to Kienmayer, would have caused that officer to give an order for
Schulmeister’s execution at sunrise. Instead of that he gave him
permission to wear the Austrian uniform. The result of this was
far-reaching. It helped to make history. In a word, it placed the
Austrian army—or a considerable section of it—at the mercy of the
Alsatian smuggler.
Schulmeister went to Vienna, where he proclaimed himself to be the
representative of General Kienmayer. Vienna, even at that time, was
numbered among the gayest capitals of Europe, and the supposed secret
service agent of the Austrian commander was received with open arms
and treated with marked distinction. He mingled with the officers and
was entertained at the cafés and altogether made a marked impression
with the people. His natural qualities helped him greatly in this bold
adventure. The scars on his forehead, his apparent reticence and his
military bearing all helped to win the confidence of those with whom he
was thrown into contact.
The Emperor Francis II was in Vienna at the time, and Schulmeister was
told that he would have an opportunity of meeting him in person. He did
not shrink from the ordeal. Indeed, he may be said to have courted it.
The Emperor at that time had reached a critical stage of his career. He
came into power at a time when the French revolution was exciting the
alarm of most of the old European dynasties. Austria was in alliance
with Prussia against the advances of the new republic. In 1795–96,
the war between France and Austria raged fiercely on German soil.
In 1796 Napoleon, whose meteoric career was astonishing the world,
swept through northern Italy and the next year invaded Austria. As a
consequence of this, Francis was compelled to sign the treaty of Campo
Formio, by which Austria surrendered Belgium and Lombardy, receiving
in return most of the dominions of the extinct Republic of Venice.
Smarting under this, Francis, two years later, made an alliance with
Russia and England. Again he took up arms and at the outset met with a
number of successes.
But the recall of the Russian general Suvaroff and the return of
Napoleon from the East, turned the tide against him. The victories won
by Bonaparte at Marengo and by Morean at Hohenlinden seriously crippled
the power of Austria, and Francis was reduced to the necessity of suing
for peace. By the treaty of Lunéville in 1801, France was confirmed in
the possession of the left bank of the Rhine. In 1804 Francis assumed
the title of the Emperor of Austria, and in the following year entered
into a new alliance with Russia. The following year began the contest
with Napoleon which was to end so disastrously for the Austrians. This
was the condition of affairs that existed when Napoleon’s chief spy
found himself in the Austrian capital, clothed in the uniform of an
Austrian officer.
He had not been there long before he learned that a most important
council of war was to be held, at which plans were to be matured for
the purpose of checking the aggressions of Napoleon. He resolved to
attend that council. As before, he had the aid of Lieutenant Bendel. It
was by means of this officer that he was taken into the confidence of
the Secretary of the Council and told that he would be admitted to its
deliberations. A less audacious man would have hesitated to attend such
a meeting. Even Bendel warned him of the danger he ran.
“You are putting your head into the lion’s mouth,” said he.
“It doesn’t matter,” he retorted; “the animal has no teeth.”
At the appointed hour Schulmeister presented himself at the palace, and
presenting the proper credentials, was admitted. An orderly conducted
him along narrow passages and up a flight of stairs to a wide corridor
which led to the conference chamber. Lieutenant Bendel had preceded him
there and at three knocks on the door he was ushered into the room. It
was a long, high-ceilinged apartment with a raised dais at the far end.
It was evident, at a glance, that this was used as a sort of war
office. Large maps were spread out on the walls and a globe stood in
the center of the apartment. Colored pins were stuck into the maps to
indicate the positions of the various armies then in the field.
A number of officers were present and others continued to come until
probably fifteen men were in the room. Schulmeister was presented
to them by Lieutenant Bendel, and was greeted, for the most part,
in a perfunctory manner. The pride-stricken members had very little
time to give to one who appeared to be below them in rank. One or
two, attracted by the report that the newcomer was a member of
the Austrian Secret Service, paused long enough to ask him a few
questions concerning the character of his work. He replied in a way
that satisfied them without committing himself. Schulmeister was at
his best in situations of this kind. His natural reticence served him
well. Somehow he gave one the impression of imparting a great deal of
information in a very few words.
