Selkirk
In 1811, ninety-three French prisoners arrived at Selkirk, many of them army surgeons. Their mile limits from the central point were, on the Hawick road, to Knowes; over the bridge, as far as the Philiphaugh entries; and towards Bridgehead, the ‘Prisoners’ Bush’. An old man named Douglas, says Mr. Craig-Brown (from whose book on Selkirk, I take this information, and to whom I am indebted for much hospitality and his many pains in acting as my mentor in Selkirk), remembered them coming to his father’s tavern at Heathenlie for their morning rum, and astonishing the people with what they ate. ‘They made tea out of dried whun blooms and skinned the verra paddas. The doctor anes was verra clever, and some of them had plenty o’ siller.’
On October 13, 1811, the prisoners constructed a balloon, and sent it up amidst such excitement as Selkirk rarely felt. Indeed, the Yeomanry then out for their training could not be mustered until they had seen the balloon.
A serious question came up in 1814 concerning the public burden which the illegitimate children of these gentlemen were causing, and complaints were sent to the Transport Office, whose reply was that the fathers of the children were liable to the civil law, and that unless they should provide for their maintenance, they should go to prison.
Two of the prisoners quarrelled about a girl and fought a bloodless duel at Linglee for half an hour, when the authorities appeared upon the scene and arrested the principals, who were sent to jail for a month.
Mr. J. John Vernon wrote:
‘In an article upon the old Selkirk Subscription Library, reference is made to the use of the Library by the officers who were confined in Selkirk and district during the Napoleonic wars.
‘Historical reference is furnished incidentally in the pages of the Day Book—the register of volumes borrowed and returned. There is no mention of such a privilege being conferred by the members or committee, but, as a matter of fact, all the French officers who were prisoners in Selkirk during the Napoleonic wars were allowed to take books from the Library as freely and as often as they chose. Beginning with April 5th, 1811, and up to May 4th, 1814, there were no less than 132 closely written foolscap pages devoted exclusively to their book-borrowing transactions. They were omnivorous readers, with a penchant for History and Biography, but devouring all sorts of literature from the poetical to the statistical. Probably because the Librarian could not trust himself to spell them, the officers themselves entered their names, as well as the names of books. Sometimes, when they made an entry for a comrade they made blunders in spelling the other man’s name: that of Forsonney, for instance, being given in four or five different ways. As the total number of prisoners was 94, it can be concluded from the list appended that only two or three did not join the Library.
‘Besides the French prisoners, the students attending Professor Lawson’s lectures seem to have had the privilege of reading, but for them all about two pages suffice. It is said that, moved by a desire to bring these benighted foreigners to belief in the true faith, Doctor Lawson added French to the more ancient languages he was already proficient in, but the aliens were nearly all men of education who knew their Voltaire, with the result that the Professor made poor progress with his well meant efforts at proselytism, if he did not even receive a shock to his own convictions.’
There were several Masonic Brethren among the foreign prisoners at Selkirk, and it is noteworthy that on March 9, 1812, it was proposed by the Brethren of this Lodge that on account of the favour done by some of the French Brethren, they should be enrolled as honorary members of the Lodge, and this was unanimously agreed to.
It should be noted that the French Brethren were a numerous body, twenty-three of their names being added to the roll of St. John’s; and we find that, as at Melrose, they formed themselves into a separate Lodge and initiated their fellow countrymen in their own tongue.
In what was known as Lang’s Barn, now subdivided into cottages, the French prisoners extemporized a theatre, and no doubt some of their decorative work lies hidden beneath the whitewash. The barn was the property of the grandfather of the late Andrew Lang.
