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Chapter Twenty One
O’Brien receives his commission as lieutenant and then we take french leave of Givet

If I doubted the practicability of escape when I examined the exterior, when we were ushered into the interior of the fortress, I felt that it was impossible, and I stated my opinion to O’Brien. We were conducted into a yard surrounded by a high wall; the buildings appropriated for the prisoners were built with lean-to roofs on one side, and at each side of the square was a sentry looking down upon us. It was very much like the dens which they now build for bears, only so much larger. O’Brien answered me with a “Pish! Peter, it’s the very security of the place which will enable us to get out of it. But don’t talk, as there are always spies about who understand English.”

We were shown into a room allotted to six of us; our baggage was examined, and then delivered over to us. “Better and better, Peter,” observed O’Brien, “they’ve not found it out!”

“What?” inquired I.

“Oh, only a little selection of articles, which might be useful to us by-and-by.”

He then showed me what I never before was aware of; that he had a false bottom to his trunk; but it was papered over like the rest, and very ingeniously concealed. “And what is there, O’Brien?” inquired I.

“Never mind; I had them made at Montpelier. You’ll see by-and-by.”

The others, who were lodged in the same room, then came in, and, after staying a quarter of an hour, went away at the sound of the dinner-bell. “Now, Peter,” said O’Brien, “I must get rid of my load. Turn the key.”

O’Brien then undressed himself, and then he threw off his shirt and drawers, showed me a rope of silk, with a knot at every two feet, about half an inch in size, wound round and round his body. There were about sixty feet of it altogether. As I unwound it, he, turning round and round, observed, “Peter, I’ve worn this rope ever since I left Montpelier, and you’ve no idea of the pain I have suffered; but we must go to England, that’s decided upon.”

For some days O’Brien, who really was not very well, kept to his room. During this time, he often examined the map given him by the gendarme. One day he said to me, “Peter, can you swim?”

“No,” replied I; “but never mind that.”

“But I must mind it, Peter; for observe, we shall have to cross the river Meuse, and boats are not always to be had. You observe, that this fortress is washed by the river on one side: and as it is the strongest side, it is the least guarded—we must escape by it.”

“Are you then determined to escape, O’Brien? I cannot perceive how we are even to get up this wall, with four sentries staring us in the face.”

“Never do you mind that, Peter, mind your own business; and first tell me, do you intend to try your luck with me?”

“Yes,” replied I, “most certainly, if you have sufficient confidence in me to take me as your companion.”

“To tell you the truth, Peter, I would not give a farthing to escape without you.”

The prison was by all accounts very different from Verdun and some others. We had no parole, and but little communication with the townspeople. Some were permitted to come in and supply us with various articles; but their baskets were searched, to see that they contained nothing that might lead to an escape on the part of the prisoners. Without the precautions that O’Brien had taken, any attempt would have been useless. “Now, Peter,” said he one day, “I want nothing more than an umbrella for you.”

“Why an umbrella for me?”

“To keep you from being drowned with too much water, that’s all.”

“Rain won’t drown me.”

“No, no, Peter; but buy a new one as soon as you can.”

I did so. O’Brien boiled up a quantity of bees’-wax and oil, and gave it several coats of this preparation. He then put it carefully away in the ticking of his bed. We had been now about two months in Givet, when a Steel’s List was sent to a lieutenant, who was confined there. The lieutenant came up to O’Brien, and asked him his Christian name. “Terence, to be sure,” replied O’Brien.

“Then,” answered the lieutenant, “I may congratulate you on your promotion, for here you are upon the list of August.”

“Sure there must be some trifling mistake; let me look at it. Terence O’Brien, sure enough; but now the question is, has any other fellow robbed me of my name and promotion at the same time? Bother, what can it mane? I won’t belave it—not a word of it. I’ve no more interest than a dog who drags cats’-meat.”

I then told O’Brien how I had written to Captain Savage, and had had the fact attested by the major who had made us prisoners.