At all events he was fortunate in being lost amid the titled and gold
lace of the occasion. A large table was placed in front of the raised
dais at the end of the room and the conferees drew up chairs and
began a general conversation. The Alsatian spy managed to keep in the
background and yet to be in a position to see and to hear all that
was taking place. In the midst of the talk there was a flutter at the
entrance to the apartment and an official voice called out:
“Gentlemen, the King!”
Everybody arose and stood at attention while Francis II rapidly walked
down the center of the room and took his place in the big chair on the
raised platform. As he sat down the others resumed their places. The
monarch looked worn and worried and he proceeded to the business in
hand in a listless sort of style. Schulmeister, to his relief, was not
even noticed by the monarch, who was plainly preoccupied.
For three quarters of an hour the members of the council of war
discussed their plans while the spy of Napoleon drank in every word.
It was a situation without a parallel, probably, in the history of
warfare. Spies have found their way into the councils of the enemy,
but there is no other case on record where the sovereign of a great
empire has openly discussed his plans before a spy from the opposing
army. Presently the affair came to an end and Schulmeister left with
the others. He gave a sigh of satisfaction as he breathed the free air
again and before an hour passed had sent an account of the proceedings
to Napoleon.
Some one must have detected him in the act of relaying his
messages—because he had a system of his own of getting his information
through the lines—for he began to be regarded with suspicion. He
carried himself with great calmness but he was too adept in the art of
spying not to know that he was being shadowed. Everywhere that he went
he was followed by Austrian officers. Evidently they were not sure of
their man. He was suspected, but the proof was wanting. He thought he
might wear out the patience of his shadowers, but he was mistaken in
this.
Finally the situation became so acute that he resolved to fly for his
life. He left in the middle of the night and managed to reach Moravia.
Here a burly Austrian staff officer pulled him out of bed without any
ceremony.
“You are wanted in Vienna,” he said gruffly.
“But I have been there,” protested Schulmeister, “and now it is most
important that I should proceed on my way.”
The officer roared with laughter.
“I don’t doubt it, but we wish to show you some attention at the
capital.”
Schulmeister made a final effort. He produced the letters by which he
had wormed his way into the good graces of the Secretary of the Council.
“Here are my credentials. What more do you wish?”
“Nothing,” roared the big fellow, as he grabbed the letters. “These are
what we have been hunting. They will be put to the test and you will
come and answer to the charge of being a spy.”
This was a truly alarming situation, but the Alsatian smuggler carried
himself with great confidence and dignity. In his heart of hearts he
felt that he was lost. His wonderful activity had made him known to
many persons and surely some of them would appear against him.
The court martial which was called to consider the case of Schulmeister
met in Vienna and was surrounded with great pomp and dignity. The
soldierly appearance of the accused and his refusal to defend himself
aroused a great deal of sympathy in his case. But the weight of the
evidence was against him. It was proven that he had given false
information to General Mack in the Ulm campaign and it was shown that
he had been in Vienna under false pretenses. After due deliberations
the verdict was rendered and it condemned him to death as a spy.
Schulmeister fought for time to the last. He believed that something
might happen to relieve him from his dangerous position. The general
in command directed that he should be shot at sunrise. The Alsatian
betrayed no emotion when he heard the dreadful words. Indeed, danger
had become so great a part of his everyday life that it had no terrors
for him. Death in any form did not shock him—not even when it was to be
his own. He called for pen, ink and paper and spent a long time writing
in his cell. It has been said that he scribbled reports which he hoped
to have smuggled into the French lines. If this be true it proves
that Schulmeister was as much patriot as spy. But the story rests on
tradition, and, of course, is impossible of verification, by means of
documentary evidence.
After that he waited for morning. To the ordinary man this would have
seemed a long black night, but there is nothing to indicate that
it caused the Alsatian any great mental anguish. His mind was busy
turning over the possibility of escape, but otherwise he was placid and
self-contained. He simply sat there on his low wooden stool and watched
for the sunrise that was to be the signal for his execution.
