Part 20 (1/2)

'”What! Here's one of 'em that isn't sick!” says a cook. ”Take his breakfast to Citizen Bompard.”

'I carried the tray to the cabin, but I didn't call this Bompard ”Citizen.” Oh no! ”Mon Capitaine” was my little word, same as Uncle Aurette used to answer in King Louis' Navy. Bompard, he liked it; he took me on for cabin servant, and after that no one asked questions; and thus I got good victuals and light work all the way across to America.

He talked a heap of politics, and so did his officers, and when this Amba.s.sador Genet got rid of his land-stomach and laid down the law after dinner, a rook's parliament was nothing compared to their cabin. I learned to know most of the men which had worked the French Revolution, through waiting at table and hearing talk about 'em. One of our forecas'le six-pounders was called Danton and t'other Marat. I used to play the fiddle between 'em, sitting on the capstan. Day in and day out Bompard and Monsieur Genet talked o' what France had done, and how the United States was going to join her to finish off the English in this war. Monsieur Genet said he'd justabout make the United States fight for France. He was a rude common man. But I liked listening. I always helped drink any healths that was proposed--specially Citizen Danton's who'd cut off King Louis' head. An all-Englishman might have been shocked--that's where my French blood saved me.

'It didn't save me from getting a dose of s.h.i.+p's fever though, the week before we put Monsieur Genet ash.o.r.e at Charleston; and what was left of me after bleeding and pills took the dumb horrors from living 'tween decks. The surgeon, Karaguen his name was, kept me down there to help him with his plasters--I was too weak to wait on Bompard. I don't remember much of any account for the next few weeks, till I smelled lilacs, and I looked out of the port, and we was moored to a wharf-edge and there was a town o' fine gardens and red-brick houses and all the green leaves in G.o.d's world waiting for me outside.

'”What's this?” I said to the sick-bay man--old Pierre Tiphaigne he was.

”Philadelphia,” says Pierre. ”You've missed it all. We're sailing next week.”

'I just turned round and cried for longing to be amongst the laylocks.

'”If that's your trouble,” says old Pierre, ”you go straight ash.o.r.e.

None'll hinder you. They're all gone mad on these coasts--French and American together. 'Tisn't _my_ notion o' war.” Pierre was an old King Louis man.

'My legs was pretty tottly, but I made s.h.i.+ft to go on deck, which it was like a fair. The frigate was crowded with fine gentlemen and ladies pouring in and out. They sung and they waved French flags, while Captain Bompard and his officers--yes, and some of the men--speechified to all and sundry about war with England. They shouted, ”Down with England!”--”Down with Was.h.i.+ngton!”--”Hurrah for France and the Republic!” _I_ couldn't make sense of it. I wanted to get out from that crunch of swords and petticoats and sit in a field. One of the gentlemen said to me, ”Is that a genuine cap o' Liberty you're wearing?” 'Twas Aunt Cecile's red one, and pretty near wore out. ”Oh yes!” I says, ”straight from France.” ”I'll give you a s.h.i.+lling for it,” he says, and with that money in my hand and my fiddle under my arm I squeezed past the entry-port and went ash.o.r.e. It was like a dream--meadows, trees, flowers, birds, houses, and people _all_ different! I sat me down in a meadow and fiddled a bit, and then I went in and out the streets, looking and smelling and touching, like a little dog at a fair. Fine folk was setting on the white stone doorsteps of their houses, and a girl threw me a handful of laylock sprays, and when I said ”Merci”

without thinking, she said she loved the French. They was all the fas.h.i.+on in the city. I saw more tricolour flags in Philadelphia than ever I'd seen in Boulogne, and every one was shouting for war with England. A crowd o' folk was cheering after our French amba.s.sador--that same Monsieur Genet which we'd left at Charleston. He was a-horseback behaving as if the place belonged to him--and commanding all and sundry to fight the British. But I'd heard that before. I got into a long straight street as wide as the Broyle, where gentlemen was racing horses. I'm fond o' horses. n.o.body hindered 'em, and a man told me it was called Race Street o' purpose for that. Then I followed some black n.i.g.g.e.rs, which I'd never seen close before; but I left them to run after a great, proud, copper-faced man with feathers in his hair and a red blanket trailing behind him. A man told me he was a real Red Indian called Red Jacket, and I followed him into an alley-way off Race Street by Second Street, where there was a fiddle playing. I'm fond o'

fiddling. The Indian stopped at a baker's shop--Conrad Gerhard's it was--and bought some sugary cakes. Hearing what the price was I was going to have some too, but the Indian asked me in English if I was hungry. ”Oh yes!” I says. I must have looked a sore scrattel. He opens a door on to a staircase and leads the way up. We walked into a dirty little room full of flutes and fiddles and a fat man fiddling by the window, in a smell of cheese and medicines fit to knock you down. I _was_ knocked down too, for the fat man jumped up and hit me a smack in the face. I fell against an old spinet covered with pill-boxes and the pills rolled about the floor. The Indian never moved an eyelid.

'”Pick up the pills! Pick up the pills!” the fat man screeches.

'I started picking 'em up--hundreds of 'em--meaning to run out under the Indian's arm, but I came on giddy all over and I sat down. The fat man went back to his fiddling.

'”Toby!” says the Indian after quite a while. ”I brought the boy to be fed, not hit.”

'”What?” says Toby, ”I thought it was Gert Schw.a.n.kfelder.” He put down his fiddle and took a good look at me. ”Himmel!” he says. ”I have hit the wrong boy. It is not the new boy. Why are you not the new boy? Why are you not Gert Schw.a.n.kfelder?”

'”I don't know,” I said. ”The gentleman in the pink blanket brought me.”

'Says the Indian, ”He is hungry, Toby. Christians always feed the hungry. So I bring him.”

'”You should have said that first,” said Toby. He pushed plates at me and the Indian put bread and pork on them, and a gla.s.s of Madeira wine.

I told him I was off the French s.h.i.+p, which I had joined on account of my mother being French. That was true enough when you think of it, and besides I saw that the French was all the fas.h.i.+on in Philadelphia. Toby and the Indian whispered and I went on picking up the pills.

'”You like pills--eh?” says Toby.

'”No,” I says. ”I've seen our s.h.i.+p's doctor roll too many of 'em.”

'”Ho!” he says, and he shoves two bottles at me. ”What's those?”

'”Calomel,” I says. ”And t'other's senna.”

'”Right,” he says. ”One week have I tried to teach Gert Schw.a.n.kfelder the difference between them, yet he cannot tell. You like to fiddle?” he says. He'd just seen my kit on the floor.

'”Oh yes!” says I.

'”Oho!” he says. ”What note is this?” drawing his bow acrost.

'He meant it for A, so I told him it was.

'”My brother,” he says to the Indian. ”I think this is the hand of Providence! I warned that Gert if he went to play upon the wharves any more he would hear from me. Now look at this boy and say what you think.”

'The Indian looked me over whole minutes--there was a musical clock on the wall and dolls came out and hopped while the hour struck. He looked me over all the while they did it.