“Well, Peter,” said O’Brien, after a pause, “there is a fable about a lion and a mouse. If, by your means, I have obtained my promotion, why, then the mouse is a finer baste than the lion.”

For a few days after this O’Brien was very uneasy, but fortunately letters arrived by that time; one to me from my father, in which he requested me to draw for whatever money I might require, saying that the whole family would retrench in every way to give me all the comfort which might be obtained in my unfortunate situation. I wept at this kindness, and more than ever longed to throw myself in his arms, and thank him. He also told me that my uncle William was dead, and that there was only one between him and the title, but that my grandfather was in good health, and had been very kind to him lately. My mother was much afflicted at my having been made a prisoner, and requested I would write as often as I could. O’Brien’s letter was from Captain Savage; the frigate had been sent home with despatches, and O’Brien’s conduct represented to the Admiralty, which had, in consequence, promoted him to the rank of lieutenant. O’Brien came to me with the letter, his countenance radiant with joy as he put it into my hands. In return I put mine into his, and he read it over.

“Peter, my boy, I’m under great obligations to you. When you were wounded and feverish, you thought of me at a time when you had quite enough to think of yourself; but I never thank in words. I see your uncle William is dead. How many more uncles have you?”

“My uncle John, who is married, and has already two daughters.”

“Blessings on him; may he stick to the female line of business! Peter, my boy, you shall be a lord before you die.”

“Nonsense, O’Brien; I have no chance. Don’t put such foolish ideas in my head.”

“What chance had I of being a lieutenant, and am I not one? But, Peter, do me one favour; as I am really a lieutenant, just touch your hat to me only once, that’s all: but I wish the compliment, just to see how it looks.”

“Lieutenant O’Brien,” said I, touching my hat, “have you any further orders?”

“Yes, sir,” replied he, “that you never presume to touch your hat to me again, unless we sail together, and then that’s a different sort of thing.”

About a week afterwards, O’Brien came to me, and said, “The new moon’s quartered in with foul weather; if it holds, prepare for a start. I have put what is necessary in your little haversack; it may be tonight. Go to bed now, and sleep for a week if you can, for you’ll get but little sleep, if we succeed, for the week to come.”

This was about eight o’clock. I went to bed, and about twelve I was roused by O’Brien, who told me to dress myself carefully, and come down to him in the yard. It was some time before I could find O’Brien, who was hard at work; and, as I had already been made acquainted with all his plans, I will now explain them. At Montpelier he had procured six large pieces of iron, about eighteen inches long, with a gimlet at one end of each, and a square at the other, which fitted to a handle which unshipped. For precaution he had a spare handle, but each handle fitted to all the irons. O’Brien had screwed one of these pieces of iron between the interstices of the stones of which the wall was built, and sitting astride on that, was fixing another about three feet above. When he had accomplished this, he stood upon the lower iron, and, supporting himself by the second, which about met his hip, he screwed in a third, always fixing them about six inches on one side of the other, and not one above the other. When he had screwed in his six irons, he was about half up the wall, and then he fastened his rope, which he had carried round his neck, to the upper iron, and lowering himself down, unscrewed the four lower irons; then, ascending by the rope, he stood upon the fifth iron, and, supporting himself by the upper iron, recommenced his task. By these means he arrived in the course of an hour and a half at the top of the wall, where he fixed his last iron, and making his rope fast, he came down again.

“Now, Peter,” said he, “there is no fear of the sentries seeing us; if they had the eyes of cats, they could not until we are on the top of the wall; but then we arrive at the glacis, and we must creep to the ramparts on our bellies. I am going up with all the materials. Give me your haversack—you will go up lighter; and recollect, should any accident happen to me, you run to bed again. If, on the contrary, I pull the rope up and down three or four times, you may sheer up it as fast as you can.”

O’Brien then loaded himself with the other rope, the two knapsacks, iron crows, and other implements he had procured; and, last of all, with the umbrella.

“Peter, if the rope bears me with all this, it is clear it will bear such a creature as you are, therefore don’t be afraid.”

