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My Days of Adventure

E >> Ernest Alfred Vizetelly >> My Days of Adventure




The Mayor [The Prefect, M. Le Chevalier, had followed the army in its
retreat, considering it his duty to watch over the uninvaded part of the
department of the Sartha.] of Le Mans, M. Richard, and his two _adjoints_,
or deputies, went down through the town carrying a towel as a flag of
truce, and on the Place de la Mission they at last found Voigts Rhetz
surrounded by his staff. The General at once informed the Mayor that, in
consequence of the resistance of the town, it would have to pay a
war-levy of four millions of francs (£160,000) within twenty-four hours,
and that the inhabitants would have to lodge and feed the German forces as
long as they remained there. All the appeals made against these hard
conditions were disregarded during nearly a fortnight. When both the Mayor
and the Bishop of Le Mans solicited audiences of Prince Frederick Charles,
they were told by the famous Count Harry von Arnim--who, curiously enough,
subsequently became German Ambassador to France, but embroiled himself
with Bismarck and died in exile--that if they only wished to tender their
humble duty to the Prince he would graciously receive them, but that he
refused to listen to any representations on behalf of the town.

A first sum of £20,000 and some smaller ones were at last got together in
this town of 37,000 inhabitants, and finally, on January 23, the total
levy was reduced, as a special favour, to £80,000. Certain German
requisitions were also to be set off against £20,000 of that amount; but
they really represented about double the figure. A public loan had to be
raised in the midst of continual exactions, which lasted even after the
preliminaries of peace had been signed, the Germans regarding Le Mans as a
milch cow from which too much could not be extracted.

The anxieties of the time might well have sufficed to make the Mayor ill,
but, as a matter of fact, he caught small-pox, and his place had to be
taken by a deputy, who with the municipal council, to which several local
notabilities were adjoined, did all that was possible to satisfy the greed
of the Germans. Small-pox, I may mention, was very prevalent at Le Mans,
and some of the ambulances were specially reserved for soldiers who had
contracted that disease. Altogether, about 21,000 men (both French and
Germans), suffering from wounds or diseases of various kinds, were treated
in the town's ambulances from November 1 to April 15.

Some thousands of Germans were billeted on the inhabitants, whom they
frequently robbed with impunity, all complaints addressed to the German
Governor, an officer named Von Heiduck, being disregarded. This individual
ordered all the inhabitants to give up any weapons which they possessed,
under penalty of death. Another proclamation ordained the same punishment
for anybody who might give the slightest help to the French army, or
attempt to hamper the German forces. Moreover, the editors, printers, and
managers of three local newspapers were summarily arrested and kept in
durance on account of articles against the Germans which they had written,
printed, or published _before_ Chanzy's defeat.

On January 13, which chanced to be a Friday, Prince Frederick Charles made
his triumphal entry into Le Mans, the bands of the German regiments
playing all their more popular patriotic airs along the route which
his Royal Highness took in order to reach the Prefecture--a former
eighteenth-century convent--where he intended to install himself. On the
following day the Mayor received the following letter:

"Mr. Mayor,

"I request you to send to the Prefecture by half-past five o'clock this
afternoon 24 spoons, 24 forks, and 36 knives, as only just sufficient for
the number of people at table have been sent, and there is no means of
changing the covers. For dinner you will provide 20 bottles of Bordeaux,
30 bottles of Champagne, two bottles of Madeira, and 2 bottles of
liqueurs, which must be at the Prefecture at six o'clock precisely.
The wine previously sent not being good, neither the Bordeaux nor the
Champagne, you must send better kinds, otherwise I shall have to inflict
a fine upon the town.

(Signed) "Von Kanitz."

This communication was followed almost immediately afterwards by another,
emanating from the same officer, who was one of the Prince's
aides-de-camp. He therein stated (invariably employing, be it said,
execrable French) that the _café-au-lait_ was to be served at the
Prefecture at 8 a.m.; the _déjeuner_ at noon; and the dinner at 7.30 p.m.
At ten o'clock every morning, the Mayor was to send 40 bottles of
Bordeaux, 40 bottles of Champagne, 6 bottles of Madeira, and 3 bottles of
liqueurs. He was also to provide waiters to serve at table, and kitchen-
and scullery-maids. And Kanitz concluded by saying: "If the least thing
fails, a remarkable (_sic_) fine will be inflicted on the town."

