Travelling to Marshal Lefèbvre (Prussia, 1807)
Through Jonas de Neef’s wonderful blog I discovered the memoirs of Charles d’Agoult, who served as an officer from 1807 on, in Prussia and Spain, unfortunately too low in rank to have much direct insight into what was going on with the marshals or other famous personalities. I say unfortunately because d’Augoult’s stories tend to be witty and entertaining, and he comes across as a somewhat careless and naive but very kind guy. Unfortunately, he also was a dedicated royalist.
Which is hardly surprising as he comes from a rather old and large noble family, whose branches all had two distinctive talents: marry badly and loose money (often related). Unsurprisingly, by the time the Revolution came along, the d’Agoults, while still living in a castle, were far too impoverished to be of interest to anyone and were mostly left alone. By the time of the Consulate, Charles’ father, desperate for money but still wanting to give Charles a good education, managed to place his son with a relative from another branch.
This comte d’Agoult of course also was a royalist but had one thing going on for him that might grant him some favours from the new government: During the Ancien Régime he had been the major of a certain François-Joseph Lefèbvre – by now one of Napoleon’s imperial marshals. So when push came to shove and the count realized he had to rejoin the army for financial reasons, he wrote to Lefèbvre, was gladly accepted in his old rank of general, and took along his 17-year-old relative Charles as a secretary when he left for an administrative post in newly occupied Prussia. But, seeing as civilists counted for nothing in the imperial army, the count asked and received from Clarke for Charles a sous-lieutenant’s patent in a newly founded Polish regiment.
Not that Charles, a tiny and rather frail youth, of a sunny and humane disposition, naive and somewhat timid, had the slightest warlike inclination, or had had any previous military training. But young d’Agoult had learned pretty early on that beggars can’t be choosers. So, la Grande Armée it was.
He left his relative in order to join his new regiment that happened to be engaged in the siege of Danzig at the time. In his pocket a letter from the count to Marshal Lefèbvre, who was leading the siege, and in his company two veteran gens d’armes who had promised the count to get the boy safely to the imperial headquarters at Warsaw from where he could join a military transport back to Danzig. These two guys were just the usual type of soldiers who had gotten to some degree brutalized by war and numb to other people’s plight. Needless to say, young d’Agoult was shocked at the way they treated the locals:
We were lodged in a large inn, which may once have been a good one, but which had suffered from the passing of the Grande Armee. Everything there announced ruin, everything was dilapidated. A well-dressed but deeply sad-looking young woman was in a large kitchen with no fire and no provisions. Next door, a vast dining room, also cold and lonely. Monsieur Florenval, who always started the conversation, approached the lady of the house, handed her the billet and told her that our intention was to set off again after dinner. Dinner! It was probably this word that made the poor woman sigh. After a few explanations, Florenval raised his voice, as was his custom; I listened and could see that our hostess was asking for indulgence. Unfortunately, two ducks appeared in the yard, the last survivors of a numerous family. With an explicit gesture, Florenval immediately made it clear what he wanted, and quickly. The poor woman resigned herself and called the boy.
I understood everything and went out revolted by such shamelessness. A moment later, I returned and saw the hostess crying. I approached her, made her understand how upset I was by this scene and put a thaler in her hand. But Florenval, like a true ‚policeman’ [the author actually uses the English term in the text], had seen me and when I returned to the room, he reproached me rather sharply for having apologised to this woman. I tried to explain myself when Riché took the side of his worthy friend: "Young man," he said to me, " you've taken the liberty of blaming your superiors; that's very bad. Don't worry, they'll teach you that in your regiment. Item, one needs to live!" This "Item" was superb, and I have never forgotten it.
At this point young d’Agoult had enough of these two brutes and declared that, as he was to find his regiment at Danzig, it would have been stupid of him to first go to Warsaw. He would instead take the direct route. Which means this:
Blue is the regular army route (well, actually modern-day highways, but close enough), red dots what d’Agoult had in mind. I guess it’s easy to see that there’s quite some distance to cover – and all of this alone, through what was more or less enemy territory, at least not directly occupied by the French army. Quite an undertaking for a French teenager whose German vocabulary, on top of everything else, was mostly limited to the words "Nein, nein". His companions, to be fair, did try to talk him out of it, but in the end they probably thought ‚Item – one has to let people go kill themselves the way they want’, and, as d’Agoult writes, …
[…] we parted as the best of friends.
