Escape of Prince Louis Napoleon From the Fortress of Ham
In the summer of 1840, Prince Louis Napoleon, afterwards Emperor of the French, landed with a number of adherents at Boulogne, to assert his claim to the French throne, as the nephew and heir of the first Napoleon. It had been represented to the prince by his friends that the people were everywhere ill-affected, and would rise in insurrection against King Louis Philippe, as soon as any one bearing the great name of Napoleon appeared on the soil of France. Events, however, proved that these councillors were wrong; the people did not rise, and the prince and his followers, to the number of fifty-three, were captured and sent to Paris. After a trial, which attracted the attention of Europe, on account of the eloquence of the advocates on both sides, and the great names and issues concerned, thirty-three of the prisoners were discharged, nineteen received sentences ranging from a few months to twenty years’ imprisonment, and the prince was ordered into close confinement for life.
The sentence was read to his highness in his solitary cell in the Conciergerie at four o’clock in the afternoon of October 26th; and without exhibiting the least emotion, he remarked, “Then I shall at least die on the soil of France.” A few hours afterwards, in speaking of the sentence, he said, “You say perpetual imprisonment; but just as ‘impossible’ used to be a word unknown to the French, so I suspect it will be with the word perpetual in this instance.” It is needless to add that the prince’s prophecy was fulfilled; for instead of lasting for life, his imprisonment endured some five years and nine months, when it came to an end in the manner we shall hereafter relate. It will be necessary to say a few words upon the prison itself, and some of the prince’s fellow-captives, to make the narrative more easily understood.
The prince was removed, after sentence, to the fortress of Ham. This fortress is about ninety miles to the north-east of Paris; and with the exception of a few houses which have sprung up around it in the form of a very small town, the gloomy building stands almost in the centre of a great treeless plain. The greater part of the castle was rebuilt between four and five hundred years ago, but there are still portions of the wall which date from the seventh and eighth centuries. In the interior, at the time of the prince’s incarceration, there were two low, dilapidated brick buildings, serving as barracks for the garrison, which consisted of 400 men. It was at the end of one of these that the state prisoners were kept, in two or three rooms which the friends of the captives declared were dirty, damp, and dark; and as they were only removed from the old ivy-covered walls of the fort by a few feet, it is not to be wondered at if they were not particularly dry. In these apartments lived the prince, Dr. Conneau, his physician (who had been sentenced to five years’ imprisonment for his share in the invasion of Boulogne), and the Count and Countess Montholon; the former undergoing a term of twenty years for the same reason as Dr. Conneau, and the latter having received permission to reside with her husband. Besides these, there was a faithful manservant named Thelin, who had followed the prince’s fortunes in various countries, and had been tried with the rest, but was acquitted. With much trouble this man had obtained leave from the minister of the interior to share his master’s imprisonment. We must not forget to mention a large dog to which the prince was much attached, which was named after the prison, “Ham.” The reader has now before him the entire household, the members of which passed so many dreary years and months together.
The guard kept over the prisoners was a very careful one. The commandant, M. Demarle, although a kind-hearted man, was a strict disciplinarian; and took every precaution, in accordance with his instructions, to keep his captives safe. Sixty soldiers, besides a number of warders, were constantly on duty; one keeper was always stationed at the door of the prince’s room, and two at the bottom of his stairs; and he was never allowed to either walk or ride around the courtyard of the fortress without armed attendants.
It should be stated, however, that the servant Thelin, as he was only residing in the castle of his own free will, was allowed to go in and out on errands; but this only with a pass from the governor. Nor were all these precautions unnecessary; for before the prince had been long in confinement, there were rumours that the working men of Paris, and some of the other large towns, among whom the Bonapartes were at that time very popular, were about to march on Ham to release their friend.
At one time it was stated that a body of 2000 had actually started on the expedition; and the Government, in a panic, hastily sent down several regiments of horse and foot to strengthen the garrison.
These energetic measures either frightened the revolutionists, or they changed their plans; for it is certain that beyond a few little groups who used occasionally to cheer the prince when he appeared with his keepers on the walls, no demonstration of any kind was ever actually made.
As with most men of education undergoing state imprisonment, the prince passed his time chiefly in study and in writing to his friends outside and to the newspapers. Every letter, however, either to or from the prisoner, had not only to pass through the governor’s hands, but to be read by him. He also occupied himself in gardening, of which he was very fond; and now and then, by the direct permission in writing of the minister of the interior, a visitor was allowed to enter the castle, but this was a privilege very rarely afforded.
