WHEN war was declared between France and Germany in the early summer of 1870, I was
sent by a London paper to act as special correspondent with MacMahon's corps d'armee,
and, leaving the town at twenty-four hours' notice, arrived at Strasburg with by no means
too much time to spare. On arriving at Strasburg, I managed to be introduced, in an
informal manner, to the gallant officer who commanded the army there assembled, and was
not a little pleased when the marshal recognized me, as having met me in Algeria some
years before. Frenchmen, and more particularly French military men, are somewhat backward,
or shy, of fraternizing with new acquaintances; but when the latter show any desire to
know them, and more particularly, as was the case with me, when they show anything like a
genuine admiration of the many soldier-like qualities which are to be found among those
who compose their armies, they will always come more than half-way to meet foreigners in
the bond of good-fellowship.
When we reached Worth it was evident that something very like a decisive engagement
would take place, and that either the French or the German army would be badly beaten
before many hours were over. I got away from the lines and, with the help of a little of
that gold which is a key to most doors, managed to get up to the flat top of the tower
which forms part of the village church, and there witnessed what proved to be the
beginning of the end of the war, so far as the French army and nation were concerned. To
me, as well as to my friends, the day proved most unfortunate. I felt so certain that
MacMahon's troops would rally and eventually beat their enemy, that I delayed coming down
from the tower until it was too late. By the time I got back to where I had left an old britschka with two screws of horses that I owned, the French army was in full retreat for the
Vosges, the Germans were in possession of the village, and my conveyance, together with my
servant who drove it, and all the clothes I had in the world, had vanished. As a matter of
course, not being able to speak German, I was made a prisoner, and taken before the
officer commanding the brigade that held the place. Of the treatment I received from them
I had nothing whatever to complain. An officer who could speak English was sent for, and
when he had read my Foreign Office passport, as well as my credentials for the paper I
represented, I was at once released, on condition of giving my parole that I would
not rejoin the French army for at least seven days. I was then given a free pass, which
would prevent my being made prisoner by any of the German troops, and was told I might go
where I liked.
But where to go and how to do so, was now the question. My carriage and all my kit
having been looted, as I afterwards found out, by the German camp-followers, I had, in the
way of clothes, what I stood in. Most fortunately my circular letter of credit had not
shared the fate of the rest of my property. I had kept it in my breast pocket, and was not
a little glad that I had done so. If I could only reach Karlsruhe I should be able to get
whatever money I wanted. But how to get there was the question. It was some thirty or
forty English miles from Worth; there was no conveyance of any sort to be had; and even if
the latter had been favorable, my whole worldly wealth consisted, with the exception of
the letter of credit, of something less than twenty francs. If I could manage to walk all
the way, that very modest sum would suffice me for a very humble lodging each night, and
for a moderate amount of indifferent food.
I had, however, no choice. Walk I must, if I did not want to be left to starve at
Worth. The journey to Karlsruhe would help to pass away the seven days, or, at any rate, a
large portion of them, during which I was under parole not to rejoin the French army. To
remain where I was, or to follow the French through the Vosges, was equally impossible. So
I made up my mind, and started upon what promised to be, and what certainly proved, a
journey that was anything but pleasant.
Whatever other drawbacks the road between Worth and Karlsruhe had, it was by no means a
solitary or lonely route. It would be difficult to say whether the wagons and other
conveyances going towards Germany or those coming into France, were more numerous. The
former were filled with French prisoners and wounded soldiers; the latter with fresh
German troops en route for the seat of war, doctors and sisters of charity on their way to
tend the sick of the German army, and every sort of war stores and supplies it is possible
to imagine. There were three villages in the thirty miles of road where I found it
possible to rest at night. There was nothing in the shape of a bedroom, or even of a bed,
to be had, except at prices which my very limited amount of cash rendered impossible for
me. I was obliged to make the best of things, and to sleep, as well as eat, as best I
could. Under such circumstances personal cleanliness was almost impossible. When I
arrived, on the morning of the fourth day, at Karlsruhe, I was very far from being
respectable in appearance. At Grosse's Hotel the clerk in the bureau evidently did not
like to admit me, and it was only after I had shown him my passport that he ordered a room
to be got ready for me. I went at once to the bank named in my letter of credit, got what
money I required, bought a suit of ready-made clothes; and after a hot bath, and using
plenty of soap, began to feel as if it were possible to be clean and comfortable again;
although it took two or three days before I could realize that I had got rid of the dirt
and discomfort brought about by my vagabond-like pedestrian journey. On the third day
after my arrival at Karlsruhe I started for Baden, thence went over the Swiss frontier to
Basle; and by that time the seven days having elapsed, I crossed the French frontier and
made my way to Laon, following, as well as I could, the direction in which public report
gave out that the army under MacMahon was marching.
