Chapter VII: Yankee Ingenuity Among the Peasants

In the morning, after eating and still further exploring the different apartments of the castle, they bent their steps towards the village of the peasants.

"Would you mention to Gabriel what we found in the secret passage?" asked Ned.

"I don't think I should. I expect he knows more about it than we do."

They found Gabriel and his neighbors all busily engaged. Some were bruising the olives in large mortars; others were treading them in tubs. There was oil everywhere, and the odor was anything but agreeable. Others, after placing the bruised pulp in sacks made of grass or rushes, carried them to the second story of a building, and, placing the sacks in the middle of the floor, piled great stones upon them, which pressed the oil through holes bored in the floor, and it was received in vessels beneath. In consequence of this slow method of procedure, a large portion of the olives was likely to decay before they could be pressed, while not more than half the oil was extracted. As the weight of the stones did not sufficiently compress the pulp, much of it was wasted on the floor, and still more was lost in being soaked up by the multitude of different vessels in which the olives were trampled. This did not, however, obtain in respect to those bruised in the mortars, which were stone.

Gabriel conducted the boys from one building to another, and showed them the olives, belonging to different peasants, which were spread over the floors, where women and little children were picking out the leaves, stones, and decayed ones.

"Why don't you have a mill to grind these olives?" asked Walter, "and screws to press the pulp? A great part of them will rot before you can bruise them in this way; besides, you don't get half the oil, to say nothing of what is wasted, or of the time lost."

Gabriel told them that before the revolution there were mills and presses--the property of the grand seignior--in which all the olives of the peasants were ground and pressed; but they were destroyed at that time.

"Then that was what those stones were used for that we saw on the bank of the river?"

"Yes."

"But what were those for that lie so far from the stream, on the high ground?"

"They were turned by a horse or mule, or by a number of men. We used those before the rains came to raise the stream so the mill could work. It is often very dry here in the autumn."

"Why don't you all turn to and build them up again, and use them in company?"

"We have no workmen; they have been conscripted, and are in the army, except a blacksmith, who was left to shoe the cattle and sharpen the plough-irons."

"Is there no stone-cutter? Why don't you make some mill-stones? I'm sure there are rocks enough. All turn to together, and at least set the smaller mills a-going, instead of working in this childish fashion."

The peasant scratched his head, and said, "The stone-cutter has been conscripted."

"Did you have a carpenter?"

"Yes."

"Was he drafted?"

"What is that?"

"Conscripted."

"Yes."

"What became of his tools?"

"He sold them in Marseilles to get bread for his children."

"In my country we are not tied to mechanics, because it is a new country, and they are scarce; but when a man wants a thing, he must set his brains at work and make it, or do without it. How did that concern on the high ground work?"

"The smaller stone, lying on top, went round the other, and was turned by a mule."

"Guess I know. It was rigged just like Uncle John Godsoe's mill that he ground bark with. A stone ran edgeways on a plank floor, and they shoved the pieces of bark under the stone. Who do the castle and the land round it belong to now?"

"It was confiscated and sold by the National Assembly. Felix Bertault owns the land where the mill stood, and two other peasants, Tonnelot and Bernard, the castle and the rest of the land."

"Then it was their wood we burned last night. I will pay them for it."

"That is nothing."

"Look here, old friend," said Walter, slapping Gabriel on the shoulder. "I am not a mechanic, but all my breed of people can handle tools. I can set that old affair going again, and better than ever it went before; the upper stone is whole, and though the lower one is gone, I can lay a wooden platform. There's timber enough, and the best of timber, in the old castle, and though not equal to a water-mill, it will be an everlasting sight better than your mules, and you can use them while I am doing it, if you like. I can fix a press, too, that will get about all the oil from the pulp."

"But, citizen, you have no tools."

"There are tools enough on board the vessel, and I ground them a few days ago. Go among your neighbors, and see what they say to it."

Gabriel was in raptures, and ran to tell the peasants. He soon returned, saying that every man, woman, and child were overjoyed, would do all they could to aid; that the carpenter's apprentice was left, and proffered his services.

"That is first rate," said Walter. "Now, Ned, you must go to the vessel and get the tools. Be sure you get a cross-cut saw, and ask the captain to lend us the tackle and fall we get the anchors on to the bows with."

