Chapter Twenty Two.Grave consequences of gravitation—O’Brien enlists himself as a gendarme, and takes charge of me—We are discovered, and obliged to run for it—The pleasures of a winter bivouac.It was not until noon that I awoke, when I found that O’Brien had covered me more than a foot deep with leaves, to protect me from the weather. I felt quite warm and comfortable; my clothes had dried on me, but without giving me cold. “How very kind of you, O’Brien!” said I.“Not a bit, Peter: you have hard work to go through yet, and I must take care of you. You’re but a bud, and I’m a full-blown rose.” So saying, he put the spirit-flask to his mouth, and then handed it to me. “Now, Peter, we must make a start, for depend upon it, they will scour the country for us; but this is a large wood, and they may as well attempt to find a needle in a bundle of hay, if we once get into the heart of it.”We set off, forcing our way through the thicket, for about three hours, O’Brien looking occasionally at his pocket compass; it then was again nearly dark, and O’Brien proposed a halt. We made up a bed of leaves for the night, and slept much more comfortably than we had the night before. All our bread was wet, but as we had no water, it was rather a relief; the meat we had with us was sufficient for a week. Once more we laid down and fell fast asleep. About five o’clock in the morning I was roused by O’Brien, who at the same time put his hand gently over my mouth. I sat up, and perceived a large fire not far from us. “The Philistines are upon us, Peter,” said he: “I have reconnoitred, and they are the gendarmes. I am fearful of going away, as we may stumble upon some more of them. I’ve been thinking what’s best before I waked you; and it appears to me, that we had better get up the tree, and lie there.”At that time we were hidden in a copse of underwood, with a large oak in the centre, covered with ivy, “I think so, too, O’Brien; shall we go up now, or wait a little?”“Now, to be sure, that they’re eating their prog. Mount you, Peter and I’ll help you.”O’Brien shoved me up the tree, and then, waiting a little while to bury our haversacks among the leaves, he followed me. He desired me to remain in a very snug position, on the first fork of the tree, while he took another amongst a bunch of ivy on the largest bough. There we remained for about an hour, when day dawned. We observed the gendarmes mustered at the break of day by the corporal, and then they all separated in different directions to scour the wood. We were delighted to perceive this, as we hoped soon to be able to get away; but there was one gendarme who remained. He walked round the tree, looking up into every part; but we were well concealed, and he did not discover us for some time. At last he saw me, and ordered me to come down. I paid no attention to him, as I had no signal from O’Brien. He walked round a little farther, until he was directly under the branch on which O’Brien lay. Taking up this position, he had a fairer aim at me, and levelled his musket, saying, “Descendez, ou je tire.” Still I continued immovable, for I knew not what to do. I shut my eyes, however; the musket shortly afterwards was discharged, and, whether from fear or not I can hardly tell, I lost my hold of a sudden, and down I came. I was stunned with the fall, and thought that I must have been wounded; and was very much surprised, when, instead of the gendarme, O’Brien came up to me, and asked whether I was hurt. I answered I believed not, and got up on my legs, when I found the gendarme lying on the ground, breathing heavily, but insensible. When O’Brien perceived the gendarme level his musket at me, he immediately dropped from the bough, right upon his head; this occasioned the musket to go off, without hitting me, and at the same time the weight of O’Brien’s body from such a height killed the gendarme, for he expired before we left him. “Now, Peter,” said O’Brien, “this is the most fortunate thing in the world, and will take us half through the country; but we have no time to lose.” He then stripped the gendarme, who still breathed heavily, and dragging him to our bed of leaves, covered him up, threw off his own clothes, which he tied up in a bundle, and gave to me to carry, and put on those of the gendarme. I could not help laughing at the metamorphosis, and asked O’Brien what he intended. “Sure, I’m a gendarme, bringing with me a prisoner, who has escaped.” When we stopped at night, my youth excited a great deal of commiseration, especially from the females; and in one instance I was offered assistance to escape. I consented to it, but at the same time informed O’Brien of the plan proposed. O’Brien kept watch—I dressed myself, and was at the open window, when he rushed in, seizing me and declaring that he would inform the government of the conduct of the parties. Their confusion and distress was very great. They offered O’Brien twenty, thirty, forty Napoleons, if he would hush it up, for they were aware of the penalty and imprisonment. O’Brien replied that he would not accept of any money in compromise of his duty, that after he had given me into the charge of the gendarme of the next post, his business was at an end, and he must return to Flushing, where he was stationed.“I have a sister there,” replied the hostess, “who keeps an inn. You’ll want good quarters and a friendly cup; do not denounce us, and I’ll give you a letter to her, which, if it does not prove of service, you can then return and give the information.”O’Brien consented; the letter was delivered, and read to him, in which the sister was requested, by the love she bore to the writer, to do all she could for the bearer, who had the power of making the whole family miserable, but had refused so to do. O’Brien pocketed the letter filled his brandy flask, and saluting all the women, left the cabaret, dragging me after him with a cord. We were following our route, avoiding Malines, which was a fortified town, and at the time were in a narrow lane, with wide ditches, full of water, on each side. At the turning of a sharp corner we met the gendarme who had supplied O’Brien with a map of the town of Givet, “Good morning, comrade,” said he to O’Brien, looking earnestly at him, “whom have we here?”“A young Englishman, whom I picked up close by, escaped from prison.”“Where from?”“He will not say; but I suspect from Givet.”“There are two who have escaped from Givet,” replied he: “how they escaped no one can imagine; but,” continued he, again looking at O’Brien, “Avec les braves, il n’y a rien d’impossible.”“That is true,” replied O’Brien; “I have taken one, the other cannot be far off. You had better look for him.”“I should like to find him,” replied the gendarme, “for you know that to retake a runaway prisoner is certain promotion. You will be made a corporal.”“So much the better,” replied O’Brien; “adieu, mon ami.”“Nay, I merely came for a walk, and will return with you to Malines, where of course you are bound.”“We shall not get there to-night,” said O’Brien, “my prisoner is too much fatigued.”“Well, then, we will go as far as we can; and I will assist you. Perhaps we may find the second, who, I understand, obtained a map of the fortress by some means or another.”O’Brien observed, that the English prisoners were very liberal; that he knew that a hundred Napoleons were often paid for assistance, and he thought that no corporal’s rank was equal to a sum that would in France made a man happy and independent for life.“Very true,” replied the gendarme; “and let me only look upon that sum, and I will guarantee a positive safety out of France.”“Then we understand each other,” replied O’Brien; “this boy will give two hundred—one half shall be yours, if you will assist.”“I will think of it,” replied the gendarme, who then talked about indifferent subjects, until we arrived at a small town called Acarchot, when we proceeded to a cabaret. The usual curiosity passed over, we were left alone, O’Brien telling the gendarme that he would expect his reply that night or to-morrow morning. The gendarme said, to-morrow morning. O’Brien requesting him to take charge of me, he called the woman of the cabaret to show him a room; she showed him one or two, which he refused, as not sufficiently safe for the prisoner. The woman laughed at the idea, observing, “What had he to fear from apauvre enfantlike me?”“Yet thispauvre enfantescaped from Givet,” replied O’Brien. “These Englishmen are devils from their birth.” The last room showed to O’Brien suited him, and he chose it—the woman not presuming to contradict a gendarme. As soon as they came down again, O’Brien ordered me to bed, and went upstairs with me. He bolted the door, and pulling me to the large chimney, we put our heads up, and whispered, that our conversation should not be heard. “This man is not to be trusted,” said O’Brien, “and we must give him the slip. I know my way out of the inn, and we must return the way we came, and then strike off in another direction.”“But will he permit us?”“Not if he can help it; but I shall soon find out his manoeuvres.”O’Brien then went and stopped the key-hole, by hanging his handkerchief across it, and stripping himself of his gendarme uniform, put on his own clothes; then stuffed the blankets and pillows into the gendarme’s dress, and laid it down on the outside of the bed, as if it were a man sleeping in his clothes—indeed it was an admirable deception. He laid his musket by the side of the image, and then did the same to my bed, making it appear as if there was a person asleep in it of my size, and putting my cap on the pillow. “Now, Peter, we’ll see if he is watching us. He will wait till he thinks we are asleep.” The light still remained in the room, and about an hour afterwards we heard a noise of one treading on the stairs, upon which, as agreed, we crept under the bed. The latch of our door was tried, and finding it open, which he did not expect, the gendarme entered, and looking at both beds, went away. “Now,” said I, after the gendarme had gone down stairs, “O’Brien, ought we not to escape?”“I’ve been thinking of it, Peter, and I have come to a resolution that we can manage it better. He is certain to come again in an hour or two. It is only eleven. Now, I’ll play him a trick.” O’Brien then took one of the blankets, made it fast to the window, which he left wide open, and at the same time dissarranged the images he had made up, so as to let the gendarme perceive that they were counterfeit. We again crept under the bed; and as O’Brien foretold, in about an hour more the gendarme returned; our lamp was still burning, but he had a light of his own. He looked at the beds, perceived at once that he had been duped, went to the open window, and then exclaimed, “Sacre Dieu! Ils m’ont éschappés et je ne ne suis plus corporal. Foutre! à la chasse!” He rushed out of the room, and in a few minutes afterwards we heard him open the street door, and go away.“That will do, Peter,” said O’Brien, laughing; “now we’ll be off also, although there’s no great hurry.” O’Brien then resumed his dress of a gendarme; and about an hour afterwards we went down, and wishing the hostess all happiness, quitted the cabaret, returning the same road by which we had come. “Now, Peter,” said O’Brien, “we’re in a bit of a puzzle. This dress won’t do any more, still there’s a respectability about it which will not allow me to put it off till the last moment.” We walked on till daylight, when we hid ourselves in a copse of trees. Our money was not exhausted, as I had drawn upon my father for 60 pounds, which, with the disadvantageous exchange, had given me fifty Napoleons. On the fifth day, being then six days from the forest of Ardennes, we hid ourselves in a small wood, about a quarter of a mile from the road. I remained there, while O’Brien, as a gendarme, went to obtain provisions. As usual, I looked out for the best shelter during his absence, and what was my horror at falling in with a man and woman who lay dead in the snow, having evidently perished from the inclemency of the weather. Just as I discovered them, O’Brien returned, and I told him: he went with me to view the bodies. They were dressed in a strange attire, ribands pinned upon their clothes, and two pairs of very high stilts lying by their sides. O’Brien surveyed them, and then said, “Peter, this is the very best thing that could have happened to us. We may now walk through France without soiling our feet with the cursed country.”“How do you mean?”“I mean,” said he, “that these are the people that we met near Montpelier, who came from the landes, walking about on their stilts for the amusement of others, to obtain money. In their own country they are obliged to walk so. Now, Peter, it appears to me that the man’s clothes will fit me, and the girl’s (poor creature, how pretty she looks, cold in death!) will fit you. All we have to do is to practise a little, and then away we start.”O’Brien then, with some difficulty, pulled off the man’s jacket and trowsers, and having so done, buried him in the snow. The poor girl was despoiled of her gown and upper petticoat with every decency, and also buried. We collected the clothes and stilts, and removed to another quarter, where we pitched upon a hovel and took our meal. “Peter,” said O’Brien, “lie down and sleep, and I’ll keep the watch. Not a word, I will have it—down at once.”I did so, and in a very few minutes was fast asleep, for I was worn out with cold and fatigue. Just as the day broke, O’Brien roused me; he had stood sentry all night, and looked very haggard.“O’Brien, you are ill,” said I.“Not a bit; but I’ve emptied the brandy-flask; and that’s a bad job. However, it is to be remedied.”I did not go to sleep again for some time, I was so anxious to see O’Brien fast asleep. He went in and out several times, during which I pretended to be fast asleep; at last it rained in torrents, and then he laid down, and in a few minutes, overpowered by nature, he fell fast asleep, snoring so loudly that I was afraid some one would hear us. I then got up and watched, occasionally lying down and slumbering awhile, and then going down to the door.
