Taken prisoner, and removed to Boulogne gaol—Asked to dinner by General Lemaroix—News of Perceval’s assassination—Parole refused—Marched to Montreuil-sur-Mer—On to Hesdin; being footsore, author insists on having a carriage—Drives to Arras.

When the tide had receded sufficiently for the enemy to board us without wetting their delicate feet, about one hundred and fifty disgraced our decks. About thirty of these civil gentlemen, principally officers, paid a visit to my cabin without asking permission. The wine, of which I had ten dozen on board, was their first object, which I make no doubt they found suited their palate, as they drank it with much zest. My clothes, spyglasses, knives and forks, as well as the crockery-ware, were seized on in turn; and it appeared by their smirking looks and lively conversation that all they had achieved was perfectly to their satisfaction, and that instead of plundering a few ship-wrecked sufferers they had only been asked to a fête given by me. The commanding officer of these brave and honest men desired us to go on shore, where we were met by another officer, who ordered us to the guard-house near the battery, and an hour afterwards we marched for Boulogne, which [pg 302]was four miles distant, escorted by about forty of our tormentors. On our arrival we had the unexpected happiness of being lodged in the common gaol, cooped up in a dirty tiled room of twelve feet by eight, with a small well-grated window. “Well,” said I to the doctor, who had remained behind to dress the wounded, “what will the marines say to this? The sailors will never believe it.” Whilst we were prosing with our elbows on our knees and our chins on our thumbs, looking very dolefully at each other, the ill-looking man who had locked us up made his appearance with a servant in a rich livery, who asked in French for the commandant. I stood up and said I was that person, on which he presented me with the following note:—

“Le Général Comte Lemaroix, Aide de Camp de sa Majesté l’Empereur et Roi, Commandant en Chef le Camp de Boulogne, etc, prie Monsieur Hoffeman, officier, de lui faire l’honneur de venir d?ner avec lui aujourd’hui, lundi, à 4 heures.

“R.S.V.P.”

“Now,” said I, “doctor,” addressing my surgeon, “you are my senior in age and I think in experience; be my mentor on this occasion. In the first place, I have no inclination to go, for I am too sulky; in the second, I am wet and dirty.” “Oh, do go, sir!” they all exclaimed. “It may better our situation, and we may have our parole.” “On your account I will accept the invitation,” said I. As I had no writing implements I sent a verbal answer in the affirmative, and made myself as much an [pg 303]Adonis as I was able. At the appointed hour the same servant and two gendarmes made their appearance, and from the gaol to the general’s house I appeared, to judge by the people staring at me, to be the lion of the day. On my arrival I was ushered into the general’s presence. The Comte Lemaroix, who was about forty years of age, was of a pleasing manner and countenance. He informed me he was sorry for my misfortune, but it was the fortune of war. I apologised for my dress, which was as wretched as my thoughts. At this time a young man in the French naval uniform came to me and asked me how I was. I remembered him as one of the officers sent to capture us. He spoke indifferent English, and as my knowledge of the French language was slight, I was glad to pair off with him. At the dinner-table were ten officers and one lady. I was seated on the left side of the Comte. I cut a sorry figure among so many smart and star-coated men. The dinner was plentiful and good, and everybody chatty and in good humour, in which I could not help, notwithstanding my situation, taking a part. After we had taken our coffee I naturally concluded I should be on parole. When I took my leave the captain in the navy and another officer said they would walk with me as it was dusk, and I presumed we were going to an inn—but, oh, horror of horrors! I was conducted to the prison from whence I came. They there wished me good-night, and I wished them at the devil. Next morning, after a restless [pg 304]night on a bed of straw, we were awakened by the grim, hard-featured gaoler who had been kind enough to lock us up. He asked the doctor if we wished to have breakfast, and if we could pay for it; he answered in the affirmative. This turnkey gentleman informed us that our first admiral, Mons. Poncevan, had been killed by an assassin. This report puzzled all our wise heads. An hour afterwards our café-au-lait entered, and with it the principal gaoler, or, as he was called, Mons. le Gouverneur. He was a stout, square-built man, and gave us an inquisitive look. The doctor, who was an Irishman and our interpreter, asked him the news, and if he were ever at Cork. “No,” answered he, “I never was in America! but,” said he, “I understand that your Prime Minister, Mr. Piercevell, has been shot by an assassin.” He meant Mr. Percival. We were sorry to hear such bad news, as Mr. Percival was certainly a loss to his country and his large family. However, it did not destroy our appetite for breakfast. The considerate governor only charged us as much more for it as we should have paid at the best coffee-house in the town.

After two days of durance vile I was visited by three very wise-looking men, who, I understood, were some sort of lawyers. One of them produced a printed paper, and asked me if I were acquainted with its contents. I answered, “No.” “Do you know for what purpose they were intended, for we have more than thirty of them which were found on board your ship?” I answered as before. “This [pg 305]appears very extraordinary that you, as captain of the ship where they were found, should not know they were on board her.” “It may be so,” I answered with indifference. “You may think it a trifle,” said one of them, “but it may, without it is satisfactorily explained, prove in the end very serious to you.” “Indeed,” returned I, “that will be still more extraordinary. Probably it may be the means of a change of residence, for I cannot be worse off than where I am at present.” “Monsieur chooses to be pleasant, but he must give us some account of these papers before we leave him.” One of them then translated their contents. As I had never heard of them before I was rather struck with their purport, which was to create a counter-revolution, and cause that English-loving man, Bonaparte, to be dethroned. “Doctor,” said I, “do you know anything about these terrible papers?” “Very little,” replied he. “They were, I believe, in circulation about two years ago, in Mr. Pitt’s time, and they were called his projects, for he loved Napoleon with all his heart.” “Pray,” said I, turning to the commissioner who had the longest and most snuffy nose, and who had translated the paper, “in what part of the vessel were these projects found?” “In the second cabin,” was his answer. He meant the gun-room, where the officers slept and messed. “What is their date?” “1808.” “Come,” resumed I, “I think you will not shoot me this............