THE SIEGE OF PARIS (1870-1871)
WITH THE GERMANS OUTSIDE
The Germans invest Paris--Trochu’s sortie fails--The English
ambulance welcomed--A Prince’s visit to the wounded--In the
snow--Madame Simon--A brave Lieutenant--Piano and jam--The big guns
begin--St. Denis--Old Jacob writes to the Crown Prince--A dramatic
telegram--Spy fever--Journalists mobbed.
After the French Emperor was defeated and taken prisoner at Sedan a
revolution broke out in Paris, and the terms of peace which had been
agreed upon were refused by the Parisians. So the Germans marched on
Paris, arriving on the 18th of September. By the end of October 240,000
men began to encircle the ring of fifteen outer forts which guarded
Paris.
Trochu was the Governor of Paris. On the 30th of September he made a
vigorous sortie across the Marne, to the south-east, where he hoped to
join the French army of the Loire, and also at the same time to relieve
Paris of some hungry mouths.
But the grip of the Germans was too strong. They had been allowed time
to strengthen their positions, and the sortie failed, though the great
guns of the forts had boomed and crashed until they were glowing hot.
An English ambulance under Mr. Young and Captain Furley was received
by the German doctor with great enthusiasm, for medical comforts were
growing scarce in the field hospital.
The stores were carried into the doctor’s own room, and as the box of
sundries was unpacked it was splendid to see the delight of the good
man.
“Porter,” he cried--“ganz gut! Ale--ganz gut! Chloroform--ach Gott!
Twelve hundred cigars--du lieber Gott!” and his hands and eyes went up
in delight and gratitude.
The woollen clothing alone must have saved many lives. After supper
that evening the German doctor got up and made a little speech.
“Gentlemen, some people go about and make large promises which are
never fulfilled. What an example of the contrary we have now before
us! Mr. Young and Captain Furley heard of our state; they let no red
tape stand in their way, and now this afternoon there comes jogging up
our avenue a waggon bringing what is health--nay, what is life--to our
poor sick and wounded. Here is the Englander all over, gentlemen--the
bulldog that has no wind to spare in superfluous barking.”
The officers present raised their glasses and shouted “Hochs!” for the
English ambulance. It is pleasant to hear of such comradeship between
men of different nations.
The next day we are told that, after desperate fighting, the
Head-quarters Staff of the German 12th Army Corps sat down to a very
sombre dinner-table and spoke to one another in hushed voices, for
many chairs were empty this dinner-time that had been occupied at
breakfast. Not a man in the room but had lost dear friends, and many
had lost kinsmen, and some had brothers lying out on the snow. On the
forenoon of the fourth day there were found eight poor wretches who had
survived the inclemency of two nights’ hard frost. Frostbitten, they
lived two days after they were found.
The Germans, after two days’ hard fighting, drove the French back
into Paris, with the loss of 6,000 men; but they themselves were very
disheartened.
Their loss in officers was very large. The 108th Regiment lost
thirty-six officers out of forty-five. In the knapsacks of the French
soldiers were found provisions for six days, showing that they had
hoped to co-operate with the Southern Army of the Loire.
One day the Prince of Saxe-Weimar went to visit the wounded
Würtembergers, a big man and a kindly heart. He went round with a box
of cigars under his arm, asking each patient, “Can you smoke?” It was
pitiful to see how they all tried to smoke, though some were too weak
to enjoy their weed. Now the Prince comes upon a stalwart under officer.
“Are you married?”
“No, Highness; but my mother--she has three sons down, all wounded, and
it might be bad for her.”
The Prince took out a gold piece.
“Here, my man, send that to the mother, and let her know it comes from
your Queen.”
It seems that the Germans had quite mistaken the amount of provisions
existing in Paris. According to their calculations by the middle of
December Paris ought to be feeling very hungry, on salt rations at the
very best. They had not yet prepared for a bombardment with siege guns,
hoping that Lady Famine would drive the Parisians to surrender. But
they made no sign.
Down at Argenteuil, on the north-west of Paris, there was the crackling
of the chasse-pot from over the river, and yet most of the population
had come back to their shops. They gossiped in the streets with French
gaiety and unconcern, while the bullets sang overhead pretty freely.
The steeple of their beautiful church made a good observatory, though
its sides were riddled with holes made by shells. The French peasants
drove their carts into the market-place below the church and sold eggs
and butter full merrily; yet somehow, if a German stood at a window to
gaze out, the French sharpshooters would aim at him. At Lagny there
were generally 1,000 prisoners a day passing through to Germany. Some
were so ravenous with hunger that they stooped to pick up turnip-tops
and bones from the gutter, until the British Society organized a relief
with stores of preserved meat and bread. And there was no hospital
for the wounded! the poor creatures were dumped down in sheds, vans,
the station-rooms, the church, the _mairie_. In one day there arrived
1,800 wounded. They were bestowed--frozen, hungry, hopeless--in the
cold comfort of the church. Madame Simon, the lady superintendent of
the Saxon ambulance, did noble things day and night--a most devoted
woman. There were feats of quiet bravery done every day. There was a
colporteur of the English Bible Society who used to drive his waggon on
a road between Gonesse and Aulnay, a road exposed to shell-fire more
than most.
