Chapter II: On Board the Charles Quint

A noble ship — Fellow-passengers — The vivandière — Husbands and wives — A defect in the ship’s arrangements — “Why is an Englishman never sea-sick?” — Bone — Hair-cutting made easy — Colonel Allegro — The vivandière distinguishes herself — A sudden change.

_Marseilles, Friday, October 14th._—The _Charles Quint_ is one of the newest and finest of the splendid line of steamers recently built at Glasgow for the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique of Marseilles. She was lying in the Joliette Dock when, accompanied by the kindly Captain A———, who seemed loth to part with me, I boarded her this afternoon. Nothing more luxurious in the shape of a sea-going vessel has ever met my eyes. The saloon is a marvel of beauty and elegance. Marble walls richly gilded, luxurious arm-chairs, crimson couches, mirrors, carpets, pictures, silver lamps, completely destroy for the moment the notion that one is on board ship. You seem to be seated in the splendid apartment of some palace. The state-rooms, too, are large, airy, and well found. My own is nearly amidships, so I am well away from the grinding of the screw, whilst close to me is a beautiful bath-room, the accommodation of which I have already tested, where a bath of pure white marble might tempt even the most nervous of Frenchmen to unwonted ablutions.

But it was not the remarkable completeness and elegance of the furnishings of this noble ship that occupied my attention this afternoon when, having at last said good-bye to my genial fellow-countryman, I lounged on the broad hurricane-deck awaiting the hour of our departure, which had been fixed for five o’clock. The starting of a steamboat is always an interesting spectacle, whether one witnesses it in a grimy Liverpool dock, a crowded harbour in the Levant, or here under the glaring sunshine of Southern France. But a special interest attaches to the _Charles Quint_ on its present voyage. She is bound for the wars, and the passengers she carries are, in many instances, leaving their native country for the first time in order to take part in a campaign in which the full amount of peril must be encountered. What a mixed and picturesque company we have on board the ship! There are a number of unmistakable Algerian colonists, male and female, stout in figure and swart of complexion, returning to their homes on the other side of the Mediterranean. We talk of the French faculty of dressing. I wonder how long it would take for England to produce, among the respectable middle classes, such a picture of unkempt dowdiness as that which is presented by one of our passengers, the only lady apparently who has secured a place in the first saloon. Next to the Algerians, who have been kissing, laughing, crying, and shouting for the last hour, as one by one they parted from their friends, we have a number of commercial travellers; smart fellows, who “know their way about,” and who are already beginning to make themselves as comfortable as possible during their sojourn on board ship.

But it is in the people who are actually bound for Tunis and the war that I am chiefly interested. We have about a score of officers on board, chiefly doctors and captains of infantry. Poor fellows! They pace up and down the deck with rather melancholy faces, casting many a longing eye towards the white houses and white hills of Marseilles. Nobody has come to see them off. Nobody seems inclined to take much notice of them. I should certainly not gather from the manner in which they are regarded by the outer world that the war is very popular in Marseilles. Nor does the army seem to occupy a very brilliant social position in the estimation of the French people. Will it be believed that no officer under the rank of a major is permitted to travel first class on these boats? So our rueful-visaged captains troop off presently with clanking swords and downcast heads, to take their appointed places in the second saloon.

But who is this that suddenly appears upon the hurricane-deck—a vision, well, hardly of beauty or of joy, but still of a very uncommon kind? Five-and-twenty years ago, at the time when illustrated histories of the Crimean war were common, and when my young imagination was being fed upon the stirring adventures of the French and English allies under the walls of Sebastopol, I was quite familiar with such a figure as this, for it was one which was constantly appearing in the pages of the aforesaid illustrated histories. But I had almost forgotten that such beings had ever existed until this moment, when a real live Vivandière, clad in her full uniform, with plumed hat, frock coat, military trousers, and shining boots complete, stepped upon the hurricane-deck and saluted me with bland dignity. She must be no ordinary vivandière either, for on her breast glitters a row of medals, crosses, and decorations of all kinds, that would do credit to a prize ox at Smithfield, whilst round her neck is a red ribbon, which must surely be that of the Legion of Honour. Nor are these the only distinguishing marks she bears. On her arm is a broad band of canvas, bearing the sign of the Red Cross. So my vivandière is not going to Tunis to sell wine, but to succour the wounded. I think of one of Ouida’s novels, and cry to myself, “Brava, Cigarette!” though all the time I wonder to what extent the Arabs are likely to respect that Red Cross. She is a brisk, comely woman of forty or thereabouts, with a sharp, shrewd eye, a pleasant smile, and a ready jest for everybody. In less than five minutes after her appearance on board she has made friends with some of her fellow-passengers, and is volubly explaining to them the mission on which she is proceeding to Africa.

