YANKEE INGENUITY AMONG THE PEASANTS.
In the morning, after eating and still further exploring the different
apartments of the castle, they bent their steps towards the village of
the peasants.
"Would you mention to Gabriel what we found in the secret passage?"
asked Ned.
"I don't think I should. I expect he knows more about it than we do."
They found Gabriel and his neighbors all busily engaged. Some were
bruising the olives in large mortars; others were treading them
in tubs. There was oil everywhere, and the odor was anything but
agreeable. Others, after placing the bruised pulp in sacks made of
grass or rushes, carried them to the second story of a building, and,
placing the sacks in the middle of the floor, piled great stones upon
them, which pressed the oil through holes bored in the floor, and it
was received in vessels beneath. In consequence of this slow method
of procedure, a large portion of the olives was likely to decay before
they could be pressed, while not more than half the oil was extracted.
As the weight of the stones did not sufficiently compress the pulp,
much of it was wasted on the floor, and still more was lost in being
soaked up by the multitude of different vessels in which the olives
were trampled. This did not, however, obtain in respect to those
bruised in the mortars, which were stone.
Gabriel conducted the boys from one building to another, and showed
them the olives, belonging to different peasants, which were spread
over the floors, where women and little children were picking out the
leaves, stones, and decayed ones.
"Why don't you have a mill to grind these olives?" asked Walter, "and
screws to press the pulp? A great part of them will rot before you can
bruise them in this way; besides, you don't get half the oil, to say
nothing of what is wasted, or of the time lost."
Gabriel told them that before the revolution there were mills and
presses--the property of the grand seignior--in which all the olives of
the peasants were ground and pressed; but they were destroyed at that
time.
"Then that was what those stones were used for that we saw on the bank
of the river?"
"Yes."
"But what were those for that lie so far from the stream, on the high
ground?"
"They were turned by a horse or mule, or by a number of men. We used
those before the rains came to raise the stream so the mill could work.
It is often very dry here in the autumn."
"Why don't you all turn to and build them up again, and use them in
company?"
"We have no workmen; they have been conscripted, and are in the army,
except a blacksmith, who was left to shoe the cattle and sharpen the
plough-irons."
"Is there no stone-cutter? Why don't you make some mill-stones? I'm
sure there are rocks enough. All turn to together, and at least set the
smaller mills a-going, instead of working in this childish fashion."
The peasant scratched his head, and said, "The stone-cutter has been
conscripted."
"Did you have a carpenter?"
"Yes."
"Was he drafted?"
"What is that?"
"Conscripted."
"Yes."
"What became of his tools?"
"He sold them in Marseilles to get bread for his children."
"In my country we are not tied to mechanics, because it is a new
country, and they are scarce; but when a man wants a thing, he must set
his brains at work and make it, or do without it. How did that concern
on the high ground work?"
"The smaller stone, lying on top, went round the other, and was turned
by a mule."
"Guess I know. It was rigged just like Uncle John Godsoe's mill that
he ground bark with. A stone ran edgeways on a plank floor, and they
shoved the pieces of bark under the stone. Who do the castle and the
land round it belong to now?"
"It was confiscated and sold by the National Assembly. Felix Bertault
owns the land where the mill stood, and two other peasants, Tonnelot
and Bernard, the castle and the rest of the land."
"Then it was their wood we burned last night. I will pay them for it."
"That is nothing."
"Look here, old friend," said Walter, slapping Gabriel on the shoulder.
"I am not a mechanic, but all my breed of people can handle tools.
I can set that old affair going again, and better than ever it went
before; the upper stone is whole, and though the lower one is gone,
I can lay a wooden platform. There's timber enough, and the best of
timber, in the old castle, and though not equal to a water-mill, it
will be an everlasting sight better than your mules, and you can use
them while I am doing it, if you like. I can fix a press, too, that
will get about all the oil from the pulp."
"But, citizen, you have no tools."
"There are tools enough on board the vessel, and I ground them a few
days ago. Go among your neighbors, and see what they say to it."
Gabriel was in raptures, and ran to tell the peasants. He soon
returned, saying that every man, woman, and child were overjoyed, would
do all they could to aid; that the carpenter's apprentice was left, and
proffered his services.
"That is first rate," said Walter. "Now, Ned, you must go to the
vessel and get the tools. Be sure you get a cross-cut saw, and ask the
captain to lend us the tackle and fall we get the anchors on to the
bows with."
Ned was soon mounted on a cart with Gosset (Gabriel's son), as Ned
didn't know how to drive a mule that might take a notion to stop when
half way there, and they set off.
