CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE RECOGNITION
Far away, over sea and land, over sunny sea again, great guns werebooming on that 7th of May, 1799.
The Mediterranean came up with a long roar on a beach glitteringwhite with snowy sand, and the fragments of innumerable sea-shells,delicate and shining as porcelain. Looking at that shore from thesea, a long ridge of upland ground, beginning from an inland depth,stretched far away into the ocean on the right, till it ended in agreat mountainous bluff, crowned with the white buildings of aconvent sloping rapidly down into the blue water at its base.
In the clear eastern air, the different characters of the foliagethat clothed the sides of that sea-washed mountain might bediscerned from a long distance by the naked eye; the silver gray ofthe olive-trees near its summit; the heavy green and bossy forms ofthe sycamores lower down; broken here and there by a solitaryterebinth or ilex tree, of a deeper green and a wider spread; tillthe eye fell below on the maritime plain, edged with the whiteseaboard and the sandy hillocks; with here and there featherypalm-trees, either isolated or in groups--motionless and distinctagainst the hot purple air.
Look again; a little to the left on the sea-shore there are thewhite walls of a fortified town, glittering in sunlight, or black inshadow.
The fortifications themselves run out into the sea, forming a portand a haven against the wild Levantine storms; and a lighthouserises out of the waves to guide mariners into safety.
Beyond this walled city, and far away to the left still, there isthe same wide plain shut in by the distant rising ground, till theupland circuit comes closing in to the north, and the great whiterocks meet the deep tideless ocean with its intensity of bluecolour.
Above, the sky is literally purple with heat; and the pitiless lightsmites the gazer's weary eye as it comes back from the white shore.Nor does the plain country in that land offer the refuge and rest ofour own soft green. The limestone rock underlies the vegetation, andgives a glittering, ashen hue to all the bare patches, and even tothe cultivated parts which are burnt up early in the year. Inspring-time alone does the country look rich and fruitful; then thecorn-fields of the plain show their capability of bearing, 'somefifty, some an hundred fold'; down by the brook Kishon, flowing notfar from the base of the mountainous promontory to the south, theregrow the broad green fig-trees, cool and fresh to look upon; theorchards are full of glossy-leaved cherry-trees; the tall amaryllisputs forth crimson and yellow glories in the fields, rivalling thepomp of King Solomon; the daisies and the hyacinths spread theirmyriad flowers; the anemones, scarlet as blood, run hither andthither over the ground like dazzling flames of fire.
A spicy odour lingers in the heated air; it comes from the multitudeof aromatic flowers that blossom in the early spring. Later on theywill have withered and faded, and the corn will have been gathered,and the deep green of the eastern foliage will have assumed a kindof gray-bleached tint.
Even now in May, the hot sparkle of the everlasting sea, theterribly clear outline of all objects, whether near or distant, thefierce sun right overhead, the dazzling air around, wereinexpressibly wearying to the English eyes that kept their skilledwatch, day and night, on the strongly-fortified coast-town that layout a little to the northward of where the British ships wereanchored.
They had kept up a flanking fire for many days in aid of thosebesieged in St Jean d'Acre; and at intervals had listened,impatient, to the sound of the heavy siege guns, or the sharperrattle of the French musketry.
In the morning, on the 7th of May, a man at the masthead of the_Tigre_ sang out that he saw ships in the offing; and in reply tothe signal that was hastily run up, he saw the distant vessels hoistfriendly flags. That May morning was a busy time. The besieged Turkstook heart of grace; the French outside, under the command of theirgreat general, made hasty preparations for a more vigorous assaultthan all many, both vigorous and bloody, that had gone before (forthe siege was now at its fifty-first day), in hopes of carrying thetown by storm before the reinforcement coming by sea could arrive;and Sir Sidney Smith, aware of Buonaparte's desperate intention,ordered all the men, both sailors and marines, that could be sparedfrom the necessity of keeping up a continual flanking fire from theships upon the French, to land, and assist the Turks and the Britishforces already there in the defence of the old historic city.
Lieutenant Kinraid, who had shared his captain's daring adventureoff the coast of France three years before, who had been a prisonerwith him and Westley Wright, in the Temple at Paris, and had escapedwith them, and, through Sir Sidney's earnest recommendation, beenpromoted from being a warrant officer to the rank of lieutenant,received on this day the honour from his admiral of being appointedto an especial post of danger. His heart was like a war-horse, andsaid, Ha, ha! as the boat bounded over the waves that were to landhim under the ancient machicolated walls where the Crusaders madetheir last stand in the Holy Land. Not that Kinraid knew or caredone jot about those gallant knights of old: all he knew was, thatthe French, under Boney, were trying to take the town from theTurks, and that his admiral said they must not, and so they shouldnot.