It was not until noon that I awoke, when I found that O’Brien had covered me more than a foot deep with leaves, to protect me from the weather. I felt quite warm and comfortable; my clothes had dried on me, but without giving me cold. “How very kind of you, O’Brien!” said I.
“Not a bit, Peter: you have hard work to go through yet, and I must take care of you. You’re but a bud, and I’m a full-blown rose.” So saying, he put the spirit-flask to his mouth, and then handed it to me. “Now, Peter, we must make a start, for depend upon it, they will scour the country for us; but this is a large wood, and they may as well attempt to find a needle in a bundle of hay, if we once get into the heart of it.”
We set off, forcing our way through the thicket, for about three hours, O’Brien looking occasionally at his pocket compass; it then was again nearly dark, and O’Brien proposed a halt. We made up a bed of leaves for the night, and slept much more comfortably than we had the night before. All our bread was wet, but as we had no water, it was rather a relief; the meat we had with us was sufficient for a week. Once more we laid down and fell fast asleep. About five o’clock in the morning I was roused by O’Brien, who at the same time put his hand gently over my mouth. I sat up, and perceived a large fire not far from us. “The Philistines are upon us, Peter,” said he: “I have reconnoitred, and they are the gendarmes. I am fearful of going away, as we may stumble upon some more of them. I’ve been thinking what’s best before I waked you; and it appears to me, that we had better get up the tree, and lie there.”
At that time we were hidden in a copse of underwood, with a large oak in the centre, covered with ivy, “I think so, too, O’Brien; shall we go up now, or wait a little?”
“Now, to be sure, that they’re eating their prog. Mount you, Peter and I’ll help you.”
O’Brien shoved me up the tree, and then, waiting a little while to bury our haversacks among the leaves, he followed me. He desired me to remain in a very snug position, on the first fork of the tree, while he took another amongst a bunch of ivy on the largest bough. There we remained for about an hour, when day dawned. We observed the gendarmes mustered at the break of day by the corporal, and then they all separated in different directions to scour the wood. We were delighted to perceive this, as we hoped soon to be able to get away; but there was one gendarme who remained. He walked round the tree, looking up into every part; but we were well concealed, and he did not discover us for some time. At last he saw me, and ordered me to come down. I paid no attention to him, as I had no signal from O’Brien. He walked round a little farther, until he was directly under the branch on which O’Brien lay. Taking up this position, he had a fairer aim at me, and levelled his musket, saying, “Descendez, ou je tire.” Still I continued immovable, for I knew not what to do. I shut my eyes, however; the musket shortly afterwards was discharged, and, whether from fear or not I can hardly tell, I lost my hold of a sudden, and down I came. I was stunned with the fall, and thought that I must have been wounded; and was very much surprised, when, instead of the gendarme, O’Brien came up to me, and asked whether I was hurt. I answered I believed not, and got up on my legs, when I found the gendarme lying on the ground, breathing heavily, but insensible. When O’Brien perceived the gendarme level his musket at me, he immediately dropped from the bough, right upon his head; this occasioned the musket to go off, without hitting me, and at the same time the weight of O’Brien’s body from such a height killed the gendarme, for he expired before we left him. “Now, Peter,” said O’Brien, “this is the most fortunate thing in the world, and will take us half through the country; but we have no time to lose.” He then stripped the gendarme, who still breathed heavily, and dragging him to our bed of leaves, covered him up, threw off his own clothes, which he tied up in a bundle, and gave to me to carry, and put on those of the gendarme. I could not help laughing at the metamorphosis, and asked O’Brien what he intended. “Sure, I’m a gendarme, bringing with me a prisoner, who has escaped.” When we stopped at night, my youth excited a great deal of commiseration, especially from the females; and in one instance I was offered assistance to escape. I consented to it, but at the same time informed O’Brien of the plan proposed. O’Brien kept watch—I dressed myself, and was at the open window, when he rushed in, seizing me and declaring that he would inform the government of the conduct of the parties. Their confusion and distress was very great. They offered O’Brien twenty, thirty, forty Napoleons, if he would hush it up, for they were aware of the penalty and imprisonment. O’Brien replied that he would not accept of any money in compromise of his duty, that after he had given me into the charge of the gendarme of the next post, his business was at an end, and he must return to Flushing, where he was stationed.
“I have a sister there,” replied the hostess, “who keeps an inn. You’ll want good quarters and a friendly cup; do not denounce us, and I’ll give you a letter to her, which, if it does not prove of service, you can then return and give the information.”
O’Brien consented; the letter was delivered, and read to him, in which the sister was requested, by the love she bore to the writer, to do all she could for the bearer, who had the power of making the whole family miserable, but had refused so to do. O’Brien pocketed the letter filled his brandy flask, and saluting all the women, left the cabaret, dragging me after him with a cord. We were following our route, avoiding Malines, which was a fortified town, and at the time were in a narrow lane, with wide ditches, full of water, on each side. At the turning of a sharp corner we met the gendarme who had supplied O’Brien with a map of the town of Givet, “Good morning, comrade,” said he to O’Brien, looking earnestly at him, “whom have we here?”
“A young Englishman, whom I picked up close by, escaped from prison.”
“Where from?”
“He will not say; but I suspect from Givet.”
“There are two who have escaped from Givet,” replied he: “how they escaped no one can imagine; but,” continued he, again looking at O’Brien, “Avec les braves, il n’y a rien d’impossible.”
“That is true,” replied O’Brien; “I have taken one, the other cannot be far off. You had better look for him.”
“I should like to find him,” replied the gendarme, “for you know that to retake a runaway prisoner is certain promotion. You will be made a corporal.”
“So much the better,” replied O’Brien; “adieu, mon ami.”
“Nay, I merely came for a walk, and will return with you to Malines, where of course you are bound.”
“We shall not get there to-night,” said O’Brien, “my prisoner is too much fatigued.”
“Well, then, we will go as far as we can; and I will assist you. Perhaps we may find the second, who, I understand, obtained a map of the fortress by some means or another.”
O’Brien observed, that the English prisoners were very liberal; that he knew that a hundred Napoleons were often paid for assistance, and he thought that no corporal’s rank was equal to a sum that would in France made a man happy and independent for life.
“Very true,” replied the gendarme; “and let me only look upon that sum, and I will guarantee a positive safety out of France.”
“Then we understand each other,” replied O’Brien; “this boy will give two hundred—one half shall be yours, if you will assist.”
“I will think of it,” replied the gendarme, who then talked about indifferent subjects, until we arrived at a small town called Acarchot, when we proceeded to a cabaret. The usual curiosity passed over, we were left alone, O’Brien telling the gendarme that he would expect his reply that night or to-morrow morning. The gendarme said, to-morrow morning. O’Brien requesting him to take charge of me, he called the woman of the cabaret to show him a room; she showed him one or two, which he refused, as not sufficiently safe for the prisoner. The woman laughed at the idea, observing, “What had he to fear from apauvre enfantlike me?”
“Yet thispauvre enfantescaped from Givet,” replied O’Brien. “These Englishmen are devils from their birth.” The last room showed to O’Brien suited him, and he chose it—the woman not presuming to contradict a gendarme. As soon as they came down again, O’Brien ordered me to bed, and went upstairs with me. He bolted the door, and pulling me to the large chimney, we put our heads up, and whispered, that our conversation should not be heard. “This man is not to be trusted,” said O’Brien, “and we must give him the slip. I know my way out of the inn, and we must return the way we came, and then strike off in another direction.”
“But will he permit us?”
“Not if he can help it; but I shall soon find out his manoeuvres.”
O’Brien then went and stopped the key-hole, by hanging his handkerchief across it, and stripping himself of his gendarme uniform, put on his own clothes; then stuffed the blankets and pillows into the gendarme’s dress, and laid it down on the outside of the bed, as if it were a man sleeping in his clothes—indeed it was an admirable deception. He laid his musket by the side of the image, and then did the same to my bed, making it appear as if there was a person asleep in it of my size, and putting my cap on the pillow. “Now, Peter, we’ll see if he is watching us. He will wait till he thinks we are asleep.” The light still remained in the room, and about an hour afterwards we heard a noise of one treading on the stairs, upon which, as agreed, we crept under the bed. The latch of our door was tried, and finding it open, which he did not expect, the gendarme entered, and looking at both beds, went away. “Now,” said I, after the gendarme had gone down stairs, “O’Brien, ought we not to escape?”
“I’ve been thinking of it, Peter, and I have come to a resolution that we can manage it better. He is certain to come again in an hour or two. It is only eleven. Now, I’ll play him a trick.” O’Brien then took one of the blankets, made it fast to the window, which he left wide open, and at the same time dissarranged the images he had made up, so as to let the gendarme perceive that they were counterfeit. We again crept under the bed; and as O’Brien foretold, in about an hour more the gendarme returned; our lamp was still burning, but he had a light of his own. He looked at the beds, perceived at once that he had been duped, went to the open window, and then exclaimed, “Sacre Dieu! Ils m’ont éschappés et je ne ne suis plus corporal. Foutre! à la chasse!” He rushed out of the room, and in a few minutes afterwards we heard him open the street door, and go away.
