After a very long and not a very pleasant discussion, we came to the conclusion that as Messrs. Tuthill and Ashworth were the most meagre in their appearance amongst us, and, consequently, the most like Frenchmen, they should endeavour to procure some bread at the first retired and lonely habitation we should see early in the night. Accordingly, at about nine o’clock, we perceived a house directly in our course, which appeared to answer the description required. The two Frenchified gentlemen advanced to try their address: Lieutenant Essel and myself remained seated close to a thick-set hedge. We continued in that position some time, waiting the result of our friends’ embassy—my poor companion complaining grievously of the alteration in his health. Finding they did not return, we imagined that they had, perhaps, met with a good reception and were enjoying themselves; and we agreed, as the house was directly in our way, to pass by it carelessly, and, accordingly, we walked on. Just as we had passed the door, they made their appearance, with a young man dressed like a peasant. They joined and informed us they could procure no relief at that house; but that there was a small village within a few hundred yards of us, and that this young man was going to show them a public-house in it, where they could get supplied with everything. I was decidedly of opinion that this was a great deal too kind on his part; and I advised them, therefore, to send this guide back, as we certainly could find the house without his assistance; but he insisted on conducting us—inquired if we were also of the party; and presently the village was in view, and was very small, at which I rejoiced greatly. Many people were moving about, and our guide informed us it was a fête day.
The public-house was now before us, and the young man pointed to it, saying, “You may enter without fear,” and quitted us. I did not like this last observation. However, we were by this time on the threshold—a number of people were in the doorway; there was no alternative, and in we went. The house was crowded with both sexes, dancing and amusing themselves. The dancing ceased immediately after we entered; every eye was fixed upon us. We called for a place where we could sit and refresh ourselves, and were shown into a room. We asked for some bread, cheese, and wine; got them and ate heartily, although we could not boast of much comfort or of being much at our ease. Several of the peasants and their wives came and seated themselves close to our table, pressing us to take some of their gâteaux. From our general appearance, and particularly from our caps and knapsacks, they evidently mistook us for conscripts going to the army. We told them we were going to Guise, and were obliged to travel day and night by forced marches, in consequence of our regiment being ordered away, and of our having remained at home too long. Fortunately for us they were not an inquisitive people, and did not question us about the number or the officers of the regiment, nor about any of our circumstances. We called for our bill, and desired our host to bring us a large loaf of bread and a bottle of brandy, as we might want them before our joining our regiment at Guise. This being done, they all wished us success, and we parted from them, most glad to get rid of their company.
At daylight we stopped at a wood joining a farmhouse, on the banks of the Oise. About seven in the evening of Tuesday the 8th we recommenced our march, after having been greatly alarmed by a genteelly dressed lady and two children that had passed us, with a servant, who went before her shaking the brambles and knocking the wet off the trees. They came so close to us as to touch the very bush that covered us. About half-past eight we crossed the Oise in two places, and once more were obliged to pass through a village to get to the bridge that led over that river.
At daybreak of the 9th, after a tedious and difficult march, having traversed a number of deep-ploughed fields and stubble fields, over hills and across valleys, we found ourselves again in the open plains, with poor Essel scarcely able to move. This was by far the worst situation in which we had been placed since we began our journey. On surveying, with the utmost anxiety and attention, all around us, we thought we could descry trees; but they were at a considerable distance, and out of our course. We nevertheless approached them. It commenced raining very fast; and when we had reached the much-desired spot, it proved to be only a thin orchard, with a few scattered apple-trees. We still kept walking on, being well assured there was no shelter for us in our rear—at least none that was not at a great distance. We soon discovered a little village in the very direction we were going, and near it appeared a small wood. We advanced tolerably fast. Poor Essel was obliged to lag a great way behind. Meeting an old peasant, we inquired the name of the village, and found it to be Petit Essigny. He told us there was a pathway on the right of it, if we wished to avoid passing through. We were, he said, five leagues from St. Quentin. This old man’s remarks appeared to us very singular: he took his leave, and we walked on. It rained, and the morning was advancing, it being now nearly eight o’clock. What we imagined to be a wood, adjacent to the village, proved, upon approaching it, to be only a few shrubs; on arriving at which we found they were pretty thick, and the grass very high, the enclosure being surrounded by a quickset hedge. We instantly got through this hedge, and lay close down. Our situation was very unpleasant. The grass, which was excessively wet, added to our misery, having been nearly soaked to the skin before we entered it. The rain off the bushes came literally upon our poor bodies in sluices; but this was considerably preferable to the risk of going into the village, where we suspected that gendarmes might be lurking, the place being so near a large town. We continued in this wretched plight until about four o’clock, when Mr. Essel became quite weak and exhausted, and the rest of our little party were not much better. This induced us to quit this inhospitable place and endeavour to get shelter in a house, let the consequence be what it might.
