One evening between eleven o’clock and midnight, a fire-ship, rigged like a French ship, flying French colors, and in every respect resembling a gunboat, advanced towards the line of battle and passed through.  By unpardonable negligence the chain had not been stretched that evening.  This fire-ship was followed by a second, which exploded, striking a sloop, which went down with it.  This explosion gave the alarm to the whole fleet; and lights instantly shone in every direction, revealing the first fire-ship advancing between the jetties, a sight which was witnessed with inexpressible anxiety.  Three or four pieces of wood connected by cables fortunately stopped her progress; but she blew up with such a shock that the glasses of all the windows in town were shattered, and a great number of the inhabitants, who for want of beds were sleeping upon tables, were thrown to the floor, and awakened by the fall without comprehending what had happened.  In ten minutes everybody was stirring, as it was thought that the English were in the port; and there ensued such confusion, such a mingled tumult of noises and screams, that no one could make himself understood, until criers preceded by drums were sent through the town to reassure the inhabitants, and inform them that all danger was past.

The next day songs were composed on this nocturnal alarm, and were soon in every mouth.

Another alarm, but of an entirely different kind, upset all Boulogne in the autumn of 1804.  About eight o’clock in the evening a chimney caught fire on the right of the port; and the light of this fire, shining through the masts of the flotilla, alarmed the commandant of a post on the opposite shore.  At this time all the vessels had powder and ammunition on board; and the poor commandant, beside himself with terror, cried, “Boys, the fleet is on fire;” and immediately had the alarm beaten.  The frightful news spread like lightning; and in less than half an hour more than sixty thousand men appeared upon the wharves, the tocsin was sounded in all the churches, the forts fired alarm guns, while drums and trumpets sounded along the streets, the whole making an infernal tumult.

The Emperor was at headquarters when this terrible cry, “The fleet is on fire,” came to his ears.  “It is impossible!” he immediately exclaimed, but, nevertheless, rushed out instantly.

On entering the town, what a frightful spectacle we beheld.  Women in tears, holding their children in their arms, ran like lunatics, uttering cries of despair, while men abandoned their houses, carrying off whatever was most valuable, running against and knocking each other over in the darkness.  On all sides was heard, “Mauve qui peat; we are going to be blown up, we are all lost;” and the maledictions, lamentations, blasphemies, were sufficient to make your hair stand on end.

The aides-de-camp of his Majesty and those of Marshal Soult galloped in every direction, forcing their way through the crowds, stopping the drummers, and asking them, “Why do you beat the alarm?  Who has ordered you to beat the alarm?”—­“We don’t know,” they replied; and the drums continued to beat, while the tumult kept on increasing, and the crowd rushed to the gates, struck by a terror which a moment’s reflection would have dissipated.  But, unfortunately, fear gives no time for reflection.