On January 15 an order was sent to the Mayor to supply at once, for the
Prince's requirements, 25 kilogrammes of ham; 13 kilos. of sausages;
13 kilos. of tongues; 5 dozen eggs; vegetables of all sorts, particularly
onions; 15 kilos. of Gruyère cheese; 5 kilos. of Parmesan; 15 kilos.
of best veal; 20 fowls; 6 turkeys; 12 ducks; 5 kilos. of powdered sugar.
[All the German orders and requisitions are preserved in the municipal
archives of Le Mans.] No wine was ever good enough for Prince Frederick
Charles and his staff. The complaints sent to the town-hall were
incessant. Moreover, the supply of Champagne, by no means large in such a
place as Le Mans, gave out, and then came all sorts of threats. The
municipal councillors had to trot about trying to discover a few bottles
here and there in private houses, in order to supply the requirements of
the Princely Staff. There was also a scarcity of vegetables, and yet there
were incessant demands for spinach, cauliflowers, and artichokes, and even
fruit for the Prince's tarts. One day Kanitz went to the house where the
unfortunate Mayor was lying in bed, and told him that he must get up and
provide vegetables, as none had been sent for the Prince's table. The
Mayor protested that the whole countryside was covered with snow, and that
it was virtually impossible to satisfy such incessant demands; but, as he
afterwards related, ill and worried though he was, he could not refrain
from laughing when he was required to supply several pounds of truffles.
Truffles at Le Mans, indeed! In those days, too! The idea was quite
ridiculous.

Not only had the demands of Prince Frederick Charles's staff to be
satisfied, but there were those of Voigts Rhetz, and of all the officers
lodging at the Hôtel de France, the Hôtel du Dauphin, the Hôtel de la
Boule d'Or and other hostelries. These gentlemen were very fond of giving
dinners, and "mine host" was constantly being called upon to provide all
sorts of delicacies at short notice. The cellars of the Hôtel de France
were drunk dry. The common soldiers also demanded the best of everything
at the houses where they were billeted; and sometimes they played
extraordinary pranks there. Half a dozen of them, who were lodged at a
wine-shop in, I think, the Rue Dumas, broached a cask of brandy, poured
the contents into a tub, and washed their feet in the spirituous liquor.
It may be that a "brandy bath" is a good thing for sore feet; and that
might explain the incident. However, when I think of it, I am always
reminded of how, in the days of the Second Empire, the spendthrift Due de
Gramont-Caderousse entered the. Café Anglais in Paris, one afternoon,
called for a silver soup-tureen, had two or three bottles of champagne
poured into it, and then made an unrepentant Magdalen of the Boulevards,
whom he had brought with him, wash his feet in the sparkling wine. From
that afternoon until the Café Anglais passed out of existence no silver
soup-tureens were ever used there.

I have given the foregoing particulars respecting the German occupation
of Le Mans--they are principally derived from official documents--just to
show the reader what one might expect if, for instance, a German force
should land at Hull or Grimsby and fight its way successfully to--let us
say--York or Leeds or Nottingham. The incidents which occurred at Le Mans
were by no means peculiar to that town. Many similar instances occurred
throughout the invaded regions of France. I certainly do not wish to
impute gluttony to Prince Frederick Charles personally. But during the
years which followed the Franco-German War I made three fairly long
stays at Berlin, putting up at good hotels, where officers--sometimes
generals--often lunched and dined. And their appetites frequently amazed
me, whilst their manners at table were repulsive. In those days most
German officers were bearded, and I noticed that between the courses at
luncheon and at dinner it was a common practice of theirs to produce
pocket-glasses and pocket-combs, and comb their beards--as well as the
hair on their heads--over the table. As for their manner of eating and the
noise they made in doing so, the less said the better. In regard to
manners, I have always felt that the French of 1870-71 were in some
respects quite entitled to call their enemies "barbarians"; but that was
forty-three years ago, and as time works wonders, the manners of the
German military element may have improved.

