the water of their own accord. Rawlings cut the cable—the jib was instantly run up—the vessel canted with her head to sea—the fore lug was set next minute—and, before, the astonished crews could persuade themselves that their consort was regularly carried off, we were beyond the reach of the few muskets which they managed to get hold of in the confusion.
A brief consultation followed our success; and it was agreed that we should stand right out to sea, to avoid meeting with any of the French privateers who were creeping along the coast occasionally, and also afford us a fair chance of falling in with one of our own cruisers.
When morning broke, we had gained an offing of nearly twenty miles. The fire of the Chofre batteries had recommenced with daylight; but a smoke-wreath, now and then, from the Castle and island of Santa Clara, with a grumbling sound, like that of distant thunder, and only when a squall came off the land, were all that told us that, with the sun’s appearance, the deadly struggle had commenced anew. Other cares were now presented. Had the chasse marée aught on board that a prudent soldier like Major Dalgetty, would declare by every war regulation absolutely necessary? The inquiry produced a painful disclosure. On board this ark of liberty, there were salt fish and fresh water for a day’s consumption! I thought Mark Antony would have fainted when the heavy tidings were gently broke by the chief contrabandista, who should, per agreement, have been ship-agent and commissary together. The truth was, my poor mother having been inhibited from imposing penance and fast on me in right of certain marital engagements, had laid upon the unhappy fosterer an additional quantity of both—and if there were two things on earth to which Mark Antony had an invincible antipathy, cold water was the one, and salt cod-fish was the other.
“Oh! we’re regularly murdered now;” ejaculated my foster brother. “Blessed Virgin! What the divil do ye call that dark gentleman who got the fifty-pound note? I would just like to ask him a civil question, if he intends sleeping quietly in his bed after nearly drowning us first, and starving us, as it appears he intends to do, afterwards. If we ever reach Ireland, by my oath, I’ll take an action against him, and”—
“Hist! You’ll have no occasion,” if my sight be accurate replied the sailor. “The cloud is over her again. Keep the craft away—and ease the sheets a trifle. Right—by everything that’s lucky!—a man-o-war brig! No mistake about that; a man can read it in the cut of her topsails.”
The vessel which Rawlings had espied, in a short time was clearly visible. Under single-reefed topsails, jib, and spanker, she was close-hauled as her course required, while we flew down direct before the breeze. Santa Clara disappeared, “the wide, wide sea” was round us, the cruiser and ourselves the only occupants of ocean—and in an hour, we were safely deposited on board Her Majesty’s eighteen-gun brig, “the Growler.” The chasse-marée was turned adrift as worthless—and a promise made on the part of Captain Hardweather, that we should be accommodated with a passage home—the Growler being on her return to England—while our companions, captive, and contrabandista, Tyrian and Trojan, should be put on board the first coaster we fell in with—none of the parties having the slightest inclination to visit the island home of liberty, and take up their abode in a prison-ship.
Had Cupid exchanged with Rolus “for the nonce,” he could not have afforded to his votaries more favourable winds. The Growler liked a stiff breeze, and during the run home she had no reason to complain. The fourth evening we were reported to be in the chops of the channel, and on the sixth, were snug at anchor in Spithead. No difficulty was occasioned in the debarcation of our personal effects; and, if all military adventurers returned in the same condition from the field of glory, I suspect the trade of war would not be considered as affording a safe investment for the capital of a younger son. During the passage home, a change of linen was effected by a friendly loan, and every outward habiliment, from shoe to schako, when we landed, was borrowed property. By the kindness of the brig’s commander, I was introduced to a banker, through whose agency I raised the necessary supplies; and one brief day wrought on all a marvellous change for the better. The second evening, on looking in the pier glass of the hotel, I had some doubts touching my own identity—Mark Antony was of opinion that he should be scarcely recognized by his own dog—and William Rawlings had actually set two barmaids by the ears, and left an impression on the too tender hearts of both, which required a full fortnight to obliterate.
Our journey to town was common-place. The “whips” kept sober, and hence we had not the exciting incident of “a spill.”—
Robbery being obsolete and utterly unfashionable even in the novels of these Boetian days, though we crossed “a blasted heath,” none called “Stand and deliver!”—and the passengers, one and all, seemed so apathetic regarding life and property, that one would have thought such heroic personages as Dick Turpin and Jerry Aberhaw had either not existed or that they were utterly forgotten.
