Part 23

The illustrious captive had for years been making representations to the authorities in Paris upon the subject of the dilapidated state of his rooms. Again and again had he begged that something might be done to render the place at least safe and wholesome. The staircase was rickety, and the whole of that part of the building in which he was confined as unsafe as it could possibly be. But a deaf ear had as usual been turned to all his remonstrances, and the matter had been allowed to drop. It was therefore with no small pleasure that one evening the captives learnt from their kind hearted governor, over a game at cards, that the order had come down for the necessary repairs to be done, and that the workmen would set about them in a few days’ time. From this moment it was resolved that the prince should endeavour to leave the place in the disguise of a joiner, and a suitable dress for the purpose was accordingly procured from friends outside. Dr. Conneau, who although the five years of his sentence had expired, still stayed with the others, was now allowed to go in and out occasionally, just as the servant Thelin was, and the two made all necessary arrangements for the flight. The day of departure was originally fixed for Saturday, the 23rd of May, but the unexpected arrival of some English visitors made it necessary to wait until the Monday. With his usual careful attention to details, the prince had ascertained both from his own and reported observations of his friends, the movements of every workman and guard about the place. It was found that the greatest precautions were taken to have the unfrequented parts of the fort well watched. If a workman was seen in any retired spot he was immediately challenged; but beyond the usual measures of causing the men to pass in single file through a serjeant’s guard when they left, there were no extra pains taken to hinder them passing out through the gate. By a strange fatuity all the Government’s anxiety seemed to be centred in preventing people coming _into_ the prison, for there had always been some fear of a possible rescue. The walls were also narrowly watched within and without; but it had not apparently occurred to anybody that the captive might coolly walk through the door and politely wish his gaolers good day, as eventually he did.

As may be imagined, the Sunday before their departure was a very anxious day. The smallest accident might bring failure, and with it all hope of liberty and the certainty of universal ridicule; for people would have all shaken their heads, and said a man must have been destitute of the most common sense to believe he could walk out of prison, through men who had known him for a half a dozen years, in the flimsy disguise of a journeyman carpenter. The friendly ostrich would have been severely laid under contribution to point innumerable morals and adorn no end of tales.

A passport had been procured from Paris by which the prince was to travel, of course under an assumed name; and the fact of the faithful Thelin not being similarly supplied, caused much anxiety to the little circle; but the accident of the English visitors’ arrival, was turned to good account in this matter. Telling his friends that he wished his valet to take a journey, the prince begged that one of them would be good enough to let his courier give the man his passport, which was immediately done. It is curious to note that afterwards, when in power, as if the emperor had remembered this small favour, he passed a law to the effect that English people might travel through France without a passport.

Very early on the Monday morning, the prince, Dr. Conneau, and Charles Thelin stood, without their shoes, watching the courtyard from behind the window curtains, for the arrival of the workmen. “St. Monday” is kept in France as religiously as it is here by certain classes of operatives; and to their great vexation they saw but very few of the men come in, and those were in cleaner blouses than the “Saturday” one which was to form the prince’s disguise. Again: by an unfortunate chance, the only sentinel they were particularly anxious to avoid happened to be on duty just outside. The prince had noticed that this man had been extremely zealous in his inspection and cross-examination of the workmen, every one of whom, as he was a keen, eagle-eyed fellow, he knew at sight. However, this man was relieved at six o’clock, and one who was considered less active took his place. The danger of discovery was, of course, chiefly to be apprehended from two sources--from the soldiers and keepers, and from the workmen themselves, who, seeing a stranger among them, would be sure to give an alarm. To lessen the chances from the latter, as soon as the workmen were all in, Thelin, having clipped his master’s moustaches, went out and invited them into the dining-room to have a morning dram; and while he was pouring it out and detaining them with light conversation, the prince slipped down the first stairs, and picking up a plank, waited coolly for his man to rejoin him; for as the two keepers at the bottom of the stairs knew him well, it was necessary for Thelin to be there to take off the attention of one, while his highness’s face was covered from the other by the plank on his shoulder. Here another difficulty arose. The prince being much below the middle stature, and therefore smaller than any of the workmen, his friends had provided a pair of high-heeled boots, which gave him the appearance of being four inches taller than he really was, and the feet of these were hidden from observation by being placed in a pair of clumsy-looking sabots. But as it was Monday, and the weather was fine, it was noticed that not one of the men had sabots on, so that at the last moment a whispered consultation became necessary upon the subject of sabots or no sabots. The prince was for kicking them off; but Thelin insisted upon their retention. So, with plank and sabots, and a much-soiled blouse, with a short, common clay pipe between his lips, the future Emperor of the French marched out of Ham.