“That will do, Peter,” said O’Brien, laughing; “now we’ll be off also, although there’s no great hurry.” O’Brien then resumed his dress of a gendarme; and about an hour afterwards we went down, and wishing the hostess all happiness, quitted the cabaret, returning the same road by which we had come. “Now, Peter,” said O’Brien, “we’re in a bit of a puzzle. This dress won’t do any more, still there’s a respectability about it which will not allow me to put it off till the last moment.” We walked on till daylight, when we hid ourselves in a copse of trees. Our money was not exhausted, as I had drawn upon my father for 60 pounds, which, with the disadvantageous exchange, had given me fifty Napoleons. On the fifth day, being then six days from the forest of Ardennes, we hid ourselves in a small wood, about a quarter of a mile from the road. I remained there, while O’Brien, as a gendarme, went to obtain provisions. As usual, I looked out for the best shelter during his absence, and what was my horror at falling in with a man and woman who lay dead in the snow, having evidently perished from the inclemency of the weather. Just as I discovered them, O’Brien returned, and I told him: he went with me to view the bodies. They were dressed in a strange attire, ribands pinned upon their clothes, and two pairs of very high stilts lying by their sides. O’Brien surveyed them, and then said, “Peter, this is the very best thing that could have happened to us. We may now walk through France without soiling our feet with the cursed country.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean,” said he, “that these are the people that we met near Montpelier, who came from the landes, walking about on their stilts for the amusement of others, to obtain money. In their own country they are obliged to walk so. Now, Peter, it appears to me that the man’s clothes will fit me, and the girl’s (poor creature, how pretty she looks, cold in death!) will fit you. All we have to do is to practise a little, and then away we start.”
O’Brien then, with some difficulty, pulled off the man’s jacket and trowsers, and having so done, buried him in the snow. The poor girl was despoiled of her gown and upper petticoat with every decency, and also buried. We collected the clothes and stilts, and removed to another quarter, where we pitched upon a hovel and took our meal. “Peter,” said O’Brien, “lie down and sleep, and I’ll keep the watch. Not a word, I will have it—down at once.”
I did so, and in a very few minutes was fast asleep, for I was worn out with cold and fatigue. Just as the day broke, O’Brien roused me; he had stood sentry all night, and looked very haggard.
“O’Brien, you are ill,” said I.
“Not a bit; but I’ve emptied the brandy-flask; and that’s a bad job. However, it is to be remedied.”
I did not go to sleep again for some time, I was so anxious to see O’Brien fast asleep. He went in and out several times, during which I pretended to be fast asleep; at last it rained in torrents, and then he laid down, and in a few minutes, overpowered by nature, he fell fast asleep, snoring so loudly that I was afraid some one would hear us. I then got up and watched, occasionally lying down and slumbering awhile, and then going down to the door.
Chapter Twenty Three.Exalted with our success, we march through France without touching the ground—I become feminine—We are voluntary conscripts.At day-break I called O’Brien, who jumped up in a great hurry.“Sure I’ve been asleep, Peter.”“Yes, you have,” replied I, “and I thank Heaven that you have, for no one could stand such fatigue as you have much longer; and if you fall ill, what will become of me?” This was touching him on the right point.“Well, Peter, since there’s no harm come of it, there’s no harm done. I’ve had sleep enough for the next week, that’s certain.”We returned to the wood; the snow had disappeared, and the rain ceased; the sun shone out from between the clouds, and we felt warm.“Don’t pass so near that way,” said O’Brien, “we shall see the poor creatures, now that the sun is gone. Peter, we must shift our quarters to-night, for I have been to every cabaret in the village, and I cannot go there any more without suspicion, although I am a gendarme.”We remained there till the evening, and then set off, still returning toward Givet. About an hour before daylight we arrived at a copse of trees close to the road-side, and surrounded by a ditch, not above a quarter of a mile from a village “It appears to me,” said O’Brien, “that this will do; I will now put you there, and then go boldly to the village and see what I can get, for here we must stay at least a week.”We walked to the copse, and the ditch being rather too wide for me to leap, O’Brien laid the four stilts together, so as to form a bridge, over which I contrived to walk. Tossing to me all the bundles, and desiring me to leave the stilts as a bridge for him on his return, he set off to the village with his musket on his shoulder. He was away two hours, when he returned with a large supply of provisions, the best we had ever had.“There,” said he, “we have enough for a good week; and look here, Peter, this is better than all.” And he showed me two large horse-rugs.“Excellent,” replied I; “now we shall be comfortable.”“I paid honestly for all but these rugs,” observed O’Brien; “I was afraid to buy them, so I stole them. However, we’ll leave them here for those they belong to—it’s only borrowing, after all.”We now prepared a very comfortable shelter with branches, which we wove together, and laying the leaves in the sun to dry, soon obtained a soft bed to put our horse-rug on, while we covered ourselves up with the other. Our bridge of stilts we had removed, so that we felt ourselves quite secure from surprise. At dark, to bed we went, and slept soundly; I never felt more refreshed during our wanderings. At daylight O’Brien got up.“Now, Peter, a little practice before breakfast.”“What practice do you mean?”“Mean why, on the stilts. I expect in a week that you’ll be able to dance a gavotte at least; for mind me, Peter, you travel out of France upon these stilts, depend upon it.”O’Brien then took the stilts belonging to the man, giving me those of the woman. We strapped them to our thighs, and by fixing our backs to a tree, contrived to get upright upon them; but at the first attempt to walk, O’Brien fell to the right, and I fell to the left. O’Brien fell against a tree, but I fell on my nose, and made it bleed very much; however, we laughed and got up again, and although we had several falls, at last we made a better hand of them.O’Brien then dressed me in the poor girl’s clothes, and himself in the man’s; they fitted very well.“Peter, you make a very pretty girl,” said O’Brien.“But, O’Brien,” replied I, “as these petticoats are not very warm, I mean to cut off my trousers up to my knees, and wear them underneath.”“That’s all right,” said O’Brien.The next morning we made use of our stilts to cross the ditch, and carrying them in our hands we boldly set off on the high road to Malines. We met several people, gendarmes, and others, but with the exception of some remarks upon my good looks we passed unnoticed. Towards the evening we arrived at the village where we had slept in the outhouse, and as soon as we entered it, we put on our stilts, and commenced a march. When the crowd had gathered, we held out our caps, and receiving nine or ten sous, we entered a cabaret. Many questions were asked us, as to where we came from, and O’Brien answered, telling lies innumerable. I played the modest girl, and O’Brien, who stated I was his sister, appeared very careful and jealous of my attention. We slept well, and the next morning continued our route to Malines. As we entered the barriers we put on our stilts, and marched boldly on. The guard at the gate stopped us, not from suspicion, but to amuse themselves, and I was forced to submit to several kisses from their garlic lips before we were allowed to enter the town. We again mounted on our stilts, for the guard had forced us to dismount, or they could not have kissed me, every now and then imitating a dance, until we arrived at theGrande Place, where we stopped opposite the hotel, and commenced a sort of waltz, which we had practised. The people in the hotel looked out of the window to see our exhibition, and when we had finished I went up to the windows with O’Brien’s cap to collect money. What was my surprise to perceive Colonel O’Brien looking full in my face, and staring very hard at me? what was my greater astonishment at seeing Celeste, who immediately recognised me, and ran back to the sofa in the room, putting her hands up to her eyes, and crying out, “C’est lui, c’est lui!” Fortunately O’Brien was close to me, or I should have fallen, but he supported me. “Peter, ask the crowd for money, or you are lost.” I did so, and collecting some pence, then asked him what I should do. “Go back to the window—you can then judge of what will happen.” I returned to the window:Colonel O’Brien had disappeared, but Celeste was there, as if waiting for me. I held out the cap to her, and she thrust her hand into it. The cap sunk with the weight. I took out a purse, which I kept closed in my hand, and put it into my bosom. Celeste then retired from the window, and when she had gone to the back of the room kissed her hand to me, and went out at the door. I remained stupefied for a moment, but O’Brien roused me, and we quitted theGrande Place, taking up our quarters at a little cabaret. On examining the purse, I found fifty Napoleons in it: they must have been obtained from her father.At the cabaret where we stopped, we were informed that the officer who was at the hotel had been appointed to the command of the strong fort of Bergen-op-Zoom, and was proceeding thither.We walked out of the town early in the morning, after O’Brien had made purchases of some of the clothes usually worn by the peasantry. When within a few miles of St. Nicholas, we threw away our stilts and the clothes which we had on, and dressed ourselves in those O’Brien had purchased. O’Brien had not forgot to provide us with two large brown-coloured blankets, which we strapped on to our shoulders, as the soldiers do their coats.It was bitter cold weather, and the snow had fallen heavily during the whole day; but although nearly dusk, there was a bright moon ready for us. We walked very fast, and soon observed persons ahead of us. “Let us overtake them, we may obtain some information.” As we came up with them, one of them (they were both lads of seventeen to eighteen) said to O’Brien, “I thought we were the last, but I was mistaken. How far is it now to St. Nicholas?”“How should I know?” replied O’Brien, “I am a stranger in these parts as well as yourself.”“From what part of France do you come?” demanded the other, his teeth chattering with the cold, for he was badly clothed, and with little defence from the inclement weather.“From Montpelier,” replied O’Brien.“And I from Toulouse. A sad change, comrades from olives and vines to such a climate as this. Curse the conscription: I intended to have taken a little wife next year.”O’Brien gave me a push, as if to say, “Here’s something that will do,” and then continued—“And curse the conscription I say too, for I had just married, and now my wife is left to be annoyed by the attention of thefermier général. But it can’t be helped.C’est pour la France et pour la gloire.”“We shall be too late to get a billet,” replied the other, “and not a sou have I in my pockets. I doubt if I get up with the main body till they are at Flushing. By our route, they are at Axel to-day.”“If we arrive at St. Nicholas we shall do well,” replied O’Brien; “but I have a little money left, and I’ll not see a comrade want a supper or a bed who is going to serve his country. You can repay me when we meet at Flushing.”“That I will, with thanks,” replied the Frenchman, “and so will Jaques, here, if you will trust him.”“With pleasure,” replied O’Brien, who then entered into along conversation, by which he drew out from the Frenchmen that a party of conscripts had been ordered to Flushing, and that they had dropped behind the main body. In about an hour we arrived at St. Nicholas, and after some difficulty obtained entrance into a cabaret. “Vive la France!” said O’Brien, going up to the fire, and throwing the snow off his hat. In a short time we were seated to a good supper and very tolerable wine, the hostess sitting down by us, and listening to the true narratives of the real conscripts, and the false one of O’Brien. After supper the conscript who first addressed us pulled out his printed paper, with the route laid down, and observed that we were two days behind the others. O’Brien read it over, and laid it on the table, at the same time calling for more wine, having already pushed it round very freely. We did not drink much ourselves, but plied them hard, and at last the conscript commenced the whole history of his intended marriage and his disappointment, tearing his hair, and crying now and then. “Never mind,” interrupted O’Brien, every two or three minutes; “buvons un autre coup pour la gloire!” and thus he continued to make them both drink, until they reeled away to bed, forgetting their printed paper, which O’Brien had some time before slipped away from the table. We also retired to our room, when O’Brien observed to me, “Peter, this description is as much like me as I am to old Nick; but that’s of no consequence, as nobody goes willingly as a conscript, and therefore they will never have a doubt but that it is all right. We must be off early to-morrow, while these good people are in bed, and steal a long march upon them. I consider that we are now safe as far as Flushing.”
