Still a work in progress, but it is moving.

Anyway, since I started experimenting with paint earlier this year, I have had to get used to the idea that art has an “ugly phase”, and that the ugly phase can last for a while.

This is the ugly phase of my Bonchamps.

This portrait is basically a study, in my own style, of La Mort de Bonchamps by Thomas Degeorge, 1837. The original is a gigantic painting, which I had the opportunity to see at the Historial de Vendée two years ago. It is very impressive, and the photo really does not do it justice.

In the painting, the dying Bonchamps, surrounded by his most faithful soldiers, gives his second, Charles d’Autichamp, the order that will make him famous. He orders that the 5,000 republican soldiers who were to be executed before the defeated Vendéens crossed the Loire be spared. He tells d’Autichamp that this is the last order he will give, and that he would like it to be obeyed. They obey it.

I do have an issue with it. Not with its artistic merit. It is very much of its period, and the Bonchamps here is clearly inspired by the classical figure on the tomb by David d’Angers. My issue is simpler: Degeorge’s Bonchamps is too pretty. Too composed. Too noble.

Death is not pretty. And I feel making him look so graceful takes something away from the gesture itself.

At Cholet, on 17 October 1793, Bonchamps was shot in the abdomen. It was a fatal wound. It also meant a long, agonising death, lasting more or less a day. There were very few options for pain relief. Very little that could be done. (1)

The man was in agony. And in his agony, he ordered 5,000 prisoners spared.

The Bonchamps of the original painting looks a little too composed for my taste. Mine is still unfinished, but one of the things I want to work on is making his face look more like that of a dying man, without making it grotesque.

And the best part about painting (and, frankly, the useful lesson for someone who likes planning and has perfectionist habits) is that I have no idea how this is going to end up looking. I hope it will looks good.

Notes

Hi everyone 

Charles Melchior Artus, Marquis de Bonchamps (1760–1793), was a French politician and leader of the Vendean insurrection of Royalists against the Republic during the French Revolution.

This portrait was made by the French artist Anne-Louis Girodet Roucy-Trioson in 1824. It is currently exhibited at the Museum of Art and History in Cholet, France.

Charles Melchior Artus de Bonchamps (3100§/Env.8) - Painting - 8 swatches

Happy Simming 

Jim

Polygon Counts:

High/Med/Low

38/38/38

Additional Credits:

TSRW, S4S, S4PE.

EA/Maxis for wood texture from TS3.

A Practical Guide to Tracking Down Vendéan Generals

It’s a popular saying that “like Saturn, the Revolution devours its children.” It’s true. Year II in the revolutionary calendar (1793–1794) was a bloodbath. The counter-revolution wasn’t much different. In fact, if there was a position more perilous than being a member of the Convention in 1793–1794, it was being a general in the rebel army of the west.

Why? Because out of the seven main generals (1) active in spring 1793, only two were still alive by spring 1794, and none made it to summer 1796. In short: they died. They did, and so did a very large proportion of their armies.

Which means that if you have a summer holiday plan like I did, namely to wander around the west of France and retrace the steps of the Vendéen (2) army during the First War in the Vendée (3 March 1793 – 2 May 1795), you will inevitably visit a lot of graveyards and a lot of obscure roadside crosses. 

No really. That’s what I did. That was my summer holiday. (You have no idea the looks I got when colleagues at work asked how my holiday was…)

So, in the spirit of that summer holiday, let’s talk about some depressing things: how the Vendée’s generals died, and where they’re buried. Because unlike the other side of my French Revolution interests, where I’d have to search the Catacombs or random patches of Parisian asphalt (none of the revolutionaries I care about studying got a grave, just the common pit) half of these men have… (multiple) graves.

Before getting into them individually, keep in mind that these men were Catholic (the fact that they led the Catholic and Royal Army is a fairly strong hint) and that they rebelled largely for said faith. Funerals and gravesites mattered to them, to their surviving families, and still matter to some people in the region. This is worth mentioning because it means that all the places I’ll be talking about are relatively easy to find and generally well maintained. I only had to crawl through a bush in someone’s backyard once (3).