While Schulmeister was going through this thrilling experience Napoleon
was hammering at the gates of Vienna. He had pursued the armies of
Russia and Austria from one point to another, all the time working to
accomplish his favorite maxim, “Divide in order to subsist; concentrate
in order to fight.” As the contest went along the ardor of the Russian
army grew more intense. It advanced toward the position long studied by
Napoleon and which he destined for his field of battle. We are told by
the historian Guizot that in accordance with the plan of the Austrian
general Weirother, the allies had resolved to turn the right of the
French army in order to cut off the road to Vienna by assaulting the
numerous corps dispersed in Austria and Styria. Altogether, the two
emperors and their staff officers occupied the castle and village of
Austerlitz. On the first of December, 1805, the allies established
themselves upon the plateau Platzen. Napoleon by design had left this
free, divining with a sure instinct of superior genius the maneuvers of
the enemy he had cleverly drawn into the snare. His proclamation to the
troops announced the plan of the battle.
“Soldiers,” said he, “the Russian army presents itself before you to
avenge the Austrian army of Ulm. These are the same battalions you
have beaten at Hollabrunn and that you have constantly pursued to this
place. The positions that we occupy are formidable and whilst they
march to turn my right they will present me their flank.
“Soldiers, I will myself direct your battalions. I will keep myself
away from the firing if with your accustomed bravery you carry disorder
and confusion into the enemy’s ranks. But if the victory were for a
moment uncertain you would see your emperor expose himself to the brunt
of the attack; for this victory will finish the campaign and we shall
be able to resume our winter quarters where we shall be joined by new
armies which are forming in France. Then the peace I shall make will be
worthy of my people, of you, and of me.”
It so happened that this was the eve of the anniversary of the
coronation of the Emperor. The soldiers in order to celebrate the event
gathered up the straw upon which they were stretched and, making it
into bundles, they lit them at the end of poles.
“Be assured,” said an old grenadier, advancing toward the chief who had
so many times led his comrades to victory, “that we will bring thee
to-morrow the flags and cannon of the Russian army to signalize the
anniversary of the Second of December.”
The fires were extinguished and the Austrians thought they saw in this
the indication of a night retreat. Gathered around the map, the allied
generals listened to Weirother, who developed his plan of battle with
a boasting air which displayed in him a clear persuasion of his own
merits. He said to his associates:
“We do not think him strong. If he has 40,000 men it is all. He is
extinguishing his fires and a good deal of noise is coming from his
camp. He is either retreating or else he is changing his position.”
At daylight the next morning the battle began. It was one of the
fiercest in all of the Napoleonic wars. Murat and Lanes attacked on
the left eighty-two Russian and Austrian squadrons under the orders of
Prince John of Lichtenstein. General Valhubert had his thigh fractured
and the soldiers wished to carry him away.
“Remain at your posts,” said he calmly. “I know well how to die alone.
We must not for one man lose six.”
Finally the tide, which comes in every great battle, turned in favor of
the French. General Doctoroff and Kienmayer effected a painful retreat,
under the fire of the French batteries, by a narrow embankment
separating the two lakes of Melintz and Falnitz. The awful day came to
a close with French shouts of victory.
Napoleon, as was customary, harangued his army.
“Soldiers,” said he, “I am satisfied with you. You have justified all
that I expected from you. An army of 100,000 men commanded by the
Emperors of Russia and Austria has been in less than four hours either
cut up or dispersed, and what escaped from your steel is drowned in
the lakes. Forty flags or standards of the Imperial Guard of Russia,
120 pieces of cannon, 20 generals and more than 30,000 prisoners are
the results of this ever memorable day. In three months this third
coalition has been vanquished and dissolved. Soldiers, when all that
is necessary in order to assure the happiness and prosperity of France
shall be accomplished, I will lead you back into France. There you will
be the object of my most tender solicitude.”