Nimble hands and plenty of carts soon transported the old floor beams
and oak plank (which Walter selected) to the spot. The gate posts made
capital sills, upon which he laid his platform at the same height from
the ground as the bottom stone of the old mill, in order that the
trough for receiving the oil might go under it.
The apprentice, Raffard, proved to be a good workman, and Gosset also
evinced a decided mechanical ability. Ned, too, could use tools quite
well.
"That boy," said Walter to Gabriel, "only wants instruction and
practice to make a first-rate mechanic."
There was no lack of iron bolts in the strong-hold, and the blacksmith
made all the iron-work necessary. An upright shaft was prepared, to be
placed in the centre of the platform, which, supported by cross-beams
attached to posts set in the ground, revolved on iron pintles, which
entered the platform and the cross-beam above.
Walter now took a narrow strip of board, seven feet long, bored a hole
in one end, and slipped it over an iron pin placed in the hole in the
centre of the platform, which was jointed together perfectly tight, and
somewhat dishing, with holes to permit the drainage to escape into the
trough; in the other end he drove a pointed nail, and with it swept a
circle on the platform; around this scratch he fayed pieces of plank to
confine the pulp. The diameter of the horse-track was eighteen feet.
It was wonderful, and excited the surprise of Walter and Ned, to
witness the instantaneous change wrought in the appearance of the
peasants. They were now all energy and activity, seemed completely to
have laid aside their listless, lounging attitudes, and manifested a
fertility of resource that the boys never supposed pertained to them.
"All these people want," said Walter to Ned, "is opportunity. They are
smart, only give them a chance."
It was night by the time Walter had made a horizontal shaft, which was
to run through a square hole in the centre of the edge-stone.
The boys took supper at the house of Gabriel, but notwithstanding his
entreaties to pass the night with him, preferred their camp fire,
although they gladly accepted the present of a pair of chickens, a
dozen eggs from Felix Bertault, honey from Tonnelot, and potatoes from
Leroux. Indeed, the entire community were ready to place their all at
the disposal of these young republicans, in whose energy, ingenuity,
and self-reliance, they flattered themselves they beheld mirrored the
future of their own children under the operation of the principles of
liberty, fraternity, and equality they had so recently inaugurated. As
they separated, Walter told Gabriel that all except Raffard, Gosset,
and Felix, had better keep at work among the olives after their old
fashion, as, the stuff being all on the spot, they were as many as
could work to advantage on the mill, and the others could be called for
a hard lift. They now set out for the castle.
"Won't we have a tuck-out to-morrow morning?" said Ned. "I guess
there's no lack of pots and kettles among the ruins of the chateau.
That one we carried the brands in will be first rate; it's all burnt
out clean."
While Ned was making a fire, Walter was walking round among the woods
on the side of the hill, apparently searching for something. When he
returned, he found a blazing fire at the old spot, but Ned nowhere
visible.
"Ned, where are you?"
"Here, Wal; only come here."
Following the direction of the voice, he found Ned on his knees before
the kitchen fireplace of the chateau, the chimney of which was still
standing. He was surrounded by old pots and kettles, one of which he
was busily engaged in scouring. He had also placed the wood on the old
andirons, ready to light in the morning.
"O, Wal, just you see; here's a crane, pots, and kettles. I've found
the well, and a tin pail to draw water in, but some bruised; a pitcher,
with the nose broken off; six plates, three of 'em whole; four cups;
only one of them is broken, and a little piece is broken out of the
side of another; a couple of linen towels, but one of them is scorched
a little. I can't find any soap; but I've washed them out in lye. I've
found lots of knives, forks, and spoons; only they are black and rusty,
and the handles burnt off. Ain't it great, Wal?"
"Yes, we are all provided for. Ain't you glad we didn't stop with
Gabriel?"
"I guess I am."
"Let us get everything ready to-night, because in the morning we shall
want to start early, and it will take some time to get breakfast, we're
going to have such a famous one."
After helping Ned scour the kettles, Walter went to the castle, and
soon returned with some cord, which he wound around the knives,
affording a very good substitute for handles. He then ran them into the
ground, and rubbed them with brick and ashes, till he made them clean
and somewhat bright.
"Let's have a table, Wal. That will put the touch on."
"Agreed."
Ned drove four stakes into the ground with the crowbar, and Walter
brought a large panel from the hall, which he placed on them.
"I'll put the finishing stroke to it," said Ned; and, running back, he
came with a piece of splendid tapestry, which he flung over it; and now
they set the table.