At day-break I called O’Brien, who jumped up in a great hurry.
“Sure I’ve been asleep, Peter.”
“Yes, you have,” replied I, “and I thank Heaven that you have, for no one could stand such fatigue as you have much longer; and if you fall ill, what will become of me?” This was touching him on the right point.
“Well, Peter, since there’s no harm come of it, there’s no harm done. I’ve had sleep enough for the next week, that’s certain.”
We returned to the wood; the snow had disappeared, and the rain ceased; the sun shone out from between the clouds, and we felt warm.
“Don’t pass so near that way,” said O’Brien, “we shall see the poor creatures, now that the sun is gone. Peter, we must shift our quarters to-night, for I have been to every cabaret in the village, and I cannot go there any more without suspicion, although I am a gendarme.”
We remained there till the evening, and then set off, still returning toward Givet. About an hour before daylight we arrived at a copse of trees close to the road-side, and surrounded by a ditch, not above a quarter of a mile from a village “It appears to me,” said O’Brien, “that this will do; I will now put you there, and then go boldly to the village and see what I can get, for here we must stay at least a week.”
We walked to the copse, and the ditch being rather too wide for me to leap, O’Brien laid the four stilts together, so as to form a bridge, over which I contrived to walk. Tossing to me all the bundles, and desiring me to leave the stilts as a bridge for him on his return, he set off to the village with his musket on his shoulder. He was away two hours, when he returned with a large supply of provisions, the best we had ever had.
“There,” said he, “we have enough for a good week; and look here, Peter, this is better than all.” And he showed me two large horse-rugs.
“Excellent,” replied I; “now we shall be comfortable.”
“I paid honestly for all but these rugs,” observed O’Brien; “I was afraid to buy them, so I stole them. However, we’ll leave them here for those they belong to—it’s only borrowing, after all.”
We now prepared a very comfortable shelter with branches, which we wove together, and laying the leaves in the sun to dry, soon obtained a soft bed to put our horse-rug on, while we covered ourselves up with the other. Our bridge of stilts we had removed, so that we felt ourselves quite secure from surprise. At dark, to bed we went, and slept soundly; I never felt more refreshed during our wanderings. At daylight O’Brien got up.
“Now, Peter, a little practice before breakfast.”
“What practice do you mean?”
“Mean why, on the stilts. I expect in a week that you’ll be able to dance a gavotte at least; for mind me, Peter, you travel out of France upon these stilts, depend upon it.”
O’Brien then took the stilts belonging to the man, giving me those of the woman. We strapped them to our thighs, and by fixing our backs to a tree, contrived to get upright upon them; but at the first attempt to walk, O’Brien fell to the right, and I fell to the left. O’Brien fell against a tree, but I fell on my nose, and made it bleed very much; however, we laughed and got up again, and although we had several falls, at last we made a better hand of them.
O’Brien then dressed me in the poor girl’s clothes, and himself in the man’s; they fitted very well.
“Peter, you make a very pretty girl,” said O’Brien.
“But, O’Brien,” replied I, “as these petticoats are not very warm, I mean to cut off my trousers up to my knees, and wear them underneath.”
“That’s all right,” said O’Brien.
The next morning we made use of our stilts to cross the ditch, and carrying them in our hands we boldly set off on the high road to Malines. We met several people, gendarmes, and others, but with the exception of some remarks upon my good looks we passed unnoticed. Towards the evening we arrived at the village where we had slept in the outhouse, and as soon as we entered it, we put on our stilts, and commenced a march. When the crowd had gathered, we held out our caps, and receiving nine or ten sous, we entered a cabaret. Many questions were asked us, as to where we came from, and O’Brien answered, telling lies innumerable. I played the modest girl, and O’Brien, who stated I was his sister, appeared very careful and jealous of my attention. We slept well, and the next morning continued our route to Malines. As we entered the barriers we put on our stilts, and marched boldly on. The guard at the gate stopped us, not from suspicion, but to amuse themselves, and I was forced to submit to several kisses from their garlic lips before we were allowed to enter the town. We again mounted on our stilts, for the guard had forced us to dismount, or they could not have kissed me, every now and then imitating a dance, until we arrived at theGrande Place, where we stopped opposite the hotel, and commenced a sort of waltz, which we had practised. The people in the hotel looked out of the window to see our exhibition, and when we had finished I went up to the windows with O’Brien’s cap to collect money. What was my surprise to perceive Colonel O’Brien looking full in my face, and staring very hard at me? what was my greater astonishment at seeing Celeste, who immediately recognised me, and ran back to the sofa in the room, putting her hands up to her eyes, and crying out, “C’est lui, c’est lui!” Fortunately O’Brien was close to me, or I should have fallen, but he supported me. “Peter, ask the crowd for money, or you are lost.” I did so, and collecting some pence, then asked him what I should do. “Go back to the window—you can then judge of what will happen.” I returned to the window:
Colonel O’Brien had disappeared, but Celeste was there, as if waiting for me. I held out the cap to her, and she thrust her hand into it. The cap sunk with the weight. I took out a purse, which I kept closed in my hand, and put it into my bosom. Celeste then retired from the window, and when she had gone to the back of the room kissed her hand to me, and went out at the door. I remained stupefied for a moment, but O’Brien roused me, and we quitted theGrande Place, taking up our quarters at a little cabaret. On examining the purse, I found fifty Napoleons in it: they must have been obtained from her father.
At the cabaret where we stopped, we were informed that the officer who was at the hotel had been appointed to the command of the strong fort of Bergen-op-Zoom, and was proceeding thither.
We walked out of the town early in the morning, after O’Brien had made purchases of some of the clothes usually worn by the peasantry. When within a few miles of St. Nicholas, we threw away our stilts and the clothes which we had on, and dressed ourselves in those O’Brien had purchased. O’Brien had not forgot to provide us with two large brown-coloured blankets, which we strapped on to our shoulders, as the soldiers do their coats.
It was bitter cold weather, and the snow had fallen heavily during the whole day; but although nearly dusk, there was a bright moon ready for us. We walked very fast, and soon observed persons ahead of us. “Let us overtake them, we may obtain some information.” As we came up with them, one of them (they were both lads of seventeen to eighteen) said to O’Brien, “I thought we were the last, but I was mistaken. How far is it now to St. Nicholas?”
“How should I know?” replied O’Brien, “I am a stranger in these parts as well as yourself.”
“From what part of France do you come?” demanded the other, his teeth chattering with the cold, for he was badly clothed, and with little defence from the inclement weather.
“From Montpelier,” replied O’Brien.
“And I from Toulouse. A sad change, comrades from olives and vines to such a climate as this. Curse the conscription: I intended to have taken a little wife next year.”
O’Brien gave me a push, as if to say, “Here’s something that will do,” and then continued—“And curse the conscription I say too, for I had just married, and now my wife is left to be annoyed by the attention of thefermier général. But it can’t be helped.C’est pour la France et pour la gloire.”
“We shall be too late to get a billet,” replied the other, “and not a sou have I in my pockets. I doubt if I get up with the main body till they are at Flushing. By our route, they are at Axel to-day.”
“If we arrive at St. Nicholas we shall do well,” replied O’Brien; “but I have a little money left, and I’ll not see a comrade want a supper or a bed who is going to serve his country. You can repay me when we meet at Flushing.”
“That I will, with thanks,” replied the Frenchman, “and so will Jaques, here, if you will trust him.”
“With pleasure,” replied O’Brien, who then entered into along conversation, by which he drew out from the Frenchmen that a party of conscripts had been ordered to Flushing, and that they had dropped behind the main body. In about an hour we arrived at St. Nicholas, and after some difficulty obtained entrance into a cabaret. “Vive la France!” said O’Brien, going up to the fire, and throwing the snow off his hat. In a short time we were seated to a good supper and very tolerable wine, the hostess sitting down by us, and listening to the true narratives of the real conscripts, and the false one of O’Brien. After supper the conscript who first addressed us pulled out his printed paper, with the route laid down, and observed that we were two days behind the others. O’Brien read it over, and laid it on the table, at the same time calling for more wine, having already pushed it round very freely. We did not drink much ourselves, but plied them hard, and at last the conscript commenced the whole history of his intended marriage and his disappointment, tearing his hair, and crying now and then. “Never mind,” interrupted O’Brien, every two or three minutes; “buvons un autre coup pour la gloire!” and thus he continued to make them both drink, until they reeled away to bed, forgetting their printed paper, which O’Brien had some time before slipped away from the table. We also retired to our room, when O’Brien observed to me, “Peter, this description is as much like me as I am to old Nick; but that’s of no consequence, as nobody goes willingly as a conscript, and therefore they will never have a doubt but that it is all right. We must be off early to-morrow, while these good people are in bed, and steal a long march upon them. I consider that we are now safe as far as Flushing.”