I’ll go through the generals in the order in which they died.

Jacques Cathelineau (1759–1793)

The man who started it all, and the first commander-in-chief of the Catholic and Royal Army, was a very pious peasant. Not a count. Not a marquis. Not a prince. A simple peddler from Pin-le-Mauge. Jacques Cathelineau had no military training, no fortune, and no real business commanding an army. He emerged in March 1793 as one of the first local leaders of the uprising, propelled by a reputation for piety and for being, quite literally, magic (4). They called him the Saint of Anjou.  Elected generalissimo in June 1793 by men who knew far more about war than he did, but who recognised the charisma and symbolism he exuded (or perhaps just liked him; by most accounts he was a genuinely pleasant man), he barely had time to occupy the role. Shot during the assault on Nantes on 29 June 1793, he died of his wound on 14 July 1793 at Saint-Florent-le-Vieil.

Cathelineau’s first tomb was in Saint-Florent-le-Vieil, in the local cemetery, next to a chapel. To make sure his grave could be identified later, a white flint was placed at the bottom of it.

As the memorial plaque in the cemetery records, he rested there until 1858, when the Count of Quatre-Barbes, with the help of a public subscription, had a chapel built in the garden of the house where Cathelineau had died. He then arranged for Cathelineau’s remains to be transferred there, along with those of his son, Jacques Cathelineau, killed on 27 May 1832 by the soldiers of Louis-Philippe (5).

The chapel has since been closed to the public. If you want to visit it, you need to ask for the key at the tourist office in Saint-Florent-le-Vieil. If you’re in the area, it’s worth the effort. The chapel is small, quiet, and almost empty, save for the tomb itself. The sculpture is finely done, and its placement in the confined space gives the whole thing a restrained, almost private feel.

In the same graveyard in Saint-Florent-le-Vieil lie the remains of the woman who nursed Cathelineau on his deathbed: Jeanne Bussonnière, a nun and teacher in Saint-Florent.

In 1896, Cathelineau’s native commune, Le Pin-en-Mauges, erected a tomb for him in its church. On that occasion, part of the remains buried at Saint-Florent were transferred there. I haven’t visited it yet, but I plan to fix that in 2026. I also have a book on stained glass narrating the War in the Vendée, and some of the most beautiful panels are in this church, so it’s a must-see.

Addresses:

Cathelineau’s first tomb: Les Coteaux, 49410 Mauges-sur-Loire, France

Chapel Cathelineau: Rue Jacques Cathelineau, 49410 Mauges-sur-Loire, France (Tourist office where you can request the key: 2 Rue de Bretagne, 49410 Mauges-sur-Loire, France)

Cathelineau’s third tomb: Église Saint-Pavin du Pin-en-Mauges, Le Pin-en-Mauges, 49110 Beaupréau-en-Mauges, France

Charles‑Melchior Artus de Bonchamps (1760–1793)

Former royal army officer who had fought in the Indies at the end of the Ancien Régime, Bonchamps was generally considered one of the Vendée’s most competent generals. He joined the army young, as a cadet in the Aquitaine regiment in 1766, and served as a lieutenant overseas, where where he learned the realities of irregular warfare. That experience turned out to be very useful later in the Vendée.

Like many officers of his background, he initially welcomed the Revolution. The rapid collapse of his regiment, however, led him to withdraw to his estates. Unlike Cathelineau, when his peasants asked him to join their rebellion as one of their chiefs, he hesitated. A lot. He understood perfectly well how this was likely to end. Civil wars don’t have good outcomes. Still, he agreed to help them, and once he did, he committed fully.

Skilled and genuinely liked by his men, Bonchamps proved himself repeatedly in the field, leading, as all the Vendéan generals did, from the front (6). Mortally wounded in the abdomen at the Battle of Cholet on 17 October 1793, he was carried back to the house of Madame Duval in Saint-Florent-le-Vieil. There, on his deathbed, he ordered the pardon of five thousand Republican prisoners, an act that secured his posthumous fame. One of the men saved that day was the father of the sculptor David d’Angers (this becomes relevant later).

