MY ADVENTURES DURING
THE LATE WAR

1804-14

MY ADVENTURES DURING
THE LATE WAR

A NARRATIVE OF SHIPWRECK, CAPTIVITY
ESCAPES FROM FRENCH PRISONS, AND SEA SERVICE
IN 1804-14
BY
DONAT HENCHY O’BRIEN
CAPT. R.N.
Edited by CHARLES OMAN
FELLOW OF ALL SOULS COLLEGE AND DEPUTY PROFESSOR OF MODERN HISTORY
IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD
NEW EDITION, ILLUSTRATED
WITH A PREFACE, NOTES, AND BIOGRAPHY OF THE AUTHOR
LONDON
EDWARD ARNOLD
1902
All rights reserved.

PREFACE

While engaged during the last ten years in the task of mastering the original authorities for the history of the Napoleonic wars, I have had to peruse many scores of diaries, autobiographies, and journals of the British military and naval officers who were engaged in the great struggle. They vary, of course, in interest and importance, in literary value, and in the power of vivid presentation of events. But they have this in common, that they are almost all very difficult to procure. Very few have been reprinted; indeed, I believe that the books of Lord Dundonald, Kincaid, John Shipp, Gleig, and Mercer are well nigh the only ones which have passed through a second edition. Yet there are many others which contain matter of the highest interest, not only for the historical student, but for every intelligent reader. From among these I have made a selection of ten or a dozen which seem to me well worth republishing.

Among these is the present volume—the narrative of the three escapes of Donat O’Brien from French captivity, and of his subsequent services in the Mediterranean during the last years of the great French war. I imagine that no prisoner—not excluding Baron Trenck himself—ever made three such desperate dashes for liberty as did this enterprising Irish midshipman. It is fortunate that he found the leisure, and had the skill, to narrate all his adventures. He had a talent for minute description, a wonderful memory, and a humorous way of looking on the world which will remind the reader of the spirit of Captain Marryat’s naval heroes.

It is not, I think, generally known that O’Brien’s escapes actually suggested to Marryat a great part of the plot of one of his best known books—Peter Simple. In that excellent romance the narrator (it will be remembered) actually escapes from Givet in company with an Irish naval officer, and goes through a hundred perils before reaching safety. It was a strange liberty to take with a living comrade, that Marryat actually names Peter Simple’s comrade O’Brien, and utilises many touches from the real Donat’s adventures to make his tale vivid. In the end the fictitious O’Brien plays a great part in the story and marries the hero’s sister. What the retired captain thought, or said, on finding himself thus liberally dealt with in a novel is not recorded. But I fancy that he must have considered it hard that Peter Simple should be reprinted some thirty times, while his own most interesting book never saw a second edition.

It is now very rare: in ten years of systematic searching of second-hand book shops, in quest of old military and naval autobiographies, I have only come on three copies of the work. I trust that by this edition it may be brought once more to common knowledge.

The reader will find in it a most wonderful study of the life of a hunted man, “a sort of Nebuchadnezzar living on cabbage stalks,” as O’Brien styles himself, during his miserable lurking in the cliffs of the Vosges. Almost as interesting is the sketch of the gloomy existence of the thousand “refractory” British prisoners in the souterrains of the rock-fortress of Bitche. French writers have often denounced the Portsmouth pontoons, on which so many of their compatriots were forced to dwell. But they compare favourably with the underground dungeons in which Napoleon confined O’Brien and many another British sailor. In strong contrast with this part of the story is the short narrative of life in Verdun, where the détenus on parole seem to have been allowed as much, and even more, liberty than was good for them. Roulette tables and race meetings were demoralising luxuries for men suffering from enforced idleness. From other sections of O’Brien’s narrative the reader may obtain curious side-lights on many features of the Napoleonic régime in France—the ubiquity of the gendarme and his natural prey, the escaped conscript, the bare and squalid life of the peasantry, the estrangement between the military caste and the bourgeoisie. There are also glimpses of Germany during the existence of the Rheinbund, when the people were united in a sort of tacit conspiracy against the governments who had made themselves the tools of Bonaparte. Not least interesting are the final chapters, in which O’Brien, free at last, shows us how British naval ascendency was maintained in the Adriatic, and helps us to realise the truth of the saying that “wherever a boat could float Bonaparte’s power found its limit.” It was to no purpose that he called himself king of Italy, annexed Dalmatia and Illyria, and established his brother-in-law at Naples: three or four British frigates, based on the island stronghold of Lissa, dominated the whole seaboard, ransacked every estuary, and destroyed whatever naval force was sent against them—even though it was on paper twice their own strength. Hoste’s battle of 13th March 1811 was, as far as mere disparity of numbers goes, a victory that can be compared to St. Vincent alone among all the long list of British successes at sea.

I have ventured to cut short O’Brien’s narrative at the end of the Napoleonic war. It went no further in his own first draft, which (as I have stated in the succeeding biographical note) was compiled before 1815. When he published his two-volume book, in 1839, he subjoined to his narrative of captivity and naval service three long chapters, detailing his visits and rambles in England and Ireland during the years of his middle age, his cruise to Brazil and Chile in 1818-21, and his continental tour with his wife in 1827. In these 150 pages there is so little matter to interest either the historical student or the general reader, that I have thought it well to omit them. For O’Brien, as for so many other British soldiers and seamen, “the joy of eventful living” ended in 1815.

For this excision, and for certain other small cuttings, I think that I may appeal with a clear conscience for the pardon that editors are wont to demand.

C. OMAN.

Oxford, September 1902.

BIOGRAPHY OF THE AUTHOR

Donat Henchy O’Brien was born in County Clare during the month of March 1785. Of his odd combination of names, the first was one common in the sept of the O’Briens since the earliest ages: it has nothing to do with St. Donatus, as the casual reader might suppose, but represents the old Erse Donough or Donoght.[1] His second name came from his mother, a Miss Henchy, sister of Counsellor Fitz-Gibbon Henchy, a Dublin lawyer of some repute in his day. Of Donat’s father we find nothing more in O’Byrne’s Naval Biography than the characteristically Hibernian statement that “he was descended from one of the ancient monarchs of Ireland.”

Donat O’Brien entered the navy on 16th December 1796, when only eleven, starting even younger than the average of the midshipmen of those hard days. Apparently he owed his introduction to the service to Captain (afterwards Rear-Admiral) Edward Walpole Brown, whom he styles “his early patron.” His first vessel was the Overyssel (64), a Dutch line-of-battle ship which had been seized in Cork Harbour in 1795, where it was lying when Holland was forced to yield to France and to become her subservient ally. In this vessel he served for three years, under Captains Young and Bazely, mainly in the North Sea squadron. He was present in her at the surrender of the Dutch fleet in the Texel on 30th August 1799, during the futile campaign of the Duke of York. Later in the same year the Overyssel was engaged in the blockading of three Dutch men-of-war which had run into the port of Goeree. While in charge of an old merchant ship, which was to be sunk at the mouth of the harbour, for the more effectual shutting in of the fugitives, O’Brien was in great peril. The vessel was overset in a sudden gale, and he had a narrow escape from drowning, being saved at the last moment by a boat of the Lion cutter.

From the Overyssel O’Brien passed in December 1801 to the Beschermer (54), another Dutch prize,[2] commanded by Captain Alexander Frazer. He was in her but a few months, as she was laid up in Ordinary at Chatham when the long negotiations for an accommodation with France were seen to be coming to a successful conclusion. In the spring of 1802, when the Peace of Amiens had been signed, O’Brien sailed in the Amphion, a 32-gun frigate, where he again had Captain Frazer as his chief. During the short suspension of hostilities the frigate was first cruising in British waters to suppress smuggling, and then engaged in a short cruise to Lisbon.

In January 1803 O’Brien completed his six years of service as a midshipman, and went up to London to pass his lieutenant’s examination. This being accomplished with success, he returned for a short time to the Amphion, but was in a few months moved, as a master’s mate, to the Hussar, a new 38-gun frigate commanded by Captain Philip Wilkinson.

The name Hussar was unlucky: the last ship that had borne the name, a 28-gun frigate, had been lost by shipwreck off the French coast on 27th December 1796, the greater part of her crew being made prisoners. Her successor was to have precisely the same fate less than a year after she had been put into commission. She sailed from Spithead in May 1803, immediately after the rupture of the Peace of Amiens, and was cruising in the North Atlantic and in the Bay of Biscay during the first months of the war. During the winter the Hussar was ordered to join Sir Edward Pellew’s squadron off the coast of Spain, and was lying with him in Ares Bay, near Ferrol, when she was ordered home with despatches. Captain Wilkinson was told to communicate on the way with the Channel Fleet, which was lying off Cape Finisterre, under Admiral Cornwallis, engaged in the blockade of Brest. It was this diversion into French waters which caused the loss of the Hussar. On 8th February 1804 she ran ashore on the Saintes rocks, and became a total wreck. The majority of the crew struggled ashore and fell into the hands of the French.

Here Donat O’Brien’s own narrative begins. He may be left to tell the tale of his own misfortunes and adventures from February 1804 till October 1813. Suffice it to say that he was a prisoner at Givet from 28th March till 16th July 1804. He was then transferred to Verdun, where he lay interned till the August of 1807, when he made his first dash for liberty in company with three other naval officers—Lieutenant Essel and two midshipmen named Ashworth and Tuthill. After making their way through countless dangers as far as Étaples on the coast of Picardy, they were seized by douaniers when actually in sight of the sea and the English cruisers in the Channel. Their status being soon discovered, they were sent back to prison, after an Odyssey which had lasted from the 28th of August to the 18th of September 1807.

After recapture O’Brien and his companions were told off for confinement in the mountain-fort of Bitche, a bleak fastness in the Vosges, appropriated to refractory or undesirable prisoners of war. While on their journey thither, escorted by mounted gendarmes, the prisoners had a chance of escape—they made a sudden dash for a neighbouring wood and ran for their lives. In their flight they soon lost sight of each other, and, while the others were recaptured, O’Brien got away. He made for the nearest neutral frontier, that of Austria, and nearly reached his goal. After passing the Rhine, crossing the Black Forest, and working far into Bavaria, he was arrested on suspicion at Lindau on the Lake of Constance. It was soon discovered that he was an escaped English prisoner, and the Bavarian Government sent him back under escort to France. His second futile attempt to escape had covered the period from 15th November to 30th November 1807.

His two desperate dashes for freedom secured O’Brien a place in the most miserable subterranean casemate of Bitche. Nevertheless, after a year’s captivity this undaunted master’s mate once more escaped—this time in company with a midshipman named Hewson, a dragoon officer named Batley, and a surgeon named Barklimore. Having constructed a rope, they let themselves down from the three concentric walls of Bitche, a height of 200 feet in all, and got clear away.

This time fortune was with O’Brien. He and two of his companions (the third, Captain Batley, fell ill at Rastadt and had to be left behind) crossed South Germany in safety, and reached the Austrian frontier not many miles from Salzburg. The local officials politely acquiesced in a transparent fiction by which the fugitives pretended to be Americans, and allowed them to proceed to Trieste, where they were picked up by a boat of the Amphion, one of O’Brien’s old ships. The third voyage of this much-travelled man had lasted from 15th September to 7th November 1808.

We need not linger over his service in the Mediterranean on the Amphion, Warrior, and Bacchante. Suffice it to say that he became a lieutenant on 29th March 1809, and was promoted to the rank of commander on 22nd January 1813. He had seen much service during these four years, and had once been severely wounded in an unsuccessful attempt to board and capture a Venetian trabaccolo off Trieste. The most important action in which he was engaged was Commodore Hoste’s victory off Lissa on 13th March 1811.

On being promoted to the rank of commander, O’Brien had to return to England, no ship being available for him in the Mediterranean. He arrived at Portsmouth on 4th October 1813, and took for some months a well-earned holiday. He was in hopes of seeing service against the Americans, but the times were unpropitious. Both the Napoleonic and the American wars were coming to an end, and, like so many other energetic naval and military men, O’Brien found himself placed on half-pay in 1814.

He only had one more turn of service afloat, in command of the Slaney, a 20-gun sloop, which cruised on the South American station from 1818 to 1821. The rest of his life—he was still only thirty-six years of age—was spent in enforced retirement: in the thirties and forties the navy was kept low, and there was little prospect of work for the half-pay captain.

On 28th June 1825 O’Brien married Hannah, youngest daughter of John Walmsley of Castle Mere, Lancashire, by whom he became the father of a large family, seven children in all. Two years after, he took his wife for a long tour round northern France, to show her the places of his imprisonments and escapes. It was this revisiting of old scenes that caused him to write the book which we have here reprinted. But he did not publish it till 1839, when it appeared, dedicated by permission to the young Queen Victoria. He had, however, already put out long before a shorter narrative of his escape, from which the two-volume book of 1839 was expanded. It had appeared in the Naval Chronicle for the years 1812-15, in the strange form of sixteen “Naval Bulletins” addressed to no less a person than the Emperor Napoleon. The dedication of this original draft deserves reproduction—it runs as follows:—

“As your Imperial Majesty has long delighted in the compilation of endless Bulletins, as they are styled, in which truth and candour are never suffered to appear, it may perhaps amuse you, during some of these pauses which occasionally occur in your systematic destruction and humiliation of your fellow-creatures, to be enabled to hear a little truth, and to trace the manner in which such a humble individual as myself bade defiance to your persecutions, and has at length returned to his duty as a naval officer, notwithstanding all the dungeons, fetters, and insults which distinguished your reign of despotism.”

The last of the “Naval Bulletins” appeared in the same number of the Naval Chronicle as a narrative by Henry Ashworth, one of the companions of O’Brien’s first escape. From this, an incomplete story, which Ashworth did not survive to finish, certain parts of O’Brien’s tale can be corroborated and expanded.

O’Brien was promoted to the rank of rear-admiral on 8th March 1852. He survived five years more, and died on 13th May 1857 at Yew House, Hoddesdon, in his seventy-third year.

The not very flattering portrait of him which we have reproduced as our frontispiece was drawn by J. Pelham and engraved by J. Brown for the book of 1839.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

CHAPTER I

The Hussar Frigate is sent home with despatches, and wrecked on the Saintes—Efforts to save the ship—Attempt to escape in the boats foiled by bad weather—A surrender to the enemy.

It was on Monday, the 6th February 1804, that the Hussar made sail from Ares Bay in Spain, being bound for England with despatches, from our commodore Sir Edward Pellew, and with orders first to communicate with our Channel Fleet off Brest. We had a fresh breeze from the S.W.; and on the succeeding day (Tuesday, 7th) the wind and weather were nearly the same. At noon, to the best of my recollection, we were in lat. 46° 50´, Ushant bearing N. 37° E., distant 113 or 114 miles.

On Wednesday (8th) the wind and weather were the same, and we were steering, as nearly as I can recollect, N.E. by E., and running nine knots an hour. Every heart was elated with the joyful expectation of being safely moored in a few hours in the land of liberty. Some were employed in writing to their friends and relatives; but, alas! how frail and delusive are the hopes of man! How differently had our lot been decreed! The happy arrival, with many, never took place. With all the others it was long delayed; and the vicissitudes and miseries we were doomed to suffer will amply appear in the subsequent pages.[Pg -498]

It was upon this fatal Wednesday, at about 10.45 P.M., whilst steering this course of N.E. by E., and running at the rate of about seven knots an hour, in dark and hazy weather, the Hussar struck upon the southernmost point of the Saintes. We beat over an immense reef of rocks, carried away our tiller in several pieces, unshipped the rudder, and, from the violence of beating over the reef, we damaged the ship’s bottom so considerably that the leak became very serious. At length we got into deep water, and let go our bower anchors, to prevent being dashed to pieces on the immense rocks ahead. We got our top-gallant yards and masts on deck, and used every possible means to lighten the ship. The greater part of the crew were kept at the pumps; whilst the remainder, with the officers, were employed in staving the water-casks in the hold, in shoring the ship up, as the ebb tide was making and she was inclining to starboard, and in doing all that was deemed expedient to the safety of the ship. All was unavailing. The carpenter reported that she was bilged; and we could distinctly hear the rocks grinding and working through her as the tide fell.

At daylight Mr. Weymouth (the master) was sent to sound for a passage amongst the rocks, on the supposition that we might be able to buoy the ship through, but he returned without success; though, had he accomplished it, from the state the ship was in, there could have been little hope of getting her out. A division of the seamen and marines, with their respective officers, was then ordered to take possession of the island, that in the last extremity there might be an asylum secured for the men and officers. The rest of the crew remained at the pumps, but with no success, as the leak kept gaining upon them. The island was taken without any opposition, the only people on it being a few distressed fishermen and their families.

About 11 A.M. we began to land the crew, no hopes remaining of being able to save our ship. However, the remainder of the people kept still working at the pumps, waiting the return of the boats. At noon, the flood making strongly, and we fore-reaching withal, Captain Wilkinson gave directions to let go the sheet-anchor, which was immediately done. Strong gales from S.W.

February 9th.—By about 1 P.M. everybody was safely landed, with two or three pigs and some biscuit, which were the only subsistence we had secured. Captain Wilkinson and Mr. Weymouth came in the last boat. At about 1.30 P.M. Lieutenant Pridham, with Messrs. Carey, Simpson, and Thomas (three warrant-officers), and myself, were ordered by the captain to return to the ship, to cut her masts away, and destroy everything we could possibly get at. On our arrival on board, the water was nearly square with the combings of the lower deck. At about 3.30 P.M. we quitted her, having executed with the greatest accuracy the duty we were ordered upon: the wind still increasing, left us but little hope of her hanging together for the night.

We joined the officers and crew in a small church; and this was the only place on the island where we could conveniently take up our residence. The weather was excessively inclement during the night. At daylight, discovering the ship still apparently whole, Captain Wilkinson despatched Mr. Pridham and Mr. Mahoney (master’s mate), with a party of men, to destroy her by fire. The other officers and people were employed in equipping thirteen fishing-boats, which belonged to the inhabitants,[3] for the purpose of transporting the ship’s company, either to our fleet off Brest or to England, as circumstances might admit. Mr. Pridham and his party returned, and the report of the ship’s guns announced the execution of the duty they had been sent upon.

On the 10th, at about 1.30 P.M., our boats were in readiness, it then blowing hard from the S.W. We all embarked in them. I had the honour to command one, with twenty-five men; Captain Wilkinson, with the master, leading in the barge, which was the only ship’s boat in company. We made sail out of the little creeks in which the boats had been moored, the sea running excessively high, and at about two the barge hauled up to the N.W. We all, of course, followed. About 2.30 or 3 o’clock in the afternoon we bore up again. Several of the boats were in distress, being very badly found, having neither sails, rigging, nor ground tackling that could be at all trusted to. Lieutenants Pridham and Lutwidge (who remained prisoners of war until the peace of 1814), and Lieutenant Barker (who was afterwards killed in a duel at Verdun), were to keep ahead, as no other boat had compasses. At about five, in a very severe squall with rain, we lost sight of the barge. Everybody in our boat was of opinion that she had been upset; and at 5.30 P.M., it blowing extremely hard, with a heavy shower of rain, we lost sight of all the boats. At about six we observed St. Matthew’s Light[4] on the weather bow. The wind now chopped round to the N.W., in a very heavy squall, which carried away our mainmast in the step[5] and fore-tye, and very nearly swamped us, having almost filled the boat with water. We chipped the heel of the mainmast, restepped it, and rove the main-tye and halliards forward, which enabled us to set the foresail, and keep scudding before the wind to Rock Fort, with the expectation of falling in with some of the other boats; but in this we were disappointed. At eleven we determined to anchor at the bottom of Bertheaume Bay, though with very little or no hope of riding long, our only ground tackling being a small grapnel and a very few fathoms of one inch and a half rope.

We providentially succeeded in bringing up, though we were, unfortunately, too near the shore and most miserably situated: the weather tide, running strongly against a violent gale from the N.W., occasioned such a sea as to bury us frequently in its abyss.

At 2 A.M., the sea breaking in a most terrific manner over us, and finding that we were driving and almost touching abaft, expecting every second to be dashed on the rocks astern of us, we hauled in briskly on the grapnel rope, hoisted the foresail and wore round, paying out the grapnel rope just hauled in, until we brought it right over the quarter, which enabled us to get our grapnel on board with ease; then we stood over to the Camaret Bay side, in the hope of falling in with some little haven to shelter us, or with one of the other boats; but we were disappointed in either expectation.

At about 4.30 A.M., finding we advanced towards Brest Harbour considerably, we resolved to try the grapnel once more; although we were not in the smallest degree sheltered from the inclemency of the weather, and were placed immediately under a fort, which we distinguished by its lights, that enabled us to see the sentinels on their posts walking to and fro. We made, if possible, worse weather here than at our former anchorage, with the exception that the grapnel held. At 7.30 A.M. the wind and weather became more inclement than on the preceding night. Not a boat of ours was in sight, every minute we expected to be hailed by the fort, and not a soul amongst us could speak a word of French. We were almost perishing and starved from the fatigue and sufferings of the night, the few provisions we had being totally destroyed by the salt water. Seeing no alternative but the pain and mortification of delivering myself and my boat’s crew prisoners of war, I came at length to that resolution. Accordingly I ordered all the small arms in my boat to be hove overboard, and at eight cut the grapnel rope, and ran into Brest Harbour under the foresail.

Imagining that the boat’s crew and myself might be better received and treated on board the commander-in-chief’s ship than in a private vessel, I went alongside the Alexandre, which ship bore his flag, and I surrendered myself and my crew as prisoners of war.

CHAPTER II

A kind reception by the enemy—Our shipmates all prisoners—Consolations under misfortunes—Prisoners sent to the hospital at Brest—Robbery by a French seaman—Running the gauntlet—Dilemma of wearing or giving up a sword—Kindness of the French nuns—Orders to march into the Interior—Wounded pride and hard fare—Bad faith of the Minister of Marine—The march begins for Verdun—Arrival at Landernau—Aristocratic differences in rates of pay or allowances amongst republicans—Landiviziau—An illustration of equality—Morlaix to Rennes—Prisoners and vermin—Vitré—English dogs at a French inn—Laval—A spectacle for the mob—Alençon—Difficulties increased—Part of the crew separated from their officers—Our arrival at Rouen—An honest gaoler and his amiable wife—A moderate bill for gaol fare—Bons garçons in a prison—Our arrival at Amiens—English sympathy for suffering countrymen.

