CHAPTER XXIII.
The Onyx corvette was commanded by Captain Patrick O’Loughlin. Charles Pole, our hero’s comrade on board the Victory, was second lieutenant, he having had the good fortune to get appointed, through the interest of his uncle, who commanded the Colossus, seventy-four, rejoicing in his heart at having the warm-hearted and gallant O’Loughlin as a commander.
“Ah! Charley, my boy!” said the commander of the corvette, “if we had only Sir Oscar with us.”
O’Loughlin would insist on always speaking of our hero by his title, which was endeared to him by being that of his noble benefactor.
“Ah, my dear sir,” returned the Lieutenant, “if we had, what a glorious cruise we should have!”
“Charley, my boy,” said the Captain, filling his glass, and passing the bottle to the Lieutenant, for they were sitting in the cabin after dinner; “if yousirme when in private, I must put you under arrest for mutiny, be the powers of war I must. I can’t stand it. I hate it—I’m a rank revolutionist!”
“By Jove, that’s good!” laughed Charles Pole; “you a revolutionist! Why you insist every day of your life on drinking Sir Oscar de Bracy’s health, and that he must always be called ‘Sir Oscar.’ He would kick against that himself if he were here.”
“He’s a trump; don’t bother me about titles, they are all very well when they and the wearer fit, and he’s fit to be a duke. I wish I had been on board the Diamond that unlucky day; I’d have had that cursed Vengeance out, or been blown to atoms.”
“A sail to windward, sir,” said a curly-haired young midshipman, popping his head into the cabin; “she appears a large ship.”
Up jumped the commander and his lieutenant, and the next moment they were on deck.
They were then some five leagues off the coast of France, in a line with Ushant. It was blowing strong from the east-northeast, with a good deal of sea on. The Onyx was under single-reefed topsails, her top gallant masts housed. It was after sunset, with every appearance of a dirty night. Captain O’Loughlin directed his glass in the direction of the strange sail, whose topsails could be seen with the naked eye. She was coming up rapidly, under double-reefed topsails, and he pronounced her to be a frigate, whether French or English he could not say, but half an hour would decide. The corvette being on an enemy’s coast, and cruising for the purpose of destroying privateers or taking prizes, she was always ready for action.
The Onyx was noted for her splendid sailing qualities. She carried sixteen long nine-pounders, and two eighteen-pound carronades in the bridle ports, and two twelve-pound carronades on the quarter-deck and forecastle. Her full complement of men and boys was one hundred and forty-five; but having taken two prizes, her first lieutenant, twenty-five men, and two midshipmen were absent. Shortly after, as the strangercame nearer, signals were hoisted, which not being answered, Captain O’Loughlin became convinced that she was an enemy, and of vastly superior force. In fact, she soon convinced them, notwithstanding the fast increasing gloom and the commencement of a fog, that she was a thirty-two gun frigate, of double the tonnage of the Onyx. As she came nearer, she hoisted French colours, and commenced firing her bow-chasers.
Captain O’Loughlin, though quite justified in getting out of the way of so formidable an antagonist, resolved, nevertheless, to annoy her as much as possible. Having cut away the jolly boat to make room for four stern chasers, the Onyx opened fire from them, as soon as the French frigate got fairly within range, whose shot was flying over them. In a few minutes the fog, which kept increasing, put an end to the combat for the time.
“We must get the weather-gage of that fellow,” said Captain O’Loughlin to his only lieutenant, Charles Pole, “in case we should meet again.”
Accordingly, the Onyx hauled her wind to the eastward. Towards seven o’clock next morning she perceived her late antagonist close on her larboard quarter; whilst the Commander, with a speaking trumpet, hailed, ordering the corvette to strike.
To this a broadside was returned, and the next moment the frigate ran her bowsprit right over the starboard bow of the corvette; but as the wind was blowing very fresh, her jib-boom broke short off, and the corvette forcing ahead, freed herself. Just then a sailor threw himself from the French ship into the rigging of the Onyx, and probably in the confusion would have been cut down, had he not shouted in a loud voice—
“Hold hard, my men! I am an Englishman!”
The denseness of the fog again separated the two ships, after exchanging each a broadside, by which one man was killed and three wounded on board the Onyx. Captain O’Loughlin altered his course, and stood away to the westward to repair and splice his rigging, which was desperately cut up.
“Where is the man who threw himself on board?” demanded Captain O’Loughlin; “bring him aft.”