Because the Vendéan army decided to cross the Loire, Bonchamps was moved again, to a fisherman’s house in the village of La Meilleraie near Varades, where he spent his last hours. The house where he died can still be visited today. It’s a small, one two room building used for exhibitions.

That same evening, his body was taken to the cemetery of Varades and buried there. You can visit the cemetery, and his original resting place is still there.

In 1817, Count Arthur de Bouillé, husband of Bonchamps’ only surviving child, Zoé, had his remains exhumed and taken to the church of La Chapelle-Saint-Florent, to wait while his “final” resting place was being built. (Final, as it turned out, is optimistic.) During the exhumation they recovered bits of the shoes he’d been buried in, which are now on display in the museum in Saint-Florent.

In the 1820s, the family launched a subscription to pay for a proper monument. David d’Angers, whose father had been one of the Republican prisoners spared on Bonchamps’ deathbed, offered to do it for a low cost, as a tribute. Which is how Bonchamps ended up with the most impressive tomb of the lot.

Eight years later, in 1825, once David’s sculpture was finished, Bonchamps was moved into the choir of the Saint-Florent abbey. His son-in-law was there and placed a copy of Bonchamps’ biography with his remains at the centre of the monument.

In 1890, work had to be done in the choir, so they moved the monument from its original position. Which meant exhuming him again (so much for eternal rest), putting his bones in a wooden box, and placing him under the monument’s main sculpture, beneath the words “grâce aux prisonniers”.

If you want to know more about Bonchamp’s death and my thoughts on the tomb, they’re here: The Death of Bonchamps

Addresses:

House where the injured Bonchamps pardoned the Republican prisoners: Grande Rue, 49410 Mauges-sur-Loire, France

House where Bonchamps passed away: 61 rue de la Basse Meilleraie, Varades, 44370 Loireauxence, France

Bonchamps’ first grave: 212 rue du Général de Gaulle, 44370 Loireauxence, France

Bonchamps’ final resting place: Place Jeanne Bussonnière, 49410 Mauges-sur-Loire, France

Louis‑Marie de Salgues, marquis de Lescure (1766–1793)

Politics aside, I have a special fondness for Lescure because in the story of the First War in the Vendée people tend to… forget about him. Which is odd, because he was one of the few who actually had a proper military background and knew what he was doing, at least as much as anyone could in a civil war fought by peasants. He’d been educated at the École Militaire and took a cavalry commission in Royal-Piémont. He also had a reputation for being very well educated, pious, quiet, a bit “odd”, and apparently perfectly happy to be underestimated.

Politically, he was probably one of the more conscious, declared royalists among the Vendéan generals. He tried to leave France for a short time in 1791, came back, and supposedly received a royal order not to emigrate again, so he stayed in Paris until 10 August. After the mess that was the Tuileries (7), he retreated to his estate near Bressuire with his wife, Victoire de Donnissan (later known as the Marquise de La Rochejaquelein, and the most famous memorialist of the war). When the uprising broke out in March 1793, the authorities arrested him anyway as a likely instigator, although at that point he hadn’t really done anything. The royalists freed him, and from then on there wasn’t much chance of returning to a private, quiet life.

He became one of the main field commanders in the Catholic and Royal Army and he did what these men all did: take risks, and get shot for it. His crowning moment is stepping out in enemy fire, alone, completely uncovered, on a bridge, to convince his peasant army to stop being scared and advance.

Like Cathelineau, the “saint of Anjou”, Lescure picked up the nickname “saint of Poitou” because he was pious and because peasants thought he was magic and bullets couldn’t touch him. Sadly he wasn’t magic enough. He was shot in the head at La Tremblaye on 16 October 1793.

The place where he was wounded is marked with a cross. You can visit it, but you have to crawl through some bushes (and potentially someone’s backyard) to get there. And you really do have to pay attention because it’s easy to miss, we drove up and down the street for a good five minutes before we spotted the opening in the greenery.