The following systematic division of the day was rigidly adhered to by the prince. He rose early, and studied until ten. Then breakfasted and walked half an hour for exercise around the parapet of the fort, where a space of 100 feet by 60 had been allotted for the purpose. He then retired to his room, and read and corresponded with the outside world until dinner, which was between seven and eight. In the evenings, there was usually conversation and a game at whist, in which the governor frequently joined, after seeing that all the doors were locked, and the guards properly posted for the night. In this quiet manner the little household passed their days, waiting and watching for events which should either induce the Government to grant a pardon, or afford the prince an opportunity of effecting his escape.
Louis Napoleon, however, did not allow any chance of exciting the sympathy of the people in his behalf to pass by. In spite of the precautions which were adopted, he several times got spirited literary articles smuggled out of the prison by his friends, and published in Paris. These were usually in the form of comments upon passing events, but were so written that the object was only transparently veiled. For instance, when the remains of the first Napoleon were brought back to France from St. Helena, on the 15th of December, 1840, we find him dating a touching letter from his “prison at Ham,” addressed “to the manes of” his “uncle.” In this, approaching the dead emperor, he says:—
“Sire,—You return to your capital, and the people in multitudes hail your return; but I, from the depths of my dungeon, can discern but a ray of that sun which shines upon your obsequies. Be not displeased with your family because they are not there to receive you. Your exile and your misfortunes have ceased with your life, but ours continue still.
“You have died upon a rock, far from your country and kindred; the hand of a son has not closed your eyes.
“Even to-day no relative will follow your bier!
“Montholon, whom you loved the most among your faithful companions, rendered you the service of a son. He remains faithful to your thoughts, to your last wishes. He has brought to me your last words. He is in prison with me.
“A French vessel, conducted by a noble young man, went to claim your ashes; but it is in vain you would seek upon the deck any one of your kindred—your family were not there.
“In landing upon the soil of France, an electric shock was felt. You raised yourself in your coffin. Your eyes for a moment re-opened, the tricolour flag floated upon the shore; but your eagle was not there. The people press, as in other times upon your passage; they salute you with their acclamations as if you were living; but the great men of the day in rendering you homage, in suppressed voice say, ‘God grant that he may not awake.’”
When nearly six years had elapsed, the prince had received letters containing news of the critical state of his father’s health, and accordingly made great efforts to obtain permission to visit him. To this end he wrote several times to the ministers, and even to the king himself, promising on his word of honour to return and place himself at the Government’s disposal, whenever called upon to do so. All his efforts however were unsuccessful. The king was said to favour his release, but the ministers were firm in their refusal. Finding therefore that escape was his only remedy, the prince resolved upon making the attempt. After several long and earnest conferences with his faithful friends, it was decided that the effort should be made in May.
The first thing to be done was to throw the governor off his guard as much as possible; for which purpose letters were written from various persons in Paris to the prisoners, telling them that the Government was shortly about to grant a general amnesty, and congratulating them upon it. These being carefully read by M. Demarle, were of course calculated to make him less apprehensive of any attempt at flight, than from his knowledge of the failure of the prince’s effort to procure permission to visit his father, he would otherwise have been. About this time, too, fortune favoured the plot in a way that the actors in it had scarcely ventured to reckon upon.
The illustrious captive had for years been making representations to the authorities in Paris upon the subject of the dilapidated state of his rooms. Again and again had he begged that something might be done to render the place at least safe and wholesome. The staircase was rickety, and the whole of that part of the building in which he was confined as unsafe as it could possibly be. But a deaf ear had as usual been turned to all his remonstrances, and the matter had been allowed to drop. It was therefore with no small pleasure that one evening the captives learnt from their kind hearted governor, over a game at cards, that the order had come down for the necessary repairs to be done, and that the workmen would set about them in a few days’ time. From this moment it was resolved that the prince should endeavour to leave the place in the disguise of a joiner, and a suitable dress for the purpose was accordingly procured from friends outside. Dr. Conneau, who although the five years of his sentence had expired, still stayed with the others, was now allowed to go in and out occasionally, just as the servant Thelin was, and the two made all necessary arrangements for the flight. The day of departure was originally fixed for Saturday, the 23rd of May, but the unexpected arrival of some English visitors made it necessary to wait until the Monday. With his usual careful attention to details, the prince had ascertained both from his own and reported observations of his friends, the movements of every workman and guard about the place. It was found that the greatest precautions were taken to have the unfrequented parts of the fort well watched. If a workman was seen in any retired spot he was immediately challenged; but beyond the usual measures of causing the men to pass in single file through a serjeant’s guard when they left, there were no extra pains taken to hinder them passing out through the gate. By a strange fatuity all the Government’s anxiety seemed to be centred in preventing people coming into the prison, for there had always been some fear of a possible rescue. The walls were also narrowly watched within and without; but it had not apparently occurred to anybody that the captive might coolly walk through the door and politely wish his gaolers good day, as eventually he did.
