Chapter Forty Two
The sun rose and chased away the clouds, and the heat was overpowering. What would have been our situation if it had not pleased Heaven to refresh us?
The consequence of their thirst being appeased made the demand for food imperative, and a raw potato was given to each man. The day passed, and so did a third, and fourth, and our hopes began to fail us, when at daylight the next morning I spied a sail to the westward. The breeze was light but the vessel was evidently coming down towards us, and before noon we made it out to be the cutter.
We then sat on the bulwarks, and held out a white shirt, as a signal to attract their attention. When about three miles from us, the cutter rounded to, not appearing to notice us, and for two hours we were left in this state of maddening anxiety and suspense, when at last we perceived her bows pay off, and she again stood towards us. They had at last seen us, and as soon as they had run down to within three cables’ length, the boat was lowered and sent to take us off. In three trips we were all on board, and devoutly thanked Heaven for our preservation.
The lieutenant of the cutter said that at first the sun prevented his seeing us, which I believe was the fact; but he acknowledged that he had no idea that we had been wrecked, although he thought that the Dryad was, as he had seen a mast floating, and, sending a boat to look at it, found her name on the cross-trees. We were, however, too much exhausted to enter into much conversation. As soon as we had been supplied with food, we were all put to bed in their hammocks; the first lieutenant resigned his standing bed-place to me. A long sleep recovered me, and I felt little the worse for what I had suffered, and sat down to a breakfast at noon on the following day with a good appetite. The cutter had, by my directions, shaped a course for the island of Heligoland, where we should find means of returning to England.
“I have letters for you, Captain Keene,” said the lieutenant, “if you are well enough to read them.”
“Thank you, Mr D—; I am now quite well, and will be happy to have them.”
The lieutenant brought me a large packet, and I took a position on the sofa to read them comfortably while he went on deck. I first opened those on service—those, of course, had little interest for me, now that I had lost my ship—I skimmed them over, and then threw them on the table one after another. There were three private letters from England, one of which was in Lord de Versely’s hand-writing; I opened it first. It was very kind, but short, complaining that he had not been very well lately. The second was from my mother. I read it; it contained nothing of importance; and then I took up the third, which had a black seal. I opened it; it was from Mr Warden, acquainting me that Lord de Versely had expired very suddenly, on his return from the House of Lords, of an ossification of the heart.
In my weak state this blow was too much for me, and I fainted. How long I remained in that state I cannot say; but when I came to my senses I found myself still down in the cabin. I rallied as well as I could, but it was some time before I could take up the letter again, and finish it. He stated that his lordship had left me all his personal property, which was all that he could leave—that the library and wines were of some value, and that there would be about a thousand pounds left at the banker’s, when the funeral expenses and debts had been paid. “Oh! if he could but have left me his family name!” I cried, “it was all I coveted. My father! my kind father! I may really say who will lament your loss as I do?” I threw myself on the pillow of the sofa, and for a long while shed bitter tears, not unmixed, I must own; for my grief at his death was increased by my disappointment in having for ever lost the great object of my wishes.
The lieutenant of the cutter came down into the cabin, and I was compelled to hide my emotion. I complained of headache and weakness, and, collecting the letters, I again lay down in the standing bed-place, and, drawing the curtains, I was left to my own reflections. But there was a sad tumult in my mind. I could not keep my ideas upon one subject for a moment. I was feverish and excited, and at last my head was so painful that I could think no more. Fortunately exhaustion threw me again into a sound sleep, and I did not wake till the next morning. When I did, I had to recollect where I was and what had happened. I knew that there was something dreadful which had occurred; again it flashed into my memory. Lord de Versely was dead. I groaned, and fell back on the pillow.
“Are you very ill, Captain Keene!” said a voice close to me. I opened the curtains, and perceived that it was Cross, who was standing by my bedside.
“I am indeed, Cross, very ill; I have very bad news. Lord de Versely is dead.”
“That is bad news, sir,” replied Cross—“very bad news, worse than losing the frigate. But, Captain Keene, we must have our ups and downs in this world. You have had a long run of good fortune, and you must not be surprised at a change. It is hard to lose your frigate and your father at the same time—but you have not lost your life, which is a great mercy to be thankful for.”