After that, with the army retreating across the Loire after Cholet, Lescure was basically carried along in a cart. Obviously he couldn’t fight, but he did what he could to keep people going. In Laval there’s a plaque on Hôtel de Monfrand where, feeling a little better, he watched the Vendéan troops pass and stepped out onto a balcony to encourage them.

He died of his wounds on 4 November 1793 at La Pellerine, Mayenne. A cross has been erected where he died. It’s on a national road, so please be careful if you want to visit, but it’s easy to reach by car and you can park right next to it.

I won’t go into detail here because the saga deserves its own post, but long story short: Lescure has no tomb. After his death, afraid the Republican army would defile his body if they knew where he was buried, his wife had him rudimentarily embalmed and refused to part with him. After a few days, her father convinced her to let him bury his son-in-law in a secret place. It was so secret that no one remembers where he was put. It didn’t help that Mme de La Rochejaquelein’s father, the marquis de Donnissan, didn’t survive the war either.

So since he has no grave to visit, we have to make do with two crosses: one where he was wounded, and one where he died.

Later, in 1854, the La Rochejaquelein family built a chapel in Saint-Aubin-de-Baubigné and brought a number of their dead there. His widow erected in the chapel a cenotaph he shares with his cousin Henri (see below), his former father-in-law, and his wife’s future husband.

Addresses:

Cross where Lescure was wounded at La Tremblaye: 29 Allée Louis-Marie de Lescure, 49300 Cholet, France

Plaque on the house in Laval where he spent nine days recovering: 23 rue du Hameau, 53000 Laval, France

Cross where he died at La Pellerine: 131 chemin des Besnardières, 53220 La Pellerine, France

His cenotaph: Place de l’Église Saint-Aubin, 79700 Mauléon, France

Maurice d’Elbée (1752–1794)

If Lescure is remembered largely because he was married to the woman who ended up shaping the narrative of the war, Maurice d’Elbée has no such advantage.  In fact, the second commander-in-chief of the Catholic and Royal Army is even more obscure than Lescure. It doesn’t help that his tenure came AFTER the “saint of Anjou” and was followed by the Vendée’s golden child (and eventual mascot), nor that when he was elected there were rumours it only happened because Bonchamps was injured at the time (8).

That said, he wasn’t incompetent. Far from it. Given who he replaced, he at least had one clear advantage: he actually had military training.

Born into a family with long military traditions, d’Elbée served first in Saxon forces, then entered the French cavalry in 1772. He resigned his commission in 1783 rather than accept advancement through court favour, and settled as a small landowner around Saint-Martin-de-Beaupréau.

Like his good friend Bonchamps, he initially welcomed the Revolution, enough that he registered as an elector for the Third Estate. He was a constitutional monarchist to the point that, in 1789, when he heard the king was obstructing the Constituent Assembly’s work, he joined in sending an address offering material and physical support to the deputies representing Anjou. He even, to a certain extent, supported the Constitutional Oath of the Clergy.

He started changing his mind when religious policy hardened and the removal of local priests became violent. He then withdrew from local office and sheltered non-juring priests. He briefly emigrated in late 1791, then returned to Anjou in 1792. So when the uprising erupted in March 1793 and local men pressed him to lead them, he wasn’t particularly thrilled. He tried to persuade them to stay home. But once he accepted, he quickly emerged as both a disciplined organiser and a notably effective commander, someone who managed, more than most, to keep his men from turning into bloodthirsty maniacs.

After Jacques Cathelineau’s death, d’Elbée was chosen commander-in-chief of the Catholic and Royal Army on 19 July 1793. His command was short (July to October), but it included major victories, Chantonnay, Coron, Torfou, before it ended at Cholet on 17 October 1793, where he was shot fourteen times and somehow survived.

Survived, but barely. Incapacitated, he was taken to Noirmoutier under Charette’s protection while the army chose La Rochejaquelein as commander-in-chief and started frolicking on the wrong side of the Loire and dying in the process (9).

