escaped from the battle of Worcester, said that for his part, it was so
dangerous a thing to harbour anybody that was known, that he would not
venture his neck for any man, unless it were the King himself. Upon
which Richard Penderell, very indiscreetly, and without my leave, told
him it was I. Upon which Mr. Woolfe replied, he should be very ready to
venture all he had in the world to secure me. Upon which Richard
Penderell came and told me what he had done, at which I was a little
troubled; but then there was no remedy, the day being just coming in,
and I must either venture that or run some greater danger.
“So I came into the house by a back way, where I found Mr. Woolfe, an
old gentleman, who told me he was very sorry to see me there, because
there were two companies of the militia sort at that time in arms in the
town, and kept a guard at the ferry to examine everybody that came that
way; and that he durst not put me into any of the hiding-holes of his
house because they had been discovered, and consequently if any search
should be made, they would certainly repair to these holes, and that
therefore I had no other way of security but to go into his barn, and
there lie behind his corn and hay. So after he had given us some cold
meat that was ready, we, without making any bustle in the house, went
and lay in the barn all the next day, when towards evening, his son who
had been prisoner at Shrewsbury, an honest man, was released, and came
home to his father’s house. And as soon as ever it began to be a little
darkish, Mr. Woolfe and his son brought us meat into the barn, and then
we discoursed with them whether we might safely get over the Severn into
Wales, which they advised me by no means to adventure upon, because of
the strict guards that were kept all along the Severn where any passage
could be found, for preventing anybody escaping that way into Wales.
“Upon this I took resolution that night the very same way back again to
Penderell’s house, where I knew I should hear some news what was become
of my Lord Wilmot, and resolved again upon going for London.
“So we set out as soon as it was dark, but we came by the mill again; we
had no mind to be questioned a second time there, and therefore asking
Richard Penderell whether he could swim or no, and how deep the river
was, he told me it was a scurvy river, not easy to be passed in all
places, and that he could not swim. So I told him the river being but a
little one, I would undertake to help him over. Upon which we went over
some closes by the river-side and I entering the river first to see if I
could myself go over, who knew how to swim, found it was but a little
above my middle, and thereupon taking Richard Penderell by the hand, I
helped him over. Which being done, we went on our way to one of
Penderell’s brothers (his house not being far from White Lady’s), who
had been guide to my Lord Wilmot, and we believed might by that time be
come back again, for my Lord Wilmot intended to go to London upon his
own horse. When I came to this house I inquired where my Lord Wilmot
was, it being now towards morning, and having travelled these two nights
on foot.
“Penderell’s brother told me he had conducted him to a very honest
gentleman’s house, one Mr. Pitchcroft[A], not far from Wolverhampton, a
Roman Catholic. I asked him what news. He told me that there was one
Major Careless in the house, that was that countryman whom, I knowing,
he having been a major in our army, and made his escape thither, a Roman
Catholic also, I sent for him into the room where I was, and consulted
him what we should do the next day. He told me that it would be very
dangerous for me to stay in that house or go into the wood--there being
a great wood hard by Boscobel; that he knew but one way how to pass the
next day, and that was to get up into a great oak, in a pretty plain
place, where we might see round about us; for the enemy would certainly
search at the wood for people that had made their escape.
“Of which proposition of his, I approving, we (that is to say Careless
and I) went, and carried up some victuals for the whole day; viz.,
bread, cheese, small beer, and nothing else, and got up into a great
oak, that had been topped some three or four years before, and being
grown out again very bushy and thick, could not be seen through, and
here we stayed all the day. I having in the meantime sent Penderell’s
brother to Mr. Pitchcroft’s, to know whether my Lord Wilmot was there or
no; and had word brought me by him at night that my lord was there; that
there was a very secure hiding-hole in Mr. Pitchcroft’s house, and that
he desired me to come thither to him.
“Memorandum.--That, while we were in this tree we saw soldiers going up
and down in the thicket of the wood, searching for persons escaped; we
saw them now and then peeping out of the wood.