I turned away, for my heart was full of bitterness. Cross, perceiving my mood, left me, and I remained in a state of some indifference, never rising from the bed-place during the remainder of the time that I was on board.
On the second day we arrived at Heligoland, and I was requested by the governor to take up my quarters with him, until an opportunity occurred for my return to England. My spirits were, however, so much weighed down that I could not rally. I brooded over my misfortunes, and I thought that the time was now come when I was to meet a reverse of the prosperity which I had so long enjoyed.
The sudden death of Lord de Versely, at the age of fifty-six, left me without a patron, and had destroyed all my hopes centred in him. The object of my ambition was, I considered, for ever lost to me. There was now no chance of my being acknowledged as a member of his family. Then the loss of so fine a frigate, and such a noble ship’s company. That I should be honourably acquitted by a court-martial I had not a doubt; but I had no chance of future employment; for, now that Lord de Versely was dead, I had no one to support my claims. My prospects, therefore, in the service were all gone, as well as the visions I had indulged in. I dwelt with some pleasure upon the idea that Lord de Versely had left me his personal property—it proved his regard; but I wanted his family name, and I preferred that to thousands per annum. The second day after our arrival Cross called, and was admitted. He found me in bad spirits, and tried all he could to rouse me. At last he said, “As for the loss of the frigate, Captain Keene, no human endeavour could have saved her, and no one could have done his duty better than you did, as the court-martial will prove; but sir, I think it would be proper just now to show that your zeal for the service is as strong as ever.”
“And how am I to do that, Cross?”
“Why, sir, you know as well as we all do how the Frenchmen are going to the wall; that they have been thrashed out of Russia, and that they are retreating everywhere. They say that they have left Hamburg, and I understand that the gun-brigs here are going on an expedition from this island, either to-morrow or next day, to storm the batteries of Cuxhaven, and so create a diversion, as they call it—and very good diversion it is—licking those French rascals. Now, Captain Keene, if I may take the liberty of saying so, would it not be as well to take as many of your men as are able to go and join the storming party? Much better than sitting here all day, melancholy, and doing nothing.”
“It’s the first I’ve heard of it, Cross; are you sure you are correct?”
“How should you hear it, sir, shut up here, and seeing nobody? It’s true enough, sir; they were telling off the men as I came up, and I think they start at daylight to-morrow.”
“Well, Cross, I will think of it, and let you know my decision if you call here in half an hour.”
Cross left me, and I was still undecided, when the governor called to pay me a visit. After the first exchange of civilities, I asked him if the report was true that there was an expedition about to proceed to Cuxhaven. His reply was that the Russians had entered Hamburg, which the French had evacuated on the 11th, and that the French garrisons at Cuxhaven were reported to be in a very distressed state, and, in consequence, the Blazer, and another gun-brig, were about to proceed to attack the forts.
Hamburg! thought I; why, Minnie Vanderwelt is at Hamburg with her father. I will go and try if I cannot get to Hamburg. The remembrance of Minnie gave a spur to my energies, and created a new stimulus. I then told the governor that I had a few men doing nothing; that I would join them to the expedition, and serve as a volunteer. The governor thanked me for my zeal, and I left him to go down and communicate my intentions to the commanding officer of the gun-brig, who expressed himself most happy at my assistance and co-operation.
Chapter Forty Three
As neither my men nor I had any luggage to hamper us—for we had just the clothes we stood in—we were not long getting ready. We started next morning; and on entering the river, found that the French had destroyed their flotilla, and soon afterwards we were invited by the people to come on shore and take possession of the batteries which the French had evacuated. I remained with Cross and my men on shore at Cuxhaven, while the brigs went up the river, in pursuit of a privateer.