So whispering, he commenced his ascent; in about three minutes he was up, and the rope pulled. I immediately followed him, and found the rope very easy to climb, from the knots at every two feet, which gave me a hold for my feet, and I was up in as short a time as he was. He caught me by the collar, putting his wet hand on my mouth, and I lay down beside him while he pulled up the rope. We then crawled on our stomachs across the glacis till we arrived at the rampart. It was some time before O’Brien could find out the point exactly above the drawbridge of the first ditch; at last he did—he fixed his crow-bar in, and lowered down the rope.

“Now, Peter, I had better go first again; when I shake the rope from below, all’s right.”

O’Brien descended, and in a few minutes the rope again shook; I followed him, and found myself received in his arms upon the meeting of the drawbridge; but the drawbridge itself was up. O’Brien led the way across the chains, and I followed him. When we had crossed the moat, we found a barrier-gate locked; this puzzled us. O’Brien pulled out his picklocks to pick it, but without success; here we were fast.

“We must undermine the gate, O’Brien; we must pull up the pavement until we can creep under.”

“Peter, you are a fine fellow; I never thought of that.”

We worked very hard until the hole was large enough, using the crowbar which was left, and a little wrench which O’Brien had with him. By these means we got under the gate in the course of an hour or more. This gate led to the lower rampart, but we had a covered way to pass through before we arrived at it. We proceeded very cautiously, when we heard a noise: we stopped, and found it was a sentry, who was fast asleep, and snoring.

O’Brien thought for a moment. “Peter,” said he, “now is the time for you to prove yourself a man. He is fast asleep, but his noise must be stopped. I will stop his mouth, but at the very moment that I do so you must throw open the pan of his musket, and then he cannot fire it.”

“I will, O’Brien; don’t fear me.”

We crept cautiously up to him, and O’Brien motioning to me to put my thumb upon the pan, I did so, and the moment that O’Brien put his hand upon the soldier’s mouth, I threw open the pan. The fellow struggled, and snapped his lock as a signal, but of course without discharging his musket, and in a minute he was not only gagged but bound by O’Brien, with my assistance. Leaving him there, we proceeded to the rampart, and fixing the crow-bar again, O’Brien descended; I followed him, and found him in the river, hanging on to the rope; the umbrella was opened and turned upwards; the preparation made it resist the water, and, as previously explained to me by O’Brien, I had only to hold on at arm’s length to two beckets which he had affixed to the point of the umbrella, which was under water. To the same part O’Brien had a tow-line, which taking in his teeth, he towed me down the stream to about a hundred yards clear of the fortress, where we landed. O’Brien was so exhausted, that for a few minutes he remained quite motionless; I also was benumbed with the cold.

“Peter,” said he “thank God we have succeeded so far; now we must push on as far as we can, for we shall have daylight in two hours.”

O’Brien took out his flask of spirits, and we both drank a half tumbler at least, but we should not, in our state, have been affected with a bottle. We now walked along the riverside till we fell in with a small craft, with a boat towing astern; O’Brien swam to it, and cutting the painter without getting in, towed it on shore. The oars were fortunately in the boat. I got in, we shoved off, and rowed away down the stream, till the dawn of day. “All’s right, Peter; now we’ll land. This is the forest of Ardennes.” We landed, replaced the oars in the boat, and pushed her off into the stream, to induce people to suppose that she had broken adrift, and then hastened into the thickest of the wood. It rained hard; I shivered, and my teeth chattered with the cold, but there was no help for it. We again took a dram of spirits, and, worn out with fatigue and excitement, soon fell last asleep upon a bed of leaves which we had collected together.

Chapter Twenty Two
Grave consequences of gravitation—O’Brien enlists himself as a gendarme, and takes charge of me—We are discovered, and obliged to run for it—The pleasures of a winter bivouac

It was not until noon that I awoke, when I found that O’Brien had covered me more than a foot deep with leaves, to protect me from the weather. I felt quite warm and comfortable; my clothes had dried on me, but without giving me cold. “How very kind of you, O’Brien!” said I.