And at this point apparently several Prussian villages made it their point of honour to get this hapless French kid safely to his enemy marshal.
Our poor hostess had me taken to the mayor; I think that she had even let him know what had happened, for he was very kind. Maybe my youth and my air of frankness inspired some interest in him. I was able to make him understand my position; I even showed him, with some emphasis, my letter to the Marshal. I saw in the good man's face that he would do what he could for me. He wanted me to stay the night at his house, but I insisted on having a requisition carriage straight away, that is to say a cart and a bale of straw. He gave me all the information about my route to the small town where I would arrive a little late and where I would sleep. At the same time he gave me a sort of letter in German with a large seal, which I think was very useful.
Because everybody knows if something has a big seal and lots of official-looking stamps, it does not matter much what it actually says.
The farmer arrived with his cart. I climbed onto my straw bale, my sword between my legs, my suitcase in front of me. My brave mayor spoke to the driver for a long time; for my part, I promised him a good tip, and off I went, into the unknown, in the care of God. My isolation and my weakness made my security in loyal Germany.
This was a very sparsely populated area, the way to the next town was long, and between d'Agoult's lines one can read a certain uneasiness as it became night and his peasant cart rattled through the night.
We finally arrived at some houses, and my driver stopped in front of the mayor's house. I realised that my visit at this hour was not very agreeable to this high official, and I confined myself to asking him for the means of transport so that I could leave immediately. As I put the good mayor's letter in front of his eyes, I made sure to show the one I had for the Marshal [...]
Look here, Prussian! Letter! In German! With seal! And I got another one! See this? This means "Lefèbvre". And this "marshal". So what do you say now, huh?
[…] but my man seemed to be pondering, and his hesitation worried me; for his part, he looked as embarrassed as I was.
That I will believe. It must have been quite a picturesque scene, one French teen officer dragging his suitcase from a farmer’s cart, happily waving his papers, straw clinging to his clothes, and one Prussian mayor dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, probably in his nightgown, slippers and sleeping cap.
Giving the coach driver a good tip, I motioned to him to speak for me. Small means sometimes succeed. I think the two Germans came to an agreement. The master of the house took his bonet and left with my peasant, telling me kindly to wait. He did indeed return, and then I heard the sound of a wagon. The letter from the first mayor had been so successful that I asked for another one for the next station. As we set off, I saw my good farmer, who was no doubt indoctrinating my new coachman, and soon we were driving along the deserted road [...]
And so it went on for days, every other Prussian village providing d’Agoult with some farmer’s cart and a coachman, making sure he was fed and out of danger, until he finally reached the army camp at Danzig and Marshal Lefèbvre’s headquarters.
I entered the first room and asked a staff officer to take me to the Marshal, to whom I had to deliver a letter. A moment later, this officer returned and beckoned me in. The Marshal was with several officers and others. As he came towards me, I handed him a letter, telling him it was from General d'Agoult, my relative. This name caused him visible surprise; he seemed to perk up, then he read the letter. An old name still retains a certain prestige.The poor little officer saw this on everyone's faces. "But how on earth," said the Marshal, "do you find yourself in a Polish regiment?" And he added with a laugh, in his tone and accent of an Alsatian corporal: "Sacredié! They look like brigands, but they do fight well."
I explained to him what had happened: "Ah, it's Clarke, it's Clarke, very well!" And with a friendly gesture, taking my hand, he drew me towards him, saying to the gentlemen: "Here is the nephew of my former major." Then, looking at me kindly: "Sacredié, my child, you are too young, you should have stayed on your aunt's lap." Without worrying about the presence of his generals, or the time he was wasting with me, he spoke to me for a while longer with kindness, then he said to me: "I'm going to have you taken to your battalion, but first you must have breakfast."
Children need to be fed, and this child looked particularly in need of nourishment. Plus, obviously he would be unable to find his way to his bataillon on his own, Lefèbvre saw this in precisely the same way as all those Prussian mayors had. As d’Agoult puts it:
This time it wasn't a village mayor providing me with transport, it was a Marshal of France.
