The Letter-Bag of Lady Elizabeth Spencer-Stanhope — Volume 1

by Unknown

"No sooner were they out of sight, than the two Spaniards came out from their place of hiding, and hastened to the spot, eager to ascertain what it could be that had been so mysteriously buried. Great was their delight when they dug up what proved to be a treasure of great value, a heavy bag of gold. They divided the spoil, and returned home wealthy men. Subsequently, however, one of them, either feeling scruples with regard to the possession of the booty or else in the due order of confession, unburdened himself to his priest, who at once impressed upon him the sinfulness of retaining the stolen treasure and the obligation of endeavouring to find the rightful owners and restoring it to them. The penitent, therefore, went to explain these views to his fellow-thief, who appearing fully convinced by such reasoning, at once promised to undertake on behalf of both himself and his friend the researches necessary for the restoration of the stolen property. Believing this assurance, the repentant man at once gave up to his friend his own share of the treasure, only to discover, when too late, that his less scrupulous comrade had not an intention of carrying out any such obligation, but having thus got possession of the whole of the gold, he kept it, and is now one of the richest and most influential men in this part of the country, while his more honest dupe is still a poverty-stricken peasant."

In short, as John Stanhope was soon to find to his cost, it was not an age when a sense of honour dictated the actions of the majority of men. It happened soon afterwards that, unable to procure a satisfactory passage to Majorca, Stanhope was constrained to embark upon a small vessel, the appearance of which was singularly unprepossessing. But untrustworthy as was the boat, its captain proved to him a greater source of danger. Ignoring the undertaking he had given to the young Englishman, he traitorously sailed for Barcelona, where he delivered up his passenger to the French authorities, and John Stanhope thus unexpectedly found himself doomed to the fate which Esther Acklom had so ingeniously escaped, that of being a prisoner of Napoleon.

After various vicissitudes, and having been for eight weeks confined in a dungeon in hourly expectation of death, he was at length ordered with other prisoners of war to the dépôt at Verdun. Part of the journey thither was accomplished on foot, part driving in a diligence. The weather was bitterly cold, and the windows of the vehicle, which on this account were perforce closed, were chiefly of wood, so that not only was the view excluded, but the greater part of the journey was passed in darkness.

During part of the time, his only compagnon de voyage was a French soldier, who had just obtained his congé and was returning home after a long period of foreign service. "Poor fellow," writes John Stanhope, "his happiness was unbounded! He could think and talk of nothing but the moment of his first arrival at home, amusing himself with discussing the various modes in which he might surprise his family. At length that which he seemed inclined to adopt was to apply for a billet upon his own people; to enter the house with all the swagger of a soldier quartered on strangers— in short, to enact the part which he had often played in Germany and so many other countries, and after having well tormented and frightened the whole household, to throw himself into his father's arms with—"Mon père, embrassez votre fils!" I enjoyed the thought of the dénouement—so truly French—but with envious feelings; not to draw a contrast between our relative situations was impossible, and I kept thinking, When—if ever— shall I be able to surprise my family with my unexpected return?"

At another period of his journey one of Stanhope's fellow-travellers was a certain Captain Reid, who had been aide-de-camp to General Reding, [5] and had been taken prisoner. He told Stanhope the following curious story, "which," the latter suggests, "Walter Scott would probably hail as an additional proof of the reality of the art of divination. Captain Reid's mother, many years ago, having heard of the fame of some fortune-teller, resolved, out of pure frolic, to have her fortune told. She therefore disguised herself as her own maid and went to see the woman. She was at that date a wife and the mother of five children. The fortune-teller informed her that she would have, in all, fifteen children; that, out of those, two only would survive their infancy, and of those two, she would only have comfort from one. The predicted number of children were born. Reid and his sister alone lived to grow up, and 'what the future may produce, I know not,' Reid concluded, 'but as I am a prisoner in a foreign land, she certainly has no comfort in me."

