not being able to touch the food offered him by his host, he fell into a
sleep which lasted twenty-four hours; kindly taken care of all the while
by the landlord, who became doubly attentive when he found the
traveller to be a pilgrim going to the holy island of the White Sea.
That was the character taken by the fugitive; he had transformed himself
into a _bohomolets_ (worshipper of God) going to salute the holy images
of the convent of Solovetsk, near Archangel. Protected by the respect
and sympathy with which this title inspires a Russian peasant, M.
Piotrowski managed, without much trouble, to get to Veliki-Oustioug, and
was well received there by his brethren the _bohomolets_, who were
waiting in large numbers in that town for the thaw which would permit
them to embark on the _Dwina_ for Archangel. After a month’s stay in the
midst of them, during which he established his reputation as a good
pilgrim by the punctuality with which he performed all his duties, he
embarked on one of the many boats collected for that special service,
and hired himself to the captain as a rower during the crossing, for the
usual sum of fifteen roubles in notes, that sum being exactly what he
had spent during his journey from Irbite. About a fortnight after his
arrival at Veliki-Oustioug, he landed at Archangel, the point on which
all his expectations were centred; for he hoped that in the port, which
was much frequented by ships of all nations, he should find one vessel
that would bring him over to France or England. Without neglecting the
religious duties which the title of pilgrim imposed on him, nor the
precautions the neglect of which might endanger him, he sought in vain
during two long days for this saviour ship. On the deck of each vessel
stood, night and day, a Russian sentinel; and along the whole length of
the quays, to be able to cross the line of sentinels, it was necessary
to give explanations and papers, a demand which the fugitive could not
dream of subjecting himself to. Relinquishing then, not without grief,
his long cherished hopes, he took the road to Onéga, as a pilgrim who
having visited the holy images of Solovetsk, was going to Kiow “to
salute the sacred bones.” After many adventures, more or less agreeable,
he arrived at Vytiegra. He was accosted on the quay by a peasant who
asked him where he was going, and proposed to take him in his boat to
St. Petersburg. He engaged himself to the man as a rower, and on the
passage had occasion to render some services to a poor old peasant woman
also going to St. Petersburg. On entering the harbour the unhappy
fugitive felt great anxiety as to how he could avoid the police on
landing, and where he should lodge, etc. All at once his protégé, the
old peasant woman, said, “Stay near me. My daughter, who knows of my
arrival, is coming to meet me, and will find you a good lodging-house.”
He landed, and carrying the old woman’s trunk, went to the same inn with
her. There still remained the difficulty about the passport and police.
He much feared that his hostess would prove exacting on this point; but,
on being questioned by him as to the formalities to be gone through, she
said, he need not trouble to call on the police for two or three days.
Being easy on this score, he went the next day towards the harbour,
furtively scanning as he walked,--for a Russian peasant ought not to
know how to read,--the advertisements on many steam packets announcing
the time of their departure.
“All at once my eyes fell on an announcement in large letters placed
near the mast of one of the steamers, to the effect that this ship was
to leave for Riga the next day. I saw a man walking on the deck with his
red shirt worn over his trousers, _à la Russe_, but not daring to speak
to him, I remained satisfied with devouring him with my eyes. In the
meantime the sun went down; it was already seven in the evening, when
suddenly the man with the red shirt raised his head, and called to me:--
“‘Do you happen to want to go to Riga? If you do, come here.’
“‘I do certainly want to go; but what means has a poor man like me of
taking the steamboat? It must cost a great deal, and is not for such as
I am.’
“‘And why not come? We won’t ask much from a _moujik_ like you.’
“‘How much?’
“He mentioned some price which I do not quite remember now, but which
astonished me--it was so small.
“‘Well, does that suit you? Why do you still hesitate?’
“‘Why, I have only just arrived to-day, and I must have my passport
looked to by the police.’
“‘Oh, your police will detain you three days, and the boat starts
to-morrow morning.’
“‘What’s to be done?’
“‘Why, start without having it looked at.’
“‘Yes; and if some misfortune happened to me?’
“‘Fool! you, a _moujik_, teach me what I have to do! Have you got your
passport with you? Show it.’
“I pulled from my pocket my pass-ticket, carefully wrapped in a silk
handkerchief, after the fashion of all the Russian peasants; but he
spared himself the trouble looking at it, and said,--
“‘Come to-morrow morning at seven; and if you don’t see me, wait for me.
Now, be off with you.’
“I joyfully returned home, and the next morning was punctual at the
rendezvous. The man soon perceived me, but only said, ‘Give me the
money!’ He went off, but immediately returned, bringing me a yellow
ticket, which of course I pretended not to know anything about: a
circumstance which occasioned another gracious observation,--‘Hold your
tongue _moujik_, and don’t trouble yourself.’ The bell rang three times,
the passengers crowded together, a rough blow from my companion drove me
after them, and the ship was in full motion. I thought I was in a
dream.”