"There," said Ned, "who can beat that--a carved table, tapestry
table-cloth, and Sevres china dishes? Now for getting into the
blankets. Walter," said Ned, after they lay down, "what were you
hunting so long in the woods after?"
"I was trying to find a tree that had an elbow at the root."
"What do you want of that?"
"I'll tell you. In Godsoe's bark-mill the stone had a round hole in it,
and turned around the shaft; and it wabbled, though that didn't make
much difference in grinding bark, which was dry, and worth but little;
so that waste was of no consequence. In this stone the hole is square.
The shaft must turn with the stone on a pintle going into the upright
shaft; and if I don't have something to make it pull inwards and run
true, it will be all the time grinding against the curb I have made to
keep the pulp in, and slatting off and on."
"How can you help it?"
"I've found a tree with an elbow at the root; and I'm going to dig it
up, frame one end into the upright shaft, bring the elbow down over
the stone wheel, put a pintle in the end of the shaft, bore a hole
through the elbow, and have it turn in that, letting the elbow run down
far enough for the beast to pull level; and then the stone _must run
true_."
Next morning, after a glorious breakfast, the boys repaired to the
village. With the aid of a strong force, the tree was cut out by the
roots, the stick hewed on the spot, and transported on their shoulders
to the mill. By means of the vessel's purchase, planks laid, and plenty
of help, the great stone was parbuckled on to the platform, and put in
place.
"Now, fellow-citizens," said Ned, flinging up his hat, "hurrah for a
Yankee bark-mill! Bring on your mules and olives."
A mule was attached to the sweep, amid the cheers of the whole village.
The mill was found to work excellently well, and ground the olives so
fast that it required the efforts of all who had been employed bruising
them in mortars to carry the pulp to the chamber and press it.
"Now," said Walter, "for the press. How did you use to press them,
Gabriel?"
"There were presses belonging to the grand seignior, with wooden
screws; but they were burnt."
"I don't know but I could cut the thread of a wooden screw, if I had
time enough. However, that is not here nor there. I know what I _can_
do: I can make a press with a lever, that will give you as much again
oil as you can get by piling on stones, and make it right beside this
mill, where you can shovel the pulp on to it, and save all portage and
waste."
The next day, Walter, Ned, and their fellow-workmen--who had become
quite expert in the use of tools--laid another platform within two feet
of the mill, and on a level with it, in order that the pulp could be
easily transferred from one to the other, and the oil from each run
into different ends of the same trough, and be dipped out between them.
He then cut a deep channel around the edge of the platform, leading to
the trough, to conduct the oil. After this he built up, with the aid of
the peasants, two abutments of stone, several feet above the platform,
leaving in the middle, near the top, an opening eighteen inches square.
"Are you a stone-mason?" asked Gabriel, in surprise.
"No: but I've been used to building stone wall. I've worked on rocks
till my fingers were worn so thin I couldn't take up a cup of hot
coffee."
Now with the cattle they hauled three halves of the mill-stones that
had been split to the spot, and, with skids and the tackle, placed them
on the abutments, one upon the other, composing an enormous aggregate
of weight.
"I calculate it will take some strength to lift those," said Walter,
viewing his work with great complacency. "Now, Gabriel, for the biggest
beam in the old castle! If I was at home, I could get one big enough."
"There is plenty of timber and large forests in France, my brother,
although, since the revolution, it has been cut away in this part.
Before that, the forests were very strictly guarded; but the National
Assembly have sold a great deal. There are great beams in the castle
that grew in the olden time."
After much labor, they obtained from beneath one of the floors an oak
beam fifty feet in length and a foot square. One end of this was placed
in the opening left in the stone-work; at the other Walter built what
he called a "gin," which was a tripod of timber, fourteen feet in
height, with a bolt at the top to fasten the tackle, and a windlass
between two of the legs, by which the timber could be raised or
lowered. When all was prepared, Gabriel and his friends put the sacks
filled with pulp on the press, piling them up four feet in height, then
poured on hot water, placed planks on the sacks, then blocks crosswise,
and one large one lengthwise. The mere weight of the planks and blocks
caused the oil to run merrily from the pulp, and pour into the trough.
The delighted peasants danced round the press, and Gabriel told the
boys it was better not to let the beam down, as the oil which ran from
the mill while the olives were grinding, and from the press, under that
light pressure, was of the best quality.