I was not disappointed in my expectations, for I was received with the utmost civility. Every attention was paid to me, and I was provided with a suit of dry clothes. They got me instantly (of which I never before stood more in need) a warm draught, and gave each of my men a glass of liquor, and ordered breakfast for them, with everything else that was necessary to recruit exhausted nature, and to console them under their sufferings and misfortunes. The poor fellows were in a most deplorable state, shivering and shaking like aspen leaves; some of them were so worn out with fatigue, hunger, and the extreme severity of the weather that they could scarcely articulate when spoken to. The French officers informed me also, that the whole of the boats, except mine and one other, from the extreme violence of the weather, had been obliged to make for Brest, and had arrived in the night; whilst they added that they had been under the greatest apprehensions for our safety, as it was not supposed possible, from the size of the boats and the manner they were found, that they could exist through the severity of the night. Lieut. Barker, Mr. Nepean, a midshipman, and now a commander, and Mr. Carey, the boatswain (who afterwards died at Verdun), came on board, from the other French ships-of-war in which they were prisoners, to congratulate me on my extraordinary escape and safe arrival. We were, however, under the strongest and most painful apprehensions that Mr. Robert James Gordon, the midshipman who commanded the boat which had not yet arrived, had perished with his companions.

The next day, the 11th, at 2 P.M., we were all sent on shore to the hospital at Brest, which was the place assigned to us, as each individual was more or less unwell from the hardships he had undergone.

To mark the character of the French seamen and of their naval service, I must here relate that a small leathern trunk or valise, in which I had saved a change of linen, etc., had been taken out of one of our marines’ hands, by a French sailor who spoke a little English, under the pretence of saving him the trouble of carrying it down the ship’s side; whilst the scoundrel, instead of putting it into the boat, handed it in through one of the lower-deck ports. Our marine, who remained on the ship’s gangway, had construed the transaction into an act of kindness, and concluded that the trunk had been safely deposited in the boat which was to carry us on shore; nor was the theft discovered until upon our landing, when the humble, though to me invaluable, property could not be found. I immediately communicated the fact to the officers who conducted us, and they instantly sent on board an order to search for the valise. In fact, they appeared excessively hurt that such an act of villainy should have been committed by one of their crew. They assured me that the perpetrator should be severely punished, and that my little portmanteau should be safely returned. I despaired of this very much, though I entertained little doubts of the first part of the promise being faithfully kept. In the meantime, these officers conducted us to the hospital, and insisted upon my wearing my sword all the way. The captain had refused to receive it on board, observing that I had been unfortunately wrecked, and not taken in fight, and, consequently, that I had no right to lose my sword; and he further remarked, that, in his opinion, we ought to be returned to our native country, and should not be considered as prisoners; but he added that the gaoler on shore would deprive me of my side-arms, which was afterwards the case.

On our arrival at the hospital, or rather prison (as we were closely watched and guarded), the gaoler took away my sword, and appeared very much enraged at my not allowing him to take my belt; this, I observed to him, could do no mischief. I now had the inexpressible happiness of shaking hands with all the officers, excepting Mr. Thomas (carpenter), who was unfortunately drowned in attempting to land in Bertheaume Bay, and Mr. Gordon (midshipman), who, I was very much pleased to hear, was safe at Conquêt, where he had effected a landing. We expected him and his boat’s crew round to Brest the following day.

On the 14th we had the pleasure of seeing him and his crew safely arrived; they spoke very handsomely of the treatment they had received at Conquêt and on the march. I now received part of the things that were in the valise, and the thief, I was informed, had run the gauntlet.

We were very well used during our stay here, and were attended by religieuses, or old nuns, which is a general custom in all the French hospitals. They were the most attentive nurses I ever beheld: constantly on the alert; visiting their patients; administering relief wherever it might be wanted; and always solacing the dejected.

On the 18th we received information that we should commence our march towards our depot on the following morning; and accordingly, on the 19th, we were ready at a moment’s notice. At about eight o’clock we were all drawn up in the hospital yard. Mr. Mahoney and myself (being the senior midshipmen) took our stations, as we were accustomed, next to the lieutenants; but, to our great surprise, on the names being called over, we were moved, together with Mr. Carey, the boatswain, and Mr. Simpson, the gunner,[6] and placed next to the seamen. At the same time, each of us was offered a loaf of brown bread for the day’s subsistence, which we declined. We demanded of the French officers an explanation of this extraordinary conduct, and they informed us that we were of a class (master’s mates) different from any in their navy, and that they had, therefore, ranked us as adjutants, or sous-officers, and they insisted that they could not make any alteration. Lieut. Pridham now interfered in our behalf. It appeared he had been made acquainted, on the preceding night, that we should be thus ranked; but not being versed in the regulations and titles of the French military service, he had supposed that an adjutant was equal to a rank between a midshipman and a lieutenant in our navy; and this, of course, he thought our proper place. After remonstrating for a long time against the impropriety of our being degraded to the ranks and put among the people, the officer agreed to go to the Minister of Marine[7] to have the business, as he termed it, arranged. He shortly returned; the Minister of Marine was out, but we received an assurance from his head clerk or secretary that the mistake should be rectified the moment he returned, and that a courier would be despatched after us to the next stage with another feuille de route. Thus far reconciled, we commenced our forced march—and, as we were informed, for Verdun, in Lorraine,—although our crew appeared quite indignant at this insult or disrespect offered to their officers, and refused to move until we persuaded them to be obedient.

At about seven in the evening we arrived at our first stage, the small and miserable village of Landernau, about twenty miles N.E. of Brest. I anxiously expected every moment the arrival of the courier, so little was I then acquainted with the nature of French promises and with the French character. Here, as a great favour, we were permitted to mix with the officers. Our allowance was eleven sous, or 5½d. per diem; whilst the youngest midshipman or volunteer had fifty. The allowance to the men, I believe, was only five sous.

At daylight, on the 20th, we commenced our march, rather more dejected than the day before. In the evening we arrived at Landiviziau, a distance of five or six leagues from Landernau, than which it was much smaller. Here we halted for the night, and the people were placed in stables, barns, etc. At daybreak, on the 21st, we commenced our march towards Morlaix. At about two in the afternoon, at four or five miles’ distance from the town, we were met by a captain of gendarmerie and two gendarmes, who, we understood afterwards, came out to escort us into that place. They had not long joined us when I happened to discover one of our ship’s boys lifting his hand to strike a young midshipman. I immediately ran up and chastised the youngster with a switch I fortunately had in my hand; but mark my amazement! when I beheld this blustering captain of gendarmerie foaming at the mouth, and riding up towards me at full speed, with his sword drawn. He appeared to be in a very great rage, swore vehemently, and wielded his sword repeatedly over my head. As I did not understand a syllable of what he spoke, but was certain it must be abusive language, from the passion he put himself into, I, parrot-like, repeated his own expressions as well as I could; which irritated him to such a degree, that had not the officer of infantry who was escorting us, and our own officers, interfered, I do not know to what length he might have carried the outrage. The officer of infantry expostulated with him on the impropriety of drawing his sword upon a naked prisoner, who could not even understand a word that he said. He declared, and persisted in it, that I spoke as good French as he did; that we were all prisoners alike; that we were now in a country where every man enjoyed liberty; and he would take care that whilst we were with him we should not tyrannise over one another; or, in other terms, that the officers should be on an equality with the men. I observed that some of the crew understood him, and that they explained his meaning to others, which seemed to please them extremely.

We had not, however, marched more than a mile when a circumstance took place which gave us all a fine specimen of the liberty boasted of in this land of republicanism and equality. A poor man, who appeared to be at least seventy years of age, happened to be conducting a cart along the road, and as he was approaching us this lover of liberty called to him to turn his horses aside until we had passed; but the poor unfortunate old man not hearing, and continuing his way, this brute rode up to him, and beat and mauled him so unmercifully that the seamen literally hissed him, and asked repeatedly, “If that were the liberty he had so much vaunted about a few minutes before?”

At about five in the afternoon we arrived at Morlaix. Our people were lodged and treated for the night much as usual; but the officers, including myself and Mr. Mahoney, were allowed to go to a tavern. On inquiry I found that this redoubtable captain of the gendarmerie had been a weaver before the Revolution, and by his perfidy had got advanced to the rank he held. I was informed that he visited our people in the night, and used his utmost exertions to make them turn traitors and enter into the French service. Most glad am I to say that he found all his efforts fruitless; and to the honour of our country be it related, that every proposal he made, every temptation he offered, was treated with disdain.

On the 22nd, about eight, we again commenced our route, and, after a long march, arrived at a small village, Belle-Isle-en-Terre, where we remained for the night, disagreeably situated, the village being excessively poor and small, the people extorting double prices for everything; however, this I have since found to be almost general throughout France.

On the 23rd, at the usual hour, about eight, we recommenced our route towards Guingamp, where we arrived tolerably early. It is a spacious town, and appeared well peopled. We rested here during twenty-four hours, and were pretty well treated. The country, though late in the season, appeared beautiful. It is very fertile, and yet the peasantry seemed excessively poor and distressed.

On the 25th, at daylight, we recommenced our march towards St. Brieux, the last town on the sea-coast that we had to touch at, and we arrived at about four o’clock. We were very closely guarded, which certainly was necessary, as the town was only a mile and a half from the sea, and it was the intention of a great number to slip their fetters; however, this proved impossible. We had another guard ordered, which we all regretted, as the officer who had conducted us from Brest to this place was a perfect gentleman, and preserved the utmost moderation towards the prisoners—who were not, by the bye, at all times very well behaved. I here planned an escape, but could not accomplish it.

At daylight, on the 26th, we recommenced our route with our new guard. About ten, in passing close to the sea, we were halted; the guard loaded their pieces, examined their locks, and did everything to intimidate us and overawe any desire to resist them. They appeared to be alarmed lest we should attempt to escape, though they were nearly as many as their prisoners in number. It would have been a desperate business, and no vessels were near in which 300 men could be embarked; but the bare possibility of our escape had nearly induced us to run the risk.

About five we arrived at Lamballe, and on the 27th, at eight, we were put upon our march for Rennes. We arrived at our place of destination on the 29th. The officers were allowed to go to a tavern, but we who were still ranked as adjutants were conducted to the common gaol; and, notwithstanding a number of representations and remonstrances conveyed to the general commandant of the town, we were kept in confinement until the 2nd of March, having had at Rennes what was styled a day’s séjour. Much rather would I have continued en route, as in this gaol we were associated with malefactors and criminals of every denomination, and, in despite of every effort, we found ourselves covered with vermin. We had at length another guard placed over us, joined our officers, and were very much pleased at being once more in the pure air.

We were now put upon our forced route to Vitré, where we arrived at about eight o’clock on the evening of 2nd March, having on this day walked the distance of nearly ten leagues, or about twenty-five English miles. At this town we met with but sorry treatment under our mortification and distresses. We had great difficulty to gain admittance into any inn, and still greater to procure refreshments of any sort. Upon remonstrating with the landlord about our miserable supper, and at the exorbitant price he charged for it, he retorted by calling us “English dogs,” and told us that we ought to be glad to get anything, and that the officers and public authorities were to blame for not placing us in a stable, or in some other place better appropriated to such brutes than an inn. If he had his will, he added, he would very soon treat us as such dogs deserved. In this strain he continued—a strain much less to our annoyance than his bad supper and extravagant charges. This specimen of the national feeling of France, at this period of excitement, shows that the French thought well of English bulldogs, at least with respect to their digesting a long bill of fare. The river Vilaine runs through Vitré, and the town seems supplied abundantly with fish.

At daylight, on the 3rd of March, we quitted our polite and hospitable host, and were marched towards Laval, a tolerably large town on the Mayenne, renowned for its linen manufactories. We arrived about five in the evening, and were kept some time in the market-place, as a spectacle for the inhabitants, before we were shown to our respective places for the night. Some of the people who could speak English came to inform us that our gracious sovereign, George the Third, had been dead several days and that the result would be a general peace. We spurned at their intelligence, and, much to their annoyance, assured them that we did not give them the smallest credit.

From Laval we passed through Préz-en-Paille, a very small town, to Alençon, where we arrived on the evening of the 5th, and were allowed to rest for twenty-four hours. Never was rest more needful to the desponding and weary. We had now marched many days through bad roads during an inclement season, and under all the feelings that deprive the traveller of the elasticity of spirits which supports bodily health, and enables him to conquer all difficulties, to undergo all fatigues, and to disregard all privations. Hitherto our whole ship’s company, with their officers, had been kept together, but now even this consolation was to be destroyed. At Alençon the high-road branches off in two directions, the one leading to Paris through Versailles, the other striking off to the N.E. to Seéz, Bernay, and Rouen. Unhappily the French rulers had ordered that what they termed “the officers” should travel to their journey’s end by the former route, whilst the crew should proceed to their destined place of imprisonment by the road through Rouen. Here the mistake as to my rank by the Minister of Marine most seriously affected me. I was not to be included in the grade of officer. The lieutenants, midshipmen, and other officers were therefore ordered to march on the road to Paris, whilst I and Mr. Mahoney, with the boatswain and gunner, as adjutants, or no officers, were ordered to proceed with half of the ship’s company by the road through Rouen to Charlemont, or Givet, in the department of the Ardennes.

I confess this separation grieved me extremely. Parting with my messmates and friends in a foreign country, together with the insult and injustice of being placed in an inferior rank to my brother officers, could not fail of producing the depression so natural to any honourable mind. The feeling was reciprocal on the part of my brother officers, and we separated with regret, they on the Paris route, and I and my companions on the more dreary road of the north.

Leaving Alençon, we passed through Seéz and Bernay, and at length arrived at Rouen, at about two in the afternoon of the 12th. The hardships we underwent were inconceivable.

This large and splendid city, with its magnificent cathedral and manufactures, and with the beautiful scenery that surrounds it, might excite expectation and joy in the approaching traveller, but no such sensations can be roused in him who has been exhausted in a prison, worn out by fatigue, disgusted by ill usage, and who has the prospect only of a long confinement.

Upon our arrival at Rouen we were all put into the common gaol, and it was of a character to give us not a very favourable idea of prison management or discipline in France. But I cannot pass over a circumstance that had happened before our arrival. Trivial as it is in one respect, it still illustrates the French character with respect to impositions in inns, even in the provincial towns or small villages.

About nine in the morning of the day on which we entered Rouen, we were halted at a village on the banks of the Seine, in order to procure refreshment, and yet all we could get were eggs and bread. But if an egg is to be eaten with a spoon, the spoon must bear some proportion to the egg: here, however, we were supplied with pewter spoons of no ordinary dimensions. I observed to the French officer who had us in custody, that smaller spoons would be more convenient; and, as he could not deny a truth so palpable, he asked the old lady of the house if she had any. She replied in the affirmative, and, with alacrity, opened a large coffer, and taking thereout six silver tea-spoons, placed them on the table. With these spoons we ate our eggs, and, having finished our poor repast, we called for our bill; but what was the surprise of us poor and exhausted prisoners when, in our wretchedness, we found that the old hag had charged us—what in a French village is not a trifle—a penny each for the use of her silver spoons! Even the French officer was quite amazed, and asked her what she could mean by such a demand. The old mercenary creature, who proved herself a compound of extortion and nationality, replied with sang froid, “You see, sir, these Englishmen are so particular that they cannot even eat like other people. My spoons have not been out of my chest for a number of years, and I am determined they shall pay for the trouble they have put me to.” The officer in charge ought to have resisted the imposition, but he made no such attempt; and, being defenceless, we paid our pennies, and respectfully wished the honest old lady a good morning.

I had another opportunity in Rouen of witnessing French shrewdness. I observed a number of brigs and small craft laid up in the river, in a dismantled and totally neglected state, and I could not help expressing, to one of the Frenchmen confined with us, my astonishment that those vessels should not have been equipped and sent to sea upon some commercial venture. “And where, sir,” replied the Frenchman, “would be the use of the attempt when the English would have the vessels before they had completed one voyage?” This was unanswerable.

The prospect down the Seine was grand and beautiful. My view, however, was now changed to one of a very different character. The transition from the delightful scenery, with Nature’s freshness and exhilaration, to the miseries of a common gaol, was rapid, and much increased, in this instance, by the gloomy countenance of the gaoler and his dear companion of a wife. They exhibited to us a perfect specimen of matrimonial concord, for both cordially agreed in accosting us in very antipathetic terms; and they were still more matrimonially harmonious in their assurances that if we did not instantly pay for two nights’ lodgings we should be placed in cells not of the best description and with culprits of the very worst. We could not entertain the slightest suspicion of the veracity of these worthy people, nor could we conceive a doubt that we were under the dominion of absolute and irresponsible power; and, notwithstanding we knew that what these kind people had said was a law, we took the liberty of asking why they demanded payment for two nights; and in matrimonial concord they replied, “That we were going to enjoy one day’s rest in the gaol, and that the officer who had escorted us had assured them of the fact.” There was no resisting such logic, nor could we maintain the position that the French Government ought to provide for its prisoners of war; and we were reduced to the necessity of paying for the comfort of a two-nights’ lodging in gaol which we had the happiness of occupying for only one whole day.

This French officer, whose name, to the best of my recollection, was Galway, lived with us in all the small towns through which we passed, professing a great deal of friendship for us, whilst we were paying his expenses, and repeatedly declaring that he would prevent our being confined in the gaol of Rouen—would be himself responsible for us on account of our gentlemanly conduct, and by that means enable us to remain at an inn. But, alas! so shallow was this honourable gentleman’s memory that he even forgot to leave us our last day’s allowance, or prisoner’s money, of eleven sous, or fivepence halfpenny sterling, and did not recollect to give to his successor in power over us the certificate he had received from our officers, stating our rank, and explaining the unfortunate mistake that had been made upon this subject at Brest. His keeping the point of honour, and of honesty and duty, would have been of material service to us; but I suppose that he did not even recollect, after he had disposed of us, that there was a gaol in the city, for we never saw him or heard of him after we had been placed under bars and bolts.

It was now that we came into terms with our host and his rib, and paid them a sum, equal to two shillings each, for the two nights’ lodging. This pleased them so much that they were convinced that we were officers and gentlemen; and they conducted us, with a great deal of respect and politeness, into an apartment in which there were two prisoners and three beds. Two of the beds were assigned to us. Our room-mates, we soon discovered, were debtors. The landlady very charitably observed that she was certain that we must be faint and in want of refreshment; and she kindly added that she would send us some bread and a bottle of good wine for the present, and would procure us, pauvres enfans! a comfortable dinner in about an hour’s time; and then she and her husband, after a thousand curtsies and bows, withdrew, not forgetting to turn the key in the door and to take it with them. We all agreed that this was a considerate, charitable, good woman; but much more did we extol her when we saw the bottle of wine and loaf of bread. The man who brought it was a smart, active turnkey, who said, “Mistress is very busy in cooking dinner for the English captains. I have had the pleasure of waiting very frequently on British officers in this prison—they were very extravagant, and liked to live very well,” etc. But this conversation did not by any means suit his present guests; so we made signs to the fellow to be off. He quitted us, taking the same precaution that his master had done. Our finances were ebbing fast, and we began to fear the dinner which was preparing for us would not help to relieve them. I have already observed that we had fivepence halfpenny per diem allowed us; but we were very frequently cheated even of that miserable pittance, and had we not each procured a little cash at Morlaix on our private bills, we should certainly have perished of want. The table was now prepared with a cloth, a rare decency in a common gaol, and in a short time dinner appeared, with two bottles of wine. It consisted of a little fresh fish and a small joint of boiled mutton. The dishes were cleared in a short time, without the smallest hope of a second course. We were anxious to ascertain what the generous good dame could or would demand for this sumptuous repast, and inquired of our active waiter, who went to his mistress; and forthwith she very kindly replied, “not to make ourselves uneasy, it would be time enough the next day.” We accordingly waited until the next day; but were determined to have nothing more until we knew what we were in debt.

Our fellow-prisoners were particularly polite and attentive to us, and gave us a hint that we were greatly deceived in our opinion of the landlady; which we easily perceived the next morning when we insisted upon hearing how much we had to pay for what she called dinner and wine. She very coolly informed us, fifteen shillings! We imagined it might have been about seven. However, it was in vain to attempt to explain; we paid the bill, and were resolved to be more circumspect.

At about eleven o’clock some French naval officers came to inspect our people, and gave some of them pieces of money, with an intention to induce them to enter the French service. This I saw, as it was publicly done in the gaol-yard, and I happened to be looking out of the window at the time. I desired them to be particular in what they were about. One man, a Dane (Hendrick Wilson, a very fine fellow, upwards of six feet high, who had been taken by us and had volunteered into our service), replied, “We will take what money they choose to give us, sir, and that shall be all they will gain by coming here.”

On the morning of the 14th, about eight o’clock, a guard of cuirassiers rode into the yard. The gaoler was very expeditious in giving us notice that they came to conduct us on our march; so the bills were paid, and everything settled to this man’s and his good dame’s satisfaction. We were then conducted down into the yard and joined by the people. The gaoler observed to the French officer and cuirassiers that we were des bons garçons. This officer appeared to be a very affable, good kind of person, of the true old French school before the character of the inhabitants had been demoralised by the Revolution. He informed us that Mr. Galway, his predecessor, had left him no certificates; but he assured us that with him it should make no difference. All matters being arranged, we commenced our march towards Amiens, where we arrived, after a fatiguing march through the towns of Neufchâtel and Aumâle, on the 16th of March.

Our humane officer was as good as his word. In the small villages between Rouen and Amiens he always took us to an inn and dined with us himself; but in Amiens he could not prevent our being put into the gaol. He, however, came frequently to see us, and remained with us for some time. Understanding that there was an Englishman, a Mr. S. Pratt, who kept an eating-house in this city, we sent to inform him that there were some of his countrymen, prisoners of war in the gaol, who wished to speak to him; but the only answer we received was that he was busy. However, he sent Mrs. Pratt, who even shed tears at seeing the distressed condition of her poor, dear countrymen.

This benevolent Christian appeared overpowered by the kindness so natural to her sex, and by a generosity, for the display of which she possessed a peculiar eloquence, she assured us that “if she had it in her power she would give all the seamen shoes and stockings, of which they stood so much in need, and a good dinner—that she would; but, at all events, she would go and instantly get a good dinner for us, poor, dear creatures! for we must be famished.” To this she added a great many similar tender expressions.

She took a cordial leave of each of us, and said that she would not come again until late in the evening, for fear of her visits being noticed; but she assured us that an excellent dinner should be sent as soon as possible to her poor, dear countrymen. In about an hour we received a small roasted leg of mutton, without any vegetables, with two knives and forks, a little salt in a paper, and two bottles of very inferior wine. We expected to have the opportunity in the evening of expressing to the lady in person our sense of the excellence of the dinner; but she never came near her “dear, dear countrymen!” She took care, however, to send her man with the bill, the charges of which exceeded those of the gaoler’s wife at Rouen!

