A French Volunteer of the War of Independence

Chapter I

A FRENCH VOLUNTEER

OF THE

WAR OF INDEPENDENCE.

CHAPTER I.

Birth—Early days—Education—Out in the world—Sent to the prison of Pierre-en-Cize by order of the King.

My father—César de Moré Chaliers, Comte de Pontgibaud—has often informed me that I came into the world on 21st April, 1758. My mother, whose maiden name was Marie Charlotte de Salaberry, was, I believe, at that time a young and pretty woman, but I can recollect very little about her, as she died whilst I was still very young, from a shock caused by being suddenly told some bad news.

I derive my family title from the noble old castle in which my father and mother lived.

The chateau possessed battlements, solid walls, towers black with age, and of undoubted historic interest,—but it was not a cheerful residence all the same.

My father was lord of the small town of Pontgibaud, and a good number of parishes round, and united in his own person all the feudal rights of lay and clerical patronage,—for he nominated the curés of most of the neighbouring villages. The Comte and Comtesse de Chaliers lived amongst their vassals, who were all dependent on their bounty. No one in the district knew anything about the rights of man, but all did know, and practise, the duties of gratitude and respect. It is a fact that whenever my mother went out, the women and children fell on their knees, and called for heaven's blessing on their lady, and the men, even the oldest, took off their caps when they saw their master and mistress coming, and set the church bells ringing. What harm was there in this interchange of protection on one side, and love on the other? Were they not like children honouring their father and mother?

The huge, old castle overlooked the town, and the fertile valley watered by the Sioule, which stretches far away to the peaks of the Monts d'Or, but like all the valleys in Auvergne, though the view looked so pleasant and peaceful when the elements were at rest, it would sometimes assume in one night a quite different aspect; like the gaves of the Pyrenees, our brooks swell into torrents after a single storm, and the floods render the country not only dreary but dangerous.

Custom makes as many victims as imprudence, and the natives of the country really run more risk than travellers, because they are less cautious and more daring. One of our neighbours, a friend of my parents, Comte de Mont——, returning home one night on horseback, missed the ford, which he thought he knew well, and was drowned in the Sioule, which was then in flood. The news of this accident was announced to my mother in too sudden a manner, and gave her a shock from which she never recovered.

With the exception of some trifling incidents, which might have happened to anybody, I can remember nothing that occurred, that deserves to be recounted, from the time that I was weaned till I was ten years old. I had, however, somewhat of the same character which Plutarch remarked in Alcibiades.

I was brought up almost entirely by my maternal grandmother, la Présidente de Salaberry. One day at dinner, she said to me,

"My boy, will you have some spinach?"

"I don't like spinach," I replied.

"At your age you ought to like everything, my boy. You will have some spinach."

"I will not eat it."

"You will eat it;" and down came my plate with the spinach on it.

My own recollection of the event is hazy, but it appears that I took the plate, and threw the spinach into my grandmother's face,—much to her grief and astonishment, and that of everybody else who was present. She said, "Go to your own room," and I went.

My grandmother,—a very quiet, pious, and respectable old lady,—was far more troubled by the occurrence than I was, for I could only see that it was wrong to try and make me eat spinach when I had said that I didn't like it. The dear old lady put it all down to God's will and the irresponsibility of childhood, and said to her old servant,

"Lepage, go to my grandchild, and tell him to come and beg my pardon; and here is a louis that you may give him from me."

The old servant had no doubt whatever as to the success of his mission, since he had a free pardon and a louis to offer the rebel. He delivered his message, and wound up by saying:

"Come, monsieur le chevalier! Here is a louis that your good grandmamma charged me to give you; so come and beg her pardon, and eat your spinach like a good boy."

The louis met with the same fate as the plate, for I threw it in the old man's face.

"Does my grandmother think," I cried, "that I can be bribed into making an apology?"

I suppose I was very proud of this reply, for I often used to think of it afterwards, and do still sometimes, though now I estimate it at what it is worth. As for the little domestic drama, it probably finished like all others of the same kind; the little chevalier made an apology, ate his spinach, and was pardoned by his grandmother,—but I have disliked spinach from that day to this.

But this picture of my youth is only a page from universal history;—an event which might, or does, occur to everybody of the same age and condition.

In 1773 I laid aside the toga praetexta, and put on the toga virile,—or, in other words, I attained my sixteenth year.