“Not a bit, Peter: you have hard work to go through yet, and I must take care of you. You’re but a bud, and I’m a full-blown rose.” So saying, he put the spirit-flask to his mouth, and then handed it to me. “Now, Peter, we must make a start, for depend upon it, they will scour the country for us; but this is a large wood, and they may as well attempt to find a needle in a bundle of hay, if we once get into the heart of it.”

We set off, forcing our way through the thicket, for about three hours, O’Brien looking occasionally at his pocket compass; it then was again nearly dark, and O’Brien proposed a halt. We made up a bed of leaves for the night, and slept much more comfortably than we had the night before. All our bread was wet, but as we had no water, it was rather a relief; the meat we had with us was sufficient for a week. Once more we laid down and fell fast asleep. About five o’clock in the morning I was roused by O’Brien, who at the same time put his hand gently over my mouth. I sat up, and perceived a large fire not far from us. “The Philistines are upon us, Peter,” said he: “I have reconnoitred, and they are the gendarmes. I am fearful of going away, as we may stumble upon some more of them. I’ve been thinking what’s best before I waked you; and it appears to me, that we had better get up the tree, and lie there.”

At that time we were hidden in a copse of underwood, with a large oak in the centre, covered with ivy, “I think so, too, O’Brien; shall we go up now, or wait a little?”

“Now, to be sure, that they’re eating their prog. Mount you, Peter and I’ll help you.”

O’Brien shoved me up the tree, and then, waiting a little while to bury our haversacks among the leaves, he followed me. He desired me to remain in a very snug position, on the first fork of the tree, while he took another amongst a bunch of ivy on the largest bough. There we remained for about an hour, when day dawned. We observed the gendarmes mustered at the break of day by the corporal, and then they all separated in different directions to scour the wood. We were delighted to perceive this, as we hoped soon to be able to get away; but there was one gendarme who remained. He walked round the tree, looking up into every part; but we were well concealed, and he did not discover us for some time. At last he saw me, and ordered me to come down. I paid no attention to him, as I had no signal from O’Brien. He walked round a little farther, until he was directly under the branch on which O’Brien lay. Taking up this position, he had a fairer aim at me, and levelled his musket, saying, “Descendez, ou je tire.” Still I continued immovable, for I knew not what to do. I shut my eyes, however; the musket shortly afterwards was discharged, and, whether from fear or not I can hardly tell, I lost my hold of a sudden, and down I came. I was stunned with the fall, and thought that I must have been wounded; and was very much surprised, when, instead of the gendarme, O’Brien came up to me, and asked whether I was hurt. I answered I believed not, and got up on my legs, when I found the gendarme lying on the ground, breathing heavily, but insensible. When O’Brien perceived the gendarme level his musket at me, he immediately dropped from the bough, right upon his head; this occasioned the musket to go off, without hitting me, and at the same time the weight of O’Brien’s body from such a height killed the gendarme, for he expired before we left him. “Now, Peter,” said O’Brien, “this is the most fortunate thing in the world, and will take us half through the country; but we have no time to lose.” He then stripped the gendarme, who still breathed heavily, and dragging him to our bed of leaves, covered him up, threw off his own clothes, which he tied up in a bundle, and gave to me to carry, and put on those of the gendarme. I could not help laughing at the metamorphosis, and asked O’Brien what he intended. “Sure, I’m a gendarme, bringing with me a prisoner, who has escaped.” When we stopped at night, my youth excited a great deal of commiseration, especially from the females; and in one instance I was offered assistance to escape. I consented to it, but at the same time informed O’Brien of the plan proposed. O’Brien kept watch—I dressed myself, and was at the open window, when he rushed in, seizing me and declaring that he would inform the government of the conduct of the parties. Their confusion and distress was very great. They offered O’Brien twenty, thirty, forty Napoleons, if he would hush it up, for they were aware of the penalty and imprisonment. O’Brien replied that he would not accept of any money in compromise of his duty, that after he had given me into the charge of the gendarme of the next post, his business was at an end, and he must return to Flushing, where he was stationed.

