We were very civilly received by the landlord, a decent young man, who showed us into a nice, clean, and comfortable back-room, in which there was a separate bed for each of us. It was rather startling, however, to hear him assure us that “we were perfectly safe with him”; for this guarantee of safety, even if sincere, at least implied that we were objects of suspicion. Our doubts, however, were soon dispelled, for he added, to our great relief, “I have been situated in a similar manner once myself, and shall ever have a fellow-feeling for others under such unhappy circumstances. When I quitted the army as a conscript, I travelled several hundred miles by night, and concealed myself in woods in the daytime.” This was consolatory, and we gave him nods of assent and approbation; for it was dangerous to speak, as a word or two would have led to a conversation, in which it might not have been convenient to answer questions with truth, and not easy to evade them by ingenuity, or even to defeat them by falsehood.
We took our refreshment with the keenness which showed that we had not lately been accustomed to good cheer, and we found, or flattered ourselves that we found, that our sick friend was already getting better. Each retired to his bed, as happy as any creature in the universe. Heavens! What a paradise! It is not in my power to express or to give any idea of the delight and happiness I felt at being once more in a comfortable bed, with everything neat and clean about me. We had been thirteen days and nights without once taking off our clothes, except the preceding night in the hay-loft, when we had our garments repaired, and those days and nights had been passed, the former in sleeping, as chance might be, in mud, bog, or quagmire, or on dry or wet green leaves, whilst the latter had been spent in toiling, upon empty stomachs and with parched throats, over all the bad grounds and awkward impediments which must be encountered by travellers who have private reasons for avoiding highways or beaten tracks. Such sufferings are wonderfully conducive to make men feel and be thankful for the comforts of a good bed; and I need not observe that we all remained in bed, not only throughout the night, but throughout the greater part of the next day [Friday, 11th].
As soon as it became dusk we paid our bill, which was moderate, with gratitude; and, taking a most friendly leave of our simple-minded and kind-hearted host, we again buckled on our knapsacks and resumed our habit of travelling at night-time. Essel was greatly refreshed; we found ourselves comparatively quite strong and well, from the last night’s repose.
At daylight on the 12th it began to rain incessantly and in torrents; we were then very near a small village. Our late success made us more bold than we had been at our first setting out, and having no wood to shelter us, we resolved to go into the village. We found it very well calculated for our purpose, and got admitted into a public-house; where, after procuring something to eat, we requested permission to lie down to rest a little in any place, expecting to be shown into a hay-loft,—but we were agreeably surprised; for our good old landlady put sheets on the only two beds she had, and told us we might rest ourselves on them until night. We perceived that she also supposed we were conscripts. She got Mr. Essel something warm, and appeared very attentive. At dusk we paid the good dame, and, as usual, began our march. Poor Essel complained a great deal, and my feet began to swell; although they were not painful, I feared some bad consequence from their swelling. About ten, our friend declared he could not advance a step farther; consequently, we sat down to allow him time to rest. We agreed to wait with him a day or two, to see if he should improve, but were greatly at a loss where to take him for this night. Thus meditating, we were joined by a man going our road. He saluted us very kindly, and expressed his sorrow at seeing our comrade so ill. The worthy fellow was in a cheerful mood, and evidently of a communicative nature, and seemed disposed to let us know all about himself and his affairs, which was by far more convenient to us than had he expected equal frankness on our part. He informed us that he was a baker, and was returning from the place where he had been at work the whole week, to his little family, in a village about two miles off. The honest fellow appeared to derive a sort of melancholy satisfaction in dwelling upon the memory of his wife, who, he added mournfully, had recently died, leaving him three young orphans. The good-hearted man concluded his unsophisticated, open garrulity, by informing us that he had two good beds, to which he assured us that we were welcome, and he gave us this welcome with such a frankness and warmth that no cynic could suspect guile in such a character, or could be unwarmed by gratitude at his benevolent nature. The honest baker added to his other assurances that he would procure for us everything we could want or might desire. It was evident that we were always to be mistaken for conscripts on a retreat, for this our jolly companion assured us with a knowing look, adding, “that his village was small, and that there was no danger with him.” Our hearts felt the truth of this, and withal its inestimable value.