At Laon I learned that Marshal MacMahon had, with the army he commanded, made his way
to Rheims, whence he intended to try to afford assistance to Bazaine, who was already
surrounded at Metz. The rail from Laon towards Rheims had been cut by order of the French
military authorities, so that I had no means whatever of pushing on, except by purchasing
an old rattle-trap of a carriage to supply the place of the one that had been taken by the
German camp-followers at Worth. I was, however, fortunate enough to procure two active and
fast horses which, as will be seen presently, proved, in a great measure, the means by
which I afterwards was able to effect the very narrow escape that saved my life.
Between Laon and Rheims I passed through Chalons and Epernay, at which places I saw,
for the first time, the francs-tireurs, or free-shooters. The corps was, in the
most comprehensive possible meaning of the word, irregular. The men who composed it were
not only irregular in everything they did, but appeared to glory in their irregularity.
They seemed to have very few officers, and the few they had were seldom, if ever, to be
seen on duty with the men. The latter had evidently souls above obedience, for they did
very much what they liked, and in the manner they liked. They evidently hated the regular
army, and the latter returned the compliment with interest.
I was very anxious to let my employers in London know the exact state of affairs in
regard to the intended advance of MacMahon towards Metz, and how the attempt to relieve
Bazaine had utterly failed. To telegraph the news was impossible, as all the wires had
been cut by the enemy. I had prepared a long letter which gave many details that had not
yet been published in England, and I felt sure that if I could only manage to get what I
had written to London it would do me no little credit. As yet Sedan was not even
threatened by the Germans. I knew the officers who commanded there very well, and I
resolved to push on by myself, and see what could be done in the way of forwarding my
letter thence over the Belgian frontier, whence it would be safe to reach London in
twenty-four hours. It took the best part of three days to reach Sedan. At Sedan I was able
to procure a horse, and rode some ten miles over the Belgian frontier to Buiony, where
there were neither wars nor rumors of wars. Here my letter was posted, registered, and
sent off to London. I then returned to Sedan, and, having the horses harnessed to the
wretched old conveyance of which I was the owner, set off on my return to the headquarters
of MacMahon's army, wherever they might be.
The colonel in command at Sedan was very kind to me, gave me the best of food, and the
most reliable of information, advising me, if I wanted to rejoin MacMahon's army, to make
the best of my way to a small town called Mouson, some fifteen or twenty miles off,
situated in the valley of the Meuse, whence, as he said, I should be pretty sure of
finding the headquarters of the army. My coachman, a Swiss whom I had engaged when I
bought the trap at Laon, told me that the drive from Sedan to Mouson would occupy about
four hours, going at a comparatively slow pace which could not knock up the horses. It was
agreed that we were to hills for an hour or so, after we had been a couple of hours on the
road. I was very tired and sleepy when we left, and therefore made myself comfortable to
enjoy a good sleep, thinking I should have at least two hours in which I could do so.
To my amazement, we had not gone more than a couple or three miles from Sedan when the
carriage came to a sudden halt, and I heard more than one rough voice ordering the driver
not to move, unless he wished to he shot then and there. I drew back the leather curtains
and looked out, when I found that some thirty or more armed men had surrounded the
vehicle, and two of them, opening the door, ordered me in the most brutal manner to get
out. At first I thought they were soldiers, and that they were laboring under some
mistake, having taken me to be somebody else. But I soon discovered that they belonged to
the franc-tireurs; and that they fully intended to make me a prisoner. I still
thought there must be some mistake, and asked them what they wanted, telling them that I
was an English newspaper correspondent who had accompanied MacMahon all through the
campaign, and was now on my way to rejoin him. AVous mentez" (You lie) was the
polite answer I got; and, as one of them cocked his rifle and swore he would shoot me dead
if I did not get out, I thought that discretion was the better part of valor, and got out
upon the dusty road. I asked where their officers were; but they replied that there were
none present, and that Frenchmen knew how to deal with Prussian spies without being
controlled by officers. I asked them what I had done that I should be made a prisoner.
They answerd that I was a Prussian spy, and that they intended to try me by court-martial
and shoot me. I told them that if they would only come back to Sedan with me, the
commandant of the garrison would satisfy them that I was not a Prussian, still less a spy,
but an Englishman who was going about his lawful work. They said that the commandant at
Sedan was, like most of the French army, a traitor to his country; that they would not
believe a word he said, but had determined to make me a prisoner and kill me. Anything so
brutal as they were in their words and manner it has never been my lot to witness in any
part of the world.