“That night Richard Penderell and I went to Mr. Pitchcroft’s, about six
or seven miles off, when I found the gentleman of the house, and an old
grandmother of his, and Father Hurlston, who had then the care, as
governor, of bringing up two young gentlemen, who, I think, were Sir
John Preston and his brother, they being boys. Here I spoke with my Lord
Wilmot, and sent him away to Colonel Lane’s, about five or six miles
off, to see what means could be found for my escaping towards London;
who told my lord, after some consultation thereon, that he had a sister
that had a very fair pretence of going hard by Bristol, to a cousin of
hers, that was married to one Mr. Norton, who lived two or three miles
towards Bristol, on Somersetshire side, and she might carry me there as
her man, and from Bristol I might find shipping to get out of England.”
After various adventures, some of them attended with great danger, they
arrived safely at the house of Mr. Norton, the king passing as the
servant of Mrs. Lane. The next day while he was dining with the
servants, one of them gave so accurate a description of the battle of
Worcester, that Charles took him to be a soldier of Cromwell. He turned
out, however, to have been a soldier of the royal army, and one of the
regiment of guards. “I asked him what kind of man the King was, and he
gave me an exact description of the clothes I wore at the battle, and of
the horse I rode, adding that the King was at least three inches taller
than I. I left the place hastily, being much alarmed to find that the
man had been one of my own soldiers.” Charles learnt soon after that
Pope, the butler, had recognised him, and having previously heard that
the man was honest, and incapable of treason, he thought it best to
confide in him, and accordingly mentioned his real name and rank. Pope
at once put himself under his orders, and was of the greatest service to
him.
Just at the very moment when the King was setting out for the house of
one of his partisans, Mrs. Norton was taken with the pains of labour,
and as she was cousin to Mrs. Lane, whose servant Charles pretended to
be, that lady found it difficult to invent a pretext for quitting her. A
letter written to announce that Mrs. Lane’s father was dangerously ill,
however, answered this purpose, and the fugitives set out for the house
of Frank Wyndham at Trent.
When they arrived there the bells were ringing merry peals, and
inquiring the cause, they learned that one of the soldiers of Cromwell’s
army had entered the town, boasting that he had killed the King.
Wyndham, however, had provided a boat, and Charles, accompanied by that
loyal gentleman and by Lady Coningsby, went to a place appointed for
his reception. But as no vessel appeared, he set out for the
neighbouring town. On arriving there he found the streets filled with
red coats, the town being in possession of fifteen hundred of Cromwell’s
troops. This sight somewhat alarmed Wyndham, “and he asked me,” says the
King, “what we should now do? ‘We must go boldly,’ I said, ‘to the best
inn, and ask for the best room,’ and we accordingly did so. We found the
courtyard of the inn full of soldiers, and as soon as I alighted, I
thought it would be best to walk boldly amongst them, and to take my
horses to the stable. I did this, and they grew very angry at my
rudeness.” When he arrived in the stable, Charles found himself
confronted by a new danger. The ostler pretended to recognise him as an
old acquaintance whom he had met at Exeter, but Charles had sufficient
presence of mind to turn this to his own account. “True,” he replied, “I
have been in the service of Mr. Potter, but I am just now in a great
hurry, for my master is going straight to London; when he comes back we
will renew the acquaintance over a mug of beer.” Shortly afterwards the
King and his suite joined Lord Wilmot outside the city, but the master
of the ship they had hired, yielding to the fears of his wife, refused
to fulfil his engagement with them; Charles then once more took the
Trent road.
Another vessel which had been procured at Southampton, had been seized
by the authorities for the transport of troops, and certain mysterious
rumours which began to circulate in the neighbourhood, made it dangerous
for the King to stay any longer with Colonel Wyndham, at Salisbury;
however, he found an asylum where he remained for five days, during
which Colonel Gunter hired a boat at
[Illustration: They grew very angry at my rudeness.]
New Shoreham, and Charles set out in haste for Brighton. While he was at
supper there, with his attendants and with Tattershall, the owner of the
boat, the latter fixed his eyes, upon the King, and took occasion after
the meal to draw one of the royal attendants aside, and complain of his
having been deceived. “The gentleman in the grey dress was the King; he
knew him well, having been with him in 1648, when he was Prince of
Wales, and commanded the royal fleet.” This information was promptly
conveyed to Charles, who thought it the more prudent course to keep his
companions drinking with him all night, in order to make sure of their
holding no conversation that he did not overhear.
