Revolt at Cairo--My father enters the Grand Mosque on horseback--His
home-sickness--He leaves Egypt and lands at Naples--Ferdinand
and Caroline of Naples--Emma Lyon and Nelson--Ferdinand's
manifesto--Comments of his minister, Belmonte-Pignatelli.
The want of money, complained of by Bonaparte, was being felt
increasingly. There seemed to be no means of paying the troops without
having recourse to advances, a miserable method, sure to call to mind
the thievish tricks of the famous Mamelukes which the French had
ostensibly come to put down. So that remedy was not available. In this
embarrassment, Poussielgue, Comptroller-General of Finances, suggested
to the general-in-chief to establish the right of registration on all
concessions of properties made since their arrival in Egypt, or upon
all future concessions. All these concessions were of a temporary
character, and could be withdrawn or renewed according to the wish of
the commanding general, therefore the scheme was of inestimable value.
This fiscal method was hitherto unknown in the East, where it
was looked upon as only another form of lending money; and as it
was prejudicial to the interests of the great Turkish or Arabian
concessionaires, most of whom lived in Cairo, it turned that capital
into a hotbed of revolt.
One of the earliest orders on reaching Cairo had been to keep a watch
on the mosque criers. It is the duty of these criers to call the
faithful to prayer three times a day. For some time their cries were
noted, but by degrees our people grew used to them, and neglected to
notice what they said. Seeing this, the _Muezzins_ substituted appeals
to revolt in place of their sacred formulas; and the French were too
ignorant of the language to perceive the difference. This left the
Turks every opportunity to conspire and to give orders for delaying or
advancing the hour fixed for their insurrection. It was finally fixed
to begin on the morning of the 21st October.
On the 21st October at eight o'clock, then, the revolt broke out
simultaneously at every point from Syène as far as Alexandria.
My father was still ill and in bed when Dermoncourt rushed in, crying:
"General, the town is in full insurrection. General Dupuis has just
been assassinated! To horse, to horse!"
My father did not wait a second bidding, he was too well aware of the
value of every moment at such a crisis! He leapt half clad on his
horse, not even waiting to saddle it, seized his sword, and rushed into
the streets of Cairo at the head of several officers who had followed
him.
The news was but too true. General Dupuis, the commander of Cairo, had
been mortally wounded under the armpit by a lance-thrust, which had
severed the main artery. A Turk who had concealed himself in a cellar
had struck the blow. Bonaparte, it was rumoured, was on the isle of
Rondah, and could not obtain entrance to the town. General Caffarelli's
house had been taken by storm, and all inside put to death. The
insurgents in a body were making for the quarters of Paymaster-General
Estève.
My father urged his horse in that direction, collecting round him all
the French he met on his way, amounting in all to about sixty men.
We know what admiration my father's herculean figure had raised among
the Arabs. Mounted on a heavy dragoon horse, which he handled with
consummate horsemanship, his head, breast, and arms bare to every
blow, he hurled himself into the thickest of the fray with that utter
fearlessness of death which always characterised him, this time
intensified by the fit of melancholy that preyed on him. He appeared to
the Arabs as the Destroying Angel of the flaming sword. In an instant
the approaches to the Treasury were cleared, Estève saved and the Turks
and Arabs cut to pieces.
Poor Estève! I remember that when I was quite a child he kissed me and
said, "Remember what I tell you: if it had not been for your father,
this head of mine would be lying to-day in the gutters of Cairo."
The rest of that day was spent in continual strife and fierce fighting.
The members of the Egyptian Institute who inhabited the house of
Kassim-Bey, in a remote quarter of the city, had barricaded themselves,
and fired on the mob like ordinary soldiers. They were at it the whole
day until evening, when my father and his brave dragoons came and
rescued them.
News came at night that a convoy of sick men belonging to Régnier's
division, on its way from Belbeys, had been butchered. Was Bonaparte
really at Rondah, as all the official reports said? Or was he at his
headquarters, as Bourrienne declared? Did he make fruitless attempts
at the gates of Old Cairo, at the gate of the Institute? Could he only
effect an entrance by the gate of Boulay towards six in the evening?
Was he surrounded at his residence with no means of delivering himself?
These questions still remain in obscurity; but it is a perfectly clear
and patent fact that he took no part at all that first day, and I can
call up living witnesses among the Egyptians[1] who will testify that
they saw my father everywhere.
The first orders from Bonaparte were put into execution about five
in the afternoon. The sound of cannon roared through the principal
streets, the noise of a battery of howitzers, placed on the Mokkan, a
noise as of thunder, rare in Cairo, that terrified the insurgents.
Resistance, which had been somewhat desultory and spasmodic in
character until now, was increasing everywhere and taking more definite
shape.