In saying something about the general appearance of Le Mans, I pointed out
that the town now has a Place de la République, a Gambetta Bridge, a Rue
Thiers, and a statue of Chanzy; but at the period of the war and for a
long time afterwards it detested the Republic (invariably returning
Bonapartist or Orleanist deputies), sneered at Gambetta, and hotly
denounced the commander of the Loire Army. Its grievance against Chanzy
was that he had made it his headquarters and given battle in its immediate
vicinity. The conflict having ended disastrously for the French arms, the
townsfolk lamented that it had ever taken place. Why had Chanzy brought
his army there? they indignantly inquired. He might very well have gone
elsewhere. So strong was this Manceau feeling against the general--a
feeling inspired by the sufferings which the inhabitants experienced at
the time, notably in consequence of the German exactions--that fifteen
years later, when the general's statue (for which there had been a
national subscription) was set up in the town, the displeasure there was
very great, and the monument was subjected to the most shameful
indignities. [At Nouart, his native place, there is another statue of
Chanzy, which shows him pointing towards the east. On the pedestal is the
inscription; "The generals who wish to obtain the bâton of Marshal of
France must seek it across the Rhine"--words spoken by him in one of his
speeches subsequent to the war.] But all that has passed. Nowadays, both
at Auvours and at Pontlieue, there are monuments to those who fell
fighting for France around Le Mans, and doubtless the town, in becoming
more Republican, has become more patriotic also.

Before relating how I escaped from Le Mans on the day when the retreat was
ordered, there are a few other points with which I should like to deal
briefly. It is tolerably well known that I made the English translation of
Emile Zola's great novel, "La Débâcle," and a good many of my present
readers may have read that work either in the original French or in the
version prepared by me. Now, I have always thought that some of the
characters introduced by Zola into his narrative were somewhat
exceptional. I doubt if there were many such absolutely neurotic
degenerates as "Maurice" in the French Army at any period of the war. I
certainly never came across such a character. Again, the psychology of
Stephen Crane's "Red Badge of Courage," published a few years after "La
Débâcle," and received with acclamations by critics most of whom had never
in their lives been under fire, also seems to me to be of an exceptional
character. I much prefer the psychology of the Waterloo episode in
Stendhal's "Chartreuse de Parme," because it is of more general
application. "The Red Badge of Courage," so the critics told us, showed
what a soldier exactly felt and thought in the midst of warfare. Unlike
Stendhal, however, its author had never "served." No more had Zola; and I
feel that many of the pictures which novelists have given us of a
soldier's emotions when in action apply only to exceptional cases, and are
even then somewhat exaggerated.

In action there is no time for thought. The most trying hours for a man
who is in any degree of a sensitive nature are those spent in night-duty
as a sentry or as one of a small party at some lonely outpost. Then
thoughts of home and happiness, and of those one loves, may well arise.
There is one little point in connexion with this subject which I must
mention. Whenever letters were found on the bodies of men who fell during
the Franco-German War, they were, if this man was a Frenchman, more
usually letters from his mother, and, if he was a German, more usually
letters from his sweetheart. Many such letters found their way into print
during the course of the war. It is a well-known fact that a Frenchman's
cult for his mother is a trait of the national character, and that a
Frenchwoman almost always places her child before her husband.

But what struck me particularly during the Franco-German War was that
the anxieties and mental sufferings of the French officers were much
keener than those of the men. Many of those officers were married, some
had young children, and in the silent hours of a lonely night-watch their
thoughts often travelled to their dear ones. I well remember how an
officer virtually unbosomed himself to me on this subject one night near
Yvré-l'Evêque. The reason of it all is obvious. The higher a man's
intelligence, the greater is his sense of responsibility and the force of
his attachments. But in action the latter are set aside; they only obtrude
at such times as I have said or else at the moment of death.

Of actual cowardice there were undoubtedly numerous instances during the
war, but a great deal might be said in defence of many of the men who here
and there abandoned their positions. During the last months their
sufferings were frequently terrible. At best they were often only
partially trained. There was little cohesion in many battalions. There was
a great lack of efficient non-commissioned officers. Instead of drafting
regular soldiers from the _dépôts_ into special regiments, as was often
done, it might have been better to have distributed them among the Mobiles
and Mobilisés, whom they would have steadied. Judging by all that I
witnessed at that period, I consider it essential that any territorial
force should always contain a certain number of trained soldiers who have
previously been in action. And any such force should always have the
support of regulars and of efficient artillery. I have related how certain
Breton Mobilisés abandoned La Tuilerie. They fled before the regulars or
the artillery could support them; but they were, perhaps, the very rawest
levies in all Chanzy's forces. Other Breton Mobilisés, on other points,
fought very well for men of their class. For instance, no reproach could
be addressed to the battalions of St. Brieuo, Brest, Quimper, Lorient, and
Nantes. They were better trained than were the men stationed at La
Tuilerie, and it requires some time to train a Breton properly. That
effected, he makes a good soldier.