“Yes,” he said, “it is a good time for the men to read good words when
they are standing with the shadow of death hanging over them.”
There is a story of a boy Lieutenant, von Schramm, who found himself
suddenly in a crowd of Frenchmen. He leapt from his horse and hid in
a house, in the hope of escaping by the back-door; but his pursuers
caught him, and were taking him towards St. Denis, which lies to the
north of Paris. In going through the park of Le Bourget the officer who
carried von Schramm’s sword was shot and fell. The boy made a dash for
his own sword, grasped the hilt and cut down the man on his other side,
rushed for the small lake, dived to avoid pursuing bullets, and swam
safely across to rejoin his regiment. The strange thing was that he had
been on the sick-list before his winter ducking, but now he was blessed
with a boy’s appetite.
It spoke well for the German besiegers that they got on so cordially
with the villagers round Paris. These were mostly of the humbler sort;
or servants left behind to take care of their master’s house. There
were lovely country houses inhabited by a few German officers, and,
were it not for the rents made by shot and shell, the owners would
not have grumbled much at their condition when they returned to them,
though, of course, there were cases where the boisterous fun of German
Lieutenants played havoc with ormolu and gilding. I remember hearing[A]
of a grand piano which gave forth reluctant sounds when the notes were
pressed down. It was discovered that the strings had been plentifully
smeared with jams and sweetmeats! But these jests were the exception.
The bombardment by the big guns had begun late in December with much
excited wonder on the part of the Germans. Surely in a few days the
Parisians will have had enough of exploding shells! Now here was almost
the middle of January, and no effect visible. But the forts round Paris
had no living population: no houses to be burnt, no women and children
to mutilate. They had to be battered to bits, if possible; and Paris
was behaving very heroically now. By the middle of January she was
living very poorly indeed, but she endured yet another fifteen days
longer.
As for the German soldiers, they began now to feel bored to death, as
so often happens in a long siege. The first excitement evaporates; each
day’s unlovely duties recur with abominable sameness--and the Germans
could find no beer to drink. A German is used to drink plenty of beer,
and can carry it without ill effects; but when Fritz took to drinking
rum, schnapps, or arrack, he began to reel about the village streets
and look rather disreputable.
It was a strange sight to mount some hill and get a view of Paris
surrounded by its fifteen forts, and in a yet wider circle by the
German lines. The foam of white smoke surged up all round; the
thundering roar of cannon, the dull echo of distant guns made dismal
music to the ear. The air of Paris is so clear compared to our English
cities that all was quite visible; and now that wood was scarce and
fires few, it was easy to mark the outlines of the larger buildings,
though above them hung a brown pall of smoke, caused by exploding
shells or houses that had caught fire.
Day after day there were rumours of this or that fort having been
silenced. Now it was St. Denis, on the north side; now Valérien, on the
west; now Vincennes, on the east; but the respite was only given to
cool the guns or renew the emplacements, and all was as it had been.
Besides this there was the daily fear of a new sortie, as Issy or
Ivry broke out into fierce clamour on the south-west and south-east.
Then troops would be hurriedly transferred along frozen or sometimes
muddy roads, while splinters of shell were whizzing about rather too
familiarly.
It was calculated that on a fierce day of firing the Germans shot
away 10 tons of powder, and nearly 200 tons of heavy matter--iron and
steel--were hurled upon the forts and city in twenty-four hours.
There is a story of the Crown Prince of Prussia which illustrates
his kindness of heart. In the 3rd Würtemberg Dragoons was a certain
Jacob, who had an aged and anxious father. This father had not heard
from his son Jacob for so long a time that the old man, in his rustic
simplicity, sat down and laboriously wrote a letter to the Crown
Prince, asking, “Can Your Highness find out anything about my son?”
The old man knew his son had fought at Wörth and at Sedan, but nothing
later than Sedan. The Crown Prince did not throw this letter into the
waste-paper basket, but sent it to the officer commanding the 3rd
Würtembergers, requesting that the old man’s mind should be set at
ease. Jacob was sent for by his commanding officer and asked why he had
not written home.
“Do you know that His Royal Highness the Crown Prince wants to know why
you have not written home for many weeks?”
The man saluted. His purple face was a study.
“Go and write instantly, and bring the envelope to me, sirrah.”
How that story got about among the men! How often has the same
experience come to house-masters, when some loving mother appeals for
help: “Please make Harry write home.” Both Harry and Fritz need a touch
of the spur at times, but how promptly the letter is written when they
feel that touch!
