 | CHAPTER I. Black Ralph, or, The helmsman of Hurlgate |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
In contemplating the interesting scenes
and events of the American Revolution, we
are accustomed to view them as only affecting
ourselves as Americans, and as occurring
only within the boundaries of our own land;
so that a story of the `Revolution' to be laid
in England or France would at first view startle
and appear an incongruity of history. Yet
the one being our foe and the other our ally,
closely involve their interests as individuals
with ours and throw as profound a degree of
sympathy over the progress and issue of
events on the common theatre of war, as if
their own fields had been the scenes of contest.
The war of the Revolution produced
in the vales and homes of England and the
vine-clad hills of France, many a scene of
domestic trial and woe as touching as
was daily witnessed among the rude forest
homes of our own land. Brave warriors
parted from wives and sweethearts in
sunny France to join the issue with us for liberty;
many a gallant soldier bade last adieus
to a weeping maiden. ere, obedient to his
king, he buckled on his sword to sail the seas
to do battle against the rebels of the crown;
and many a hardy patriot of our fathers shouldered
his rifle, amid prayers and tears, to
take the field to oppose the invader. Yet, beneath
their armed breasts they wore human
hearts all—the foe, the ally, and the rebel!
The tears of the one fell as sweetly in the
eye of Pity as the other! The roar of every
battle-field shook France and England as
well as our own land, penetrating the remotest
hamlet, and making many an expecting
heart shrink. the pulses of the three great
nations were for the time bound together and
throbbed as one. The interest of each was
equally deep, where wives, mothers, and
maidens were the judges of that interest.
The war was one—the issue one to theme!
And many is the tale still heard beneath the
vintnor's porch in la belle France, whose theme
is the war of our Revolution, and many is the
sad memory of that contest yet preserved on
the gossip bench of many a village ale-house
in merry England. How many were the
lives at that day, began in Europe that terminated
in America. If every man's life,
fairly written, be a romance out-doing fiction,
how many thousands of truthful stories in
that war opened in England or France to
close their scenes here—perhaps in blood.
We shall, therefore, make no further apology
for opening our story, which professes to
be a Romance of American waters on the
shores of France. In doing it, we but follow
in the steps of the circumstances of the
time and of events which will bring us by and
by to the more immediate scene of the Tale.
Our story opens in the month of June, 1777,
on the north coast of France, in the neighborhood
of Calais. It was one of those sultry
days, so common in the tropics and which
sometimes vary the monotonous heat of climates
further north, that a young man was
engaged with a hand-telescope in idly surveying
from a balcony the expanse of water
which lay between the smooth beach at his
feet, and the white cliffs of England that appeared
on the northern horizon like a snowy
cloud sinking to its rest. The place on
which he stood was a sort of ledge or platform,
projecting from a window in a tower
far over the precipice. It communicated
with a large apartment within the tower,
which itself formed the salient angle of an
antiquated and highly picturesque chateau of
the age of the Twelfth Louis. Though
bearing the marks of time and of many a
siege, it was not ruinous; but still wore the
imposing and martial air of its old feudal
state. Modern refinement had also added to
its elegancies and comforts which the iron
age of its founder knew little of.
After sweeping his glass once more indolently
over the channel which was beautifully
mottled with sunshine and shadow from
dark detached clouds that sailed slowly over
upon the city of Calais, which with its
grey walls, towers and stately citadel lay a
league distant to his right, and then listlessly,
yet with a slight impatient gesture, threw
it aside.
`So,' he said pacing the balcony to and fro,
`this is a wearisome pastime enough; my
eyes ache with watching the dull movements
of fishing shallops and the rapid flight of
snowy sea-gulls. The white chalk cliffs of
Britain tire me with their sameness, and even
Calais with its busy quay ceases to afford
my wearied vision interest. I will take my
horse and ride along the sands a few miles;
perhaps from yonder headland I may get a
sight of the van of the squadron before the
sun sets. To-day is the third day since it
was to have weighed at Havre, and for two
nights the troops had been bivouacked on
the beach waiting its arrival to take them on
board. I am heartily tired of the land and
pant once more to tread the deck of my ship.'
`Gallantly spoken this, for a youth who is
the guest of a lady whose charms would have
broken many a brave lance in the good old
days of chivalry, and to whose youth and
beauty even modern gallants do not fail to
do homage.'
The young sailor slightly colored as he
acknowledged the presence upon the balcony
of his father and cousin.