It was then broad daylight, though the fog still covered the whole surface of the sea. In the course he was steering, Captain O’Loughlin did not again expect to see his late antagonist, from whom he considered he had a most fortunate escape, as she appeared full of men. He was then walking the deck with Lieutenant Pole, when the seaman who had leaped on board came upon the quarter-deck attended by the quarter-master.
“This is the young man, sir,” said the latter, touching his hat; “he refuses to give any explanation except to the captain of the ship.”
O’Loughlin looked at the stranger. He was a tall, slight, handsome young man, of about two or three and twenty; his complexion evidently tanned by a southern climate. There was a manly, independent manner in his bearing and look as he stood calmly facing the commander of the Onyx.
“Well, sir,” said Captain O’Loughlin, “what have you to say for yourself? Were you a prisoner on board that ship—but, first of all, what was her name?”
“The frigate Prudente, forty guns, and three hundred men,” replied the young man.
“The deuce it was!” cried Captain O’Loughlin; “then we had a fortunate escape. Pray what were you doing on board?”
“Waiting,” returned the young man, in a somewhat hasty tone, “for an opportunity to get away. Sir,” he continued, advancing a step or two, and with a flush on his cheek, “my story is too long to tell you here; I am an Englishman and a gentleman; my name is Julian Arden, and—”
“What! Be the powers of war!” exclaimed O’Loughlin, springing forward, and catching the surprised young man by the hand; “Julian Arden! the lost brother of Mabel, and the son of the Duchesse de Coulancourt?”
“Oh, sir!” exclaimed the young man, trembling with emotion, and clasping the captain’s hand with a grasp of intense feeling; “who are you, who greet my ear with names engraved upon my heart—never forgotten through years of suffering and degradation?” Julian Arden paused; his eyes were filled with tears, and his voice failed him from agitation.
Patrick O’Loughlin wrung the young man’s hand, almost equally affected; but, taking him by the arm, whilst Charles Pole and the quarter-master Brown stood considerably surprised, he said—
“Come with me, Mr. Arden; you could not have stumbled upon a man who can so much relieve your mind as I can. Thank God for this strange and most unexpected meeting!”
Julian Arden felt a sensation of happiness he had not experienced for years. He followed the commander into his cabin, and then the delighted O’Loughlin—whose generous nature never felt so elated, or experienced so much pleasure, as when rendering a service to a friend—again warmly shook the young man by the hand, told him to consider himself as much at home in the little Onyx as himself, and summoning the steward, ordered him to place refreshments and wine on the table.
“I am so overpowered, Captain O’Loughlin, by your extreme kindness, and so bewildered by hearing so suddenly intelligence that fills my heart with rapture—for I judge, by your words and manner, that I may expect to hear that my belovedmother and sister are both alive—whilst alas! for years I have mourned them as dead.”
“It delights me,” said O’Loughlin, “to be able to positively assure you that not only is your mother, Madame de Coulancourt, alive, but she had been, when last we heard of her, restored to her estate of Coulancourt, and was residing in Paris. Your sister, Mabel Arden, who has grown into a most lovely girl, is in England, residing with a French lady, a Madame Volney. There is, or will be, time enough for mutual explanations this evening, provided we do not again encounter the Prudente—an ugly customer for the little Onyx. I wish my consort was up with us—we should then be able to manage our friend.”
“The Prudente is a very fine craft,” said Julian Arden, “but her commander is one of the most vulgar tyrants that ever trod a deck.”
“Now, make yourself comfortable,” said the Commander, as the steward placed the breakfast equipage on the table; for the day was yet young, and neither the commander of the Onyx nor his officer had broken their fast.
“You can have a suit of Charley Pole’s garments to put on, instead of that dress. You are much of a height. Nature made me a head too tall, like my poor friend Sir Oscar de Bracy—ah! that’s the man who saved your sister Mabel, and carried her safe to England. Be the gods of war! when you hear all, you will love him as I do.”
“Sir Oscar de Bracy!” repeated Julian Arden; “why, my mother’s brother is a Sir Oscar de Bracy; surely you don’t mean him?”
“No, my dear fellow, I mean his son; however, eat your breakfast; an empty stomach is a worse enemy than a forty-gun frigate; you may beat off the one, but you must satisfy the other. Steward, call down Lieutenant Pole, or the steak will be cold.”
Lieutenant Pole and Julian Arden were soon introduced to each other; Charles Pole remembered all the circumstances of the affair at Toulon, and William Thornton’s care of little Mabel Arden, so that, in fact, Julian appeared as if he had come amongst old friends.
