[Footnote 1: At that time the execution of the hostages was taking place within the prison.]
The next duty of our Englishman was to act as mounted orderly to captains who were ordered to visit and report on the state of the barricades, also to command all citizens to go into their houses and close the doors and windows. There was little enthusiasm at the barricades, and everywhere need of reinforcements. The army of the Commune was melting away. The most energetic officer they saw was a stalwart negro lieutenant,—possibly the man who, as De Compiègne tells us, had scared some Versaillais in a cellar on the 22d of May.
On the night of Thursday, May 25, the Column of July was a remarkable sight. It had been hung with wreaths of immortelles, and those caught fire from an explosive. Elsewhere, except for burning buildings, there was total darkness. There was no gas in Paris, of course. And here our Englishman goes on to say that so far as his experience went, he saw no pétroleuses nor fighting women, nor did he believe in their existence.
By Friday, May 26, provisions and fodder were exhausted, and it was hard for the soldiers of the Commune to get anything to eat. Our Englishman, in the general disorganization, became separated from his comrades, and joined himself to a small troop of horsemen wearing the red shirt of Garibaldi, who swept past him at a furious gallop. They were making for the cemetery of Père la Chaise. "All is lost!" they cried. "To get there is our only chance of safety." Yet they still shouted to the men and women whom they passed, "All goes well! Vive la Commune! Vive la République!" By help of an order to visit all the posts, which the Englishman had in his pocket, they obtained admittance into Père la Chaise. There were five Poles in the party, one Englishman, and one Frenchman; "and certainly," adds the narrator, "they were no credit to their respective nations. It was on their faces that I remarked for the first time that peculiar hunted-down look which was afterwards to be seen on every countenance, and I presume upon my own."
Our Englishman rode up to a battery in Père la Chaise, planted on the spot made famous by a celebrated passage in "Le Père Goriot," in which Balzac describes Rastignac, on the eve of finally selling himself to Satan, as standing and gazing down on Paris, to conquer a high place in which is to be his reward. The observer who saw the city from the same spot on the 26th of May, 1871, says,—
"Beneath me lay stretched out like a map the once great and beautiful city, now, alas! given over a prey to fire and sword. I could see smoke rising from many a heap of ruins that but a few short hours before had been a palace or a monument of art. It was impossible, however, to decide what buildings were actually burning, for a thick, misty rain had set in, which prevented my seeing distinctly. In my descent I passed the place where the body of Dombrowski was lying. He had been shot from behind, and the ball had passed through his body. At the gate of the cemetery I found a man waiting for me with news that Belleville was to be our rendezvous. Words cannot paint the spectacle that Belleville presented. It was the last place left, the only refuge remaining; and such an assemblage as was collected there it would be difficult to find again. There were National Guards of every battalion, Chasseurs Fédérés in their wonderful uniform,—a sort of cross between Zouave, linesman, and rifleman,—Enfants Perdus in their green coats and feathers (very few of these were to be seen, as they had no claim to quarter, nor did they expect any), Chasseurs à Cheval of the Commune, in their blue jackets and red trousers, leaning idly against the gates of their stables, Éclaireurs de la Commune in blue, Garibaldians in red, hussars, cantinières, sailors, civilians, women, and children, all mixed up together in the crowded streets, and looking the picture of anxiety. In the afternoon about four o'clock we were ordered to mount and to escort 'ces coquins,'—as the officer called a party of prisoners. They were forty-five gendarmes and six curés, who were to be shot in the courtyard of a neighboring building. We obeyed our orders and accompanied them to their destination. I was told off to keep back the crowd. The men about to die, fifty-one in all, were placed together, and the word was given to fire. Some few, happier than the rest, fell at once, others died but slowly. One gendarme made an effort to escape but was shot through the stomach, and fell, a hideous object, to the ground. One old curé, with long hair white as snow, had the whole of one side of his head shot away, and still remained standing. After I had seen this, I could bear it no longer, but, reckless of consequences, moved away and left the ground, feeling very sick. As I was in the act of leaving, I observed a lad, a mere boy of fourteen or fifteen, draw a heavy horseman's pistol from his belt and fire in the direction of the dead and dying. He was immediately applauded by the mob, and embraced by those who stood near as 'a good patriot.' And here let me remark that those who have thought it cruel and inhuman on the part of the conquerors to arrest and detain as prisoners gamins of from twelve to sixteen, are quite mistaken. Those who remained at the barricades to the last, and were most obstinate in their defence, were the boys of Paris. They were fierce and uncontrollable, and appeared to be veritably possessed of devils. The difference between the irregular corps and the National Guard was that the latter had, with very few exceptions, been forced to serve, like myself, under compulsion, or by the stern necessity of providing bread for their wives and children, while the Irregulars were all volunteers, and had few married men in their ranks."