Going down the stairs, the prince was alarmed to see that one of the workmen, who was probably a teetotaller, and had resisted Thelin’s invitation, was already at his work on the baluster; but fortunately he did not look up as the man with the plank went by. At the bottom, the fugitive heard the workmen come pouring out of the dining-room overhead, just as he was rejoined by Thelin; and with great presence of mind Dr. Conneau called out to the workmen that he had something to say to them, and so delayed them until the others had passed between the keepers.

“Good morning, Thelin,” said Dupin, one of these, stooping to pat the prince’s dog, which went with them: “so you are off on a journey, eh?” seeing the great coat on his arm.

“Yes, I am off for a short drive with master doggy here,” replied Thelin, making room for the awkward man with the board, who walked straight through.

“Well, good-bye, take care of yourself,” replied Dupin; while Issali, the other keeper, walked on in conversation with Thelin as far as the gate of the fort. Here, as they went out, the soldier on guard would have taken no notice had not the prince dropped his pipe right at the man’s feet, which attracted his attention, and he looked him straight in the face as he stooped to pick it up. That must have been a moment long after remembered by the ruler of the French. Recovering his pipe, he passed out through the serjeant’s guard, and being narrowly scanned by one of the soldiers, he shifted the plank as if he were tired, and managed so as very nearly to knock his examiner on the head. With an exclamation of impatience the man turned aside, and the prince was free!

The fugitives had not gone far, however, when they met two workmen, who looked very hard at the prince, who had once more to shift his board so as to hide his face. As they passed, one of them exclaimed, “Is that Bertou?” To which, with almost pardonable disregard of truth, his highness gave a laconic “_Oui!_” and passed on.

The moment they were out of sight of the fortress, the board was thrown into a ditch, with the dirty blouse; and as the prince was disguised as a cabman, he waited outside the cemetery of St. Sulpice, two miles from Ham, while his companion went for the cab in which the master was to drive the servant to St. Quentin, on their way to Valenciennes.

When Charles Thelin returned with the cabriolet, he found the prince on his knees before a large crucifix, returning thanks for his delivery.

As they drove towards St. Quentin, an old woman who knew Thelin passed them, and afterwards told her friends that she had never before seen him in such disreputable looking company, for she had always regarded the valet to the good prince as a very respectable young man. At St. Quentin the prince walked round the outskirts of the town to the opposite side to that on which he had entered, while the valet drove to the post-house to get a chaise to take them to Valenciennes.

Thelin being a great favourite with Madame Abrai, who kept the inn from which the chaise had to be obtained, had much trouble to get away. She insisted upon his taking some breakfast, and to tempt him, brought out a pie of her own making, which she declared he must taste or never speak to her again. Always ready to improve the occasion, her guest not only ate some, but in a jocular way declared that the pasty was so good that he should steal it and take it with him to eat on the journey. The good soul consenting, it was taken to his highness, who, being very hungry, condescended to finish it.

Owing to the pressure put upon him at the inn, Thelin was so long that the prince feared he had mistaken the rendezvous. As he sat in great suspense on a bank by the roadside, a fussy-looking little gentleman passed and scanned him somewhat narrowly.

“Have you seen a postchaise on the road you have come, sir?” said the prince.

“I have not, sir!” replied the little man, pompously. This was the Procureur du Roi, who would have been charged with the prosecution of the prince if he had been recaptured.

After the postchaise arrived, there were no further adventures until Valenciennes was reached a little before two. The train for Brussels did not leave till four, so for two weary hours the travellers sat together in the waiting room of the station talking over the events of the journey, and wondering how it fared with poor Dr. Conneau, who, although free to walk out of the prison when he liked, had insisted upon remaining to cover their retreat. While they sat there, a gendarme from Ham suddenly appeared, and clapped Thelin on the shoulder. The consternation of the travellers may be easily imagined.

“How goes it, Thelin?” said the man, in cheerful accents which speedily reassured them. “Who would have thought now of meeting anybody from Ham all this way off?”

“Good morning, neighbour,” said Thelin. “I am off to Belgium.”

“Ah! and how is the good prince?”

“He was very well when I last saw him. I have left his service now.”

“Oh, indeed! That gentleman with you is not from Ham, is he?”

“Oh, dear no! he is a man whom I have known years ago, and we have met again on the journey.”

“Ah, well, good-bye; my train is going, and I cannot stop any longer with you. Bon jour, monsieur” (to the prince). Hats raised.

“Bon jour, monsieur.”

