Well habituated to hear of the English as victors in every naval engagement, I yet went on hoping against hope itself, that Fortune might for once have favoured us; nor was it till the falling night prevented my being able to trace out distant objects, that I could leave the spot and turn homewards. With wishes so directly opposed to theirs, I did not venture to tell my two friends what I had witnessed, nor trust myself to speak on a subject where my feelings might have betrayed me into unseemly expressions of my hopes. I was glad to find that they knew nothing of the matter, and talked away indifferently of other subjects. By daybreak the next morning I was at my post, a sharp nor’-wester blowing, and a heavy sea rolling in from the Atlantic. Instinctively carrying my eyes to the spot where I had heard the cannonade, I could distinctly see the tops of spars, as if the upper rigging of some vessels beyond the horizon.
Gradually they rose higher and higher, till I could detect the yard-arms and cross-trees, and finally the great hulls of five vessels that were bearing towards me.
For above an hour I could see their every movement, as with all canvas spread they held on majestically towards the land, when at length a lofty promontory of the bay intervened, and they were lost to my view. I jumped to my legs at once, and set off down the cliff to reach the headland, from whence an uninterrupted prospect extended. The distance was greater than I had supposed, and in my eagerness to take a direct line to it, I got entangled in difficult gorges among the hills, and impeded by mountain torrents which often compelled me to go back a considerable distance; it was already late in the afternoon as I gained the crest of a ridge over the bay of Lough Swilly. Beneath me lay the calm surface of the lough, landlocked and still; but farther out seaward there was a sight that made my very limbs tremble, and sickened my heart as I beheld it. There was a large frigate, that, with studding-sails set, stood boldly up the bay, followed by a dismasted three-decker, at whose mizzen floated the ensign of England over the French tricolour. Several other vessels were grouped about the offing, all of them displaying English colours.
The dreadful secret was out. There had been a tremendous sea-fight, and the Hoche, of seventy-four guns, was the sad spectacle which, with shattered sides and ragged rigging, I now beheld entering the bay. Oh, the humiliation of that sight! I can never forget it. And although on all the surrounding hills scarcely fifty country-people were assembled, I felt as if the whole of Europe were spectators of our defeat. The flag I had always believed triumphant now hung ignominiously beneath the ensign of the enemy, and the decks of our noble ship were crowded with the uniforms of English sailors and marines.
The blue water surged and spouted from the shot-holes as the great hull loomed heavily from side to side, and broken spars and ropes still hung over the side, as she went, a perfect picture of defeat. Never was disaster more legibly written. I watched her till the anchor dropped, and then, in a burst of emotion, I turned away, unable to endure more. As I hastened homeward I met the elder of my two hosts coming to meet me, in considerable anxiety. He had heard of the capture of the Hoche, but his mind was far more intent on another and less important event. Two men had just been at his cottage with a warrant for my arrest. The document bore my name and rank, as well as a description of my appearance, and significantly alleged that, although Irish by birth, I affected a foreign accent for the sake of concealment.
‘There is no chance of escape now,’ said my friend; ‘we are surrounded with spies on every hand. My advice is, therefore, to hasten to Lord Cavan’s quarters—he is now at Letterkenny—and give yourself up as a prisoner. There is at least the chance of your being treated like the rest of your countrymen. I have already provided you with a horse and a guide, for I must not accompany you myself. Go, then, Maurice. We shall never see each other again; but we’ll not forget you, nor do we fear that you will forget us. My brother could not trust himself to take leave of you, but his best wishes and prayers go with you.’
Such were the last words my kind-hearted friend spoke to me; nor do I know what reply I made, as, overcome by emotion, my voice became thick and broken. I wanted to tell all my gratitude, and yet could say nothing. To this hour I know not with what impression of me he went away. I can only assert, that in all the long career of vicissitudes of a troubled and adventurous life, these brothers have occupied the chosen spot of my affection for everything that was disinterested in kindness and generous in good feeling.
They have done more; for they have often reconciled me to a world of harsh injustice and illiberality, by remembering that two such exceptions existed, and that others may have experienced what fell to my lot.
For a mile or two my way lay through the mountains, but after reaching the highroad I had not proceeded far when I was overtaken by a jaunting-car, on which a gentleman was seated, with his leg supported by a cushion, and bearing all the signs of a severe injury.
‘Keep the near side of the way, sir, I beg of you,’ cried he; ‘I have a broken leg, and am excessively uneasy when a horse passes close to me.’