“I have a sister there,” replied the hostess, “who keeps an inn. You’ll want good quarters and a friendly cup; do not denounce us, and I’ll give you a letter to her, which, if it does not prove of service, you can then return and give the information.”

O’Brien consented; the letter was delivered, and read to him, in which the sister was requested, by the love she bore to the writer, to do all she could for the bearer, who had the power of making the whole family miserable, but had refused so to do. O’Brien pocketed the letter filled his brandy flask, and saluting all the women, left the cabaret, dragging me after him with a cord. We were following our route, avoiding Malines, which was a fortified town, and at the time were in a narrow lane, with wide ditches, full of water, on each side. At the turning of a sharp corner we met the gendarme who had supplied O’Brien with a map of the town of Givet, “Good morning, comrade,” said he to O’Brien, looking earnestly at him, “whom have we here?”

“A young Englishman, whom I picked up close by, escaped from prison.”

“Where from?”

“He will not say; but I suspect from Givet.”

“There are two who have escaped from Givet,” replied he: “how they escaped no one can imagine; but,” continued he, again looking at O’Brien, “Avec les braves, il n’y a rien d’impossible.”

“That is true,” replied O’Brien; “I have taken one, the other cannot be far off. You had better look for him.”

“I should like to find him,” replied the gendarme, “for you know that to retake a runaway prisoner is certain promotion. You will be made a corporal.”

“So much the better,” replied O’Brien; “adieu, mon ami.”

“Nay, I merely came for a walk, and will return with you to Malines, where of course you are bound.”

“We shall not get there to-night,” said O’Brien, “my prisoner is too much fatigued.”

“Well, then, we will go as far as we can; and I will assist you. Perhaps we may find the second, who, I understand, obtained a map of the fortress by some means or another.”

O’Brien observed, that the English prisoners were very liberal; that he knew that a hundred Napoleons were often paid for assistance, and he thought that no corporal’s rank was equal to a sum that would in France made a man happy and independent for life.

“Very true,” replied the gendarme; “and let me only look upon that sum, and I will guarantee a positive safety out of France.”

“Then we understand each other,” replied O’Brien; “this boy will give two hundred—one half shall be yours, if you will assist.”

“I will think of it,” replied the gendarme, who then talked about indifferent subjects, until we arrived at a small town called Acarchot, when we proceeded to a cabaret. The usual curiosity passed over, we were left alone, O’Brien telling the gendarme that he would expect his reply that night or to-morrow morning. The gendarme said, to-morrow morning. O’Brien requesting him to take charge of me, he called the woman of the cabaret to show him a room; she showed him one or two, which he refused, as not sufficiently safe for the prisoner. The woman laughed at the idea, observing, “What had he to fear from a pauvre enfant like me?”

“Yet this pauvre enfant escaped from Givet,” replied O’Brien. “These Englishmen are devils from their birth.” The last room showed to O’Brien suited him, and he chose it—the woman not presuming to contradict a gendarme. As soon as they came down again, O’Brien ordered me to bed, and went upstairs with me. He bolted the door, and pulling me to the large chimney, we put our heads up, and whispered, that our conversation should not be heard. “This man is not to be trusted,” said O’Brien, “and we must give him the slip. I know my way out of the inn, and we must return the way we came, and then strike off in another direction.”

“But will he permit us?”

“Not if he can help it; but I shall soon find out his manoeuvres.”

O’Brien then went and stopped the key-hole, by hanging his handkerchief across it, and stripping himself of his gendarme uniform, put on his own clothes; then stuffed the blankets and pillows into the gendarme’s dress, and laid it down on the outside of the bed, as if it were a man sleeping in his clothes—indeed it was an admirable deception. He laid his musket by the side of the image, and then did the same to my bed, making it appear as if there was a person asleep in it of my size, and putting my cap on the pillow. “Now, Peter, we’ll see if he is watching us. He will wait till he thinks we are asleep.” The light still remained in the room, and about an hour afterwards we heard a noise of one treading on the stairs, upon which, as agreed, we crept under the bed. The latch of our door was tried, and finding it open, which he did not expect, the gendarme entered, and looking at both beds, went away. “Now,” said I, after the gendarme had gone down stairs, “O’Brien, ought we not to escape?”