CHAPTER III

Departure from Amiens—Arrival at Albert—Our French officers delicacy and liberality—A civic feast at Bapaume—Effects of champagne on French aldermen—A separation from our kind conductor—A new escort—A forced march to Cambray—Pitiable state and severe sufferings of the seamen—Entrance into Cambray—Imprisonment—Landrecies, Avesnes, Hirson—A billet upon the inhabitants—Rocroy—A brutal landlord—The robbery and abuse of prisoners—Givet—Charlemont—A description of the fortifications—An escape of prisoners—A fruitless pursuit—Generosity of the French commandant—Private lodgings—A Jacobin landlady—Exhausted funds—The 4th of June—Honours done to King George the Third’s birthday—Roast beef and plum pudding—French terrors of insurrection—The difference between taking off and only touching hats in saluting men in authority—Good news—A joyful departure in a cart for Verdun.

At length the destined hour arrived for our leaving this celebrated city and for pursuing our forced and cheerless marches to the place of our imprisonment. Accordingly, at about eight in the morning of the 17th of March, St. Patrick’s day, a day of great festivity in my native isle, we were put en route, and we arrived at the little town of Albert, in the department of the Somme, at five in the afternoon. Here we were halted for the night. The next morning our kind officer astonished us by a most elegant breakfast, consisting of everything that the small town could supply. We had made it a point never to allow him to pay any of his personal or table expenses when he conducted us to an inn, and his breakfast was given, I suppose, much to his honour, as a complimentary requital.

From Albert we marched to Bapaume, a small fortified town in the department of Pas de Calais. The inhabitants boast that it has never been taken, even though the Duke of York was so close to it in 1793. The road was excessively dirty and bad. Our men were so exceedingly weak this day, the weather being very severe, and raining so incessantly, that our good officer made some of his cuirassiers take three or four of their prisoners behind on their horses. It was about four in the afternoon when we arrived. The officer took us to a tavern. We, dripping wet, were shown into a spacious apartment, where a large table was laid out, and a number of genteel-looking citizens were sitting round a stove that was fixed in the centre of the room. They did not appear to take the smallest notice of us, nor to make place even for the officer, who was wet to the skin. However, he took the liberty of requesting they would allow him to approach, which they did with seeming reluctance. We now endeavoured to dry ourselves, and get into the best plight we could; having ordered, at the same time, something for dinner, or rather supper, as it was about seven o’clock. We were given to understand that it was the election day for a new mayor, in consequence of which the aldermen and civic officers had ordered a dinner; which being served up, left us in full possession of the stove, a circumstance that pleased us greatly.

Those gentlemen did not, in point of appetite, appear to deviate from their namesakes in a certain great metropolis, although I could not perceive that they had any turtle soup; champagne appeared to be the only wine they relished. Our supper was placed on a small table near the stove; and those gentlemen, as they became inspired with the generous juice of the grape, condescended to become more familiar with the English prisoners and the officer that had them in charge. They insisted upon our touching glasses, and even on our drinking champagne with them; and in the course of the evening these very people, who, on our arrival, had not vouchsafed to treat us with common civility, or even humanity, became so exceedingly hospitable, cordial, and pressing as to prove an absolute annoyance. They even lavished in their cups a number of encomiums upon the “noble nation” to which we belonged. “What a great pity it is,” they cried, “that Englishmen and Frenchmen are not unanimous! They would then carry everything before them, and conquer the whole world.”

We were now doomed to suffer a sad mortification and misfortune. The friendly officer who had conducted us from Rouen with so much humanity, and, I may say, delicacy, now informed us that he was superseded, and was no longer to be our guard or escort. He even added that he had applied to be allowed to conduct us to our place of final imprisonment, and, to his mortification, had received a refusal. He appeared very much hurt at the disappointment, and left us for the night with much emotion, assuring us that we should not leave the town without bidding each other farewell.

At daylight, on the 19th of March, a sergeant awakened us, with the unwelcome news that he had brought a guard of dragoons to conduct us to Cambray. We were obliged to get up immediately, and to make the best arrangements we could for our unpleasant journey. Our old officer and friend, as we considered him, made his appearance. He spoke of us with much warmth of good-nature, and recommended us very strongly to the kind consideration of the sergeant. He then took an affectionate farewell of each individual, and literally shed tears at parting from us. Much did we regret his loss. He was tender-hearted and compassionate, and reflected honour on the nation that gave him birth, and even upon Nature herself. Under this excellent man, with the indulgence he bestowed upon us, and with the confidence he reposed in our honour, not one of us would have taken an advantage of even the most favourable opportunity of escape. Each would have felt it a disgrace to the character of our country, and a proof of an individual badness of heart and insensibility to honour.

At half-past eight o’clock we had to commence our march to Cambray. All the elements seemed to combine with every circumstance to make us feel our altered condition. It was a most severe morning, bitterly cold, and the north-east wind blowing fiercely in our teeth. It hailed and rained violently and without intermission. Our poor crew were half-starved, miserably clad, and without shoes or stockings, and some of them even without shirts. They were in rags and tatters. With starved stomachs and broken spirits, they were forced upon this long march to the cheerless bourn of a gaol. Under the new escort of dragoons we pursued our march to Cambray, where we arrived about four in the afternoon, in a truly pitiable state. We were a mass of dirt and filth, exhausted, and without that alone which can make nature endure extreme difficulties—the prospect of amelioration or relief. The consciousness of the merits of the past we had, but of prospects of the future we were miserably destitute.

In this state we were marched through Cambray, the gaze of the people, who rejoiced to see a procession of English captives. They felt an extraordinary exultation at witnessing prisoners of a country that had been so proud and so triumphant. After passing this ordeal we were lodged in the citadel.

If in the first part of the captivity I and my companions had been degraded and subjected to hardships as private seamen, here I had my retribution, for we were all four now called captains; and, in virtue or honour of our rank, we were, pro tempore, allowed accommodation in the canteen. This was, in fact, an increase of misery, for our poor seamen were put into the dungeons, or souterrains.

It was only by our strenuous exertions that we could procure for the poor fellows some fresh straw, for which we paid an exorbitant price, for their miserable repose. In this straw they enjoyed what warmth they could, making it into ropes, and twisting it round their exhausted limbs and bodies, after refreshing themselves with a sort of soup which we provided for them, and paid for also dearly. This was what the French called soupe grasse, and was made in the following manner:—They fill a large pot, or marmite, with water. When it begins to boil, they throw one or two handfuls of salt into it, according to the quantity of water, chop up some cabbage or herbs, which they also put in, and, last of all, a ball of hog’s lard, kitchen-stuff, dripping, or any other grease they may have. They then allow it to boil until the materials are well done. It is afterwards served up in soup-plates or dishes, into which has been previously put bread, cut into very thin slices. The charge is twopence, and sometimes more, for each plateful. I saw our landlady at Seéz, a village near Rouen, after she had cooked us some beef-steaks, put all the gravy into the pan, fill it up with water, and after she had kept the pan boiling for some minutes, pour the whole contents into a large pot of water which she had boiling on the fire, previously prepared with salt and herbs: this she served out as soup to our poor seamen, at a most exorbitant price.

We remained at Cambray until the 21st, when a severe frost, with snow, set in; and we had to march, with the wind and snow and hail at intervals right in our faces, to Landrecies, at a distance of nearly six British leagues. Our people were there put into the gaol, and we were allowed the honour of stopping at the Palais National tavern. They were very fair here in their demands. At daylight, on the 22nd, we commenced our route to Avesnes, in the Pays-Bas, where we arrived at about four. They put us all indiscriminately into the town gaol. About five the town major came to speak with us, and obtained us permission to go to a certain inn, which he pointed out, and where we were egregiously imposed on. The men were left in the gaol. The 23rd we had another guard of dragoons, under the command of a sergeant, to escort us to our depot. At about three we arrived at a poor little village called Hirson, where, having no gaol, they billeted both ourselves and the seamen upon the inhabitants. I and my companions were quartered at a collar-maker’s house. The poor people were extremely civil, and provided us with tolerably good beds. We paid them for every necessary with which they supplied us.

The next morning (the 24th) we had to take our leave of the collar-maker and his family, and were put upon our march to the village of Maubert Fontaine, which was by far more poor and miserable than even Hirson. Here we were again billeted upon the inhabitants; and quarters in private houses were so preferable to confinement in a gaol that the difference easily reconciled us to the smallness of the town. The people with whom we were placed were very great impostors, and extorted double prices for everything with which they supplied us.

On the next morning (the 25th), however, we parted from these unfeeling knaves, and were put upon our march to Rocroy, in the Ardennes. The distance was short, and we arrived early; and our people were immediately put into the common gaol. My companions and I exerted all the interest and rhetoric that we could muster to be allowed, as officers, to go to an inn; and the request at last was conceded. Here we rested twenty-four hours, and had the misfortune to find our landlord a most consummate scoundrel, who took advantage of every opportunity—or, rather, made opportunities—both to defraud and insult us. The next morning, at our departure, he presented us with an account of a sum-total or gross amount of his demand, without condescending to specify a single item in detail. We expostulated with him upon the nature of his bill and upon its enormous amount, and wished to know how he could possibly make it so great; for, in fact, we had been particularly economical, as our funds were getting very low. The impostor flatly refused any explanation whatever, but peremptorily insisted upon immediate payment, bestowing upon us insulting and provoking epithets, in numbers and of a character that brought conviction to our minds that he had no ordinary talents for this species of assault and battery. We were obliged to submit to all his furious and disgusting abuse; and, what in our situation was still worse, we were compelled to pay the bill, or rather the no bill, for it was an extortion without a bill. To the great disgrace of the French military character, I must repeat that in no instance did the officer in charge of us protect us from these gross impositions, which were rendered more shameful and cruel from our helpless condition.

The demand being satisfied, and the torrent of abuse digested with as little bile as possible, we took our leave of Rocroy; and, turning our backs upon our host, the dragoons put us upon our march on the road to the little village of Fumez, on the Meuse, so famous for its slate quarries, where we arrived early in the day, and were all of us billeted upon the inhabitants, whom we found extremely civil and obliging.

We were now but one stage from Givet, with its citadel of Charlemont, and at eight o’clock the next morning, the 28th of March, we commenced our last day’s journey.

At three in the afternoon we entered Givet, or Charlemont, our place of destination, and thus did we terminate our distressing march from Brest, a distance, by the détour we had gone, of nearly 700 miles, performed in thirty-nine days, including resting-days, through inclement weather, bad roads, and under every circumstance calculated to destroy life, or to embitter it whilst it lasted.

Givet is a fortified town in the department of Ardennes and bishopric of Liège, divided by the Meuse. That portion on the south side of the river is called Little Givet. This town is commanded by a very strong fort and citadel (Charlemont), built upon an immense rock: the fortifications were constructed by Vauban. A communication between Great and Little Givet is kept up by means of a pontoon bridge: the centre boats are placed so as to be hauled out occasionally to admit vessels to pass up and down, which frequently happens. The people appeared very much disposed to be friendly with us; but we were kept so very close and strict that it was impossible to form any acquaintance. Every necessary of life is cheap in this town: their beer is tolerably good. Wine is rather dear, as there are very few vineyards in the neighbourhood.

Our prisoners at the commencement were confined in this place; but when they became numerous they were moved down to the horse-barracks, from a dread, I suppose, of their revolting some day and taking possession of citadel, town, and all. Had they once possession of one, the other would be entirely at their mercy and disposal. During our stay at this depot, four of the seamen escaped from their prison, two of whom belonged to our late frigate. On their being missed the following morning, parties of gendarmes on horseback were despatched by the commandant to search for them in all directions, with strict orders to mutilate, and, in fact, not to bring them back alive; “that it might prove an example” (using his own expression) “to the rest of the prisoners.” However, fortunately for those poor fellows, they escaped their pursuers—at least for that time. They were afterwards taken at Dunkirk as they were about to embark in an open boat. The commandant was also frequently in the habit of riding into the prison-yard, and taking his pistols out of the holsters, examining the priming in order to terrify us. This he did generally in the evening, and the prisoners could not refrain from laughing at such foolish conduct.

Upon our arrival here, we found, as prisoners of war, the crews of the Minerve and the Shannon, frigates that had been commanded by Captains Jahleel Brenton and Gower, who, with their officers, were at Verdun. There were also in confinement a number of English seamen that had been captured in merchant vessels. We were immediately visited by a Mr. Bradshaw, one of Captain Brenton’s clerks, sent here by him, who was permitted to reside in the town, in order that he might act as that officer’s commissary.[8] Mr. Bradshaw introduced me and my companions to Captain Petervin, of the gendarmerie, who was commandant of the prisoners of war. A Jersey man, named Goree, was employed as interpreter, and he explained to Captain Petervin our rank in the English service; but the captain, though unwilling to put us under close imprisonment, seemed at a loss what to do with us, as we had been sent to him as private seamen. He hesitated, and for a long time remained undecided; but at last he consented that we might go to La Tête de Cerf tavern that night. To La Tête de Cerf we joyfully proceeded with Mr. Bradshaw, after giving Monsieur le Commandant a thousand thanks for his condescension. We found that we had been sent to a very decent tavern, the first in the town, which convinced us that the captain of the gendarmerie entertained a favourable opinion of the English adjutants. We justified his acuteness by ordering a good dinner. Mr. Bradshaw dined with us, and exhilarated our drooping spirits by assurances that the commandant would be induced to permit us to lodge in the town. We ordered an additional bottle of wine on the strength of this good news, and passed the evening as cheerfully as possible under the recollection of past sufferings, and with the dismal prospect of a long imprisonment, apart from the glorious services which our profession was then rendering to our country.

The next day the commandant received us with the politeness for which his countrymen had at one time been so proverbial. We explained through our interpreter the excessive injustice and cruelty of being sent to the seamen’s depot, and treated differently from our brother officers. He sympathised with us in all we said, assuring us that he would send off a despatch to General Wirion at Verdun (who was commander-in-chief over the British prisoners) and state the case to him. At the same time, he advised us to write to our commanding officer, and promised to have our letter forwarded. He desired us to remain quietly at our tavern, and assured us that he would do everything in his power to alleviate our distresses. We gave him our best thanks, took our leave, and returned to the Tête de Cerf.

Upon an overhauling of our finances, we had the mortification to find that we could not remain many days at a tavern, not having a farthing allowed us for our subsistence; the fivepence halfpenny per diem ending at the moment we arrived at the depot. Mr. Bradshaw could not render us any pecuniary assistance without Captain Brenton’s permission; consequently our situation was becoming every moment worse and worse. As lodgings, we were informed, were excessively cheap in the town, we concluded that we had better apply to the commandant for leave to hire a couple of rooms, with cooking utensils, etc., than continue any longer as we were. However, we dreaded that he might order us into the barracks with the seamen if we began so early to demand favours. We therefore agreed to be extremely economical and to wait a few days longer. Those days being expired, we made the intended application, and with success. He approved of our plan, and gave us a written permission to walk about the town. This he did entirely upon his own responsibility, and assured us that he relied upon our honour not to go without the limits of the town; adding that if we abused this indulgence we would be severely punished. We declared our intentions were not to cause him the smallest trouble or uneasiness, and we were particular in the observance of our promise.

The same day we hired two rooms at Madame de Garde’s, the widow of a ci-devant general. She provided us with two beds for us four, cooking utensils, and everything necessary for housekeeping, and at a very moderate price. We acquainted Mons. le Commandant of our success, who congratulated us, but, at the same time, appeared sorry that we lodged with this old lady, observing that she was une Jacobine, and of the old school. All persons at this time who were known to be attached to the English were reprobated as Jacobins; and I need not say that we liked the old dame the better for this information, though we took care to disguise our feelings and to conceal the fact. Our ménage commenced the following morning. We took the daily cooking and different duties by rotation; but were soon able to get rid of these unpleasant services, for we procured permission for an infirm old man named Allen, who had been our captain’s steward, to live with us as our cook and servant. Our dishes were certainly not very varied or exquisite: soup and bouilli, with vegetables, constituted our daily fare; and even this, we apprehended, would soon be beyond our rapidly decreasing finances.

All April and May had dismally passed and no answers to our letters had been received from Verdun. Our rent was in arrear, and our purses at the point of exhaustion. We solicited Mr. Bradshaw to grant us the sailor’s allowance of a pound of meat each per diem; but even this he could not do without the authority of Captain Brenton. This, however, was received from Verdun by return of post. The pound of meat proved of very material service to the poor adjutants, and they were most thankful to their humane chief, Captain Brenton.

At length arrived the glorious 4th of June, the birthday of our sovereign, George the Third; and for this one day at least were our sufferings forgotten and our sorrows cast to the wind. We were resolved, if possible, to make some demonstration in honour of the day; and at last, low as were our pecuniary circumstances, we did contrive to give a birthday dinner to the commandant and to the paymaster of the depot. From this latter officer, whose name was Payne, we had received many civilities.

The day altogether passed off very agreeably until about sunset, when the time arrived for locking the seamen up in the different wards of the gaol. They now gave three tremendous cheers, which flowed from the heart, in commemoration of the day that gave birth to their gracious sovereign; and, as the last cheer stunned and terrified the astounded Frenchmen, they hauled in the colours of different nations that they had kept all day streaming out of each window, taking care to have the French tri-coloured flag under all, which was never noticed by either commandant or guards. The enthusiastic cheers of nearly a thousand men made a most powerful noise: it was music to our ears as we sat at table, our lodgings being contiguous. The commandant, who was greatly alarmed, imagined that the seamen had revolted and had actually got out of prison: so great was this officer’s hurry that he made but one step from the top of the stairs to the bottom. We had some little trouble in getting him on his legs again, and were greatly rejoiced in finding that he had received no injury from this step, or rather fall—assuring him there was no foundation whatever for his fears. However, he would be convinced in person: he therefore went to the prison, and was rejoiced to find everything perfectly tranquil.

Being returned, he observed that the English were des braves gens, and he would drink another glass of wine in commemoration of King George’s birthday. The national dish, roast beef with plum pudding, which we had made ourselves, was not forgotten upon this occasion. Monsieur liked the well-done or outside part of the former extremely; but the latter neither of our guests would touch for a long time. At last, by dint of persuasion, they condescended to taste it; and so sudden was the transition made upon them by that taste that we had some pains to secure ourselves a part, though it was a pretty sizable pudding. They exclaimed as they gulped it down, “Sacré bleu, comme il est bon!”—“Ma foi, oui!” repeated each alternately. We felt highly pleased at the sight, and laughed heartily.

At a late hour, or rather, in regard to the morning, an early one, Messieurs took their leave, evidently in great spirits, and we retired to rest.

Since our arrival at this depot, several of the stoutest and apparently most healthy of our men had died of a fever supposed to have been caught in some of the gaols on the road. Our poor servant, Allen, was seized with it, and expired in a few days. With respect to comforts, our prisoners were badly off; but the French medical officers at Givet were certainly humane and attentive.

In the latter part of June, to our surprise and chagrin, the commandant appeared much altered in his manner towards us. We were unable to imagine what could be the cause of so sudden and total a change. Mr. Bradshaw, however, informed us that he had observed to him, “that the English officers” (as he was kind enough to style us) “were excessively proud.”

“I never meet them,” said he, “but I take my hat off, whilst they only lift theirs to me.”

Certain it is, that, with all mankind, a slight or insult, real or imaginary, intended or casual, produces more rancour than an injury. By the accidental hurry or carelessness of using a wafer instead of sealing-wax to a letter, the Prime Minister of England, at a crisis of the country, for a time lost the support of one of the wealthiest and most influential dukes of the political world.

But our commandant’s anger was not soon appeased. He one night sent a guard of gendarmes to take us from our lodgings to the guard-house, for being in the streets after nine o’clock, when it was scarcely dark at that time of the year, and although we had no regular time prescribed by him to be indoors. In the guard-house we remained, on a cold pavement, all night, at a loss to know of what we had been guilty. Our guards assured us that it was merely the caprice of the commandant. At noon Mr. Bradshaw visited us, but without affording any hopes of release. The commandant had informed him that we were confined for not answering a sentinel on his post who had hailed or challenged us. This we positively denied, as we had not passed a single sentinel that night. Monsieur Brasseur, the second in command, then came to visit us, and expressed great sorrow at seeing us thus confined without any cause. He waited on the commandant, became responsible for our conduct, and had us removed to our lodgings, where we were commanded to confine ourselves until “further orders.”

Our excellent landlady received us with the greatest joy imaginable, bathed us with her tears, and had refreshments ready for us, though she had sent us a very good breakfast to the guard-house, and was herself very poor. In three days we were once more liberated; but henceforth we were always confined whenever a religious procession or public ceremony took place, and which at this particular time was very frequent. Our chief amusement was a game at billiards, and a walk round the ramparts, or rather ruins. We frequently met with military officers at the billiard-table, who always behaved with the strictest politeness, and made us an offer of the table the moment we entered the room, which, of course, we declined until they had finished.

From the commandant’s conduct of late, we were constantly under apprehensions of being closely confined with the sailors: he appeared more inveterate against me than any of the rest. However, about the 10th or 12th of July we received a letter from our commanding officer at Verdun, stating that General Wirion had at last sent an order for Mr. Mahoney and myself to be conducted to the Verdun depot. The commandant received the order by the same post. Mr. Bradshaw had also a letter from Captain Brenton, who had kindly and considerately directed him to supply us with cash to enable us to proceed. All this intelligence arriving at the same time, nearly overwhelmed us with joy; but the two other poor fellows that were to remain—the boatswain and gunner—were not only disconsolate at the inequality of their fate, but full of apprehensions that as soon as we had left them the offended commandant would become both more mean and cruel in his severity.

At last, on the 16th of July, we were to leave Givet for Verdun. Mr. Mahoney had a bad foot, and a cart was therefore provided, in which I had the privilege of riding. Everything was at length settled for our departure, and we had previously been permitted to see our ship’s company—a pleasure of which we had been deprived for some weeks. This scene was sadly interesting, and we left the brave fellows with reciprocal good wishes. We took an affectionate farewell of our two shipmates and of our good landlady, and began our route to Verdun, under the escort of two gendarmes.