Ned was soon mounted on a cart with Gosset (Gabriel's son), as Ned didn't know how to drive a mule that might take a notion to stop when half way there, and they set off.

Nimble hands and plenty of carts soon transported the old floor beams and oak plank (which Walter selected) to the spot. The gate posts made capital sills, upon which he laid his platform at the same height from the ground as the bottom stone of the old mill, in order that the trough for receiving the oil might go under it.

The apprentice, Raffard, proved to be a good workman, and Gosset also evinced a decided mechanical ability. Ned, too, could use tools quite well.

"That boy," said Walter to Gabriel, "only wants instruction and practice to make a first-rate mechanic."

There was no lack of iron bolts in the strong-hold, and the blacksmith made all the iron-work necessary. An upright shaft was prepared, to be placed in the centre of the platform, which, supported by cross-beams attached to posts set in the ground, revolved on iron pintles, which entered the platform and the cross-beam above.

Walter now took a narrow strip of board, seven feet long, bored a hole in one end, and slipped it over an iron pin placed in the hole in the centre of the platform, which was jointed together perfectly tight, and somewhat dishing, with holes to permit the drainage to escape into the trough; in the other end he drove a pointed nail, and with it swept a circle on the platform; around this scratch he fayed pieces of plank to confine the pulp. The diameter of the horse-track was eighteen feet.

It was wonderful, and excited the surprise of Walter and Ned, to witness the instantaneous change wrought in the appearance of the peasants. They were now all energy and activity, seemed completely to have laid aside their listless, lounging attitudes, and manifested a fertility of resource that the boys never supposed pertained to them.

"All these people want," said Walter to Ned, "is opportunity. They are smart, only give them a chance."

It was night by the time Walter had made a horizontal shaft, which was to run through a square hole in the centre of the edge-stone.

The boys took supper at the house of Gabriel, but notwithstanding his entreaties to pass the night with him, preferred their camp fire, although they gladly accepted the present of a pair of chickens, a dozen eggs from Felix Bertault, honey from Tonnelot, and potatoes from Leroux. Indeed, the entire community were ready to place their all at the disposal of these young republicans, in whose energy, ingenuity, and self-reliance, they flattered themselves they beheld mirrored the future of their own children under the operation of the principles of liberty, fraternity, and equality they had so recently inaugurated. As they separated, Walter told Gabriel that all except Raffard, Gosset, and Felix, had better keep at work among the olives after their old fashion, as, the stuff being all on the spot, they were as many as could work to advantage on the mill, and the others could be called for a hard lift. They now set out for the castle.

"Won't we have a tuck-out to-morrow morning?" said Ned. "I guess there's no lack of pots and kettles among the ruins of the chateau. That one we carried the brands in will be first rate; it's all burnt out clean."

While Ned was making a fire, Walter was walking round among the woods on the side of the hill, apparently searching for something. When he returned, he found a blazing fire at the old spot, but Ned nowhere visible.

"Ned, where are you?"

"Here, Wal; only come here."

Following the direction of the voice, he found Ned on his knees before the kitchen fireplace of the chateau, the chimney of which was still standing. He was surrounded by old pots and kettles, one of which he was busily engaged in scouring. He had also placed the wood on the old andirons, ready to light in the morning.

"O, Wal, just you see; here's a crane, pots, and kettles. I've found the well, and a tin pail to draw water in, but some bruised; a pitcher, with the nose broken off; six plates, three of 'em whole; four cups; only one of them is broken, and a little piece is broken out of the side of another; a couple of linen towels, but one of them is scorched a little. I can't find any soap; but I've washed them out in lye. I've found lots of knives, forks, and spoons; only they are black and rusty, and the handles burnt off. Ain't it great, Wal?"

"Yes, we are all provided for. Ain't you glad we didn't stop with Gabriel?"

"I guess I am."

"Let us get everything ready to-night, because in the morning we shall want to start early, and it will take some time to get breakfast, we're going to have such a famous one."

After helping Ned scour the kettles, Walter went to the castle, and soon returned with some cord, which he wound around the knives, affording a very good substitute for handles. He then ran them into the ground, and rubbed them with brick and ashes, till he made them clean and somewhat bright.

"Let's have a table, Wal. That will put the touch on."

"Agreed."

Ned drove four stakes into the ground with the crowbar, and Walter brought a large panel from the hall, which he placed on them.

