Beware of Heroes: Admiral Sir Sidney Smith's War against Napoleon

by Peter Shankland

  On another occasion he warned Sir Sidney that a new prisoner had been sent to him whom he suspected of being a spy because he had the privilege of communicating directly with the government. Shortly afterwards this new prisoner, who seemed to be a low criminal type, surreptitiously approached Sir Sidney and Wright and proposed to them a plan of escape. They pretended to agree to it. At the appointed time they found that all the iron doors had been left unbolted. Before venturing to descend the winding stairs they looked cautiously out into the courtyard and saw a file of soldiers loading their muskets. They went quietly to bed, suspecting that the real plan was to shoot them ‘while attempting to escape’. Next day Sir Sidney protested to the Minister of Marine and the suspect prisoner was removed.

  It was at this time, when his fortunes were at their lowest ebb, that Sir Sidney made his appeal to General Bonaparte who had entered Paris amid scenes of wild rejoicing and salvoes of artillery on 5th December. Boniface took the letter personally to the general at his house in the rue Chantereine, renamed in his honour rue de la Victoire.

  When Boniface returned and reported the failure of his mission, Sir Sidney wrote another letter to General Bonaparte, not on paper this time, but on the window shutter of his room in the Temple:

  One has to admit that Fortune’s wheel makes strange revolutions, but before it can truly be called a revolution the turn of the wheel must be complete. Today you are as high as you can be, but I do not envy you your happiness because I have a still greater happiness, and that is to be as low in Fortune’s wheel as I can go, so that as soon as that capricious lady turns her wheel again, I shall rise for the same reason that you will fall.

  I do not write this to distress you, but to bring you the same consolation that I have when you reach the point where I am. You will occupy this same prison — why not you as well as I? I did not expect to be shut up here any more than you do now.

  In a partisan war it is a crime in the eyes of one’s opponents to do one’s duty honourably as you do today, and in consequence you embitter your enemies against you. No doubt you will reply, ‘I do not fear the hatred I arouse in them. Has not the voice of the people declared for me?’ That is well spoken. Sleep in peace. Before six months have passed, if not today, you will learn what the reward is for serving such masters, the reward for all the good you have done them. Pausanias wrote long ago, ‘He who has placed all his hopes on the friendship of the public has never come to a happy end.’

  But of course I don’t have to convince you that you will come here, because to read these lines you must be here. I assume that you will have this room also because the gaoler is a good man: he gave me the best room and will do as much for you.

  Chapter Three – The Lucky Escape

  In spite of the optimistic tone of his letter on the window shutter, Sir Sidney’s fortunes showed no signs of mending. The British government made no further effort to help him, and his friends in the underground movement seemed unable to hit upon a practicable escape plan. One strong incentive had been removed, for two of the Royalist agents whom they had hoped to rescue, Laville-Heurnois and the Abbé Brottier, had been deported to Guiana and the third, Dupresle, liberated for reasons not yet apparent. There seemed to be little reason for them to go on risking their necks for a foreigner who was, after all, one of the traditional enemies of France. Young Charles Loiseau in particular was loth to try again.

  Then the earnest pleading of Madame de Tromelin turned the scale: she persuaded her compatriots that Sir Sidney was not the enemy but the friend of the France they were all fighting for; and also that he had saved her husband and they must not now abandon him. The Comte de Rochecotte stated emphatically that it was their duty to their ally, Great Britain, to continue their efforts; and General Frotté sent one of his closest friends, Monsieur de Lamberville, to co-operate with them and be responsible for the escape route through Normandy. Monsieur de Tromelin, after pleading Sir Sidney’s cause in London, got himself smuggled back into France bringing full authority from the Royalist government for another rescue attempt to be made. So they began to work on a new plan that was to be managed and financed by Phélippeaux.

