p. 122 | Heroism of the Huguenots by Henry Frederic Reddall

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Feb 21, 1884

Heroism of the Huguenots.

By Henry Frederic Reddall

ON the fifteenth of April, 1598, Henry of Navarre, King of France, granted to the Protestants of his realm the famous "Edict of Nantes," so called because it was first proclaimed in the city of that name. Until this time, ever since the rise of the Reformation, the adherents of the newer and purer faith had suffered unnumbered outrages at the hands of the Roman priesthood, whose creed was the only one recognized by the State.

Now, however, the Reformers, or Huguenots, as they were called in France, were to be allowed to worship God in their own way throughout the kingdom. For nearly a hundred years, though many tyrannical laws were passed against these Protestants, and though they were the victims of countless cruelties, they enjoyed a fuller liberty than had been theirs since the evil days of Francis the First.

But the Church of Rome had viewed with anger and dismay the concessions granted by the Edict. Pope Clement VIII. said in a letter to Henry, that "a decree which gave liberty of conscience to all was the most accursed that had ever been made;" and the crafty clergy used all their malicious ingenuity to defeat its merciful provisions.

So we are not surprised to find that in the latter part of the reign of Louis XIV. a long series of savage oppressions culminated in what is known to history as the "Revocation of the Edict of Nantes." This occurred on the 22d of October, 1685.

By the stroke of a pen all the immunities that had been granted by King Henry were swept away, and once more the terrors of the sword and the stake were let loose upon the hunted Huguenots.

A merciless persecution ensued, to escape which the Huguenots by thousands sought to leave their native land. Numbers succeeded in reaching England, Holland, Germany, and even America; but so vigilant was the guard

over frontier and sea-coast that it daily became more difficult to escape. Capture meant the separation of husbands and wives, or of parents and children, imprisonment, torture, and death. No youth was so tender, no age so venerable, as to insure safety.

It is of the adventures and sufferings of some little ones in this time of trial that I propose to tell:—

In the town of Nimes lived a young Huguenot watchmaker and his wife. They had one child—a baby girl. The horrors of persecution daily drew nearer to their town. Friends had preceded them across the sea, and they knew that honor and happiness awaited them in a foreign land; but escape seemed impossible. If they should appear at the gates of the town with the child, their purpose would be divined and frustrated. To conceal the infant was likewise impossible, for every bale of merchandise was rigorously searched; to entrust her to a stranger was out of the question—no one, Catholic or Protestant, would assume the risk.

At length a happy idea presented itself. At dusk of evening the little one was given a strong sleeping potion and then swathed in cloaks and other wrappings until it looked like a shapeless bundle of rags, a cord was passed around it, and to this was attached several yards of twine, at the end of which was a cork.

Darkness setting in, the trembling parents left their home to put their plan into effect. In the old European towns of that day the streets often sloped from the houses on either side to a small ditch or gutter in the middle, which nearly always contained some running water. The gutter ran under the city gate of Nimes, and emptied into the open country beyond.

Approaching the postern, which was closed for the night, the mother laid her precious burden in the center of the ditch, while the father set free the twine tied to the cork. There was not much water flowing, but there was enough to wet the babe, and its cold embrace might cause it to awake. This would spoil all, and we may be sure they prayed that the sleeping draught would hold their darling in its embrace awhile longer.

Then the parents knocked at the guard-house and requested to be allowed to pass out of the town. The sentry knew them well, and eyed them narrowly, but seeing that the mother had not her child in her arms, he inferred that they were only about to make a short journey into the country; for, he reasoned, no Huguenot mother will desert her babe. So he turned the heavy lock, the iron-bound gate swung slowly on its creaking hinges, and they passed out of the light of the sentry's lantern into the blackness beyond.

They waited in the shadow of the wall until his retreating footsteps marked his return to the guard-house. Then the father sprang to the edge of the ditch, whose waters gurgled noisily over the stones. Sure enough here is the cork, bobbing about bravely, with a taut string behind it. Draw it gently, lest it break! Now, Heaven be thanked! the babe is hauled safely under the massive portal, not a sound having escaped it, and in an instant is clasped to its mother's heaving breast. A hurried march across the country, and parents and child are sheltered in the house of a friend, whence access to a waiting vessel is comparatively easy.

Another Huguenot family, consisting of father, mother, a daughter, Angela, aged sixteen, and two little boys, Edward and Armand, aged six and four years respectively, resolved to fly from their own unhappy land. They were wealthy people, so they commenced by sewing their money and jewels in a number of quilted petticoats, such as were then fashionable, which they consigned to friends over the sea. But just as they were ready to start the father was arrested and cast into prison.

His loved ones hastened to him, but he urged them not to delay their flight on his account; he would rejoin them when better times came. They yielded to his entreaties. The lady, disguised as the wife of her husband's valet, managed to reach a sea-port, where she arranged for a passage to England for herself and children, and then secreted herself while the valet returned for them.

The daughter arrayed herself as a farmer's daughter, and put her little brothers in a pannier on either side of the donkey. Then she covered them over with vegetables and farm produce heaped high, and set out, the man servant riding on ahead in the garb of a farmer.

They traveled only at night at first, but as time pressed they decided to make the last few stages of the journey by day. The children were especially enjoined not to speak or move, no matter what should happen.

On the last day of their travels the girl was alarmed by the sight of a troop of horse-soldiers riding rapidly in pursuit. They reined in their horses when abreast of the donkey, and commanded her to halt.

"What is in those baskets?" demanded their leader.

Before Angela could reply one of the troopers drew his long rapier and plunged it into the pannier in which the youngest boy was hidden. She almost fainted, but not a sound came from the basket. The soldiers, concluding that nothing was amiss, turned and galloped away, disappearing in a cloud of dust.

Scarcely were they out of sight than Angela seized the pannier, and threw off its upper contents, expecting to see her little brother a bleeding corpse. But happily, though covered with blood, the only injury he had sustained was a sword-cut in one of his arms, which his sister quickly bound up. The heroic little fellow, shut up in his basket-prison, knew that if he uttered a sound the lives of all would be lost, so he bravely bore the pain and kept silent. He carried the mark of that sword thrust as long as he lived.

These young refugees ultimately reached England, but their father never left his dungeon alive.—Henry Frederic Reddall.