When the island fell in early January 1794, d’Elbée was captured and executed shortly afterwards. He was so ill he couldn’t even walk to his own execution and had to be carried in a chair. 

The chair still exists and is displayed in the Castle of Noirmoutier, bullet holes and all. When I went to Noirmoutier it was pouring rain and I didn’t really feel like getting soaked to see a chair, so I haven’t confirmed it with my own eyes yet. Hopefully I’ll manage this year.

As for his body, d’Elbée and the men executed with him were thrown into the moats of the château. Later, the mayor of Noirmoutier requested authorisation from the prefect of the Vendée to exhume the remains and transfer them to the cemetery, and the General Council even launched a public subscription for a monument. The Directorate of fortifications got authorisation from the Minister of War to excavate the ditch, but the military engineers delayed the work, and by 1824 the searches still hadn’t even begun. To my knowledge it was eventually dropped, and there’s no clear idea where in the moat d’Elbée’s body might be.

Addresses:

The castle of Noimoutier which should house the chair where he died and in whose moats is his resting place: Pl. d'Armes, 85330 Noirmoutier-en-l'Île, France

Henri du Vergier, comte de La Rochejaquelein (1772–1794)

A familiar figure on this blog. Third and youngest commander-in-chief, and the closest thing the Vendée had to a mascot. He’s remembered for sheer temerity in battle, but he also came up with plans that were often sensible and often ignored, mostly because he was too young.

He was born at the château of La Durbelière (Saint-Aubin-de-Baubigné). He was educated at Sorèze, then entered the army at thirteen as a cavalry officer in his father’s regiment, Royal-Pologne-Cavalerie. Later he served in the King’s Constitutional Guard (10) in Paris, narrowly escaped after 10 August 1792, and returned to the west.

In April 1793, being subject to the levée en masse that the peasants in his village were rebelling against, “Monsieur Henri”, as the troops called him, decided to join them. He immediately distinguished himself by being incredibly brave, taking a lot of risks, but he also had an instinct for discipline and morale.

After the defeat at Cholet and the crossing of the Loire, with Bonchamps dead and d’Elbée out of action, he was elected generalissimo at Varades, despite protesting that he was too young. He argued hard for an immediate return into Poitou via Angers or Nantes. The council overruled him, and the army drifted into the disastrous Virée de Galerne instead.

Even then, he still managed to get real battlefield successes, including the victory at Laval, which drew reluctant praise from his enemies.  After the collapse of the Catholic and Royal army  at Le Mans (11), he and Stofflet recrossed the Loire on 16 December 1793 and went back to a hunted, improvised guerrilla war in the marshes.

He was killed in a skirmish near Nuaillé on 28 January 1794. Shot in the head. Supposedly by the same man he’d spared moments earlier.

His first resting place was very close to where he fell. His second in command, Stofflet feared the Republicans would find him and profane the body, and more than that, he wanted the news kept quiet. He ordered the corpse stripped and left naked. Then, to prevent recognition, he slashed his face with his sabre and buried him a few metres away, in secret.

Today that first resting place is a small clearing off a national road. It’s actually quite lovely. If you plan to visit, be aware you really need a car, and there’s only limited space to leave it.

If you would like to read my impressions about his death and cenotaph, I have written an essay about it here: The General of the Royal and Catholic Army

Stofflet kept the burial secret. Unfortunately, Stofflet himself died in the war, and the only reason we don’t have another Lescure situation is that Stofflet, unlike Lescure’s father-in-law, had the good sense to at least drop hints about where he’d put his general. So in 1816, after Henri’s brother Louis died in another failed Vendéan adventure (12) and the family (13) wanted the two brothers together, they went looking. They eventually found Henri across the road from where he’d died, under a pear tree, and identified him by his injuries. He was given a funeral and buried in the old cemetery of his home town, Saint-Aubin-de-Baubigné.

In 1847, he and his brother were exhumed and moved from the old cemetery to the new one.

