while those who were wounded looked joyful compared with those who were the victims of epidemics—typhus fever, diarrhœa, dysentery, cholera, or frostbites. I conversed with several; not one complained, but merely regretted the friends who had died on the passage and those sick left behind, and bewailed that they had done so little for their country in the campaign. Mr. Giraldo, who had superintended the disembarkation, informed me that such scenes were of daily occurrence at Marseilles; adding, this must be very encouraging for you. Saying also in irony, “lend soldiers to the Turks—how well they thrive under the banner of Mahomet! Well, well, my dear sir, after all, this is nothing more than the fortune of war: ‘à la guerre comme à la guerre.’”
This was the first disastrous sight I witnessed in this great war, and though anything but encouraging, merely grated upon my sensibility, without in the least affecting my mind. I must say T. G. showed much firmness upon this solemn occasion, which firmness rather failed him afterwards.
At five we were on the deck of the Simois, the name of our vessel. It was her first trip, she having only arrived a few days previous from Liverpool. All on board was in great confusion; a part of the vessel had just taken fire, and the sailors were engaged putting it out, and cutting away the burning portions; however, it was soon extinguished. We then learnt, that upon coming into dock she had met with serious damage, which they had scarcely had time to repair, and the painters were still on board busily employed varnishing the first cabin. I was next told that about four hundred troops, who were expected, had not arrived, and that we should start without them. A lady, who was standing by, exclaimed, “Oh, thank God for that! I cannot bear soldiers.”
“I thought,” I said, “it was a very bad job instead of a good one, as the vessel would be crank, through not being sufficiently loaded, and would in consequence roll very much.”
The weather being reported very rough outside, we were in suspense as to whether we should leave that night or not. On a sudden the screw slowly commenced its evolutions, and propelled us, not without difficulty, from the narrow port to the wide ocean—passing amongst huge rocks, on the very summit of which the furious waves were breaking. The evening was fast advancing, and the vessel was already rolling very heavily. We soon made the rock of Monte Christo, immortalized by Dumas. A yellowish sunset, piercing the heavy rain, faintly lighted the crest of this arid and uninhabitable spot. Shortly after, all was darkness, and many retired. Two or three remained till about ten o’clock, when the steward cheerfully informed us, that the weather was about the same as when the Semillante was lost ten days before, and not a soul escaped. Nearly five hundred troops, besides passengers and crew, were drowned.
“Was she bound eastward?” inquired a passenger.
“Yes, sir, she was; we are steering the same course, but there is another passage. I hope we shall get through before night to-morrow, and if the sea holds as rough as it is now, no doubt we shall take the other.”
We all turned into our berths, laughing at his mournful tale. Before going, I said: “Believe me, steward, we are safer than ever, for you seldom hear of two accidents alike.”
“Very true, sir; but this boat seems unlucky. I can’t tell you all the mishaps we have had in her since I have been on board, and that is only one month.” She was then rolling at a tremendous rate. At each plunge, a fearful noise was heard. Upon inquiry, some one on board informed me that he believed they had projectiles for ballast, and these were rolling and shifting at each plunge the steamer made. Such a cargo, though quite in harmony with the martial trip, was anything but pleasing. Everything rolled and tumbled about fearfully during the whole of the night. At length day broke, with a glowing sun and a heavy sea running mountains high; so much so, that it was dangerous to attempt the passage. Such must have been the case, as the mail-boats are not allowed to stop except in cases of extreme danger. Our careful commander gave orders to bring up in the Bay of Ajaccio. After sixteen hours’ flirtation on the wild ocean, we entered this calm and peaceable port, much to the relief of all. We then collected round the table; and while partaking of a light lunch, we had time to become acquainted with each other. Among our compagnons de voyage were General Cannon, Captain Arbuckle, Colonel St. George, of the Artillery, Captain Ponsonby, Major Turner, Captain Gordon, —— Murrogh, Esq., —— Ball, Esq., the Queen’s Messenger, and three or four French officers, among whom was Captain Boucher, aide-de-camp to General Canrobert, and afterwards to General Bosquet. After some remarks upon our unfavourable start, we all blessed our stars for the shelter we were then enjoying in the peaceable harbour, so picturesquely surrounded by its beautiful petite ville, the cradle of the first Napoleon—Ajaccio—so well situated in that savage and energetic island of poetically ferocious heroism, habits, and eternal vendettas, so interesting to all since the revival of that illustrious dynasty in the person of Napoleon the Third.
All of course were anxious to visit this celebrated spot; and on inquiring of the commander, he told us he should sail the next morning early if the weather was more favourable. We formed ourselves into parties of five or six, and as it was only three o’clock, we had plenty of time before us: our greatest anxiety was to visit the house in which the great Napoleon was born. Our party arrived first, as we had a very clever guide, who promised if possible to introduce us to La Signora Grossetti, saying we should have a great treat, as the old lady, who was then eighty-three years of age, had been all her life in the Buonaparte family in Corsica. We luckily met the old lady just coming out, and upon being introduced, she immediately returned to do us the honours of the house. She has been housekeeper there for above thirty years. After visiting the apartments which are always on view—viz., the drawing-room, dining-room, concert and ball room, library, and the small bed-room in which that almost fabulous hero was born, I asked the old gentlewoman, as a special favour, to show me the kitchen. No one was ever more astonished than she appeared to be at my request. “Why, surely there is nothing to be seen there but ruins, and I don’t even know where the key is.”
All this redoubled my interest. We went up stairs, and found in an old drawer three rusty keys, which we brought down; one of them opened the door, which, on being pushed rather forcibly, fell from its hinges. We then descended, and opened the shutters, which likewise tumbled from their fastenings. After visiting the various departments which constitute a gentleman’s kitchen, I wrote upon the stove the following letter to the public press, which, through the mismanagement of my servant, who threw it into the post without paying the postage, never reached its destination:—
Twenty Minutes in the Kitchen of the House of the Emperor Napoleon the First.
Mr. Editor,—It is an incontestable truism that “It is an ill wind that blows nobody good;” but in this case it will be found the reverse. Owing to most terribly rough weather, in fourteen hours from our departure from Marseilles, en route to Constantinople, we are brought up here by our prudent Captain, sheltering us in the bosom of the harbour of Ajaccio, the birthplace of the alliance now existing between the two great nations of France and England. Such reminiscences of the first of the great Napoleon’s family caused the shore to be invaded in a few minutes by the numerous passengers, particularly the distinguished military men of both nations. Many visited the Hôtel de Ville, full of objects of interest, reminding one of the late empire; others, the Letitia House; and some inquired, with great coolness, if it were possible to see either of the Corsican Brothers now in existence. In a very few minutes my curiosity was gratified by a cursory examination of the above-mentioned interesting subjects; and by a great deal of courtesy and perseverance, I obtained from La Signora Grossetti (who had been in the late Emperor’s family from her infancy) the rusted key of the kitchen-door of that interesting and now deserted domicile—such a request having never before been made by the numerous travellers who daily visit it.
And it is, Mr. Editor, while writing upon the stove in this celebrated kitchen—which first alimented the brain of that great hero—that I beg to address you the following few lines at random, as the weather bids fair and our departure is immediate. On my left hand is a well-constructed
