Part 20
“‘Master,’ I answered directly, ‘don’t let us get angry; talk coolly. If you have to complain of me in any way, you will always be free to do as you please, but listen to me first. We are two honourable and discreet gentlemen, who only wish to deal pleasantly with you; but I ought to tell you, that I have taken measures to make you pay dearly, if necessary, for an obstinate refusal, for I have about me all the documents to prove that, at such a time, you came to Chesterfield, took Captain X---- away in your post chaise, kept him hidden so many days in your house, and at last carried him in your vessel to the other side of the channel. I have now to offer you one hundred pounds sterling, and the gratitude and friendship of two men of heart and loyalty besides.’
“‘A man that talks in that way,’ said he, taking my hand, and shaking it vigorously, ‘is served in every country. Your manner suits me; there is frankness and resolution in your words. You are welcome; I am your man; you shall always have reason to think well of me. Don’t fear; _we_ are the real kings of the sea, and not those upstarts of the royal navy.’
“‘Quite true,’ said I, and shook his hand cordially. ‘That’s a bargain,’ I added; ‘and now we must agree as to the carrying out of the plan.’ I then told him where we had put up, and that the important thing was to be able to wait in safety for decidedly favourable weather, and to provide for everything during our stay.
“‘All right,’ said the master; ‘everything shall be done, and well done. At such a time to-night, come to me here, and I will take you to a place of safety, where you can drink, smoke, and sleep at your ease, without thinking about anything.’
“At the time mentioned we went to the smuggler, who was expecting us. I put into his hands the hundred pounds agreed on, telling him he must expect to see on the walls, a notice of the transport-office, promising a reward to whoever should arrest us.
“‘Never mind,’ said he quickly; ‘I might be offered the crown of England, but never shall an act of cowardice or treachery be laid to my door.’
“We started, and entered rather a mean looking place, a regular den of smugglers, a house with innumerable doors or traps. Had they come to arrest us here, we might have escaped in a dozen different directions. The house was lighted, and consequently inhabited. We found in it a woman, no longer young, who was introduced to us as our servant and cook; we saw in the sitting-room a side table, laid out with plenty of china. As for the kitchen, it was arranged _à l’anglaise_, with iron ovens.
“‘You will only have to give your orders,’ said Master G----. ‘The pantry is well furnished; beer, tobacco, and eatables are there in abundance, and you can choose the best.’
“He showed us two bedrooms, each containing a bed, a table, and a few chairs. In one was a writing table, with paper and ink. Installed thus, and treated with more care and attention than even the strictest hospitality demanded, when we could only expect security in the most humble retreat, we thanked and shook hands with our liberator, who took leave of us laughing, and wishing us a good night.
“We had already passed seven or eight days trying to kill time in this solitude, when the smuggler suddenly came and told us that the wind had changed most favourably; that there was every chance of it remaining in its present quarter, and that at about ten that night, he would come with some sailors’ clothes, and we should set sail under the best auspices. Happy news! We paid all our scores; we thanked and rewarded our cook as she deserved; in short, we satisfied all the exigencies of equity, and even the most generous liberality, and awaited the solemn moment. It came at last. We put on our clothes, the pantaloons and large sailor waistcoats brought for us, and we went out with cutlasses at our sides. We reached the beach, where we found a pretty little skiff of 15 or 16 feet long, without a deck, and launched her. We put up the mast, unfurled the sail, fixed the helm, and jumped in with the two sailors given us by Master G----. We pushed off, the sail swelled to the breeze, and we were gone. A custom-house ship was on guard in the harbour, and made signs for us to go alongside of it; we did not pay any attention, and before it had time to lower and arm its boat, we were far ahead, for our skiff was a swift one, and the darkness shrouded us. We were all four sailors, and each had his post; one at the helm, another managing the sail, the third in the front of the boat, and the fourth, furnished with a night-glass, was commissioned to explore the horizon. A good breeze was blowing, but the sea was calm; in less than two hours we had passed Cape Grisnez. We steered a southward course, and each time we heard a signal of recognition, we answered it in a friendly manner, for we were provided with all the signals corresponding to those of the coast. We kept close in shore, so that at the least suspicious movement, we might be able to reach the coast and land in spite of all the small boats. At daybreak we boldly entered the little harbour of Vimerene, and I jumped lightly on land.