Nearly three months had passed since letters reached me from England. The immediate advance of the army, the quick and constant series of events which followed it, my detention at Vittoria first, and my captivity afterwards, rendered it almost impossible that communications, addressed as they would be to the head-quarters of the fourth division, to which I had attached myself, should reach me during this short and adventurous passage in a life of “marvellous uncertainty” while it lasted. Brief as the season was that intervened since I had heard aught from those I was most interested about, how many “changes and chances” in that small circle might not have occurred? I envied the philosophy of the fosterer and his brother-in-law elect. Neither harboured a doubt that all “at home were well.” At home!—What does not that simple phrase embody? For a time I took courage from the example; but, when we reached the White Horse Cellar, whence the fosterer, “with lover’s haste,” set out to claim a bride, and the sailor to embrace a parent and sister, to whom he seemed ardently attached—then, left alone, I felt all the dark forebodings of one who dreams of nought but happiness and yet tremble lest fortune, in some capricious humour, may have already dashed the untasted cup away. Thanks to the gods! these sombre doubts were nothing but “idle phantasies.”
If ever the director of “a leathern conveniency”—cabs, gentle reader, were then unknown—was put regularly to the pin of his collar to keep time with an impatient gentleman, the unhappy wight who drove me was that person. At last we readied the street—I jumped out—paid honest jarvey double—inasmuch as he averred that his “near-side un,” a roarer before, was ruined for life by desperate driving—and “the outsider” would not be worth a bean for a fortnight. I knocked piano at the door—an old woman opened it—“Was Mr. Hartley at home?” She could not answer the question, for Mr. Hartley had not lived there these two months. Saints and angels! what misery! It was brief. A young lady-looking personage unclosed a parlour-door, and acquainted me that the arrival of some Irish relations had rendered it necessary for Mr. Hartley to take a larger house; that, for the benefit of country air, he had selected one some ten miles distant from the city,—adding, that the family were well, as a servant had called that morning with some message, from the ladies. She gave me my uncle’s address, and in half-an-hour 1 was speeding to Bromley Park, as fast as a light post-chaise would carry me.
Some seven miles from town, the last village was passed, and the remainder of the drive ran partly through shaded lanes, and partly over open commons. At a roadside hostelrie, within a gunshot of my uncle’s dwelling, I discharged my carriage, committed the light portmanteau which contained my wardrobe to the safe keeping of the landlady, and set out, under proper directions, to find the place where love and duty alike urged me to proceed.
I easily discovered the abode of “my fair ladie.” The exterior bore all the appearance of respectability; and, though the light was but indifferent, the entrance-lodge, palings, and close-clipped hedges, announced it to be a gentleman’s retreat. The mansion stood upon a lawn not far removed from the highway; lights flared from the lower windows, probably those of the apartment where the family were collected, and, by a singular impulse, I determined to escalade the enclosure, and have a sly peep, incog. at those within.
I turned from the high road into a grassy lane which skirted the palings of a shrubbery—and tried them once or twice, but they were confoundedly high, and in excellent preservation. I pushed on—not a practicable breach to be discovered—and my uncle’s mansion seemed as difficult of entrée as San Sebastian itself. Should I proceed, or abandon the attempt as hopeless? “Turn back!” said Common Sense,—“Go on!” and Adventure, jogged my elbow. I hesitated—a circumstance kicked the doubtful balance.
Within an open gateway to a field, I perceived a horse placed in the keeping of some low-sized personage evidently seeking concealment under the deep shelter of the hedge. I spoke; none answered. Why was this horse in waiting? It looked suspicious. Some felony was intended; burglary, or, more probably, exhumation. I strolled on a few yards farther—three or four railings had been recently sawn through, affording sufficient room to creep in by, and, without a second’s consideration, in I went.