With many anecdotes of General Reding did Captain Reid likewise regale his fellow-prisoner: "—that distinguished but unfortunate officer," says John Stanhope, "who at length fell victim to anxiety of mind arising from the difficulties with which he had to struggle and disappointment at finding that he commanded men who were not brave like himself. One day when Reding was about to engage the French (I rather think it was to make an attack on Barcelona) he sent his aide-de-camp, Reid, to a Spanish general, with imperative orders to be at a certain post, at a certain time, with his division. Just as Reding was on the point of moving forward to commence the projected attack he perceived the Spanish general riding leisurely towards him. 'What, you here!' he exclaimed, horror-stricken, 'Why are you not at your post?' 'I have received no orders,' was the reply. 'Reid!' shouted the Swiss general in an overpowering fury and raising his sabre over the head of his aide-de-camp, 'why did you not give my orders to the Spaniard?' Reid, knowing his General's irritable temper, thought that instant death was before him. 'I did!' he asserted emphatically; 'there stands his aide-de-camp who was present at the time—let him deny it if he dare!' Fortunately the aide-de-camp was too much a man of honour to deny the truth. Reid was acquitted in his General's eyes; but the old Swiss turned away heart-broken at the recognition that all his schemes at this important juncture had been defeated by this act of treachery or cowardice on the part of the Spaniard, and, in unconcealed disgust, he gave the order for a retreat.

"Reding while on active service usually drank three bottles of wine a day, and never slept for more than three hours; he and his men were always in motion, yet Reid, though pursuing the same regimen, declared that, in common with his General, he was never in better health or happier at any time of his life."

Of another famous general, Stanhope also records some interesting observations. Arrived at Dijon, which was a dépôt for Spanish prisoners, he went to call on an English fellow-prisoner, and found him having breakfast in company with two Anglo-Spanish officers, both of whom had served at Saragossa. "I therefore," he relates, "felt great interest in talking over with them the events of that memorable siege, in which they had acted an important part. Of course, to judge from their own account, to them and to other Hibernian-Spanish officers was due the honour of having conducted the defence of Saragossa; but what was indeed of interest was to find that of Palafox [6] they spoke but slightingly, and seemed to consider him merely as the nominal commander. All this was so new, so incredible to me, that I could not help openly expressing my doubts on the subject; these, however, were met by an argument to which it was impossible not to attach considerable weight—that Palafox was at that moment on parole in a town in France. 'Do you really think,' asked they, 'that if he were the powerful man he is represented to be he would be left in comparative liberty? No; the Emperor is too wise for that! If Palafox were what he has been supposed to be, Napoleon would consider that no prison in France is strong enough to hold him!'"

At length young Stanhope arrived at Verdun and entered upon a period of detention there to which he could foresee no prospective conclusion. "There was no positive suffering of which to complain," he wrote afterwards, "yet there is a weariness, an utter hopelessness in the life of an exile which none can understand who have not experienced its intensity." The patriotism which had gilded the voluntary exile of Collingwood was perforce absent from the imprisonment of John Stanhope. No glory of martyrdom dignified his forcible detention; he was merely the victim of mischance. And the outlook was singularly hopeless. "The negotiation for the exchange of prisoners has totally failed," he writes. "The hope of the conclusion of the war appears to be more distant than ever. Whilst the Emperor lives, peace seems to be impossible, and he may live twenty years without the least diminution of his energy or his ambition … there is but one source from which we can any of us derive the slightest consolation, and that is from the character of Napoleon himself. His insatiable ambition, after having prompted him to the execution of everything that is practicable, may finally urge him to attempt impossibilities. Alexander wept because he could find no more worlds to conquer; Napoleon may find there are too many worlds for him. Universal dominion is not now so easy an acquisition. 'Give him rope enough and he will hang himself!' is in all our mouths!"

With this slender consolation the luckless prisoners endeavoured to cheer themselves; but meanwhile, as Stanhope points out, they existed "a thousand people of different characters, ranks and habits collected together in one town, without any occupation to divert the tedium of their lives." Nor were there wanting additions to their society of an undesirable character, men who had voluntarily fled across the Channel to escape the consequence of nefarious dealings in horse-racing and gambling. One of these, indeed, was described by the French Minister of War as "the worst monster which England in her wrath has yet vomited across the Channel"; and the enforced idleness to which the prisoners were subjected, rendered them for the most part ready victims to the designs of such unscrupulous villains, while it tended to make the life of the town peculiarly demoralising. One source of satisfaction alone did Stanhope find in his altered conditions. His family, who for many months had believed him to be dead, were now overjoyed to hear of his safety, and to find themselves once more able to communicate with him; none the less it was impossible to ignore the constant danger to which his position still exposed him. At any moment he or his fellow détenus might be sacrificed to the vindictiveness of Napoleon or to the exigencies of some political situation, and he had not been long at Verdun before a recognition of this fact was unpleasantly brought home to him.