  Boniface, the gaoler, had taken a great liking to Sir Sidney, and so had Madame Boniface; the prisoner’s fame, misfortune and aristocratic bearing had touched her sensitive heart. She persuaded her husband to allow him special privileges, and so he was sometimes allowed to go out on parole to take baths and to dine in town. This gave him opportunities to meet those who were trying to help him. Boniface had absolute confidence in the word of an English officer, and Sir Sidney never failed to return to the prison at the time agreed. Sometimes when they had been out drinking together he brought the inebriated gaoler back on time also.

  One rendezvous with the conspirators was a small restaurant at the corner of the rue Honoré and the rue de la Loi run by an Irish woman, Madame Lequin. Several seafaring men patronised her table d’hôte, among them a Captain Brennan who told a teacher of English he met there, a Mr. Thompson, that he had been asked to find a ship for Sir Sidney. There was also a Mr. Keith, a Scot, known to the police as an associate of the banker ‘Harris, Heries or Herisse’ of the rue de Bac. Mr. Thompson was the inevitable police spy: he recognised Sir Sidney at the table d’hôte, he wrote, because he had seen him in Sweden. There was enough in his report to justify a raid on Madame Lequin’s restaurant that would probably have netted the chief conspirators. The Minister of Marine, Pleville-Le-Pelley, heard about it when he was starting for a conference at Lille. He wrote in alarm, on 15th February, 1798, to Dondeau, the Chief of Police, as follows:

  I have just received private information, my dear colleague, that Captain Sidney Smith, detained at the Temple, will escape within ten days; and that he is being allowed the privilege of going out to sup in the town, because he was seen yesterday evening in a house in the rue Honoré at the corner of the rue Richelieu.

  I beg you to order that a guard should be set to watch him, and another to watch the gaoler and prevent him from granting leave of absence until I have been able to obtain more complete and certain information respecting this prisoner and his secretary.

  Nine days after the police had been warned that Sir Sidney would escape within ten days, a large cab drew up outside the Temple. It was about nine o’clock in the evening. Two officers descended from it and entered the prison. On the box beside the driver there was a man in civilian clothes; and there was another within, wrapped in a long dark cloak. The cab attracted little attention, and the scowling clean-shaven faces of several typical police agents lounging nearby discouraged passers-by from being too inquisitive. They wore beaver hats with buckles, high neckclothes, and long frock coats buttoned right up to their chins. Each carried a heavy cudgel and a pistol.

  Sir Sidney and Wright were summoned by the turnkey. They descended to the gaoler’s room and were confronted by an officer in the uniform of the Voltigeurs, and a Staff Captain who handed an order to Boniface which read as follows:

  Paris, the 5th Floreal, Year VI

  The Minister of Marine and the Colonies to Citizen Boniface, head-gaoler of the Temple.

  The Executive Directory having ordered, by its decree of the 28th Ventose, enclosed herewith, that all English prisoners of war, without distinction of rank, should be collected into one prison, I charge you, citizen, to consign forthwith to the bearer of the present order, Citizen Etienne Armand Auger, Commodore Sidney Smith and Captain Wright, prisoners of war, to be transferred to the general prison of the Department of Seine-et-Marne, at Fontainebleau.

  You are enjoined, citizen, to observe the greatest secrecy in the execution of the present order, of which I have informed the Minister of Police, in order to prevent any attempt to rescue the prisoners whilst on their journey.

  The Minister of Marine and the Colonies

  (Signed) Pleville-le-Pelley.

  Boniface, after studying the order carefully, passed it to his clerk who copied it down in full in the prison re
gister. Madame Boniface stood behind him looking scared: it was rare for prisoners to be taken from the Temple except to the places of execution — ‘The Temple devours its children’, the locals used to say.

  ‘Where are you taking us?’ Sir Sidney asked.

  ‘To Fontainebleau,’ Staff Captain Auger replied.

  ‘Oh, that’s not far,’ he continued, turning to Madame Boniface and trying to reassure her. ‘You’ll come and see me, won’t you? And bring my clothes and books — it’s not worth taking them with me tonight.’ He shook hands all round and distributed money to the warders while the staff officer signed his name, ‘Auger’, in the release book.

