Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated), page 465
‘Where was you bound for?’ Puck asked.
‘Er — any port I found handiest. I didn’t tell Toby or the Brethren. They don’t understand the ins and outs of the tobacco trade.’
Puck coughed a small cough as he shifted a piece of wood with his bare foot.
‘It’s easy for you to sit and judge,’ Pharaoh cried. ‘But think o’ what we had to put up with! We spread our wings and run across the broad Atlantic like a hen through a horse-fair. Even so, we was stopped by an English frigate, three days out. He sent a boat alongside and pressed seven able seamen. I remarked it was hard on honest traders, but the officer said they was fighting all creation and hadn’t time to argue. The next English frigate we escaped with no more than a shot in our quarter. Then we was chased two days and a night by a French privateer, firing between squalls, and the dirty little English ten-gun brig which made him sheer off had the impudence to press another five of our men. That’s how we reached to the chops of the Channel. Twelve good men pressed out of thirty-five; an eighteen-pound shot-hole close beside our rudder; our mainsail looking like spectacles where the Frenchman had hit us — and the Channel crawling with short-handed British cruisers. Put that in your pipe and smoke it next time you grumble at the price of tobacco!
‘Well, then, to top it off, while we was trying to get at our leaks, a French lugger come swooping at us out o’ the dusk. We warned him to keep away, but he fell aboard us, and up climbed his Jabbering red-caps. We couldn’t endure any more — indeed we couldn’t. We went at ‘em with all we could lay hands on. It didn’t last long. They was fifty odd to our twenty-three. Pretty soon I heard the cutlasses thrown down and some one bellowed for the sacri captain.
‘“Here I am!” I says. “I don’t suppose it makes any odds to you thieves, but this is the United States brig BERTHE AURETTE.”
‘“My aunt!” the man says, laughing. “Why is she named that?”
‘“Who’s speaking?” I said. ‘Twas too dark to see, but I thought I knew the voice.
‘“Enseigne de Vaisseau Estephe L’Estrange,” he sings out, and then I was sure.
‘“Oh!” I says. “It’s all in the family, I suppose, but you have done a fine day’s work, Stephen.”
‘He whips out the binnacle-light and holds it to my face. He was young L’Estrange, my full cousin, that I hadn’t seen since the night the smack sank off Telscombe Tye — six years before.
‘“Whew!” he says. “That’s why she was named for Aunt Berthe, is it? What’s your share in her, Pharaoh?”
‘“Only half owner, but the cargo’s mine.”
‘“That’s bad,” he says. “I’ll do what I can, but you shouldn’t have fought us.” ‘“Steve,” I says, “you aren’t ever going to report our little fall-out as a fight! Why, a Revenue cutter ‘ud laugh at it!”
‘“So’d I if I wasn’t in the Republican Navy,” he says. “But two of our men are dead, d’ye see, and I’m afraid I’ll have to take you to the Prize Court at Le Havre.”
‘“Will they condemn my ‘baccy?” I asks.
‘“To the last ounce. But I was thinking more of the ship. She’d make a sweet little craft for the Navy if the Prize Court ‘ud let me have her,” he says.
‘Then I knew there was no hope. I don’t blame him — a man must consider his own interests, but nigh every dollar I had was in ship or cargo, and Steve kept on saying, “You shouldn’t have fought us.”
‘Well, then, the lugger took us to Le Havre, and that being the one time we did want a British ship to rescue us, why, o’ course we never saw one. My cousin spoke his best for us at the Prize Court. He owned he’d no right to rush alongside in the face o’ the United States flag, but we couldn’t get over those two men killed, d’ye see, and the Court condemned both ship and cargo. They was kind enough not to make us prisoners — only beggars — and young L’Estrange was given the BERTHE AURETTE to re-arm into the French Navy.
‘“I’ll take you round to Boulogne,” he says. “Mother and the rest’ll be glad to see you, and you can slip over to Newhaven with Uncle Aurette. Or you can ship with me, like most o’ your men, and take a turn at King George’s loose trade. There’s plenty pickings,” he says.
‘Crazy as I was, I couldn’t help laughing.