Later in the day two mounted officers in plain clothes, one of them a captain, whom our friend had served as orderly, called him and an artilleryman out of the ranks, and ordered them to accompany them. After a devious course through obscure streets of Paris, the officers gave them some money, and ordered them to go into the next street and see if they could procure plain clothes. Having done so, they returned to the place where their officers had promised to wait for them; but they had disappeared. This was, in truth, a good-natured ruse to save the lives of the two privates, though at the time it was not so understood. Not knowing what to do, they attempted to return to their regiments, but at the first outpost they were challenged by the sentry. They had been away five hours, and the countersign had been changed. They were arrested, and carried to the nearest mairie. They were led upstairs and taken before a member of the Commune who was sitting at a table covered with papers, busily writing, surrounded by men of all ranks and uniforms. On hearing their story, he turned round, and said, in excellent English, "What are you doing here, an Englishman and in plain clothes?" The Englishman had grown angry. He answered recklessly: "Yes, I am English, and I have been compelled to serve your Commune. I don't know what your name is, or who you are, but I request that you give me a paper to allow me to quit Paris without further molestation." The member of the Commune smiled, and answered: "There is only one thing to be done with you. Here, sergeant!" And the Englishman and the artilleryman were escorted to the guard-room. There everything of value was taken from them. The Englishman lost his watch, his money, and what he valued more, his note-book and papers. He wore a gold ring, the gift of his mother; and as it was difficult to get off, some of the soldiers proposed amputating the finger.
Next, a species of court-martial was held, which in a few minutes passed sentence that they were to be shot at nine the next morning, for "refusing to serve the Commune!" They had been asked no questions, no evidence had been heard, and no defence had been allowed them. Says the Englishman,—
"We were conducted to the Black Hole. There we found nine others who were to suffer the same fate in the morning. I was too tired to do anything but throw myself on a filthy mattress, and in a few minutes I was sleeping what I thought was my last sleep on earth. I was roused at daybreak by a tremendous hammering of my companions on the door of our cell. I was irritated, and asked angrily why they could not allow those who wished to be quiet to remain so. They answered by telling me to climb up to the window and look into the courtyard. I found it strewn with corpses. The mairie had been evacuated during the night, and it was evident we should not be executed. In vain we tried to force the door of our cell; all we could do was to make as much noise as possible to attract attention. At last a sergeant of the National Guard procured the keys, the heavy door was opened, and we were free. I avoided a distribution of rifles and ammunition, and passed out into the street, hoping that my troubles were over. Alas! they were only just begun; for the first sight that met my eyes as I stepped into the street was a soldier of the Government, calling on all those in sight to surrender and to lay down their arms. I gave myself up as a prisoner of war. It was Whit-Sunday, May 28. Happily my name was written down as one of those taken without arms.
"I was placed in a party of prisoners, and we were marched to the Buttes de Chaumont, passing in our way many a barricade, or rather the remains of them. Here, the body of a man shot through the head was lying stiff and cold upon the pavement; there, was a pool of coagulated blood; there, the corpse of a gentleman in plain clothes, apparently sleeping, with his head buried in his arms; but a small red stream issuing from his body told that he slept the sleep of death. Some, as we marched on, kept silence, some congratulated themselves that all was over, while some predicted our immediate execution. All had the same hunted-down, wearied look upon their faces that I have before alluded to. At last we were halted and given over to the charge of a regiment of the line. The first order given was, 'Fling down your hats!' Luckily I had a little silk cap, which I contrived to slip into my pocket, and which was afterwards of great comfort to me. We stood bare-headed in the blazing sun some time, till our attention was called to a sound of shooting, and a whisper went round: 'We are all to be shot.' The agonized look on the faces of some, I can never forget; but these were men of the better sort, and few in number: the greater part looked sullen and stolid, shrugged their shoulders, and said, 'It won't take long; a shot, and all is over.'