  Then Boniface sent for six of his guards to form an escort. This wasn’t in the programme — for an awful moment Sir Sidney wondered if this was really the escape attempt, or were they in fact going to be taken out and shot.

  Auger interposed with a theatrical gesture: ‘Citizens!’ he said. ‘Between soldiers the word of honour is enough. Commodore, you are an officer. So am I. Give me your word of honour, and we can do without an escort.’

  ‘Sir,’ replied the Commodore, ‘I swear on my honour to accompany you wherever you wish to take me.’

  ‘And so do I,’ Wright added warmly, laying his hand on his heart. Boniface bowed, and cancelled his order to the guard.

  Outside the door of the Temple the sentry sprang to attention and presented arms. Several off-duty guards were waiting to see the departure of their distinguished prisoner. Sir Sidney had another moment of doubt when he saw the man in the black cloak sitting in the cab. He could only be a police inspector, he thought. Then he looked up at the man on the box who had his hat pulled down over his eyes. He recognised John Bromley. Boniface respectfully opened the door of the cab. They shook hands with him, stepped in, and it slowly lumbered away.

  ‘Drive faster!’ the staff officer shouted.

  The driver shook the reins, whipped up the horses, took the next corner too fine and ran into the front of a fruit shop. A child was knocked over. An excited crowd gathered and seethed around them. There were cries of ‘Assassins!’ ‘Stop them!’ ‘Take them to the Police!’

  Sir Sidney felt a tap on his shoulder. The man in black threw the door open and jumped out, the others followed. The driver shouted for his money, the staff officer threw him a coin and they scuttled off in various directions.

  The man in black, who was Count Phélippeaux, took them to a house belonging to the Clermont-Tonnerre family in the rue de l’Université on the other side of the river; Frotté’s aide-de-camp, de Lamberville, and other friends were awaiting them, playing whist. Here they changed their clothes and, disguised as French seamen, left the same night for Rouen.

  During the long drive Phélippeaux explained how the escape had been organised. The Minister of Marine, before leaving for Lille, had signed several blank sheets of official headed paper bearing his office seal in case they should be required during his absence. They had employed a Dalmatian, Viscovitch, to steal one of these. He was an international spy who had served many masters, but he was also a patriot burning to avenge the betrayal of the Venetian Republic. Phélippeaux himself had written the letter above the minister’s signature. Staff Captain Auger was Boisgirard, the dancer. He had hurried back to the Opera to take part in the evening performance. The Captain of the Voltigeurs was Le Grand de Palluau, one of Phélippeaux’s officers. The police agents hanging round the cab were all friends, Hyde de Neuville, Viscovitch, Sourdat and Laban, officers of the army of La Vendée; Count de Rochecotte and Frotté had determined to rescue Sir Sidney by force if anything had gone wrong once he was outside the walls of the Temple. In fact no one was what he appeared to be, except the cab driver.

  Phélippeaux without his black cloak was a slight gracious figure with an engaging manner and nothing sinister about him; he seemed to be in delicate health, probably owing to his recent imprisonment. He had the faculty of disguising and changing his personality as circumstances required.

  ‘The only mistake we made,’ he said, ‘was when Le Grand threw the cabby a golden double-louis instead of a thirty sous piece; it might have aroused suspicion, but of course he had every reason to keep quiet about it.’

  There was no immediate pursuit because all the prison records were in order and all the formalities had been complied with. On the following day, 25th April, Boniface in his quintuple report, which he had to make out daily, informed the Central Bureau, the Minister of Police, the military authorities and the commisariat, of the transfer of ‘Commodore Smith’ and ‘Captain Wright’ to Fontainebleau; he enclosed copies of the order that had been signed by the Minister of Marine. On the same day officials from the Central Bureau carried out their weekly inspection, examined the books, passed them, and drew up a report of their visit which included a detailed account of the condition of the prison. All these documents were registered, docketed, acknowledged and pigeon-holed. Everything was in order except that the prisoners had escaped.

