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CHAPTER XVIII
THE SIEGE OF PARIS —ContinuedWITH THE BESIEGED (1870-1871)

Moods in Paris – The Empress escapes – Taking down Imperial flags – Playing dominoes under fire – Cowards branded – Balloon post – Return of the wounded – French numbed by cold – The lady and the dogs – The nurse who was mighty particular – Castor and Pollux pronounced tough – Stories of suffering.

One who was in Paris on the 3rd of September, 1870, might have heard strange things said in the cafés as evening came on. The French had suffered a great disaster; they had surrendered to the Germans at Sedan! MacMahon was wounded and taken prisoner; the Emperor had given himself up, and was going to Germany as a first-class prisoner; 80,000 men captured, and 200 guns. Was not that news enough to sell every paper in the street?

Shouts were heard of “Déchéance! Vive la République!”

Where was the poor Empress all this time? “Never mind her; it was she who had stirred up the Emperor Napoleon III. to make this horrible war.” So the papers print cruel caricatures of her. On Sunday, the 4th, very early in the morning, a huge crowd thronged the Place de la Concorde; men were pulling down Imperial eagles while the mob cheered. The regular soldiers met the National Guard and made friends.

Men said to one another: “What will become of the Empress?” “Will she fall a victim to the new patriots?” And whilst some wondered, a few friends were even then helping her to escape to England.

Everywhere on walls of houses were bills fixed announcing the Republic, and inviting all men to rally to the rescue of “La patrie en danger.”

But the railway-stations were very full of men, women, and children, who were trying to get a little country air. Could it be possible that they feared Paris might before long be besieged?

Drums and bugles incessant, uniforms always, rifles and side-arms very often. Men stood before the black-draped statue of Strasbourg, and waved arms wildly, shouting and screaming, “Revenge!” “Liberty!” and the like.

By the 10th of the month the Prussian forces, 300,000 strong, were about twenty-five miles from the capital. People began to look grave, and the more thoughtful went to the stores, and made secret purchases of coffee, rice, sugar, and other portable provisions. Still, the Parisians have not lost their gaiety yet; comic songs and punchinello evoke hilarious laughter.

Then came the news, “Versailles has honourably capitulated.”

What! so near as that! People are becoming nervous, so that the new authorities proclaim by billposters that the fifteen strong forts beyond the line of ramparts are fully armed and manned by the sailors from the fleet.

A captive balloon goes up from Montmartre to watch the enemy. Then it occurs that obstacles outside the city must be cleared away, so that the chassepot may have space to reach the Prussians; and many houses and bridges go down.

“Well, if there is a siege, have we not got a goodly store of food – enough for two months? Are there not plenty of cattle and sheep, fodder and grain collected within the walls? Who cares for the Prussians?”

Yet when they see notices posted on the walls instructing the newly enrolled how to load their muskets, some have a twinge of doubt and anxiety. A few days more, and Paris begins to feel she is being encircled by the enemy. Great movement of troops towards Vincennes. Official notices now state that all men liable to military service must report themselves within twenty-four hours, under penalty of being treated as deserters – and shot.

Yet still many are placidly playing dominoes, or calmly fishing from the bridges in the Seine, quite content if they catch a gudgeon two inches long.

Yet, if some are betraying levity and selfishness, others are filled with a desire to do something for their country. The doctors offer their services in a body, and hospitals for the wounded are being established at various points.

Ladies wearing a brassard on the arm (the Red Cross badge) were almost too numerous; and some of these had more zeal than strength, and failed lamentably when brought face to face with horrible sights.

On the 19th of September some French forces, who occupied the heights of Chatillon, were attacked in force by the Germans, and driven away, and they ran through Paris crying, “We are betrayed!” but the people gloomily replied, “Cowards!”

The next day many of these fugitives were marched along the boulevards, their hands tied behind their backs, and the word Lâche (coward) printed in large letters between their shoulders. Yet still crowds of men in uniform and ladies fashionably dressed crowded the cafés, laughing and full of mirth.

As the bombardment grew, it became the fashion to gather at the Trocadero, and watch the Prussian shells exploding in mid-air.

The village folk who had lived within the lines of investment were brought inside the ramparts, and formed a class of bouches inutiles, though some of the men were employed to cut down trees and build barricades.