`Nay,' he said gaily approaching them,
`I trust my fair cousin Josephine will not attribute
my anxiety to depart to any indifference
to her grace and beauty, but rather to
the zeal and ambition natural to a young
man, who is for the first time about to enter
upon the warlike duties of his profession.—
Were I like my honored father here, an old
warrior, I should be then too proud and happy
to cast my leaves of laurel into your lap,
cousin, and reclining at your feet, let you
wreathe from them coronals, and bind them
on my brow. But I must first go and win
them.'
`Fitly spoken, cousin,' said the maiden
laughing; shall I give you a half-century's
leave of absence, ere you return to honor me
with the duty you have imposed upon me.'
The last words were spoken in a lower tone,
and conveyed a deeper meaning than they
seemed to do.
The young man started, fixed a penetrating
glance upon her downcast face, and
then answered, coldly. `Perhaps a half century
were a suitable period, lady; nor in less
time can I hope to win the laurels of a hero,
nor in less time do I think you will make the
wreathe I idly spoke of.'
The brow of the lady glowed, and her
eye at first flashed, and then fell heavily upon
the cheek, with the weight of tears that
filled them to the brim, yet were not shed.—
He bit his lip, as he saw the effect he had
produced, yet did not attempt to alleviate it,
and turning on his heel began coolly to survey
the channel. The old Marquis Fernay
was not so indifferent to what usually passed
around him, as not to discover by their manner,
that some misunderstanding, the grounds
of which he was ignorant of, existed between
his son and niece. He looked from one to
the other, and shook his head with indecision
and embarrassment. On one side Josephine
was standing with her large eyes shaded by
their tear-weighed lids, her head dropped,
and her cheek half turned, and her whole attitude
expressing graceful grief. On the
other stood his son Louis, fingering nervously
with the gold tassel of his sword knot, and
with his back towards his cousin seemingly
absorbed in the contemplation of the opposite
cliffs of England.
`Humph! humph!' muttered the Marquis;
`here is more mischief again brewing. There
is no planning—no appoplectic admiral now.
I wanted to make them good friends, and to
get them to marry, and keep the family estates
together, they are determined to hate
each other. But yet she loves him i'll be
sworn. I can see that with half an eye. It is
all of this scape grace Louis! I brought her
from the convent where I put her when her
parents died, on purpose to see Louis when
he came home on this visit, and that he might
see her. Yet Jacques and Lisette, my valet
and laundress both say that Captain Louis
don't care a fig for her, though she thinks a
great deal of him. Confound the boy. If now
I had kept her locked up in the convent, and
he had happened to have heard I had a niece
then rich and beautiful, devil a convent wall
in all France would have kept him outside or
her in. They would have flown away at
matins like two pigeons. But just because I
bring them together, they must turn up their
noses to each other—stand back to back—one
ready to cry, the other to—sacre. I'll lock
him up the rascal and keep him on bread and
water. Louis!'
`Sir!'
`You turn and say sir, as demure as if you
had done nothing to offend me.'
`I am indeed innocent of the intention, father,'
said the young man surprised.
`But you have offended me.'
`Then I am exceedingly sorry, sir.'
`Sorry is not enough. You must do as I
wish you to do.'
`Certainly, sir. Your will shall always be
my own.'
`Very well, sir. Come to my room by and
by. I leave you here with your cousin. Entertain
her boy,' added the Marquis in better
humor: `ah, you lucky dog, if when I was a
young man of your age—but never mind;
look after your cousin, and show her the prospect
with the spy glass. Josephine I leave
you to Louis's care. You will come to dinner
ring. Adieu, mes enfans!'
The Marquis de Fernay, then quit the balcony
by the oriel window leading from it,
leaving the cousins alone. For a few moments
they stood in the attitude in which we
have described them. The tears which had
filled Josephine's eyes and which her pride
restrained from falling, were forced back into
their surcharged fountains, for wounded pride
will quickly dry a dewy eyelid and restore
the fire to the eye. Louis still kept his back
towards her, though with a side glance observing
her, and began to hum an air in the
last Opera.
This young gentleman who chose to make
himself so agreeable just now, was the only
son of Le General the Marquis De Fernay,
one of the eldest families of the ancient regime.
His father had, like all his ancestors,
distinguished himself in military life, and
rose to the highest rank therein. He had
now retired from active service to his chateau,
there to pass the remainder of his days.