We soon arrived at this poor man’s dwelling, and he seemed as glad to receive us as if he had by good fortune unexpectedly found some friends or kindred that had been long absent and dear to his heart. He made a blazing fire, and bade the children get up and prepare the beds for our reception. This they cheerfully did, and then retired to their loft. We felt that we were particularly safe with this poor hospitable stranger, and the whole domestic scene was at least calculated to impress upon us the truth that contentment, happiness, generosity, and the best feelings of our nature are not the exclusive heritage of the rich. We warmed ourselves over his glowing hearth, wished him good-night, and gladly sank into our comfortable beds.
The next day our hospitable friend procured us all the things we wanted. In every respect nothing could have been more kind and liberal than the conduct of this unpretending, humble, and good man; and the reader, in the sequel, will have further proofs of my just estimate of his character.
As we had promised our friend Essel, we waited until dusk on Sunday the 13th, and then paid our host liberally for all we had received. He escorted us a mile or two on the road and took his leave, as if sorry to part, but full of satisfaction that he had had an opportunity of so well performing a duty to those who were in the extremities of need.
At a little before daylight on the 14th (September), we entered a wood, and found a very convenient place for our concealment. We conjectured that we were about five leagues from Arras. At about eleven we were alarmed by the noise and whistling of a fowler with a dog, and in a few minutes we heard the report of his gun; the shot rattled through the bushes in which we lay, and a partridge perched close to us. This circumstance alarmed us prodigiously, as we could hear the man and dog advancing towards the very spot. To move would have been imprudent, since he was so very close that it was impossible to avoid being discovered. We waited the event, without the smallest hope of escaping from being seen—the dog advanced—flushed the partridge nearly at our feet—the fowler close to us. Fortunately the bird took an opposite direction to the spot where we remained concealed, and the master and dog followed, and in a few minutes relieved us from the consternation they had thrown us into.
At the usual hour, on the night of the 14th of September, we left our leafy concealment to commence our nocturnal progress; and we were put into good spirits by finding our friend’s health greatly improved. We walked a great distance this night, in order to make up for our recent delays and stoppages; but we had nearly been victims to the old proverb, “The more haste the worse speed”; and we found that it was less essential to our safety to travel fast, than to contrive to stop, at or before daybreak, within the reach of some wood sufficiently large and thick to hide us. At dawn, however, on Tuesday the 15th, to our great dismay, we found ourselves on an open plain, and we anxiously stretched our eyes in every direction, but could not discern the least appearance of a wood, although, to our alarm, we beheld several villages. As our comrade was much better, we determined to proceed, avoiding human habitations as much as possible. After we had passed by the first village, we discovered a copse or shrubbery near the second; so we quickened our pace, and, advancing rapidly, we entered it at its part the most remote from the village. It proved to be merely a nursery, and but thinly stocked with small trees, or even shrubs; but we selected the spot most favourable to our object, and happily we contrived to conceal ourselves in it until darkness afforded us the usual motive to our sortie. At eleven, as we were passing a small village, being excessively thirsty, and not able to discover any watering place, we agreed to border close, in the hope of being able to procure some water at one of the wells with which these villages abound. Mr. Ashworth and our sick comrade were employed in getting some, while Mr. Tuthill and myself retired to a small distance, under cover of a quickset hedge. Two women and a man passed close by us. The women continued to walk on, but the latter halted and turned on his heel. I was next to him. He eyed me closely, and exclaimed, “Vous-êtes Anglois?” To which I replied, “Je suis aussi bon François que vous, je l’espère.” This was the only time in the whole course of my life that I had felt afraid to acknowledge my country. The women, hearing the conversation, called to the fellow “to come along and mind his own business.” He appeared to wish to remain; but, on their repeatedly calling him, he left us. Having been joined by our companions, we proceeded.
At break of day on Wednesday the 16th, we got into an excellent thick wood, and found a material change in the weather as we advanced to the northward; sometimes there was a sort of grey frost, which made us extremely cold before the rising of the sun; nor could we at all times receive the benefit of that heavenly body until noon, owing to the thickness of the part of the wood that we were (when practicable) obliged to occupy. We found an abundance of filberts, filled our pockets with them, and felt particularly happy at succeeding thus far. This was the last wood we expected to inhabit prior to our seeing the sea-coast; and we were, at times, replete with the idea of its being the last night we should remain in the land of usurpation and tyranny. At the usual time we commenced our route, and left the town of St. Pol about two miles on our left-hand side.