Chapter Twenty Four.What occurred at Flushing, and what occurred when we got out of Flushing.An hour before day-break we started; the snow was thick on the ground, but the sky was clear, and without any difficulty or interruption was passed through the towns of Axel and Haist, arrived at Terneuse on the fourth day, and went over to Flushing in company with about a dozen more stragglers from the main body. As we landed, the guard asked us whether we were conscripts. O’Brien replied that he was, and held out his paper. They took his name, or rather that of the person it belonged to, down in a book, and told him that he must apply to theétat majorbefore three o’clock. We passed on, delighted with our success, and then O’Brien pulled out the letter which had been given to him by the woman of the cabaret who had offered to assist me to escape, when O’Brien passed off as a gendarme, and reading the address, demanded his way to the street. We soon found out the house, and entered.“Conscripts!” said the woman of the house, looking at O’Brien; “I am billeted full already. It must be a mistake. Where is your order?”“Read,” said O’Brien, handing her the letter.She read the letter, and putting it into her neckerchief, desired him to follow her. O’Brien beckoned me to come, and we went into a small room. “What can I do for you?” said the woman; “I will do all in my power; but, alas! you will march from here in two or three days.”“Never mind,” replied O’Brien, “we will talk the matter over by-and-by, but at present only oblige us by letting us remain in this little room; we do not wish to be seen.”“Comment donc!—you a conscript, and not wish to be seen! Are you, then, intending to desert?”“Answer me one question; you have read that letter, do you intend to act up to its purport, as your sister requests?”“As I hope for mercy I will, if I suffer everything. She is a dear sister, and would not write so earnestly if she had not strong reasons. My house and everything you command are yours—can I say more?”“What is your name?” inquired O’Brien.“Louise Eustache; you might have read it on the letter.”“Are you married?”“O yes, these six years. My husband is seldom at home; he is a Flushing pilot. A hard life, harder even that that of a soldier. Who is this lad?”“He is my brother, who, if I go as a soldier, intends to volunteer as a drummer.”“Pauvre enfant! c’est dommage.”The cabaret was full of conscripts and other people, so that the hostess had enough to do. At night we were shown by her into a small bedroom, adjoining the room we occupied. “You are quite alone here: the conscripts are to muster to-morrow, I find, in thePlace d’Armes, at two o’clock: do you intend to go?”“No,” replied O’Brien; “they will think that I am behind. It is of no consequence.”“Well,” replied the woman, “do as you please, you may trust me; but I am so busy, without anyone to assist me, that until they leave the town, I can hardly find time to speak to you.”“That will be soon enough, my good hostess,” replied O’Brien: “au revoir.”The next evening, the woman came in, in some alarm, stating that a conscript had arrived whose name had been given in before, and that the person who had given it in had not mustered at the place. That the conscript had declared that his pass had been stolen from him by a person with whom he had stopped at St. Nicholas, and that there were orders for a strict search to be made through the town, as it was known that some English officers had escaped, and it was supposed that one of them had obtained the pass. “Surely you’re not English?” inquired the woman, looking earnestly at O’Brien.“Indeed, but I am, my dear,” replied O’Brien; “and so is this lad with me; and the favour which your sister requires is that you help us over the water, for which service there are one hundred louis ready to be paid upon delivery of us.”“Oh, mon Dieu! mais c’est impossible.”“Impossible!” replied O’Brien; “was that the answer I gave your sister in her trouble?”“Au moins c’est difficile.”“That’s quite another concern; but with your husband a pilot I should think a great part of the difficulty removed.”“My husband! I’ve no power over him,” replied the woman, putting her apron up to her eyes.“But one hundred louis may have,” replied O’Brien.“There is truth in that,” observed the woman, after a pause; “but what am I to do, if they come to search the house?”“Send us out of it, until you can find an opportunity to send us to England. I leave it all to you—your sister expects it from you.”“And she shall not be disappointed, if God helps us,” replied the woman, after a short pause; “but I fear you must leave this house and the town also to-night.”“How are we to leave the town?”“I will arrange that; be ready at four o’clock, for the gates are shut at dusk. I must go now, for there is no time to be lost.”“We are in a nice mess now, O’Brien,” observed I, after the woman had quitted the room.“Devil a bit, Peter; I feel no anxiety whatever, except at leaving such good quarters.”We packed up all our effects, not forgetting our two blankets, and waited the return of the hostess. In about an hour she entered the room. “I have spoken to my husband’s sister, who lives about two miles on the road to Middleburg. She is in town now, for it is market-day, and you will be safe where she hides you. I told her it was by my husband’s request, or she would not have consented. Here, boy, put on these clothes: I will assist you.” Once more I was dressed as a girl, and when my clothes were on, O’Brien burst out into laughter at my blue stockings and short petticoats. “Il n’est pas mal,” observed the hostess, as she fixed a small cap on my head, and then tied a kerchief under my chin, which partly hid my face. O’Brien put on a great coat, which the woman handed to him, with a wide-brimmed hat. “Now follow me!” She led us into the street, which was thronged, till we arrived at the market-place when she met another women, who joined her. At the end of the marketplace stood a small horse and cart, into which the strange woman and I mounted, while O’Brien, by the directions of the landlady, led the horse through the crowd until we arrived at the barriers, when she wished us good day in a loud voice before the guard. The guard took no notice of us, and we passed safely through, and found ourselves upon a neatly-paved road, as straight as an arrow, and lined on each side with high trees and a ditch. In about an hour we stopped near to the farm-house of the woman who was in charge of us. “Do you observe that wood?” said she to O’Brien, pointing to one about half-a-mile from the road. “I dare not take you into the house, my husband is so violent against the English, who captured his schuyt, and made him a poor man, that he would inform against you immediately; but go you there, make yourselves as comfortable as you can to-night, and to-morrow I will send you what you want.Adieu! Je vous plains, pauvre enfant,” said she looking at me as she drove off in the cart towards her own house.“Peter,” said O’Brien, “I think that her kicking us out of her house is a proof of her sincerity, and therefore I say no more about it; we have the brandy-flask to keep up our spirits. Now then for the wood, though, by the powers, I shall have no relish for any of your pic-nic parties, as they call them, for the next twelve years.”“But, O’Brien, how can I get over this ditch in petticoats? I could hardly leap it in my clothes.”“You must tie your petticoats round your waist and make a good run; get over as far as you can, and I will drag you through the rest.”“But you forget that we are to sleep in the wood, and that it’s no laughing matter to get wet through, freezing so hard as it does now.”“Very true, Peter; but as the snow lies so deep upon the ditch, perhaps the ice may bear. I’ll try; if it bears me, it will not condescend to bend at your shrimp of carcass.”O’Brien tried the ice, which was firm, and we both walked over, and making all the haste we could, arrived at the wood, as the woman called it, but which was not more than a clump of trees of about half an acre. We cleared away the snow for about six feet round a very hollow part, and then O’Brien cut stakes and fixed them in the earth, to which we stretched one blanket. The snow being about two feet deep, there was plenty of room to creep underneath the blanket. We then collected all the leaves we could, beating the snow off them, and laid them at the bottom of the hole; over the leaves we spread the other blanket, and taking our bundles in, we then stopped up with snow every side of the upper blanket, except the hole to creep in at. It was quite astonishing what a warm place this became in a short time after we had remained in it. It was almost too warm, although the weather outside was piercingly cold. After a good meal and a dose of brandy, we both fell fast asleep, but not until I had taken off my woman’s attire and resumed my own clothes. We never slept better or more warmly than we did in this hole which we had made on the ground, covered with ice and snow.
An hour before day-break we started; the snow was thick on the ground, but the sky was clear, and without any difficulty or interruption was passed through the towns of Axel and Haist, arrived at Terneuse on the fourth day, and went over to Flushing in company with about a dozen more stragglers from the main body. As we landed, the guard asked us whether we were conscripts. O’Brien replied that he was, and held out his paper. They took his name, or rather that of the person it belonged to, down in a book, and told him that he must apply to theétat majorbefore three o’clock. We passed on, delighted with our success, and then O’Brien pulled out the letter which had been given to him by the woman of the cabaret who had offered to assist me to escape, when O’Brien passed off as a gendarme, and reading the address, demanded his way to the street. We soon found out the house, and entered.
“Conscripts!” said the woman of the house, looking at O’Brien; “I am billeted full already. It must be a mistake. Where is your order?”
“Read,” said O’Brien, handing her the letter.
She read the letter, and putting it into her neckerchief, desired him to follow her. O’Brien beckoned me to come, and we went into a small room. “What can I do for you?” said the woman; “I will do all in my power; but, alas! you will march from here in two or three days.”
“Never mind,” replied O’Brien, “we will talk the matter over by-and-by, but at present only oblige us by letting us remain in this little room; we do not wish to be seen.”
“Comment donc!—you a conscript, and not wish to be seen! Are you, then, intending to desert?”
“Answer me one question; you have read that letter, do you intend to act up to its purport, as your sister requests?”
“As I hope for mercy I will, if I suffer everything. She is a dear sister, and would not write so earnestly if she had not strong reasons. My house and everything you command are yours—can I say more?”
“What is your name?” inquired O’Brien.
“Louise Eustache; you might have read it on the letter.”
“Are you married?”
“O yes, these six years. My husband is seldom at home; he is a Flushing pilot. A hard life, harder even that that of a soldier. Who is this lad?”
“He is my brother, who, if I go as a soldier, intends to volunteer as a drummer.”
“Pauvre enfant! c’est dommage.”
The cabaret was full of conscripts and other people, so that the hostess had enough to do. At night we were shown by her into a small bedroom, adjoining the room we occupied. “You are quite alone here: the conscripts are to muster to-morrow, I find, in thePlace d’Armes, at two o’clock: do you intend to go?”
“No,” replied O’Brien; “they will think that I am behind. It is of no consequence.”
“Well,” replied the woman, “do as you please, you may trust me; but I am so busy, without anyone to assist me, that until they leave the town, I can hardly find time to speak to you.”
“That will be soon enough, my good hostess,” replied O’Brien: “au revoir.”
The next evening, the woman came in, in some alarm, stating that a conscript had arrived whose name had been given in before, and that the person who had given it in had not mustered at the place. That the conscript had declared that his pass had been stolen from him by a person with whom he had stopped at St. Nicholas, and that there were orders for a strict search to be made through the town, as it was known that some English officers had escaped, and it was supposed that one of them had obtained the pass. “Surely you’re not English?” inquired the woman, looking earnestly at O’Brien.
“Indeed, but I am, my dear,” replied O’Brien; “and so is this lad with me; and the favour which your sister requires is that you help us over the water, for which service there are one hundred louis ready to be paid upon delivery of us.”
“Oh, mon Dieu! mais c’est impossible.”
“Impossible!” replied O’Brien; “was that the answer I gave your sister in her trouble?”
“Au moins c’est difficile.”
“That’s quite another concern; but with your husband a pilot I should think a great part of the difficulty removed.”
“My husband! I’ve no power over him,” replied the woman, putting her apron up to her eyes.
“But one hundred louis may have,” replied O’Brien.
“There is truth in that,” observed the woman, after a pause; “but what am I to do, if they come to search the house?”
“Send us out of it, until you can find an opportunity to send us to England. I leave it all to you—your sister expects it from you.”
“And she shall not be disappointed, if God helps us,” replied the woman, after a short pause; “but I fear you must leave this house and the town also to-night.”
“How are we to leave the town?”
“I will arrange that; be ready at four o’clock, for the gates are shut at dusk. I must go now, for there is no time to be lost.”
“We are in a nice mess now, O’Brien,” observed I, after the woman had quitted the room.
“Devil a bit, Peter; I feel no anxiety whatever, except at leaving such good quarters.”
