Well, a strange adventure occurred during the last Anglo-Gallic war to the owner of that island, the Baron Daoulaz; and, as he told me the tale himself, you shall hear it as it came from his lips. The Baron, you must know, was a great farmer, and having cultivated a portion of this isolated land, was in the habit almost daily of rowing himself over, and paying a short visit of inspection to a plantation he had recently formed, accompanied by a black Newfoundland dog, his sole companion. It so happened at the same time that an English frigate stood off and on that coast for weeks together watching the French fleet, then lying securely in Brest Harbour, but preparing for sea under Admiral Villeneuve, before the great battle of Trafalgar. The Baron's visits to the little island had not been unobserved from the frigate; indeed, they had already been made the subject of comment on the quarter-deck, and excited some curiosity.
One day, however, the wind blowing gently off shore, and the sea being unusually quiescent, the signal-man again reported the boat afloat, a man and dog on board, and bound for the island. Instantly the order to "man the galley" was given by the captain, and, by the time the Baron had landed, a crew of six men and a coxswain were pulling the ship's boat stealthily and speedily over the smooth water, and were soon in a position to intercept the Baron on his intended return to the mainland. Finding his retreat cut off, he very quietly resigned himself to his captors, by whom he and his dog and boat were forthwith conveyed to the frigate. But of what use were they, now they were captured, either to his ship or his country? — an incumbrance, if detained, and clearly of no profit to either, thought the captain to himself.
"You say you are a farmer, Baron; and if so, you probably feed some fat stock. Now what have you in that hive?" said the Captain, interrogating him closely.
"Sold all my bullocks at Brest last week to the Government navy purveyor, and I've nothing but a few fat pigs left."
Then did visions of pork cutlets, spare-ribs, and fresh sausages, incline the gallant officer's judgment to the side of mercy; for salt junk, and nothing but salt junk, had passed the enclosure of his jaws for many a long week, and his mouth fairly watered at the prospect of some fresh meat.
"Send us," said the Captain, a bright thought striking him, "half-a-dozen of those pigs, the biggest and fattest you have, and I will at once give you your freedom, Baron."
"I can't send so many — my whole stock consists of four fat pigs only; but, if you will accept them as my ransom, they shall be sent without delay to your ship."
This offer was at once accepted; but a difficulty arose as to how the negotiation was to be completed, the danger of inter course with the shore presenting a serious obstacle against the fulfilment of the bargain. However, the ready wit of the Breton nobleman, now sharpened by necessity, quickly suggested a safe expedient. "Let the dog be my messenger," said he. "If you put him ashore at Penmarch Point, with a private letter of mine attached to his collar, he will speedily reach home, and the result, I feel certain, will be satisfactory."
Accordingly this was done. The dog and the letter were soon conveyed to the said point, when, screeched at by the blue-jackets, he started homewards at full speed. Nor were they kept waiting long for the pigs: a couple of wild Breton peasants were seen from the ship pricking forward the four huge hogs slowly but steadily towards the shore. They were soon transported to the frigate; and, when he was restored to his boat, the Baron's feelings may be better imagined than described as he bid adieu to the captain and crew, with tears of joy and gratitude in his eyes. For years afterwards, whenever he met an Englishman, the Baron never failed to make a joke of this capture, and to boast of the value at which he had been estimated by a hungry British sailor — at four pigs only. (162 - 163)