Here the storms of life began to beat upon me, for, almost from the beginning, my life has been adventurous. The narration of all that I have suffered, seen, done, and noticed, from Pierre-en-Cize to New York, from Boston to Coblentz, by sea or f by land, in both hemispheres, will not be without interest and profit to my friend the reader, whoever he may be, or whatever his age. Fortune set me adrift in a rudderless boat, but I managed to steer it somehow, and am now safe in port, and not dissatisfied on the whole with my long voyage. My bad luck did not astonish me greatly, or my good luck either for that matter; from whence I conclude, that whoever reads me will be more surprised than I either was, or am. My trials began when I was sixteen years old, and I defy M. Azais to classify them in his system of compensations.

I must here state that my father had two brothers-in-law, who were excellent uncles to me, and, with the best intentions in the world, did me all the harm they could, but as their intentions were good, I suppose they will not have to answer to God for their misdeeds. The one was the President de Salaberry, and the other Baron d'A——, who, having become a widower, took for his second wife Madame P——, a widow with a grown-up daughter. Madame P——, now my aunt, married her daughter to my elder brother, and I suppose I interfered with her projects and calculations, but at any rate she certainly was not kindly disposed towards me, and by dint of curtain lectures at last persuaded her easy-going, credulous husband, my uncle, to share in her dislike of me. My brother, and my young sister-in-law, had something to do with the schemes of my aunt (her mother, and his mother-in-law), for I have some idea,—in fact I am almost certain,—that her cordial dislike to me was the effect of her maternal tenderness. I was only a "cadet of Auvergne," and my brother was the elder, and by the simple application of one of the four rules of arithmetic,—subtraction,—it appeared evident to her, that if I were out of the way, her daughter would be,—in the event of anything happening to my brother,—sole heiress to the estate, undiminished by the payment of my portion. The prospect seemed tempting: I will not say that it was fair and honourable conduct, but it was not her fault that the end did not crown the work, as will be seen.

After the death of my mother, my father did not revisit Paris, but lived in his old castle, and hoarded up the revenues of his vast domains. I passed, I believe, two or three years at Juilly, under the more or less affectionate care of my uncle, the second husband of a second wife. I picked up some learning,—very much against my will,—under the reverend fathers of the Oratory, but, when I left them, I was not precisely what would be termed a good scholar. If I had shown an inclination to learn anything, it was certainly not Greek or Latin, nor had I much cultivated the flowers of rhetoric.

I then went to college, but resided in my uncle's house, and he was supposed to watch over me. As a matter of fact no one troubled his head about me. To the outside world I appeared to be in the bosom of my own family, and under the watchful eyes of affectionate relatives, but in reality I was left to my own devices, and at sixteen was under no control whatever.

At this critical period of my existence, no one had said what they wanted me to be, nor had I been consulted on the subject. For my own part I neither knew, nor cared. I was sixteen years old, was in Paris, and my own master. I was youthful, vigorous, warm-hearted, inquisitive, and inexperienced, and was fated, like everyone else, to acquire experience at my own expense. With no friends, and no one to guide me, it would have been a miracle indeed if idleness and want of occupation had not led me into mischief. But the watchful eyes of persons who bore me no good-will followed my every movement. They did not have to wait long to detect me in some act of thoughtlessness, quickly followed by other and graver ones, and my aunt made it her constant care to spitefully exaggerate all my faults and depict them as crimes to my uncle, and through him to my father, who was a hundred leagues away from the capital.

It was made to appear that all the laws of nature and the divine order of things had been upset, because a blundering, stupid school-boy of sixteen had committed a few trifling excesses. Of course, I had had recourse to the money-lenders. They are ready enough to come to the aid of any extravagant young man, but I had saved them that trouble by going to them. The whole extent of my vice was, that I was acquainted with some young women of easy morals, and had made some debts, which, as I was allowed no pocket-money, and was not a coiner, was hardly a matter for surprise. What they said, or what they did, or what charges my aunt brought against me, I know not, but it is certain that my father was led to regard me as a monster of iniquity, and not only to give his consent, but even to order, that a family council should be called to delib- erate on my case. I might have confessed that I had done neither more nor less than a young blockhead of sixteen, left to himself in Paris, might be expected to do, and they must have acknowledged that I was innocent of something Uke seven-eighths of the capital sins, but my aunt had so mixed up the true with the false, and the false with the probable, that my poor old father did not doubt for an instant but that I was capable of every crime, winding up—since I had not commenced with it—by parricide. I am not overstating the case, absurd as it may sound.