He and his men landed on that sandy shore, and entered the town bythe water-port gate; he was singing to himself his own countrysong,--
Weel may the keel row, the keel row, &C.
and his men, with sailors' aptitude for music, caught up the air,and joined in the burden with inarticulate sounds.
So, with merry hearts, they threaded the narrow streets of Acre,hemmed in on either side by the white walls of Turkish houses, withsmall grated openings high up, above all chance of peepingintrusion.
Here and there they met an ample-robed and turbaned Turk going alongwith as much haste as his stately self-possession would allow. Butthe majority of the male inhabitants were gathered together todefend the breach, where the French guns thundered out far above theheads of the sailors.
They went along none the less merrily for the sound to DjezzarPacha's garden, where the old Turk sate on his carpet, beneath theshade of a great terebinth tree, listening to the interpreter, whomade known to him the meaning of the eager speeches of Sir SidneySmith and the colonel of the marines.
As soon as the admiral saw the gallant sailors of H.M.S. _Tigre_, heinterrupted the council of war without much ceremony, and going toKinraid, he despatched them, as before arranged, to the NorthRavelin, showing them the way with rapid, clear directions.
Out of respect to him, they had kept silent while in the strange,desolate garden; but once more in the streets, the old Newcastlesong rose up again till the men were, perforce, silenced by thehaste with which they went to the post of danger.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon. For many a day these very menhad been swearing at the terrific heat at this hour--even when atsea, fanned by the soft breeze; but now, in the midst of hot smoke,with former carnage tainting the air, and with the rush and whizz ofdeath perpetually whistling in their ears, they were uncomplainingand light-hearted. Many an old joke, and some new ones, came braveand hearty, on their cheerful voices, even though the speaker wasveiled from sight in great clouds of smoke, cloven only by thebright flames of death.
A sudden message came; as many of the crew of the _Tigre_ as wereunder Lieutenant Kinraid's command were to go down to the Mole, toassist the new reinforcements (seen by the sailor from the mastheadat day-dawn), under command of Hassan Bey, to land at the Mole,where Sir Sidney then was.
Off they went, almost as bright and thoughtless as before, thoughtwo of their number lay silent for ever at the NorthRavelin--silenced in that one little half-hour. And one went alongwith the rest, swearing lustily at his ill-luck in having his rightarm broken, but ready to do good business with his left.
They helped the Turkish troops to land more with good-will thantenderness; and then, led by Sir Sidney, they went under the shelterof English guns to the fatal breach, so often assailed, so gallantlydefended, but never so fiercely contested as on this burningafternoon. The ruins of the massive wall
that here had been brokendown by the French, were used by them as stepping stones to get on alevel with the besieged, and so to escape the heavy stones which thelatter hurled down; nay, even the dead bodies of the morning'scomrades were made into ghastly stairs.
When Djezzar Pacha heard that the British sailors were defending thebreach, headed by Sir Sidney Smith, he left his station in thepalace garden, gathered up his robes in haste, and hurried to thebreach; where, with his own hands, and with right hearty good-will,he pulled the sailors down from the post of danger, saying that ifhe lost his English friends he lost all!
But little recked the crew of the _Tigre_ of the one old man--Pachaor otherwise--who tried to hold them back from the fight; they wereup and at the French assailants clambering over the breach in aninstant; and so they went on, as if it were some game at playinstead of a deadly combat, until Kinraid and his men were calledoff by Sir Sidney, as the reinforcement of Turkish troops underHassan Bey were now sufficient for the defence of that old breach inthe walls, which was no longer the principal object of the Frenchattack; for the besiegers had made a new and more formidable breachby their incessant fire, knocking down whole streets of the citywalls.
'Fight your best Kinraid!' said Sir Sidney; 'for there's Boney onyonder hill looking at you.'
And sure enough, on a rising ground, called Richard Coeur de Lion'sMount, there was a half-circle of French generals, on horseback, alldeferentially attending to the motions, and apparently to the words,of a little man in their centre; at whose bidding the aide-de-campgalloped swift with messages to the more distant French camp.