‘“I’ve had my allowance of pickings and stealings,” I says. “Where are they taking my tobacco?” ‘Twas being loaded on to a barge.
‘“Up the Seine to be sold in Paris,” he says. “Neither you nor I will ever touch a penny of that money.”
‘“Get me leave to go with it,” I says. “I’ll see if there’s justice to be gotten out of our American Ambassador.”
‘“There’s not much justice in this world,” he says, “without a Navy.” But he got me leave to go with the barge and he gave me some money. That tobacco was all I had, and I followed it like a hound follows a snatched bone. Going up the river I fiddled a little to keep my spirits up, as well as to make friends with the guard. They was only doing their duty. Outside o’ that they were the reasonablest o’ God’s creatures. They never even laughed at me. So we come to Paris, by river, along in November, which the French had christened Brumaire. They’d given new names to all the months, and after such an outrageous silly piece o’ business as that, they wasn’t likely to trouble ‘emselves with my rights and wrongs. They didn’t. The barge was laid up below Notre Dame church in charge of a caretaker, and he let me sleep aboard after I’d run about all day from office to office, seeking justice and fair dealing, and getting speeches concerning liberty. None heeded me. Looking back on it I can’t rightly blame ‘em. I’d no money, my clothes was filthy mucked; I hadn’t changed my linen in weeks, and I’d no proof of my claims except the ship’s papers, which, they said, I might have stolen. The thieves! The door-keeper to the American Ambassador — for I never saw even the Secretary — he swore I spoke French a sight too well for an American citizen. Worse than that — I had spent my money, d’ye see, and I — I took to fiddling in the streets for my keep; and — and, a ship’s captain with a fiddle under his arm — well, I don’t blame ‘em that they didn’t believe me.
‘I come back to the barge one day — late in this month Brumaire it was — fair beazled out. Old Maingon, the caretaker, he’d lit a fire in a bucket and was grilling a herring.
‘“Courage, mon ami,” he says. “Dinner is served.”
‘“I can’t eat,” I says. “I can’t do any more. It’s stronger than I am.” ‘“Bah!” he says. “Nothing’s stronger than a man. Me, for example! Less than two years ago I was blown up in the Orient in Aboukir Bay, but I descended again and hit the water like a fairy. Look at me now,” he says. He wasn’t much to look at, for he’d only one leg and one eye, but the cheerfullest soul that ever trod shoe-leather. “That’s worse than a hundred and eleven hogshead of ‘baccy,” he goes on. “You’re young, too! What wouldn’t I give to be young in France at this hour! There’s nothing you couldn’t do,” he says. “The ball’s at your feet — kick it!” he says. He kicks the old fire-bucket with his peg-leg. “General Buonaparte, for example!” he goes on. “That man’s a babe compared to me, and see what he’s done already. He’s conquered Egypt and Austria and Italy — oh! half Europe!” he says, “and now he sails back to Paris, and he sails out to St Cloud down the river here — don’t stare at the river, you young fool! — -and all in front of these pig-jobbing lawyers and citizens he makes himself Consul, which is as good as a King. He’ll be King, too, in the next three turns of the capstan — King of France, England, and the world! Think o’ that!” he shouts, “and eat your herring.”
‘I says something about Boney. If he hadn’t been fighting England I shouldn’t have lost my ‘baccy — should I?
‘“Young fellow,” says Maingon, “you don’t understand.”
‘We heard cheering. A carriage passed over the bridge with two in it. ‘“That’s the man himself,” says Maingon. “He’ll give ‘em something to cheer for soon.” He stands at the salute.
‘“Who’s t’other in black beside him?” I asks, fairly shaking all over.
‘“Ah! he’s the clever one. You’ll hear of him before long. He’s that scoundrel-bishop, Talleyrand.”
‘“It is!” I said, and up the steps I went with my fiddle, and run after the carriage calling, “Abbe, Abbe!”
‘A soldier knocked the wind out of me with the back of his sword, but I had sense to keep on following till the carriage stopped — and there just was a crowd round the house-door! I must have been half-crazy else I wouldn’t have struck up “Si le Roi m’avait donne Paris la grande ville!” I thought it might remind him.