The Palace of St. Cloud was burnt down about this time – some said by the French themselves, either by accident or design.

A post by balloon and by carrier-pigeons had been introduced —par ballon monté– by which letters were sent away, but could not be received.

In the middle of October Colonel Lloyd Lindsay arrived from England, bringing with him £20,000 as a gift from England to the sick and wounded. He came into Paris in the uniform of his rank. This did not prevent his being captured as a spy, and suffering some indignities at the hands of the great unwashed of Belleville. Some with questionable taste said, “The English send us money – all right! – but why do they not help us with men and guns?”

Trochu, the Governor of Paris, was thought to be rather infirm of purpose; his sympathies were given more to Napoleon than to the Republic, and he evidently distrusted the fighting men within Paris. Indeed, there were many officers quite unfit for work, who used to lounge about the cafés, their hands buried in a warm muff and their noses red with the little glasses they had emptied. Many battalions of Federals elected their own officers, and some men were seen to be soliciting votes, bottle in hand. The National Guard, which was somewhat like our militia, was distinct from the French army, and contained many bad characters; they were apt to desert in time of danger.

On the 21st of October there was a sortie against the Prussians on the west of Paris. They started at noon, as Mont Valérien fired three guns in quick succession. They took with them some new guns, called mitrailleuses, from which great things were expected. In the evening there came back a long procession of sixty-four carriages, all filled with wounded. Crowds of anxious mothers came clustering round, inquiring for friends. The people in the street formed two lines for the carriages to pass between; the men respectfully uncovered their heads.

November came, with snow and bitter frost. Strange skins of animals began to be worn; fuel was scarce, gas was forbidden, and epidemics arose. The very poor received free meals from the mairies, while the more respectable poor stayed at home, making no sign, but starving in dumb agony.

On the 30th of November another sortie was attempted. Some villages were taken by the French, Champigny and Brie, the mitrailleuses being found very useful in sweeping the streets; but towards evening the French were repulsed, and the commander of the 4th Zouaves was left by his own men on the ground wounded, a shell having dropped near them. Fortunately, the English ambulance was close by, and rendered such help as was possible. Then they drove the helpless officer in a private brougham back to Paris. What was their indignation when they found great crowds of people of both sexes indulging in noisy games, as if it was a holiday! The poor Chef de Bataillon only lived a few hours after being taken to the hospital.

Next day ambulances were sent out to search for the wounded, but they came upon many stragglers bent on loot. The wounded were in sore plight after spending a night on the frozen ground. Some had been able to make a little fire out of bits of broken wheels, and to roast horse-flesh cut from horses which the shells had killed. The French troops had remained in bivouac all that night, their strength impaired by fatigue and cold; the German troops, on the contrary, were withdrawn from the field of battle, their places being taken by others who had not seen the carnage of the previous day, who were well fed and sheltered, and thus far better fitted to renew the fight. No wonder that the poor benumbed French failed to make a stout resistance. Hundreds of wounded returned to Paris all the following day, and it became evident that no effort to break the circle of besiegers could succeed. Paris awoke at last to the humiliating truth. The day was cold and foggy; the transport of wounded was the only sound heard in the streets; in the evening the streets were dimly lit by oil-lamps, shops all closed at sundown, and the boom of heavy guns seemed to ring the knell of doom. All hope was now fixed on the provinces, but a pigeon-post came in, telling them of a defeat near Orleans.

“The Army of the Loire has been cut in two! Tant mieux! (So much the better!) Now we have two Armies of the Loire.” So the dandy of the pavement dismissed the disaster with an epigram.

The scarcity of meat was felt in various ways; even the rich found it difficult to smuggle a joint into their houses, for it was liable to arrest on its way: some patriots would take it from a cart or the shoulder of the butcher’s boy, saying, “Ciel! this aristocrat is going to have more than his share.” One day a fashionable lady was returning home carrying a parasol and a neat parcel under her shawl. After her came six hungry dogs, who could not be persuaded to go home, though she hissed and scolded and poked them with her gay parasol. On meeting a friend, she first asked him to drive them away, and then confided to him that she had two pounds of mutton in her parcel. And so the poor dogs got none!