Prior to this the French troops had pressed on into Vienna. A
detachment hurried to the prison where Charles Louis Schulmeister was
awaiting his execution. They arrived in the nick of time and released
him from what seemed to be certain death. He was calmer and more
collected than any one in the crowd.
“Frenchmen,” he cried, with a mixture of irony and joy, “I greet you. I
welcome you to the City of Vienna.”
Schulmeister was naturally one of the heroes of the day and when
Napoleon went to meet the Emperor Francis on the following day he
formed one of the small bodyguard that accompanied the great soldier.
The conference between the two crowned heads took place at the mill
of Paleny, between Nasiedlowitz and Urschitz. The spy kept in the
background and was not observed by the vanquished monarch.
Napoleon treated his fallen foe with great courtesy and made excuses
for the poor place in which he was compelled to receive Francis II.
“These are the palaces,” said he, “which Your Majesty has compelled me
to inhabit for the last three months.”
“Your visit has succeeded sufficiently well for you to have no right to
bear me any grudge,” replied the Austrian Emperor.
The two monarchs embraced and the armistice was concluded. A formal
order from Napoleon was necessary in order to stop the march of Marshal
Davont, who was in pursuit of the Russian army. General Savery, the
friend of Schulmeister, was entrusted with this order. He carried to
the Czar the conditions of the armistice.
“I am satisfied, since my ally is,” replied Alexander, and he allowed
to escape from him the expression of admiration which he could not
restrain. “Your master,” he said, “has shown himself to be very great.”
After more weighty matters had been settled Napoleon sent
for Schulmeister and congratulated him upon his courage and
level-headedness.
“As a mark of my confidence,” he said, “I make you chief of police of
Vienna.”
It was a rich plum—in its way one of the richest at the disposal of
the Emperor. The smuggler of the Alsatian village was a man who knew
how to adapt himself to circumstances. In his new post he displayed
great executive ability, and if he added to his fortune—well, those
were the times when it was declared unblushingly that “to the victors
belong the spoils.”
VIII
LYDIA DARRAH, THE BRAVE QUAKERESS WHO SAVED WASHINGTON’S ARMY FROM
DESTRUCTION
While the British occupied Philadelphia during the Revolutionary War
most of their time was given to the pleasures of life. It was this fact
that caused Franklin to observe with characteristic shrewdness that
“Howe had not taken Philadelphia but Philadelphia had taken Howe.”
There was, however, one serious attempt made to destroy Washington’s
army during the period and, curiously enough, it was frustrated by the
courage, the wit and the promptness of a brave Quakeress.
When the British took possession of the city the officers appropriated
the most desirable dwellings for their headquarters. Thus General
Harris practically confiscated the home of General Cadwallader, on
Second Street, four doors below Spruce. Directly opposite this, on the
corner of Little Dock Street, was the quaint home of William and Lydia
Darrah, who were members of the Society of Friends, whose members, it
need scarcely be said, have a profound repugnance to war.
By one of those little ironies which constantly mock our lives, the
Adjutant-General of the British army decided to make his home with
the Darrahs. By the polite fiction which sometimes prevails in time
of war as well as of peace, both pretended to be delighted with the
arrangement. It is certain that the Englishman found a desirable and
well kept colonial home for his temporary habitation, while the Darrahs
soon discovered that whatever else he might be, their war guest was a
gentleman.
Lydia Darrah had the reputation of being a Whig, and she gloried in
it. She made no secret of her feelings to her lodger, and one day when
he reproached her with her want of loyalty to the mother country, she
exclaimed with spirit:
“I hope thee is beaten—thee deserve to be for coming across the ocean
to subdue a liberty-loving people.”
He laughed at this outburst and remarked:
“I was beginning to flatter myself that you and your husband looked
upon me as a friend.”
“And so we do. We detest the sin while pitying the sinner. Though we
consider thee as a public enemy, we regard thee as a private friend.
While we detest the cause thee fights for, we wish well to thy personal
interest and safety.”
“Oh!” he cried, jovially. “That sounds better. You are really a friend
of the King.”