“The commander of that post making his usual morning rounds, came up the moment after, and said with some temper: ‘If I had been present, you would not have landed, monsieur.’
“‘Sir,’ I answered, ‘even if the emperor, to whom I am devoted body and soul as much as any man in France, had wished to forbid my touching the soil of my country, I should have done so in defiance of him and his valiant guard, in defiance of you and your garrison. I am Colonel Richemont; make your report.’”
Richemont proceeded direct to Boulogne, and there obtained the liberty of the two English sailors, who had been temporarily detained, and rewarded them generously.--(_Mémoires du Général Camus, Baron de Richemont._)
_CAPTAIN GRIVEL._
1810.
Admiral Rosily having taken refuge in the port of Cadiz with four ships, the poor remnants of Trafalgar, was, after a gallant struggle, obliged to surrender to overpowering numbers. The infamous capitulation of Baylen singularly increased the number of prisoners condemned to the tortures of those plague-stricken prisons, the guardships. Still, one of these vessels, the _Vieille Castille_ was a privileged abode. Specially set apart for the officers, whose daily pay allowed them to live very comfortably, the _Vieille Castille_, was not ravaged by typhus fever, nor were the unhappy prisoners there afflicted with the agonies of hunger. Still, they felt themselves prisoners, and only dreamt of freedom, the more especially when, on the French army approaching Cadiz, they discovered their comrades encamped at only an hour’s distance from their prisons. Many plans were formed, and then abandoned, for peace and amity did not precisely reign among the prisoners, who kept reproaching each other with their prudence or temerity. At last, the boldest of them--Grivel, then captain of the sailors of the guard, now rear-admiral and senator, agreed with his friends to carry off the first boat approaching in a high wind. On the 25th February, 1810, the _Mulet_, a small Spanish ship carrying water barrels, came alongside the _Vieille Castille_. The breeze was a favourable one; under pretext of helping to transport the barrels, the chiefs of the plot were lowered into the boat, and there gained the sailors. The sail was unfurled and spread, without loss of time. While they were getting under way in great haste, an English boat left the admiral’s ship, and saluted the fugitives with a discharge of musketry; the guard on shore, answered the signal, and soon cannons, muskets, pistols--everything in short, was turned against the little boat. Only one man, however, perished, a sailor. Captain Grivel and his companions headed straight among the merchant ships anchoring near Cadiz, and made a bulwark of them. The greatest interest was shown in their success. “Hurrah! Hurrah;” cried the different crews. “Courage _Frenchmen_!” Encouraged by these signs of sympathy, the fugitives profited by the favourable breeze, and landed, to the number of thirty-four, on the coast of Andalusia, after an hour of constant anxiety and danger. Marshal Soult expressed the highest admiration of their courageous conduct. “_Bah! Marshal_,” answered Grivel, “_it is only a sailor’s trick!_”
LAVALETTE.
1815.
Arrested on the 18th June, 1815, and imprisoned at the Conciergerie, Count Lavalette had been condemned to death, for having taken an active part in the return from Elba. In vain his wife endeavoured to soften Louis XVIII., who would not forego his revenge; in vain she hoped to find mercy in the Duchess d’Angouleme. She was cruelly repulsed on every side. “Literally worn out,” says Lavalette in his Memoirs, “she sank down on the stone steps of the palace, and stayed there for an hour, still hoping against hope that she would be allowed to enter. She attracted the notice of all the passers by, especially of those going to the chateau; but none dared show her a sign of compassion. At last she decided on leaving the palace, and returning to my prison, where she soon arrived, weary and heart-broken.”