The experiences of Sous-lieutenant Doisy de Villargennes, of the 26th French line regiment, I shall now relate with particular pleasure, not only on account of their unusual interest, but because they reflect the brightest side of captivity in Britain. Doisy was wounded after Fuentes d’Oñoro in May 1811, and taken prisoner. He was moved to hospital at Celorico, where he formed a friendship with Captain Pattison, of the 73rd. Thence he was sent to Fort Belem at Lisbon, which happened to be garrisoned by the 26th British Regiment, a coincidence which at once procured for him the friendship of its officers, who caused him to be lodged in their quarters, and to be treated rather as an honoured guest than as a prisoner, but with one bad result—that the extraordinary good living aggravated his healing wound, and he was obliged to return to hospital. These were days of heavy drinking, and Lisbon lay in the land of good and abundant wine; hosts and guest had alike fared meagrely and hardly for a long time, so that it is not difficult to account for the effect of the abrupt change upon poor Doisy. However, he pulled round, and embarked for Portsmouth, not on the ordinary prisoner transport, but as guest of Pattison on a war-ship. Doisy, with sixty other officers, were landed at Gosport, and, contrary to the usual rule, allowed to be on parole in the town previous to their dispatch to their cautionnement.
At the Gosport prison—Forton—whither he went to look up comrades, Doisy was overjoyed to meet with his own foster-brother, whom he had persuaded to join his regiment, and whom he had given up as lost at Fuentes d’Oñoro, and he received permission to spend some time with him in the prison. I give with very great pleasure Doisy’s remarks upon captivity in England in general, and in its proper place under the heading of Forton Prison (see pp. [217]–18) will be found his description of that place, which is equally pleasant reading.
‘I feel it my duty here, in the interests of truth and justice, to combat an erroneous belief concerning the hard treatment of prisoners of war in England.... No doubt, upon the hulks they led a very painful existence; execrable feeding, little opportunity for exercise, and a discipline extremely severe, even perhaps cruel. Such was their fate. But we must remember that only refractory prisoners were sent to the hulks.’
(Here we must endorse a note of the editor of Doisy’s book, to the effect that this is inaccurate, inasmuch as there were 19,000 prisoners upon the hulks, and they could not all have been ‘refractory’.)
‘These would upset the discipline of prisons like Gosport. Also we must remember that the inmates of the hulks were chiefly the crews of privateers, and that privateering was not considered fair warfare by England.’ (Strange to say, the editor passes over this statement without comment.) ‘At Forton there reigned the most perfect order, under a discipline severe but humane. We heard no sobbings of despair, we saw no unhappiness in the eyes of the inmates, but, on the contrary, on all sides resounded shouts of laughter, and the chorus of patriotic songs.’
In after years, when Germain Lamy, the foster-brother, was living a free man in France, Doisy says that in conversation Lamy never alluded to the period of his captivity in England without praising warmly the integrity and the liberality of all the Englishmen with whom as a prisoner-trader he had business relations. ‘Such testimonies,’ says Doisy, ‘and others of like character, cannot but weaken the feelings of hatred and antagonism roused by war between the two nations.’
In a few days Doisy was marched off to Odiham, but, on account of the crowded state of the English parole towns, it was decided to send the newcomers to Scotland, and so, on October 1, 1811, they landed at Leith, 190 in number, and marched to Selkirk, via Edinburgh and the dépôt at Penicuik.
There was some difficulty at first in finding lodgings in the small Scottish town for so large a number of strangers, but when it was rumoured that they were largely gentlemen of means and likely to spend their money freely, accommodation was quickly forthcoming.
Living in Scotland Doisy found to be very much cheaper than in England, and the weekly pay of half a guinea, regularly received through Coutts, he found sufficient, if not ample. His lodging cost but half a crown a week, and as the prisoners messed in groups, and, moreover, had no local hindrance to the excellent fishing in Ettrick and Tweed, board was probably proportionately moderate. As the French prisoners in Selkirk spent upon an average £150 a week in the little town, and were there for two years and a half, no less a sum than £19,500 was poured into the local pocket.
The exiles started a French café in which was a billiard table brought from Edinburgh, to which none but Frenchmen were admitted; gathered together an orchestra of twenty-two and gave Saturday concerts, which were extensively patronized by the inhabitants and the surrounding gentry; and with their own hands built a theatre accommodating 200 people.