CHAPTER IV

Our arrival at Verdun—A joyful reception—General Wirion—His indulgence towards the prisoners—The meetings of old shipmates and friends—Mental employment the best antidote against ennui and dissipation—Restiveness at confinement—Anxiety to be again in the active service of Old England—Meditations upon an escape—Contrivances to avoid a breach of parole or any breach of honour—Three comrades, or compagnons de voyage—Scaling ramparts—A descent of seventy-two feet—The open country—The march commences—Flying by night, and hiding in woods by day—Heavy rains, dismal roads, and swampy beds, with bad fare and good hearts—Leaping a moat—A dislocated knee—The march resumed, and pursued lamely—The town of Neuville—Extreme sufferings from thirst—Water at length procured, anguish allayed, and the escape proceeded upon with renewed spirits.

On the 16th of July 1804 we arrived early at Fumez. Here an old woman doing the duty of crier attracted my notice. At a corner of one of the streets she began her preamble. She had a small bar of iron in one hand and a large key in the other, as a substitute for a bell. We were allowed to do as we pleased on our arrival, and to go to any inn we liked. Our guard informed us that the commandant of Givet had inserted in our feuille de route that we should be considered as officers on parole and be treated accordingly.

From Fumez we were marched to Mezières, and put up at a tavern, being now officers of rank, which our landlady appeared to have been informed of. This old lady was, if possible, more extortionate than any we had yet met with. We found that, unless we previously made an agreement, particularly specifying what we wished, and regulating the price of every article, we should be liable to the greatest imposition; and this, indeed, is pretty generally the case throughout France. From Mezières we passed through Sedan, Stenay, and a small village, Sivry; and on the 23rd arrived at Verdun, the long-wished-for place of our ultimate destination.

We were received by Captain Brenton, our officers, and countrymen in the most joyful and cordial manner. For two nights, until we could procure lodgings, we were billeted at the inn Les Trois Maures, at which the Emperor Napoleon put up on his return after his splendid campaign in Germany and the Treaty of Tilsit. Two or three days after our arrival, Mr. Pridham introduced us to General Wirion, who gave us permission to walk in the suburbs, provided our commanding officer became responsible for our conduct, corps pour corps; which Lieutenant Pridham had done. In the course of a few days I procured lodgings, recently vacated by a détenu, Sir James de Bathe, with Mr. Ashworth, a midshipman, who had been one of my messmates in our late ship, the Hussar. He afterwards died at Minorca, in consequence of wounds he had received off Tarragona, when a lieutenant of H.M.S. Centaur, while in the act of snatching from destruction the unfortunate Spaniards who were being sabred by the French cavalry when rushing into the sea to our boats for protection.[9]

As soon as I found myself a little settled, in conjunction with my much-esteemed friend Ashworth I employed a French master, and pursued my studies with the utmost assiduity. I never left the town, except occasionally on race-days or days of other public amusements. It should be remarked that races, and all species of amusements that can deprive an Englishman of his property, or divert his attention for a moment, were allowed by the general who commanded the prisoners. I have been informed that there were fixed prices for all these indulgences. The hazard-table and rouge et noir have been the destruction of many of our countrymen. Every kind of debauchery and libertinism, I am sorry to add, was permitted and practised in this town. Latterly, from the principal people of fashion and men of property being dispersed, horse-racing ceased, and gambling also, in a great degree.

We likewise engaged a fencing-master, and, as soon as we were tolerably advanced in the French language, we procured an Italian master, and applied ourselves to study under him with the greatest diligence. These literary pursuits were of incalculable advantage to us; for, whilst they strengthened the mind, and spread over it the charms inseparable from the acquisition of useful knowledge, they fortified us against the allurements of dissipation, lightened the weight of our captivity, and saved us from that moral disease ennui, with all its train of passions and disordered appetites which people are prone to inflict upon themselves by an indulgence in habits of idleness. We were stimulated in our zeal for our studies by reflecting that we were acquiring that which would make us more useful to our country in our profession. However, what we witnessed and what we experienced convinced us of the inestimable benefits of mental pursuits in mitigating the sufferings of captivity, as well as of the extent to which those sufferings are aggravated by a want of intellectual employment.

In a few months after my arrival, a Mr. M’Grath, a relation of mine, was escorted to this depot, with Mr. Wills, master’s mate, and a boat’s crew of the frigate Acasta. Mr. M’Grath was surgeon’s assistant. They had been made prisoners on the island of Beniget, near Brest. Mr. Wills had been ordered early in the morning to land on that island and load his boat with sand for scouring the decks; and Mr. M’Grath had received permission to accompany him, merely for the purpose of taking a walk and amusing himself while the men were loading the boat; but they had no sooner landed than they were surrounded by a number of French troops that were lying in ambush for them, and had been disembarked the night before for the express purpose of surprising some of the English boats which were daily in the habit of coming on shore. Our poor fellows were immediately secured, embarked, and conducted to the Continent. From the cruel treatment which they experienced on their march, they were so exhausted on their arrival at Verdun that both the officers were seized with a violent fever. Mr. Thos. George Wills, an excellent officer, now a post-captain, recovered in a short time; but his companion lost the use of his limbs, and was confined to his bed, with little or no intermission, until July 1808, when he burst a blood-vessel and expired without a groan. He lived with me the greater part of that time.

But to return to the thread of my own narrative. We continued at Verdun from July 1804, amusing ourselves by study, and in the winter by skating, etc., until August 1807, when I began to consider my situation minutely and to deliberate upon my unfortunate captivity. Those deliberations had the effect of making me very uncomfortable and dissatisfied; nor could I afterwards reconcile myself to study or to any amusement whatever. I reasoned with myself that I was losing the prime of my youth in captivity. I saw no prospect of peace or an exchange of prisoners; no hope or possibility of being promoted in my present state, nor of recommending myself, through any personal exertions, to the notice of the Admiralty. I was deprived, while in France, of being able to afford my country, my friends, or myself the least assistance. The youthful visions of the glories of the naval service again came over me; but sadly were my spirits broken when I reflected that my hopes of joining others in the strife of honour and patriotism were destroyed, unless I could rescue myself from bondage.

In this horrible state, almost of stupefaction, I remained for some days; when my poor friend Ashworth observed to me, that he and Mr. Tuthill, a particular friend, a midshipman also, had been canvassing the cruelty and hardships they laboured under, and had, in consequence, formed the intention, if I would join them, of transgressing, and getting deprived of their permission to go out of town (what the French deemed parole), and making their escape to their native country. This was to me the most flattering intelligence—it was what I had been revolving in my brain for some days. We accordingly met at an appointed place to deliberate on the best method of putting in execution the exploit we were about to commence, and agreed that it was necessary to procure knapsacks, provisions, bladders to contain water, etc., prior to our getting closely confined, as we should be under the necessity of travelling by night, and of concealing ourselves in the woods during the daytime.

Having, therefore, provided all the requisite materials—viz., files, gimlets, saws, and other articles which are needless to mention,—that, in case of being taken, we might be able to break our fetters and escape from the slavery and punishment we were well aware would await us; and Mr. Ashworth and I having waited upon Lieutenant Pridham, to request he would withdraw his responsibility for us, which he accordingly did,—we commenced by missing one appel; but, to our great astonishment, this breach of conduct was overlooked and forgiven.[10] We next remained out of town very late. This was also forgiven, though we even got into the guard-house. In short, it was several days before we succeeded in being deprived of our passports, or “permissions”; and we suspected, or rather felt confident, from the lenity shown to us, that our design of escape was suspected. Our personal honour, as well as that of the navy,—and, indeed, of the English nation in general,—had precluded the possibility of our attempting to escape whilst we were upon what was deemed, by the French commandant, parole; but now we were literally under close confinement; and with the reflection that, perhaps, so favourable an opportunity of getting away might never again be afforded to us, we were not slow in forming our resolutions.

It was on the night of the 28th of August 1807 that we determined to take French-leave of our “prison-house”; and we had provided an excellent rope to enable us to scale the ramparts. Each had procured his portion, or quantum, of between three and four fathoms; but that which Tuthill had obtained was merely thumb-line. This, of course, was tailed on, or put at the bottom of the rope, in order that if it gave way we should have the less distance to fall.

It may be imagined that our hearts beat high with conflicting emotions. That great sufferings were to be endured, and great dangers encountered, but little interested spirits so young and ardent as ours; or they were rather overwhelmed by that love of daring and honourable enterprise which often stimulates youth as well as manhood to the greatest and best exertions. On one side we had to reflect upon the mortification of capture, with an increased severity, and, what to us seemed infinitely worse, a prolonged duration of confinement; whilst, on the other, should success crown our determined efforts, our hearts thrilled with the thoughts of once more walking the deck of a British ship-of-war, in all the elation of a confidence that we were serving our king and our country in a righteous cause.

I returned to my lodgings; but it is necessary for me to observe that on my way I happened to meet with a friend, a Lieutenant Essel of the navy, who, with the greatest frankness, communicated to me that he had come to a resolution to attempt his escape from France, and he expressed how much he wished that I would accompany him. This singular coincidence naturally excited in my mind a suspicion that he had arrived at a knowledge of our secret, and I declined giving him a direct answer for the present; but I reflected that as he did not mention either of my companions, it was a proof that he did not know of our design, or that he exercised a prudence which might render him worthy of confidence. I quitted him, repaired to my comrades, and communicated to them all that had passed. After a consultation, upon a point to us so momentous, we agreed that he might join our perilous expedition, provided that he was not in debt, and that he could otherwise escape from the town without dishonour. Very high feelings and scrupulous notions of honour pervaded our naval officers. Our new comrade satisfied us upon all these points. He assured us that he had been deprived of his passport, or “permission”; that he had settled all his affairs; and that he had a surplus of £50 to join with our funds in meeting the difficulties we were but too sure to encounter. Under these circumstances we all cordially shook hands; and never did four young adventurers attempt an exploit under a more friendly and gallant resolution to share a common fate.

The time so long expected arrived; and at the hour before midnight we met at the appointed spot. How much were we chagrined and vexed to find that not only at this late hour were the sentinels unusually on the alert, but that—what seemed more extraordinary—great numbers of people were passing to and fro. We were obliged to defer our escape to the night following.

I confess I felt the greatest regret at quitting my poor sick relative, our only other comrade, M’Grath; nor could I make him acquainted with the step I was about to take without experiencing an emotion impossible to be described. His feelings at our separation were as acute as my own.

The sea-coast, of course, was the point fixed upon for our destination; and we agreed that about Étaples was the most likely part to procure a boat.

The anxiety and uneasiness which we felt the next day were beyond description. Some of our countrymen who called to see us, en passant, threw out such insinuations, and made such remarks upon our conduct of late, that we were under the most serious apprehensions of being shackled, and on the road to Bitche, before the much-desired hour, eleven at night. “The ——,” says Shakespeare, “fears each bush an officer.” We were well aware that there were several Englishmen employed and paid regularly for conveying the most trivial occurrence that might take place amongst the prisoners to the French general. I have frequently known prisoners of war, through malice, to be taken out of their beds in the night, fettered, and conducted, under an escort of gendarmes, to the depots of punishment, without ever being informed of the crime or fault of which they had been accused; and merely from some of those miscreants giving false information, in order to be revenged for any private animosity they might have had against the person so treated.

The long-wished-for moment at length arrived: the intermediate time had passed in great excitement. We met. Everything seemed quiet, and favourable to our escape. We were in the spirit to take every advantage of circumstances, or to create circumstances, if creating them were possible. In a few seconds, by the aid of our rope, and by the assistance of a friend, Alexander Donaldson, many years back my shipmate, a master in the navy, and afterwards a prisoner of war,—he was a native of Portsoy, in Banffshire, but is now no more,—we got down these most formidable ramparts of between seventy and eighty feet high. We descended, to our surprise, with little damage, except the loss of some of the skin from my hands. This was caused by the whipcord part of the line, which we were not able to grasp firmly, and it brought my companions altogether on my back and shoulders, in the ditch, before I could move or extricate myself. Happy were we to find ourselves, so far at least, at liberty. Our course was N.W. Each man buckled on his knapsack, arranged his implements and weapons of defence, and, full of the spirit of determined adventure and of resolute suffering, we started upon our course.

The next morning, the 30th August 1807, at about three o’clock the day began to dawn, and as we had run during most of the time since we had quitted our miserable imprisonment, we conjectured that we were at least five British leagues from Verdun. We determined not to approach any houses, nor to expose ourselves during the daytime, except in a case of the greatest necessity.

We were, fortunately, close to the very wood which we had pricked off upon our map for our first halt: it was in the vicinity of Varennes, where Louis XVI., his queen, sister, and two children were arrested in their flight from the Tuileries in 1791, and were conducted back to Paris. We instantly entered this wood, and, after a long search, we succeeded in finding a thick part, though, unfortunately, it was contiguous to a footpath. However, we hid ourselves so well, that, unless information had been spread of our flight, and people came purposely in search of us, we had no apprehension of being discovered. In this our lair we lay with tolerable comfort and security, until about nine o’clock, when our confidence vanished, and we were greatly annoyed; for we found the pathway to be much frequented, and the voices of passengers, and of children who came to enjoy their Sunday morning in nutting and sporting in the wood, greatly distressed the whole of us. Fortunately none of the nut-trees or bushes were very close to us, and at noon we had the happiness of seeing the intruders hurry home to their dinners. We likewise took our refreshments, and thought it wise to destroy our hats, and to supply their places with white beaver caps, à la Française, with which we had provided ourselves.

At seven in the evening it was tolerably dusk, and, having shouldered our knapsacks and made all other arrangements, we left the wood, and recommenced our march, making a direct N.W. course through the country, over hill and dale, mountain and plain; traversing ploughed fields, wading through bogs and marshes, leaping ditches, and clearing all enclosures with a buoyancy of spirit that gave us astonishing strength and vigour: nothing could intercept or retard our progress. The happiness we felt was inexpressible. The freshness of the open air, the active use of our unconfined limbs, and the hope of ultimate triumph and liberty, made us consider ourselves as regenerated creatures.

But before daylight (on 31st August) it began to rain heavily. We discovered a wood convenient for our concealment, except that it was contiguous to a farmhouse. After much of anxious deliberation, we resolved, however, to secrete ourselves in it; for we reflected that it might not be possible for us to reach another, before daylight might betray us to the stirring peasantry, compared to which any less chance of danger was preferable. I at this moment perfectly recollect the spot in which we placed ourselves, and even at this distance of time I seem to behold all that passed around us.

We provided ourselves, after a long search—the wood being excessively thin—with a tolerably good sort of hiding-place; but we could distinctly hear the people in the farmyard conversing, which, I need scarcely say, caused us great alarm. Our situation all this day was very deplorable. On entering our hiding-place we were wet to the skin, and it continued raining without ceasing until late in the evening: the wet we received from the branches and leaves was much worse than if we had been in an open field without a tree. Our chief employment was squeezing the water out of our clothes and stockings. Our store of provisions, which principally consisted of light biscuits and sausages, was very much damaged. At dusk, about the usual hour—seven,—after taking a little refreshment, we bundled on our knapsacks and accoutrements, and proceeded on the old course, N.W. We walked a good distance this night, the weather being more favourable.

Just before daylight on the next morning (1st Sept.) we entered a most excellent thick wood, admirably well calculated for night-walkers. We took some refreshment, and endeavoured to sleep a little after the fatigues of the night, and after congratulating one another at being thus far successful. At about ten we were alarmed by the voices of people apparently close to us. We found that they were passing on an adjacent pathway, which we had not before perceived; but we were too well placed to be under any dread of being discovered. The number of squirrels, rats, mice, and vermin about us this day was very great. Having made our customary preparations, at seven we got out of our lurking-hole, and proceeded to the border of the wood, on the side towards which we had to direct our course. On our arrival we discovered some labourers still at work in a field close to the outside of the wood, which obliged us to halt until they disappeared. We then proceeded with some anxiety, as we saw a village exactly in our track, and which we could not avoid without making a very great circuit. In about two hours after we had quitted the wood we found our course suddenly impeded by a ditch or moat, and, upon sounding it with our clubs (which, by the bye, were of a tolerably good length), we found it very deep; in fact, its depth by far exceeded anything we could have anticipated. We surveyed this formidable obstruction or barrier, marching first in one direction, and then in another, without being able to come to any resolution, although we all knew and felt that, by some means or other, cross it we must, or submit to be recaptured.

At length I discovered one part which was, or seemed to be, narrower than the rest, and in this case of no alternative, which was becoming more desperate every minute, I resolved to make one great effort and to try to leap over. I accordingly gave myself space for a good run opposite the narrowest spot, and, leaping with all my force, I landed on the opposite bank some feet beyond the margin. The channel turned out not to be so broad as it had appeared, and, knowing that it was exceedingly deep, I had been the more anxious to secure a good landing, lest I should fall back into the stream. The event, however, was like escaping from Scylla to be lost in Charybdis—or rather the reverse; for, in avoiding the water, I had to find my injury on the land. The consequence of the great impetus I had given to my leap was, that, the opposite bank being gravelly and hard, and my knapsack lifting and coming down with a sudden jerk immediately my feet touched the ground, I was thrown on my side, and my right knee was twisted in the joint to such a degree that I absolutely thought it was snapped in two.

In this condition I remained extended on the ground; and, whilst in the most excruciating pain, I kept cautioning my companions to be more careful and to guide themselves by my experience. They at last effected the leap, and joined me without injury or inconvenience. They examined the joint, and found, to my inexpressible joy, that the knee was not broken; but so unfortunate an accident, at such a critical moment, deprived me of every hope of being able to prosecute the long and difficult journey that we had to accomplish. These reflections distressed me to such a degree that my ideas became distracted. I could not, of course, expect my comrades to remain with me; and I had the wretched prospect of being abandoned by them, and left either to suffer and perish in the open field, or to be captured, and my recovery to be succeeded by the gaol. Instant death I thought by far preferable; but Divine Providence deigned to interpose its clemency, and taught me the useful lesson—to prefer to despair a confidence in its wisdom and mercy.

My comrades paid every attention to my injury. They chafed the joint, and rubbed it with the small portion of spirits with which each of us was provided. I found great relief from this application, and in a short time, with their assistance, I was able to get up and put my foot to the ground.

I made an effort to step out, but was under the necessity of requesting that one would assist me on each side, which they did. Thus we moved on slowly, and passed the village about which we had been so anxious. My knee, I was happy to feel, was gradually getting better; and we managed to proceed in this state about three leagues, when we discovered a very fine, commodious wood.

It was about two o’clock on the 2nd, when my comrades proposed that we should rest in this wood during the ensuing day: they would not, on my account, proceed farther. No determination could be more congenial to my feelings than this. I was excessively dejected and fatigued. Having, at length, found a proper part of the wood, each took his position and enjoyed a little refreshment, and then endeavoured to take rest; but so violently did my knee pain me that I was obliged to have two of my friends lying with their whole weight on my leg, thigh, and right side. They fell fast asleep in a very short time, yet I could not close an eye. The distressing and melancholy reflection of being left behind, in consequence of my illness, still recurred. The thought of being picked up and conducted to some dreadful dungeon, or some other ignominious habitation, was constantly present; and while agitated with such ideas, what mortal could think of sleeping? Thus occupied in thought, wavering between hope and despair, I remained nearly two hours, my friends in a sound sleep the whole time. At last, finding their weight on my side troublesome, I extricated myself from them without awaking them or causing them the least disturbance.

I now imagined that I had an excellent opportunity of trying whether I could rise and walk by myself, and I accordingly made an effort to stand, which I accomplished with some difficulty; but on attempting to walk, so great was the pain, and so excessive the weakness of the knee, that I immediately fell backwards on the earth. The necessity of proceeding was so urgent that during the ensuing day I availed myself of the opportunity of my companions being asleep to repeat the experiment, but with no better success. In order, however, to encourage my kind and brave associates, I kept answering all their inquiries with assurances that I felt much better.

At the usual hour of the evening, all arrangements being made for pursuing our march, we stole to the edge of the wood, which I never expected to be able to leave. I was supported by a friend on each side, as I had been the night before, and most burdensome must I have been to them. On arriving at the outskirts, we found it too early to leave the wood. There was a very high tree at the point to which we came, and it was proposed that Mr. Tuthill should climb up it to discover the nature of the country that lay before us in our course. This he immediately did in good style, being intrepid and active; and, to our great satisfaction, reported it to be a beautiful plain, without wood, river, or anything to impede our progress. From the excessive height of the tree, we had no doubt that he could extend his view over several leagues.

We at length proceeded, and I insisted that my friends should leave me in the rear, to hobble on and struggle for myself. I felt, I confess, extremely dejected, but was determined not to expose my feelings. At first the pain I endured was terrible; however, confident that there was no fracture, though with excruciating agony, I at length firmly brought my leg to the ground, and contrived to limp with the assistance of my club. We had not advanced above a league when we perceived a beautiful vineyard right before us. We halted to taste the grapes, which were a heavenly relief to me, as I was almost exhausted. The grapes, though sour, revived our spirits amazingly. After eating a great many, we amply filled our pockets. In a short time I found my knee become more easy, and the gloom that had so very much depressed me was rapidly disappearing, until I at length proceeded in excellent spirits. Indeed, I never was more surprised than at the sudden change in my frame altogether, my knee improving every mile I walked.

At daylight, on the 3rd (of Sept.), we were much alarmed, not being able to make out a wood in any direction. At last, to our unspeakable delight, we perceived at a small distance a copse or kind of little forest, not more than three or four acres in circumference. We repaired to it without hesitation, and found it thick and well adapted for our concealment. Having pitched upon a convenient spot, we deposited our knapsacks, disburdened ourselves of our apples, etc., and, after being refreshed with a little biscuit and sausage, together with a dessert of fruit, which we could now afford, we betook ourselves to rest. I had not closed an eye since I had received the hurt; but at this moment I no sooner extended my weary limbs upon the ground than I was in a profound sleep; nor did I awake until roused by my comrades, who were alarmed by the voices of two men who came to work close to our hiding-place. We could hear them so very distinctly that we were of opinion they could not be distant more than fifty paces. Their conversation was chiefly respecting the towns of Charleville and Mezières. They continued their work until sunset.

From hearing them mention those towns so repeatedly, in addition to other parts of the conversation, we were convinced of our being too far to the northward of our proper course. Travelling by nights, frequently extremely dark, though we had an excellent compass, it was impossible to avoid sometimes erring a little, more especially whenever a river turned us out of our proper direction. Those labourers being gone, which we did not regret, as the reader may suppose, we commenced our preparations, as we were accustomed, and, at the usual time of the evening, proceeded on our march towards the coast. My knee, when we started, was painful and stiff, but it gradually grew better by exercise.