The hours of Lavalette were numbered; by dint of questioning his jailers, he had discovered that the execution was fixed for Thursday morning, and it was then Tuesday evening. “At six,” says he, “my wife came to dine with me, and when we were alone, she said, ‘It appears only too certain that we have nothing now to hope for. It is time then to decide on something, and this is what I propose: at eight o’clock you will go from here, in my clothes, and, accompanied by my cousin, you will step into my sedan chair, which will take you to the Rue des Saints-Pères, where you will find M. Baudus in a gig: he will take you to some place prepared for you, and you will wait there till you can leave France without danger.”
This plan seemed at first quite impracticable to Lavalette; but his wife urged it so strongly, that he feared to increase her grief, and perhaps endanger her life by a refusal. He only suggested, that the gig being so far away, he should not be able to reach it before they had discovered his escape, and that then he could be easily taken prisoner again. They then agreed to modify and somewhat change the plan. The next day was spent in heart-rending adieux.
“At five o’clock, Madam de Lavalette arrived, accompanied by Josephine, whom I recognised with as much surprise as joy. ‘I think it better,’ said she, ‘to take our child with us, she will now easily follow out my idea.’ She had put on a dress of merino, lined with fur, and she carried a black silk skirt in her bag. ‘Nothing more is needed,’ she said, ‘to disguise you perfectly.’ She then sent her daughter to the window, and said in a low tone: ‘At seven exactly you will be ready dressed, everything is well prepared: you will walk out, giving your arm to Josephine. Mind and walk slowly; and when you cross the large hall, put on my gloves, and hold my handkerchief to your face. I had thought of bringing a veil, but unfortunately I have not been accustomed to wear one during my visits here, so it must not be thought of. Take great care, when passing under the doors, which are very low, not to knock off the flowers on your bonnet, for all would be lost then.’” Madame de Lavalette next proceeded to give the necessary instructions to her daughter, and had almost finished, when there entered a friend of Lavalette’s, M. de Sainte-Rose, who came to bid him adieu. It was important that he should be dismissed as soon as possible. This Lavalette did under the pretext that his wife was still ignorant of the fatal hour. He treated in the same manner Colonel de Bricqueville who had quitted his bed, where he was kept by several serious wounds, to come and take leave of his friend. “At last dinner was served up. This meal which perhaps was to be the last in my life, I found horrible. We could not swallow a morsel; we did not exchange a word, and we were obliged to pass nearly an hour in that manner. At last the clock struck the three quarters past six, and Madame de Lavalette rang the bell. Bonneville, my valet, entered the room; she took him aside, said a few words in his ear, and added aloud, ‘Be sure to have the porters ready; I am going soon. Come,’ she said to me; ‘it is time for you to dress now.’ I had had a screen placed in my chamber, so as to form behind it a small dressing-room; we then went behind this screen. While dressing me with charming quickness and skill, she never ceased repeating, ‘Don’t forget to bend your head as you pass under the doors. Walk slowly through the outer room, like a person worn out by much suffering.’ In less than three minutes my toilet was completed. We all advanced in silence towards the door. ‘The porter,’ I said to Emily, ‘comes every night after you leave. Mind and stay behind the screen, and make a slight noise by moving some piece of furniture. He will think I am there, and will go out for the few moments that will give me the necessary time to escape.’ She understood me, and I pulled the bell rope. We heard the jailor’s footsteps; Emily sprang behind the screen, and the door was opened. I passed out first, my daughter next, Madame Dutoit (an old servant of Madame de Lavalette’s) closed the march. After crossing the passage I came to the door of the outer room. There I was obliged to lift my foot on account of the doorstep, and at the same time to bow my head so that the feathers of the bonnet should not touch the ceiling. I succeeded; but on raising my head, I found myself opposite to five jailors, sitting, leaning, standing, the whole length of the way. I held my handkerchief to my eyes, and waited for my daughter to place herself near me, as was agreed. The child took my right arm, and the porter coming down the stairs from his room, which was on the left, advanced towards me, and placing his hand on my arm, said, ‘You are leaving early, my lady.’ He seemed very agitated, and probably thought the wife had bidden the husband adieu for ever. They afterwards said that my daughter and I cried aloud, though we scarcely dared sigh. At last I came to the end of the hall. Day and night a turnkey sits there in a large armchair, in a space narrow enough to allow him to place his hands on the keys of the two gates, one an iron gate, the other made of wood, and called the first entrance. The jailor kept looking at me, but did not open; I therefore passed my hand between the bars to