“Here’s the prog, Charley,” said the Captain, helping himself to a plentiful allowance of a very tempting breakfast pie—for the Onyx was capitally victualled, and had a first-rate cook. Her worthy captain, if he loved fighting, also loved good cheer, and no commander could be more beloved by his officers and crew than Patrick O’Loughlin.
Having finished breakfast, Lieutenant Pole took Julian Arden to his cabin, to rig him out in a suit of his shore-goingclothes, whilst Captain O’Loughlin proceeded on deck. The wind had lulled considerably, and the fog looked as if inclined to lift. The reefs were shaken out of the topsails, and the course of the corvette altered, standing in for the land, hoping to fall in with her consort. About mid-day the fog cleared; they could distinguish the land about five leagues off, but no sign of their late antagonist; and Captain O’Loughlin resolved to run down along the coast, and cruise off the mouth of the Seine. During the day nothing was seen worth giving chase to—a few fishing luggers, and one or two small coasters, standing in for the land. Lieutenant Pole and Julian Arden made their appearance on deck, the latter dressed in the former’s garments. He was a remarkably handsome young man, slight, but well made, and very active. As they walked the quarter-deck, Captain O’Loughlin made the latter fully acquainted with all the particulars he knew respecting Madame Coulancourt and Mabel, and of the property and title of the Ethertons falling to Captain Arden, his uncle, and then to his son Howard, and mentioned the cruel and unjust conduct of the latter towards Mabel.
“You are now, in point of fact, Sir Julian Etherton,” added Captain O’Loughlin, as the narrative was brought to a conclusion.
“Yes,” said the young man, his cheek flushing, as he thought of the bitter treatment and contemptuous words of Sir Howard Etherton towards his sister; “yes, and, please God, I will assert those rights; though I may, till I can communicate with my mother, find some difficulty as I am, as I now stand as nobody in the eyes of the law. Do you know, Captain O’Loughlin, I have just been wishing you could land me on the coast to the eastward of Havre; Coulancourt is within a league of the sea. I remember every yard of the country. I may say I am almost a Frenchman, in manner, and speaking the language, having passed almost all my life in France and with Frenchmen. My mother is in Paris; and I have no doubt of being able to make my way there without any suspicion being attached to me.”[6]
“By Jove! it is not a bad idea,” said Captain O’Loughlin; “but your dress, and the want of French money. Be the powers of war! we must capture some fellow, and supply ourselves with the needful. It is possible you might pick up some intelligence of my poor friend, Sir Oscar, who, I fear, is a prisoner with Sir Sidney Smith; at all events, we will run down along the coast, and see what is to be done.”
In the evening, after the watch was set, the weather fine,and the wind blowing from the land, the officers of the Onyx were assembled in the Captain’s cabin, enjoying a social bottle of wine, having been invited by their Commander. When only Lieutenant Pole and Julian Arden were left with the Captain, the latter gave them the following account of his escape from the perils of the revolutionary bloodhounds, and his adventures afterwards:—
“I was scarcely sixteen years of age,” began Julian Arden, “when the demons let loose by the revolution at Lyons seized me one morning in the saloon with my mother and sister. Mocking their cries and lamentations, they tore me forcibly away, and dragging me through the streets filled with a revolutionary rabble, who seemed to revel in the miseries of the victims driven along with myself, they consigned me to the tender mercies of Marachat, the notorious and ferocious head gaoler of the prisons of Lyons.
“‘There,’ said my brutal conductors, giving me a blow that drove me on my face with force, causing the blood to flow down my cheeks, ‘there’s a spawn of an aristocrat for you, Marachat; treat him tenderly, and do not make him too fat with kindness.’
“‘Ah! my brave garçon, be not afraid,’ returned the gaoler, ‘I will tell my chef de cuisine to be sparing of his lard.’
“Ordering one of the turnkeys to take charge of me, I was hurried along and thrust into a damp and dismal cell, in which were more than a hundred and fifty unfortunate wretches, half starved, scantily clothed, and many suffering from disease; robbing the guillotine, as our vile gaoler said when any died, of its just dues. I was young, not too young to think; but I will not pain you with minutely detailing my thoughts or my sufferings. This frightful cell was not more than thirty-five feet long and ten broad, and so feebly lighted from above from a slit in the wall, that until well accustomed to the place I could scarcely see. After some eight or ten days’ incarceration, three of our number died, and for four days their bodies were left by those accursed wretches before they were removed. One day I was made to approach the wretch Marachat; a gaoler held a lantern till its light fell upon my features.