At last they decided to begin what they were pleased to call a conseil de guerre,
or court-martial, in order that they might try me for being, as they asserted, a Prussian
spy on French soil. I question whether, in the history of the world, a greater farce or a
more entirely one-sided affair was ever enacted than on this occasion. I was accused, as I
said before, of being a Prussian spy; but what I came to spy upon, or in whose employment
I was, my accusers, who were also my judges, did not say. A couple of dozen times at least
I was told that I was what they said; and when I denied it, and said I was an Englishman,
I was told "Vous locates" (You lie). Of the twenty-five or thirty men
present, twelve resolved themselves into what they called a court, a thirteenth individual
acting as president. I offered to show them---in fact held out for their inspection---my
Foreign Office passport, as well as a pass I had received from MacMahon's chief-of-staff
when I joined the army at Strasburg. But the first they would not even look at; and the
second they said was given by a man---Marshal MacMahon---who was himself a traitor to
France. They did not seem to think it requisite that I should be put upon my defense. One
of them was called forward by the rest, asked whether he could speak English, and whether
he would know an Englishman by sight when he saw him. To both questions he answered in the
affirmative. He was then told to speak to me in English, and to look at me, and say if I
was an Englishman. He came up to me and muttered some gibberish which contained a few
words that might, by persons of a very strong imagination, be called English. I endeavored
to say a few words to him in my own tongue; but he stopped me by shouting out that I was a
Prussian, that I spoke German, and did not understand a word of English.
This seemed quite enough for those who were trying me. After consulting together for a
few minutes one of them announced in a loud voice that I had been found guilty of being a
Prussian spy, and that as such I was condemned to be shot. He then told me---looking at
his watch and letting me look at mine---that I had a quarter of an hour given me to live,
and, as a proof that he meant what he said, orders were given to twelve of the party to
load their rifles, and two others were told off to give me the coup de grace, in
the event of my not being killed by the firing party. In a word, my lease of life seemed
to be very near its termination, and I felt very certain that I had not more than the
fifteen minutes the fellow named in which to live.
To analyze one's feelings or thoughts under such circumstances is impossible. For about
five minutes, a third of the time that was left me, I felt utterly stunned, and kept
wondering whether those I had left behind in England would ever learn what my fate had
been. At last an idea, a sort of forlorn hope, came to me, and I lost no time before
trying whether or not I could put it in execution. I called to one of the men, who seemed
to be a leader among his fellows, and told him that I wished, before being shot, to see a
priest, which was a privilege invariably granted to even the greatest culprits in France,
and asked him to find out the cure, or parish priest, of the nearest village, and bring
him to me. My idea was that by making this request I should, at any rate, gain a little
time, and that if this priest did come to see me it was possible, although I feared not
very probable, he might have some influence with these men, and might get them to send me
to some military post, where I should have justice done me. My request did not seem to
annoy my judges in the least. On the contrary, they approved of it, and at once sent off a
couple of messengers in different directions to look for this curé.
In the meantime my feelings and surroundings were by no means happy. It is true that
since they had sentenced me to be shot the men had---most fortunately, as it afterwards
turned out---unbound my hands and feet. I was allowed to sit on the ground, close to a
wall, a sentry with a loaded ride being within a dozen yards of me, and due notice was
given that if I attempted to get away this man had orders to shoot me at once. I was
covered with dirt and dust, the result of having been knocked down more than once when I
was made a prisoner. What the ultimate result of my reprieve might be, or what the priest
could do if they found him, which seemed far from likely, was, I need hardly say, utterly
uncertain. I kept on hoping for the very improbable best but fearing in my heart that the
more than probable worst would be my fate.
At last what turned out to be my guardian angel appeared. The messengers who had gone
in search of the priest had been absent some little time, and my captors were beginning to
grumble and say that it was time to finish the business and shoot me offhand, when all at
once an old man, a garde champêtre, appeared on the scene, his fowling-piece over
his shoulder, and the red ribbon in the buttonhole of his blouse, showing that he had
served, and served with honor, in the French army. He asked what was the matter, and
turning to me, inquired whether I really was an Englishman. I told him my story, and
showed him the different documents I had by me, commencing with the pass given me by the
chief of MacMahon's staff. He read it carefully, and I could see by his face that he was
convinced I was telling the truth. He then looked at my Foreign Office passport, but did
not seem able to make out what it meant. All at once he left me, and I saw him go to where
my carriage was, and while examining the vehicle and horses,---the latter, most
providentially, as it turned out, having never been unharnessed,---he spoke a few words to
the coachman. He then came back to where I was, asked me to show him again my different
papers, and then, turning to some of the francs-tireurs who were standing near,
said, in a loud voice, "Messieurs, you have made a great mistake. This person,"
pointing to me, "is not a Prussian. He is an English officer of rank, who has come to
France in order that he may see and admire how Frenchmen defend their country. Even now
French officers are expecting him at the headquarters of the army." And then, turning
to me, he said, "Allons, monsieur, en route; he perdez pas on moment." With that he caught hold of my arm, hurried me away, and before my enemies had time, or
anything like time, to realize what he was doing, we were not only inside the carriage,
but were tearing along at a smart hand-gallop on the road to Mouson. The anger and
vexation of my captors may be imagined. They had not the means of pursuing us; but they
fired several shots after us, one of which went through the crown of my billycock hat.
However, I was saved; and if ever one man saved the life of another, that old garde
champêtre saved mine. When we arrived at Mouson I got five hundred francs (twenty
pounds) on my letter of credit, and made it a present to the old fellow who had behaved
with such pluck, and who had certainly risked his life to save me. Had we been caught
before we reached the carriage, nothing could have saved him from suffering with me the
death to which I had been condemned.