"I'll put the finishing stroke to it," said Ned; and, running back, he came with a piece of splendid tapestry, which he flung over it; and now they set the table.

"There," said Ned, "who can beat that--a carved table, tapestry table-cloth, and Sevres china dishes? Now for getting into the blankets. Walter," said Ned, after they lay down, "what were you hunting so long in the woods after?"

"I was trying to find a tree that had an elbow at the root."

"What do you want of that?"

"I'll tell you. In Godsoe's bark-mill the stone had a round hole in it, and turned around the shaft; and it wabbled, though that didn't make much difference in grinding bark, which was dry, and worth but little; so that waste was of no consequence. In this stone the hole is square. The shaft must turn with the stone on a pintle going into the upright shaft; and if I don't have something to make it pull inwards and run true, it will be all the time grinding against the curb I have made to keep the pulp in, and slatting off and on."

"How can you help it?"

"I've found a tree with an elbow at the root; and I'm going to dig it up, frame one end into the upright shaft, bring the elbow down over the stone wheel, put a pintle in the end of the shaft, bore a hole through the elbow, and have it turn in that, letting the elbow run down far enough for the beast to pull level; and then the stone _must run true_."

Next morning, after a glorious breakfast, the boys repaired to the village. With the aid of a strong force, the tree was cut out by the roots, the stick hewed on the spot, and transported on their shoulders to the mill. By means of the vessel's purchase, planks laid, and plenty of help, the great stone was parbuckled on to the platform, and put in place.

"Now, fellow-citizens," said Ned, flinging up his hat, "hurrah for a Yankee bark-mill! Bring on your mules and olives."

A mule was attached to the sweep, amid the cheers of the whole village. The mill was found to work excellently well, and ground the olives so fast that it required the efforts of all who had been employed bruising them in mortars to carry the pulp to the chamber and press it.

"Now," said Walter, "for the press. How did you use to press them, Gabriel?"

"There were presses belonging to the grand seignior, with wooden screws; but they were burnt."

"I don't know but I could cut the thread of a wooden screw, if I had time enough. However, that is not here nor there. I know what I _can_ do: I can make a press with a lever, that will give you as much again oil as you can get by piling on stones, and make it right beside this mill, where you can shovel the pulp on to it, and save all portage and waste."

The next day, Walter, Ned, and their fellow-workmen--who had become quite expert in the use of tools--laid another platform within two feet of the mill, and on a level with it, in order that the pulp could be easily transferred from one to the other, and the oil from each run into different ends of the same trough, and be dipped out between them. He then cut a deep channel around the edge of the platform, leading to the trough, to conduct the oil. After this he built up, with the aid of the peasants, two abutments of stone, several feet above the platform, leaving in the middle, near the top, an opening eighteen inches square.

"Are you a stone-mason?" asked Gabriel, in surprise.

"No: but I've been used to building stone wall. I've worked on rocks till my fingers were worn so thin I couldn't take up a cup of hot coffee."

Now with the cattle they hauled three halves of the mill-stones that had been split to the spot, and, with skids and the tackle, placed them on the abutments, one upon the other, composing an enormous aggregate of weight.

"I calculate it will take some strength to lift those," said Walter, viewing his work with great complacency. "Now, Gabriel, for the biggest beam in the old castle! If I was at home, I could get one big enough."

"There is plenty of timber and large forests in France, my brother, although, since the revolution, it has been cut away in this part. Before that, the forests were very strictly guarded; but the National Assembly have sold a great deal. There are great beams in the castle that grew in the olden time."

After much labor, they obtained from beneath one of the floors an oak beam fifty feet in length and a foot square. One end of this was placed in the opening left in the stone-work; at the other Walter built what he called a "gin," which was a tripod of timber, fourteen feet in height, with a bolt at the top to fasten the tackle, and a windlass between two of the legs, by which the timber could be raised or lowered. When all was prepared, Gabriel and his friends put the sacks filled with pulp on the press, piling them up four feet in height, then poured on hot water, placed planks on the sacks, then blocks crosswise, and one large one lengthwise. The mere weight of the planks and blocks caused the oil to run merrily from the pulp, and pour into the trough.

The delighted peasants danced round the press, and Gabriel told the boys it was better not to let the beam down, as the oil which ran from the mill while the olives were grinding, and from the press, under that light pressure, was of the best quality.