Unhappily for me, all the fathers in Auvergne were just then in a state of fright,—an epidemic of terror had seized them all. There are weak minded people in castles as well as in huts, and fools are to be found in aristocratic drawing-rooms as well as in the sixth floor garrets of city houses. About this time, it was said that many young children had disappeared, and this, coupled with the report that the Dauphin was suffering from some strange malady, led many of the good citizens of Paris to believe that the Prince had been ordered blood baths, and that all the young innocents who were lost had gone to fill his tub,—which caused a good many wooden-headed, wooden-shoed mothers to hide their offspring, as they did in the time of Herod.

At this time also, a rumour was current in Auvergne that young Comte de M had tried to poison his father in a dish of eggs and tripe. Whether there was any foundation for this terrible charge, I cannot say, but it is a fact that all the fathers in Auvergne took the matter seriously. Terror reigned under the domestic roof, and there was not a son who was not suspected of parricidal intentions, and all the heads of families talked of living without eating at all, for fear of this fatal dish of eggs and tripe. Though only sixteen years old, I also came under this terrible imputation, and when, at the request or order of my father, the family council met, it was with no friendly feeling towards me. Without being heard in my own defence,—for the verdict was intended to be an agreeable surprise to me, I suppose,—I was accused, tried, and condemned by all my relatives, with one exception,—that of my cousin german, the Marquis de M——, an officer in the First Regiment of Cavalry. And it cannot be said either that this family meeting was like that of la fausse Agnes. There was my uncle, the maitre des comptes, my uncle the President de Salaberry, the Marquis de R——, brigadier-general in the King's army, and my wise and respectable cousin M. Th——, captain in the guards. I do not remember what other notabilities were present, except my belle tante, wheezing up and down the corridor, and my father, emptying the vials of his paternal wrath, and presiding over the proceedings. My cousin the Marquis de M——, a young soldier accustomed to courts-martial, and knowing how to proportion the punishment to the offence, was the only one who refused to lightly consign to imprisonment,—perhaps for life,—a lad of sixteen. I will, however, do my other relatives the justice to acknowledge that they were sorry afterwards: this they have all since proved to me,—all save my aunt, who has never spoken to me, and whom I have never asked. May God judge her.

It is nevertheless true that, thanks to my kind relations, not one of whom would willingly have done a wrong or an injustice to any person, the following royal order was issued against me.

"1st February, 1775.

"The Chevalier de Pontgibaud, being of a fierce and violent character, and refusing to do work of any kind, is to be taken to Saint Lazare, at the expense of his father."

But in the margin of the royal order,—which I have seen in the register preserved in the archives,—is written, "Transferred to Pierre-en-Cize, 19th February, 1775." It is clear also, from the date, that the lettre de cachet must have been signed "La Vrillière," for his successor, M. de Malesherbes, would certainly have refused to put his name to it.

Where were human justice, a father's wisdom, the voice of nature, and the ties of blood? And yet I can honestly aver that my relatives, who all belonged to a high rank of society, were the best meaning people in the world,—all gentleness, and kindness,—though, perhaps, I should add, except towards me, and except on that occasion. That was the sad effect of prejudice. If you have respectable, well- to-do people for your judges, they may be mistaken like anyone else; and their judgments are severe, and not always just.

Accordingly you see that, on the sole charge of having,—at sixteen,—"a fierce and violent character, and refusing to do any kind of work," I found myself on the 19th February, 1775, on the road from Paris to Lyon, or, more strictly speaking, on the road to Pierre-en-Cize. The child had by his side his nurse,—I mean a gendarme,—and before him the pleasant prospect of remaining locked up for the remainder of his life.

Chapter II

CHAPTER II.

Eighteen months in prison—A plan of escape successfully carried out—Armed resistance—Sheltered by a Lyons merchant—Arrival in Auvergne—A family compact—A compromise effected—Departure to join the, so-called, "insurgent army" in America.

In order that the intelligent reader may follow my narrative with interest, it is indispensable that I should here describe the castle of Pierre-en-Cize, the residence that I had taken on a long lease, or rather for an indefinite period, and of which I was an unwilling tenant. I must first though say something of the locality.

In Piganiol de la Force (see his Description of France) we find: "Pierre-en-Cize, or Pierre-Seise, a castle of France, and a State prison, near the Saone, and opposite Lyon. There are in this castle a captain on half pay, a company of thirty infantry soldiers, a lieutenant, and a sergeant."

That is all that a historian, a traveller, and a poet, could say about Pierre-en-Cize,—not having had an opportunity of examining the place closely. To properly describe the castle, one ought to have lived there, and been a State prisoner there, as I have been, but I do not think it likely that anyone will envy me my knowledge, considering how it was attained.

