About seven we discovered another village in the direction we had to take. We approached a public-house, called for some beer, and inquired if we could be supplied with beds? “No,” was the reply; but they directed us to another house where all the beds happened to be occupied; and these people sent us to a third, with no better success. We knew not what to do, and regretted much at not being able to remain in this little village for the night, as, from its appearance, we had no reason to be under the slightest apprehension. A person, whom we took for a publican, seeing us in a state of suspense, addressed us in French, and said, “Gentlemen, you appear to want lodgings; there is a small town, about two or three miles farther on, where you can get good accommodation.” We returned him thanks and appeared pleased at the intelligence; though, in fact, we dreaded being accommodated as he had described, lest, in the sequel, we might find ourselves accommodated gratis, with sundry extra cares and civilities forced upon us, much above our wants, and against our inclinations. I asked him if he did not suppose that the gate would be shut before we arrived. The sinister object of the question he did not see through, and to our great joy he replied that there were no gates at all, as the town was perfectly open. Upon this intelligence we resolved to proceed, although we determined to approach the place with great circumspection.
At about half-past nine we arrived at the town and it did not appear to be a place from which we could have much or anything to apprehend. We looked out for an inn, and, as usual, we resolved not to go to the first we should see, if we possibly could avoid it, nor in any case to enter any one that was not of an humble description.
At length we discovered one, and, from its appearance and locality, we were induced to enter it. We were disagreeably surprised; for we were shown into a genteel coffee-room, and, from the appearance of the guests, landlady, and servants, it was evident we had got into the very sort of inn which of all others we ought to avoid. However, it was too late to retreat. Hesitation would infallibly have exposed us to suspicion; and had we evinced any confusion, detection and apprehension would undoubtedly have ensued. We therefore put a bold face on the matter, and with an air of nonchalance, as if we had got into the sort of place we had been accustomed to, and wished to find, I called for some wine, and my friends ordered supper.
I was, however, indisposed, and ordered the chambermaid to light me to bed, informing my companions that I did not intend to undress until they should come to bed; and that if they happened to discover the slightest symptoms of danger, I would be ready at an instant to decamp. One very fortunate circumstance was, that “mine host,” Master Boniface, was disgustingly drunk, and although he often looked earnestly at us, as if he wished to ask us some questions, he was so far gone that he could not utter a syllable. I lay down on the bed full of anxiety; nor could I forget Barklimore’s fears of the man who, as he supposed, had challenged him for his papers.
After their supper my friends came to bed. They informed me that they did not think that we were in any imminent danger, nor did they suppose that we were perfectly safe, as our security chiefly depended upon the state of the intoxication of the landlord. It was not very pleasant to have our liberties or lives dependent upon another man’s drunkenness; and we came to the determination to rise before the fellow could become sober, to pay our reckoning, and be off. At twilight we dressed ourselves, and awakened the servants, who instantly went and informed their master that we were preparing to depart. It was evident that we were in imminent danger. The landlord soon appeared, and, to our great joy, was in such a state of stupefaction that he could scarcely open his eyes. He demanded whither we were going so early? “To Strasbourg,” was my reply. He observed, we should be there very soon, it being only five leagues distant. We were aware of that, and wished him a good morning. By ten we were in sight of Offenburg—made its circuit, and got on the road to Gigenbach, which we saw about six o’clock. We then crossed the river Kinzig, and proceeded on the direct road towards Tütlingen. I now perfectly recollected our route, from having so recently passed it with the Bavarians. At midnight we halted in a small poor village; got supplied with refreshments and a sort of bed. Barklimore had a severe fit of the fever and ague.
On the morning of the 22nd of September we got some breakfast, and proceeded. At about six we discovered a kind of fortress on the side of a mountain, over a small town. We advanced with all possible precaution; but as we approached, it appeared to be a place of little consequence, and we therefore walked forward boldly. We found ourselves close to the gate of a snug little town; and seeing no military or police-officers, we proceeded right through it. After passing the opposite gate, we stopped at a wine-house, refreshed ourselves, and were informed the name of the town was Hornberg. The next halting-place was Kriemhieldsach, where there was a post-house; it was about three or four leagues off, and on the verge of the Black Forest, which we had to march through before we arrived. All travellers, they informed us, preferred stopping at Hornberg, to going through so lonely and disagreeable a place as the Black Forest, and at so late an hour. However, we were exceptions to the general rule, and we marched on.
The Black Forest, so celebrated of late for Moreau’s retreat through it before the Austrians, is a name very appropriately given to this dreadful region, for I never in my life beheld a country so mountainous, dismal, and barren. It used formerly to be infested by banditti, and in the late wars, the Germans, lying concealed, used at convenient moments to issue forth and inflict the severest losses on the French troops; cutting off stragglers, capturing convoys, and making prisoners of all small detached corps. I was told that a French General, whose name I now forget, had been shot in his carriage whilst passing through the Forest, and that the postilions, who had heard the report of the rifle, never discovered his death until their arrival at Hornberg. We met with only two or three people before we got to Kriemhieldsach. The road on each side was lined with trees, and was admirably calculated for the tactics of banditti.
At about eleven we reached the post-house, rapped at the door, and demanded admittance.
“Who is there?—and what are you?” was asked by a person within.
“Three French travellers who want lodgings,” was my reply.