Hospitable and convivial, he found sufficient
society in that of the neighboring barons of
the better classes of the citizens of Calais,
as well as in the occasional presence of his
son and niece. Louis had exhibited an early
prediliction for the sea, originated and cherished
by his vicinage to the ocean, and at a
suitable age, the Marquis placed him on board
of a ship of the line commanded by his own
brother, Admiral Fernay. Louis became at
once enthusiastically attached to his profession,
and at the age of nineteen, a year after
his admission into the Navy, he was regarded
as one of the most promising youths in the
service. He was handsome, frank, and full
of that daring spirit which ensures success,
as well as promises a life of danger. His
uncle, the Admiral, was a man of stern and
cold character, and had little sympathy with
those beneath him in rank, or with youth.
He had taken occasion in several instances
to reprove his nephew with that licence of
lauguage which relationship is supposed to
allow, but which Louis's spirit did not fail deeply
to feel. He became prejudiced against
his uncle, and took no pains to suppress his
dislike to him. This increased the tyrannous
exercise of power on the part of the
former, which at length rose to such a height,
that Louis asked and obtained leave to be
transferred to another ship of war. But before
he had taken his departure, an attack of
appolexy carried off the Admiral, and in him
the only enemy Louis had on earth. This
occurred two years before he is now introduced
to the reader, on a brief leave of absence
from his ship of war, which was attached
to the squadron of Admiral D'Estaing,
destined to the American states, then struggling
for their independence, and with which
France had just formed an alliance. D'Es
taing's squadron had sailed from Toulon, and
was to be joined at Gibraltar by a fleet of
transports of troops from Havre and Calais,
under the convoy of a line of battle ship and
frigate. To this battle-ship Louis was attached
as a third lieutenant, and learning that
she would lay off Calais till the troops were
embarked, he had obtained leave to post up
to his chateau, and there await their arrival.
With what impatience he was now watching
for the first lift of the fore yard of his ship
above the horizon, has already been seen.
He had been at home now three weeks, and
notwithstanding the amusements in doors, of
the chase, of the Theatre in Calais, and the
society of his fair cousin, he became ennuied
the first week, and took no pains to conceal
his impatience for the arrival of his ship.
To most young gentlemen the society of
a very lovely girl—for such Josephine Fernay
certainly was—would have made the
wings of time full swift in their flight. What
could be the cause of this indifference to her
presence, this blindness to her beauty? Louis
himself was a fine looking manly fellow of
twenty-two, with black flowing locks, a large
full dark eye, a noble figure and every way
endowed with powers of mind and person to
captivate and win; and in the presence of
other ladies had more than once deeply betrayed
the susceptibility of his heart. Yet
his cousin Josephine for all the impression
she made upon him might have been eighty
years old, and lame and blind at that. Now
this was very provoking to the Marquis, who
had determined they should fall in love with
each other and by and by marry.
The youthful Countess Josephine herself
was an enchanting girl of eighteen summers:
with soft hazel eyes in which a hundred little
loves lay sleeping; a brilliant complexion; a
cloud of the richest dark brown hair; a person
beautifully rounded, a neck, hand and foot
that were perfect. Her carriage was light
yet full of sweet dignity, her voice musical
and her heart susceptible. She had great
sweetness of disposition yet was high-spirited
and determined—qualities that marked peculiarly
the race from which she sprung. Moreover,
Josephine had loved Louis when she
first saw him three weeks before, on his arrival.
And he had become wholly overpowered
by her beauty at the same instant and was
about to tell her on the spot how romantically
he loved her, when the old Marquis seeing
the impression made upon both by the other's
presence hastened to take present advantage
of the propitious moment, and said with great
joy,
`Ah, boy—I knew you would like each
other! I planned it! I had her brought from
the convent where she was at school, on purpose
to surprise you. Its planned you are to
marry her.'
`Then I shall be sure not to,' answered
`Why what's the matter with the boy?' repeated
the Marquis with a look of contempt.
`That I do not mean to love or marry to
please other people. This is an affair in
which I shall do all the planning myself, father.'
`But I thought you seemed to like her.—
Isn't she beautiful?'
`Perfectly—but I won't marry nor care a
fig for her if you have already planned before
hand that I should. I suppose she has a hand
in the plan too.'
`Not a finger tip! It is all my own and the
Admiral's.
`What Admiral?
`Her father.'
`The late Admiral de Fernay! Is this his
daughter?
`Yes, your cousin. Did I not mention her
name!'
`You may be sure then I shall neither love,
marry, nor—'
`Nor what?'
`Nor trouble her long with my presence.'
Such was the first interview and denouement
between Louis and his cousin. He
might in consideration of her loveliness have
got over the fact that she had been `planned'
to meet him and produce an impression upon
him which was to ripen into marriage; but he
could never get over the fact that she was the
daughter of his tyrannical uncle, the apoplectic
Admiral. He from this time looked upon
her with a sort of mingled fear and dislike.