make him aware of our presence. At last he turned his two keys, and we walked out. Once outside, my daughter did not forget, but took my right arm. There are twelve steps to mount before you get to the court, but the guard of gendarmes is stationed at the foot of them. About twenty soldiers headed by the officer, stood three paces from me to see Madame de Lavalette pass. I at length reached the last step, and entered the chair which stood two or three yards off. But there were no signs of porters or servants. My daughter and the old servant were standing near the chair, the sentinel ten paces off motionless and turned towards me. To my astonishment succeeded a feeling of violent agitation; my eyes were fixed on the sentry’s gun, as those of a serpent on its prey. I felt, so to speak, the gun between my clenched hands. At the slightest movement, the slightest noise, I felt myself springing on this arm.... This terrible situation lasted about ten minutes only, but to me it seemed the length of a night. At last I heard Bonneville’s voice, saying in a low tone: ‘One of the porters was missing, but I have found another.’ I then felt myself lifted. The chair crossed the great court, and turned to the right on going out. We proceeded in that way to the Quai des Orfévres, opposite the little Rue du Harlay. There the chair stopped, the door opened, and my friend Baudus, offering me his arm, said aloud; ‘You know, madame, you have still a visit to pay to the president.’ I stepped out, and he pointed out to me a gig a short distance off in the small, dark street. I sprang into this carriage, and one touch made the horse start at a good trot. Passing the quay I saw Josephine, her hands clasped, and praying to God with all her heart. We crossed the Pont St. Michel, the Rue de la Harpe, and were soon in the Rue Vaugirard behind the Odéon, where I began to breathe. I then looked at the coachman, and what was my astonishment to recognise the Comte de Chassenon! ‘What! you here!’ said I. ‘Yes; and you have behind you four double-barrelled pistols. I hope you will use them.’ ‘No; really I do not wish to endanger you.’ ‘Then I’ll set you the example; and woe to any who tries to stop you!’ We went as far as the boulevard, at the corner of the Rue Plumet, where we stopped. On the way I had thrown off all my feminine attire, and put on a postillion’s coat, with the round gold-braided hat.
“M. Baudus soon came up. I took leave of M. du Chassenon, and modestly followed my new master. It was eight in the evening; the rain fell in torrents, the night was dark, and the solitude complete in this part of the Faubourg St. Germain. I walked with much trouble, and it was with great difficulty I followed M. Baudus, whose pace was very rapid. I soon lost one of my shoes, but still had to go on. We met some gendarmes, running fast, and little thinking I was there, for they were probably in search of me. At last after an hour’s march, tired out, one foot in my shoe, the other naked, I saw M. Baudus stop for an instant at the Rue de Grenelle near the Rue du Bac. ‘I am going,’ he said, ‘into an hotel; while I am talking to the porter, enter the court. On the left you will find a staircase; go up to the last story, and follow the dark passage on the right; at the end of that is a pile of wood,--stay there and wait.’ We proceeded a few steps farther along the Rue du Bac, and a sort of giddiness came over me when I saw him knock at the door of the minister of foreign affairs. He entered first, and while he stood talking with the porter, whose head was out of his lodge, I passed quickly by. ‘Where’s that man going?’ cried the porter. ‘He is my servant.’ I went up stairs to the third story, and came to the place mentioned. I had scarcely reached it, when I heard the rustling of a stuff dress, and felt myself gently taken by the arm, and pushed into a room, the door of which was closed after me.”
A fire was burning, and on a small table Lavalette saw a candlestick and some matches, from which he concluded that the room could be lighted without danger. On the bureau was a paper, containing these words: “No noise, open the window at night, only wear soft shoes, and wait patiently.” Near this paper was a bottle of excellent Bordeaux wine, with several volumes of Molière and Rabelais, and a small basket containing some elegant toilet fittings.