Amongst the hungry folk we must not forget that there were nearly 4,000 English in Paris, about 800 of whom were destitute, and would have starved had it not been for the kindness of Dr. Herbert and Mr. Wallace. The wounded were well looked after, for there were 243 ambulances, of which the largest, the International, had its headquarters at the Grand Hotel. In one of the Paris journals it was stated that a lady went to the Mayor’s house of her district to ask to be given a wounded soldier, that she might nurse him back to life. They offered her a Zouave, small and swarthy.

“No, no,” she exclaimed; “I wish for a blonde patient, being a brunette myself.”

It was hardly worth while going to pay a visit to the Zoological Gardens, for most of the animals had been eaten.

Castor and Pollux were amongst the last to render up their bodies for this service. Castor and Pollux were two very popular elephants, on whose backs half the boys and girls in Paris had taken afternoon excursions. Poor fellows! they were pronounced later on by the critical to be tough and oily – to such lengths can human ingratitude go when mutton is abundant.

They were twins and inseparables in life. Their trunks were sold for 45 francs a pound, the residue for about 10 francs a pound. Besides the loss of the animals, all the glass of the conservatories in the Jardin des Plantes was shattered by the concussion of the big guns, and many valuable tropical plants were dying.

The citizens, usually so gay and hopeful, presented a woebegone appearance whenever they saw their soldiers return from unsuccessful sorties. They began to look about for traitors. “Nous sommes trahis!” was their cry. There was one private of the 119th Battalion who refused to advance with the others. His Captain remonstrated with him; the private shot his Captain rather than face the Germans. A General who was near ordered the private to be shot at once. A file was drawn up, and fired on him; he fell, and was left for dead. Presently an ambulance stretcher came by, and picked him up, as a wounded man; he was still alive, and had to be dealt with further by other of his comrades. Let us hope that this man’s relations never learnt how Jacques came to be so riddled by bullets.

The houses on the left bank of the Seine were so damaged that the citizens had to be transferred to the right bank. In a few days the terrible battery of Meudon opened fire upon the city. The shells now fell near to the centre of Paris; day and night without rest or stay the pitiless hail fell, and this went on for twelve days and nights. Meanwhile the cold increased and the fuel failed; diseases spread, and discontent with the Government arose. Women waiting in the streets for their rations would fall from exhaustion; others were mangled by shells. The daily ration for which the poor creatures struggled consisted now of 10 ounces of bread, 1 ounce of horse-flesh, and a quarter litre of bad wine.

One more effort the starving Parisians made to break through on the 19th of January. Early that morning people were reading the latest proclamation on the walls: “Citizens, the enemy kills our wives and children, bombards us night and day, covers with shells our hospitals. Those who can shed their life’s blood on the field of battle will march against the enemy – suffer and die, if necessary, but conquer!”

Three corps d’armée, more than 100,000 men, were taking up their positions under cover of Mont Valérien; but a dense fog prevailed, and several hours were lost in wandering aimlessly about, so that the French became worn out with fatigue, whereas the Germans had passed a quiet night, with good food to sustain their strength. Yet for many hours the French obstinately held their ground; then stragglers began to fall away, and officers tried in vain to rally their companies. Night fell on a beaten army hurrying back through the city gates.

Meanwhile the bombardment went on with increasing violence, until early on the night of the 26th there was a sudden lull; just before midnight a volley of fire came from all points of the circle round Paris, then a weird silence. Then it was known that the terms of surrender had been signed – not too soon, for all were at starvation point, and only six days’ rations remained. Paris had been very patient under great sufferings through the cold winter. It is pleasant to remember that supplies of food sent from England were then waiting admission outside the northern gates.

An English doctor residing in Paris during the siege writes thus:

“One lady to whom I carried a fowl was prostrate in bed, her physical powers reduced by starvation to an extremely low ebb. When I told her that she was simply dying from want of food, her reply was that she really had no appetite; she could not eat anything. Yet when I gave her some savoury morsel to be taken at once, and then the fowl to be cooked later on, her face brightened; she half raised herself in bed, and pressed the little articles I had brought to her as a child presses a doll. I was told also that the nurses in an ambulance which I had aided with the British supplies danced round the tables, and invoked blessings on our heads. As regards myself, what I most craved for was fried fat, bacon, and fruit, and, above all, apples.”

