The first sight of land to one on sea is always an event of uncommon interest; but how greatly increased is the feeling when that land is to be the scene of a perilous exploit—the cradle of his ambition, or perhaps his grave! All my speculations about the expedition—all my daydreams of success, or my anxious hours of dark forebodings—never brought the matter so palpably before me as the dim outline of a distant headland, which, I was told, was part of the Irish coast.
This was on the 17th of August, but on the following day we stood further out to sea again, and saw no more of it.
The three succeeding ones we continued to beat up slowly to the northward against a head wind and a heavy sea; but on the evening of the 21st the sun went down in mellow splendour, and a light air from the south springing up, the sailors pronounced a most favourable change of weather—a prophecy that a starry night and a calm sea soon confirmed.
The morning of the 22nd broke splendidly—a gentle breeze from the south-west slightly curled the blue waves, and filled the canvas of the three frigates, as in close order they sailed along under the tall cliffs of Ireland. We were about three miles from the shore, on which now every telescope and glass was eagerly directed. As the light and fleeting clouds of early morning passed away we could descry the outlines of the bold coast, indented with many a bay and creek, while rocky promontories and grassy slopes succeeded each other in endless variety of contrast. Towns, or even villages, we could see none—a few small wretched-looking hovels were dotted over the hills, and here and there a thin wreath of blue smoke bespoke habitation, but, save these signs, there was an air of loneliness and solitude which increased the solemn feelings of the scene.
All these objects of interest, however, soon gave way before another to the contemplation of which every eye was turned. This was a small fishing-boat, which, with a low mast and ragged piece of canvas, was seen standing boldly out for us: a red handkerchief was fastened to a stick in the stern, as if for a signal, and on our shortening sail, to admit of her overtaking us, the ensign was lowered as though in acknowledgment of our meaning.
The boat was soon alongside, and we now perceived that her crew consisted of a man and a boy, the former of whom, a powerfully built, loose fellow, of about five-and-forty, dressed in a light-blue frieze jacket and trousers, adroitly caught at the cast of rope thrown out to him, and having made fast his skiff, clambered up the ship’s side at once, gaily, as though he were an old friend coming to welcome us.
‘Is he a pilot?’ asked the officer of the watch, addressing one of the Irish officers.
‘No; he’s only a fisherman, but he knows the coast perfectly, and says there is deep water within twenty fathoms of the shore.’
An animated conversation in Irish now ensued between the peasant and Captain Madgett, during which a wondering and somewhat impatient group stood around, speedily increased by the presence of General Humbert himself and his staff.
‘He tells me, general,’ said Madgett, ‘that we are in the Bay of Killala, a good and safe anchorage, and, during the southerly winds, the best on all the coast.’