He could see in her sweet smiles only his sardonic
ones; in her voice hear only his tones.
Her air, manner and presence irresistibly recalled
the idea of his old tormentor. He felt
her beauty; he was not insensible to her
worth as he saw more of her, and he would
have reasoned himself into the absurdity of
his prejudices against an innocent girl, so far,
at least as to forbear betraying his feelings
to the unconscious object which excited them.
At length he in a measure overcame the feeling
by nobly and resolutely adopting an opposite
course of conduct to that which his
emotions of strange dislike would have suggested.
In this he had much to overcome,
but he was so far successful as to remove
from her mind those painful sensations which
the sudden change in his manner towards her
had produced. So, that the second week of
his visit he found himself behaving with tolerable
civility to his cousin; and in his engaging
presence the smiles and roses which an
undefined fear of having displeased him had
driven from her face, came back again. In a
good-feeling moment, too, he promised the
anxious old Marquis that he would for the remainder
of his visit endeavor to forget that his
cousin was the Admiral's daughter, and regard
her only in the light of his father's amiable
ward.
When alone and reflecting upon these
things Louis could not but acknowledge the
beauty and grace of his sweet cousin and the
claims she presented above all women he had
ever seen to his admiration.
`Oh,' said he when returning to his room
after an agreeable hour in her company on
horseback along the sea-shore, `Oh that my
belle cousin had been any other than my uncle's
daughter! I can forgive my father's
planning for our union, as it is natural for the
old noblesse to wish to retain their lands in
their own families. This is very well, and
the young Countess Josephine's estate would
prove no obstacle. But in all the loveliness
of her looks, when I am ready to throw myself
at her feet, some slight tone or glance so
irrisistibly reminds me of her father that my
devotion is crushed—my admiration, but for
a strong mental effort, became instant dislike.
This will never do to be haunted so by the
old Admiral! Yet I feel a deep interest in
the fair girl—because I have discovered that
she loves me!'
Yes, the Countess Josephine passionately
loved Louis. She had heard much of him in
earlier years—and since her dear father's
death when the Marquis became her guardian,
the fond, partial accounts of his son she often
heard from his lips so awakened her interest
that at length her heart insensibly, as it often
will in such cases when peculiarly susceptible,
became interested in him. In truth
she was taught to love him ere she beheld
him: and, when, at length, this moment arrived
this pre-created love was confirmed and
sealed as well by his noble and generous appearance
as by the kind manner and deep
devotion with which her presence first impressed
him. How deeply then must she
have felt his altered looks—his bearing of
sudden dislike! How her pride—her woman's
chaste and holy love upspringing from the
freshly broken soil of her heart and leafing,
budding, expanding into beauty and fragrance
only for his eye—his hand.
Yet that eye turns coldly away—that hand
crushes the tendrils that sought to reach and
entwine themselves around his heart. Poor
maiden! sad and heavy was her heart till its
own sense of the folly of his prejudices
nerved him with resolution to combat it. Then
she became happier and strove to win the
heart which had already so thanklessly got
possession of her own. In vain the sweet girl
had sought in herself the cause of his antipathy.
At length the Marquis told her. From
that moment she resolved, by all the sweet
power a lovely woman can wield with her
heart in the purpose to overcome his prejudice
and secure her own happiness by uniting
it with his in whose life her own was irretrievably
wrapped up. Quietly, deeply, perseveringly
she pursued her object, with pride
and delicacy, yet with the humility of unrequited
Louis's prejudice lessened—the stronghold
of his pride was shaken, and the day
we found him in the balcony, he confessed
to his father, that `if the Countess Josephine
had not that peculiar way of turning the eye,
like the Admiral, when she smiled, he could
love her with all his heart and soul.'
`Let her wear specs,' said the Marquis,
laughing.
`I should see it through a ship's side.'
`Suppose you begin then, by forgiving the
old Admiral heartily. That'll square accounts,
and then confound this cock in the
eye of your cousin. You won't care whether
it's the Admiral's or mine.'
`I have forgiven him—even the blow he
once struck me with the flat of his sword.'
`He was impetuous. But forget too.'
`I cannot, with such a resemblance to him
as my cousin's face would daily call up.'
`Then I see no prospect of the union without
putting out your eyes or her's.'
`No, I can never marry her, for I can never
love her. She is a sweet, noble, generous
creature—I have found that out—but I can't
abide the Admiral! But more; now that I
have discerned, she wishes to win my heart.