As may be imagined, the Sunday before their departure was a very anxious day. The smallest accident might bring failure, and with it all hope of liberty and the certainty of universal ridicule; for people would have all shaken their heads, and said a man must have been destitute of the most common sense to believe he could walk out of prison, through men who had known him for a half a dozen years, in the flimsy disguise of a journeyman carpenter. The friendly ostrich would have been severely laid under contribution to point innumerable morals and adorn no end of tales.
A passport had been procured from Paris by which the prince was to travel, of course under an assumed name; and the fact of the faithful Thelin not being similarly supplied, caused much anxiety to the little circle; but the accident of the English visitors’ arrival, was turned to good account in this matter. Telling his friends that he wished his valet to take a journey, the prince begged that one of them would be good enough to let his courier give the man his passport, which was immediately done. It is curious to note that afterwards, when in power, as if the emperor had remembered this small favour, he passed a law to the effect that English people might travel through France without a passport.
Very early on the Monday morning, the prince, Dr. Conneau, and Charles Thelin stood, without their shoes, watching the courtyard from behind the window curtains, for the arrival of the workmen. “St. Monday” is kept in France as religiously as it is here by certain classes of operatives; and to their great vexation they saw but very few of the men come in, and those were in cleaner blouses than the “Saturday” one which was to form the prince’s disguise. Again: by an unfortunate chance, the only sentinel they were particularly anxious to avoid happened to be on duty just outside. The prince had noticed that this man had been extremely zealous in his inspection and cross-examination of the workmen, every one of whom, as he was a keen, eagle-eyed fellow, he knew at sight. However, this man was relieved at six o’clock, and one who was considered less active took his place. The danger of discovery was, of course, chiefly to be apprehended from two sources—from the soldiers and keepers, and from the workmen themselves, who, seeing a stranger among them, would be sure to give an alarm. To lessen the chances from the latter, as soon as the workmen were all in, Thelin, having clipped his master’s moustaches, went out and invited them into the dining-room to have a morning dram; and while he was pouring it out and detaining them with light conversation, the prince slipped down the first stairs, and picking up a plank, waited coolly for his man to rejoin him; for as the two keepers at the bottom of the stairs knew him well, it was necessary for Thelin to be there to take off the attention of one, while his highness’s face was covered from the other by the plank on his shoulder. Here another difficulty arose. The prince being much below the middle stature, and therefore smaller than any of the workmen, his friends had provided a pair of high-heeled boots, which gave him the appearance of being four inches taller than he really was, and the feet of these were hidden from observation by being placed in a pair of clumsy-looking sabots. But as it was Monday, and the weather was fine, it was noticed that not one of the men had sabots on, so that at the last moment a whispered consultation became necessary upon the subject of sabots or no sabots. The prince was for kicking them off; but Thelin insisted upon their retention. So, with plank and sabots, and a much-soiled blouse, with a short, common clay pipe between his lips, the future Emperor of the French marched out of Ham.
Going down the stairs, the prince was alarmed to see that one of the workmen, who was probably a teetotaller, and had resisted Thelin’s invitation, was already at his work on the baluster; but fortunately he did not look up as the man with the plank went by. At the bottom, the fugitive heard the workmen come pouring out of the dining-room overhead, just as he was rejoined by Thelin; and with great presence of mind Dr. Conneau called out to the workmen that he had something to say to them, and so delayed them until the others had passed between the keepers.
“Good morning, Thelin,” said Dupin, one of these, stooping to pat the prince’s dog, which went with them: “so you are off on a journey, eh?” seeing the great coat on his arm.
“Yes, I am off for a short drive with master doggy here,” replied Thelin, making room for the awkward man with the board, who walked straight through.
“Well, good-bye, take care of yourself,” replied Dupin; while Issali, the other keeper, walked on in conversation with Thelin as far as the gate of the fort. Here, as they went out, the soldier on guard would have taken no notice had not the prince dropped his pipe right at the man’s feet, which attracted his attention, and he looked him straight in the face as he stooped to pick it up. That must have been a moment long after remembered by the ruler of the French. Recovering his pipe, he passed out through the serjeant’s guard, and being narrowly scanned by one of the soldiers, he shifted the plank as if he were tired, and managed so as very nearly to knock his examiner on the head. With an exclamation of impatience the man turned aside, and the prince was free!