When it ceased to run, the oil in the trough was dipped out, and the
beam let down, when it began to run freely again. They stood upon the
beam, and put on rocks, till they pressed the cake dry.
"It will be difficult," said Gabriel, "to get this beam up; and your
'gin' will be of no use without the tackle."
"We have got another tackle. The captain will sell this, and take his
pay in oil, I know. Contribute among yourselves, and buy it."
"That we will gladly do."
"I've got some old wine," said Felix, "that came out of the cellars of
the aristocrats; he can have that."
It was about four o'clock of an afternoon when the boys arrived at this
successful termination of their philanthropic labors.
"This," said Gabriel, "has been a great day, a good day, one long to be
remembered. Let us do no more to-day, but enjoy ourselves with these
good citizens; we can soon press the olives now."
As they sat conversing, after supper, Walter said to the peasants,--
"People in our country--when a person has done a foolish thing; injured
himself in trying to hurt another--have a fashion of saying 'that he
has bitten off his nose to spite his face.' It seems to me that you did
a very silly thing when you broke the mill-stones and burnt up the oil
and wine presses of the aristocrats. The stone never harmed you. Didn't
you know that your crops were coming off, and that you would need all
these things yourselves? Why did you destroy those beautiful avenues
and groves? Now that the aristocrats are gone, you would be right glad
to have those noble trees yourselves."
In the course of their talk, Walter related to Gabriel some of the
conversations he had held with the refugees at Salem, and observed that
a great proportion of the American people, though ready to sympathize
with any nation desirous of self-government, were struck with horror
at the cruelties of which they had heard, and the wholesale massacres
perpetrated, especially by the execution of the king and queen.
The peasant leaped to his feet; his eyes shot fire, his lips were drawn
apart, and his face assumed an expression so demoniacal as to leave
upon the minds of the boys no doubt of the part he had taken in these
terrible scenes.
"_Execution of a king!_" he hissed between his teeth: "what better is
the blood of a king than that of any other creature God has made?"
Controlling himself, he said more calmly,--
"Young citizens, you have been deceived. You have heard but one
story--that of the aristocrats, of the oppressors. Listen now to that
of the oppressed--to me, Gabriel Quesnard, a peasant born and bred on
the soil of France, as were all my ancestors. I am not about to relate
to you the cruelties practised in the days of my forefathers, when a
noble has been known to kill a peasant, that he might warm his feet by
thrusting them into his body on a cold day."
"Horrible!" exclaimed both the boys in a breath. "Was that ever done?"
"Indeed, and it would be difficult to tell what cruelties were not
practised; neither shall I speak of such things as the peasants being
compelled to beat the water in the marshes with poles to keep the frogs
from croaking, when the wife of their lord was sick, lest they should
disturb her. But I shall tell you of those miseries, which are of
yesterday, which myself, my neighbors, and children of your ages, have
endured. Let me tell you of the '_lettres de cachet_,'--issued by the
king you pity so much,--by which a person was seized, perhaps in the
street, and, without any form of trial, hurried to the Bastile, while
his friends could only guess what had become of him. Any one who had
money enough could buy one.
"When we levelled that accursed dungeon, we found citizens who had
grown gray there, unconscious of crime and utterly ignorant of what
they were accused.
"In the spring the peasant is trying to get in his seed to raise bread
for his family. He, perhaps,--by some inadvertent word, wrung from him
by the bitterness of oppression,--has given offence to the _intendant_;
the _subdélégué_ comes along and says, 'Go do your _corvée_'
(compulsory labor) at such a place. The poor man must loose his cattle
from the plough, and work on the roads; or perhaps, in the midst of
harvest, must leave his grain to spoil, and go and carry convicts to
the galleys, haul ship-timber to the navy-yard, or supplies to some
garrison, while the soldiers prick his cattle with their swords, and
insult their driver. More than three hundred peasants, who owned their
land, were made beggars by the filling up of one valley in Lorraine.
Every peasant was compelled to buy, and pay a tax on, seven pounds of
salt a year, whether he used it or not.
"The _capitaineries_--"
"What were those?"
"The right to preserve the game, which meant that they might keep
whole herds of deer and boars, and flocks of partridges, to overrun
the peasant's land and eat up his crops. Did he presume to kill one,
to save the bread of his family, he was sent to the galleys; and this
right was not confined to their own lands, but extended to all the
lands of the district. Yes, and the peasant was forbidden to weed or
hoe his own grain, lest he should disturb the young partridges that
were devouring his substance. Neither was he allowed to cut or plough
under his own stubble, lest they should be deprived of shelter. This
was a right granted by the king to princes of the blood. All these
exactions came directly from the king, whom you pity so much. In
addition to this were countless seignioral rights. There were perpetual
dues. A seignior could sell his land, and still draw rent from the
very peasant who had bought it of him in the shape of seignioral dues.