At five o’clock sharp the last bell rings, and the visitors leave the ship and range themselves alongside the dock wall. I lounge over the rail of the upper deck, smoking my cigarette, and watching a dozen little dramas of domestic life that are being played out under my eyes. Wives, some tearful and others gay, are parting from their husbands. Alas! for the “contrariness” of human nature. In my cynical mood this afternoon I cannot but observe that where the wives are in tears the husbands are all smiles and jokes; whilst a blithe face on the part of a wife means a grim and melancholy countenance on the part of her spouse. But at last the welcome sound of the screw puts an end to my observations. The stately ship begins slowly to glide out of the basin, and ten minutes later we are fairly clear of the port of Marseilles, whose white towers and rocks and hills begin slowly to fade away as the _Charles Quint_ ploughs her path onward through the blue waters of the Gulf of Lyons. As one turns seaward towards the Mediterranean it is impossible to forget that twelve months ago to-day I was sailing on this same sea, in the company of as joyous and genial a little band of travellers as ever traversed the ocean. Alas! of that small company two of the bravest and the best have already reached the end of the long voyage of life; whilst the others are scattered far and wide all up and down the world; and I am here alone to-day, the solitary Englishman on board this vessel. As I sat after dinner smoking a last cigar on a comfortable deckseat, and watching the stars blaze out in their southern magnificence, whilst the ear was soothed by the solemn melody of the ocean, it was a difficult matter to drive away those pensive feelings which must come to all men when they revisit scenes once familiar to them, and reflect upon the changes which have been wrought since they last were here. But even whilst I mused I was suddenly aroused by a very trifling yet significant incident. My cigar dropped out of my nerveless hand, and I started up shivering, to find I had fallen asleep on the open deck. Then I recalled the fact that I had not been in bed last night, and made haste to turn into my comfortable cabin.

_Saturday, October 15th._—I awoke refreshed after a good night’s rest. Presently turning out upon the deck, I found that I was in the full enjoyment of real Mediterranean weather. The sun was bright and hot, and one was glad to get shelter from it beneath the awning, where the pleasant breeze produced by the rapid motion of the boat made the temperature quite agreeable. The water was of that wonderful blue colour which you see nowhere except in the Mediterranean; but the waves were crested with white, and made the blank sea, upon which not a sail was to be discovered, itself a glorious spectacle. As I sat in the full enjoyment of the scene I could not help thinking of last Saturday, and contrasting my surroundings then, when I found myself one of thirty thousand human beings packed into the Leeds Cloth Hall yard—or rather, into the fine “Gladstone Hall” erected on that spot—with the situation in which I am placed to-day.

I have already discovered that there is one serious defect about the arrangements on board the _Charles Quint_. Everybody who has travelled by sea knows that the two principal occupations of well-disposed passengers are eating the meals provided on board and then grumbling at the cookery and the quality of the provisions served. With a perverse want of consideration for the passengers, the Compagnie Transatlantique have resolved apparently to deprive them of at least one of these occupations—and possibly the favourite one—that of grumbling. Nothing could well be better than the manner in which we are fed on board the _Charles Quint_. At seven in the morning the usual French “first breakfast,” consisting of coffee and bread and butter, is provided. After that I have my bath, and my first walk on deck. At half-past nine comes the regular breakfast, beautifully served in the saloon. At the head of our table sits the captain, a handsome and refined-looking man of fifty, who speaks French with a strong southern accent, and who is quite a model of mingled dignity and suavity. To his right and left are seated two smart young gentlemen in elegant uniforms, one of whom is the purser and the other the doctor, and whom I have already christened the Corsican Brothers, not merely because of their striking resemblance to each other, but because they invariably walk the deck together, and seem almost as inseparable as the Siamese Twins themselves. Then, each of us in a comfortable revolving arm-chair, come the ten or twelve saloon passengers.

A very sociable party we make; and how we enjoy our food, to be sure! At breakfast this morning the following was the _menu_, all the dishes being served in a style which would have done credit to Champeau’s:—Radishes, anchovies (excellent), omelette of mushrooms, calves’ head, hot lobster with sauce piquante (excellent), filet de bœuf with potatoes, cheese, and fruit. Admirable white and red wine is supplied in abundance during the meal, and the usual coffee and cognac afterwards. With a _cuisine_ like this, and in so pleasant and airy a saloon as ours, the most squeamish of travellers might fairly tempt the “dangers of the deep.”