The town of St. Denis suffered terribly. The front of the theatre was
in ruins. The cathedral, being banked up high with sand-bags, had not
suffered so much. The tombs of the kings had all been thus protected,
so had the statues, and not even a nose had been knocked off. But the
bombardment had shattered many houses and churches, and the shells had
ploughed up the streets, or rather hoed them into holes. It was only in
the cold and dark cellars that safety could be found. Even there people
were not always safe, and when they were pressed to take refuge in
Paris they peeped forth shuddering, and swore they would rather die in
their own cellars than sally forth through a tempest of shell-fire.
“At nine o’clock on the evening of the 28th of January, 1871, while
the Head-quarters Staff of the Maes Army were assembled in the
drawing-rooms of the Crown Prince’s château after dinner, an orderly
brought in a telegram to the Crown Prince. His Royal Highness, having
read it, handed it to General von Schlottheim, the Chief of the Staff.
That officer perused it in his turn, and then rising, walked to the
door communicating between the billiard-room and the saloon, and there
read the telegram aloud. It was from the Emperor, and it announced
that, two hours before, Count Bismarck and M. Jules Favre had set their
hands to a convention, in terms of which an armistice to last for
twenty-one days had already come into effect.”
This startling news meant that Paris was ready to surrender. How many
hearts were lighter in both camps next day! War is not all glory
and heroic achievement. Those who know what war is pray to God that
statesmen and nations may think twice before they rush into so terrible
a calamity. In this war of 180 days the Germans had won fifteen great
victories, captured twenty-six fortresses, and made 363,000 prisoners.
“Paris is utterly cowed, fairly beaten”--so they said who came from
Paris to the German lines, and a few non-combatants, journalists, and
philanthropists, ventured to enter the city before the German troops
passed in on the 1st of March. They found the streets crowded with
men in uniform. The food shops had nothing to sell. There were a few
sickly preserves, nothing solid worth eating--some horses’ fat for a
delicacy to help down the stuff they called bread. A fowl was priced at
forty-five francs; stickleback were fourteen francs a pound; butter,
forty francs a pound. Outside the bakers’ shops stood a shivering line
of ladies and women, waiting their turn for loaves that tasted like
putty, and pulled to pieces like chopped straw.
But there were in side streets many of the roughest, the most
cowardly and cruel ruffians of the worst parts of Paris. They were on
the prowl, waiting for their prey; so no wonder that Mr. Archibald
Forbes, journalist, and several others in divers parts of the city had
unpleasant experiences.
Forbes tells us he was walking down the Champs Elysées when he met the
Crown Prince of Saxony with his staff riding by. Forbes raised his hat;
the Prince returned the salute and passed on. But the dirty _gamins_
of Paris had been looking on. They hustled the Englishman, called him
_mouchard_ (spy), _sacré Prussien_, _cochon_, tripped him up, hit him
on the back of the head with a stick; then, when he was down, they
jumped on his stomach with their sabots or wooden shoes. He struggled,
as a Scotsman can, got up, hit out right and left; but numbers
prevailed, and he was dragged by the legs on his back, with many bumps
and bruises, to the police-station. There he showed his papers, and
the Prefect released him in a humour that said, “I am mighty glad you
Parisians have had a good thrashing.”
Another journalist--so he told me in London a few weeks later--also had
ventured to stray away from the German sentries in order to see what
Paris thought of a siege. He soon found himself the centre of an angry
throng.
Some cried: “He is a _sacré Prussien_! See his yellow hair!”
“No; I am an English artist,” shouted my friend, still smiling.
“He is a confounded spy! Take him to the Seine! duck him in the river!”
They dragged him towards the river-bank. Out of his eye corners my
friend saw several boys pick up stones to help him to sink. He thought
his last hour was come. They were close to the river: the water looked
very cold. Then there came to his ears the “tuck” of a drum. A company
of French soldiers was marching by; a Colonel on horseback rode beside
them.
The artist recognized him, for they had once chummed together near
Metz. He called to him by name, and the Colonel cried “Halt!”
He spurred his horse through the evil-smelling crowd, and seeing who it
was whom the rascals were going to plunge into the Seine, held up his
hand and cried:
“Let that English gentleman go. He is no Prussian, but an artist who
has drawn my portrait--mine, I tell you--for the London journals. He is
my friend--an English friend, like Mr. Wallace.”
This testimony was enough for them. The excitable crowd flew to
the opposite extreme. Those who had made ready to stone him like a
water-rat now dropped those stones, and rushing up with remorse and
even affection in their changed looks, threw fusty arms round his neck,
kissed him on both cheeks, sobbed and cried for forgiveness for their
little mistake.
Indeed it is not safe to enter too soon into a conquered city.
From “My Experiences of the War,” by Archibald Forbes. With the
kind permission of Messrs. Hurst and Blackett.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] My informant was an English artist.