Just before their departure, and while he was alone in his room,
Tattershall came in, and kissing his hand, which was resting on the back
of a chair, said, “I suppose, if I live I shall be a lord, and my wife
will be a lady.” Charles laughed, to show that he understood him, and
joined the company in the other room. At four in the morning of the 16th
of October they set out for Shoreham. When Charles and Wilmot, his sole
companion, had entered the vessel, Tattershall fell upon his knees and
swore to the King that whatever might be the consequence he would land
him safe and sound on the coast of France.
The boat made for the Isle of Wight, that being its ordinary course; but
towards six o’clock in the evening, Charles, having previously arranged
the matter with Tattershall, addressed the crew. He told them that his
companion and himself were merchants, who were running away from their
creditors, and asked them to join him in begging the captain to take
them to France, backing his entreaties, at the same time, with a present
of twenty shillings for drink. Tattershall raised a great many
objections; but at last, with apparent repugnance, he turned the
vessel’s head towards France. At daybreak they sighted the city of
Fécamp. At the same time they discovered a suspicious-looking sail which
they took for an Ostend pirate. Without waiting to test the truth of
their suspicions, the two fugitives took to the ship’s boat and arrived
safely in port. (_Guizot: Memoirs of Charles the Second; Lingard:
History of England._)
_BLANCHE GAMOND._
1687.
Blanche Gamond belonged to a Protestant family of
Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux. After the revocation of the Edict of Nantes,
when the Protestants were subjected to the most rigorous persecution,
Mademoiselle Gamond, whose piety was of the most fervent and exalted
kind, resolved to fly the kingdom. The city of Saint-Paul was closely
invested, and the dragoons overran all the neighbouring country in
search of the Protestants. Blanche left the city and wandered about for
some time alone, and afterwards with her parents, who had joined her. At
times they were exposed to all the hardships of forest life, and it was
only at intervals that they could venture to show themselves in towns.
In this manner they travelled through the greater part of Dauphiné; but
they were obliged to separate at last, to escape the more easily from
the dragoons; and our poor heroine was about to pass the frontier with
her brother and her mother and sister, when she was taken near Goncelin.
Her brother escaped from the soldiers, but her mother and her sister
were brutally ill-treated by these wretches, and were taken to Grenoble
and thrown into a horrible dungeon. Blanche Gamond was then twenty-one
years of age. She was subjected for a long time to the most terrible
tortures; but insulted, mercilessly beaten, dying of hunger, and sinking
under a lingering illness, as she was, she bore all with the courage and
the resignation of a martyr.
The following is her account of her attempt at escape, the consequences
of which were most disastrous to her:--
“We were told to get ourselves ready in three days for a voyage to
America; ‘and when,’ it was added, ‘you are once on shipboard you will
be made to walk the plank, and will be thrust into the sea, so that the
detested race of the Huguenots may perish with you.’
“‘It concerns me little,’ I replied, ‘whether my body be eaten by the
fish in the sea or by the worms in the earth.’
“When they had left us alone, Susan de Montélimart said, ‘We might make
our escape by this window if we could only break the bars.’
“‘We are at such a height from the ground,’ I replied, ‘that we should
either kill or lame ourselves; and then we should only be recaptured and
treated worse than before. If that should happen, I could never survive
my sufferings. I prefer death, therefore, and will rather set out for
America. God will deliver us, as he delivered the victims of La
Rapine.’”
La Rapine, or D’Herapine, who had been formerly condemned for robbery,
under his real name of Guichard, had become director of the hospital of
Valence, where he was told to employ all the means in his power for the
conversion of the Protestants--a commission which he executed with all
the cynicism and the ferocity of one of the worst of scoundrels.
“Susan replied, ‘If they had done to me what they have done to you I
should have died ere this; but they are killing us of hunger; and,
besides, they are going to take us to America, and we shall be half dead
when they throw us in the sea. We might get out of this window. We seem
to be despising the means which God has placed within our reach; but,
for my part, I mean to attempt to use them.’
“At length, by her persuasion, I joined her in cutting a piece of cloth
into shreds, and sewing it together; and when we had made a long band in
this manner we tied a piece of stone to the end of it and lowered it, to
ascertain the height of the window from the ground. We were on the
fourth storey, and we found that our band was too short; but we
lengthened it, and finally the end touched the ground. I then put my
head out of the window and said to my dear sisters, ‘Alas! we shall kill
ourselves, for it almost frightens me to death to look down.’