A very amusing conversation occupied the company at breakfast. They thought proper to engage in an edifying discussion on sea-sickness, accompanied by realistic—indeed, occasionally _too_ realistic—illustrations on the part of most present of the peculiar manner in which they were affected by the malady. Eventually some one propounded a knotty problem for solution. “How is it,” he asked, “that Englishmen are never sea-sick?” Alas! poor innocent. I thought of the revelation that awaited him whenever he made his first passage from Calais to Dover; but in the meantime I listened eagerly for the answer to his question. It came from the captain, and was as follows: “You see it is all an affair of the imagination, this sea-sickness. Now, the English have no imagination, and consequently they are never sea-sick. _Voilà tout!_”

But if my friends on board have limited ideas on some subjects, they are nevertheless—like most people in this world when you once get to know them—very good fellows, and they have shown an amazing amount of kindness to myself as the sole foreigner on board. One pleasant little “commercial,” bound for Bone, has insisted upon playing chess with me during the greater part of the afternoon; whilst after dinner the Corsican Brothers invited me to join them in the smoking-room at a game at dummy whist. There was a lovely sunset this evening, and to-night the stars are shining with marvellous brilliance, the Milky Way reflecting a perceptible track of light upon the ocean. The moon is burning, a crescent of red fire, high in the heavens. Before turning in for the night the long low line of the African coast became visible in the distance. Strangely enough, I last saw it on this very day twelve months ago.

_Sunday, October 16th._—Hardly had I fallen into my first sleep last night when I was aroused by the din of our arrival at Bone. Everybody on board the ship apparently seemed to think it necessary to jump out of bed and forthwith to make the greatest possible amount of noise. Shouting, laughing, crying, talking, and even playing the piano in the saloon, they evidently found that in no other way could they give expression to their feelings at having once more come within sight of land. One would have imagined that it was a voyage of a year instead of one of a day only that had come to an end. Then the “horrid winch” began to work, and for a couple of hours the uproar was really appalling. After that, apparently because everybody was exhausted, things became quieter, and I was able to get a few hours’ sleep.

At seven o’clock, when I rose and dressed, I found the vessel moored alongside the quay of Bone, and consequently lying snugly in the best harbour on the coast of Algiers. Bone is one of the most flourishing towns in the French colony in North Africa, and it attracts a considerable number of commercial travellers like those who have come with me in the _Charles Quint_. For the uncommercial traveller it has other attractions of a special kind. Thus the sportsman comes here because the railway from this place takes him to the nearest spot to England where that noblest of all the beasts of the forest, the lion, is to be found; whilst those who are interested in the past visit Bone because here St. Augustine lived and wrote his burning “Confessions,” and because near here his tomb is now to be seen.

The morning was bright and beautiful, though on the brown hills behind the town some rather ominous clouds were hanging. As I was about to take my first walk on the soil of Africa, I thought it advisable to array myself in my lightest attire, and accordingly I presently sallied forth in a guise which would have brought a mob to my heels in any English town. The scene was very picturesque. The town is of semi-French architecture, with a wide boulevard and a little square, besides many narrow streets. Everywhere Arabs, clad in the flowing white _burnous_ and in the blue or red _jebbas_, were to be seen. Hundreds of black and brown children—genuine street Arabs these—were gambolling about the doors of the houses; and amid the swarthy elders of the famous race and their half-naked offspring, there strolled about, with that air of dignity which the conqueror, wherever he may be found, seldom forgets to wear, numbers of Frenchmen.

Sunday morning though it was, the shops were all open. Those best worth examining were the photograph and coral shops. Coral is obtained in large quantities upon this coast; La Calle, a port a few miles to the east, being one of the seats of the coral fishery. The articles I was shown in the different shops were very cheap, but were poor in quality. I strolled into the fish and vegetable markets. In the former were many curious fishes, as well as some very fine ones. Among the curious fish were large quantities of a creature very like the octopus, which I was told was a favourite delicacy among all classes. In the vegetable market, besides an abundant supply of such vegetables as are only produced in England during the summer, there were great quantities of melons, oranges, lemons, and pomegranates. In the centre of the town is a small garden, in which tropical plants and trees were growing luxuriantly. Everywhere one could see traces of the struggle between the old and the new, and everywhere proofs were to be found of the success with which the French are establishing their own institutions on the soil of Africa, in spite of the dogged opposition of one of the most conservative races in the world.