I crossed the soft green turf, and proceeded in a straight direction towards the mansion, guided by the lights which had first attracted my attention on the road. A clump of evergreens suddenly shut them from my view, and I paused to determine whether I should turn to the right or to the left. While still uncertain, I thought something moved within the trees—I listened—whispers fell upon my ear, and next moment two figures glided from the clump, and crossed into what appeared in the darkness to be a belt of young plantations, stretching along the lawn and reaching to the lane from which I had effected my entrance. Who might these men be? Poachers, in pursuit of game, or keepers, on the look-out to prevent their preserves from being spoliated. When I recollected the horse I had detected concealed beneath the hedge, I came to the first conclusion—the men, no doubt, were poachers; and the animal had been left in charge of some confederate, to enable them to carry up to town the produce of their night’s marauding. In this belief, I proceeded cautiously to the hall, determined to apprise mine honoured uncle that knaves had “broke his park,” and possibly, might “beat his keepers.” But another scene, and one to me of deeper interest, drove hares, pheasants, and poachers from memory altogether.
When I cleared the clump of evergreens I found myself directly in front of the mansion, and as the windows reached nearly to the level of the lawn, the interior of the apartment was seen from without distinctly. All within bore the appearance of luxury and elegance.
The furniture, the plate, the paintings, the lights, were in perfect keeping with each other. In the panorama of life many such a scene may be discovered. It was evidently the dwelling-place of wealth—but not the abode of happiness.
Four persons occupied the chamber, and formed a striking group. The partie carrée consisted of two persons of either sex. On a sofa, a man past the meridian of life seemed in earnest conversation with a lady, who was still in the pride of matronly beauty; the expression of her face was that of settled melancholy; and it appeared that he who sate beside her was offering consolation—but in vain. The lady was my mother—the gentleman, her brother, and mine honoured uncle.
At the opposite side of the apartment the other twain were seated, and thither, after one hurried look at those upon the sofa, my gaze was turned and there remained. My father, with Isidora on his knee, encircled her waist with his solitary arm, while her head was resting on his bosom, and her hands clasped wildly round his neck.—Oh! what a change a few brief months had made! The sweet bud of promise I had first seen in its mountain solitude, had flowered into loveliness—and the woman, not the girl, was before me. Her face was turned towards the window, and as the lights fell upon it, every feature was distinct as if I stood beside her. Her’s was not the calm sorrow of my mother—it was the wilder outbreak of the youthful heart, which vents its sufferings in sobs and tears; and while my uncle and his sister conversed in whispers, the voices of my father and my mistress were audible outside the window. I could have easily suspected the cause of all this grief, had I but looked upon the table and the floor. On the former lay an open post-bag, and several letters with broken and unbroken seals: on the latter, a newspaper was spread out at my father’s foot, and, no doubt, the evil tidings it had contained occasioned the anguish and distress I witnessed.
“Oh! tell me not to hope,” exclaimed the fair girl, “I cannot dare not.”
It was painful to listen to the reply. The voice endeavoured to assume a steadiness which its broken tones belied; and the feelings of the father and the soldier conflicted sadly, as the tongue held out false and feeble hopes, which the speaker’s heart secretly believed to be illusory.
“Grieve not, my sweet girl,” said the veteran, “He is only returned ‘missing.’ No doubt Hector has been made prisoner, carried into the place, probably wounded—”
“Wounded!” exclaimed the listener, “No—no—no—Dead dead and I am for ever wretched”—and again the head of the fair sufferer sank on the bosom which had supported it before.
I cannot describe my feelings; my heart was bursting to announce my safety, and I only hesitated to know how it could be most safely done—a moment ended the doubt.
“Do not despair, Isidora—my own, own daughter.” The words came choakingly from his lips—the word daughter was too trying the chances were that he was now childless—and he hastily turned his head away. I saw a tear stealing down his cheek—and when the soldier’s eye is moist, the heart, indeed, is full.
“Cheer up, my dearest Isidora, all may yet be well—Hector may live—”
I could not control the impulse—
“He does live!” burst from my lips involuntarily.
[Original]
“Saints and angels!” exclaimed Mr. Clifford, springing from his chair, and flinging the casement open—“True! by every thing providential! Himself! Hector—and in safety!”
As he spoke, I jumped through the window. My lady-mother uttered an exclamation of joy, and sank back upon the cushions of the sofa. My mistress sprang from my father’s knee, and fainted in my arms.
“And, of course, you re-deposited the young lady upon the place from whence she came, and flew dutifully to the assistance of your mamma, Mr. Hector O’Halloran?”
Mr. Reader, I never reply to impertinent questions; but, entre nous, I rather imagine that the resuscitation of the elder gentlewoman, was entirely committed to her husband and Mr. Clifford.