M. Baudus shortly came in, threw himself in his friend’s arms, and told him he was in the apartment of M. Bresson, cashier at the office of foreign affairs. Proscribed under the Reign of Terror, M. Bresson and his wife had found shelter with some kind people who had concealed them at the peril of their lives. Lavalette shared this shelter with them for eighteen days, during all which time he heard the criers in the streets, threatening severe punishment to any person harbouring him.
Madame de Lavalette was soon discovered by the jailor behind the screen. The alarm once given, this heroic woman found herself a butt for the insults of those wretches who were not capable of appreciating her courage. The procureur général Bellart, ordered them to cease their noisy rudeness, but assaulted Madame de Lavalette with ribaldry and abuse, and put her in a room overlooking the court of the women, whose shouts and coarse talk were a martyrdom for her. After studying with great care the best means of getting Lavalette out of the kingdom, his friends took counsel of a young Englishman, Mr. Bruce, who accepted the proposal with joy, and entrusted it to General Wilson. This latter, whose efforts to save Marshal Ney had proved so vain, wished to take his revenge. Everything was settled, every event well provided for, and in spite of gendarmes, custom-house officers, and all the difficulties of such a journey, Lavalette, in the uniform of an English officer, was conducted by General Wilson on to Belgian ground. “On shaking hands with the general, I expressed with deep emotion all my gratitude; but he, still preserving his imperturbable calm, only smiled without answering. Half an hour after, he turned to me, and said very seriously: ‘Now, my dear fellow, give me your reasons for not wishing to be guillotined?’ I was surprised, and looked at him without answering. ‘Yes,’ he went on; ‘I was told that you had requested as a particular favour that you might be shot.’ ‘Because,’ I said; ‘the prisoner is dragged in a cart with his hands tied behind his back; he is attached to a plank’---- ‘Oh, I understand; you did not wish to die like a calf.’ A few hours afterwards, the two friends separated: one proceeding to Germany, the other returning to Paris, where he underwent several months’ imprisonment for his generous conduct.”
_GIOVANNI ARRIVABENE, UGONI, AND SCALVINI._
1822.
During his campaign of Guaita, in 1820, the Count Giovanni Arrivabene had had the hardihood to receive Pellico, his two pupils, and their father, Count Porro, men who, to use the expression of Lamennais, had dared to pronounce the word country. This crime incurred the penalty of death, though the tender mercy of Austria sometimes commuted it to fifteen or twenty years of hard labour. Porro being pursued, and Pellico arrested, their host could not expect less; and he was, in fact, seized and arraigned. He was, however, released, but shortly after he found out that the Austrian police regretted their clemency. He accordingly left his home one day in the greatest secrecy, crossed Brescia, and came to the house of his two oldest and most devoted friends, Camillo Ugoni and Giovita Scalvini, whom he informed of his determination to fly, and of their own state of insecurity, offering them at the same time places in his carriage. They did not hesitate a moment, but their preparations for departure occupied some little time, and they were, of course, anxious to maintain the greatest secrecy. It being then four in the afternoon, they decided to wait till daybreak. Scalvini took Arrivabene home with him, and put him in the bed usually occupied by his mother. The good lady, from whom they wished to conceal the real state of affairs, was so effectually kept in the dark, that, without knowing anything of their secret, she was made instrumental in giving the alarm in case of a visit from the police. On the 10th of April, 1822, the fugitives and one of Arrivabene’s servants left Brescia; and choosing the roads along the valley, they soon dismissed the carriage, and pursued their way on horseback. They passed three days and three nights in the labyrinth of valleys, constantly changing guides, and they were received everywhere with the attention and respect worthy of the most ancient times. At Edolo, a village on the Adda, twelve hours from Tirano, they saw the uniforms of some gendarmes hung over a large fire in an inn. “What’s this?” “Hush! they are asleep! poor wretches, it would be a pity to wake them!”