I find myself fortifying it.'
`Then you deserve to have it carried by
storm, or taken by treachery. You shall
marry your cousin, or I will disenherit you.'
`I am willing to marry my cousin, but I
feel a decided objection to taking the old
Admiral with her. Lay the father aside, and
I'll wed the daughter, that is, if on better acquaintance,
we can agree to love each other.'
This conversation took place the day Louis
came to the balcony to look out for his ship,
and it was overheard by the fair object of it.
From that moment she resolved to forget her
cousin, and let her love die in the heart
whence it had sprung. The Marquis who
had long missed her, found her in her room
sad and thoughtful, a few moments before appearing
with her on the balcony, to which he
invited her for the air and prospect, not expecting
to find Louis there. His soliloquy,
as we have seen, they overheard, and although
the language of it pained her, Josephine resolved
not to retreat or betray any emotion.
But her heart was too full to conceal it, and
in her reply, she was forced to laugh merrily
to refrain from weeping, like an April rain.
Never were two young people placed in more
peculiar circumstances than the cousins, on
being left alone on the departure of the Marquis,
who resolved to give them one more opportunity
of bringing about the consummation
of his paternal hopes.
They remained as we have described them,
Louis with averted face yet watching his
cousin's movements; she in a shrinking, pensive
attitude, half lingering as love drew her,
to half retreating as pride would have driven
her from him. At length feeling the embarrassment
of her position in the presence of so
thoughtless a lover, and recalling her determination
to conquer her heart, she made an
effort to recover her self-possession, and feel
at ease in his presence. Her pride was
wounded that she had suffered him to know
the true state of her feelings towards him,
and she resolved to do away any impressions
upon his mind that she was weak and simple,
or what was equally to be removed, the idea
that she was bold and scheming.
`So, fair cousin,' she said with a powerful
effort that showed the mastery she had over
her feelings, when she would call her power
into exercise; `so you are soon to leave us!
Do you love the sea?'
Louis was surprised at the cool and self-possessed
manner of this address from one
whom he had known only as timid and shrinking,
and turning round he replied with courtesy
and an irresistible feeling of respect:
`Yes, Josephine; to-morrow or the next
day, with this south wind my ship will be
here.'
`You will find it an agreeable change from
this lonely chateau and its only inmates, an
old soldier and a simple girl, for the deck of
a battle ship with brave men around you. I
am told that sailors love the sea.'
`Yes, cousin, I already feel an affection
for its tumbling waves and wide skies. It
is now my home, and I love it as well almost
as I love the green vales of France. For the
wide sea is even as my native land to me,
when my foot is upon a French deck, and
the flag of France is flung to the wind above
my head,' answered the young man enthusiastically.
He advanced a step nearer his cousin as
he spoke, who retreated a step timidly with
down-cast eyes. He felt for a moment vexed,
then pleased, as the idea occured to him that
she was no longer pursuing. He looked at
her and thought he never saw her so lovely
—but the arch of her eye-brows reminded
him of the appoplectic Admiral, and he did
not throw himself at her feet! His glance at
this moment caught an object on the horizon,
and springing for the telescope he placed it
to his eye for observation. After looking a
few moments with an earnest manner, he
dropped the glass with an impatient word of
disappointment.
`It is a brigantine, but carrying sail like a
frigate.'
`What did you expect to see?' asked Josephine
advancing.
`A ship of the line.'
`Look farther southward just coming round
that headland,' she said, looking without the
aid of the glass, and pointing with her glove
in the direction indicated.
`It is the Liner; and astern of her the frigate
just shows her fore and main royal above
glass. `Confound her—' he muttered, `she
is more like the old Admiral than ever—for
he was always the first to discover a sail, and
could see farther with his naked eye than any
officer that sailed under him with his eye-glass.
No, it is settled—I can never think of
her as my wife. I should see the old Admiral's
head carved on all the four bed-posts.'
`You will not leave us at once,' said Josephine,
who had been watching the magnetic
advance of the vessels of war as they sailed
near shore.
`Before night, cousin. Excuse me now. I
must ride to the quay.'
Thus speaking, Louis hastily quit his cousin,
and in a few minutes was seen by her,
galloping on horseback along the road to
Calais.'
`Let him go then—' she said between pride
and grief; `he has no heart—and my love
would wither upon his bosom like the tendrils
of the vine, which in seeking a fair green
tree for support, entwines around some inhospitable
rock, and there perish.'
| CHAPTER I. Black Ralph, or, The helmsman of Hurlgate | |