From Riga, M. Piotrowski, still travelling on foot, soon reached the
frontier without difficulty. He had slightly modified his costume, but
still kept the distinct garment of a Russian--the little bornous of
sheepskin. He called himself a pork merchant, which allowed of his
asking on the road all necessary information. Having once ascertained
all the obstacles he could possibly encounter on his way from Russia to
Prussia, he succeeded in crossing the frontier in open daylight, in
spite of the shots fired at him; and taking refuge in a wood, where he
cut off his beard, and transformed his costume, leaving behind him all
the signs of a Russian peasant, he arrived at last at Kœnigsberg. But
when he thought himself all but saved, a circumstance occurred that
nearly proved his ruin. He had resolved on journeying by steamer to
Elbing, and towards evening he sat down on some ruins, thinking of going
at nightfall in the fields to sleep on some hay, while waiting the time
for departure; but, quite tired out, he fell asleep, and was woke by a
night guard, who, not satisfied with his answers, took him to the first
police-station. He at once volunteered the statement that he was a
French workman, who had lost his passport, but he was put in prison. A
month afterwards he was called again before the police, his statements
were proved to be false, and he was clearly allowed to see that the
grossest suspicions were afloat concerning him. Tired of concealment,
and especially irritated at being taken for a malefactor in hiding, he
at last declared himself. A recent treaty between Prussia and Russia
obliged these two countries mutually to give up their fugitives. The
Prussian authorities on hearing the declaration of M. Piotrowski, were
mute with consternation; thinking it quite impossible to elude the
convention. But steps were taken by the principal inhabitants of
Kœnigsberg, and by many persons of high rank, which Government itself
evidently shrank from opposing. M. Piotrowski soon after was informed
that an order had come from Berlin, enjoining his being given up to the
Russians, but that time would be allowed him to escape at his own risk;
and by the help of his generous friends, he was next day on his road to
Dantzic.
“I had, he says, letters for different people, in all the towns of
Germany I had to cross, and everywhere I found the same zeal to render
my journey more comfortable. Thanks to all the help, that failed me in
no place, I had very quickly crossed the whole of Germany, and on the
22nd September, 1846, I found myself again in that Paris that I had
quitted four years ago.”
_ESCAPE OF PRINCE LOUIS NAPOLEON FROM THE FORTRESS OF HAM._
In the summer of 1840, Prince Louis Napoleon, afterwards Emperor of the
French, landed with a number of adherents at Boulogne, to assert his
claim to the French throne, as the nephew and heir of the first
Napoleon. It had been represented to the prince by his friends that the
people were everywhere ill-affected, and would rise in insurrection
against King Louis Philippe, as soon as any one bearing the great name
of Napoleon appeared on the soil of France. Events, however, proved
that these councillors were wrong; the people did not rise, and the
prince and his followers, to the number of fifty-three, were captured
and sent to Paris. After a trial, which attracted the attention of
Europe, on account of the eloquence of the advocates on both sides, and
the great names and issues concerned, thirty-three of the prisoners were
discharged, nineteen received sentences ranging from a few months to
twenty years’ imprisonment, and the prince was ordered into close
confinement for life.
The sentence was read to his highness in his solitary cell in the
Conciergerie at four o’clock in the afternoon of October 26th; and
without exhibiting the least emotion, he remarked, “Then I shall at
least die on the soil of France.” A few hours afterwards, in speaking of
the sentence, he said, “You say _perpetual_ imprisonment; but just as
‘impossible’ used to be a word unknown to the French, so I suspect it
will be with the word _perpetual_ in this instance.” It is needless to
add that the prince’s prophecy was fulfilled; for instead of lasting for
life, his imprisonment endured some five years and nine months, when it
came to an end in the manner we shall hereafter relate. It will be
necessary to say a few words upon the prison itself, and some of the
prince’s fellow-captives, to make the narrative more easily understood.
The prince was removed, after sentence, to the fortress of Ham. This
fortress is about ninety miles to the north-east of Paris; and with the
exception of a few houses which have sprung up around it in the form of
a very small town, the gloomy building stands almost in the centre of a
great treeless plain. The greater part of the castle was rebuilt between
four and five hundred years ago, but there are still portions of the
wall which date from the seventh and eighth centuries. In the interior,
at the time of the prince’s incarceration, there were two low,
dilapidated brick buildings, serving as barracks for the garrison, which
consisted of 400 men. It was at the end of one of these that the state
prisoners were kept, in two or three rooms which the friends of the
captives declared were dirty, damp, and dark; and as they were only
removed from the old ivy-covered walls of the fort by a few feet, it is
not to be wondered at if they were not particularly dry. In these
apartments lived the prince, Dr. Conneau, his physician (who had been
sentenced to five years’ imprisonment for his share in the invasion of
Boulogne), and the Count and Countess Montholon; the former undergoing a
term of twenty years for the same reason as Dr. Conneau, and the latter
having received permission to reside with her husband. Besides these,
there was a faithful manservant named Thelin, who had followed the
prince’s fortunes in various countries, and had been tried with the
rest, but was acquitted. With much trouble this man had obtained leave
from the minister of the interior to share his master’s imprisonment. We
must not forget to mention a large dog to which the prince was much
attached, which was named after the prison, “Ham.” The reader has now
before him the entire household, the members of which passed so many
dreary years and months together.