The castle of Pierre-en-Cize was the country house of the Archbishops of Lyon, and as far as situation and outlook are concerned, is a pleasant residence enough. It is not like the castle of Lourdes, surrounded by cloud-capped peaks, resembling a solitary cypress tree in a chaos of rocks, a veritable battle-field of the Titans. It is not like Mont St. Michel either, where, half the year, every twelve hours, the waves beat against the walls of your prison, the tempests roll under your feet, and the cry of the shipwrecked sailors echoes through the cells. Without prejudice, I may say that, as far as the view goes, Pierre-en-Cize is infinitely more pleasant, but there is no such thing as a nice prison, and, all things considered, it must be owned that,—when one is behind the bars,—the smiling fields, the harvests, the forests, the flocks, the sight of men at liberty, though they make a delightful picture, are only an added punishment to the poor prisoner.

Let me now give in my own fashion, and according to my own observations, a topographical and picturesque description of Pierre-en-Cize, internally and externally. It may be confidently accepted as correct, for I may say with truth, "I have seen."

The castle is situated on the banks of the Saone, as you enter Lyon by the faubourg of Vaize. It stands on a high and steep hill, which you ascend by steps cut in the rock. At the main-gate is a guardhouse, occupied by a company of the Lyonnais regiment,—some of them veterans, but a good number young soldiers of good conduct, admitted into the garrison as a favour. There was no possible means of escape this way; moreover, the prisoners were only allowed to walk in a portion of the courtyard; the sentinel stopped them if they passed the boundary,—a big chestnut tree, which I can still see in my mind's eye.

The castle is a square building, having at the north-west comer a very large tower, at the end of the courtyard on the right hand side. All the walls are very high; that part of the castle which looks towards the faubourg of Vaize is to the north-east, and is only accessible on that side by a road cut in the hill for the purpose of bringing up wood, wine, and other provisions and necessaries, which are all brought on the backs of mules. Whenever anything of this kind arrives, the entire guard turns out under arms, and, as long as the gates are open, half the soldiers stand outside, and the other half just inside, the gateway. But by observing as much as I could, I was able to form some idea as to the nature of the ground on that side, which had hitherto been unknown to me, I having arrived by the gate which overlooks the fiver Saône, by which, as I have said before, escape was impossible.

After having mounted the rock, I was conducted through the courtyard, and found myself at the foot of the great tower, the situation of which I have already described. I was led up a winding staircase to a wooden gallery, and locked in cell No. I, close to the tower, the circular wall of which formed one side of my cell. I found, in this agreeable abode, the regulation prison-furniture; a wretched bed, pushed against the rounded wall of the tower, a chair, a table, and the usual big jar of water. Light came from the inside court, through a window well garnished with bars, and looking on the gallery. Such was my prison, and such were the obstacles I should have to surmount in order to get out of it, but I had no sooner put my foot inside the tower than I resolved to attempt to make my escape, and that as soon as I possibly could. The contrivance, the patience, the hard work, and the boldness of my escape, which I made in full daylight, and with arms in my hand, rendered me somewhat celebrated in the history of Pierre-en-Cize. The castle was destroyed in the Revolution (in 1791), but it is a fact that from 1777 till the time the fortress was demolished, every young prisoner who was confined there longed to emulate the prowess of Pontgibaud. It will be seen that for a prisoner, aged only eighteen, to make his escape is a feat of which I may be allowed to boast.

No pupil of Vauban ever made more calculations and plans how to get into a stronghold than I did how to get out of mine. I said to myself, "This castle is accessible on the side where I am. I ought to be able to cut through the wall where it joins the tower. The wall and the tower were built at different times, and though the facings are in hard stone, there is sure to be only rubble between,—more particularly in the angle where the straight wall joins the round tower. All that is needed is time and patience, and that I will have."

The prisoner who had occupied the cell before me had a talent for painting, and a taste for botany. He had amused himself, by painting all sorts of flowers on the walls, and, which was greatly in my favour, he had painted a dark blue border, about two and a half feet high, all round the room. I may note also as a strange freak of chance, that this predecessor was a near relative of my aunt. I will not say that she had anything to do with his imprisonment, for I never inquired the reason of it, but at any rate it caused the cell to seem quite like a family apartment. The purchase of a quantity of blue paper,—the paper in which hair powder is usually packed,—was therefore one of my first steps, for the sapper required a mantlet behind which he could work. Above all, I had need of money. Money has been called the sinews of war, and is certainly necessary in all great enterprises, and no enterprise was greater in my eyes than that which absorbed all my thoughts. Virgil has said,

Quid non mortalia pectora cogis Auri sacra fames.