‘Les costumes,’ said Doisy, ‘surtout ceux des rôles féminins, nous nécessitaient de grands efforts d’habilité. Aucun de nous n’avait auparavant exercé le métier de charpentier, tapissier, de tailleur, ou . . . fait son apprentissage chez une couturière. L’intelligence, toutefois, stimulée par la volonté, peut engendrer de petits miracles.’
They soon had a répertoire of popular tragedies and comedies, and gave a performance every Wednesday.
On each of the four main roads leading out of the town there was at the distance of a mile a notice-board on which was inscribed: ‘Limite des Prisonniers de Guerre.’ As evidence of the goodwill generally borne towards the foreigners by the country folk, when a waggish prisoner moved one of these boards a mile further on, no information was lodged about it, and although a reward of one guinea was paid to anybody arresting a prisoner beyond limits, or out of his lodgings at forbidden hours, it was very rarely claimed. Some of the prisoners indeed were accustomed daily to go fishing some miles down the rivers.
The French prisoners did not visit the Selkirk townsfolk, for the ‘classy’ of the latter had come to the resolution not to associate with them at all; but the priggish exclusiveness or narrow prejudice, or whatever it might have been, was amply atoned for by the excellent friendships formed in the surrounding neighbourhoods. There was Mr. Anderson, a gentleman farmer, who invited the Frenchmen to fish and regaled them in typical old-time Scots fashion afterwards; there was a rich retired lawyer, whose chief sorrow was that he could not keep sober during his entertainment of them: there was Mr. Thorburn, another gentleman farmer, who introduced them to grilled sheep’s head, salmagundi, and a cheese of his own making, of which he was particularly proud.
But above all there was the ‘shirra’, then Mr. Walter Scott, who took a fancy to a bright and lively young Frenchman, Tarnier by name, and often invited him and two or three friends to Abbotsford—Doisy calls it ‘Melrose Abbey’. This was in February 1812. Mrs. Scott, whom, Doisy says, Scott had married in Berlin—was only seen some minutes before dinner, never at the repast itself. She spoke French perfectly, says Doisy. Scott, he says, was a very different man as host in his own house from what they judged him to be from his appearance in the streets of Selkirk. ‘Un homme enjoué, à la physionomie ordinaire et peu significative, à l’attitude même un peu gauche, à la démarche vulgaire et aux allures à l’avenant, causées probablement par sa boiterie.’ But at Abbotsford his guests found him, on the contrary, a gentleman full of cordiality and gaiety, receiving his friends with amiability and delicacy. The rooms at Abbotsford, says Doisy, were spacious and well lighted, and the table not sumptuous, but refined.
Doisy tells us that what seemed to be the all-absorbing subject of conversation at the Abbotsford dinner-table was Bonaparte. No matter into what other channel the talk drifted, their host would hark back to Bonaparte, and never wearied of the anecdotes and details about him which the guests were able to give. Little did his informants think that, ten years later, much that they told him would appear, as Doisy says, in a distorted form rarely favourable to the great man, in Scott’s Life of Bonaparte. He quotes instances, and is at no pains to hide his resentment at what he considers a not very dignified or proper proceeding on the part of Sir Walter.
Only on one prominent occasion was the friendly feeling between the prisoners and the Selkirk people disturbed.
On August 15, 1813, the Frenchmen, in number ninety, united to celebrate the Emperor’s birthday at their café, the windows of which opened on to the public garden. They feasted, made speeches, drank numberless toasts, and sang numberless patriotic songs. As it was found that they had a superabundance of food, it was decided to distribute it among the crowd assembled in the public garden, but with the condition that every one who accepted it should doff his hat and cry ‘Vive l’Empereur Napoléon!’ But although a couple of Frenchmen stood outside, each with a viand in one hand and a glass of liquor in the other, not a Scotsman would comply with the condition, and all went away. One man, a sort of factotum of the Frenchmen, who made a considerable deal of money out of them in one way and another, and who was known as ‘Bang Bay’, from his habit, when perplexed with much questioning and ordering, of replying ‘by and by’, did accept the food and drink, and utter the required cry, and his example was followed by a few others, but the original refusers still held aloof and gathered together in the garden, evidently in no peaceable mood.