“That same evening, when our guards were asleep, we crept to the window
with bare feet, for we were afraid that the priest, whose chamber was
beneath ours, would hear our footsteps. Susan was the first to get out,
and she was followed by Mademoiselle Terrasson de Die, then by me and by
Mademoiselle Anne Dumas, of La Salle, in Languedoc. When I got outside
and began to lay hold of the band, my strength failed me, and I heard
the bones of my arm crack. My dress caught in a hook outside the window,
and I was obliged to support myself with one arm while I disengaged
myself with the other. I no longer felt either strength or courage, and
I cried, ‘Lord Jesus, receive my spirit!’ But I seized the band with my
teeth, and joining my two hands over it, I fell, rather than lowered
myself, to the ground, striking against the stones with such violence
that I cried, ‘Mercy! My God, I am either killed or maimed for life!’
[Illustration: I was obliged to support myself with one arm.]
“The dear sisters who were waiting for me ran up to me and asked me
where I was hurt.
“‘Everywhere,’ I replied; ‘I am sure that I have broken my thigh,’ and I
begged of them to tie it up for me with my apron. I then limped away, my
two sisters supporting me on either side. I made sixty or seventy steps
in great pain, and reached the gate of the Faubourg de Valence: but it
was closed. They helped me to get upon the wall, but when I stood upon
the top of it, and saw how high it was, I said to my three dear sisters,
‘This is a second precipice, and I am not brave enough to attempt to
descend. Leave me and go alone.’
“They let me down from the wall and left me there, and then they tried
to get down themselves, and succeeded after great trouble. When they had
reached the other side, Mademoiselle Dumas cried out to me, ‘We are
going. We are very sorry to leave you behind. God preserve you from our
enemies. I wish you prosperity, and give you my blessing, and I beg of
you to give me yours in return.’
“‘Who am I,’ I replied, ‘to give you my blessing? but I pray that God
will give you his. I pray fervently that he will lead you in all his
ways; and I conjure you to leave this place as quickly as you can, or
all of us may be recaptured.’
“I was thus left quite alone, still suffering the cruel and violent
pains which had never left me from the moment of my fall. It was not yet
daybreak, and I lifted up my heart to God. But I fainted in the midst of
my prayer, and did not come to myself for, at least, a quarter of an
hour. I had no one to console me, or even to offer me a single drop of
water; but as soon as I came to myself I cried out, ‘Lord, do not
abandon me.’ I lay for a time without being able to make any movement,
and then I thought that at daybreak they would be sure to find me, and
then I should be recaptured and taken to the hospice. ‘O God,’ I prayed,
‘grant me this mercy that this day may see the last of my troubles, for
death is better than life. I have lived enough. Take my soul to thee, O
God. Oh grant, if it please thee, that I may be taken to the tomb, and
not to the hospice this day.’
“Day then began to break. I had not enough strength to raise myself, so
that those who passed by did not know that I was lamed. I was only just
able to hide my face from them by covering it with my tappeta. I was
interrupted during my prayers by the agony which I suffered from my
broken thigh and dislocated ankle. After a time a gentleman came by, and
said, ‘It would be better, mademoiselle, for you to be at your own house
than to remain here, and it would certainly be more becoming.’
“‘If you knew who I was, sir,’ I replied, ‘you would not address me in
such language.’
“In another moment they opened the gate of the Faubourg and the
passers-by said very hard and cruel things about me, seeing me lying at
full length in the road so early in the morning.”
She begged one of them to fetch Mademoiselle Marsilière, a Protestant
converted to Catholicism, whom she knew, and she prayed God that this
early friend might turn out a good Samaritan, but this prayer was not
heard.
“Are you asking for me?” said Mademoiselle Marsilière, when she
approached the poor wounded creature. “Yes, mademoiselle; save me--for
mercy’s sake help me. Take me to some place where I may die, so that no
one may witness my sufferings.”
“But Mademoiselle Marsilière replied that I should endanger her safety
as well as my own. ‘I must go,’ she said, ‘before any one sees me, or I
shall be put in prison myself.’