‘“That is a good omen!” he says to Boney sitting all hunched up; and he looks straight at me.
‘“Abbe — oh, Abbe!” I says. “Don’t you remember Toby and Hundred and Eighteen Second Street?”
‘He said not a word. He just crooked his long white finger to the guard at the door while the carriage steps were let down, and I skipped into the house, and they slammed the door in the crowd’s face. ‘“You go there,” says a soldier, and shoves me into an empty room, where I catched my first breath since I’d left the barge. Presently I heard plates rattling next door — there were only folding doors between — and a cork drawn. “I tell you,” some one shouts with his mouth full, “it was all that sulky ass Sieyes’ fault. Only my speech to the Five Hundred saved the situation.”
‘“Did it save your coat?” says Talleyrand. “I hear they tore it when they threw you out. Don’t gasconade to me. You may be in the road of victory, but you aren’t there yet.”
‘Then I guessed t’other man was Boney. He stamped about and swore at Talleyrand.
‘“You forget yourself, Consul,” says Talleyrand, “or rather you remember yourself — Corsican.”
‘“Pig!” says Boney, and worse.
‘“Emperor!” says Talleyrand, but, the way he spoke, it sounded worst of all. Some one must have backed against the folding doors, for they flew open and showed me in the middle of the room. Boney whipped out his pistol before I could stand up.
“General,” says Talleyrand to him, “this gentleman has a habit of catching us canaille en deshabille. Put that thing down.”
‘Boney laid it on the table, so I guessed which was master. Talleyrand takes my hand — ”Charmed to see you again, Candide,” he says. “How is the adorable Dr Pangloss and the noble Huron?”
‘“They were doing very well when I left,” I said. “But I’m not.”
‘“Do you sell buttons now?” he says, and fills me a glass of wine off the table.
‘“Madeira,” says he. “Not so good as some I have drunk.”
‘“You mountebank!” Boney roars. “Turn that out.” (He didn’t even say “man,” but Talleyrand, being gentle born, just went on.)
‘“Pheasant is not so good as pork,” he says. “You will find some at that table if you will do me the honour to sit down. Pass him a clean plate, General.” And, as true as I’m here, Boney slid a plate along just like a sulky child. He was a lanky-haired, yellow-skinned little man, as nervous as a cat — and as dangerous. I could feel that.
‘“And now,” said Talleyrand, crossing his game leg over his sound one, “will you tell me your story?” ‘I was in a fluster, but I told him nearly everything from the time he left me the five hundred dollars in Philadelphia, up to my losing ship and cargo at Le Havre. Boney began by listening, but after a bit he dropped into his own thoughts and looked at the crowd sideways through the front-room curtains. Talleyrand called to him when I’d done.
‘“Eh? What we need now,” says Boney, “is peace for the next three or four years.”
‘“Quite so,” says Talleyrand. “Meantime I want the Consul’s order to the Prize Court at Le Havre to restore my friend here his ship.”
‘“Nonsense!” says Boney. “Give away an oak-built brig of two hundred and seven tons for sentiment? Certainly not! She must be armed into my Navy with ten — no, fourteen twelve-pounders and two long fours. Is she strong enough to bear a long twelve forward?”
‘Now I could ha’ sworn he’d paid no heed to my talk, but that wonderful head-piece of his seemingly skimmed off every word of it that was useful to him.
‘“Ah, General!” says Talleyrand. “You are a magician — a magician without morals. But the brig is undoubtedly American, and we don’t want to offend them more than we have.”
‘“Need anybody talk about the affair?” he says. He didn’t look at me, but I knew what was in his mind — just cold murder because I worried him; and he’d order it as easy as ordering his carriage.
‘“You can’t stop ‘em,” I said. “There’s twenty-two other men besides me.” I felt a little more ‘ud set me screaming like a wired hare.
‘“Undoubtedly American,” Talleyrand goes on. “You would gain something if you returned the ship — with a message of fraternal good-will — published in the MONITEUR” (that’s a French paper like the Philadelphia AURORA).
‘“A good idea!” Boney answers. “One could say much in a message.”