Respecting my own feelings during that war, I may say that the paramount
one was curiosity. To be a journalist, a man must be inquisitive. It is
a _sine quâ non_ of his profession. Moreover, I was very young; I had no
responsibilities; I may have been in love, or have thought I was, but I
was on my own, and my chief desire was to see as much as I could. I
willingly admit that, when Gougeard's column was abruptly attacked at
Droué, I experienced some trepidation at finding myself under fire; but
firmness may prove as contagious as fear, and when Gougeard rallied his
men and went forward to repel the Germans, interest and a kind of
excitement took possession of me. Moreover, as I was, at least nominally,
attached to the ambulance service, there was duty to be done, and that
left no opportunity for thought. The pictures of the ambulances in or near
Sedan are among the most striking ones contained in "La Débâcle," and,
judging by what I saw elsewhere, Zola exaggerated nothing. The ambulance
is the truly horrible side of warfare. To see men lying dead on the ground
is, so to say, nothing. One gets used to it. But to see them amputated,
and to see them lying in bed suffering, often acutely, from dreadful
wounds, or horrible diseases--dysentery, typhus, small-pox--that is the
thing which tries the nerves of all but the doctors and the trained
nurses. On several occasions I helped to carry wounded men, and felt no
emotion in doing so; but more than once I was almost overcome by the sight
of all the suffering in some ambulance.

When, on the morning of January 12, I heard that a general retreat had
been ordered, I hesitated as to what course I should pursue. I did not
then anticipate the street-fighting, and the consequent violence of the
Germans. But journalistic instinct told me that if I remained in the town
until after the German entry I might then find it very difficult to get
away and communicate with my people. At the same time, I did not think the
German entry so imminent as proved to be the case; and I spent a
considerable time in the streets watching all the tumult which prevailed
there. Now and again a sadly diminished battalion went by in fairly good
order. But numbers of disbanded men hurried hither and thither in
confusion. Here and there a street was blocked with army vans and waggons,
whose drivers were awaiting orders, not knowing which direction to take.
Officers and estafettes galloped about on all sides. Then a number of
wounded men were carried in carts, on stretchers, and on trucks towards
the railway-station. Others, with their heads bandaged or their arms in
slings, walked painfully in the same direction. Outside the station there
was a strong cordon of Gendarmes striving to resist all the pressure of a
great mob of disbanded men who wished to enter and get away in the trains.
At one moment, when, after quite a struggle, some of the wounded were
conveyed through the mob and the cordon, the disbanded soldiers followed,
and many of them fought their way into the station in spite of all the
efforts of the Gendarmes. The _mêlée_ was so desperate that I did not
attempt to follow, but, after watching it for some time, retraced my steps
towards my lodging. All was hubbub and confusion at the little inn, and
only with difficulty could I get anything to eat there. A little later,
however, I managed to tell the landlord--his name was Dubuisson--that I
meant to follow the army, and, if possible, secure a place in one of the
trains which were frequently departing. After stowing a few necessaries
away in my pockets, I begged him to take charge of my bag until some
future day, and the worthy old man then gave me some tips as to how I
might make my way into the station, by going a little beyond it, and
climbing a palisade.

We condoled with one another and shook hands. I then went out. The
cannonade, which had been going on for several hours, had now become more
violent. Several shells had fallen on or near the Caserne de la Mission
during the morning. Now others were falling near the railway-station.
I went my way, however, turned to the right on quitting the Rue du
Gué-de-Maulny, reached some palings, and got on to the railway-line.
Skirting it, I turned to the left, going back towards the station.
I passed one or two trains, which were waiting. But they were composed of
trucks and closed vans. I might perhaps have climbed on to one of the
former, but it was a bitterly cold day; and as for the latter, of course
I could not hope to enter one of them. So I kept on towards the station,
and presently, without let or hindrance, I reached one of the platforms.