Accordingly we approached a single hut at a short distance from the village; entered it, and found in it a poor old peasant and two lads, who proved to be his sons: they were shivering over a few cinders, and appeared to be very poor and miserable. We requested that they would make a good fire and allow us to dry our soaked clothes and to warm ourselves; and this they did, but not until we had promised a liberal payment. They seemed to be astonished at our appearance, and greatly at a loss to know who and what we could be. The fire being at last made, we gladly proceeded to wring the water out of our clothes and endeavour to get them dry. We made the old peasant bring us some bread: he also gave us a little butter, which by chance he had in the house; the old dame, his wife, having taken all the rest that morning to St. Quentin market.
We imagined that we should do extremely well if the old man would allow us to remain all night, even by his fireside, as it rained so excessively hard that it was absolutely impossible to attempt to travel. This was intimated to our venerable host, accompanied by an assurance that he should have his reward; but, without hesitation, he declared to us in the most positive manner that this was impossible. What were we to do, for it seemed that sort of night which made the gentle Cordelia declare that she could not turn out her enemy’s dog; and yet we, Christians, and gentlemen, and officers to boot, seemed to be in danger of becoming the wretches whose “houseless heads and unfed sides” were so pitied by the mad King Lear. Our reflections were not of a very consolatory character.
At length the old curmudgeon of a host told us that there was a public-house in the village, where we could get supplied with everything; and he added, that, as it was so very near, there could be no great difficulty in our getting to it. At this moment two peasants were passing his door, and, determined at any rate to turn us out, he called these two fellows to guide us to the place. The men appeared very civil, but, had it been the reverse, there was no alternative; so we paid the old Cerberus for his scanty fire, his mouldy brown bread and sour butter, and left his house with the disposition to shake the very dust, or rather, in this case, the very mud, off our shoes on his threshold. The figure of this flinty host of ours is still before me. He was a tall, thin, misshapen fellow; and the effects of his cadaverous and hideous countenance were not improved by a most sinister squint, and a malign, ill-natured sneer, that might well warn the unfortunate that they had little of humanity to expect at his hands.
Under our civil guides we soon arrived at the village, and, to our inexpressible joy, found it to be a small and miserable place. Our guides showed us the public-house and took their leave. We entered this poverty-stricken hovel, and found that the good landlady had nothing to give us but bread and eggs; and further, that there was not a bed in the house, her guests being accustomed to sleep in a loft where there was plenty of clean hay. This, however, was luxurious to poor wanderers, who had fed and slept in the manner in which we had ever since we had escaped from prison. But we had to study appearances, and, as there was no other inn (as they termed the wretched hovel) in the village, we seemed to hesitate whether we should remain here, or proceed to the next considerable town or to St. Quentin, and we accordingly inquired how far it was off. Our hostess replied that it was not above three or four miles to a tolerably large village, but that St. Quentin was two leagues distant. We pretended to be much chagrined at this information, and told her that it rained too hard for us to go that distance, and, inconvenient as it was, we would remain with her and sleep in the hay-loft that night, in preference to being exposed any longer to the inclemency of the weather. We had a good fire made, completed the drying of our clothes, got some supper, and retired to the hay-loft. The kind woman gave us two blankets to cover us. We found this accommodation sufficiently good, and we very soon fell fast asleep.
The next day, fortunately for us (as it kept us under cover), was very bad, raining without intermission. We continued in our loft, except one of us, who went to procure breakfast, and to inform the landlady (who we found was a widow) that we would stay until evening, in hopes that the rain might cease. We sent her our tattered garments, stockings, etc., to mend. We could move about without much fear in this place, as we found they were utter strangers to the sight of a gendarme. The good lady took us for conscripts, and commiserated our situation. She had a brother in the army, then in Prussia; and she brought us a letter to read that she had lately received from him. I said that I had served in the same regiment, with which she was very much pleased.
At about seven we paid this worthy old hostess, and took our leave. It was a clear, starlight night, and the weather promised favourably; but the ground was so excessively slippery and muddy that we could scarcely prevent ourselves from falling every step we took. At about ten, Mr. Essel was seized with a violent bleeding at the nose and mouth. We feared that he had burst a blood-vessel. This, together with a dysentery which he had been troubled with for some time, rendered him so excessively weak that he could not move a step. We were greatly affected at this misfortune, and agreed to convey him to the next house we should find. Fortunately, the village alluded to by our landlady, when we first arrived at her house, was in sight, and the view of it gave our sick friend fresh courage; but we were apprehensive it was too large for our security; however, we were resolved at all events to procure him a lodging there, and to be vigilant, and if we perceived any danger, to be off instantly. About half-past eleven we arrived at this village, and, to our joy, it proved to be by far inferior to what we had expected. Mr. Ashworth went into a public-house to reconnoitre, and to inquire if food and shelter could be supplied to our suffering friend. He returned shortly with the glad tidings that he had succeeded, and he assured us that, from all he could observe, he was convinced that we should incur no danger by remaining at the inn for the whole night, and even for the next day. The joy this intelligence spread amongst us is hardly conceivable. We all accordingly agreed most cordially to remain with our unfortunate friend, sincerely hoping that he might by the next night get rid of his malady and recover some portion of his strength. The bleeding had ceased, a symptom which we construed to be much in his favour, and at last we all entered the public-house, the sick gentleman and myself bringing up the rear.