And so the two fugitives got safely into Belgium. From Brussels they went to Ostend, and from Ostend to London, where, as soon as the prince arrived, he wrote a letter to the premier, Lord Aberdeen, to acquaint him with the facts of his escape, and to assure Her Majesty’s Government that he did not intend to conspire against the Government of France, but was merely desirous of attending to his private affairs. In reply, Lord Aberdeen wrote a polite letter, telling him that, under the circumstances, he was welcome to remain in England as long as he pleased. Thus ended one of the most memorable flights in history.

As the reader may like to know how the faithful Dr. Conneau fared, we will just state that, by various pretences he delayed the discovery of the prince’s departure for more than twelve hours. As the governor always made a point of seeing the prince at frequent intervals during the day, it was necessary to give it out that he was ill, and wanted repose. To aid in the deception the doctor made up a stuffed figure, dressed it in the prince’s clothes, and placed it on his bed; then leaving his door ajar, he allowed the governor to peep in and satisfy his mind that his prisoner was still there. Towards eight o’clock at night, however, M. Demarle’s suspicions were aroused, and he insisted on entering the prince’s room with the doctor, when, of course, the ruse was discovered.

“When did the prince go?” said he, turning round sharply to Dr. Conneau.

“At seven this morning.”

“You are under arrest, Doctor.”

“Good.”

The worthy doctor was afterwards sentenced to three months’ imprisonment, for his share in the transaction.

_THE CAPTURE AND ESCAPE OF THE FENIAN HEAD CENTRE, JAMES STEPHENS._

After the seizure of the Fenian newspaper, the _Irish People_, in the summer of 1865, the British Government made great efforts to capture a number of the leading members of the “brotherhood,” which had caused them so much trouble in Ireland. Among those who were thus “wanted,” there was nobody whose presence in a court of justice was felt to be more desirable than Mr. James Stephens, _alias_ Power, the chief centre, and indeed, prime mover of Fenianism. The available detective force of the three kingdoms were in active pursuit, and spies and informers were being anxiously interrogated concerning the antecedents and personal habits of their enterprising enemy. Wonderful were the tales told to the authorities of this Mr. Stephens. He had for years, ever since 1848, it was said, been carefully educating the Irish peasantry in the art and mystery of treason, having travelled for the purpose in all sorts of disguises through every town and hamlet of the country. At one time he would be met with in the dress of a parish priest; then he would hobble past police barracks on crutches; again, he would assume the character of a rollicking farm servant on his way to a country fair, and so on, _ad infinitum_. Whether all or any of these tales were true or not, it is certain that, by some means or other, the organization which the Government was determined to put down was not only widely spread but continually increasing, and had members in every corner of the land; and although the police felt quite certain that James Stephens had not left the country or ceased from his labours, he somehow or other did for months manage to baffle his innumerable pursuers.

The Government knew the man’s history. He had been connected with the abortive attempts at insurrection with Smith O’Brien in 1848; was present at the “battle” in the cabbage garden, and had escaped to the Continent, where he had for a year or two made a precarious living as a teacher of English and drawing. In Paris he had, with two friends, John O’Mahoney and Michael Doheny, invented and drawn up the plans for the conspiracy of which the world has since heard so much. The organization was to be called the “Fenian Brotherhood,” after the Fenians, a semi-mystical body of militia, celebrated for its deeds of chivalry and prowess in ancient Irish history. Among other modest achievements set down to the credit of these old warriors, in ballads still sung in the wilds of Connemara and Mayo, it is recorded that each of them singly was in the habit of conquering any nine men who had the temerity to engage with him in mortal combat; in fact, it appears not to have been allowed by the rules of the order for a private in that distinguished corps to fight less than nine ordinary mortals, save under exceptionally provoking circumstances. In fixing upon the title, “Fenian,” therefore, the conspirators showed an intimate knowledge of the weakness of thousands of their poorer fellow-countrymen, who are to this day as proud of the doings of the old Fenian heroes, as English schoolboys are of the self-reliance and wonderful performances of Robinson Crusoe.

The cleverest part of the programme, however, was that by which it was determined to carry on the organization simultaneously in Ireland and America. Two of the sedition farmers were to proceed to the United States, and one to his native land; so that as fast as the treason plants were sufficiently grown in the one country to bear transplantation to the soil of the other, an experienced nurseryman might be on the spot to receive them. Of course, the post of honour and danger being the Irish one, there was a friendly contest in which each of the conspirators endeavoured to secure it for himself. Each urged his claims, but as no one would yield to the others, it was decided to toss for it with a golden coin, for in such a sacred cause it was unanimously agreed that neither silver or bronze was pure enough for use. This decision caused some little delay, owing to the fact that among the three original members of the brotherhood there did not happen to be as much as five and fourpence; and as there is no French gold coin of less value, the settlement of the momentous question was deferred. Mr. Stephens soon after this obtaining some money from one of his pupils, won the toss, and after seeing his friends off for New York, went to Ireland, where, obtaining a living, first in a situation as teacher, and afterwards as a commercial traveller, he devoted himself to his enterprise with a zeal and devotion which as loyal citizens we must regret were not applied in a worthier cause.