After a day or two, tired of inactivity, and anxious to arrive at Hamburg, I proposed to Cross that he should accompany me, which he cheerfully acceded to. I had drawn a bill at Heligoland, so that we were in no want of money, and we set off on our expedition. We had not, however, proceeded far before we were informed that the road to Hamburg was so full of French troops, scattered about, that it would be impossible to gain the city without we made a détour. As we knew that our throats would be cut by these disorganised parties, we followed the advice given to us, walking from village to village, until we had put Hamburg between us and the river. But when there, we found that we could not approach the imperial city, but were obliged to direct our steps more inland. At last, we heard that the inhabitants of the town of Lunenburg had risen, and driven out the French garrison, and I resolved to proceed there, as it was more advisable than being continually in danger of being picked up by the French stragglers, who were committing every enormity that could be imagined.
We arrived safe; stated who we were to the authorities, and were well received; but we had not been there more than two days, when the rejoicings and braggings of the town’s-people, on account of the late victory over the French garrison, were turned to consternation by the intelligence that General Moraud was advancing with a considerable force to re-take the town. The panic was so great, that all idea of defence was in vain; and at the very time that I was entreating them to make a stand, the French troops poured in, and two cuirassiers galloped up, and seized upon Cross and me. A few minutes afterwards, General Moraud came up, and inquired, in a rough tone, who we were. I replied in French, that we were English officers.
“Take them away,” said he, “and secure them well; I’ll make an example here that shan’t be forgotten.”
We were taken to the guard-room, where we remained shut up for the night. The next morning one of the cuirassiers looked into our cell. I asked him whether we could not have something to eat.
“Cela ne vaut pas la peine. Mon ami, vous n’aurez pas le temps pour la digestion; dans une demie-heure vous serez fusillés.”
“May I ask the English of that, Captain Keene?” replied Cross.
“Yes, it is very pleasant. He says that it’s not worth while eating anything, as we shall be shot in half an hour.”
“Well, I suppose they’ll shoot us first, and try us afterwards,” replied Cross. “Won’t they give us a reason?”
“I suspect not, Cross. I am sorry that I have got you into this scrape; as for myself, I care little about it.”
“I am sorry for poor Jane, sir,” replied Cross; “but we all owe Heaven a death; and, after all, it’s not worth making a fuss about.”
Our conversation was here interrupted by a party of French soldiers, who opened the door and ordered us to follow them. We had not far to go, for we were led out to the Grand Place, before the prison, where we found the French troops drawn up, and General Moraud, with his officers round him, standing in the centre. At twenty yards’ distance, and surrounded by the troops, which did not amount to more than three hundred, were thirty of the principal inhabitants of the town, pinioned, and handkerchiefs tied over their eyes, preparatory to their being shot; this being the terrible example that the governor had threatened.
“Look, Cross,” said I, “what a handful of men these Frenchmen have retaken the town with. Why, if we had resisted, we might have laughed at them.”
“They won’t laugh any more, I expect,” replied Bob.
“Allons,” said the corporal to me.
“Where?” replied I.
“To your friends, there,” replied he, pointing to the town’s-people, who were about to be shot.
“I wish to speak to the general,” replied I, resisting.
“No, no: you must go.”
“I will speak to the general,” replied I, pushing the corporal on one side, and walking to where the general was standing.
“Well,” said the general, fiercely.
“I wish to know, sir,” replied I, “by what law you are guided in shooting us. We are English officers, here on duty to assist against the French, and at the most can only be prisoners of war. Upon what grounds do you order us to be shot?”
“As spies,” replied the general.
“I am no spy, sir; I am a post-captain in the English navy, who joined with the seamen saved from the wreck of my frigate in the attack upon Cuxhaven, and there is my boatswain, who came up with me to go to Hamburg. At all events, I am fully justified in siding against the French: and to shoot us will be a murder, which will not fail to be revenged.”
“You may pass yourself off as the captain of a frigate, but your dress disproves it, and I have better information. You are two spies, and smugglers, and therefore you will be shot.”
“I tell you before all your officers that I am Captain Keene, of the Circe frigate, belonging to His Britannic Majesty, and no spy; if you choose to shoot me now, I leave my death to be revenged by my country.”
At this moment an officer in naval uniform stepped forward and looked me in the face.
“General Moraud,” said he, “what that officer says is true: he is Captain Keene, and I was prisoner on board of his vessel; and I also know the other man as well.”
“Captain Vangilt, I do not request your interference,” replied the general.