When it ceased to run, the oil in the trough was dipped out, and the beam let down, when it began to run freely again. They stood upon the beam, and put on rocks, till they pressed the cake dry.

"It will be difficult," said Gabriel, "to get this beam up; and your 'gin' will be of no use without the tackle."

"We have got another tackle. The captain will sell this, and take his pay in oil, I know. Contribute among yourselves, and buy it."

"That we will gladly do."

"I've got some old wine," said Felix, "that came out of the cellars of the aristocrats; he can have that."

It was about four o'clock of an afternoon when the boys arrived at this successful termination of their philanthropic labors.

"This," said Gabriel, "has been a great day, a good day, one long to be remembered. Let us do no more to-day, but enjoy ourselves with these good citizens; we can soon press the olives now."

As they sat conversing, after supper, Walter said to the peasants,--

"People in our country--when a person has done a foolish thing; injured himself in trying to hurt another--have a fashion of saying 'that he has bitten off his nose to spite his face.' It seems to me that you did a very silly thing when you broke the mill-stones and burnt up the oil and wine presses of the aristocrats. The stone never harmed you. Didn't you know that your crops were coming off, and that you would need all these things yourselves? Why did you destroy those beautiful avenues and groves? Now that the aristocrats are gone, you would be right glad to have those noble trees yourselves."

In the course of their talk, Walter related to Gabriel some of the conversations he had held with the refugees at Salem, and observed that a great proportion of the American people, though ready to sympathize with any nation desirous of self-government, were struck with horror at the cruelties of which they had heard, and the wholesale massacres perpetrated, especially by the execution of the king and queen.

The peasant leaped to his feet; his eyes shot fire, his lips were drawn apart, and his face assumed an expression so demoniacal as to leave upon the minds of the boys no doubt of the part he had taken in these terrible scenes.

"_Execution of a king!_" he hissed between his teeth: "what better is the blood of a king than that of any other creature God has made?"

Controlling himself, he said more calmly,--

"Young citizens, you have been deceived. You have heard but one story--that of the aristocrats, of the oppressors. Listen now to that of the oppressed--to me, Gabriel Quesnard, a peasant born and bred on the soil of France, as were all my ancestors. I am not about to relate to you the cruelties practised in the days of my forefathers, when a noble has been known to kill a peasant, that he might warm his feet by thrusting them into his body on a cold day."

"Horrible!" exclaimed both the boys in a breath. "Was that ever done?"

"Indeed, and it would be difficult to tell what cruelties were not practised; neither shall I speak of such things as the peasants being compelled to beat the water in the marshes with poles to keep the frogs from croaking, when the wife of their lord was sick, lest they should disturb her. But I shall tell you of those miseries, which are of yesterday, which myself, my neighbors, and children of your ages, have endured. Let me tell you of the '_lettres de cachet_,'--issued by the king you pity so much,--by which a person was seized, perhaps in the street, and, without any form of trial, hurried to the Bastile, while his friends could only guess what had become of him. Any one who had money enough could buy one.

"When we levelled that accursed dungeon, we found citizens who had grown gray there, unconscious of crime and utterly ignorant of what they were accused.

"In the spring the peasant is trying to get in his seed to raise bread for his family. He, perhaps,--by some inadvertent word, wrung from him by the bitterness of oppression,--has given offence to the _intendant_; the _subdélégué_ comes along and says, 'Go do your _corvée_' (compulsory labor) at such a place. The poor man must loose his cattle from the plough, and work on the roads; or perhaps, in the midst of harvest, must leave his grain to spoil, and go and carry convicts to the galleys, haul ship-timber to the navy-yard, or supplies to some garrison, while the soldiers prick his cattle with their swords, and insult their driver. More than three hundred peasants, who owned their land, were made beggars by the filling up of one valley in Lorraine. Every peasant was compelled to buy, and pay a tax on, seven pounds of salt a year, whether he used it or not.

"The _capitaineries_--"

"What were those?"