At midnight we came suddenly upon a small town situated in a valley; nor did we perceive our error until it was too late to retrace our steps to avoid it. However, as it was an open town, we trusted that at so late an hour of the night we might escape through it without danger. We accordingly advanced as quickly as possible; nor did we meet a single soul until we got into the opposite fauxbourg, when we had to encounter a peasant on horseback. Mr. Ashworth asked him the name of the town we had just passed, and he informed us it was Neuville. We thanked him, continued our route, and that night travelled a considerable distance. In our journey we had often experienced a dreadful scarcity or total absence of water; and this night our thirst was very great, but we were able to allay it by the fruit we gathered in the orchards.

At about three o’clock on the morning of the 4th of September we entered a very convenient wood; and here we resolved to lie concealed for that day. We refreshed ourselves with a very small quantity of our biscuit and sausages, and had occasion to remark that our stock was getting very low, notwithstanding we had been so abstinent that strength for our journey could scarcely be supported. The dew was extremely heavy, and the ground very wet; so, making our beds of heath, leafy branches, and grass, we sank quietly to sleep. I found myself happy beyond expression, in consequence of my knee daily getting better.

The next evening, at the usual hour, we quitted our covert, but under distressing circumstances, for our fruit was exhausted, we had not a drop of water, and our thirst was excessive. We moved forward, almost perishing for want of moisture for our parched mouths and throats, and gasping lungs; and in vain we endeavoured to console ourselves by the hope of finding some brook or rivulet to relieve our anguish.

We travelled nearly seven hours in this horrible condition, without being able to discover a drop of water, except at one place, where there was a large ditch in which flax was steeped or deposited. I flew to it for relief, and, though its stench was abominable, I might have drunk copiously, had not my companions assured me that the consequence would be an immediate death. So raging was my thirst that I had still great difficulty in restraining myself; but at last I proceeded without tasting it.

I have been in all climates, almost in all parts of the universe; have endured excessive thirst at different periods of my life; have drunk vinegar, salt water, and even sucked the tarred sails on board a ship to endeavour to assuage that agony; but I solemnly declare that I never felt anything equal to what I suffered from thirst during this night.

Finding no chance of obtaining water, at least in our direct course, we unanimously agreed to approach the first village we should discover, for the purpose of procuring a supply from some of the inhabitants’ wells. An opportunity soon occurred, and we directed our steps with the greatest eagerness to this much-desired spot; but previously to our arrival at the village we descried a small orchard. My friend Tuthill, always on the alert, and naturally, as I before observed, active and expert, scaled the orchard wall in a very short time, notwithstanding the constant barking of a dog on the premises, and he returned with a supply of apples. They were very small, and of the wilding kind; but they answered our purpose, and alleviated our distressed state. We passed through one extremity of the village, got a supply of what we stood so much in need of, and proceeded; keeping more to the westward than we had lately done, in consequence of our discovery concerning Charleville. Having plenty of water, we now got on apace, with lighter hearts and brighter spirits.

CHAPTER V

The journey pursued—A bivouac in a wood—Dangers of being shot—Making free with an orchard—Crossing the Oise—A mode of obtaining provisions—A cabaret and a village fête—Kindness of the peasantry—Petit Essigny—Wringing drenched garments, and drying them over fading embers—A miserable landlord—A change of quarters—Luxuries of a hay-loft—A Samaritan of a hostess—Wretched sufferings of Mr. Essel—Resort to another village—A kind landlord—Sympathies for deserters—“A fellow-feeling makes men wondrous kind”—The luxuries of a clean bed—Resort to another village—A motherly hostess—A lucky road-acquaintance—Virtue and happiness in humble life—The charitable baker—Dangers from sportsmen to gentlemen hiding in woods—Mr. Essel’s illness disappearing—Increased speed not always safe to fugitives—Coldness of the weather—An hospitable farmer—A French harvest-home—Hesdin—Nieuville—Étaples—Turned out of a straw-bed—A new inn, with a gendarme in disguise in the kitchen—Bribing a landlord—No boat to be had—An old shepherd too cunning for a young lieutenant and midshipmen—Extreme difficulties—High hopes—Despondency and resources.

During the next day, the 5th of September, nothing particular occurred. At dawn, having found a convenient wood, we concealed ourselves, as usual, during the day. At night we resumed our journey, and at about eleven we came to an immensely broad road.

About midnight we found ourselves all of a sudden at the beginning of a street, the buildings of which were large, and the town surrounding it appeared considerable. This discovery astonished us the more, as the place had neither rampart nor fortification of any description, and hitherto we had been of opinion that there was not in France a town of this magnitude that was not well fortified. However, we had no time for debate or consideration, for we perceived lights in many of the windows; dogs were barking; we heard human voices in different directions; and our danger was extreme. Luckily at this moment we happened to perceive an opening, towards which we instantly made, and found it a by-lane which conducted us clear out of the town; but we still remained entirely ignorant as to what place this was, which made us determine to inquire at the first house we should approach, and in a few minutes an opportunity offered.

We perceived several huts on the roadside. Mr. Ashworth and myself advanced, leaving our companions concealed; and, knocking at the door of one of the huts, a man (as we supposed, in bed) asked what we wanted. We answered we were poor, distressed travellers, quite hungry and faint, and should be glad to know what distance we were from the next town. He told us, not above a mile from Montcornet.[11] We then proceeded, anxiously wishing for daylight, that we might ascertain on the map whereabouts Montcornet was situated.

A little before daylight, on Sunday the 6th, having crossed an inconsiderable river called the Serre, we halted in a wood not more than three leagues from this town. It was very thin, which made us shift and change our position many times before we could find any part calculated to conceal us. At last we selected a spot, which we made tolerably comfortable by breaking branches and placing them all round us.

At about two in the afternoon we were alarmed by a fowler and his pointer. The dog approached us very near, and as soon as he perceived us began to bark and yell. The master came also close to us, and kept whistling and calling to his dog, which at this time was a great distance from him, having retired precipitately on discovering us. The man kept on in a direct line in pursuit of the pointer: we perceived his legs and feet distinctly as he passed; but, from our position, were certain he did not see us. Our trepidation may easily be imagined, as well as our extreme joy at our hair-breadth escape.

At the usual hour we quitted our lair, and had the happiness to find that some apple-trees just outside the wood were covered with very excellent fruit; with which, I need scarcely observe, we all filled our pockets and knapsacks. What little biscuit we had now remaining was literally crumbled to dust, which made this supply of a juicy fruit almost a luxury. The night was excessively dark, and we had a number of awkward and severe falls.

Lieutenant Essel was now getting very much exhausted. His fatigue was extreme, and he became unable to keep up with us. From the great alteration which we had observed in his appearance during the last two or three days, we began to apprehend that he would not much longer be able to pursue the journey at any pace, and would be obliged to stop on the way. We resolved, however, at all events, to keep with him as long as possible. The alternative would be very painful.

On the next day, Monday the 7th, we surveyed our stock of provisions, and found it miserably low. We were alarmed at the discovery that of biscuit, or rather biscuit-dust, we had not even a pound, and of our only remaining article of food, sausage, our store was about in proportion. What to do in this critical situation we were very much at a loss to know. One thing, at least, was certain, that to exist we must eat, and that to eat we must have food; and hence the conclusion was evident, that our plan, in which consisted our safety—the system of avoiding towns, keeping away from houses, and shunning the approach of anything connected with human nature—could not be adhered to much longer, whilst it was difficult to conceive what other scheme could be adopted.

After a very long and not a very pleasant discussion, we came to the conclusion that as Messrs. Tuthill and Ashworth were the most meagre in their appearance amongst us, and, consequently, the most like Frenchmen, they should endeavour to procure some bread at the first retired and lonely habitation we should see early in the night. Accordingly, at about nine o’clock, we perceived a house directly in our course, which appeared to answer the description required. The two Frenchified gentlemen advanced to try their address: Lieutenant Essel and myself remained seated close to a thick-set hedge. We continued in that position some time, waiting the result of our friends’ embassy—my poor companion complaining grievously of the alteration in his health. Finding they did not return, we imagined that they had, perhaps, met with a good reception and were enjoying themselves; and we agreed, as the house was directly in our way, to pass by it carelessly, and, accordingly, we walked on. Just as we had passed the door, they made their appearance, with a young man dressed like a peasant. They joined and informed us they could procure no relief at that house; but that there was a small village within a few hundred yards of us, and that this young man was going to show them a public-house in it, where they could get supplied with everything. I was decidedly of opinion that this was a great deal too kind on his part; and I advised them, therefore, to send this guide back, as we certainly could find the house without his assistance; but he insisted on conducting us—inquired if we were also of the party; and presently the village was in view, and was very small, at which I rejoiced greatly. Many people were moving about, and our guide informed us it was a fête day.

The public-house was now before us, and the young man pointed to it, saying, “You may enter without fear,” and quitted us. I did not like this last observation. However, we were by this time on the threshold—a number of people were in the doorway; there was no alternative, and in we went. The house was crowded with both sexes, dancing and amusing themselves. The dancing ceased immediately after we entered; every eye was fixed upon us. We called for a place where we could sit and refresh ourselves, and were shown into a room. We asked for some bread, cheese, and wine; got them and ate heartily, although we could not boast of much comfort or of being much at our ease. Several of the peasants and their wives came and seated themselves close to our table, pressing us to take some of their gâteaux. From our general appearance, and particularly from our caps and knapsacks, they evidently mistook us for conscripts going to the army. We told them we were going to Guise, and were obliged to travel day and night by forced marches, in consequence of our regiment being ordered away, and of our having remained at home too long. Fortunately for us they were not an inquisitive people, and did not question us about the number or the officers of the regiment, nor about any of our circumstances. We called for our bill, and desired our host to bring us a large loaf of bread and a bottle of brandy, as we might want them before our joining our regiment at Guise. This being done, they all wished us success, and we parted from them, most glad to get rid of their company.

At daylight we stopped at a wood joining a farmhouse, on the banks of the Oise. About seven in the evening of Tuesday the 8th we recommenced our march, after having been greatly alarmed by a genteelly dressed lady and two children that had passed us, with a servant, who went before her shaking the brambles and knocking the wet off the trees. They came so close to us as to touch the very bush that covered us. About half-past eight we crossed the Oise in two places, and once more were obliged to pass through a village to get to the bridge that led over that river.

At daybreak of the 9th, after a tedious and difficult march, having traversed a number of deep-ploughed fields and stubble fields, over hills and across valleys, we found ourselves again in the open plains, with poor Essel scarcely able to move. This was by far the worst situation in which we had been placed since we began our journey. On surveying, with the utmost anxiety and attention, all around us, we thought we could descry trees; but they were at a considerable distance, and out of our course. We nevertheless approached them. It commenced raining very fast; and when we had reached the much-desired spot, it proved to be only a thin orchard, with a few scattered apple-trees. We still kept walking on, being well assured there was no shelter for us in our rear—at least none that was not at a great distance. We soon discovered a little village in the very direction we were going, and near it appeared a small wood. We advanced tolerably fast. Poor Essel was obliged to lag a great way behind. Meeting an old peasant, we inquired the name of the village, and found it to be Petit Essigny. He told us there was a pathway on the right of it, if we wished to avoid passing through. We were, he said, five leagues from St. Quentin. This old man’s remarks appeared to us very singular: he took his leave, and we walked on. It rained, and the morning was advancing, it being now nearly eight o’clock. What we imagined to be a wood, adjacent to the village, proved, upon approaching it, to be only a few shrubs; on arriving at which we found they were pretty thick, and the grass very high, the enclosure being surrounded by a quickset hedge. We instantly got through this hedge, and lay close down. Our situation was very unpleasant. The grass, which was excessively wet, added to our misery, having been nearly soaked to the skin before we entered it. The rain off the bushes came literally upon our poor bodies in sluices; but this was considerably preferable to the risk of going into the village, where we suspected that gendarmes might be lurking, the place being so near a large town. We continued in this wretched plight until about four o’clock, when Mr. Essel became quite weak and exhausted, and the rest of our little party were not much better. This induced us to quit this inhospitable place and endeavour to get shelter in a house, let the consequence be what it might.

Accordingly we approached a single hut at a short distance from the village; entered it, and found in it a poor old peasant and two lads, who proved to be his sons: they were shivering over a few cinders, and appeared to be very poor and miserable. We requested that they would make a good fire and allow us to dry our soaked clothes and to warm ourselves; and this they did, but not until we had promised a liberal payment. They seemed to be astonished at our appearance, and greatly at a loss to know who and what we could be. The fire being at last made, we gladly proceeded to wring the water out of our clothes and endeavour to get them dry. We made the old peasant bring us some bread: he also gave us a little butter, which by chance he had in the house; the old dame, his wife, having taken all the rest that morning to St. Quentin market.

We imagined that we should do extremely well if the old man would allow us to remain all night, even by his fireside, as it rained so excessively hard that it was absolutely impossible to attempt to travel. This was intimated to our venerable host, accompanied by an assurance that he should have his reward; but, without hesitation, he declared to us in the most positive manner that this was impossible. What were we to do, for it seemed that sort of night which made the gentle Cordelia declare that she could not turn out her enemy’s dog; and yet we, Christians, and gentlemen, and officers to boot, seemed to be in danger of becoming the wretches whose “houseless heads and unfed sides” were so pitied by the mad King Lear. Our reflections were not of a very consolatory character.

At length the old curmudgeon of a host told us that there was a public-house in the village, where we could get supplied with everything; and he added, that, as it was so very near, there could be no great difficulty in our getting to it. At this moment two peasants were passing his door, and, determined at any rate to turn us out, he called these two fellows to guide us to the place. The men appeared very civil, but, had it been the reverse, there was no alternative; so we paid the old Cerberus for his scanty fire, his mouldy brown bread and sour butter, and left his house with the disposition to shake the very dust, or rather, in this case, the very mud, off our shoes on his threshold. The figure of this flinty host of ours is still before me. He was a tall, thin, misshapen fellow; and the effects of his cadaverous and hideous countenance were not improved by a most sinister squint, and a malign, ill-natured sneer, that might well warn the unfortunate that they had little of humanity to expect at his hands.

Under our civil guides we soon arrived at the village, and, to our inexpressible joy, found it to be a small and miserable place. Our guides showed us the public-house and took their leave. We entered this poverty-stricken hovel, and found that the good landlady had nothing to give us but bread and eggs; and further, that there was not a bed in the house, her guests being accustomed to sleep in a loft where there was plenty of clean hay. This, however, was luxurious to poor wanderers, who had fed and slept in the manner in which we had ever since we had escaped from prison. But we had to study appearances, and, as there was no other inn (as they termed the wretched hovel) in the village, we seemed to hesitate whether we should remain here, or proceed to the next considerable town or to St. Quentin, and we accordingly inquired how far it was off. Our hostess replied that it was not above three or four miles to a tolerably large village, but that St. Quentin was two leagues distant. We pretended to be much chagrined at this information, and told her that it rained too hard for us to go that distance, and, inconvenient as it was, we would remain with her and sleep in the hay-loft that night, in preference to being exposed any longer to the inclemency of the weather. We had a good fire made, completed the drying of our clothes, got some supper, and retired to the hay-loft. The kind woman gave us two blankets to cover us. We found this accommodation sufficiently good, and we very soon fell fast asleep.

The next day, fortunately for us (as it kept us under cover), was very bad, raining without intermission. We continued in our loft, except one of us, who went to procure breakfast, and to inform the landlady (who we found was a widow) that we would stay until evening, in hopes that the rain might cease. We sent her our tattered garments, stockings, etc., to mend. We could move about without much fear in this place, as we found they were utter strangers to the sight of a gendarme. The good lady took us for conscripts, and commiserated our situation. She had a brother in the army, then in Prussia; and she brought us a letter to read that she had lately received from him. I said that I had served in the same regiment, with which she was very much pleased.

At about seven we paid this worthy old hostess, and took our leave. It was a clear, starlight night, and the weather promised favourably; but the ground was so excessively slippery and muddy that we could scarcely prevent ourselves from falling every step we took. At about ten, Mr. Essel was seized with a violent bleeding at the nose and mouth. We feared that he had burst a blood-vessel. This, together with a dysentery which he had been troubled with for some time, rendered him so excessively weak that he could not move a step. We were greatly affected at this misfortune, and agreed to convey him to the next house we should find. Fortunately, the village alluded to by our landlady, when we first arrived at her house, was in sight, and the view of it gave our sick friend fresh courage; but we were apprehensive it was too large for our security; however, we were resolved at all events to procure him a lodging there, and to be vigilant, and if we perceived any danger, to be off instantly. About half-past eleven we arrived at this village, and, to our joy, it proved to be by far inferior to what we had expected. Mr. Ashworth went into a public-house to reconnoitre, and to inquire if food and shelter could be supplied to our suffering friend. He returned shortly with the glad tidings that he had succeeded, and he assured us that, from all he could observe, he was convinced that we should incur no danger by remaining at the inn for the whole night, and even for the next day. The joy this intelligence spread amongst us is hardly conceivable. We all accordingly agreed most cordially to remain with our unfortunate friend, sincerely hoping that he might by the next night get rid of his malady and recover some portion of his strength. The bleeding had ceased, a symptom which we construed to be much in his favour, and at last we all entered the public-house, the sick gentleman and myself bringing up the rear.

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.

At about ten our progress was impeded by the river Canche. After examining it in several directions without success, we agreed to send Mr. Ashworth to a farmhouse hard by, to inquire the nearest place that we could cross; from whence he returned in a few minutes with one of the farmer’s men, who had been desired to direct him, and assured us the people were extremely civil. It appeared to him to be a good place to get a supply of provisions—we were excessively hungry,—and, as the passage across the river was immediately at the end of the farmhouse, and as they had already discovered our number, we mutually consented to put the farmer’s hospitality to the test, and, if possible, to procure what we wanted. We advanced with the man, who showed us in; and we were very kindly received by the master of the house, who conducted us into a decent back-room. The kitchen, when we first entered, was full of peasantry at supper.

The farmer’s harvest had been that day finished, or gathered in, and he was giving his labourers a feast on the occasion, which, we were told, was an immemorial custom in that part of the country, throughout which many things reminded us of our own. In fact, we were now in the midst of a French harvest-home; and, though the scene was gratifying, yet in our peculiar situation we should have been by far better pleased had we been alone. All was joy and happiness under this rustic and hospitable roof, if I except the twinges of apprehension that now and then would disturb me and my friends. Nothing, however, could surpass the attention and kindness of this good farmer. He supplied us spontaneously with everything that his house could afford. Certain it is that he took us for Frenchmen and conscripts, and thought, perhaps, that we were going to fight for the glory of France, under the eagles of the new emperor. Little did he suspect that we were English naval officers, encountering all dangers and enduring all hardships, for the sake of once more fighting under

The flag that braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze.

As our host would not accept of any payment for what we had received, we made a present to the servant who was to guide us, and we took our leave of this good man full of gratitude for his kindness.

We conjectured that we were not more than seven leagues from Étaples, a town on the mouth of the river Canche, with a tolerably good harbour for small vessels. This put us in such good spirits that even Mr. Essel, in spite of his weakness, was determined to go that distance before daylight. We quickened our pace, and proceeded, with light hearts and full of hope.