“‘Ah!’ said the savage, ‘I see my cook takes care you shall not grow too fat. I have to tell you that your friend, Collet d’Herbois, has taken care of your worthy mother and sister; the glorious guillotine has cut their dainty heads off!’
“I shrieked in agony, and maddened, flew at my gaoler, but, with a blow of the heavy keys he carried, he struck me bleeding to the ground. Oh, what I suffered! when a kind old man, one of the prisoners, restored me to life and sense by bathing my face with his scanty allowance of water.
“‘My poor boy! My poor boy!’ sobbed the old man, ‘just the age of my poor Philip!’
“‘Surely, surely!’ I exclaimed, ‘they could not murder a child. My loved sister was but a child!’
“‘Not murder a child!’ repeated the old man, hysterically; ‘Eh, mon Dieu! babes in the arms are butchered by those fiends Herbois and Ronsin. When they entered the city with two thousand of their blood-stained followers, did not those two wretches stand gazing with frightful exultation upon two hundred victims tied to trees, whom cannons loaded with grape tore to pieces? and when their soldiers bayoneted those that survived, they laughed madly with joy. Oh, merciful God!’ exclaimed the old man, waving his skeleton arms wildly in the air, ‘wilt thou permit such sin to triumph?’ The old man’s head sank upon his breast.
“The next day he was relieved from his misery by death. The third morning from that event half our number were led out, more dead than alive, to be shot down like dogs, and for no earthly crime. Thirty only, besides myself, remained five days afterwards, when one morning Marachat entered the cell with some turnkeys.
“‘Come, my beauties!’ said this wretch, ‘let me have a look at you all. I have cleared out my saloons, and they are getting tired of shooting and bayoneting. More’s the pity. Let me see how many more of you are fit to serve your country. Ah! my little aristocrat, have you escaped the guillotine and shooting? Lucky fellow; come, I think you will do for me, you’re young;’ and examining the rest, he selected nine. ‘Morbleu, only ten of you fit to smell powder, after all my care. Tonnerre de Dieu! I must discharge my chef de cuisine. There, garçons, take those fellows into the yard; the rest of these miserable wretches may be shot to-morrow, they are good for nothing else.’
“We were driven into a court-yard, there our arms were pinioned, and shortly afterwards we were put into a covered cart. I must have been blessed with a singularly strong constitution to have survived these trials, under which I beheld strong men die. I did live certainly, but I was greatly emaciated. Several other carts were filled with wretched-looking objects; and as soon as they had their complement they drove off, escorted by a troop of dragoons. We were taken to Brest, and were intended to supply the loss the French fleet had sustained by the guillotine. Many captains were beheaded, a rear-admiral imprisoned, and numbers of seamen declared disaffected were executed.
“After being in the hospital a fortnight, where I was tolerably well cared for, I was placed on board a guardship. Therewas a kind and humane surgeon in the hospital, to whom I told my story, stating I was an Englishman by birth.
“‘Mother and father English? Keep that to yourself, my lad,’ said the surgeon; ‘as surely as you say you are English, you will be shot.’
“I found I was entered on the books as Julian Coulancourt. Brest at that time was in a state of intense excitement. The tricolour was formally adopted as the national flag, and the navy of Republican France declared cleansed and regenerated. Though told by that villain Marachat, the tool of Collet d’Herbois, that my beloved mother and sister had perished, there were at times moments when I cheered myself with the idea that they yet lived. I knew that Herbois was the fiendish persecutor of my mother, and his tool Marachat might have spoken falsely to torture me. Why I was not taken out and shot with the first group is a mystery to me. However, the very idea that they might still live enabled me to sustain the hardships I went through. Divine hope, the sheet-anchor of man, held me up against despair.
“At this time it was decreed by the National Convention that the captain or any officer of any ship-of-the-line carrying the Republican flag, who should haul down the national flag to an enemy, however superior, unless actually in danger of sinking, should be stigmatised as a traitor, and suffer death. It was my lot to be placed on board the seventy-four gun-ship Vengeance, then commanded by Noel François Renaudin, one of the bravest and at the same time kindest-hearted commanders then in the service of the Republic. I have good reason to remember him and his gallant little son, then a mere child, scarcely more than eleven years old.
FOOTNOTES:[6]Passports were not, at the period of the French Directory, framed in the same manner as they were some years afterwards.
[6]Passports were not, at the period of the French Directory, framed in the same manner as they were some years afterwards.
[6]Passports were not, at the period of the French Directory, framed in the same manner as they were some years afterwards.