“But general, as an officer in the marine of the emperor, it is my duty to state to you, that you are deceived, and that this officer is the person that he states himself to be. Messieurs,” continued Captain Vangilt, addressing those about the general, “I assure you it is true, and I am under the greatest obligation to this officer for his kindness and humanity when I was his prisoner.”
“I recognise you now, Mr Vangilt,” replied I; “and I thank you for your evidence.”
“You see, general, he knows me by name: I must demand the life of this British officer.”
The other officers then spoke to the general, who heard all they had to say, and then, with a sardonic grin, replied,—“Gentlemen, he may be an officer, but still he is a spy.” At that moment an orderly came up on horseback, and, dismounting, gave a note to the general.
“Sacré bleu!” cried he; “then we’ll have our revenge first at all events. Soldiers, take these two men, and put them in the centre, with the others.”
Vangilt pleaded and entreated in vain: at last, in his rage, he called the general “a coward and a madman.”
“Captain Vangilt, you will answer that at some other time,” replied the general; “at present we will carry our will into execution. Lead them away.”
Vangilt then covered his face with his hands, and all the other officers showed signs of great disgust.
“Farewell, Vangilt,” said I in French; “I thank you for your interference, although you have not succeeded with the scoundrel.”
“Take them away!” roared the general.
At that moment the report of musketry was heard in dropping shots.
“Well, if ever I saw such a bloody villain,” said Cross. “Take that, at all events;” continued Bob, shying his hat right into the general’s face. “I only wish it was a 32-pounder, you murdering thief.”
The rage of the general may easily be imagined. Once more he gave his orders, drawing his sword in a menacing way at his own soldiers, who now forced us towards the part of the square where the other victims were collected. As soon as we were there, they wanted to blind our eyes, but that both I and Bob positively refused, and a delay was created by our resistance. The musketry was now approaching much nearer; and a few seconds afterwards the general gave the order for the party to advance who were to execute the sentence.
The other prisoners kneeled down; but I and Cross would not; and while we were resisting, the general repeated his order to fire; but the men were confused with the advance of the enemy, and the impossibility to fire while Cross and I not only resisted the soldiers, but held them so fast, that had the party fired they must have shot them as well as us. A cry “To arms” was given, and the troops all wheeled round in front to repel the enemy. A loud hurrah was followed by an inpouring of some hundred Cossacks, with their long spears who, in a few seconds charged and routed the French, who retreated in the greatest confusion by the different streets which led into the Grand Place.
“Hurrah! we are saved,” cried Cross, snatching up a musket that had been dropped by a soldier. I did the same, and pursued the retreating French, till a bullet through my leg put a stop to my progress. I called to Cross, who came to my assistance, and he helped me back to the Grand Place, which was now clear of troops.
Chapter Forty Four
The Cossacks having divided, and gone in pursuit of the French, I pointed out to Cross a hotel, and requested him to help me there. As we crossed the square, strewed with the dead and wounded, we passed close to General Moraud, who was breathing his last.
“See, Cross,” said I, “there is retribution. He intended that we should fall where he now lies.”
The general recognised us, gave a heavy groan, and, turning on his back, fell dead.
As soon as I gained the hotel, I was taken up into a room, and made as comfortable as I could be until my wound could be dressed.
“We’re well out of it this time, sir,” said Cross.
“Yes, indeed, Bob; this has indeed been a miraculous preservation, and we ought to thank Heaven for it.”
“Why, Captain Keene, I thought just now you did not care whether you lived or died.”
“No more I did at that time, Cross; but when we are so wonderfully preserved, we cannot think but that we are preserved for better things; and as Providence has interfered, it points out to us that it is our duty to live.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear you say that, sir. There’s all the troops coming back. What queer-looking chaps they are, with their long lances and long beards!”
“Yes; they are Cossacks—Russian irregular cavalry.”
“Irregular enough I don’t doubt; but they spitted the French men nicely. They look exactly what I thought the Pope of Rome was like.”