Presently, as the feast proceeded and the celebrants were listening to a song composed for the occasion, a stone was thrown through the window, and hit Captain Gruffaud of the Artillery. He rushed out and demanded who had thrown it. Seeing a young man grinning, Gruffaud accused him, and as the youth admitted it, Gruffaud let him have the stone full in the face. A disturbance being at once imminent, the French officers broke up chairs, &c., to arm themselves against an attack, and the crowd, seeing this, dispersed. Soon after, the Agent, Robert Henderson, hurried up to say that the crowd had armed themselves and were re-assembling, and that as the Frenchmen were in the wrong, inasmuch as they had exceeded their time-limit, nine o’clock, by an hour, he counselled them to go home quietly. So the matter ended, and Doisy remarks that no evil resulted, and that Scots and French became better comrades than ever.
Another event might have resulted in a disturbance. At the news of a victory by Wellington in Spain, the Selkirk people set their bells ringing, and probably rejoiced with some ostentation. A short time after, says Doisy, came the news of a great French victory in Russia (?). The next day, Sunday, some French officers attended a Quakers’ meeting in their house, and managed to hide themselves. At midnight a dozen of their comrades were admitted through the window, bringing with them a coil of rope which they made fast to that of the meeting-house bell, and rang vigorously, awakening the town and bringing an amazed crowd to the place, and in the confusion the actors of the comedy escaped. Then came the Peace of 1814, and the Frenchmen were informed that on April 20 a vessel would be at Berwick to take them to France. The well-to-do among them proposed to travel by carriage to Berwick, but it was later decided that all funds should be united and that they should go on foot, and to defray expenses £60 was collected. Before leaving, it was suggested that a considerable increase might be made to their exchequer if they put up to auction the structure of the theatre, as well as the properties and dresses, which had cost £120. Tarnier was chosen auctioneer, and the bidding was started at £50, but in spite of his eloquence the highest bid was £40. So they decided to have some fun at the last. All the articles were carried to the field which the prisoners had hired for playing football, and a last effort was made to sell them. But the highest bid was only £2 more than before. Rather than sell at such a ridiculous price, the Frenchmen, armed with sticks and stones, formed a circle round the objects for sale, and set fire to them, a glorious bonfire being the result.
The day of departure came. Most of the Frenchmen had passed the previous night in the Public Garden, singing, and drinking toasts, so that all were up betimes, and prepared for their tramp. Their delight and astonishment may be imagined when they beheld a defile of all sorts of vehicles, and even of saddle-horses, into the square, and learned that these had been provided by the people of Selkirk to convey them to Kelso, half way to Berwick.
Says Doisy: ‘Nous nous séparâmes donc de nos amis de Selkirk sans garder d’une part et d’autre aucun des sentiments de rancune pouvant exister auparavant’.
Mr. Craig-Brown relates the following anecdote:
‘Many years after the war, in the Southern States of America, two young Selkirk lads were astonished to see themselves looked at with evident earnestness by two foreigners within earshot of them. At last one of the latter, a distinguished-looking elderly gentleman, came up and said: “Pardon, I think from your speech you come from Scotland?”
‘“We do.”
‘“Perhaps from the South of Scotland?”
‘“Yes, from Selkirk.”
‘“From Selkirk! Ah! I was certain: General! It is true. They are from Selkirk.” Upon which his companion came up, who, looking at one of the lads for a while, exclaimed:
‘“I am sure you are the son of ze, ze, leetle fat man who kills ze sheep!”
‘“Faith! Ye’re recht!” said the astonished Scot. “My father was Tudhope, the flesher!”
‘Upon which the more effusive of the officers fairly took him round the neck, and gave him a hearty embrace. Making themselves known as two of the old French prisoners, they insisted on the lads remaining in their company, loaded them with kindness, and never tired of asking them questions about their place of exile, and all its people, particularly the sweethearts they and their comrades had left behind them.’