We packed up all our effects, not forgetting our two blankets, and waited the return of the hostess. In about an hour she entered the room. “I have spoken to my husband’s sister, who lives about two miles on the road to Middleburg. She is in town now, for it is market-day, and you will be safe where she hides you. I told her it was by my husband’s request, or she would not have consented. Here, boy, put on these clothes: I will assist you.” Once more I was dressed as a girl, and when my clothes were on, O’Brien burst out into laughter at my blue stockings and short petticoats. “Il n’est pas mal,” observed the hostess, as she fixed a small cap on my head, and then tied a kerchief under my chin, which partly hid my face. O’Brien put on a great coat, which the woman handed to him, with a wide-brimmed hat. “Now follow me!” She led us into the street, which was thronged, till we arrived at the market-place when she met another women, who joined her. At the end of the marketplace stood a small horse and cart, into which the strange woman and I mounted, while O’Brien, by the directions of the landlady, led the horse through the crowd until we arrived at the barriers, when she wished us good day in a loud voice before the guard. The guard took no notice of us, and we passed safely through, and found ourselves upon a neatly-paved road, as straight as an arrow, and lined on each side with high trees and a ditch. In about an hour we stopped near to the farm-house of the woman who was in charge of us. “Do you observe that wood?” said she to O’Brien, pointing to one about half-a-mile from the road. “I dare not take you into the house, my husband is so violent against the English, who captured his schuyt, and made him a poor man, that he would inform against you immediately; but go you there, make yourselves as comfortable as you can to-night, and to-morrow I will send you what you want.Adieu! Je vous plains, pauvre enfant,” said she looking at me as she drove off in the cart towards her own house.
“Peter,” said O’Brien, “I think that her kicking us out of her house is a proof of her sincerity, and therefore I say no more about it; we have the brandy-flask to keep up our spirits. Now then for the wood, though, by the powers, I shall have no relish for any of your pic-nic parties, as they call them, for the next twelve years.”
“But, O’Brien, how can I get over this ditch in petticoats? I could hardly leap it in my clothes.”
“You must tie your petticoats round your waist and make a good run; get over as far as you can, and I will drag you through the rest.”
“But you forget that we are to sleep in the wood, and that it’s no laughing matter to get wet through, freezing so hard as it does now.”
“Very true, Peter; but as the snow lies so deep upon the ditch, perhaps the ice may bear. I’ll try; if it bears me, it will not condescend to bend at your shrimp of carcass.”
O’Brien tried the ice, which was firm, and we both walked over, and making all the haste we could, arrived at the wood, as the woman called it, but which was not more than a clump of trees of about half an acre. We cleared away the snow for about six feet round a very hollow part, and then O’Brien cut stakes and fixed them in the earth, to which we stretched one blanket. The snow being about two feet deep, there was plenty of room to creep underneath the blanket. We then collected all the leaves we could, beating the snow off them, and laid them at the bottom of the hole; over the leaves we spread the other blanket, and taking our bundles in, we then stopped up with snow every side of the upper blanket, except the hole to creep in at. It was quite astonishing what a warm place this became in a short time after we had remained in it. It was almost too warm, although the weather outside was piercingly cold. After a good meal and a dose of brandy, we both fell fast asleep, but not until I had taken off my woman’s attire and resumed my own clothes. We never slept better or more warmly than we did in this hole which we had made on the ground, covered with ice and snow.
Chapter Twenty Five.O’Brien parts company to hunt for provisions, and I have other company in consequence of another hunt—O’Brien pathetically mourns my death and finds me alive—We escape.The ensuing morning we looked out anxiously for the promised assistance, for we were not very rich in provisions, although what we had were of a very good quality. It was not until three o’clock in the afternoon that we perceived a little girl coming towards us, escorted by a large mastiff. When she arrived at the copse of trees where we lay concealed, she cried out to the dog in Dutch, who immediately scoured the wood until he came to our hiding-place, when he crouched down at the entrance, barking furiously, and putting us in no small dread, lest he should attack us; but the little girl spoke to him again, and he remained in the same position, looking at us, wagging his tail, with his under jaw lying on the snow. She soon came up, and looking underneath, put a basket in, and nodded her head. We emptied the basket. O’brien took out a Napoleon and offered it to her; she refused it, but O’Brien forced it into her hand, upon which she again spoke to the dog, who commenced barking so furiously at us, that we expected every moment he would fly upon us. The girl at the same time presenting the Napoleon, and pointing to the dog, I went forward and took the Napoleon from her, at which she immediately silenced the enormous brute, and laughing at us, hastened away.“By the powers, that’s a fine little girl!” said O’Brien; “I’ll back her and her dog against any man. Well, I never had a dog set at me for giving money before, but we live and learn, Peter; and now let’s see what she’s brought in the basket.” We found half-boiled eggs, bread, and a smoked mutton-ham, with a large bottle of gin. “What a nice little girl! I hope she will often favour us with her company. I’ve been thinking, Peter, that we’re quite as well off here, as in a midshipman’s berth.”“You forget that you are a lieutenant.”“Well, so I did, Peter, and that’s the truth, but it’s the force of habit. Now let’s make our dinner. It’s a new-fashioned way though, of making a meal lying down; but, however, it’s economical, for it must take longer to swallow the victuals.”“The Romans used to eat their meals lying down, so I have read, O’Brien.”“I can’t say that I ever heard it mentioned in Ireland, but that don’t prove that it was not the case; so, Peter, I’ll take your word for it. Murder! how fast it snows again. I wonder what my father’s thinking on just at this moment.”This observation of O’Brien induced us to talk about our friends and relations in England, and after much conversation we fell fast asleep. The next morning we found the snow had fallen about eight inches, and weighing down our upper blanket so much, that we were obliged to go out and cut stakes to support it up from the inside. While we were thus employed, we heard a loud noise and shouting, and perceived several men, apparently armed and accompanied with dogs, running straight in the direction of the wood where we were encamped. We were much alarmed, thinking that they were in search of us, but on a sudden they turned off in another direction, continuing with the same speed as before. “What could it be?” said I to O’Brien. “I can’t exactly say, Peter; but I should think that they were hunting something, and the only game that I think likely to be in such a place as this are otters.” I was of the same opinion. We expected the little girl, but she did not come, and after looking out for her till dark, we crawled into our hole and supped upon the remainder of our provisions.The next day, as may be supposed, we were very anxious for her arrival, but she did not appear at the time expected. Night again came on, and we went to bed without having any sustenance, except a small piece of bread that was left, and some gin which was remaining in the flask, “Peter,” said O’Brien, “if she don’t come again to-morrow, I’ll try what I can do; for I’ve no idea of our dying of hunger here, like the two babes in the wood, and being found covered up with dead leaves. If she does not appear at three o’clock, I’m off for provisions, and I don’t see much danger, for in this dress I look as much of a boor as any man in Holland.”We passed an uneasy night, as we felt convinced either that the danger was so great that they dare not venture to assist us, or, that being over-ruled, they had betrayed us, and left us to manage how we could. The next morning I climbed up the only large tree in the copse and looked round, especially in the direction of the farm-house belonging to the woman who had pointed out to us our place of concealment; but nothing was to be seen but one vast tract of flat country covered with snow, and now and then a vehicle passing at a distance on the Middleburg road. I descended, and found O’Brien preparing for a start. He was very melancholy, and said to me, “Peter, if I am taken, you must, at all risks, put on your girl’s clothes and go to Flushing to the cabaret. The women there, I am sure, will protect you, and send you back to England. I only want two Napoleons; take all the rest, you will require them. If I am not back by to-night, set off for Flushing to-morrow morning.” O’Brien waited some time longer, talking with me, and it then being past four o’clock, he shook me by the hand, and, without speaking, left the wood. I never felt miserable during the whole time since we were first put into prison at Toulon, till that moment, and, when he was a hundred yards off, I knelt down and prayed. He had been absent two hours, and it was quite dusk, when I heard a noise at a distance: it advanced every moment nearer and nearer. On a sudden, I heard a rustling of the bushes, and hastened under the blanket, which was covered with snow, in hopes that they might not perceive the entrance; but I was hardly there before in dashed after me an enormous wolf. I cried out, expecting to be torn to pieces every moment; but the creature lay on his belly, his mouth wide open, his eyes glaring, and his long tongue hanging out of his mouth, and although he touched me, he was so exhausted that he did not attack me. The noise increased, and I immediately perceived that it was the hunters in pursuit of him. I had crawled in feet first, the wolf ran in head-foremost, so that we lay head and tail. I crept out as fast as I could, and perceived men and dogs not two hundred yards off in full chase. I hastened to the large tree, and had not ascended six feet when they came up; the dogs flew to the hole, and in a very short time the wolf was killed. The hunters being too busy to observe me, I had, in the meantime, climbed up the trunk of the tree, and hid myself as well as I could. Being not fifteen yards from them, I heard their expressions of surprise as they lifted up the blanket and dragged out the dead wolf, which they carried away with them; their conversation being in Dutch, I could not understand it, but I was certain that they made use of the word “English.” The hunters and dogs quitted the copse, and I was about to descend, when one of them returned, and pulling up the blankets, rolled them together and walked away with them. Fortunately he did not perceive our bundles by the little light given by the moon. I waited a short time and then came down. What to do I knew not. If I did not remain and O’Brien returned, what would he think? If I did, I should be dead with cold before the morning. I looked for our bundles, and found that in the conflict between the dogs and the wolf, they had been buried among the leaves. I recollected O’Brien’s advice, and dressed myself in the girl’s clothes, but I could not make up my mind, to go to Flushing. So I resolved to walk towards the farm-house, which being close to the road, would give me a chance of meeting with O’Brien. I soon arrived there, and prowled round it for some time, but the doors and windows were all fast, and I dared not knock, after what the woman had said about her husband’s inveteracy to the English. At last, as I looked round and round, quite at a loss what to do, I thought I saw a figure at a distance proceeding in the direction of the copse. I hastened after it and saw it enter. I then advanced very cautiously, for although I thought it might be O’Brien, yet it was possible that it was one of the men who chased the wolf, in search of more plunder. But I soon heard O’Brien’s voice; and I hastened towards him. I was close to him without his perceiving me, and found him sitting down with his face covered up in his two hands. At last he cried, “O Pater! my poor Pater! are you taken at last? Could I not leave you for one hour in safety? Ochone! why did I leave you? My poor, poor Pater! simple you were, sure enough, and that’s why I loved you; but, Pater, I would have made a man of you, for you’d all the materials, that’s the truth—and a fine man too. Where am I to look for you, Pater? Where am I to find you, Pater? You’re fast locked up by this time, and all my trouble’s gone for nothing. But I’ll be locked up too, Pater. Where you are, will I be; and if we can’t go to England together, why then we’ll go back to that blackguard hole at Givet together. Ochone! Ochone!” O’Brien spoke no more, but burst into tears. I was much affected with this proof of o’brien’s sincere regard, and I came to his side, and clasped him in my arms. O’Brien stared at me—“Who are you, you ugly Dutch frow?” (for he had quite forgotten the woman’s dress at the moment,) but recollecting himself, he hugged me in his arms. “Pater, you come as near to an angel’s shape as you can, for you come in that of a woman, to comfort me; for, to tell the truth, I was very much distressed at not finding you here; and all the blankets gone to boot. What has been the matter?” I explained in as few words as I could.