Charles Lever - Arthur O'Leary - His Wanderings And Ponderings In Many Lands

“Thus was my education begun; and an apter scholar, in all the art and mystery of smuggling, could scarcely have been found. I had a taste for picking up languages; and, before my first cruise was over, had got a very tolerable smattering of French, Dutch, and Norwegian, and some intimacy with the fashionable dialect used on the banks of the Niger. Other accomplishments followed these. I was a capital pistol-shot – no bad hand with the small swords – could reef and steer, and had not my equal on board in detecting a revenue officer, no matter how artfully disguised. Such were my professional – my social qualifications far exceeded these. I could play a little on the violin, and the guitar, and was able to throw into rude verse any striking incident of our wild career, and adapt an air to it, for the amusement of my companions. These I usually noted down in a book, accompanying them with pen illustrations and notes; and I assure you, however little literary reputation this volume might have acquired, ‘O’Kelly’s Log,’ as it was called, formed the great delight, of ‘Saturday night at sea.’ These things were all too local and personal in their interest to amuse any one who didn’t know the parties; but mayhap one day or other I’ll give you a sight of the ‘log,’ and let you hear some of our songs.

“I won’t stop to detail any of the adventures of my sea-faring life; strange and wild enough they were in all conscience: one night, staggering under close-reefed canvas beneath a lee-shore; another, carousing with a jolly set in a ‘Schenk Hans’ at Rotterdam, or Ostende – now, hiding in the dark caves of Ballybunnion, while the craft stood out to sea – now, disguised, taking a run up to Paris, and dining in the ‘Café de L’Empire,’ in all the voluptuous extravagance of the day. Adventure fast succeeding on adventure, escape upon escape, had given my life a character of wild excitement, which made me feel a single day’s repose, a period of ennui and monotony.

“Smuggling, too, became only a part of my occupation. My knowledge of French, and my power of disguising my appearance, enabled me to mix in Parisian society, of a certain class, without any fear of detection. In this way I obtained, from time to time, information of the greatest consequence to our government; and once brought some documents from the war department of Napoleon, which obtained for me the honour of an interview with Mr. Pitt himself. This part of my career, however, would take me too far away from my story, were I to detail any of the many striking adventures which marked it; so I’ll pass on, at once, to one of those eventful epochs of my life, two or three of which have changed, for the time, the current of my destiny.

“I was about eighteen: the war had just broke out with France, and the assembled camp at Boulogne threatened the invasion of England. The morning we left the French coast, the preparations for the embarkation of the troops, were in great forwardness, and certain particulars had reached us, which convinced me that Napoleon really intended an attempt, which many were disposed to believe, was a mere menace. In fact, an officer of the staff had given me such information as explained the mode of the descent, and the entire plan of the expedition. Before I could avail myself of this, however, we should land our cargo, an unusually rich one, on the west coast of Ireland, for my companions knew nothing all this time of the system of ‘spionage’ I had established, and little suspected that one of their crew was in relation with the Prime Minister of England.

“I have said I was about eighteen. My wild life, if it had made me feel older than my years, had given a hardihood and enterprise to my character, which heightened for me the enjoyment of every bold adventure, and made me feel a kind of ecstasy in every emergency, where danger and difficulty were present. I longed to be the skipper of my own craft, sweeping the seas at my own will; a bold buccaneer, caring less for gain than glory, until my name should win for itself its own meed of fame, and my feats be spoken of in awe and astonishment.

“Van Brock, our captain, was a hardy Fleming, but all his energy of character, all his daring, were directed to the one object – gain. For this, there was nothing he wouldn’t attempt, nothing he wouldn’t risk. Now, our present voyage was one in which he had embarked all his capital; the outbreak of a war warned him that his trade must speedily be abandoned – he could no longer hope to escape the cruisers of every country, that already filled the channel. This one voyage, however, if successful, would give him an ample competence for life, and he determined to hazard everything upon it.

“It was a dark and stormy night in November, when we made the first light on the west coast of Ireland. Part of our cargo was destined for Ballybunnion; the remainder, and most valuable portion, was to be landed in the Bay of Galway. It blew a whole gale from the southward and westward, and the sea ran mountains high, not the short jobble of a land-locked channel, but the heavy roll of the great Atlantic, – dark and frowning, swelling to an enormous height, and thundering away on the iron-bound coast to leeward, with a crash, that made our hearts quiver. The ‘Dart’ was a good sea-boat, but the waves swept her from stem to stern, and though nothing but a close-reefed topsail was bent, we went spinning through the water, at twelve knots. The hatchways were battened down, and every preparation made for a rough night, for as the darkness increased, so did the gale.

“The smuggler’s fate is a dark and gloomy one. Let the breeze fall, let the blue sky and fleecy clouds lie mirrored on the glassy deep, and straight a boat is seen, sweeping along with sixteen oars, springing with every jerk of the strong arms, to his capture. And when the white waves rise like mountains, and the lowering storm descends, sending tons of water across his decks, and wetting his highest rigging with the fleecy drift he dares not cry for help; the signal that would speak of his distress, would be the knell, to toll his ruin. We knew this well. We felt that come what would, from others, there was nothing to be hoped. It was then, with agonizing suspense we watched the little craft, as she worked in the stormy sea; we saw that with every tack, we were losing. The strong land current that set in shore, told upon us, at every reach; and when we went about, the dark and beetling cliffs seemed actually toppling over us, and the wild cries of the sea-fowl, rang, like a dirge in our ears. The small storm-jib we were obliged to set, sunk us by the head, and at every pitch the little vessel seemed threatening to go down, bow foremost.

“Our great endeavour was to round the headland, which forms the southern shore of the Shannon’s mouth. There is a small sound there, between this point and the rocks, they call the ‘Blasquets,’ and for this we were making with all our might. Thus passed our night, and when day broke, a cheer of joy burst from our little crew, as we beheld the Blasquets on our weather bow, and saw that the sound lay straight before us. Scarce had the shout died away, when a man in the rigging cried out —

“‘A sail to windward:’ and the instant after added – ‘a man-of-war brig.’

“The skipper sprang on the bulwark, and setting his glass in the shrouds, examined the object, which, to the naked eye, was barely a haze in the horizon.

“‘She carries eighteen guns,’ said he slowly, ‘and is steering our course. I say, O’Kelly, there’s no use in running in shore, to be pinioned, – what’s to be done?’

“The thought of the information I was in possession of, flashed across me. Life was never so dear before, but I could not speak. I knew the old man’s all, was on the venture, I knew, too, if we were attacked, his resolve was to fight her to the last spar that floated.