The two ravelins which Kinraid and his men had to occupy, for thepurpose of sending a flanking fire upon the enemy, were not tenyards from that enemy's van.
But at length there was a sudden rush of the French to that part ofthe wall where they imagined they could enter unopposed.
Surprised at this movement, Kinraid ventured out of the shelter ofthe ravelin to ascertain the cause; he, safe and untouched duringthat long afternoon of carnage, fell now, under a stray musket-shot,and lay helpless and exposed upon the ground undiscerned by his men,who were recalled to help in the hot reception which had beenplanned for the French; who, descending the city walls into thePacha's garden, were attacked with sabre and dagger, and layheadless corpses under the flowering rose-bushes, and by thefountain side.
Kinraid lay beyond the ravelins, many yards outside the city walls.
He was utterly helpless, for the shot had broken his leg. Deadbodies of Frenchmen lay strewn around him; no Englishman hadventured out so far.
All the wounded men that he could see were French; and many ofthese, furious with pain, gnashed their teeth at him, and cursed himaloud, till he thought that his best course was to assume thesemblance of death; for some among these men were still capable ofdragging themselves up to him, and by concentrating all theirfailing energies into one blow, put him to a speedy end.
The outlying pickets of the French army were within easy rifle shot;and his uniform, although less conspicuous in colour than that ofthe marines, by whose sides he had been fighting, would make him asure mark if he so much as moved his arm. Yet how he longed to turn,if ever so slightly, so that the cruel slanting sun might not beatfull into his aching eyes. Fever, too, was coming upon him; the painin his leg was every moment growing more severe; the terrible thirstof the wounded, added to the heat and fatigue of the day, made hislips and tongue feel baked and dry, and his whole throat seemedparched and wooden. Thoughts of other days, of cool Greenland seas,where ice abounded, of grassy English homes, began to make the pastmore real than the present.
With a great effort he brought his wandering senses back; he knewwhere he was now, and could weigh the chances of his life, whichwere but small; the unwonted tears came to his eyes as he thought ofthe newly-made wife in her English home, who might never know how hedied thinking of her.
Suddenly he saw a party of English marines advance, under shelter ofthe ravelin, to pick up the wounded, and bear them within the wallsfor surgical help. They were so near he could see their faces, couldhear them speak; yet he durst not make any sign to them when he laywithin range of the French picket's fire.
For one moment he could not resist raising his head, to give himselfa chance for life; before the unclean creatures that infest a campcame round in the darkness of the night to strip and insult the deadbodies, and to put to death such as had yet the breath of lifewithin them. But the setting sun came full into his face, and he sawnothing of what he longed to see.
He fell back in despair; he lay there to die.
That strong clear sunbeam had wrought his salvation.
He had been recognized as men are recognized when they stand in thered glare of a house on fire; the same despair of help, of hopelessfarewell to life, stamped on their faces in blood-red light.
One man left his fellows, and came running forwards, forwards inamong the enemy's wounded, within range of their guns; he bent downover Kinraid; he seemed to understand without a word; he lifted himup, carrying him like a child; and with the vehement energy that ismore from the force of will than the strength of body, he bore himback to within the shelter of the ravelin--not without many shotsbeing aimed at them, one of which hit Kinraid in the fleshy part ofhis arm.
Kinraid was racked with agony from his dangling broken leg, and hisvery life seemed leaving him; yet he remembered afterwards how themarine recalled his fellows, and how, in the pause before theyreturned, his face became like one formerly known to the sick sensesof Kinraid; yet it was too like a dream, too utterly improbable tobe real.
Yet the few words this man said, as he stood breathless and alone bythe fainting Kinraid, fitted in well with the belief conjured up byhis personal appearance. He panted out,--
'I niver thought you'd ha' kept true to her!'
And then the others came up; and while they were making a sling oftheir belts, Kinraid fainted utterly away, and the next time that hewas fully conscious, he was lying in his berth in the _Tigre_, withthe ship surgeon setting his leg. After that he was too feverish forseveral days to collect his senses. When he could first remember,and form a judgment upon his recollections, he called the manespecially charged to attend upon him, and bade him go and makeinquiry in every possible manner for a marine named Philip Hepburn,and, when he was found, to entreat him to come and see Kinraid.
The sailor was away the greater part of the day, and returnedunsuccessful in his search; he had been from ship to ship, hitherand thither; he had questioned all the marines he had met with, noone knew anything of any Philip Hepburn.
