Richemont proceeded direct to Boulogne, and there obtained the liberty of the two English sailors, who had been temporarily detained, and rewarded them generously.—(Mémoires du Général Camus, Baron de Richemont.)
CAPTAIN GRIVEL.
1810.
Admiral Rosily having taken refuge in the port of Cadiz with four ships, the poor remnants of Trafalgar, was, after a gallant struggle, obliged to surrender to overpowering numbers. The infamous capitulation of Baylen singularly increased the number of prisoners condemned to the tortures of those plague-stricken prisons, the guardships. Still, one of these vessels, the Vieille Castille was a privileged abode. Specially set apart for the officers, whose daily pay allowed them to live very comfortably, the Vieille Castille, was not ravaged by typhus fever, nor were the unhappy prisoners there afflicted with the agonies of hunger. Still, they felt themselves prisoners, and only dreamt of freedom, the more especially when, on the French army approaching Cadiz, they discovered their comrades encamped at only an hour’s distance from their prisons. Many plans were formed, and then abandoned, for peace and amity did not precisely reign among the prisoners, who kept reproaching each other with their prudence or temerity. At last, the boldest of them—Grivel, then captain of the sailors of the guard, now rear-admiral and senator, agreed with his friends to carry off the first boat approaching in a high wind. On the 25th February, 1810, the Mulet, a small Spanish ship carrying water barrels, came alongside the Vieille Castille. The breeze was a favourable one; under pretext of helping to transport the barrels, the chiefs of the plot were lowered into the boat, and there gained the sailors. The sail was unfurled and spread, without loss of time. While they were getting under way in great haste, an English boat left the admiral’s ship, and saluted the fugitives with a discharge of musketry; the guard on shore, answered the signal, and soon cannons, muskets, pistols—everything in short, was turned against the little boat. Only one man, however, perished, a sailor. Captain Grivel and his companions headed straight among the merchant ships anchoring near Cadiz, and made a bulwark of them. The greatest interest was shown in their success. “Hurrah! Hurrah;” cried the different crews. “Courage Frenchmen!” Encouraged by these signs of sympathy, the fugitives profited by the favourable breeze, and landed, to the number of thirty-four, on the coast of Andalusia, after an hour of constant anxiety and danger. Marshal Soult expressed the highest admiration of their courageous conduct. “Bah! Marshal,” answered Grivel, “it is only a sailor’s trick!”
LAVALETTE.
1815.
Arrested on the 18th June, 1815, and imprisoned at the Conciergerie, Count Lavalette had been condemned to death, for having taken an active part in the return from Elba. In vain his wife endeavoured to soften Louis XVIII., who would not forego his revenge; in vain she hoped to find mercy in the Duchess d’Angouleme. She was cruelly repulsed on every side. “Literally worn out,” says Lavalette in his Memoirs, “she sank down on the stone steps of the palace, and stayed there for an hour, still hoping against hope that she would be allowed to enter. She attracted the notice of all the passers by, especially of those going to the chateau; but none dared show her a sign of compassion. At last she decided on leaving the palace, and returning to my prison, where she soon arrived, weary and heart-broken.”
The hours of Lavalette were numbered; by dint of questioning his jailers, he had discovered that the execution was fixed for Thursday morning, and it was then Tuesday evening. “At six,” says he, “my wife came to dine with me, and when we were alone, she said, ‘It appears only too certain that we have nothing now to hope for. It is time then to decide on something, and this is what I propose: at eight o’clock you will go from here, in my clothes, and, accompanied by my cousin, you will step into my sedan chair, which will take you to the Rue des Saints-Pères, where you will find M. Baudus in a gig: he will take you to some place prepared for you, and you will wait there till you can leave France without danger.”
This plan seemed at first quite impracticable to Lavalette; but his wife urged it so strongly, that he feared to increase her grief, and perhaps endanger her life by a refusal. He only suggested, that the gig being so far away, he should not be able to reach it before they had discovered his escape, and that then he could be easily taken prisoner again. They then agreed to modify and somewhat change the plan. The next day was spent in heart-rending adieux.
“At five o’clock, Madam de Lavalette arrived, accompanied by Josephine, whom I recognised with as much surprise as joy. ‘I think it better,’ said she, ‘to take our child with us, she will now easily follow out my idea.’ She had put on a dress of merino, lined with fur, and she carried a black silk skirt in her bag. ‘Nothing more is needed,’ she said, ‘to disguise you perfectly.’ She then sent her daughter to the window, and said in a low tone: ‘At seven exactly you will be ready dressed, everything is well prepared: you will walk out, giving your arm to Josephine. Mind and walk slowly; and when you cross the large hall, put on my gloves, and hold my handkerchief to your face. I had thought of bringing a veil, but unfortunately I have not been accustomed to wear one during my visits here, so it must not be thought of. Take great care, when passing under the doors, which are very low, not to knock off the flowers on your bonnet, for all would be lost then.’ ” Madame de Lavalette next proceeded to give the necessary instructions to her daughter, and had almost finished, when there entered a friend of Lavalette’s, M. de Sainte-Rose, who came to bid him adieu. It was important that he should be dismissed as soon as possible. This Lavalette did under the pretext that his wife was still ignorant of the fatal hour. He treated in the same manner Colonel de Bricqueville who had quitted his bed, where he was kept by several serious wounds, to come and take leave of his friend. “At last dinner was served up. This meal which perhaps was to be the last in my life, I found horrible. We could not swallow a morsel; we did not exchange a word, and we were obliged to pass nearly an hour in that manner. At last the clock struck the three quarters past six, and Madame de Lavalette rang the bell. Bonneville, my valet, entered the room; she took him aside, said a few words in his ear, and added aloud, ‘Be sure to have the porters ready; I am going soon. Come,’ she said to me; ‘it is time for you to dress now.’ I had had a screen placed in my chamber, so as to form behind it a small dressing-room; we then went behind this screen. While dressing me with charming quickness and skill, she never ceased repeating, ‘Don’t forget to bend your head as you pass under the doors. Walk slowly through the outer room, like a person worn out by much suffering.’ In less than three minutes my toilet was completed. We all advanced in silence towards the door. ‘The porter,’ I said to Emily, ‘comes every night after you leave. Mind and stay behind the screen, and make a slight noise by moving some piece of furniture. He will think I am there, and will go out for the few moments that will give me the necessary time to escape.’ She understood me, and I pulled the bell rope. We heard the jailor’s footsteps; Emily sprang behind the screen, and the door was opened. I passed out first, my daughter next, Madame Dutoit (an old servant of Madame de Lavalette’s) closed the march. After crossing the passage I came to the door of the outer room. There I was obliged to lift my foot on account of the doorstep, and at the same time to bow my head so that the feathers of the bonnet should not touch the ceiling. I succeeded; but on raising my head, I found myself opposite to five jailors, sitting, leaning, standing, the whole length of the way. I held my handkerchief to my eyes, and waited for my daughter to place herself near me, as was agreed. The child took my right arm, and the porter coming down the stairs from his room, which was on the left, advanced towards me, and placing his hand on my arm, said, ‘You are leaving early, my lady.’ He seemed very agitated, and probably thought the wife had bidden the husband adieu for ever. They afterwards said that my daughter and I cried aloud, though we scarcely dared sigh. At last I came to the end of the hall. Day and night a turnkey sits there in a large armchair, in a space narrow enough to allow him to place his hands on the keys of the two gates, one an iron gate, the other made of wood, and called the first entrance. The jailor kept looking at me, but did not open; I therefore passed my hand between the bars to