  The prison doctor, who had taken a particular interest in Sir Sidney’s welfare, came as usual to see him and was told that he had been transferred. The next time he happened to be dining with the prison governor, Citizen Merlin, which happened about a week later, on the evening of 2nd May, he asked, ‘How does Commodore Smith like being at Fontainebleau?’ Citizen Merlin said that he had been misinformed, and that it had not even been contemplated transferring him; but seeing the doctor look very surprised he began to worry, and later in the evening he went along to the Temple just to make sure that his most important prisoner was still there. On being shown the register and the minister’s letter he was at first indignant that such an order had been given without his knowledge, and then he began to suspect that it might be a forgery. Messengers were sent post haste to Fontainebleau, and when he was found not to be there the alarm was raised. A nationwide search was instituted, and police officers were sent to all the Channel ports to prevent any vessel sailing until it had been thoroughly searched.

  These precautions were several days too late. A small fishing boat, chartered by a group of emigrés, had already slipped out of Honfleur. The fishermen had not been told who was among them disguised as a French captain, but they knew him very well. Some of them, when well out of sight of land, had been on board the Diamond for a glass of rum with the ‘Commodore’ who was very popular on the coast because he had never treated the fishermen as enemies or bombarded their villages.

  In mid-Channel the fishing boat fell in with the Argo, frigate, commanded by Captain Bowen. He took the fugitives on board and landed them at Portsmouth. Sir Sidney hired the best horses obtainable, and they set off for London.

  On the morning of 8th May he rushed impetuously into his mother’s bedroom and then and there presented Count Phélippeaux as his deliverer. His sudden arrival caused a sensation, and although his unconventional behaviour to his mother aroused some unfavourable comment, he became the hero of the hour. He had a warm welcome from his friends in the Cabinet, Spencer, Grenville and William Windham, the Minister for War; he had an interview with the Prime Minister and he was received by the king; it all followed the usual pattern of his dramatic appearances in London, only this time it was without the resentment in some quarters and the disapproval in others that had marked his return from Sweden and from Toulon. For the moment, it appeared that all wished him well, and his popularity with the public was enormous.

  As usual he had used his ears and his eyes, and he was able to supply inside information about conditions in France. He used all his influence with the government to enlist support for the Royalist partisans to whom he owed his deliverance. They had been out of favour politically since the failure of the landing at Quiberon three years before. He succeeded in persuading them that the Royalists in France were still a force to be reckoned with, and that General Frotté was a man of indomitable courage and resource who ought to be supported.

  The authorities in Paris had hardly begun to organise their hunt for th
e fugitive when they learned from the master of a neutral vessel of his safe arrival in England. ‘Such a seemingly ordinary escape,’ wrote General Bourrienne, Bonaparte’s secretary, ‘yet one that was to wreck the most gigantic projects and the most audacious plans.’

  Chapter Four – The Lure of the East

  While Sir Sidney was on the run, Bonaparte was completing his preparations for the voyage to Egypt. It was an open secret that the friendship between him and Barras had been strained by the Peace of Leoben and the Treaty of Campo Formio that followed it, but on the eve of his departure they made a show of solidarity by appearing together in the Théâtre de la Nation to see Talma play Macbeth.

  The spectators were of the new privileged class of army contractors, concessionaires, and speculators in sequestered property, who made a great show of squandering their wealth. The women wore flowing diaphanous robes, Greek style, très décolletées, lustrous with jewels. The men were resplendent in curly wigs, cut-away coats with huge lapels, embroidered waistcoats and knee-breeches. Most resplendent of all was Barras himself, Citizen Vicomte Paul de Barras. Beside him in the box sat General Bonaparte, the Conquerer of Rome, with his wife, the fair Creole, Josephine. She seemed part of the glittering throng, but he looked a stranger among them — small, erect and soberly uniformed, his lank hair hanging down to his shoulders, a ragged fringe covering his forehead, sallow, taciturn, yet keenly watching. It was the evening, although he was not yet aware of it, on which Sidney Smith’s escape from the Temple was discovered.