“I was wounded to the heart at this treatment from a co-religionist, and
I asked her if she had the courage to leave me in this condition. ‘Help
me, at least,’ I said, ‘to crawl behind this wall, so that I may not be
seen by the passers-by.’”
But neither the prayers nor the sufferings of the unfortunate Blanche
had the least effect on the prudent and charitable person whom she had
called to her aid. Mademoiselle Marsilière went away, but returned
shortly afterwards with the almoner of the religious house of which she
was a member, who, without paying the least regard to the distressed
condition of the wounded girl, began to address to her a series of
questions about her escape and her accomplices. At length two men,
seizing her by the shoulders and the feet, carried her to the hospice
and laid her down upon the stones in the courtyard.
It is impossible to enter fully here into all the details of the
rigorous punishment endured by the poor girl for some months after this.
She bore all with her ordinary courage and patience, but the mere
recital of such atrocities would give too much pain to the most
unfeeling heart.
She was at last allowed to return to her parents, and she recovered her
health after her long sufferings, and retired to Switzerland with her
family.
_JEAN BART AND THE CHEVALIER DE FORBIN._
1689.
Jean Bart escorting a fleet of twenty merchantmen, had hoisted his flag
on board the frigate _La Raileuse_, of twenty-eight guns, having for
second in command under him the Chevalier de Forbin, captain of _Les
Jeux_, a frigate of twenty-four. They were attacked by two English
ships, one of forty-eight, and the other of forty-two guns, and they
nobly sacrificed themselves to save the merchant fleet. Jean Bart lost
nearly all his men and was slightly wounded in the head, but Forbin was
still more unfortunate, for he received six wounds, and nearly all of
his crew perished. They were compelled to surrender, but the fleet of
merchantmen was saved, while all the English officers and a great number
of the common seamen were killed.
They were taken to Portsmouth, where they of course expected to be
treated as prisoners of war on parole, but the governor of the fortress
would not even grant them this scanty honour. They were shut up in a
sort of inn with barred windows, and sentinels were placed before their
door. This wretched treatment naturally made them anxious to escape, and
they did not even wait until their wounds were cured before they began
to form their plans. An Ostend fisherman, a relation of Jean Bart--as
some say, Gaspar Bart, his brother--having put in to Portsmouth, found
means to gain admission to the prison, and to confer with his two
friends on the project which occupied all their thoughts. On one of his
visits he left a file behind him, with which they cut the bars before
their windows, hiding the marks by covering them with pieces of
moistened bread and soot.
It happened fortunately that the surgeon sent to attend them was a
Fleming, himself a prisoner, and equally desirous with his two patients
of recovering his liberty. In due time too, the men who had been
appointed to wait on them were gained over by a liberal present, and by
still more liberal promises. The great difficulty was to find means of
putting to sea; but the attendants who alone had power to leave the
prison undertook to make the necessary arrangements for the embarkation.
They accordingly hailed one day a Norwegian shallop, the master of which
was at the time lying in a drunken sleep in his cabin. He was quietly
transferred from his own vessel to another; and this was no sooner done
than the two attendants ran to tell the prisoners to prepare for instant
flight.
As soon as the surgeon came to pay his accustomed visit, he was told to
give the Ostend fishermen notice to take everything necessary for a
voyage of some days on board the Norwegian vessel. He lost no time in
executing his commission, and the sloop was soon amply supplied with
bread, cheese, beer, and other necessaries. It was then arranged that
the surgeon should return at midnight with the fisherman and the two
attendants, and as soon as he arrived beneath the prison window should
signal his presence by throwing a small stone against the panes.
The signal was heard at the appointed hour. Jean Bart removed the bars
in front of his window, fastened his bedclothes end to end, and sliding
down the band, reached the ground in safety. The surgeon, the fisherman,
and the two attendants led them at once to a little creek in which the
vessel was moored, and they all embarked with the exception of the
fisherman, who went quietly back to his own ship. In leaving Plymouth
the fugitives had a narrow escape. They were seen by the look-out on
the guard ship, and hailed with the customary “Who goes there?” By great
good fortune Jean Bart knew a little English, and he replied,
“Fishermen.” They were then suffered to pass.