“Well, Peter, I’m happy to find you all safe, and much happier to find that you can be trusted when I leave you, for you could not have behaved more prudently. Now I’ll tell you what I did, which was not much, as it happened. I knew that there was no cabaret between us and Flushing, for I took particular notice as I came along: so I took the road to Middleburg, and found but one, which was full of soldiers. I passed it, and found no other. As I came back past the same cabaret, one of the soldiers came out to me, but I walked along the road. He quickened his pace, and so did I mine, for I expected mischief. At last he came up to me, and spoke to me, in Dutch, to which I gave him no answer. He collared me, and then I thought it convenient to pretend that I was deaf and dumb. I pointed to my mouth with an Au—au—and then to my ears, and shook my head; but he would not be convinced, and I heard him say something about English. I then knew that there was no time to be lost, so I first burst out into a loud laugh and stopped; and on his attempting to force me, I kicked up his heels, and he fell on the ice with such a rap on the pate, that I doubt if he has recovered it by this time. There I left him, and have run back as hard as I could, without any thing for Peter to fill his little hungry inside with. Now, Peter, what’s your opinion? for they say, that out of the mouth of babes there is wisdom; and although I never saw anything come out of their mouths but sour milk, yet perhaps I may be more fortunate, this time, for, Peter, you’re but a baby.”“Not a small one, O’Brien, although not quite so large as Fingal’s babby that you told me the story of. My idea is this. Let us, at all hazards, go to the farmhouse. They have assisted us, and may be inclined to do so again; if they refuse, we must push on to Flushing and take our chance.”“Well,” observed O’Brien, after a pause, “I think we can do no better, so let’s be off.” We went to the farm-house, and, as we approached the door, were met by the great mastiff. I started back, O’Brien boldly advanced. “He’s a clever dog, and may know us again. I’ll go up,” said O’Brien, not stopping while he spoke, “and pat his head; if he flies at me, I shall be no worse than I was before, for depend upon it he will not allow us to go back again.” O’Brien by this time had advanced to the dog, who looked earnestly and angrily at him. He patted his head, the dog growled, but O’Brien put his arm round his neck, and patting him again, whistled to him, and went to the door of the farm-house. The dog followed him silently but closely. O’Brien knocked, and the door was opened by the little girl: the mastiff advanced to the girl and then turned round, facing O’Brien, as much as to say—“Is he to come in?” The girl spoke to the dog, and went in-doors. During her absence the mastiff laid down at the threshold. In a few seconds the woman who had brought us from Flushing came out, and desired us to enter. She spoke very good French, and told us that fortunately her husband was absent; that the reason why we had not been supplied was, that a wolf had met her little girl returning the other day, but had been beaten off by the mastiff, and that she was afraid to allow her to go again; that she heard the wolf had been killed this evening, and had intended her girl to have gone to us early to-morrow morning. That wolves were hardly known in that country, but that the severe winter had brought them down to the lowlands, a very rare circumstance, occurring perhaps not once in twenty years. “But how did you pass the mastiff?” said she; “that has surprised my daughter and me.” O’Brien told her; upon which she said, that “the English were really ‘des braves.’ No other man had ever done the same.” So I thought, for nothing would have induced me to do it. O’Brien then told the history of the death of the wolf with all particulars, and our intention if we could not do better, of returning to Flushing.“I heard that Pierre Eustache came home yesterday,” said the woman; “and I do think that you will be safer at Flushing than here, for they will never think of looking for you among thecasernes, which join their cabaret.”“Will you lend us your assistance to get in?”“I will see what I can do. But are you not hungry?”“About as hungry as men who have eaten nothing for two days.”“Mon Dieu! c’est vrai. I never thought it was so long, but those whose stomachs are filled forget those who are empty. God make us better and more charitable!”She spoke to the little girl in Dutch, who hastened to load the table, which we hastened to empty. The little girl stared at our voracity; but at last she laughed out, and clapped her hands at every fresh mouthful which we took, and pressed us to eat more. She allowed me to kiss her, until her mother told her that I was not a woman, when she pouted at me, and beat me off. Before midnight we were fast asleep upon the benches before the kitchen fire, and at day-break were roused up by the woman, who offered us some bread and spirits; and then we went out to the door, where we found the horse and cart all ready, and loaded with vegetables for the market. The woman, the little girl, and myself got in, O’Brien leading as before, and the mastiff following. We had learnt the dog’s name, which wasAchille, and he seemed to be quite fond of us. We passed the dreaded barriers without interruption, and in ten minutes entered the cabaret of Eustache; and immediately walked into the little room through a crowd of soldiers, two of whom chucked me under the chin. Who should we find there but Eustache, the pilot himself, in conversation with his wife; and it appeared that they were talking about us, she insisting, and he unwilling to have any hand in the business.“Well, here they are themselves, Eustache: the soldiers who have seen them come in will never believe that this is their first entry, if you give them up. I leave them to make their own bargain; but mark me, Eustache, I have slaved night and day in this cabaret for your profit; if you do not oblige me and my family, I no longer keep a cabaret for you.” Madame Eustache then quitted the room with her husband’s sister and little girl, and O’Brien immediately accosted him. “I promise you,” said he to Eustache, “one hundred louis if you put us on shore at any part of England, or on board of any English man-of-war; and if you do it within a week, I will make it twenty louis more.” O’Brien then pulled out the fifty Napoleons given us by Celeste, for our own were not yet expended, and laid them on the table. “Here is this in advance, to prove my sincerity. Say, is it a bargain or not?”“I never yet heard of a poor man who could withstand his wife’s arguments, backed with one hundred and twenty louis,” said Eustache smiling, and sweeping the money off the table.“I presume you have no objection to start to-night? That will be ten louis more in your favour,” replied O’Brien.“I shall earn them,” replied Eustache: “the sooner I am off the better, for I could not long conceal you here. The young frow with you is, I suppose, your companion that my wife mentioned. He has begun to suffer hardships early. Come, now sit down and talk, for nothing can be done till dark.”O’Brien narrated the adventures attending our escape, at which Eustache laughed heartily; the more so, at the mistake which his wife was under, as to the obligations of the family. “If I did not feel inclined to assist you before, I do now, just for the laugh I shall have at her when I come back; and if she wants any more assistance for the sake of her relations, I shall remind her of this anecdote; but she’s a good woman and a good wife to boot, only too fond of her sisters.” At dusk he equipped us both in sailor’s jackets and trowsers, and desired us to follow him boldly. He passed the guard, who knew him well. “What, to sea already?” said one. “You have quarrelled with your wife.” At which they all laughed, and we joined. We gained the beach, jumped into his little boat, pulled off to his vessel, and, in a few minutes, were under weigh. With a strong tide and a fair wind we were soon clear of the Scheldt, and the next morning a cutter hove in sight. We steered for her, ran under her lee, O’Brien hailed for a boat, and Eustache, receiving my bill for the remainder of his money, wished us success; we shook hands, and in a few minutes found ourselves once more under the British pennant.
The ensuing morning we looked out anxiously for the promised assistance, for we were not very rich in provisions, although what we had were of a very good quality. It was not until three o’clock in the afternoon that we perceived a little girl coming towards us, escorted by a large mastiff. When she arrived at the copse of trees where we lay concealed, she cried out to the dog in Dutch, who immediately scoured the wood until he came to our hiding-place, when he crouched down at the entrance, barking furiously, and putting us in no small dread, lest he should attack us; but the little girl spoke to him again, and he remained in the same position, looking at us, wagging his tail, with his under jaw lying on the snow. She soon came up, and looking underneath, put a basket in, and nodded her head. We emptied the basket. O’brien took out a Napoleon and offered it to her; she refused it, but O’Brien forced it into her hand, upon which she again spoke to the dog, who commenced barking so furiously at us, that we expected every moment he would fly upon us. The girl at the same time presenting the Napoleon, and pointing to the dog, I went forward and took the Napoleon from her, at which she immediately silenced the enormous brute, and laughing at us, hastened away.
“By the powers, that’s a fine little girl!” said O’Brien; “I’ll back her and her dog against any man. Well, I never had a dog set at me for giving money before, but we live and learn, Peter; and now let’s see what she’s brought in the basket.” We found half-boiled eggs, bread, and a smoked mutton-ham, with a large bottle of gin. “What a nice little girl! I hope she will often favour us with her company. I’ve been thinking, Peter, that we’re quite as well off here, as in a midshipman’s berth.”
“You forget that you are a lieutenant.”
“Well, so I did, Peter, and that’s the truth, but it’s the force of habit. Now let’s make our dinner. It’s a new-fashioned way though, of making a meal lying down; but, however, it’s economical, for it must take longer to swallow the victuals.”
“The Romans used to eat their meals lying down, so I have read, O’Brien.”
“I can’t say that I ever heard it mentioned in Ireland, but that don’t prove that it was not the case; so, Peter, I’ll take your word for it. Murder! how fast it snows again. I wonder what my father’s thinking on just at this moment.”
This observation of O’Brien induced us to talk about our friends and relations in England, and after much conversation we fell fast asleep. The next morning we found the snow had fallen about eight inches, and weighing down our upper blanket so much, that we were obliged to go out and cut stakes to support it up from the inside. While we were thus employed, we heard a loud noise and shouting, and perceived several men, apparently armed and accompanied with dogs, running straight in the direction of the wood where we were encamped. We were much alarmed, thinking that they were in search of us, but on a sudden they turned off in another direction, continuing with the same speed as before. “What could it be?” said I to O’Brien. “I can’t exactly say, Peter; but I should think that they were hunting something, and the only game that I think likely to be in such a place as this are otters.” I was of the same opinion. We expected the little girl, but she did not come, and after looking out for her till dark, we crawled into our hole and supped upon the remainder of our provisions.
The next day, as may be supposed, we were very anxious for her arrival, but she did not appear at the time expected. Night again came on, and we went to bed without having any sustenance, except a small piece of bread that was left, and some gin which was remaining in the flask, “Peter,” said O’Brien, “if she don’t come again to-morrow, I’ll try what I can do; for I’ve no idea of our dying of hunger here, like the two babes in the wood, and being found covered up with dead leaves. If she does not appear at three o’clock, I’m off for provisions, and I don’t see much danger, for in this dress I look as much of a boor as any man in Holland.”