Besides the wild animals of the French Zoological Gardens, most of the domestic pets had been eaten. A story is told of one French lady who carefully guarded her little dog Fido, feeding him from her own plate with great self-sacrifice. One day the family had the rare treat of a hot joint, and in the middle of dinner the lady took up a small bone to carry to Fido in the next room. She returned in trouble, saying:

“Fido is not in the house; he would so have enjoyed this bone. I hope he has not got out. They will kill him – the brutes! – and eat him.”

The members of that starving family exchanged uneasy glances; they were even now engaged upon a salmi, or hash, formed from a portion of the lady’s pet!

“From Memoirs of Dr. Gordon.” By kind permission of Messrs. Swan Sonnenschein and Co.

CHAPTER XIX
METZ (1870)

Metz surrounded – Taken for a spy – Work with an ambulance – Fierce Prussians rob an old woman – Attempt to leave Metz – Refusing an honour – The cantinière’s horse – The grey pet of the regiment – Deserters abound – A village fired for punishment – Sad scenes at the end.

One Englishman, the Special Correspondent of the Manchester Guardian, contrived to enter Metz shortly before it was besieged. But he had not been there long before a disagreeable experience befell him. He was riding quietly outside the city towards the French camps which were pitched all round it, when suddenly a soldier stepped across the road, and cried, “Halt!”

Two men seized his reins, asking, “Have you any papers?”

“Yes; here is my passport,” he replied confidently.

The passport puzzled them; it was taken to a superior officer, who knew that it was English, but looked suspiciously at the German visé which it bears.

The Englishman was taken to a General across the road, who shook his head and remanded him to another officer of the staff, a mile back towards Metz. It begins to look serious; this man may be shot as a spy.

Two gendarmes were called up to guard him; soldiers came up to stare with savage scowls – he was a spy undoubtedly; but cigarettes were offered by the spy, and things began to look less cloudy. Then up came General Bourbaki, and fresh questions were put and answered; then a mounted messenger was sent to Metz to find out if the prisoner’s statements were correct. On his return with a satisfactory account, the prisoner was told to mount and ride with escort to the head-quarters of the Commander-in-Chief, Marshal Bazaine. As he rode soldiers jeered and prophesied a speedy death in a ditch, which made him feel ill at ease.

A ride of a mile brought him to a pretty château, where he was received with courtesy and kindness. At a long common deal table in a wooden pavilion in the garden sat the Marshal and some twenty officers of the staff. Dispatches were being written, signed, and sent off by mounted messengers. In the corner was an electric telegraph, ticking off reports from distant points.

When the conference broke up, Marshal Bazaine motioned the suspect to a seat, and questioned him, made him show on a map where he had been riding, found he understood no German and was a fool at maps (perhaps a little stupidity was put on), then he left him to his secretary.

The latter said, with a sly glance: “We have so many spies that we are bound to be careful, but the arrest in this case is a stupid thing (une bêtise). I will give you a laissez-passer for the day, monsieur.”

So he went off, relieved at not being shot for a spy, but somewhat mortified.

There was hard fighting going on in the country round Metz. Our countryman managed to get attached to an ambulance, and went on to a battle-field at night.

“We lit our lanterns,” he says, “and went cautiously into the valley. There were Prussian sharpshooters in the wood beyond, and I confess I was very nervous at first: the still night, the errand we were on, all awed one. But so soon as we reached the outskirts of the battle-field all personal feelings gave way to others. Here at every turn we found our aid was wanted. Thousands of dead and wounded were around us, and we, a few strangers sent by the International Society of London, were all that were present to help them. Plugging and bandaging such wounds as were hopeful of cure, giving a life-saving drink here and there, moving a broken limb into a more easy position, and speaking a word of encouragement where the heart was failing – this was all we could do. But all that night each worked his utmost, and when our water failed two of us walked back four miles to Gravelotte and brought a bucketful. We can dress, but not remove, the wounded now. Often have I been tempted to put a poor fellow out of his pain; it seems kinder, wiser, and more Christian to blow out the flickering lamp than let it smoulder away in hours of anguish. Daylight begins to dawn, and we seek carriages – that is, jolting unhung carts – to convey some of the wounded. Now, as we raise them up and torture their poor wounds by moving them, for the first time we hear a cry. The groans of the dying, the shrieks of the wounded, are absent from the battle-field, but far more dreadful and awe-inspiring is the awful stillness of that battle-field at night. There is a low, quivering moan floats over it – nothing more; it is a sound almost too deep for utterance, and it thrills through one with a strange horror. Hardly a word is uttered, save only a half-wailed-out cry of ‘Ohé! ma pauvre mère!’ Nothing is more touching, nothing fills one’s eyes with tears more, than this plaintive refrain chanted out as a death-chant by so many sons who never more on this side the grave will see again that longed-for mother – ‘Ohé! ma mère, ma pauvre mère!’