We passed the strong town of Hesdin at midnight, and as might be supposed, we took care to keep a very respectful distance from it. At daylight on Thursday the 17th, to our great mortification, we found that we were at least three leagues from Étaples. We had exerted ourselves right manfully, and had performed our allotted task; but the journey was much longer than we had supposed when we quitted the farmhouse. A bourg, or municipal town, called Nieuville, lay now immediately in our route, without our having any means of avoiding it, on account of the serpentine course of the river. Neither wood nor anything else to shelter us was in view. Our situation was most critical, and we unwillingly came to the conclusion that was obvious—pass through the town we must. Our object was to get through it before any, or at least many, of the inhabitants could be up, and by dint of a quick pace. This we happily accomplished. As soon as possible we struck across the fields; but, to our dismay, no appearance of a wood could be discovered. Even in the fields people were moving in different directions, and it was not much to our comfort that we observed many of them to be military. Surrounded by such numerous difficulties, we resolved to go into a small contiguous village, imagining that even this would be less dangerous than to remain straying and wandering in the open fields. We arrived about eight o’clock at a hut in the village; avoiding the public-house, as there are, in general, police officers, or gendarmes, lurking around such places when in the vicinity of large towns. We asked the inhabitants if they could provide us breakfast. They replied, “Yes, we can give you some milk-soup and bread.” We approved of this repast very much; and, after paying them, we requested they would have the goodness to allow us to repose ourselves for a few hours in some convenient place; but this they refused, hinting that they suspected that we were deserters from the camp at Boulogne. We assured them, upon our words of honour, they were very much mistaken; that, on the contrary, we were going that way, but were so very much fatigued, and having a sick comrade, we wanted a little rest. After importuning them a long time, and promising a good reward, they allowed us to go into a barn-loft full of straw. We were particularly obliged to them, and perfectly contented with this apartment; but, when nearly settled, and each had got covered over with straw, to our great mortification and annoyance, the owner came, having repented of his granting permission to enter it, and insisted upon our instantly quitting his premises. All our rhetoric with this fellow was in vain. So we were compelled to quit our habitation about eleven o’clock, and walk towards another more respectable village. We inquired of a shepherd, on entering this place, if he could direct us to a public-house; and he pointed out one to us. We proceeded, but with little hopes of escaping from being discovered or arrested. However, we determined to call for a private room the moment we arrived at the cabaret, being in hopes (if we could avoid police officers in passing to a private apartment) we might stand a chance of remaining unnoticed until night. In this we succeeded; and, being supplied with refreshments, we were provided with a suitable apartment immediately. The only person in the house was a girl of about eighteen years of age, who made us a comfortable fire, and shook up two beds, that we might rest a little if we pleased. Seeing that there was no danger, we pretended to be quite at our ease, and coolly asked her where her father and mother were. She replied, “That the former was watching the sheep outside of the village, and that the latter was gone to Étaples.” We found by her description of her father that he was the very man who had directed us to her. She asked us, “If we were not conscripts going to the camp of Boulogne?” We answered in the affirmative; and begged her not to let anybody enter our room, as we had several things to settle amongst ourselves and wished to be in private. She promised to obey us; but little did her acquiescence bring confidence or comfort, when she added that there was at that moment a gendarme in the kitchen in the disguise of a peasant. This was enough to render us tremulous. But even this was not all; for she informed us that this gendarme had just come from Boulogne with a party, in order to procure forage for the gendarmes’ horses there. We had evidently got into a hornet’s nest, or almost within the jaws of the lion; but, preserving as much the appearance of tranquillity as possible, we informed her that we had not the least desire to see anybody but her father, with whom we wished to have some conversation. She promised to send for him as soon as her guest in the kitchen had quitted the house. The “soon” was devoutly to be wished; and glad were we when, in a short time, we were told that he had taken his departure. The girl now sent for her father; and her mother also returned. We were in great hopes that, as these people were very poor, we might be able to induce them to procure us a boat, through the medium of some of their friends, the fishermen on the coast, who might not be temptation-proof, or impervious to the influence of a few louis d’or. Convinced that nothing much could be accomplished without this all-powerful metal, each of us began to search in the different parts of his garments for his due proportion. We had been obliged to take the precaution of stitching what gold coin we had in the seams of our clothes, that we might not lose it in the event of our being arrested. To our great sorrow—and, I may add, astonishment—Mr. Essel discovered that his gold coin, to the amount of £45 sterling, had slipped out of a pad which he had contrived for the purpose of concealing it, and which he had always worn round his neck in his neck-handkerchief; nor could he recollect having untied it but once since we set out, and that was at the worthy baker’s cottage, where he suspected he had left it. This baker had appeared to be an honest man, and, as I have already observed, had behaved excessively kindly to us. It was possible that the money might have been left there without our host having seen it until after our departure; but the poor fellow could have no opportunity of restoring the treasure to its right and now embarrassed owner. The loss was to us, at that moment, very distressing, but not irreparable, as we still had a tolerably good sum, and Lieutenant Essel and myself had two gold watches, sufficient, as we trusted, to inspirit the shepherd and induce him to assist us. He at length arrived; when, after taking every feasible means of enjoining secrecy, we disclosed our situation, object, and what we were, and promised to reward him very liberally, provided he could procure us a conveyance across the Channel. We were certain, we observed, that he must have a number of seafaring acquaintances on the coast, and we would make it well worth their trouble to assist us. He hesitated very much at first; but, having shown him a purse, and repeating our promises of reward, he assured us he would try every possible means, and he declared that, at all events, we were perfectly safe under his roof, and that he would proceed to see what he could accomplish. We were greatly elated, and were almost certain of succeeding, from his not raising any obstacles. Our anxiety for this fellow’s return is not to be described: every individual that passed appeared to be somebody he had sent, or was about to bring, to agree with us for our passage. The much-wished-for moment, as we thought, at length arrived, when the old shepherd, with a demure countenance, opened our door, and, having closed it again with the utmost caution, began to inform us, “That all his search to procure a boat had been ineffectual; that the fishermen along the coast were constrained to bring their boats to Étaples and lay them up there, whence they dared not move without a passport from the commandant of the town, as well as a soldier as a guard in each boat, to prevent their having communication with the English cruisers or going without the limits. They were also under the necessity of going out and returning only in the daytime.” To our vexation and grief, the fellow added, “that we could not remain in his house any longer than the dusk of the evening, as he was obliged to return an account to the mayor of the village of every stranger that might be with him after dark, taking his passport at the same time for the mayor’s inspection;” and the fellow concluded all this anything but comfortable information and kindness by lifting up his hat, scratching his head, and saying, “I hope, gentlemen, you will reward me for my pains and for keeping counsel.” We were absolutely confounded. We stood amazed—staring at each other; and for some time were unable to utter a word. At length I broke silence, and observed, “That it was the fault of his better half, who appeared to us, from the instant we had seen her, to be a bitter, malignant creature. She, no doubt, had been consulted;” and her sour looks and conduct upon every occasion convinced us all that this opinion was well founded.

Having nothing to expect from this unfeeling and unprincipled couple, we paid them liberally for all we had had, and for all they had done, or pretended to have done; and as soon as it was dark we left their, to us, not agreeable abode. The point of departure had been a subject of altercation; for, as soon as they had received our money, they insisted upon turning us out; whilst we, for our own purposes, as resolutely maintained our right to remain until it was dark. Both of the inhospitable pair had repeatedly threatened to call in the mayor, in order to arrest us, if we remained a moment longer; but this could scarcely have been worse than running the risk of being seen in the daytime. However, darkness at length shrouded the earth, and we left this unpropitious roof with no very merciful, or, we fear, Christian feelings, towards those that drove us out.

When in the open air, we were utterly perplexed as to how we should act and as to what course we should steer. We began to imagine that what we had been told respecting the boats might be partly true. Sometimes we supposed that it would be better to proceed towards Rotterdam; at others we thought of recrossing the Canche and directing our wearisome course towards St. Valery; at others we imagined it would be better to repair to any port where we might be likely to find an American or other neutral vessel, in which we might escape; but at last we agreed unanimously to cross the river, as at all events the safest plan for that night, and afterwards to proceed to some villages that might be close down on the sea-coast. We were thus consulting, or had just come to this conclusion, when the shepherd’s daughter made her appearance, and gently told us, “That her father had sent her to show us a house where we were sure of finding a person that would be of service to us, and who would put us across the river; which was,” she added, “by far the safest side.” We thanked the girl, who appeared the whole evening very much affected at the conduct of her parents; and she returned, begging us not to mention who had directed us—which, of course, we promised, and we kept our word. One of us was now deputed to reconnoitre. It was about ten o’clock; the house was on the side of the road, and a number of soldiers were passing on their route to the camp: this circumstance retarded our project, as we were obliged to keep within a hedge until the military had passed, and by this time it was full eleven o’clock. Then Mr. Tuthill (the deputed person) advanced; and soon returned and informed us that he had seen a man who had given him some hopes, and that he would rejoin us shortly. This was most welcome news. The person made his appearance, and told us he would direct us to a friend’s house on the other side, who would, he believed, do what we wished. Heavens! what joyful intelligence! “His boat,” he said, “would put us across as soon as she should be afloat; the tide of flood was then making, and he would return again to where we were in an hour, by which time he supposed the boat would be ready.” This put us in the highest spirits. An hour ago we were in the depths of despair; our feelings of joy were now heightened by contrast. With the vividness of lightning flashed across my mind all our past sufferings; and, from the number of dangers which we had almost miraculously escaped, it struck me that we were special favourites of Fortune, and that we were about to reap the glorious object of all our wishes. Habit, however, had taught us distrust and caution; and we shifted our situation, lest this stranger might turn out to be a false friend, or a scoundrel sent to deceive us, and we placed ourselves where we could easily discover whether he had any auxiliaries with him when he came back. At the appointed time he came to where he expected to find us, by himself, which convinced us that his intentions were more honest than we had supposed. In a few minutes we were carried to the opposite side, where he secured his boat, and guided us to the house above-mentioned, assuring us that they were people we could depend upon, and who had many friends, fishermen, on the water-side. He would not enter the cottage, or hut, but quitted us at the threshold, having received a sufficient recompense for the trouble we had given. We knocked repeatedly at the door. It began to rain very heavily; nor could we gain admittance until we had given many assurances that we were particular friends who only wished to be sheltered a few minutes from the inclemency of the night. These protestations at length gained us permission to enter.

CHAPTER VI

A false direction and an appalling repulse—A bribe refused—A deluge, and shelter in a barn—A fatal resolution—Dangers of fugitives journeying by daylight—A market-day at Étaples—Passing through crowds not very convenient for runaway prisoners of war—An attempt to reach the sand-hills on the coast—A bold progress through a despicable village—The last house—Parching thirst, and begging for a draught of water—An acquiescence, or reply, in the shape of two custom-house officers—Our capture—A clever fiction well devised, better sustained, and totally defeated—Getting rid of suspicious goods—An examination before the mayor—Americanism and the American gentleman—An awkward exposure—A mittimus to Boulogne gaol—An examination of our persons and clothes—Our fate sealed, and hope destroyed.

Both the man and woman of the house stared at us with great amazement; and, finding that we were utter strangers, they begged to know what we wanted, and why we had disturbed them so unseasonably. This reception was rather portentous and appalling; but humility becomes the unfortunate, and we humbly begged that they would make themselves quite easy, for we were absolutely come as friends in great distress, to solicit protection and assistance. This appeased them; and we proceeded to state that we were Frenchmen, who wished to be conveyed as quickly as possible into some part of Normandy or Brittany. We made them very liberal offers; but, to our dismay, they were thoroughly “temptation-proof.” To all our bribery their hearts and minds were as cold as asbestos. The woman at last observed, “that it was true that she had a brother who was a fisherman on the sea-coast,” and our eyes glistened at what we thought was the beginning of good news; but then came the sad addenda, that his boat had been taken round to Étaples, and that when he wished to fish he was obliged to embark under the surveillance and regulations which had been described to us by the shepherd. Alas! alas! we began to fear that the shepherd was not the egregious liar we had taken him for. The woman’s story was confirmed by the husband; and both assured us that, upon our knocking at their door, they had suspected us to be gendarmes in disguise. These fellows, it appeared, were frequently in the habit of practising such tricks upon their countrymen. The good old couple, however, soon insisted upon our quitting their house, and in a manner which proved that they were not accustomed to make use of much ceremony. In vain did we point out to them our miserable plight, and expatiate upon the extreme badness of the weather. We talked of the excessive darkness of the night, the torrents of rain that were pouring as if heaven and earth were coming in contact, and we entreated them to allow us to shelter ourselves in any barn, cow-house, or even pig-sty; but we might as well have appealed to an Egyptian mummy. In proportion as we were mendicant they became peremptory, and even fierce; and at last we were obliged to depart in what seemed little less than a deluge. As soon as they saw that they had got us over the threshold, some few and faint feelings of commiseration seemed to touch their obdurate breasts, and they had the charity to point out to us a direction which led to a barn, which they assured us was full of hay, and seldom visited, so that we could very safely remain concealed in it until the following night. They further advised us to proceed either to Dieppe or St. Valery, as the two ports at which it was most probable that we should succeed in procuring a boat.

We shortly discovered the barn, and had the good fortune to arrive at it a little before daylight. We found it full of hay, as they had stated; a most timely relief for us, being quite drenched with the incessant rain, and all over mud and dirt. Each soon found, or made, a convenient hole for himself through the hay, taking the precaution to work a good way down and to cover himself well over, lest our steps into this place should lead to a suspicion and we might be found out. We fell into a most profound sleep; nor did I awake until nine o’clock in the morning (Friday, 18th Sept.), when I heard my name called repeatedly by Mr. Tuthill. He proposed that we should quit that place immediately, and get down to the sea-side, as the day was the only time to succeed in procuring a boat, from the method they had taken of securing all vessels at night. I used the most forcible arguments I was master of to dissuade them from so rash a proceeding; and pointed out the caution we had observed in the inland parts of the country as the only thing that had ensured our success in arriving where we then were; although there had been much less danger in the interior than on the sea-coast, where there would be, of course, a strict look-out kept by custom-house officers, gardes de côte, etc. I suggested, as the better plan, to wait until night: we could, in the event of not succeeding, always make this our rendezvous, and could return to it before daylight, procuring subsistence at some lonely cottage during the night. All my rhetoric was in vain: they appeared determined to try their fortune by daylight. I then requested, at any rate, that they would wait until noon,—the usual time for the country people to dine,—as we might with the more ease get away unnoticed. This was at last agreed to; so we remained buried in the hay until the hour of noon, when, unperceived by anybody, we crept out, and, getting upon the highway, proceeded in the direction we had intended to take. We put a bold front upon disastrous affairs, and, with apparent intrepidity, we marched on. Unluckily, it was market-day at Étaples, and the road was crowded with people going to and returning from the ferry-boat. Our only plan was to walk directly through them, on the principle that no man whose object was flight and escape would walk amid crowds of enemies in open day. This was the only course that we could adopt; and, though all our calculations proved to be miserably erroneous, and our hopes fallacious, still I had nothing with which I had to reproach myself.

We kept advancing towards the sand-hills with all the appearance of carelessness and confidence, but with a quick, and, as far as we could assume appearances, a bold and firm step; and we arrived at last at a poor, sorry village, through which we had to pass. We had actually got to the very last house, when our poor friend Ashworth felt extremely exhausted, and expressed that his parching thirst obliged him to ask for a draught of water. On all such occasions every one of the party was consulted, and the majority of votes constituted the ultimatum, or decision; and whether a long train of success, or a long succession of narrow escapes, had made us vainly confident, I cannot say, but not one of us saw the slightest danger in Ashworth’s entering this house. It was impossible to suppose that so wretched a village could contain either troops or gendarmes; and as we had passed through the place without attracting any notice whatever, we did not imagine that there could be any danger in entering the last house at its extremity. The glorious sea, with all its inspirations, was before us, and we laughed at what we had undergone, for our hearts were light, and our minds were full of the glad prospects of our attaining to all our wishes.

Ashworth entered the house, and we advanced slowly, lagging and loitering for him to rejoin us. His absence appeared very long—unnecessarily so. Suspense and impatience gave way to suspicion, and suspicion was succeeded by alarm. I shall never forget my conflicting emotions—they grew stronger and stronger every moment. At length, Mr. Tuthill broke silence, and expressed a wish to go and ascertain what had detained our companion. Essel and myself remained on the side of the road, anxiously looking out. They very soon appeared; and, to our inexpressible grief and mortification, were conducted by two armed men in a uniform entirely foreign to us. These soon proved to be douaniers, or custom-house officers, with which, at that period, the coast of France abounded; but none of them had ever fallen under our observation or cognisance. I clearly perceived that these fellows had taken both our companions into custody, from the manner in which they approached. When they had joined us, Mr. Ashworth introduced me to them as Captain Cox, of the ship Favourite, of New York—the story fixed upon in case of being stopped. We had been cast away near Marseilles, and all hands had perished, except Florence Heath (Mr. Ashworth), mate; William Dixon (Mr. Tuthill), supercargo; and Mr. Essel (whose new name I now forget), passenger. We were bound to Barcelona. Cargo—slaves and cotton. Only the supercargo and mate could speak French. They appeared to commiserate our situation, and had not the least doubt but that what we alleged was true. “But they must take us,” they said, “to the mayor of the town, who would, no doubt, grant us passports to proceed to some seaport, whence we could take shipping for America, or any other place we pleased.” We expressed our warmest thanks for this mark of their attention; but (if they pleased) we added, “That we did not wish to put them to the inconvenience of going out of their way on our account.” They replied, “That it was entirely in their way; and it was impossible we could proceed along the coast without papers: they were only astonished how we had crossed the kingdom of France (or, more properly speaking, the empire) without being arrested. We had been much to blame in not having procured passports prior to our quitting Marseilles.” We assured them we were ignorant of its being in the smallest degree necessary, that we were born in a country where nothing of the kind was required, and where it would be deemed a very great insult to ask any person where he came from or whither he was going. We, of course, alluded to public functionaries; for we well recollected the proverbial character of the Americans for inquisitiveness, and Dr. Franklin’s story of his putting up a printed board over his apartment, whenever he arrived in an American town, so full of all particulars relating to himself as to render it impossible, as he thought, for even American curiosity to intrude upon his privacy with a question.

We of course regretted that we had not been more enlightened upon the laws and customs of “ce pays ci,” and at length we arrived at the ferry-boat, and in a few minutes found ourselves in the town of Étaples, under different circumstances and in a different company from what he had desired or expected. We still entertained hopes of escape; but, unfortunately, each of us had about his person many things most inconvenient to be inspected by French douaniers, and most unlikely to corroborate our fiction of our being shipwrecked Americans. My brains were set to work to “get to windward” of this quicksand, and I whispered to my “mate” to intimate to his unwelcome or awkward friends, that I was fatigued, and that I wished to take some little refreshment at any convenient inn before I had the honour of appearing before the mayor. Our civil conductors consented that the fatigued gentleman should take what refreshment he stood in need of, and of which, I need scarcely say, they intended to be participators. We arrived at a cabaret, were allowed to enter, were conducted into a good room, and, as if I were the most easy and indifferent gentleman that ever proceeded from America, I called authoritatively for a supply of bread and wine. During this repast we alternately had an excuse for retiring: I need not say that we took care to get rid of almost every article that might prove that our fiction had not the saving grace of probability.

We at last made the best of a very bad or unpromising case; and, putting on the appearance of unconcern and mirth, we followed our conductors. They told us that they were under the necessity of waiting upon their captain previously to going before the mayor. He received me and my companions with politeness, and all things seemed to indicate that the interview might pass off without danger, until he politely told me that he must send for the mayor to be present at our examination. This changed the whole complexion of the case; and I am sure the effect must have been visible in most of our countenances. At length, “His Worship” arrived, not at all to our comfort; but what rendered his presence more annoying was his bringing with him “an American gentleman.” It is said that the society of a gentleman is always desirable; but the ghosts did not strike more terror into “the soul of Richard” than the reality of this American gentleman’s appearance struck terror into ours. The mayor and the American gentleman engaged us, “yard-arm and yard-arm.” Their cross-examination was worse than a raking fire. We had only to repeat our former story. At last our unlucky genius, the American gentleman, plainly stated to us that they suspected us to be Englishmen—which we had no means of disproving. The mayor added that we were to be committed to the prison of Boulogne until the authorities heard from the American consul at Paris, or until they were thoroughly convinced of the veracity of our statement. These were disastrous “untils”; and it struck me that if they waited for the alternative of them, we might remain in gaol to eternity.

The result was, what less sanguine and less interested men might have anticipated—we were to be ordered to a dungeon, under an escort of gendarmerie. The brigadier, who seemed to have all the hundred eyes of Argus condensed into two, asked if we had been searched. The answer was in the negative. “Search them instantly,” cried he; “and,” he added, “depend upon it they are Englishmen, who have escaped from one of the depots.” The fellows were obedient to command, and we were immediately put under as severe a scrutiny as ever man was subjected to. I was the first person to be rummaged. My pocket-book was opened, and in it were several English letters, with other papers equally calculated to disprove the veracity of my being an American captain shipwrecked at Marseilles. My resource was to say that my pocket-book belonged to a cousin who had perished with the wreck. On the others were found maps of the departments that we had gone through, with several other papers, which identified us to be what they suspected.

However, we still persisted in being Americans. They remonstrated on the folly of such an imposition, and ordered us into a dungeon, assuring us that we should be now very roughly treated, and considered as dangerous people; whereas a frank confession might cause some mitigation. After a little deliberation we clearly perceived the inutility of holding out; so we at once acknowledged who and what we were. The brigadier assured us that he had been confident from the moment he first saw us that we were English, and he would now do everything in his power to comfort us under our present embarrassments, but he had no superior officer of his corps nearer than Boulogne, where he should send us the next day; and for that night he would allow us to go to an inn to get ourselves a little in order, but with a strong escort; and we should be obliged to provide that escort with every necessary, and to pay the men six livres (five shillings) each for the night. This we readily agreed to. Once more we were prisoners: our state of mind was truly miserable.

At the inn we bought a new shirt and pair of stockings each, and got our old ones, which were in a sad condition, washed and mended. They supplied us with tolerably good beds, of which we were extremely anxious to take possession. After supper we were in the act of going to bed, when an order came, from the commanding officer of a camp adjacent, to conduct us to his tent—which was quickly put into execution. He appeared, in manners, the reverse of the general character of the French. He perused all my letters, which were of no consequence to any one existing except myself,—and which were never returned to me,—and declared he was certain we had emissaries on the coast, otherwise we could never have attempted so perilous a journey. This was, at least, a compliment to our daring enterprise; and when we assured him that we had had no connection whatever with the people on the coast, he replied with a “Bah!” and concluded with an “Ah! the fishermen on our coast, unfortunately, are too much attached to the English.”

Our conversation terminated, and we were taken back to our inn. Distressed as we were, we immediately retired to rest our wearied limbs. Nature was exhausted; and we sank into nature’s balm—“sweet sleep,”—too afflicted and worn out to reflect, or to care for the reflection that the dawn would see us in progress to gaol.

CHAPTER VII

Our entrance into the gaol of Boulogne—Tantalising sight of Old England’s flag and white cliffs—A gaoler’s supper and a conscientious bill—Another examination—The route to Verdun—Arras—The gaoler kind, and the commandant full of indulgence—Bapaume—The baker, and inquiries for our lost money—Cambray—Cateau-Cambresis and its horrible dungeon—Landrecies—Our awkwardness in chains, handcuffs, and fetters—My dislike to them—Avesnes—Information that we were to be shot—The dungeon of Avesnes—A dungeon companion who had killed and cut up both his parents—A night of horrors and lunacy—Hirson, a town without a gaol, but with a dungeon—A supper and its consequences—The discovery of our implements of escape—Maubert Fontaine—A new dungeon and a fellow-prisoner—Reciprocal services—A novel mode of hiding pistol-barrels—Chaining prisoners to a cart—Mezières—Arrival at Verdun—Separated from my companions—Reflections on being shot—A close examination—Questioned in relation to Buonaparte—Allowed to join my old associates—Another cross-examination—A recommittal to prison—Our fate determined—The dungeon of Bitche—The Rev. Lancelot C. Lee, a détenu—His generosity.

The next morning, the 19th Sept. 1807, at eight o’clock, our gendarme escort entered the inn, and, soon placing us in a cart, conducted us to Boulogne. We arrived at about two in the afternoon, and were unceremoniously handed over to a regular gaoler, a Mons. Verjuis, who gave us in custody to one of his most expert turnkeys. The fellow showed us into our apartment. Shortly after, two small sheaves of straw were sent us as substitutes for beds, and a bucket of water accompanied them, as our sole refreshment. Tuthill, astonished at this supply, asked me seriously what it could mean? I replied, that it was evidently to be our food, and that they thought straw for Englishmen a good substitute for bread!! However, complaint would only have subjected us to ridicule or insult, and without a murmur we drank our water and reposed upon our straw. We had passed many days when the straw would have been a luxury to us, and many nights and days when we would have given a stream of gold for the draught of water.

This day’s excursion had afforded us a view of that formidable flotilla which had so frequently threatened to hurl destruction upon our little island; but with what different emotions did we catch the view of the white cliffs of Dover, and behold an English frigate and lugger blockading the French port. The sight of our country, and of the triumphant flag of our glorious profession—the navy of England,—filled us with desires that were not to be realised, and with hopes in which it was tantalising and vain to indulge. I was a little relieved by a feeling of contempt at the dismantled and decaying flotilla, and by reflecting that had France had the folly to build a thousand times as many flat-bottomed boats as I then beheld, she never could have made any impression on our happy country.