If he had been in my place he would have said, as I did, sacra fames libertatis.

I received fifty francs a month, to enable me to supplement my scanty fare with better food, and hire books. I found means to augment this scanty income by copying music in the daytime. The Amphions of Lyon had many a score from my hand, and I had their money; they were, without knowing it, half accomplices in my escape. I procured some cardboard, with which I made shutters to my window, because at ten o'clock the sentinel ordered us to put out our lights. I bought, under various pretexts, some small knives, and as we were supplied with wood for the winter, I manufactured out of the largest faggots, short levers intended to make an opening through the wall, without any noise, by working with them between the stones. I also procured, through the help of my laundress, some bullets, gunpowder, and a double-barrelled pistol. Trust in women, and you will never have cause to repent it. If they consent to help you, they will never betray you, and they will keep your secret as they would keep their own. This is not always the case with men. If there is cited against me the mother of Papirius Praetextatus, I will re- ply with the name of Epicharis; and as regards men my worthy laundress was more discreet than Turenne.

I had now nothing to do but set to work. The angle made by the wall and the tower was concealed by my bed. I commenced to tunnel at this spot, taking care not to surpass the limit of the blue paint. My paper, which was of the same colour, covered and concealed my sapping. I worked four hours every night. I was careful to sweep away all signs of work, and to neatly replace the blue paper before my "gate of safety." As to the rubbish I took out, I carefully carried it in handkerchiefs, and easily disposed of it by throwing it down the latrine used by the prisoners. This was at the foot of the staircase inside the tower. My cell was No. 1, and being so close to the stairs, I could descend twenty times a day without being noticed, and, by a lucky chance also, the cesspool was a sort of well of great depth.

My labour was greatly lessened by the fact that the wall,—as I had hoped,—did not join the tower in the centre, there was a gap of two or three inches; and throughout the whole of my labours, in digging through a wall nine or ten feet thick, I only met with one very large stone. It caused me some disappointment, and led me to take counsel with myself. This huge stone presented an acute angle towards me. I attacked the wall round it, but with no great hope of success. Judge of my joy and surprise when I felt it yield under my poor little lever, like a loose tooth. I soon had the happiness to lay it bare, and then drag it out of my mole-run. I did not think of breaking it up, but hid it, as it was, in my mattress. It was found there later on, and figured in the report on my escape; but it did not tend to make my bed feel any the more comfortable. The first part of the work was the most diffi- cult, because the nine or ten inches of plaster I had to get through, prevented my seeing the real positions of the stones, which I had then to attack very warily for fear that they should bring down with them, when they fell, some of the plaster above the line of blue paint. I made my tunnel so that, when I had crawled in on my stomach, I could then draw up my legs, and sit like a journeyman tailor. The light to work by, I obtained in the best way I could, by converting pomade pots into lamps, filling them with lard, and inserting a bit of wick.

The "solution of continuity," existing between the wall and the tower, allowed me to respire the external air, which was a great relief to me. I calculated that I had still nearly four feet of masonry to cut through, and that I was about half through my work, when, about eleven o'clock or midnight, I heard a voice pronounce these terrible words:

"Look, papa, there is a light at the foot of the castle tower."

The words were uttered by a little boy, the son of the gardener. My blood ran cold; I put my hand over my little lamp, but the burn and the fright were the worst that was to happen to me. The worthy man thought that the child was mistaken, and so I was saved.

The work was at last finished;—it had occupied me forty-five nights. What thoughts crowded in upon me. This wall ten feet thick was now nothing for me but a thin partition of a few inches; with a kick, or a push with my shoulder, I could throw down the feeble barrier which separated me from the world and from liberty. But then what should I do when I was free? I was without means,—for I had but six francs in my pocket. Then, should I make my escape alone? Would it not be more honourable to set at liberty all my companions in misfortune, as well as myself? They must be all innocent, for they said they were. What a debt they would owe me for the rest of their lives, and besides, if we were attacked we should be able to defend ourselves.

I resolved on adopting this noble idea, but I would say nothing beforehand,—for fear I should be betrayed.

I suspended my labours the following day, and when we re-entered the castle to be locked up in our several cells, I told five or six of the prisoners to come to No. I as soon as the doors were opened in the morning, and I would inform them of a certain means of escape.