“We select sixty or seventy of those whose wounds will bear removal, and turn our faces towards Metz. Slowly and sadly we creep out of the death-valley. The quaint hooded forms of the sentinels who challenge us cut out strangely against the green and gold of the morning sky. Not a walking-stick, not a pipe is left us: they were cut up into tourniquet-keys. I am ashamed to say I regretted my pipe; but it came back to me after many weeks, being brought to me by the man whose life it had saved. Very grateful he was. As we toil upwards, musing on life and death, bang! right in our very faces spits out a cannon. Good heavens! they surely are not going to begin this devil’s work again! Yes; there goes a battery to the crest of the hill. We must take care of ourselves and those we have so far rescued from slaughter. On we tramp, but there is no food, not a crust of bread, not a drop of water for our wounded. It is nine miles more back to Metz, and tired as we are, we must walk it. Very tired and hungry and cross we enter Metz, and there see the French ambulances waiting with waggon-loads of appliances and well-groomed horses. They had stopped to breakfast, and many hundreds have died because they did so. Well, we have earned ours, at any rate.”

It was now the 28th of August. Metz was blockaded. No letters could be sent, for the German hosts were holding the heights all round. Ruthless rough-riders were riding into every French village. In one of these, the story goes, a poor old woman was washing her little store of linen. She was very old, and her grey hair sprouted in silver tufts from her yellow skin. All the rest had fled in panic; she alone was left busy at her tub, when up rode some score of huge Dragoons. They pulled up in front of her, speaking their barbarous tongue. One Dragoon dismounts and draws his sword. Poor old woman! she falls upon her knees and lifts up wrinkled hands and cries feebly for mercy. It is in vain! Neither age nor ugliness protects her. Raising his sword with one hand, he stretches out the other towards her – the Prussian monster! – and grasps her soap. He quietly cuts it in two, pockets the one half and replaces the other on the well wall, growling out, “Madame, pardon!”

The reaction was too great. When they rode away laughing, the old woman forgot to be thankful that they had not hurt her, and swore at them for hairy thieves.

On the 15th of September there were around Metz 138,000 men fit to take the field, 6,000 cavalry and artillery. The Prussians had not anything like that number. They were dying fast of dysentery and fever, and yet Bazaine did nothing. Yet, though Metz was not strongly held, it was very difficult to get through the lines, and many a man, tempted by the bribe of 1,000 francs, lost his life in the attempt.

The English journalist tried to be his own courier and carry his own letters. He presented himself at the Prussian outposts in daylight, showed his passport, and demanded permission to “pass freely without let or hindrance.” In vain. The German soldiers treated him to beer and cigars, and suggested he should return to Metz. Next time he dressed himself up as a peasant, with blouse, and sabots on his feet, and when it was growing dusk tried to slip through the posts. “Halte là!” rang out, and a sound of a rifle’s click brought him up sharp. He was a prisoner, taken to the guard-house, and questioned severely. He pretended to be very weak-headed, almost an idiot.

“How many soldiers be there in Metz, master? I dunno. Maybe 300. There’s a power of men walking about the streets, sir.”

They smiled a superior smile, and offered the poor idiot some dark rye-bread, cheese, and beer, and some clean straw to lie down upon. Officers came to stare at him, asked him what village he was bound for. One of them knew the village he named, and recognized his description of it, for luckily he had got up this local knowledge from a native in Metz. However, he was not permitted to go to it, for before dawn next morning they led him, shuffling in his wooden sabots, to a distant outpost, turned his face towards Metz, with the curt remark: “Go straight on to Metz, friend, or you will feel a bullet go through your back.”

Grumbling to himself, he drew near the French outposts, who fired at him. He lay down for some time, then, finding he was in a potato-field, he set to work and grubbed up a few potatoes to sell for a sou a piece. So at last he found his way back to Metz, and got well laughed at for his pains.