Kinraid passed a miserably feverish night, and when the doctorexclaimed the next morning at his retrogression, he told him, withsome irritation, of the ill-success of his servant; he accused theman of stupidity, and wished fervently that he were able to gohimself.
Partly to soothe him, the doctor promised that he would undertakethe search for Hepburn, and he engaged faithfully to follow allKinraid's eager directions; not to be satisfied with men's carelesswords, but to look over muster-rolls and ships' books.
He, too, brought the same answer, however unwillingly given.
He had set out upon the search so confident of success, that he feltdoubly discomfited by failure. However, he had persuaded himselfthat the lieutenant had been partially delirious from the effects ofhis wound, and the power of the sun shining down just where he lay.There had, indeed, been slight symptoms of Kinraid's having receiveda sun-stroke; and the doctor dwelt largely on these in his endeavourto persuade his patient that it was his imagination which had endueda stranger with the lineaments of some former friend.
Kinraid threw his arms out of bed with impatience at all thisplausible talk, which was even more irritating than the fact thatHepburn was still undiscovered.
'The man was no friend of mine; I was like to have killed him whenlast I saw him. He was a shopkeeper in a country town in England. Ihad seen little enough of him; but enough to make me able to swearto him a
nywhere, even in a marine's uniform, and in this swelteringcountry.'
'Faces once seen, especially in excitement, are apt to return uponthe memory in cases of fever,' quoth the doctor, sententiously.
The attendant sailor, reinstalled to some complacency by the failureof another in the search in which he himself had been unsuccessful,now put in his explanation.
'Maybe it was a spirit. It's not th' first time as I've heared of aspirit coming upon earth to save a man's life i' time o' need. Myfather had an uncle, a west-country grazier. He was a-coming overDartmoor in Devonshire one moonlight night with a power o' money ashe'd got for his sheep at t' fair. It were stowed i' leather bagsunder th' seat o' th' gig. It were a rough kind o' road, both as aroad and in character, for there'd been many robberies there oflate, and th' great rocks stood convenient for hiding-places. All atonce father's uncle feels as if some one were sitting beside him onth' empty seat; and he turns his head and looks, and there he seeshis brother sitting--his brother as had been dead twelve year andmore. So he turns his head back again, eyes right, and never say aword, but wonders what it all means. All of a sudden two fellowscome out upo' th' white road from some black shadow, and theylooked, and they let th' gig go past, father's uncle driving hard,I'll warrant him. But for all that he heard one say to t' other,"By----, there's _two_ on 'em!" Straight on he drove faster thanever, till he saw th' far lights of some town or other. I forget itsname, though I've heared it many a time; and then he drew a longbreath, and turned his head to look at his brother, and ask him howhe'd managed to come out of his grave i' Barum churchyard, and th'seat was as empty as it had been when he set out; and then he knewthat it were a spirit come to help him against th' men who thoughtto rob him, and would likely enough ha' murdered him.'
Kinraid had kept quiet through this story. But when the sailor beganto draw the moral, and to say, 'And I think I may make bold to say,sir, as th' marine who carried you out o' th' Frenchy's gun-shot wasjust a spirit come to help you,' he exclaimed impatiently, swearinga great oath as he did so, 'It was no spirit, I tell you; and I wasin my full senses. It was a man named Philip Hepburn. He said wordsto me, or over me, as none but himself would have said. Yet we hatedeach other like poison; and I can't make out why he should be thereand putting himself in danger to save me. But so it was; and as youcan't find him, let me hear no more of your nonsense. It was him,and not my fancy, doctor. It was flesh and blood, and not a spirit,Jack. So get along with you, and leave me quiet.'
All this time Stephen Freeman lay friendless, sick, and shattered,on board the _Theseus_.
He had been about his duty close to some shells that were placed onher deck; a gay young midshipman was thoughtlessly striving to getthe fusee out of one of these by a mallet and spike-nail that layclose at hand; and a fearful explosion ensued, in which the poormarine, cleaning his bayonet near, was shockingly burnt anddisfigured, the very skin of all the lower part of his face beingutterly destroyed by gunpowder. They said it was a mercy that hiseyes were spared; but he could hardly feel anything to be a mercy,as he lay tossing in agony, burnt by the explosion, wounded bysplinters, and feeling that he was disabled for life, if life itselfwere preserved. Of all that suffered by that fearful accident (andthey were many) none was so forsaken, so hopeless, so desolate, asthe Philip Hepburn about whom such anxious inquiries were being madeat that very time.