Nightfall interrupted the struggle, for it is a point of religion with
the Turks not to fight in the dark. Bonaparte availed himself of the
night to make his plans.
At sunrise the revolt was still alive, but the rebels were lost.
A great number of them had taken refuge with their principal leaders
in the great mosque of El-Heazao. My father received orders to go and
attack them there, thus striking at the very heart of what remained of
the insurrection.
The doors were burst in with volleys of cannon; my father, urging his
horse into a gallop, was the first to enter the mosque.
A danger arose at the very threshold, for his horse encountered an
obstacle in the way, a tomb about three feet in height, at which he
stopped dead, reared, then, dropping his forefeet in front of the
tomb, stood for an instant motionless, with bloodshot eyes and smoking
nostrils.
"The Angel! the Angel!" yelled the Arabs.
Their resistance was but the struggle of despair in the case of a
few, but with the greater number it was continued out of a spirit of
fatalistic resignation, and their leaders shrieked "_Amhan!_" and
surrendered.
My father sought out Bonaparte to inform him of the fall of the mosque:
he was already acquainted with the details of its capture, and,
mollified by the treasure my father had sent him, he accorded him a
gracious reception.
"Good-day to you, my Hercules," he said. "So you have crushed the
dragon?" And he held out his hand.
"Gentlemen," he continued, turning towards his suite, "I shall order
a picture to be painted of the taking of the Grand Mosque. Dumas, you
have already posed as the principal figure."
The picture was, as a matter of fact, commissioned, but Girodet's
principal figure, it will be remembered, was a tall fair hussar, of no
name or practically no rank; he it was who took the place of my father,
for, eight days after the insurrection of Cairo had been quelled,
my father again fell out with Bonaparte, and insisted with renewed
vehemence on being allowed to return to France.
He had been for a time distracted from his home-sick despondency by
the insurrection at Cairo, but he soon relapsed into it again. A deep
disgust with everything, life included, took possession of him, and,
in spite of the advice of his friends, he obstinately persisted that
Bonaparte should allow him furlough.
Bonaparte made one last attempt during their final interview to
endeavour to make him stay, even going so far as to tell him that he
meant himself to return to France before long, and promising to take my
father back with him. But nothing could allay the desire to go; it had,
in fact, become a mania.
Unluckily, Dermoncourt, who was the only man who could influence my
father, had returned to his regiment, which was stationed at _Belbeys._
Directly he heard that the departure was settled, he hurried back to
Cairo, and went to my father's house. He found the place dismantled and
my father selling the things he did not want to take away.
With the proceeds of this sale my father bought 4000 lbs. of Mocha
coffee, eleven Arabian horses (two stallions and nine mares), and
chartered a small vessel called _la Belle Maltaise._
Want of news--all of which was intercepted by the English cruisers--cut
them off completely from all that was passing in Europe, so we will
very briefly recount what was happening in Rome and Naples, for the
better understanding of what follows.
Ferdinand and Caroline reigned at Naples. Caroline, a second
Marie-Antoinette, hated the French for having killed her sister. She
was a woman of strong passions in hate and in love, and she indulged in
luxuries both of pleasures and of blood.
Ferdinand was a _lazzarone_; he could scarcely read or write; he knew
no other tongue than the Neapolitan dialect. In that patois he composed
a slight variation upon the ancient _panem et circenses._ His version
was: "The Neapolitans are ruled by three F's:--Forea--Festa--Farina"
(gallows--games--grain).
It will be readily understood that a treaty wrung by fear from such
sovereigns would only be enforced so long as they lived under the
dominion of that fear. Now Bonaparte was to them himself the very
embodiment of that terror, but he was away in Egypt, and they soon
learnt the news of the destruction of the French fleet at Aboukir.
They concluded from that that Bonaparte was lost and the French army
annihilated.
Directly the English squadron made ready to stop our course towards the
unknown destination of our expedition, the main body of the English
fleet, in spite of our treaties with Ferdinand, made for the port of
Naples, where it was received with demonstrations that were somewhat
ambiguous in the matter of sympathy. It was quite another story after
the battle of Aboukir.
Nelson's fleet had hardly been signalled off Naples, tugging the
remains of our vessels in its wake, when the king, the queen, the
English ambassador, Hamilton, with his beautiful wife, Emma Lyon,
embarked on magnificently decorated vessels and advanced to meet the
conqueror.
Oh, beautiful and ill-fated Emma Lyon! what historian shall dare to
play the Tacitus and write your life? What poet shall presume to lay
bare your secret passions? The favourite of Queen Caroline and the
mistress of Nelson, who shall dare to be the judge and add up the list
of your victims?
This splendid Court went forth in state to honour Nelson: the king
offered him a sword, the queen a mistress. The town was illuminated in
the evening, and there was a ball at the palace.