Among his other studies, Mr. Stephens had with much foresight included the internal economy of the gaols of his native land. It was said, and probably with some truth, that under various pretences he had made himself tolerably well acquainted with the arrangements for the detention of prisoners in most of the leading strongholds of the country. He had evidently become imbued with the belief that the battle of Irish liberty would have to be fought out in Her Majesty’s gaols, and the sequel has proved the soundness of his conclusion. This was the man whom the Government was so desirous of capturing all through the summer and autumn of 1865.

Towards the end of July, 1865, a gentleman, named Herbert, with his wife and daughter, went to reside in a handsome residence, called Fairfield House, at the corner of Newbridge Avenue, Sandy Mount, Dublin. The arrival of the family was hailed with much satisfaction among the tradesmen of the neighbourhood; for the new comers evidently had not only expensive tastes, but what was more important, plenty of money to gratify them. Mr. and Mrs. Herbert laid out considerable sums, not only in the embellishment and furnishing of Fairfield House, but in the adornment of the grounds which were rather extensive; and although it was observed that they kept very little company, yet, as they always paid punctually for what they had, they soon became much respected in the neighbourhood. The gentleman seldom went out and was therefore but little known; but Mrs. Herbert, from her kindly manner and frequent purchases, was a general favourite with the shopkeepers. So this quiet household pursued the even tenor of its way until one dark winter’s morning, when an accident happened to them, which as it has an immediate bearing upon our narrative, we shall now relate.

Between five and six o’clock, on the 11th of November, a body of about thirty well-armed policemen surrounded Mr. and Mrs. Herbert’s premises, and three inspectors with cocked pistols in their hands scaled the wall and effected an entrance. Of course, the peaceable inhabitants of the house were all wrapped in slumber, from which Mr. Herbert was rudely awakened by a loud knocking at his bedroom door.

“Who is there, and what is the matter?” were the questions which that gentleman naturally put to his disturbers, who, commencing to break in the door, replied as follows:

“Come, Mr. Stephens, open the door, we know you, and resistance is perfectly useless.” To which summons Mr. Herbert, _alias_ Power, _alias_ Stephens, responded by opening the door and letting his captors in. One of the inspectors stayed with Mr. Stephens while he dressed, and the others searched the house, where, in an adjoining bedroom they found two gentlemen in bed together, and one lying on a mattress on the floor. These were Messrs. Brophy, Duffy, and Kickham, who were immediately arrested upon the same charge as Stephens. In the other parts of the house provisions enough to last the inmates six months, a quantity of arms, and nearly £2000 in gold and cheques were found; one draft recently received from New York being drawn in favour of a “Mr. Hooper,” for no less a sum than £1525 8_s._ 6_d._

Mrs. Stephens had been tracked by female detectives during one of her numerous shopping excursions, and thus the discovery of her husband’s whereabouts had been effected. Without the least trouble the whole party were conveyed to a police court, and after several preliminary examinations were committed to Richmond Bridewell, to take their trial before a Special Commission convened by Government for the purpose.

It was observed that Mr. Stephens bore himself with great composure during his examination. Upon being called upon to make a defence, he handed in a written protest as follows:

“I deliberately and conscientiously repudiate the existence of British law in Ireland. I despise and defy any punishment it may inflict upon me.

(Signed)

“JAMES STEPHENS.”

During the proceedings his cool and even defiant manner were calculated to impress the by-standers with the belief that he was an attorney watching a case, rather than a prisoner expecting the loss of his liberty, and perhaps life. He seemed fully conscious of the goodness of his cause and his superior ability, and appeared to feel a sovereign contempt for “the other side.” He is described as being a “smart” looking man, very neatly dressed, rather below the middle stature, with smooth cheeks, a fair complexion, a fine large auburn beard, and hair of light brown colour curling round the back of the head, the front and top of which was entirely bald, and showed a very good development of the intellectual and moral faculties, “firmness” being remarkably large. The eyes small, lively, and restless. Temperament evidently sanguine and nervous, indicating quickness of perception, energy, and determination. He spoke fluently and correctly, with a slight Yankee accent (acquired during his frequent visits to America which he had made to report progress to his friends there). His manners were described as being gentlemanly, savouring of a certain degree of abruptness and impatience. This is the description which by general testimony applied to one who was certainly the ablest man ever before the public in connection with the Fenian conspiracy. As we have said before, the prisoners were kept for safety in the Richmond Bridewell, one of the strongest prisons in Ireland.