The guard kept over the prisoners was a very careful one. The
commandant, M. Demarle, although a kind-hearted man, was a strict
disciplinarian; and took every precaution, in accordance with his
instructions, to keep his captives safe. Sixty soldiers, besides a
number of warders, were constantly on duty; one keeper was always
stationed at the door of the prince’s room, and two at the bottom of
his stairs; and he was never allowed to either walk or ride around the
courtyard of the fortress without armed attendants.
It should be stated, however, that the servant Thelin, as he was only
residing in the castle of his own free will, was allowed to go in and
out on errands; but this only with a pass from the governor. Nor were
all these precautions unnecessary; for before the prince had been long
in confinement, there were rumours that the working men of Paris, and
some of the other large towns, among whom the Bonapartes were at that
time very popular, were about to march on Ham to release their friend.
At one time it was stated that a body of 2000 had actually started on
the expedition; and the Government, in a panic, hastily sent down
several regiments of horse and foot to strengthen the garrison.
These energetic measures either frightened the revolutionists, or they
changed their plans; for it is certain that beyond a few little groups
who used occasionally to cheer the prince when he appeared with his
keepers on the walls, no demonstration of any kind was ever actually
made.
As with most men of education undergoing state imprisonment, the prince
passed his time chiefly in study and in writing to his friends outside
and to the newspapers. Every letter, however, either to or from the
prisoner, had not only to pass through the governor’s hands, but to be
read by him. He also occupied himself in gardening, of which he was very
fond; and now and then, by the direct permission in writing of the
minister of the interior, a visitor was allowed to enter the castle, but
this was a privilege very rarely afforded.
The following systematic division of the day was rigidly adhered to by
the prince. He rose early, and studied until ten. Then breakfasted and
walked half an hour for exercise around the parapet of the fort, where a
space of 100 feet by 60 had been allotted for the purpose. He then
retired to his room, and read and corresponded with the outside world
until dinner, which was between seven and eight. In the evenings, there
was usually conversation and a game at whist, in which the governor
frequently joined, after seeing that all the doors were locked, and the
guards properly posted for the night. In this quiet manner the little
household passed their days, waiting and watching for events which
should either induce the Government to grant a pardon, or afford the
prince an opportunity of effecting his escape.
Louis Napoleon, however, did not allow any chance of exciting the
sympathy of the people in his behalf to pass by. In spite of the
precautions which were adopted, he several times got spirited literary
articles smuggled out of the prison by his friends, and published in
Paris. These were usually in the form of comments upon passing events,
but were so written that the object was only transparently veiled. For
instance, when the remains of the first Napoleon were brought back to
France from St. Helena, on the 15th of December, 1840, we find him
dating a touching letter from his “prison at Ham,” addressed “to the
manes of” his “uncle.” In this, approaching the dead emperor, he says:--
“Sire,--You return to your capital, and the people in multitudes hail
your return; but I, from the depths of my dungeon, can discern but a ray
of that sun which shines upon your obsequies. Be not displeased with
your family because they are not there to receive you. Your exile and
your misfortunes have ceased with your life, but ours continue still.
“You have died upon a rock, far from your country and kindred; the hand
of a son has not closed your eyes.
“Even to-day no relative will follow your bier!
“Montholon, whom you loved the most among your faithful companions,
rendered you the service of a son. He remains faithful to your thoughts,
to your last wishes. He has brought to me your last words. He is in
prison with me.
“A French vessel, conducted by a noble young man, went to claim your
ashes; but it is in vain you would seek upon the deck any one of your
kindred--your family were not there.
“In landing upon the soil of France, an electric shock was felt. You
raised yourself in your coffin. Your eyes for a moment re-opened, the
tricolour flag floated upon the shore; but your eagle was not there. The
people press, as in other times upon your passage; they salute you with
their acclamations as if you were living; but the great men of the day
in rendering you homage, in suppressed voice say, ‘_God grant that he
may not awake_.’”
When nearly six years had elapsed, the prince had received letters
containing news of the critical state of his father’s health, and
accordingly made great efforts to obtain permission to visit him. To
this end he wrote several times to the ministers, and even to the king
himself, promising on his word of honour to return and place himself at
the Government’s disposal, whenever called upon to do so. All his
efforts however were unsuccessful. The king was said to favour his
release, but the ministers were firm in their refusal. Finding therefore
that escape was his only remedy, the prince resolved upon making the
attempt. After several long and earnest conferences with his faithful
friends, it was decided that the effort should be made in May.
The first thing to be done was to throw the governor off his guard as
much as possible; for which purpose letters were written from various
persons in Paris to the prisoners, telling them that the Government was
shortly about to grant a general amnesty, and congratulating them upon
it. These being carefully read by M. Demarle, were of course calculated
to make him less apprehensive of any attempt at flight, than from his
knowledge of the failure of the prince’s effort to procure permission to
visit his father, he would otherwise have been. About this time, too,
fortune favoured the plot in a way that the actors in it had scarcely
ventured to reckon upon.
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.