‘“It might be useful,” says Talleyrand. “Shall I have the message prepared?” He wrote something in a little pocket ledger.
‘“Yes — for me to embellish this evening. The MONITEUR will publish it tonight.”
‘“Certainly. Sign, please,” says Talleyrand, tearing the leaf out.
‘“But that’s the order to return the brig,” says Boney. “Is that necessary? Why should I lose a good ship? Haven’t I lost enough ships already?” ‘Talleyrand didn’t answer any of those questions. Then Boney sidled up to the table and jabs his pen into the ink. Then he shies at the paper again: “My signature alone is useless,” he says. “You must have the other two Consuls as well. Sieyes and Roger Ducos must sign. We must preserve the Laws.”
‘“By the time my friend presents it,” says Talleyrand, still looking out of window, “only one signature will be necessary.”
‘Boney smiles. “It’s a swindle,” says he, but he signed and pushed the paper across.
‘“Give that to the President of the Prize Court at Le Havre,” says Talleyrand, “and he will give you back your ship. I will settle for the cargo myself. You have told me how much it cost. What profit did you expect to make on it?”
‘Well, then, as man to man, I was bound to warn him that I’d set out to run it into England without troubling the Revenue, and so I couldn’t rightly set bounds to my profits.’
‘I guessed that all along,’ said Puck.
‘There was never a Lee to Warminghurst —
That wasn’t a smuggler last and first.’
The children laughed.
‘It’s comical enough now,’ said Pharaoh. ‘But I didn’t laugh then. Says Talleyrand after a minute, “I am a bad accountant and I have several calculations on hand at present. Shall we say twice the cost of the cargo?”
‘Say? I couldn’t say a word. I sat choking and nodding like a China image while he wrote an order to his secretary to pay me, I won’t say how much, because you wouldn’t believe it.
‘“Oh! Bless you, Abbe! God bless you!” I got it out at last.
‘“Yes,” he says, “I am a priest in spite of myself, but they call me Bishop now. Take this for my episcopal blessing,” and he hands me the paper.
‘“He stole all that money from me,” says Boney over my shoulder. “A Bank of France is another of the things we must make. Are you mad?” he shouts at Talleyrand.
‘“Quite,” says Talleyrand, getting up. “But be calm. The disease will never attack you. It is called gratitude. This gentleman found me in the street and fed me when I was hungry.”
‘“I see; and he has made a fine scene of it, and you have paid him, I suppose. Meantime, France waits.”
‘“Oh! poor France!” says Talleyrand. “Good-bye, Candide,” he says to me. “By the way,” he says, “have you yet got Red Jacket’s permission to tell me what the President said to his Cabinet after Monsieur Genet rode away?”
‘I couldn’t speak, I could only shake my head, and Boney — so impatient he was to go on with his doings — he ran at me and fair pushed me out of the room. And that was all there was to it.’ Pharaoh stood up and slid his fiddle into one of his big skirt-pockets as though it were a dead hare.
‘Oh! but we want to know lots and lots more,’said Dan. ‘How you got home — and what old Maingon said on the barge — and wasn’t your cousin surprised when he had to give back the BERTHE AURETTE, and — ’
‘Tell us more about Toby!’ cried Una.
‘Yes, and Red Jacket,’ said Dan.
‘Won’t you tell us any more?’ they both pleaded.
Puck kicked the oak branch on the fire, till it sent up a column of smoke that made them sneeze. When they had finished the Shaw was empty except for old Hobden stamping through the larches.
‘They gipsies have took two,’ he said. ‘My black pullet and my liddle gingy-speckled cockrel.’
‘I thought so,’ said Dan, picking up one tail-feather that the old woman had overlooked.
‘Which way did they go? Which way did the runagates go?’ said Hobden.
‘Hobby!’ said Una. ‘Would you like it if we told Keeper Ridley all your goings and comings?’
‘Poor Honest Men’
Your jar of Virginny
Will cost you a guinea,
Which you reckon too much by five shilling or ten;
But light your churchwarden
And judge it accordin’
When I’ve told you the troubles of poor honest men.
From the Capes of the Delaware,
As you are well aware,
We sail with tobacco for England — but then