"The right to preserve the game, which meant that they might keep whole herds of deer and boars, and flocks of partridges, to overrun the peasant's land and eat up his crops. Did he presume to kill one, to save the bread of his family, he was sent to the galleys; and this right was not confined to their own lands, but extended to all the lands of the district. Yes, and the peasant was forbidden to weed or hoe his own grain, lest he should disturb the young partridges that were devouring his substance. Neither was he allowed to cut or plough under his own stubble, lest they should be deprived of shelter. This was a right granted by the king to princes of the blood. All these exactions came directly from the king, whom you pity so much. In addition to this were countless seignioral rights. There were perpetual dues. A seignior could sell his land, and still draw rent from the very peasant who had bought it of him in the shape of seignioral dues. They, too, had their '_corvées_,' and the peasant was forced to labor for them a certain number of days in each year. On everything that he owned must he pay dues to them. Yes, he must pay them for the right of selling his own produce in the market. Though in my time this custom of stilling the frogs was abolished, we were compelled to pay a fine instead of it. When, amid all these impositions, the peasant has raised his grain, he can't have a hand-mill to grind it in. He must grind in the mill of the lord, bake his bread in the oven, and press his grapes and olives in the press of his master, and pay for the privilege, and, if unmarried, was subject to conscription; while from this and taxes the nobles were exempt, and so were thousands of others--petty clerks, government officers, and all worth over so much property. Thus all the burden of taxation was thrown upon the peasant because he was poor, and taken from the noble because he was not. To this it must be added that the clergy, with their tithes, took what little was left. Now, consider that I have omitted almost as much as I have mentioned, and you will be able to see the poor man's condition under the tyranny we have destroyed. That was the 'servitude of the soil.' Marvel not that we were frantic, and only thought of destroying everything that was an instrument of oppression while we had the power. Did you never see a dog bite the stone that had been flung at him?"

"Yes," replied Ned.

"So it was with us. We hated those mills; those presses, where we had been forced to work; those ovens, where we had been compelled to yield up a portion of our scanty loaf; broad avenues of trees that we and our folks had been forced to plant; those roads, adorned with trees so beautiful to others, were watered with the tears of the oppressed, and appeared frightful to us. In our delirium we thought only of destroying all that could remind us of those detested tyrants and those bitter days."

"I have understood," said Walter, "that, for these many years past, the peasants had been less hardly dealt with; that, although the laws remained unchanged upon the statute-books, they had not been rigidly enforced."

"That is true, citizens, and was the very reason of our rising."

"That is strange, that people should rise just when their condition was improving."

"Had you fallen into a deep pit, from which you could see no possible way of escape, you would resign yourself to your fate; but, did you perceive some projection upon which you might clamber and escape, would it not cause you to strain every nerve?"

"To be sure."

"Thus it was with us. When we were less hardly dealt with, we knew it was from lack of power; that it was not from charity, but fear. When we felt that the clutch of the oppressor was loosening on the peasant's throat, we were no longer resigned. Then came the news of what had been done in your country. Our children who had fought in your armies had returned. They brought with them these noble words, which were read to us by the few who could read: 'that all men are created free, and endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights: that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.' As we listened, tears flowed from our eyes, our hearts grew hot, we trembled with a feeling altogether new. We felt we also were men--struggled, broke our letters, were _free_! Then we put to their lips the bitter cup of which they had made us drink so long, avenged the wrongs of our ancestors, and our own, and gave them blood for blood."

As the boys listened, their sentiments underwent a change. They felt that the greatest excesses of an ignorant people, in the paroxysm of their fury, made frantic by oppression, were in a great measure to be laid to the account of their oppressors.

"We," continued Gabriel, perceiving the impression he had made, "are called bloodthirsty, and viewed with horror, because we have shed much blood in a short time; but they have been shedding it all the time. Which, my brother, carries the most water to the sea, the river that waters the valley, and whose stream is always full, or the mountain torrent that floods the vale in the spring, and then leaves a dry channel?"

"The river, to be sure," replied Walter.

"Such is the difference between them and us. For hundreds of years there has not been a day when the peasant's blood has nor flowed at the will of his master. We guillotine a noble, or a priest; the news flies over all lands. Who knows, or cares to know, the misery he had inflicted upon the poor, and by which he had deserved a thousand deaths? Our banished aristocrats are scattered over Europe and America. They are learned men, of noble blood; tell their story at every court, among all peoples, and write it in books for all to read; while the peasant has suffered in silence, perished in prisons by starvation, and in the galleys, as unregarded as the dead leaves that strew yonder vineyard."

"I never thought of all these things before," said Walter, when Gabriel concluded; "this is indeed a story of fearful oppression."

"It is a true story, citizen. For ages the blood of the oppressed has been crying from the ground, and, at last, vengeance has come."