Nelson appeared on the royal balcony by the side of Ferdinand, and the
people cried, "_Vive Ferdinand! vive_ _Nelson!_"
And all this took place under the eyes of our ambassador, Garat, who
witnessed the decline of our influence and the growth of English
popularity.
He made due complaints, but he was told in reply that the English fleet
had only been received into the port of Naples because Nelson had
threatened to bombard the town.
This excuse was, of course, a fallacious one, but our ambassador was
obliged to accept it.
The next proceeding he witnessed was the mobilisation of an army of
60,000 men commanded by the Austrian general, Mack, who had won a
certain notoriety by his repeated defeats.
From that moment war against France was resolved upon.
The Neapolitan army, under command of the Austrian general, was divided
into three camps.
Twenty-two thousand soldiers were sent to St. Germain; 16,000 occupied
the Abruzzi; 8000 camped on the plain of Sessa; and 6000 sheltered
behind the walls of Gaëte.
Fifty-two thousand men were ready to invade the Roman States, to drive
us out of Rome, which we then occupied.
Nevertheless, although war was decided upon, it had not yet been
declared, and our ambassador again asked the Neapolitan Government for
an explanation of what was passing.
The Government returned answer that they desired the continuation of
amicable relations between themselves and the French Government more
than ever, and that the soldiery noticed by M. Garat were only in their
respective camps for training.
However, a few days later--on the 22nd of November--a manifesto was put
forth, wherein King Ferdinand spoke of the "_state of revolutionary
disorder in France; the political changes in Italy; the proximity of
enemies of the monarchy and of public peace; the occupation of Malta, a
fief of the kingdom of Sicily; the flight of the Pope, and the dangers
which were threatening religion._" Then, after this list of troubles,
he went on to declare that "_taking into consideration these many and
powerful incentives, he was about to lead an army into the Roman States
in order to restore to the people their rightful sovereign, the head of
Holy Church, and to bring peace to the peoples of his kingdom._"
He added "_that as he was not declaring war against any monarch, he had
persuaded the foreign armies not to oppose the march of the Neapolitan
troops, which were intended solely to pacify Rome and the territory of
the Holy See._"
At the same time private letters from ministers of the King of Naples
to foreign ministers incited the latter to wage war against the French,
not honest, open warfare, but a war of assassinations and poisonings.
It seems incredible, nay impossible, does it not? Read this letter
from Prince Belmonte-Pignatelli, minister of the King of Naples, to
Chevalier Riocca, minister of the King of Piedmont:--
"We know that in your king's council are several cautious,
we might even say timid ministers, _who shudder at the idea
of perjury and of murder_, as though the late treaty of
alliance between France and Sardinia were to be considered
a political act, which could be respected. Was it not
dictated by the superior strength of the conqueror? Was it
not accepted under the pressure of necessity? Such treaties
weigh most unjustly on the oppressed, who in violating them
but make amends on the very first opportunity afforded them
by good fortune. What! with your king a prisoner in his
own capital, surrounded by the enemy's bayonets, you would
call it perjury to break promises wrung from you by force
against your consciences? You would call the extermination
of your tyrants assassination? No, the French battalions
are scattered up and down Piedmont full of confidence in
the security of peace. Stir up the patriotic feelings of
the people to a pitch of enthusiasm and frenzy, until every
Piedmontese will pant to tread his enemies beneath his feet.
A few _individual murders_ will be more useful in Piedmont
than victories won on the field of battle, and an impartial
posterity will never give the name of treason to the
spirited actions of a whole people, who pass over the dead
bodies of their oppressors in regaining their liberty....
Our brave Neapolitans, under the leadership of worthy
General Mack, will be the first to give the signal of death.
They may be already on the track of the enemy of thrones and
nations by the time this letter reaches you."
Now it was into the hands of a Government which could write such
letters as the above, that my father, a Republican general, was to
fall, when he left Egypt on account of his devotion to the Republic,
which was threatened, as he thought, by Bonaparte's personal ambition.
And at what a moment, too! When the head of that Government had been
defeated on all sides by a mere handful of French troops, chased from
his kingdom on the mainland, and obliged to retire to Palermo; carrying
in his train feelings of bitter hatred and anger and vows of vengeance,
such as always accompany defeat, and fill the minds of the vanquished
with desperate and deadly resolutions.
We shall now see how Prince Belmonte-Pignatelli put in practice upon my
father and his unfortunate companions the precepts enjoined by him upon
his colleague, the Chevalier Riocca, minister of the King of Piedmont.
I will leave my father himself to relate the story of this terrible
captivity; his voice shall rise from a tomb closed for forty-five
years, and, as did the voice of Hamlet's father, shall denounce the
crime and the murderers to the whole world.
[Footnote 1: All those who took part in the Egyptian campaign are so
called.]