He then tried his hand at making small balloons to carry his letters away; but the Germans used to fire at them, wing them, and read the contents.

Many spies were shot in Metz, and some who were not spies, but only suspected. It was the only excitement in the city to go out to the fosse and see a spy shot.

There was one man whom all raised their hats to salute when he passed. He was a short, thick-set man, wore a light canvas jacket and leather gaiters. Under one arm hung a large game-bag, and over the other sloped a chassepot rifle. His name was Hitter, and he had made a great name by going out in front of the avant-poste and shooting the Prussian sentinels. One night he encountered some waggons, shot down the escort from his hiding-place, and brought four waggons full of corn into Metz, riding on the box by the driver, pistol in hand. This man organized a body of sharp-shooters for night work, and many a poor sentinel met his death at their hands.

One favourite dodge was to take out with them a tin can fastened to a long string. When they got near the Prussian outposts they made this go tingle tangle along the ground. Then cautious heads would peep out; more tangle tingle from the tin can, until the sentinels jump up and blaze away at the weird thing that startles them in the dark. Their fire has been drawn, and Hitter’s men have the outpost at their mercy. They either shoot them or bring them into Metz as prisoners.

At length Marshal Bazaine heard of Hitter’s prowess, and sent for him, wanting to decorate him; but Hitter was sensitive, and thought he ought to have been decorated weeks ago. He came reluctantly.

“My man, I have heard of your doings – your clever work at night – and in the name of France I give you this decoration to wear.”

“I don’t want it, Marshal. Pray excuse me, if you please.”

“Nonsense, my fine fellow. I insist on your acceptance of the honour.”

“Oh! very well,” said Hitter, “if you insist, I suppose I must; but, by your leave, I shall wear it on my back – and very low down, too.”

The Marshal glared at Hitter, turned red, and ordered him out.

As the siege went on the poor horses got thinner and thinner. Their coats stood out in the wet weather rough and bristly; often they staggered and fell dead in the streets. They were soon set upon, and in a short time flesh, bones, and hide had vanished, and only a little pool of blood remained behind to tell where some hungry citizens had snatched a good dinner.

One day a cantinière had left her cart full of drinkables just outside the gate while she went to the fort to ask what was wanted. She tarried, and her poor horse felt faint, knelt down, and tried to die. No sooner was the poor beast on his knees than half a score of soldiers rushed out to save his life by cutting his throat – at least, it made him eat better. They quickly slipped off his skin and cut him up in all haste. So many knives were “e’en at him,” they soon carried off his “meat.” Then, in a merry mood, seeing the gay cantinière was too busy flirting to attend to her cart, they carefully set to work and built him up again. They put the bones together neatly, dragged the hide over the carcass, and arranged the harness to look as if the animal had lain down between the shafts. Then they retired to watch the comedy that sprang out of a tragedy. Madame comes bustling out of the fort. Eh! what’s that? Poor Adolfe is down on the ground! The fat woman waddles faster to him, calls him by name, taunts him with want of pluck, scolds, gets out her whip; then is dumb for some seconds, touches him, cries, weeps, wrings her hands in despair. Sounds of laughter come to her ears; then she rises majestically to the occasion, pours out a volley of oaths – oaths of many syllables, oaths that tax a genius in arithmetic: diable! cent diables, mille diables, cent mille diables! and so on, until she loses her breath, puts her fat hand to her heart, and again falls into a pathetic mood, passing later on into hysteria, and being led away between two gendarmes. Poor madame! She had loved Adolfe, and would have eaten him in her own home circle rather than that those sacrés soldiers should filch him away.

Well, they ate horses, when they could get them; but donkeys were even more delicious, though very rare, for they seldom died, and refused to get fat. Food was growing so scarce in October that when you went out to dinner you were expected to take your own bread with you. Potatoes were sold at fifteen pence a pound; a scraggy fowl might be bought for thirty shillings. The Prussians had spread nets across the river, above and below, to prevent the French from catching too many fish. As for sugar, it rose to seven shillings a pound. Salt was almost beyond price. The poor horses looked most woebegone. Many of them were Arabs, their bones nearly through their skin, and they looked at their friends with such a pitiful, appealing eye that it was most touching. You might have gone into a trooper’s tent and wondered to see the big tear rolling slowly down the bronzed cheek of a brave soldier.