The church bells were ringing, and I could not resist the temptation to attend the Catholic service in the town in which St. Augustine once ministered. In coming back towards the ship, I noticed that in many cases a bottle of live leeches was suspended as a sign in front of the barbers’ shops. In an evil moment I was induced to enter one of these establishments, and trust myself to the tender mercies of an Algerian hairdresser. It was a wonderful operation which I had to undergo. I had chosen the most fashionable establishment of the kind in Bone, and a stately Frenchwoman, seated at that little counter which is so dear to the ladies of her race, superintended the work of the shop, and received with dignity the fees of the shorn. The barber to whose care I was intrusted began by covering my head and beard with violet powder, causing me to look amazingly like an overgrown baby. This was not the worst of what I had to submit to, however, for when the hair-cutting was concluded, my tormentor produced an article, the sight of which recalled my own nursery days, to wit, a small tooth comb, and proceeded to apply it with exemplary diligence to my head! It was not without a feeling of profound thankfulness that I at last escaped from his grasp, and, returning to the _Charles Quint_, partook of the admirable breakfast which the _chef_ had served up. This breakfast began with oysters and melons—which might have grown among the fields of far-away Cassaba—and ended with new oranges and curaçao.

All the saloon passengers who came with me from Marseilles have left the ship, but we have some new-comers in their place. The most important of these is Colonel Allegro, the notorious adventurer, who for a time filled the post of Tunisian Consul at Bone, and who, although in the service of the Bey, is well known as one of the most determined and relentless Arab-hunters in North Africa. He is now on his way to Tunis accompanied by Arab horses, Arab servants, and an immense amount of camp equipments, having just been offered the command of the cavalry in one of the columns which are destined to march upon Kairwan. A swarthy man with keen black eyes and resolute mouth, the colonel does not promise much in the way of agreeable companionship during our voyage to Tunis. The other new-comers are a young Italian with his remarkably pretty wife and their baby. This gentleman lives at Susa, one of the Arab coast-towns in the Gulf of Hammamet, and is returning to his dreary home after a pleasure-trip to Paris. His wife seems quite content at the prospect of exchanging the delights of Paris for the dull confinement of a house in such a place as Susa. The husband has already taken me into his confidence so far as to express his opinion not only about Colonel Allegro in particular, but about the French in general. There is clearly no love lost between Frenchmen and Italians at this moment.

Whilst we have been waiting here discharging or taking in cargo, my fair friend the vivandière has been distinguishing herself. Yesterday, smooth though the sea was, she kept her berth, and doubtless nourished those feelings towards the rest of the human race which only the sea-sick know. To-day she had recovered her equanimity, her good looks, and, I hope, her benevolence. At all events, she stepped ashore early this morning arrayed in her most gorgeous costume, feathers flying from her hat, and stars and medals glittering on her bosom. A crowd of a hundred solemn-faced Arabs, among whom a few lively-looking Frenchmen were mingled, quickly formed round her, and escorted by this guard of honour she set off into the town. She returned at twelve o’clock in the highest state of delight. Her guard had increased from one to five hundred, whilst she enjoyed the satisfaction of being tenderly supported on either side by a private soldier of the line. I must say these soldiers looked rather sheepish, half proud and half ashamed, in fact. Not so mademoiselle, however. It was evidently one of the brightest moments of her life. She embraced her two friends with fervour on parting from them; and then, leaning over the bulwarks of the _Charles Quint_, she discharged a whole armoury of messages of remembrance and affection to her brave comrades of the 91st regiment. How the Arabs stared; and how the jolly handsome-looking young negroes on the quay showed their gleaming white teeth as they grinned at the amazing spectacle.

They had something else to grin at presently. A shuffling young fellow, aged twenty or thereabouts, in the red breeches and blue coat of the infantry, came listlessly along in the direction of our vessel. As soon as she saw him our vivandière became greatly excited. “Ho! Adolphe! Adolphe! Venez ici!” she shouted at the top of her somewhat shrill voice. Adolphe seemed not particularly anxious to respond to the invitation. He grinned idiotically; thrust his hands deeper than ever into his breeches’ pockets, and blushed vividly. But he made no motion towards the gangway connecting the ship with the shore. For a moment mademoiselle seemed puzzled as to what she should do: then, after telling him that he was nothing but a great stupid, she tripped lightly down the ladder, sprang upon the quay, seized Adolphe’s ear between her dainty little finger and thumb, and amidst the loud laughter of the spectators conducted him in triumph on board the _Charles Quint_. Why she wanted him there goodness only knows. Perhaps to scold, perhaps to pet him. I do not know. But in a couple of minutes she reappeared with her captive at the gangway, bestowed upon him two sounding kisses, and then patting him on the back, sent him down the ladder looking more doltish than ever. I think she must have seen a suspicious twinkle in my eye. At all events she turned to me, and with a mocking little curtsey said, “_C’est mon cousin, monsieur!_” But I confess I have my own ideas about that kind of cousinship.