Both the man and woman of the house stared at us with great amazement; and, finding that we were utter strangers, they begged to know what we wanted, and why we had disturbed them so unseasonably. This reception was rather portentous and appalling; but humility becomes the unfortunate, and we humbly begged that they would make themselves quite easy, for we were absolutely come as friends in great distress, to solicit protection and assistance. This appeased them; and we proceeded to state that we were Frenchmen, who wished to be conveyed as quickly as possible into some part of Normandy or Brittany. We made them very liberal offers; but, to our dismay, they were thoroughly “temptation-proof.” To all our bribery their hearts and minds were as cold as asbestos. The woman at last observed, “that it was true that she had a brother who was a fisherman on the sea-coast,” and our eyes glistened at what we thought was the beginning of good news; but then came the sad addenda, that his boat had been taken round to Étaples, and that when he wished to fish he was obliged to embark under the surveillance and regulations which had been described to us by the shepherd. Alas! alas! we began to fear that the shepherd was not the egregious liar we had taken him for. The woman’s story was confirmed by the husband; and both assured us that, upon our knocking at their door, they had suspected us to be gendarmes in disguise. These fellows, it appeared, were frequently in the habit of practising such tricks upon their countrymen. The good old couple, however, soon insisted upon our quitting their house, and in a manner which proved that they were not accustomed to make use of much ceremony. In vain did we point out to them our miserable plight, and expatiate upon the extreme badness of the weather. We talked of the excessive darkness of the night, the torrents of rain that were pouring as if heaven and earth were coming in contact, and we entreated them to allow us to shelter ourselves in any barn, cow-house, or even pig-sty; but we might as well have appealed to an Egyptian mummy. In proportion as we were mendicant they became peremptory, and even fierce; and at last we were obliged to depart in what seemed little less than a deluge. As soon as they saw that they had got us over the threshold, some few and faint feelings of commiseration seemed to touch their obdurate breasts, and they had the charity to point out to us a direction which led to a barn, which they assured us was full of hay, and seldom visited, so that we could very safely remain concealed in it until the following night. They further advised us to proceed either to Dieppe or St. Valery, as the two ports at which it was most probable that we should succeed in procuring a boat.

We shortly discovered the barn, and had the good fortune to arrive at it a little before daylight. We found it full of hay, as they had stated; a most timely relief for us, being quite drenched with the incessant rain, and all over mud and dirt. Each soon found, or made, a convenient hole for himself through the hay, taking the precaution to work a good way down and to cover himself well over, lest our steps into this place should lead to a suspicion and we might be found out. We fell into a most profound sleep; nor did I awake until nine o’clock in the morning (Friday, 18th Sept.), when I heard my name called repeatedly by Mr. Tuthill. He proposed that we should quit that place immediately, and get down to the sea-side, as the day was the only time to succeed in procuring a boat, from the method they had taken of securing all vessels at night. I used the most forcible arguments I was master of to dissuade them from so rash a proceeding; and pointed out the caution we had observed in the inland parts of the country as the only thing that had ensured our success in arriving where we then were; although there had been much less danger in the interior than on the sea-coast, where there would be, of course, a strict look-out kept by custom-house officers, gardes de cÔte, etc. I suggested, as the better plan, to wait until night: we could, in the event of not succeeding, always make this our rendezvous, and could return to it before daylight, procuring subsistence at some lonely cottage during the night. All my rhetoric was in vain: they appeared determined to try their fortune by daylight. I then requested, at any rate, that they would wait until noon,—the usual time for the country people to dine,—as we might with the more ease get away unnoticed. This was at last agreed to; so we remained buried in the hay until the hour of noon, when, unperceived by anybody, we crept out, and, getting upon the highway, proceeded in the direction we had intended to take. We put a bold front upon disastrous affairs, and, with apparent intrepidity, we marched on. Unluckily, it was market-day at Étaples, and the road was crowded with people going to and returning from the ferry-boat. Our only plan was to walk directly through them, on the principle that no man whose object was flight and escape would walk amid crowds of enemies in open day. This was the only course that we could adopt; and, though all our calculations proved to be miserably erroneous, and our hopes fallacious, still I had nothing with which I had to reproach myself.