Le Mans being an important junction, its station was very large, in some
respects quite monumental. The principal part was roofed with glass and
suggested Charing Cross. I do not remember exactly the number of lines of
metals running through it, but I think there must have been four or five.
There were two trains waiting there, one of them, which was largely
composed of passenger carriages, being crammed with soldiers. I tried to
get into one carriage, but was fiercely repulsed. So, going to the rear of
this train, I crossed to another platform, where the second train was.
This was made up of passenger coaches and vans. I scrambled into one of
the latter, which was open. There were a number of packing-cases inside
it, but there was at least standing room for several persons. Two railway
men and two or three soldiers were already there. One of the former helped
me to get in. I had, be it said, a semi-military appearance, for my grey
frieze coat was frogged, and besides, what was more important, I wore the
red-cross armlet given me at the time when I followed Gougeard's column.

Almost immediately afterwards the train full of soldiers got away. The
cannonade was now very loud, and the glass roof above us constantly
vibrated. Some minutes elapsed whilst we exchanged impressions. Then, all
at once, a railway official--it may have been M. Piquet himself--rushed
along the platform in the direction of the engine, shouting as he went:
"Dépêchez! Dépêchez! Sauvez-vous!" At the same moment a stray artilleryman
was seen hastening towards us; but suddenly there came a terrific crash of
glass, a shell burst through the roof and exploded, and the unlucky
artilleryman fell on the platform, evidently severely wounded. We were
already in motion, however, and the line being dear, we got fairly swiftly
across the viaduct spanning the Sarthe. This placed us beyond the reach of
the enemy, and we then slowed down.

One or two more trains were got away after ours, the last one, I believe,
being vainly assailed by some Uhlans before it had crossed the viaduct.
The latter ought then to have been blown up, but an attempt to do so
proved ineffectual. We went on very slowly on account of the many trains
in front of us. Every now and again, too, there came a wearisome stop. It
was bitterly cold, and it was in vain that we beat the tattoo with our
feet in the hope of thereby warming them. The men with me were also
desperately hungry, and complained of it so bitterly and so frequently,
that, at last, I could not refrain from producing a little bread and meat
which I had secured at Le Mans and sharing it with them. But it merely
meant a bite for each of us. However, on stopping at last at Conlie
station--some sixteen or seventeen miles from Le Mans--we all hastily
scrambled out of the train, rushed into a little inn, and almost fought
like wild beasts for scraps of food. Then on we went once more, still very
slowly, still stopping again and again, sometimes for an hour at a
stretch, until, half numbed by the cold, weary of stamping our feet, and
still ravenous, we reached the little town of Sillé-le-Guillaume, which is
not more than eight or nine miles from Conlie.

At Sillé I secured a tiny garret-like room at the crowded Hôtel de la
Croix d'Or, a third-rate hostelry, which was already invaded by officers,
soldiers, railway officials, and others who had quitted Le Mans before I
had managed to do so. My comparatively youthful appearance won for me,
however, the good favour of the buxom landlady, who, after repeatedly
declaring to other applicants that she had not a corner left in the whole
house, took me aside and said in an undertone: "listen, I will put you in
a little _cabinet_ upstairs. I will show you the way by and by. But don't
tell anybody." And she added compassionately: "_Mon pauvre garçon_, you
look frozen. Go into the kitchen. There is a good fire there, and you will
get something to eat."

Truth to tell, the larder was nearly empty, but I secured a little cheese
and some bread and some very indifferent wine, which, however, in my then
condition, seemed to me to be nectar. I helped myself to a bowl, I
remember, and poured about a pint of wine into it, so as to soak my bread,
which was stale and hard. Toasting my feet at the fire whilst I regaled
myself with that improvised _soupe-au-vin_, I soon felt warm and
inspirited once more. Hardship sits on one but lightly when one is only
seventeen years of age and stirred by early ambition. All the world then
lay before me, like mine oyster, to be opened by either sword or pen.

At a later hour, by the light of a solitary guttering candle, in the
little _cabinet_ upstairs, I wrote, as best I could, an account of the
recent fighting and the loss of Le Mans; and early on the following
morning I prevailed on a railway-man who was going to Rennes to post my
packet there, in order that it might be forwarded to England _viâ_ Saint
Malo. The article appeared in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, filling a page of
that journal, and whatever its imperfections may have been, it was
undoubtedly the first detailed account of the battle of Le Mans, from the
French side, to appear in the English Press. It so happened, indeed, that
the other correspondents with the French forces, including my cousin
Montague Vizetelly of _The Daily News_, lingered at Le Mans until it was
too late for them to leave the town, the Germans having effected their
entry.

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