“I’ve been thinking of it, Peter, and I have come to a resolution that we can manage it better. He is certain to come again in an hour or two. It is only eleven. Now, I’ll play him a trick.” O’Brien then took one of the blankets, made it fast to the window, which he left wide open, and at the same time dissarranged the images he had made up, so as to let the gendarme perceive that they were counterfeit. We again crept under the bed; and as O’Brien foretold, in about an hour more the gendarme returned; our lamp was still burning, but he had a light of his own. He looked at the beds, perceived at once that he had been duped, went to the open window, and then exclaimed, “Sacre Dieu! Ils m’ont éschappés et je ne ne suis plus corporal. Foutre! à la chasse!” He rushed out of the room, and in a few minutes afterwards we heard him open the street door, and go away.

“That will do, Peter,” said O’Brien, laughing; “now we’ll be off also, although there’s no great hurry.” O’Brien then resumed his dress of a gendarme; and about an hour afterwards we went down, and wishing the hostess all happiness, quitted the cabaret, returning the same road by which we had come. “Now, Peter,” said O’Brien, “we’re in a bit of a puzzle. This dress won’t do any more, still there’s a respectability about it which will not allow me to put it off till the last moment.” We walked on till daylight, when we hid ourselves in a copse of trees. Our money was not exhausted, as I had drawn upon my father for 60 pounds, which, with the disadvantageous exchange, had given me fifty Napoleons. On the fifth day, being then six days from the forest of Ardennes, we hid ourselves in a small wood, about a quarter of a mile from the road. I remained there, while O’Brien, as a gendarme, went to obtain provisions. As usual, I looked out for the best shelter during his absence, and what was my horror at falling in with a man and woman who lay dead in the snow, having evidently perished from the inclemency of the weather. Just as I discovered them, O’Brien returned, and I told him: he went with me to view the bodies. They were dressed in a strange attire, ribands pinned upon their clothes, and two pairs of very high stilts lying by their sides. O’Brien surveyed them, and then said, “Peter, this is the very best thing that could have happened to us. We may now walk through France without soiling our feet with the cursed country.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean,” said he, “that these are the people that we met near Montpelier, who came from the landes, walking about on their stilts for the amusement of others, to obtain money. In their own country they are obliged to walk so. Now, Peter, it appears to me that the man’s clothes will fit me, and the girl’s (poor creature, how pretty she looks, cold in death!) will fit you. All we have to do is to practise a little, and then away we start.”

O’Brien then, with some difficulty, pulled off the man’s jacket and trowsers, and having so done, buried him in the snow. The poor girl was despoiled of her gown and upper petticoat with every decency, and also buried. We collected the clothes and stilts, and removed to another quarter, where we pitched upon a hovel and took our meal. “Peter,” said O’Brien, “lie down and sleep, and I’ll keep the watch. Not a word, I will have it—down at once.”

I did so, and in a very few minutes was fast asleep, for I was worn out with cold and fatigue. Just as the day broke, O’Brien roused me; he had stood sentry all night, and looked very haggard.

“O’Brien, you are ill,” said I.

“Not a bit; but I’ve emptied the brandy-flask; and that’s a bad job. However, it is to be remedied.”

I did not go to sleep again for some time, I was so anxious to see O’Brien fast asleep. He went in and out several times, during which I pretended to be fast asleep; at last it rained in torrents, and then he laid down, and in a few minutes, overpowered by nature, he fell fast asleep, snoring so loudly that I was afraid some one would hear us. I then got up and watched, occasionally lying down and slumbering awhile, and then going down to the door.