We kept advancing towards the sand-hills with all the appearance of carelessness and confidence, but with a quick, and, as far as we could assume appearances, a bold and firm step; and we arrived at last at a poor, sorry village, through which we had to pass. We had actually got to the very last house, when our poor friend Ashworth felt extremely exhausted, and expressed that his parching thirst obliged him to ask for a draught of water. On all such occasions every one of the party was consulted, and the majority of votes constituted the ultimatum, or decision; and whether a long train of success, or a long succession of narrow escapes, had made us vainly confident, I cannot say, but not one of us saw the slightest danger in Ashworth’s entering this house. It was impossible to suppose that so wretched a village could contain either troops or gendarmes; and as we had passed through the place without attracting any notice whatever, we did not imagine that there could be any danger in entering the last house at its extremity. The glorious sea, with all its inspirations, was before us, and we laughed at what we had undergone, for our hearts were light, and our minds were full of the glad prospects of our attaining to all our wishes.

Ashworth entered the house, and we advanced slowly, lagging and loitering for him to rejoin us. His absence appeared very long—unnecessarily so. Suspense and impatience gave way to suspicion, and suspicion was succeeded by alarm. I shall never forget my conflicting emotions—they grew stronger and stronger every moment. At length, Mr. Tuthill broke silence, and expressed a wish to go and ascertain what had detained our companion. Essel and myself remained on the side of the road, anxiously looking out. They very soon appeared; and, to our inexpressible grief and mortification, were conducted by two armed men in a uniform entirely foreign to us. These soon proved to be douaniers, or custom-house officers, with which, at that period, the coast of France abounded; but none of them had ever fallen under our observation or cognisance. I clearly perceived that these fellows had taken both our companions into custody, from the manner in which they approached. When they had joined us, Mr. Ashworth introduced me to them as Captain Cox, of the ship Favourite, of New York—the story fixed upon in case of being stopped. We had been cast away near Marseilles, and all hands had perished, except Florence Heath (Mr. Ashworth), mate; William Dixon (Mr. Tuthill), supercargo; and Mr. Essel (whose new name I now forget), passenger. We were bound to Barcelona. Cargo—slaves and cotton. Only the supercargo and mate could speak French. They appeared to commiserate our situation, and had not the least doubt but that what we alleged was true. “But they must take us,” they said, “to the mayor of the town, who would, no doubt, grant us passports to proceed to some seaport, whence we could take shipping for America, or any other place we pleased.” We expressed our warmest thanks for this mark of their attention; but (if they pleased) we added, “That we did not wish to put them to the inconvenience of going out of their way on our account.” They replied, “That it was entirely in their way; and it was impossible we could proceed along the coast without papers: they were only astonished how we had crossed the kingdom of France (or, more properly speaking, the empire) without being arrested. We had been much to blame in not having procured passports prior to our quitting Marseilles.” We assured them we were ignorant of its being in the smallest degree necessary, that we were born in a country where nothing of the kind was required, and where it would be deemed a very great insult to ask any person where he came from or whither he was going. We, of course, alluded to public functionaries; for we well recollected the proverbial character of the Americans for inquisitiveness, and Dr. Franklin’s story of his putting up a printed board over his apartment, whenever he arrived in an American town, so full of all particulars relating to himself as to render it impossible, as he thought, for even American curiosity to intrude upon his privacy with a question.

We of course regretted that we had not been more enlightened upon the laws and customs of “ce pays ci,” and at length we arrived at the ferry-boat, and in a few minutes found ourselves in the town of Étaples, under different circumstances and in a different company from what he had desired or expected. We still entertained hopes of escape; but, unfortunately, each of us had about his person many things most inconvenient to be inspected by French douaniers, and most unlikely to corroborate our fiction of our being shipwrecked Americans. My brains were set to work to “get to windward” of this quicksand, and I whispered to my “mate” to intimate to his unwelcome or awkward friends, that I was fatigued, and that I wished to take some little refreshment at any convenient inn before I had the honour of appearing before the mayor. Our civil conductors consented that the fatigued gentleman should take what refreshment he stood in need of, and of which, I need scarcely say, they intended to be participators. We arrived at a cabaret, were allowed to enter, were conducted into a good room, and, as if I were the most easy and indifferent gentleman that ever proceeded from America, I called authoritatively for a supply of bread and wine. During this repast we alternately had an excuse for retiring: I need not say that we took care to get rid of almost every article that might prove that our fiction had not the saving grace of probability.