However, neither sentiment nor reflection can be a substitute for food, and the keenness of our appetites soon taught us the absolute necessity of becoming acquainted with our good host. We began to supplicate for relief through the iron bars; and our experience of the French character had taught us the good policy of accompanying each supplication with an assurance that we would pay liberally for whatever we might be supplied with. At length, this man of iron bars and gratings thought proper to pay us a visit. He promised to afford us relief, and we soon got supplied tolerably well with food, and had two mattresses brought us—we still keeping our promise to pay whatever was required. It appeared that this fellow was a great acquisition to Buonaparte’s government: he had been originally a convict sentenced to perpetual imprisonment in chains; he therefore resided in a gaol, and wore small silver chains round his wrists and ankles, and thus literally conformed to his sentence, whilst he was placed in a situation under government.

On Monday the 21st we were conducted to the captain of gendarmes to undergo another examination; and he behaved very like a gentleman. We were interrogated separately. He said that our attempt to gain our liberty was very laudable, and that he felt for our misfortunes. Our march back was to commence the next morning. He exhorted us to have fortitude and patience, and dwelt very much on the cruelty of not having an exchange of prisoners between the two countries. We returned him many thanks for his goodness, and were escorted back to our prison, where we made every necessary arrangement within our power for the next day. This was a task neither difficult nor long, for our luggage or apparel was not calculated to cause us much embarrassment.

On Tuesday, 22nd Sept., we were called betimes by the guard, and in a few minutes were once more en route. The day was excessively wet and the roads heavy, which prevented the guards from chaining us, more especially as we had a very long march to Montreuil, which was twelve or thirteen leagues distant. About five in the afternoon we were placed in the common gaol of Montreuil, which we found a tolerably comfortable prison; but the gaoler and his wife imposed upon us in a shameful manner.

Our route was now through Hesdin and St. Pol, to Arras. The gaoler here behaved with kindness and civility to us, and (with the exception of one) was the most humane man in that situation I ever knew. And in dire necessity of his humanity were we all at this moment; but more especially myself, for so completely knocked up was I from excessive fatigue and exhaustion, by the length of this day’s journey in chains, that I found my head quite dizzy, and had actually swooned and fallen against the prison walls before the gaoler could conduct me to my cell.

The commandant was also extremely civil, and allowed us, at our own request, a chaise, with an escort of two gendarmes (whose names were Potdevin and Pasdevie), to Cambray. Having passed through Bapaume, we called at our old friend the baker’s, where Mr. Essel supposed he had lost his money. He and his children were severally examined; but we could not discover the smallest trace that might lead us to suppose he had taken it: and I must confess I believed the baker to be innocent. At Cambray we dismissed, or, rather, the Arras escort quitted us; and we were conducted to Cateau-Cambresis, where we were put into a most horrible dungeon under ground, nor could anything in our power have any effect on the flint-hearted keeper of it. We fortunately remained but twenty-four hours at this place; thence we were conducted to Landrecies, where we were permitted to stop and get a breakfast. Our landlady here shed tears at seeing us handcuffed in so cruel a manner; yet, in spite of all remonstrances and entreaties, and notwithstanding the obvious inutility of this caution or harshness, our guards would not unshackle a single wrist during the whole time, and the people of the house were literally obliged to feed us.

At about five o’clock on the 29th, we arrived at Avesnes, and were very rudely thrust into the gaol, and placed amongst the worst and lowest class of criminals that it contained. This, we were informed, was by the special order of General Wirion, who, it appeared, had sent an express to all stages on our route, desiring that we should be treated as severely and as indignantly as possible. Our guard seemed to be by no means lax in discipline, for they fulfilled their instructions both to their spirit and letter. A report, moreover, was current at this place, that we were English spies, about to be shot for having been hired to inspect the naval armaments along the French coast. This idea certainly did not procure us the sympathies of the populace, nor did it seem to soften the tempers of our conductors; and all assurances to the contrary on our part were rendered abortive by the fact of our being so heavily manacled, shackled, and loaded with chains. The conclusions from these symbols of guilt were that if we were not spies we were something even worse. What were our disgust and horror when we found that we were thrust into a horrible dungeon with a wretch that was condemned to perpetual imprisonment for having murdered and mutilated both his father and mother! I shuddered every time I beheld this monster, and could not bear his gaze upon me. I was told that the wretch had cut both of his parents into quarters, and had buried them in a pit. Never shall I forget the joy we all felt when at daybreak we were taken from this horrible society. I expressed my astonishment that crimes so heinous should not receive the punishment of death; and then it was, and not till then, that the solution was made clear to me—the unhappy man, upon his trial, had been declared a lunatic. I reflected that, as a lunatic, he ought not to be subject to so cruel a confinement. From all I had seen of French gaols, I entertained a very low idea of the prison discipline, economy, and management of France; but the horrors of that night can never be effaced from my mind.

It was about five o’clock, on the 30th of September, that we were halted at the town of Hirson. The town is without a gaol, but it possessed a little damp, subterranean cell, or dungeon, just capable of containing the four of us. We were thrust into this cachot, or dungeon, and, a little straw being contemptuously thrown upon us, the heavy door was closed, and we were left to the choice of meditation or slumber. We preferred the latter, but vexation made us irritable; when luckily a brigadier of the gendarmerie—who, with two gendarmes, constituted the police of the village—showed his face at the little hole in the door of the dungeon, and informed us that the gaoler’s wife would procure us some sort of refreshment, provided we would pay her, and pay her in advance. This we not only agreed to immediately, but we found our hearts bounding at the intelligence, and we most humbly and gratefully thanked this brigadier for his excessive goodness and condescension. We were soon informed that there was a kind of repast prepared for us, and that we should have permission to go out into the gaoler’s house during the few minutes necessary to refresh ourselves. This intelligence threw us into great confusion, as we had been unaccustomed to such an indulgence, and, in consequence, had neglected to conceal in some secret hole a number of small articles, such as files and gimlets, which we fortunately had hitherto kept in our possession. The moment they were about to open our door, one preferred keeping what tools he had about him, another slipped his in amongst the straw, and in this perplexed state the dungeon was opened and we were ordered out. At this instant I flung from me, over a high garden wall, two small files which I had concealed in my hand when the dungeon door was opened. I protest I thought the things left in the straw were best secured, as the place was excessively dark. We were now seated at table with some soup and bouilli, in great consternation, surrounded by the gendarmes and gaoler. In a few minutes the latter procured a candle and lanthorn, and informed the brigadier he was ready to attend him. He accordingly rose, and they proceeded to the miserable abode we had just quitted. An opinion of our feelings at that moment can only be formed by those unfortunate people who have experienced similar sufferings and anxiety. I can only say that our relish for the soup was not very great; we were well assured that everything left in the straw would inevitably be discovered, which most certainly would lead to a general search of our persons. The brigadier’s generosity was now sufficiently accounted for: he and his companion returned; and, as we expected, they had found every single tool, together with the stock of a double-barrelled pistol—of which I had given charge to Essel, keeping the barrels in my own possession, and another of the same description, with its barrels also. They made very diligent search for the barrels of Essel’s pistol-stock, but without effect. We assured them that we threw the barrels away prior to our quitting Verdun; and that we had taken the stock and lock to use occasionally instead of a tinder-box, which we had no possibility of providing. They began to search us now separately: a few things were found upon my comrades; but, fortunately for me, they did not discover upon my person my pistol, which was more complete than that which they had found, nor the barrels belonging to Essel’s pistol-stock, nor, in fact, anything whatever. Poor Ashworth was less fortunate, for out of the seams of his greatcoat they took two files. They next cut open every covered button, thinking one or all of them might contain some coin; but in this, I have no doubt, they were most mortified and chagrined to be mistaken. The brigadier could hardly convince himself that my walking-stick, which I purchased after leaving Boulogne, did not conceal a sword or dagger. He kept twisting it about and tugging at it, all in vain, and yet so suspicious was he that he chose to keep it for the night. We were reconducted to our den in a state of feeling which can scarcely be conceived. In a few minutes we endeavoured to take what repose we could.

Awaking about midnight, I began to deliberate upon the consequence of having so dangerous a “tinder-box” about me, with all its necessary materials, i.e. ammunition; and, having found what I thought was a convenient place—a hole in the dungeon wall—I deposited the barrels of Essel’s pistol therein, keeping about me still my own complete. The night went off without further disturbance.

At daylight we were again put en route—chained, handcuffed, and closely, even maliciously, watched. The day was very rainy, the roads very bad and heavy; our march was long and fatiguing; and I cannot say that our minds were in the best possible state to cheer us through our sufferings.

It was on the 1st of October, about six in the evening, that we arrived at Maubert Fontaine. Never were poor prisoners in a more miserable plight. We were saturated with rain, and covered with mud. We found that a new dungeon had been built in this village, and into it we were rudely thrust. What the old dungeon might have been, I do not know, but our domicile proved to me that the French could not have made much progress in the art of constructing dungeons. It was a wretched place. A boy, of about ten years old, had been confined in it for six or seven days; he belonged to the neighbouring town of Lille, and was imprisoned for having strolled from home without a passport. The poor little fellow informed us that his food had been nothing but black bread and water; and he stated, not much to my satisfaction, that our arrival had been expected for two or three days, and that we were to be searched most strictly. This boy was of the greatest service to me, and, with his assistance, I contrived to conceal my double-barrelled pistol, or, as I termed it, my tinder-box. I unscrewed the barrels, and, thrusting them into the fingers of my gloves, I kept the glove on, with the fingers bent towards the wrist, so that the pistol-barrels were mistaken for my fingers straight out. The boy helped me to conceal the stock, just as the guard entered to search us. We had nothing else about us now, except our money, which had hitherto been respected, and a small gold watch which I wore, and which they fortunately did not discover. I purchased this watch at Verdun, and wear it even to the present day. We were searched with great strictness and severity; and such were the feelings against us that the guard deprived us of all our money, and, upon our remonstrating, they replied that they would pay out of it all our expenses to Verdun, and account for the balance to General Wirion, at that depot. The reader may easily imagine with what sort of good faith the account was kept, and the amount that remained to be paid to the General. However, this night the guard provided for us, out of our money, what they called a supper; and they procured for us some straw and blankets, which were our only beds. The poor French boy felt himself perfectly happy in having, as he termed it, “something good” to eat. We gave the poor little fellow an ample share of everything that was brought to us; and if he felt the luxury of the unexpected repast, we likewise felt “the greater luxury of doing good.” The guards gaped and stared at the unusual scene; and, after muttering their parbleus and sacrés, they shrugged up their shoulders and expressed their astonishment at our generosity. I only wished that generosity was contagious, and that our rapacious, stone-hearted temporary keepers might imbibe our feelings.

The guard visited us every hour during the night; notwithstanding which, I contrived to find an opportunity of getting rid of all the materials of my dangerous “tinder-box,” excepting the barrels.

At daybreak, 2nd October, we were handcuffed and chained to a cart, the roads having become too heavy to admit of our proceeding on foot; and here I got rid of the barrels, by wrapping a little straw round each and dropping them through the cart in the mud.

In the evening we arrived at Mezières gaol, and were put into the yard, after being strictly searched; nor could we procure even a dungeon until we had agreed to pay a most exorbitant price which the gaoler charged for some refreshments that he had procured for us. He very laconically observed, “I know the gendarmes have plenty of money which they took from you. You may as well let me have part, as let them have all. You will not stand in need of any in a few days;” thus intimating that we were to be shot as spies, which was the general opinion everywhere.

Our treatment was pretty nearly the same throughout all the way to Verdun, where we arrived at the latter end of October. I was then separated from my companions, being considered as the chef du complot, and was thrown into a miserable dungeon, in which was another prisoner, supposed to have been a spy, and who expected to be brought to trial in a few days, and with no great confidence of being tried with a superfluous regard to justice or mercy. The universal impression that we were to be shot, with which our ears had been dinned at every resting-place upon the road, seemed confirmed by the companion with whom they placed me in this dungeon. I was certain that if only one of the party was to suffer death, that victim would be myself—not only because it is the custom in France to infer that the oldest of a party or gang is the ringleader, or chef du complot, but my conscience told me that I had really been the chief instigator to all that we had done. I made my mind up to bear the execution with a fortitude and dignity that should not disgrace the naval service or national character of my country; I trusted in God that my death would satiate French vengeance, and that my brave companions would be allowed to escape; and finally, in the perfect resignation which I felt to my approaching fate, I was consoled by my conscience telling me that I had committed no crime that merited so sanguinary and ignominious a punishment. I laid my hand upon my heart, and felt that I had done nothing to tarnish the honour of a naval officer and a gentleman.

At daybreak a guard came to conduct me to the place of examination. Here I found Lieutenant Demangeoit, of the gendarmerie, a scrivener, and Mr. Galliers, interpreter. This Lieutenant Demangeoit was afterwards dismissed from the Emperor’s service. My examination continued two or three hours; every question and answer was noted down, and as much form and solemnity as possible were given to the proceedings. I was minutely cross-examined with respect to the pistol-stock, and was sifted over and over again, with both earnestness and cunning, as to where I had been on the days Buonaparte had passed through Verdun. I was interrogated as to what company I had been in, with whom I had breakfasted; and numberless other questions were put to me, without my being able to form the slightest idea of what they suspected or at what object they were aiming. However, it was clear that I was suspected of some offence in relation to the Emperor, and it was certain that there was a determination, if possible, to implicate me in it. Our companion Essel had on that morning given a public breakfast to several of his friends at his lodgings, which happened to be situated immediately in the thoroughfare, or most public part of the town, La Place St. Croix, and close to the windows of which Napoleon and suite must of necessity have passed. Of this circumstance I was ignorant, consequently had no invitation, which at this moment, for me, proved a fortunate event, and evidently explained the cause of this strict and scrutinising examination.

M. le Lieutenant Demangeoit appeared also particularly anxious to ascertain whether my pistols had been purchased previous or subsequent to the breakfast on the day of Buonaparte passing through Verdun. This was evidently done with the intention of, if possible, fixing upon us—but more especially upon me, to whom the articles in question belonged—the atrocious and abominable stigma of a conspiracy and premeditated design to assassinate their Emperor: for whom, however formidable my dislike might have been to the chief of the avowed foes of my country, I entertained not the slightest feeling of personal vindictive animosity. They very much wanted to be informed by whom we had been supplied with ropes, and who had assisted us in descending the ramparts. I replied, “That, by degrees, we had procured sufficient rope for the purpose of horse-collars, and of course twice the length that would have been necessary had we had a friend to assist us in descending by holding it fast; but we had to place the bight over a rock which I knew stood near the place, and then went down by the double part; after which we hauled it to us, cut it to pieces, and threw it into the Meuse.”

I went through all this raking and cross-fire of examination with patience and humility; but, the ordeal being over, I began to remonstrate at the unnecessary cruelty of being separated from my companions. At last it was decided that I should be conducted to their prison, La Tour d’Angoulême, they having been removed from it to the place of examination. We were not allowed to see each other until the whole examination was over; but, in passing the guard-room in which they were locked up, I heard their voices, and vociferated to them, “Mind you stick to the old text:” a hint they very well understood. This exasperated the guard, who insisted upon knowing what I had said; but I simply replied, “That I had only said that I was very hungry and wanted my breakfast:” with which he seemed perfectly satisfied. I need not describe the joy we all felt upon being once more together.

We amused ourselves the whole night in talking over the different questions that had been put to each of us; for it had long been our practice to suggest every possible question to which we might be probably exposed, in the event of our being captured, and to agree upon the answers we should make, in order that neither equivocation nor inconsistencies might undo us. The gaoler (Monsieur Percival) supplied us, out of our own funds, with the nourishment that was permitted by the laws of prison discipline. Fire and candle were prohibited.

Some days had elapsed, when we were again conducted to be examined separately. I was the first called into court. The lieutenant (Demangeoit) informed me that there had been certain questions transmitted from the minister at Paris to be put to me, and to which it would be to my interest to give candid answers. In the first place, he was certain that we never could have kept a direct course through the long and difficult route from Verdun to Étaples without guides, especially as it appeared that we had had neither chart nor compass. We had luckily destroyed the compass, and no chart had been found upon us, with the exception of the maps of the departments at Étaples, so I coolly replied, “That English sailors could always steer with sufficient correctness by the stars, and that when those celestial objects were visible they were never at a loss.”

When this question was disposed of, the court wished to be informed, “Whether I knew anything of the coast of France, and whether I had ever been stationed off it?” It struck me that the shipwreck of the Hussar was a pretty clear proof that there was one part of the coast, at least, of which it would appear we had but an imperfect knowledge; but, smiling at the question, I replied, “That every naval officer of England was by far better acquainted with the French coast than even with his own.” I mollified this allusion to our blockading every port of France, and triumphantly sailing round her coasts, by adding, “That we could hardly go up and down Channel without acquiring a knowledge of the northern coast of France;” and at length I left no doubt on their minds with respect to our local knowledge of it. The questions were the same to all the rest, and we were then again reconducted to our prison.

In a week we were ordered to prepare ourselves for a march to the fortress of Bitche, in Lorraine, a wretched place, well known to many of our unhappy countrymen; a place in the dreadful caverns of which many a valuable British subject had terminated his existence in all the agony that illness, despondency, and ill-usage could create. This was my transition from the expected fate of being shot. And here, in some wretched souterrain, we were to remain during the war; nay, they even asserted that it was Buonaparte’s own decree. Death was preferable to such a sentence; but we were resolved to make another effort at all risks, and, if possible, to regain our liberty. Cash alone was wanting. I, however, procured a small supply through the interposition of a worthy countryman, notwithstanding the strict guard that was kept over us. My Samaritan, or friend in need, was the Rev. C. Launcelot Lee (a détenu), Fellow of New College, Oxford, from whom I had at all times received great kindness. He contrived now to assist me in my extreme distress, by giving the money to Mr. Galliers, another worthy Englishman, who had acted as our interpreter. The object was effected dexterously; for Mr. Galliers, in taking leave, at the moment of our setting out for Bitche, when surrounded by the gendarmes, cordially gave me his hand to shake, and pressed the precious treasure into mine. I was obliged to keep this act of generosity a profound secret; for, had it been discovered, it would have been of serious consequences to my two friends.

CHAPTER VIII

Our departure from Verdun for Bitche—Mars-la-Tour, Metz, and Sarrelouis—I receive a very useful present from Mr. Brown—Sarreguemines—A last chance—A mounted guard—Thoughts of an escape—Calculations upon a chase in a wood between horse-soldiers and prisoners on foot—Attempt resolved upon—Signal given—Flight from the prison caravan to the wood—French pursuit—A prisoner recaptured—My escape from the wood into another—My companions, I fear, less fortunate—My concealment—A swampy bed, and a stormy sky, with a torrent of rain, for a canopy—A prospective flight of nearly 800 miles—The misery of a fruitless search for lost companions—Feeding on haws, and herding with quadrupeds and vermin—A hut discovered—Hunger compels me to enter—A compromise, a bribe, female advocacy, and an escape—On the road to the Rhine—A preparation to sell life dearly—A narrow escape—Living on cabbage-stalks and raw turnips—Bad feet and worse health—A lonely house near a wood—Strong temptations to enter—A brutal host, extreme danger, and a narrow escape—Bad specimens of human nature.

On the morning of our departure we were joined by eight culprits at twilight, and were placed in a large waggon, under a very strong escort of gendarmerie, with a brigadier to command it. We were confined the first night in a most miserable dungeon, in a village called Mars-la-Tour. It was so very small, and there were so many of us, that we could scarcely breathe. Our allowance of straw, a pound and a half each, was given us to lie on: this straw was so short that it had exactly the appearance of so many bundles of toothpicks. The following night we were lodged in Metz gaol. We remained here several days. At last an order came for half our number to proceed towards our destination: two others, with us four, were accordingly commanded to get ready. We were now in the hope of having another chance of getting out of the clutches of our keepers, but were much mistaken; our guard watched us closely, and we were so well secured with handcuffs and with chains that it was impossible to attempt it. We were therefore safely lodged in Sarrelouis gaol. This was a depot for captured seamen, and one of punishment for officers who might transgress prison rules; but it was many degrees superior to Bitche. Several of our countrymen obtained permission to see us; and from one (Mr. Brown, master of H.M. gun-brig Mallard, lately wrecked on the coast) I received a small map of Germany, torn out of an old book of geography, which I carefully stitched in the lining of my waistcoat. We were now joined by those left in Metz prison, and were soon again on the march towards our destined habitation. The same precautions were taken for securing us, and but little or no hopes were left of our escaping. We arrived at Sarreguemines, only six or seven leagues from Bitche, and were secured, as usual, in the gaol. The next day, at about four in the afternoon, we expected to arrive at our horrible abode. In the morning our guards came with a large waggon, in which we were placed, and, to my great astonishment and delight, we were not chained. I considered this as a most wonderful circumstance, and as a favourable opportunity of escape that ought to be embraced, particularly as there could be no hopes of any other chance; indeed, it appeared an interposition of Divine Providence in our favour. I communicated my intentions to my companions; and, after we had got out of the town, we descended from our waggon, observing to the guards that we preferred walking a little. Mr. Essel remained in the waggon. Messrs. Ashworth and Tuthill, and Baker, of the merchant service, with myself, were walking ahead of the waggon. We had not got more than two or three miles when I discovered a wood at about one hundred and fifty yards from the road: our guards were about fifty yards behind us, and were on horseback. In so unequal a chase, a chase between man and horse, we might be overtaken in our run to the wood; but if we could once reach that point, we were safe, for, although there were no leaves on the trees, we were certain that our mounted guards could not pursue us without a great deal of difficulty, owing to the branches and underwood; and, should they dismount, accoutred as they were, and with their heavy boots, we knew that we could outrun them with the greatest ease.