The fugitives had not gone far, however, when they met two workmen, who looked very hard at the prince, who had once more to shift his board so as to hide his face. As they passed, one of them exclaimed, “Is that Bertou?” To which, with almost pardonable disregard of truth, his highness gave a laconic “Oui!” and passed on.
The moment they were out of sight of the fortress, the board was thrown into a ditch, with the dirty blouse; and as the prince was disguised as a cabman, he waited outside the cemetery of St. Sulpice, two miles from Ham, while his companion went for the cab in which the master was to drive the servant to St. Quentin, on their way to Valenciennes.
When Charles Thelin returned with the cabriolet, he found the prince on his knees before a large crucifix, returning thanks for his delivery.
As they drove towards St. Quentin, an old woman who knew Thelin passed them, and afterwards told her friends that she had never before seen him in such disreputable looking company, for she had always regarded the valet to the good prince as a very respectable young man. At St. Quentin the prince walked round the outskirts of the town to the opposite side to that on which he had entered, while the valet drove to the post-house to get a chaise to take them to Valenciennes.
Thelin being a great favourite with Madame Abrai, who kept the inn from which the chaise had to be obtained, had much trouble to get away. She insisted upon his taking some breakfast, and to tempt him, brought out a pie of her own making, which she declared he must taste or never speak to her again. Always ready to improve the occasion, her guest not only ate some, but in a jocular way declared that the pasty was so good that he should steal it and take it with him to eat on the journey. The good soul consenting, it was taken to his highness, who, being very hungry, condescended to finish it.
Owing to the pressure put upon him at the inn, Thelin was so long that the prince feared he had mistaken the rendezvous. As he sat in great suspense on a bank by the roadside, a fussy-looking little gentleman passed and scanned him somewhat narrowly.
“Have you seen a postchaise on the road you have come, sir?” said the prince.
“I have not, sir!” replied the little man, pompously. This was the Procureur du Roi, who would have been charged with the prosecution of the prince if he had been recaptured.
After the postchaise arrived, there were no further adventures until Valenciennes was reached a little before two. The train for Brussels did not leave till four, so for two weary hours the travellers sat together in the waiting room of the station talking over the events of the journey, and wondering how it fared with poor Dr. Conneau, who, although free to walk out of the prison when he liked, had insisted upon remaining to cover their retreat. While they sat there, a gendarme from Ham suddenly appeared, and clapped Thelin on the shoulder. The consternation of the travellers may be easily imagined.
“How goes it, Thelin?” said the man, in cheerful accents which speedily reassured them. “Who would have thought now of meeting anybody from Ham all this way off?”
“Good morning, neighbour,” said Thelin. “I am off to Belgium.”
“Ah! and how is the good prince?”
“He was very well when I last saw him. I have left his service now.”
“Oh, indeed! That gentleman with you is not from Ham, is he?”
“Oh, dear no! he is a man whom I have known years ago, and we have met again on the journey.”
“Ah, well, good-bye; my train is going, and I cannot stop any longer with you. Bon jour, monsieur” (to the prince). Hats raised.
“Bon jour, monsieur.”
And so the two fugitives got safely into Belgium. From Brussels they went to Ostend, and from Ostend to London, where, as soon as the prince arrived, he wrote a letter to the premier, Lord Aberdeen, to acquaint him with the facts of his escape, and to assure Her Majesty’s Government that he did not intend to conspire against the Government of France, but was merely desirous of attending to his private affairs. In reply, Lord Aberdeen wrote a polite letter, telling him that, under the circumstances, he was welcome to remain in England as long as he pleased. Thus ended one of the most memorable flights in history.
As the reader may like to know how the faithful Dr. Conneau fared, we will just state that, by various pretences he delayed the discovery of the prince’s departure for more than twelve hours. As the governor always made a point of seeing the prince at frequent intervals during the day, it was necessary to give it out that he was ill, and wanted repose. To aid in the deception the doctor made up a stuffed figure, dressed it in the prince’s clothes, and placed it on his bed; then leaving his door ajar, he allowed the governor to peep in and satisfy his mind that his prisoner was still there. Towards eight o’clock at night, however, M. Demarle’s suspicions were aroused, and he insisted on entering the prince’s room with the doctor, when, of course, the ruse was discovered.
“When did the prince go?” said he, turning round sharply to Dr. Conneau.
“At seven this morning.”
“You are under arrest, Doctor.”
“Good.”
The worthy doctor was afterwards sentenced to three months’ imprisonment, for his share in the transaction.