This benevolent Christian appeared overpowered by the kindness so natural to her sex, and by a generosity, for the display of which she possessed a peculiar eloquence, she assured us that “if she had it in her power she would give all the seamen shoes and stockings, of which they stood so much in need, and a good dinner—that she would; but, at all events, she would go and instantly get a good dinner for us, poor, dear creatures! for we must be famished.” To this she added a great many similar tender expressions.
She took a cordial leave of each of us, and said that she would not come again until late in the evening, for fear of her visits being noticed; but she assured us that an excellent dinner should be sent as soon as possible to her poor, dear countrymen. In about an hour we received a small roasted leg of mutton, without any vegetables, with two knives and forks, a little salt in a paper, and two bottles of very inferior wine. We expected to have the opportunity in the evening of expressing to the lady in person our sense of the excellence of the dinner; but she never came near her “dear, dear countrymen!” She took care, however, to send her man with the bill, the charges of which exceeded those of the gaoler’s wife at Rouen!
CHAPTER III
Departure from Amiens—Arrival at Albert—Our French officers delicacy and liberality—A civic feast at Bapaume—Effects of champagne on French aldermen—A separation from our kind conductor—A new escort—A forced march to Cambray—Pitiable state and severe sufferings of the seamen—Entrance into Cambray—Imprisonment—Landrecies, Avesnes, Hirson—A billet upon the inhabitants—Rocroy—A brutal landlord—The robbery and abuse of prisoners—Givet—Charlemont—A description of the fortifications—An escape of prisoners—A fruitless pursuit—Generosity of the French commandant—Private lodgings—A Jacobin landlady—Exhausted funds—The 4th of June—Honours done to King George the Third’s birthday—Roast beef and plum pudding—French terrors of insurrection—The difference between taking off and only touching hats in saluting men in authority—Good news—A joyful departure in a cart for Verdun.
At length the destined hour arrived for our leaving this celebrated city and for pursuing our forced and cheerless marches to the place of our imprisonment. Accordingly, at about eight in the morning of the 17th of March, St. Patrick’s day, a day of great festivity in my native isle, we were put en route, and we arrived at the little town of Albert, in the department of the Somme, at five in the afternoon. Here we were halted for the night. The next morning our kind officer astonished us by a most elegant breakfast, consisting of everything that the small town could supply. We had made it a point never to allow him to pay any of his personal or table expenses when he conducted us to an inn, and his breakfast was given, I suppose, much to his honour, as a complimentary requital.
From Albert we marched to Bapaume, a small fortified town in the department of Pas de Calais. The inhabitants boast that it has never been taken, even though the Duke of York was so close to it in 1793. The road was excessively dirty and bad. Our men were so exceedingly weak this day, the weather being very severe, and raining so incessantly, that our good officer made some of his cuirassiers take three or four of their prisoners behind on their horses. It was about four in the afternoon when we arrived. The officer took us to a tavern. We, dripping wet, were shown into a spacious apartment, where a large table was laid out, and a number of genteel-looking citizens were sitting round a stove that was fixed in the centre of the room. They did not appear to take the smallest notice of us, nor to make place even for the officer, who was wet to the skin. However, he took the liberty of requesting they would allow him to approach, which they did with seeming reluctance. We now endeavoured to dry ourselves, and get into the best plight we could; having ordered, at the same time, something for dinner, or rather supper, as it was about seven o’clock. We were given to understand that it was the election day for a new mayor, in consequence of which the aldermen and civic officers had ordered a dinner; which being served up, left us in full possession of the stove, a circumstance that pleased us greatly.
Those gentlemen did not, in point of appetite, appear to deviate from their namesakes in a certain great metropolis, although I could not perceive that they had any turtle soup; champagne appeared to be the only wine they relished. Our supper was placed on a small table near the stove; and those gentlemen, as they became inspired with the generous juice of the grape, condescended to become more familiar with the English prisoners and the officer that had them in charge. They insisted upon our touching glasses, and even on our drinking champagne with them; and in the course of the evening these very people, who, on our arrival, had not vouchsafed to treat us with common civility, or even humanity, became so exceedingly hospitable, cordial, and pressing as to prove an absolute annoyance. They even lavished in their cups a number of encomiums upon the “noble nation” to which we belonged. “What a great pity it is,” they cried, “that Englishmen and Frenchmen are not unanimous! They would then carry everything before them, and conquer the whole world.”
We were now doomed to suffer a sad mortification and misfortune. The friendly officer who had conducted us from Rouen with so much humanity, and, I may say, delicacy, now informed us that he was superseded, and was no longer to be our guard or escort. He even added that he had applied to be allowed to conduct us to our place of final imprisonment, and, to his mortification, had received a refusal. He appeared very much hurt at the disappointment, and left us for the night with much emotion, assuring us that we should not leave the town without bidding each other farewell.
At daylight, on the 19th of March, a sergeant awakened us, with the unwelcome news that he had brought a guard of dragoons to conduct us to Cambray. We were obliged to get up immediately, and to make the best arrangements we could for our unpleasant journey. Our old officer and friend, as we considered him, made his appearance. He spoke of us with much warmth of good-nature, and recommended us very strongly to the kind consideration of the sergeant. He then took an affectionate farewell of each individual, and literally shed tears at parting from us. Much did we regret his loss. He was tender-hearted and compassionate, and reflected honour on the nation that gave him birth, and even upon Nature herself. Under this excellent man, with the indulgence he bestowed upon us, and with the confidence he reposed in our honour, not one of us would have taken an advantage of even the most favourable opportunity of escape. Each would have felt it a disgrace to the character of our country, and a proof of an individual badness of heart and insensibility to honour.
At half-past eight o’clock we had to commence our march to Cambray. All the elements seemed to combine with every circumstance to make us feel our altered condition. It was a most severe morning, bitterly cold, and the north-east wind blowing fiercely in our teeth. It hailed and rained violently and without intermission. Our poor crew were half-starved, miserably clad, and without shoes or stockings, and some of them even without shirts. They were in rags and tatters. With starved stomachs and broken spirits, they were forced upon this long march to the cheerless bourn of a gaol. Under the new escort of dragoons we pursued our march to Cambray, where we arrived about four in the afternoon, in a truly pitiable state. We were a mass of dirt and filth, exhausted, and without that alone which can make nature endure extreme difficulties—the prospect of amelioration or relief. The consciousness of the merits of the past we had, but of prospects of the future we were miserably destitute.