They, too, had their '_corvées_,' and the peasant was forced to labor
for them a certain number of days in each year. On everything that he
owned must he pay dues to them. Yes, he must pay them for the right of
selling his own produce in the market. Though in my time this custom
of stilling the frogs was abolished, we were compelled to pay a fine
instead of it. When, amid all these impositions, the peasant has raised
his grain, he can't have a hand-mill to grind it in. He must grind in
the mill of the lord, bake his bread in the oven, and press his grapes
and olives in the press of his master, and pay for the privilege, and,
if unmarried, was subject to conscription; while from this and taxes
the nobles were exempt, and so were thousands of others--petty clerks,
government officers, and all worth over so much property. Thus all the
burden of taxation was thrown upon the peasant because he was poor,
and taken from the noble because he was not. To this it must be added
that the clergy, with their tithes, took what little was left. Now,
consider that I have omitted almost as much as I have mentioned, and
you will be able to see the poor man's condition under the tyranny we
have destroyed. That was the 'servitude of the soil.' Marvel not that
we were frantic, and only thought of destroying everything that was an
instrument of oppression while we had the power. Did you never see a
dog bite the stone that had been flung at him?"
"Yes," replied Ned.
"So it was with us. We hated those mills; those presses, where we had
been forced to work; those ovens, where we had been compelled to yield
up a portion of our scanty loaf; broad avenues of trees that we and our
folks had been forced to plant; those roads, adorned with trees so
beautiful to others, were watered with the tears of the oppressed, and
appeared frightful to us. In our delirium we thought only of destroying
all that could remind us of those detested tyrants and those bitter
days."
"I have understood," said Walter, "that, for these many years past,
the peasants had been less hardly dealt with; that, although the laws
remained unchanged upon the statute-books, they had not been rigidly
enforced."
"That is true, citizens, and was the very reason of our rising."
"That is strange, that people should rise just when their condition was
improving."
"Had you fallen into a deep pit, from which you could see no possible
way of escape, you would resign yourself to your fate; but, did you
perceive some projection upon which you might clamber and escape, would
it not cause you to strain every nerve?"
"To be sure."
"Thus it was with us. When we were less hardly dealt with, we knew it
was from lack of power; that it was not from charity, but fear. When we
felt that the clutch of the oppressor was loosening on the peasant's
throat, we were no longer resigned. Then came the news of what had been
done in your country. Our children who had fought in your armies had
returned. They brought with them these noble words, which were read
to us by the few who could read: 'that all men are created free, and
endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights: that among
these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.' As we listened,
tears flowed from our eyes, our hearts grew hot, we trembled with a
feeling altogether new. We felt we also were men--struggled, broke our
letters, were _free_! Then we put to their lips the bitter cup of which
they had made us drink so long, avenged the wrongs of our ancestors,
and our own, and gave them blood for blood."
As the boys listened, their sentiments underwent a change. They felt
that the greatest excesses of an ignorant people, in the paroxysm of
their fury, made frantic by oppression, were in a great measure to be
laid to the account of their oppressors.
"We," continued Gabriel, perceiving the impression he had made, "are
called bloodthirsty, and viewed with horror, because we have shed much
blood in a short time; but they have been shedding it all the time.
Which, my brother, carries the most water to the sea, the river that
waters the valley, and whose stream is always full, or the mountain
torrent that floods the vale in the spring, and then leaves a dry
channel?"
"The river, to be sure," replied Walter.
"Such is the difference between them and us. For hundreds of years
there has not been a day when the peasant's blood has nor flowed at
the will of his master. We guillotine a noble, or a priest; the news
flies over all lands. Who knows, or cares to know, the misery he had
inflicted upon the poor, and by which he had deserved a thousand
deaths? Our banished aristocrats are scattered over Europe and America.
They are learned men, of noble blood; tell their story at every court,
among all peoples, and write it in books for all to read; while the
peasant has suffered in silence, perished in prisons by starvation,
and in the galleys, as unregarded as the dead leaves that strew yonder
vineyard."
"I never thought of all these things before," said Walter, when
Gabriel concluded; "this is indeed a story of fearful oppression."
"It is a true story, citizen. For ages the blood of the oppressed has
been crying from the ground, and, at last, vengeance has come."