“Cross, call the master of the hotel, and tell him to come here.” When the man came, I desired him to let the commander of the allied troops know that an English captain was wounded, and required surgical assistance. The master of the hotel went to the burgomaster, who was one of those who had been ordered to be shot; and the burgomaster, who was now in company with the Russian commander, made known what I required. In about an hour a surgeon came, and my wound was dressed. The burgomaster called soon afterwards, and expressed his obligation to me. “For,” said he, “if you had not created the delay—which you did by your resistance—it would have been all over with us by this time.”
“You have to thank a Dutch naval officer of the name of Vangilt,” replied I; “it is he who saved us all; and if he is not hurt, you must be kind to him, and bring him to me. I will get him his parole, if he is a prisoner. Will you see to it, burgomaster?”
“I will,” replied he, “as soon as we are a little more tranquil; but, what with fright and confusion, none of us know what we are about. You were right, sir, in persuading us to defend ourselves. We might easily have beaten off the small force of General Moraud; but we thought he had ten thousand men, at least. We will do better another time; but the French are now in full retreat everywhere.”
That night, after dusk, Captain Vangilt came into my room: he had been a prisoner; but the burgomaster made inquiries, and let him out, which, as chief magistrate, he had the power to do. Vangilt embraced me with much warmth, and expressed his regret that he could not persuade that wretch, Moraud, from his murderous intentions.
“It came to the same thing, Vangilt. I owe you my life; for if you had not created the delay, we should have been shot.”
“That’s true,” replied he. “How fortunate it was, that, as my squadron of gun-boats were destroyed, I consented to join Moraud with what men I could collect, to surprise the town. Are you badly wounded?”
“No, not seriously, I believe; I hope to be able to get to Hamburg in a few days.”
“There is more than one there who will be delighted to see you.”
“Is Mr Vanderwelt alive and well?”
“Oh yes; and Minnie, my pretty cousin, is still unmarried.” Vangilt smiled as he made this reply.
“I must ask for your parole, Vangilt, and then you can go to Hamburg with us.”
“With all my heart,” replied he; “for we are tired of war, and as I am a Dutchman and not a Frenchman, I care little for the reverses we have met with; all I hope is, that Holland may become a kingdom again, and not a French state, as it is now.”
The next day, I was visited by the Russian commandant, who very willingly granted me the parole of Vangilt. In a week I was well enough to travel by slow journeys to Hamburg, lying on mattresses in a small covered waggon, and escorted by Cross and Vangilt. A few hours before my arrival, Vangilt went ahead to give notice of my coming, and on the evening of the second day I found myself in a luxurious chamber, with every comfort, in the company of Mr Vanderwelt, and with the beaming eyes of Minnie watching over me.
The report of Minnie’s beauty was fully warranted. When she first made her appearance, the effect upon me was quite electrical: her style was radiant, and almost dazzling—a something you did not expect to find in the human countenance. Their reception of me was all that I could desire; their affection shown towards me, their anxiety about my wound, and joy at once more having me under their roof, proved that I had not been forgotten. After a short time, Vangilt left the room, and I remained on the sofa, one hand in the grasp of Mr Vanderwelt, the other holding the not unwilling one of Minnie. That evening I made known to them all that had taken place since I last wrote to them, winding up with the loss of my frigate, the death of Lord de Versely, and my subsequent capture and rescue.
“And so it was in attempting to come and see us that you were wounded and nearly murdered?”
“Yes, Minnie; I had long been anxious to see you, and could not help availing myself of the first opportunity.”
“Thank God you are here at last,” said Mr Vanderwelt, “and that there is now every prospect of a conclusion to the war.”
“And you won’t go to sea any more—will you, Percival?” said Minnie.
“They won’t give me a ship, Minnie, after having lost the one I commanded; to be unfortunate is to be guilty, in those who have no interest.”
“I’m very glad to hear it; then you’ll remain quietly on shore, and you will come and see us.”
As I had been rendered feverish by travelling, and my wound was a little angry, as soon as it was dressed for the night, they left me to repose; but that I could not—the form of Minnie haunted me; to sleep was impossible, and I lay thinking of her till day dawned. The fact was, that I was for the first time in love, and that in no small degree—before morning I was desperately so. Indeed, there was excuse sufficient, for Minnie was as winning in her manners as she was lovely in her person, and I was not at all surprised at hearing from Vangilt of the numerous suitors for her hand.