At length the most interesting and anxious moment arrived. We were on the spot where the attempt could be made better than at any other. I gave my friends the signal—a loud cheer. Away we ran: the startled guards dug their spurs into their horses, and galloped at our heels with the utmost speed. The ground was very heavy, a ploughed field being the space between the road and wood. Poor Baker fell, and was instantly seized and conducted back to the waggon with a sabre over him, and a pistol ready to do its office, should he attempt again to escape. We were more fortunate. We got into the wood, dodging the gendarmes through brier, brake, and

entanglement. I and my companions crossed each other several times, out of breath, and I could barely cry to them to keep behind trees and avoid pistol-shots; for the guards were leaping, plunging, and riding in all directions, roaring out, in the greatest rage, the words, “Arrétez, coquins!” etc. These not very agreeable epithets, in hoarse French, assailed our ears from every point. At length my pursuers gave up the chase of me to follow my companions; and, fortunately, finding a good tree between me and the foe, I sat down to catch my breath and consider what I should do. The moment I lost sight of the gendarmes, I bounded towards the side of the wood opposite to the direction they had taken, and I perceived an extensive plain, terminating in one direction in a wood, which seemed not much more than a mile off. Without any more deliberation I darted into the plain; its extent was about a mile; and by the time I had reached the middle I was so out of breath that I was obliged to stop a few minutes, and I therefore fell flat on my face, with my mouth open, and close to the earth; and the relief was astonishing. I lay close to the ground, that I might not be discovered. However, another run brought me to the wood. Having thus far so providentially escaped, I began to consider what steps I had better take next; and, after resting a few minutes again to recover my exhausted strength, I determined on quitting this wood, and at the extremity opposite to that at which I calculated my pursuers might be looking out for me, as I thought they would naturally take that direction, when a diligent search had convinced them that I was not in the wood into which we had first entered. Besides, I saw that the first wood was now entirely surrounded by the peasantry; for, it being Sunday, all had been idle, and men, women, and children caught the alarm, and hurried like wolves to the chase. The French Government at this time gave a reward of fifty livres, or £2. 1s. 8d., to any person who should recapture a prisoner of war that had escaped from prison or from an escort, and this brought out such a prodigious concourse of eager people, as to leave me but very little hope of remaining in safety in any place where it could be even suspected that a man might be concealed.

On quitting this wood I conjectured that I was about three or four miles from the road from which I had at first escaped. Immense plains, stubble ground, meadows, fields fallow and ploughed, presented themselves to my view, with the river Sarre close to the southward of me, but extremely rapid, and no part of it fordable. My case appeared desperate; and, to avoid suspicion, I thought the best method would be to walk deliberately across those plains, taking a different direction from that of every other person in them, but without appearing to avoid any. I put a night-cap on, which I had in my pocket, instead of the beaver-cap I usually wore—the night-cap being a common dress with the peasantry of Lorraine. I passed several of them at very short distances, stopping frequently, and seeming to walk very carelessly. At length I found myself in a small vale, through which ran two small rivulets, forming a little kind of island, that was covered with one hawthorn-bush, briers, etc., sufficiently large to conceal one man. This I considered admirably well calculated for a hiding-place; for, as it was so excessively small and wet, I was of opinion nobody would even think of searching it. I entered it, and was so completely covered as to be scarcely able to discern the part through which I had first penetrated. I found it in one sense very uncomfortable—I mean with respect to the mud, wet, and dirt that I was obliged to wallow in; but otherwise it was a perfect paradise to me; and all I regretted was not having my poor comrades somewhere near me, although I comforted myself in feeling assured that they must all have escaped, even those who did not run in the beginning, as they were left with only the waggoner, the guards having gone in pursuit of us. I was, indeed, some time afterwards informed that not one of the remaining eight ever attempted to quit the waggoner, but were quietly conducted to Bitche, where, as the reader will find, I was again compelled to rejoin them.[12]

This was Sunday, 15th November 1807, and I lay cold and quietly enough in my wet and muddy bed, anxiously wishing night to arrive, and dispel part of my apprehensions. I was obliged frequently to shift from one side to the other, the cold and moisture becoming extremely severe and distressing. In a short time I was wet through in every part of my body, and found the cold intense, for when I lay down in the mud I was in a profuse state of perspiration. It did not relieve my miseries to hear either the alarm-bells ringing in the adjacent villages, or the whistling, howling, and shouting of the peasantry: what was still worse, I was frequently startled by voices close to me.

But now the much-desired moment of darkness drew near: the sun was descending; but, to my great discomfiture and mortification, with every appearance of bad weather. It already began to rain very hard, which obscured the moon, then about eight or nine days old. Reflecting on my present state, I found it truly pitiable. I had only the small old map I have already mentioned, to direct my course; and I was without compass, guide, clothes, meat, drink, or companion, and the dreary month of November was setting in with more than its usual inclemency. The nearest friendly town was Salzburg, in Austria, and that was between seven and eight hundred miles distant. This was enough to chill the ardour and paralyse the exertions of the most dauntless; nevertheless, my having escaped from the grasp of tyrants, and become my own master, more than compensated, in my estimation, for a thousand hardships, sufferings, and dangers.

About half-past seven I ventured out, shook, cleaned, and washed the mud off my clothes as well as I could, and recommending myself to a merciful Creator, by whose bountiful clemency I had been this day so miraculously protected, I proceeded with great caution towards the wood in which I had separated from my companions, for I supposed that they would keep in it, or perhaps return there to meet me. It rained very hard, and everything was profoundly silent. I traversed the woods for three or four miles in different directions; but all to no purpose. Now and then I ventured to whistle, which was the signal formerly established amongst us, but all without success. I remained alone, dispirited, hungry, cold, fatigued, and drenched with rain. The risk was too great to venture on the high-road; and yet I was so nearly perishing with cold and wet that it was impossible to remain in my place of concealment. I therefore kept running and walking onward during the night, frequently impeded by the course of the Sarre, which confused me greatly. At length, being very much fatigued, and finding a convenient wood, though destitute of leaves, I got into it, and concealed myself in a tolerably good part, a little before daylight. I never recollect feeling or suffering so much from cold: it had rained incessantly all this day. The whole of this day (the 16th) I was surrounded by moles, rats, and other small animals somewhat like squirrels; the rats often approached so near as to lick my shoes. Their tricks and advances rather amused me, and abated in some measure the lowness and disquietude of my mind. At the close of the evening a swineherd passed by, conducting his hogs near my hiding-place. I saw him very distinctly. One of the pigs took flight exactly towards me: he sent his dog in pursuit of it; which, providentially, turned it back, otherwise it would have absolutely run over me.

About eight o’clock I quitted my retreat. The night was again very bad. It kept blowing and raining very hard, and I was at a loss to know what direction to take; for never did darker and thicker clouds obscure the light of heaven. About nine o’clock I discovered a small hut, and I imagined that I had an opportunity of endeavouring to procure a morsel of food of some kind. I reconnoitred it with a trembling earnestness, and at last most cautiously approached the door. The struggle between my eager desire to procure some sustenance, without which I must perish, and the dread of being arrested in the attempt, may be conceived, but cannot be described. After deliberating some length of time, hunger preponderated over even the dread of my being again led to my dungeon; and, with a trembling hand, I at length knocked at the door. It was opened by a woman. I humbly asked for some bread in German, which is the language spoken by the peasantry of Lorraine. She made signs for me to enter, which I did.

There were three men and another woman in the house. An elderly man, who was the only one of the party that could speak French, instantly told me, “He was certain that I was one of the English prisoners who had escaped from the guard on the preceding day.” He added, “That one of the guard had just quitted the hut: he had been in search of the fugitives all day, and had called on his way home to give the present company information.” I did not dispute who or what I was. The fellow proceeded to dwell on the reward of fifty livres which the Government gave for arresting a prisoner of war. “Fifty livres,” he added, “was an object to poor people like them.” I perfectly understood his drift, and merely observed, “That, although the Government promised the reward, they were not certain when it might be paid.” I afterwards appealed to his honour and feelings, and asked him, “What honest man, for so paltry a recompense or amount, would prevent a poor prisoner of war, who had been guilty of no crime whatever, from revisiting his wife, and everything that was dear to him, after a close imprisonment for four or five years?” He explained all that I had said to the others; and I found that the women took my views of the subject, and were advocates for me. Upon this, I addressed the old man again, and said, “As you appear to me to be very worthy, honest people, accept of this trifle amongst you;” and I gave him a louis d’or. I next presented the women with six livres, as a mark of my respect for them, and they received the money very graciously. I saw that matters now bore, or were beginning to bear, a favourable aspect, and I accordingly took the first favourable opportunity to assure them how very sorry I was that I had not more money to give them. I next requested that they would show me the nearest way to Bitche, as I had friends there who would supply me with a little cash to enable me to proceed on my long journey. After a long discussion in German, during which I perfectly discovered their uneasiness at not having received more than thirty livres, the old man observed, “As there is but one of them, it is of no great consequence; but if they all were here, it would have been well worth while.” I could not help thinking to myself that if we had all been present we should have been such an over-match for them as to prevent their making the attempt, and I might have kept my money in my pocket. I again repeated my wish to be directed towards Bitche. I knew that there was a direct road from Bitche to the Rhine, and this was my reason for wishing to go that way. The women again pleaded in my favour, and at length the two young men got up and offered their services. I accepted the offer, and they equipped themselves, and announced that they were ready. I took a most joyful leave of the women and old man, and followed my guides, inexpressibly rejoiced at getting out of this danger; though I did not consider myself perfectly safe whilst I remained with these men.

My suspicions and alarm grew stronger and stronger; for they conducted me through very narrow, intricate ways, through deserted places, and over heaths and commons; and they generally kept behind me; while I observed they were always whispering together. I had, at the best, no great opinion of them; and these circumstances were so suspicious that I feigned occasion to remain behind a little while; and this time I occupied in concealing my watch, money, and the small map, all of which had hitherto been in a pocket of my pantaloons. This being done, I advanced, assumed a light and satisfied air, but took good care not again to take the lead of them. About midnight the men left me, on a pathway to the road to Bitche, and took their leave. I felt much pleased at so happy a deliverance, and continued in that direction until about three o’clock; when, supposing myself near enough to that unhappy mansion (Bitche), I directed my course (as I thought) towards the Rhine. Some time before daylight it ceased raining; the stars showed themselves, and I had the mortification of discovering that I had been going diametrically opposite to my proper course.

In this unhappy dilemma I kept advancing, being confident that I had passed no secure retreat. At length, some time after daylight, I discovered a very thin wood on the side of a hill, which I immediately betook myself to, and there I remained until night. Here I managed to get a dry shave. My gold watch, hung upon a bush, was my only looking-glass; but the razor was a tolerably good one. There was a drizzling rain the whole of the day, and the cold was extreme.

At night, about the usual time, I commenced my journey, and took the direction back, going over the ground which I had followed the preceding morning; and I confess, notwithstanding my disappointment, I felt some consolation in knowing I was at length in the right track. During the whole of this night, my escapes from being dashed to pieces by repeated falls down precipices, which the darkness concealed, were quite incredible. About eleven I felt very much harassed, from crossing fields, morasses, gullies, and ditches; and happening to hit the high-road, I resolved to follow it for some time, especially as I thought it my direct way, but could not be certain, as the moon and stars were still obscured. I supposed it was too late for travellers to interrupt me. However, after quitting a wood on the side of the road, whence I had to crawl up a sort of gravel-pit to get on it, imagine my astonishment!—I had no sooner stepped on the road than I was challenged—“Qui vive?” (“Who goes there!”) in an audible voice, by a gendarme on horseback. I made but one jump down the gravel-pit, and crawled thence back into the wood; where I remained for some time to gather strength, being sadly exhausted. I then proceeded along the wood, without having any idea where I was going, the night still very dark, wet, and inclement. I fortunately fell in with a cabbage-garden, close to a cottage near the wood, and ate plentifully, and I stowed a good supply in my pockets for the ensuing day. Afterwards I re-entered the wood, in which I remained all day. After dark I recommenced my journey. This was the most severe night, if possible, I had yet experienced: the roads, pathways, and fields were deep and heavy from the constant rains; rivulets had become dangerous rivers, and I had to wade through several. I had an opportunity again this night of feasting upon cabbage-stalks, leaves, and turnips, and filled my pockets plentifully.

My feet now began to blister and to get very sore; and I was likewise becoming emaciated and very weak—it being my fifth day of living upon cabbage leaves, stalks, and raw turnips. In my first attempt at flight our food used to be occasionally nuts, apples, and grapes; now turnips and cabbages were my only resource.

About half-past two in the morning I perceived a small lonely house on the side of the wood. My necessities induced me to imagine that I might approach it without danger, and endeavour to procure some refreshment. I saw a light in the window, got close to the door, peeped through the keyhole and window alternately, and at last saw a woman spinning by a rousing fire. The effect was electrical. What could be more thrilling to a man in my deplorable state than to behold the cleanly hearth, the blazing fire, and happy industry, amidst the comforts and simple ornaments of the cottage? Oh, how anxiously did I wish to be seated by that brilliant fire! The physical wants of drooping nature prevailed, and seizing the knocker, my astonished ears heard its sound. The door was opened by a man, who surveyed me from top to toe. I was covered all over with mud, nor was there a thread about me that was not saturated with rain. He could clearly perceive from my miserable appearance and woeful aspect that I had been for a long time secluded from my fellow-creatures, and had been doomed to associate, or rather herd, with the animals that inhabit the caves and forests. Whilst the fellow remained with his eyes riveted upon me, I assured him in French that I was thirsty, and asked him if he would have the kindness to give me something to drink. He could not speak French, but he made me understand that he had nothing whatever to give me. I discovered a pail of water, and pointing to it with a supplicating gesture, the churl brought me a ladleful of it. I then took the liberty of sitting down by the fire, though the inhospitable boor or wife never asked me. I as little liked the appearance of the place as I did that of its brutal owner; and as it presented to my view not a single thing, except the fire, that could be of the slightest service to me, I resolved to take my departure. I asked him the road to Strasbourg, and the reply was that it was close by. I was about to quit the fireside, when a tailor arrived to work for the family. He also began to survey me closely, and having examined me from head to foot, I heard him whisper to the man of the house, and clearly distinguished the words Engländer and Bitche. In fact, the uncharitable varlet had revealed the truth, that I was an Englishman escaping from Bitche. He then addressed me, and asked if I were a person authorised to travel?—whether I had a passport?—with several other questions of the same tendency.

Exhausted as I was, I saw that boldness in this case was my only buckler; so turning fiercely upon him, I replied that he must be a very impudent fellow to take the liberty of asking such questions,—that I should not condescend to answer an inquisitive gossiping rascal of his description; and I wished to know by what authority he could presume to interrogate me in so unhandsome a manner. The fellow pretended to smile; but he had not expected a retort so vigorous, as I saw evidently that he was disconcerted, if not frightened. I next observed to the landlord that the extreme inclemency of the weather alone had occasioned my stopping at his house, particularly as I had seen neither town, village, nor public-house contiguous to it. I added that as there were no hopes of the weather clearing up, I should continue my road to Strasbourg, which the fellow assured me was twelve leagues off, whilst Bitche was only three. At this information I was distressed and mortified to find what little progress I had made in so many days, or rather nights. The whole party sat down to breakfast without asking the weather-beaten, way-bewildered stranger to partake of their meal; so he, of course, took his leave of these selfish and unfeeling specimens of human nature; and exchanging the blazing fire for the unpitying elements, he pursued his solitary journey, disgusted that aught so base as what he had witnessed could be found under the human form.

CHAPTER IX

An inclement season—A retreat in a cavern—Somnambulism—The discovery of a shepherd’s hut—A traveller put out of a wrong road—Swimming in a winter’s night—Passing through a mill—A suspicious traveller may be an honest man—A Lorraine cottage seen through a fog—Dangers from over-kind people—Repugnance to be introduced to a mayor or any other good society—Concealment in a hollow willow—An honest fellow-traveller of fugitive reminiscences—An ingenious fiction—A perspective of Strasbourg.

The inauspicious month of November 1807 seemed to take a malignant cognisance of my enterprises, and to visit me with more than its usual severities. To prevent suspicion, I walked boldly on the road. It rained excessively heavy, and I was sure that nobody who had any possibility of remaining under cover would be in the way to interrupt me. After advancing a short distance, on turning back I observed my friend the tailor, with all the rest, watching which way I went. I therefore continued the road until I lost sight of the house, and proceeded, hungry and wet, but tolerably well pleased at getting so well off. I now discovered a high mountain with rocks and pines, contiguous to the road; and I imagined I might find a more hospitable retreat in some cavern amongst those rocks than in the house which my fellow-creatures occupied. Not wishing to remain exposed any longer on the highway, I scrambled up, and reached the summit. There I found an excellent dry cavern under an immense rock. I crept into it and shortly fell into a profound sleep; in which state I remained until I was disturbed by the grunting of wild hogs that came to banish the unfortunate and forlorn usurper who had so illegally taken possession of their habitation. I found it quite dusk, and about the time I should recommence my journey. I descended on the Strasbourg road, and kept running with little intermission the whole of the night, notwithstanding the excruciating pain I felt from my blistered feet.

About midnight, having halted to listen if there were any noise or footsteps to be heard on the road, I plainly discovered, by the cracking of whips, that a coach or waggon was advancing. I therefore retired a few steps from the roadside and lay close down. It passed, and, as far as I dared to peep at it, appeared to be a diligence, or a very heavy travelling coach. I then resumed my route; kept running on, and passed several villages, until a little before daylight, conjecturing that I could not be far from the Rhine. I secured my lodging in a wood for the ensuing day.

Looking about for the best shelter and accommodation, I perceived a cavern under a rock far above me. It was apparently formed by the hand of nature and time; and the rock, from its stupendous summit, displayed an immense precipice, well calculated to inspire the feelings of awe and admiration which are derived from the view of beautiful and sublime scenery. But I was in no mood to contemplate scenery, or to enjoy either beauty or sublimity. My thoughts were all absorbed in procuring shelter from bitter cold, from piercing winds and drenching rain, and, from what was worse than all these, the hostile hand of unfeeling man.

I determined, if possible, to scale this alarming height. It was still dark, and this added to my perils and difficulties. In this exertion I climbed on my knees, clinging to roots, clumps of dwarf trees, or to tufts of the thick, coarse herbage; and if a single hold had given way, I must have been dashed to pieces. Panting, and nearly exhausted, I at last reached the top; and recovering my breath, I refreshed myself with the few cabbage stumps which I had procured in passing the villages; and entering the cavern, I threw myself on the ground, and instantly fell into what may be almost called a stupor rather than a sleep.

My spirits were extremely agitated during the whole of the time I was in this lurking-place. I awoke frequently, talking quite loud, and naming the gentlemen that had been my former companions, holding conversation with them as if they were actually present. Some time after I had experienced a short and disturbed repose, I started up all of a sudden, and desired my companions to rise and renew their journey; when, on recovering from my delirium, and looking round, to my inexpressible amazement I discovered than I was actually at the bottom of the precipice, and that it was quite daylight. This precipice was very steep, and, I repeat it, alarmingly dangerous, even to a man with all his senses collected, and in the open day; and how I came again to the bottom of it alive, I am utterly unable to explain. After collecting my scattered ideas, which was no easy task, I hastened into the wood again, for it rained very heavily, and prostrated myself in the most humble, devout, and, I trust, sincere manner, before the great Disposer of all events, offering up my most earnest and heartfelt thanks for the great mercies and protection so bountifully bestowed upon me on this most marvellous occasion. During this day I crossed several mountains covered with trees, and at length found a very comfortable cave, full of nice dry leaves, on the declivity of a hill. From the continued chain of lofty, wild, and barren mountains that surrounded me, I had very serious apprehensions that this might be the lair of wolves or of some wild beasts; but I entered it, and found it lofty enough to sit upright in. I took off my coat, squeezed out the water, and, after refreshing myself with my usual fare, I lay down on the earth, and covering myself with leaves, and my coat over all, I went to sleep.

About dusk I was awakened by the chattering of a jay at the mouth of the cavern. The image of this bird is now fresh in my recollection, and will remain so as long as I live. I crawled out of this, which proved to me so safe a retreat, shook myself, and put on my wet coat. It had every appearance of a fine night, with an inclination to frost. I consoled myself with the calculation that I could not be more than three leagues from Strasbourg. After descending the mountain, I discovered a peasant’s hut in the vale; and, let the danger be what it might, I determined at all hazards to ascertain at this place what was really my distance from the Rhine. I accordingly entered, and found a young man, woman, and child sitting round a fire. Unfortunately they could speak nothing but patois German, and I was about to retreat, vexed in the extreme that we were unintelligible to each other; when, just as I was leaving the hut, an old man met me at the door. He stared at me with his eyes full of wonder, and as soon as he recovered his self-possession he asked me if I were a Frenchman. “Yes,” I replied; “and I have missed my way in crossing the mountains; and I will be obliged to you if you will put me en route to Strasbourg.” The fellow was kind of heart and civil of manners. He put me on the right road, and gave me the names of all the villages I should have to pass through; but my spirits sank within me when he concluded by saying that I was only twelve leagues from Strasbourg. “Twelve leagues!” I exclaimed, with dismay; but I took my leave of this old man, and proceeded, heavy of heart, on my apparently interminable journey. I could not account for this great distance, except on the ground of my having been directed wrong by the former inhospitable wretches that had driven me from their fireside.

My humble hosts on this occasion had nothing to give me to eat, and they really appeared sorry for it; but before my departure they offered me some brandy and water, for which I was grateful, got change for a Napoleon, and paid them liberally.

At this time my feet were so very much swollen and very sore that I could not wear my shoes; but I kept my stockings on until the foot parts of them were worn out, and even then I found their legs of great service in frosty weather. So far from refreshing me, the brandy and water I had taken made me very ill.

The grateful idea of being at last in a fair way of succeeding and overcoming all difficulties began now to be highly cherished. I found myself on an excellent road, got a supply of very fine turnips out of an adjoining garden, and discovered regular posts on the roadside. I kept running all night, with very little intermission, resolved, at all events, to get near the Rhine before morning. The road continued for about four leagues through a wood. On leaving this wood I was brought to a stand all of a sudden by the walls of a town, which, according to the names I had received from the old man, was Haguenau; but I had never supposed that the road led through it, or that it was walled in. It was also surrounded by a river, which appeared an insurmountable barrier to my proceeding. It required much resolution (owing to the frost) to take to the water; however, there was no alternative, necessity has no law, so I stripped, and, fortunately, swam and waded through one branch of it. On the other branch I observed a mill, with the house built on an arch, so as to let the water flow under it. Upon a strict survey, I perceived that if I could pass this branch, I should be able to make a circuit round the town, and to get clear off. I approached, saw the mill-door open, and the road on the opposite side. I was naked, ready to plunge in this stream as I had into the other, had necessity required it; but I retired to a shelter, put on my clothes, and, with a palpitating heart, I passed through the mill, without hearing any noise but that of the works. The passage seemed to me to be a thoroughfare for the people who brought their corn to be ground, if not for the population generally.

I now walked towards Strasbourg, with the cheering confidence that I was on the proper road. At about half-past three I was a little startled by hearing a man cough at a short distance behind me. I did not quicken my pace; but, on the contrary, in order to avoid suspicion, I rather slackened it. He soon overtook me, saluted me civilly in very broken French, and expressed his surprise that I had been able to get out of town so early. This was a shrewd, and to me a very unpleasant, observation.