“Thee must not feel flattered,” she said gravely. “We are for the
Colonists. Thee knows that every unnecessary expense has been
retrenched in this house. Tea has not been drunk since last Christmas.
Nor have I bought a new cap or gown since your defeat at Lexington. Be
assured that such is the feeling of American women.”
The Adjutant-General could not but admire the spirit of such a woman.
Whatever else she might be she was not deceitful. She did not attempt
to curry favor with the British. It rather pleased him to permit her
to indulge in what might be considered treasonable sentiments. No
matter how radical might be her views there could be no danger from
this sweet-faced little woman with the poke bonnet and the drab dress.
And, moreover, even when most spirited, there was no bitterness or
vindictiveness in her tone or manner. As he gazed at her he felt that
the serenity of her countenance was truly an outward sign of the
tranquillity of her life.
Among other things, the Adjutant-General had arranged for a room on the
first floor to be used as a sort of conference chamber for the British
officers. Here groups of the leading redcoats were wont to assemble, by
candle-light, for the purpose of discussing plans of campaigns. Several
of these gatherings had been held without attracting any particular
attention from Lydia Darrah.
Early in December, 1777, there was a strange halt in the round of
pleasure among the British officers in Philadelphia. The men were
drilled and organized as if in anticipation of a coming movement. The
indifference and indolence of the previous months gave way to activity
all along the line. Lydia, who was a true patriot, observed these signs
with genuine distress. She could not but feel that it boded ill to her
countrymen.
It was on the 2nd of December that the Adjutant-General sent for her.
She noticed that he was serious and preoccupied.
“I wish to tell you,” he said, “that we will require the use of the
sitting-room at seven o’clock this evening. We may remain late and it
is important that we should not be disturbed. For this reason I would
ask you to have all of the members of your family retire early. When we
are through and it is time for us to leave I will call you so that you
may let us out. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” she replied, with downcast eyes. “I will see that
everything is prepared, and after that shall retire and wait until thee
summons me.”
On the night in question she carried out all of the orders with literal
exactness. But she could not rest. The words of the British officer
had filled her with curiosity and uneasiness. What did it mean? What
was the object of this mysterious conference? Finally she could remain
in her room no longer. She crept silently downstairs in her stockinged
feet and took up a position outside of the door where the officers
were assembled. By pressing her ear close to the crevices of the
panels she could hear the talk from within. The words “Washington”
and “Whitemarsh” attracted her attention and presently she obtained a
connected story of their plans.
She was shocked, and with reason. What she had heard was an order for
all the British troops to march out on the evening of the fourth to
attack the army of General Washington, then encamped at Whitemarsh. She
knew what that would mean only too well. Taken unawares by superior
numbers, the patriot army would be destroyed. And that destruction
meant that the torch of liberty would be extinguished—the hope of
freedom would be destroyed.
Lydia Darrah crept silently upstairs again and went to bed, but not to
sleep. She was depressed and disheartened. The thought that the lives
of Americans might be lost in vain was intolerable. And while the
members of her family slept soundly, and the officers in the room below
perfected their plans, she wondered what could be done to avert the
threatened calamity.
While her mind was filled with conflicting thoughts there came a rap
at her door and the voice of the Adjutant-General saying that they
were ready to leave. She remained perfectly quiet and then he knocked
a second time and louder than before. Still no answer and this time
he pounded with his fists. She arose, and taking her time to dress,
appeared at the door, candle in hand, and pretended to be very drowsy.
He apologized for having aroused her from sleep and left the house with
his companions.
From that moment she was so agitated that she could neither sleep nor
eat. The question was how to get the information to General Washington.
She dare not confide in any one—not even her husband. She decided to
go to Whitemarsh herself. In order to furnish a plausible excuse she
informed the members of her family that it was necessary to get a sack
of flour from the mill at Frankford. Her husband protested.
“Send one of the servants,” he said. “There is no good reason why thee
should make such a long trip.”
“No,” she replied resolutely. “I shall go myself.”
“But at least,” he pleaded, “take one of the servant maids with thee.”
“I shall go alone,” she insisted with a determination that surprised
and conquered him.