We passed an uneasy night, as we felt convinced either that the danger was so great that they dare not venture to assist us, or, that being over-ruled, they had betrayed us, and left us to manage how we could. The next morning I climbed up the only large tree in the copse and looked round, especially in the direction of the farm-house belonging to the woman who had pointed out to us our place of concealment; but nothing was to be seen but one vast tract of flat country covered with snow, and now and then a vehicle passing at a distance on the Middleburg road. I descended, and found O’Brien preparing for a start. He was very melancholy, and said to me, “Peter, if I am taken, you must, at all risks, put on your girl’s clothes and go to Flushing to the cabaret. The women there, I am sure, will protect you, and send you back to England. I only want two Napoleons; take all the rest, you will require them. If I am not back by to-night, set off for Flushing to-morrow morning.” O’Brien waited some time longer, talking with me, and it then being past four o’clock, he shook me by the hand, and, without speaking, left the wood. I never felt miserable during the whole time since we were first put into prison at Toulon, till that moment, and, when he was a hundred yards off, I knelt down and prayed. He had been absent two hours, and it was quite dusk, when I heard a noise at a distance: it advanced every moment nearer and nearer. On a sudden, I heard a rustling of the bushes, and hastened under the blanket, which was covered with snow, in hopes that they might not perceive the entrance; but I was hardly there before in dashed after me an enormous wolf. I cried out, expecting to be torn to pieces every moment; but the creature lay on his belly, his mouth wide open, his eyes glaring, and his long tongue hanging out of his mouth, and although he touched me, he was so exhausted that he did not attack me. The noise increased, and I immediately perceived that it was the hunters in pursuit of him. I had crawled in feet first, the wolf ran in head-foremost, so that we lay head and tail. I crept out as fast as I could, and perceived men and dogs not two hundred yards off in full chase. I hastened to the large tree, and had not ascended six feet when they came up; the dogs flew to the hole, and in a very short time the wolf was killed. The hunters being too busy to observe me, I had, in the meantime, climbed up the trunk of the tree, and hid myself as well as I could. Being not fifteen yards from them, I heard their expressions of surprise as they lifted up the blanket and dragged out the dead wolf, which they carried away with them; their conversation being in Dutch, I could not understand it, but I was certain that they made use of the word “English.” The hunters and dogs quitted the copse, and I was about to descend, when one of them returned, and pulling up the blankets, rolled them together and walked away with them. Fortunately he did not perceive our bundles by the little light given by the moon. I waited a short time and then came down. What to do I knew not. If I did not remain and O’Brien returned, what would he think? If I did, I should be dead with cold before the morning. I looked for our bundles, and found that in the conflict between the dogs and the wolf, they had been buried among the leaves. I recollected O’Brien’s advice, and dressed myself in the girl’s clothes, but I could not make up my mind, to go to Flushing. So I resolved to walk towards the farm-house, which being close to the road, would give me a chance of meeting with O’Brien. I soon arrived there, and prowled round it for some time, but the doors and windows were all fast, and I dared not knock, after what the woman had said about her husband’s inveteracy to the English. At last, as I looked round and round, quite at a loss what to do, I thought I saw a figure at a distance proceeding in the direction of the copse. I hastened after it and saw it enter. I then advanced very cautiously, for although I thought it might be O’Brien, yet it was possible that it was one of the men who chased the wolf, in search of more plunder. But I soon heard O’Brien’s voice; and I hastened towards him. I was close to him without his perceiving me, and found him sitting down with his face covered up in his two hands. At last he cried, “O Pater! my poor Pater! are you taken at last? Could I not leave you for one hour in safety? Ochone! why did I leave you? My poor, poor Pater! simple you were, sure enough, and that’s why I loved you; but, Pater, I would have made a man of you, for you’d all the materials, that’s the truth—and a fine man too. Where am I to look for you, Pater? Where am I to find you, Pater? You’re fast locked up by this time, and all my trouble’s gone for nothing. But I’ll be locked up too, Pater. Where you are, will I be; and if we can’t go to England together, why then we’ll go back to that blackguard hole at Givet together. Ochone! Ochone!” O’Brien spoke no more, but burst into tears. I was much affected with this proof of o’brien’s sincere regard, and I came to his side, and clasped him in my arms. O’Brien stared at me—“Who are you, you ugly Dutch frow?” (for he had quite forgotten the woman’s dress at the moment,) but recollecting himself, he hugged me in his arms. “Pater, you come as near to an angel’s shape as you can, for you come in that of a woman, to comfort me; for, to tell the truth, I was very much distressed at not finding you here; and all the blankets gone to boot. What has been the matter?” I explained in as few words as I could.
“Well, Peter, I’m happy to find you all safe, and much happier to find that you can be trusted when I leave you, for you could not have behaved more prudently. Now I’ll tell you what I did, which was not much, as it happened. I knew that there was no cabaret between us and Flushing, for I took particular notice as I came along: so I took the road to Middleburg, and found but one, which was full of soldiers. I passed it, and found no other. As I came back past the same cabaret, one of the soldiers came out to me, but I walked along the road. He quickened his pace, and so did I mine, for I expected mischief. At last he came up to me, and spoke to me, in Dutch, to which I gave him no answer. He collared me, and then I thought it convenient to pretend that I was deaf and dumb. I pointed to my mouth with an Au—au—and then to my ears, and shook my head; but he would not be convinced, and I heard him say something about English. I then knew that there was no time to be lost, so I first burst out into a loud laugh and stopped; and on his attempting to force me, I kicked up his heels, and he fell on the ice with such a rap on the pate, that I doubt if he has recovered it by this time. There I left him, and have run back as hard as I could, without any thing for Peter to fill his little hungry inside with. Now, Peter, what’s your opinion? for they say, that out of the mouth of babes there is wisdom; and although I never saw anything come out of their mouths but sour milk, yet perhaps I may be more fortunate, this time, for, Peter, you’re but a baby.”
“Not a small one, O’Brien, although not quite so large as Fingal’s babby that you told me the story of. My idea is this. Let us, at all hazards, go to the farmhouse. They have assisted us, and may be inclined to do so again; if they refuse, we must push on to Flushing and take our chance.”
“Well,” observed O’Brien, after a pause, “I think we can do no better, so let’s be off.” We went to the farm-house, and, as we approached the door, were met by the great mastiff. I started back, O’Brien boldly advanced. “He’s a clever dog, and may know us again. I’ll go up,” said O’Brien, not stopping while he spoke, “and pat his head; if he flies at me, I shall be no worse than I was before, for depend upon it he will not allow us to go back again.” O’Brien by this time had advanced to the dog, who looked earnestly and angrily at him. He patted his head, the dog growled, but O’Brien put his arm round his neck, and patting him again, whistled to him, and went to the door of the farm-house. The dog followed him silently but closely. O’Brien knocked, and the door was opened by the little girl: the mastiff advanced to the girl and then turned round, facing O’Brien, as much as to say—“Is he to come in?” The girl spoke to the dog, and went in-doors. During her absence the mastiff laid down at the threshold. In a few seconds the woman who had brought us from Flushing came out, and desired us to enter. She spoke very good French, and told us that fortunately her husband was absent; that the reason why we had not been supplied was, that a wolf had met her little girl returning the other day, but had been beaten off by the mastiff, and that she was afraid to allow her to go again; that she heard the wolf had been killed this evening, and had intended her girl to have gone to us early to-morrow morning. That wolves were hardly known in that country, but that the severe winter had brought them down to the lowlands, a very rare circumstance, occurring perhaps not once in twenty years. “But how did you pass the mastiff?” said she; “that has surprised my daughter and me.” O’Brien told her; upon which she said, that “the English were really ‘des braves.’ No other man had ever done the same.” So I thought, for nothing would have induced me to do it. O’Brien then told the history of the death of the wolf with all particulars, and our intention if we could not do better, of returning to Flushing.
“I heard that Pierre Eustache came home yesterday,” said the woman; “and I do think that you will be safer at Flushing than here, for they will never think of looking for you among thecasernes, which join their cabaret.”
“Will you lend us your assistance to get in?”
“I will see what I can do. But are you not hungry?”
“About as hungry as men who have eaten nothing for two days.”
“Mon Dieu! c’est vrai. I never thought it was so long, but those whose stomachs are filled forget those who are empty. God make us better and more charitable!”
She spoke to the little girl in Dutch, who hastened to load the table, which we hastened to empty. The little girl stared at our voracity; but at last she laughed out, and clapped her hands at every fresh mouthful which we took, and pressed us to eat more. She allowed me to kiss her, until her mother told her that I was not a woman, when she pouted at me, and beat me off. Before midnight we were fast asleep upon the benches before the kitchen fire, and at day-break were roused up by the woman, who offered us some bread and spirits; and then we went out to the door, where we found the horse and cart all ready, and loaded with vegetables for the market. The woman, the little girl, and myself got in, O’Brien leading as before, and the mastiff following. We had learnt the dog’s name, which wasAchille, and he seemed to be quite fond of us. We passed the dreaded barriers without interruption, and in ten minutes entered the cabaret of Eustache; and immediately walked into the little room through a crowd of soldiers, two of whom chucked me under the chin. Who should we find there but Eustache, the pilot himself, in conversation with his wife; and it appeared that they were talking about us, she insisting, and he unwilling to have any hand in the business.
“Well, here they are themselves, Eustache: the soldiers who have seen them come in will never believe that this is their first entry, if you give them up. I leave them to make their own bargain; but mark me, Eustache, I have slaved night and day in this cabaret for your profit; if you do not oblige me and my family, I no longer keep a cabaret for you.” Madame Eustache then quitted the room with her husband’s sister and little girl, and O’Brien immediately accosted him. “I promise you,” said he to Eustache, “one hundred louis if you put us on shore at any part of England, or on board of any English man-of-war; and if you do it within a week, I will make it twenty louis more.” O’Brien then pulled out the fifty Napoleons given us by Celeste, for our own were not yet expended, and laid them on the table. “Here is this in advance, to prove my sincerity. Say, is it a bargain or not?”
“I never yet heard of a poor man who could withstand his wife’s arguments, backed with one hundred and twenty louis,” said Eustache smiling, and sweeping the money off the table.
“I presume you have no objection to start to-night? That will be ten louis more in your favour,” replied O’Brien.
“I shall earn them,” replied Eustache: “the sooner I am off the better, for I could not long conceal you here. The young frow with you is, I suppose, your companion that my wife mentioned. He has begun to suffer hardships early. Come, now sit down and talk, for nothing can be done till dark.”
O’Brien narrated the adventures attending our escape, at which Eustache laughed heartily; the more so, at the mistake which his wife was under, as to the obligations of the family. “If I did not feel inclined to assist you before, I do now, just for the laugh I shall have at her when I come back; and if she wants any more assistance for the sake of her relations, I shall remind her of this anecdote; but she’s a good woman and a good wife to boot, only too fond of her sisters.” At dusk he equipped us both in sailor’s jackets and trowsers, and desired us to follow him boldly. He passed the guard, who knew him well. “What, to sea already?” said one. “You have quarrelled with your wife.” At which they all laughed, and we joined. We gained the beach, jumped into his little boat, pulled off to his vessel, and, in a few minutes, were under weigh. With a strong tide and a fair wind we were soon clear of the Scheldt, and the next morning a cutter hove in sight. We steered for her, ran under her lee, O’Brien hailed for a boat, and Eustache, receiving my bill for the remainder of his money, wished us success; we shook hands, and in a few minutes found ourselves once more under the British pennant.