We at last made the best of a very bad or unpromising case; and, putting on the appearance of unconcern and mirth, we followed our conductors. They told us that they were under the necessity of waiting upon their captain previously to going before the mayor. He received me and my companions with politeness, and all things seemed to indicate that the interview might pass off without danger, until he politely told me that he must send for the mayor to be present at our examination. This changed the whole complexion of the case; and I am sure the effect must have been visible in most of our countenances. At length, “His Worship” arrived, not at all to our comfort; but what rendered his presence more annoying was his bringing with him “an American gentleman.” It is said that the society of a gentleman is always desirable; but the ghosts did not strike more terror into “the soul of Richard” than the reality of this American gentleman’s appearance struck terror into ours. The mayor and the American gentleman engaged us, “yard-arm and yard-arm.” Their cross-examination was worse than a raking fire. We had only to repeat our former story. At last our unlucky genius, the American gentleman, plainly stated to us that they suspected us to be Englishmen—which we had no means of disproving. The mayor added that we were to be committed to the prison of Boulogne until the authorities heard from the American consul at Paris, or until they were thoroughly convinced of the veracity of our statement. These were disastrous “untils”; and it struck me that if they waited for the alternative of them, we might remain in gaol to eternity.

The result was, what less sanguine and less interested men might have anticipated—we were to be ordered to a dungeon, under an escort of gendarmerie. The brigadier, who seemed to have all the hundred eyes of Argus condensed into two, asked if we had been searched. The answer was in the negative. “Search them instantly,” cried he; “and,” he added, “depend upon it they are Englishmen, who have escaped from one of the depots.” The fellows were obedient to command, and we were immediately put under as severe a scrutiny as ever man was subjected to. I was the first person to be rummaged. My pocket-book was opened, and in it were several English letters, with other papers equally calculated to disprove the veracity of my being an American captain shipwrecked at Marseilles. My resource was to say that my pocket-book belonged to a cousin who had perished with the wreck. On the others were found maps of the departments that we had gone through, with several other papers, which identified us to be what they suspected.

However, we still persisted in being Americans. They remonstrated on the folly of such an imposition, and ordered us into a dungeon, assuring us that we should be now very roughly treated, and considered as dangerous people; whereas a frank confession might cause some mitigation. After a little deliberation we clearly perceived the inutility of holding out; so we at once acknowledged who and what we were. The brigadier assured us that he had been confident from the moment he first saw us that we were English, and he would now do everything in his power to comfort us under our present embarrassments, but he had no superior officer of his corps nearer than Boulogne, where he should send us the next day; and for that night he would allow us to go to an inn to get ourselves a little in order, but with a strong escort; and we should be obliged to provide that escort with every necessary, and to pay the men six livres (five shillings) each for the night. This we readily agreed to. Once more we were prisoners: our state of mind was truly miserable.

At the inn we bought a new shirt and pair of stockings each, and got our old ones, which were in a sad condition, washed and mended. They supplied us with tolerably good beds, of which we were extremely anxious to take possession. After supper we were in the act of going to bed, when an order came, from the commanding officer of a camp adjacent, to conduct us to his tent—which was quickly put into execution. He appeared, in manners, the reverse of the general character of the French. He perused all my letters, which were of no consequence to any one existing except myself,—and which were never returned to me,—and declared he was certain we had emissaries on the coast, otherwise we could never have attempted so perilous a journey. This was, at least, a compliment to our daring enterprise; and when we assured him that we had had no connection whatever with the people on the coast, he replied with a “Bah!” and concluded with an “Ah! the fishermen on our coast, unfortunately, are too much attached to the English.”

Our conversation terminated, and we were taken back to our inn. Distressed as we were, we immediately retired to rest our wearied limbs. Nature was exhausted; and we sank into nature’s balm—“sweet sleep,”—too afflicted and worn out to reflect, or to care for the reflection that the dawn would see us in progress to gaol.