Only ten years later, in December 1857, the family exhumed him again to place him in a funerary chapel in the newly built village church. The body was transferred into a vault beneath the new church with his ancestors and twenty-one other family members. You can visit this church in Saint-Aubin-de-Baubigné and see the stained glass and the grave itself, which he shares with Louis, Lescure and Donnissan. It’s a beautiful marble construction, ornate, and very much designed to make them all look like they belong to antiquity. On a purely architectural level, it’s worth a visit.

That being said, personally I prefer the cenotaph in the woods.

Addresses:

Henri’s cenotaph: Route de Nuaillé (D160) (You can only really use the tiny parking space if you’re coming from Cholet towards Nuaillé. Wear boots if it’s raining. There’s no path to the cenotaph.)

The family grave: Place de l’Église Saint-Aubin, 79700 Mauléon, France

Jean-Nicolas Stofflet (1753–1796)

Together with Cathelineau, Stofflet was one of the first leaders of the rebellion and, like him, he was not of noble stock. Unlike Cathelineau, though, he had military experience. A gamekeeper for the comte de Colbert (14), he was known for organisation and for his methods of enforcement. He scared people into obeying him, which, for an undisciplined peasant army, was annoyingly effective.

Born at the other end of the country, in Bathelémont near Lunéville, he was the son of a miller and carpenter. At seventeen he enlisted in the Lorraine Infanterie regiment (10 November 1770). He spent eight years in garrisons and left in 1778 as a grenadier. He re-enlisted at the end of 1779 and later became a caporal-instructeur. In 1787 the comte de Colbert bought his discharge and brought him to Maulévrier as his head gamekeeper.

In March 1793, when the levée en masse (general conscription) hit the Mauges, the men who rebelled against it went to Stofflet for help, much as those in Anjou went looking for Cathelineau. He joined the first insurgents and quickly drew in people who already knew him: foresters, gamekeepers, peasants, artisans. He organised them into parish companies and larger groupings.

He fought through the main 1793 campaign and then, when the army crossed the Loire during the Virée de Galerne, he became “major-general”, meaning second-in-command, to Henri de La Rochejaquelein, who was then general-in-chief. They were not alike at all in personality, but they worked well together, and much of the Angevin contingent took its direction from Stofflet.

After Le Mans, and the drift into a smaller guerrilla war that eventually got Henri killed, Stofflet kept fighting around the Mauges and Haut-Poitou against the Republic’s new mobile “infernal columns”(15) moving through the Vendée militaire burning villages, seizing food, and killing suspects.

He also turned the Maulévrier–Vezins forest into a refuge zone, with camps, huts, an improvised hospital, stores, and even a small printing operation. By summer 1794, these insurgent “refuge zones” linked up across much of the Vendée militaire.

In 1795 the Republic tried to end the war by treaty. The main agreement was negotiated near Nantes at La Jaunaye (16). Stofflet arrived late, on 20 February, and refused to sign because the text required recognising the “République une et indivisible.” That said, he revised his position soon after, when Canclaux (17) forced him into a corner.

On 2 May 1795 Stofflet signed his own peace treaty near Saint-Florent-le-Vieil. That evening he dined with Republican officers at Varades and accepted the small tricolour plume offered to each signatory. The next day he published proclamations calling for the peace to be respected. He went to Cholet on 4 May to negotiate prisoner releases and prepared to settle back at Maulévrier.

Late 1795 and January 1796 did not bring stability. Surveillance tightened, and royalist émigré networks pushed for a restart of the war. Hoche (18) offered Stofflet exile with money, or residence under watch. Stofflet refused. On 26 January 1796, he caved under pressure and ended the peace and truce. He tried to seize Chemillé on 28 January, failed, and went back into hiding near Villefort.

He was captured because of a meeting. On 21–22 February 1796 his second-in-command proposed a night conference with the Chouans (19) at the isolated farm of La Saugrenière. The meeting was a trap, and when the door opened the house was rushed. In the fight, Stofflet took a sabre blow that dragged the skin of his forehead down over his eyes. Blinded and bleeding, he was taken.

He and the others were dragged 35 km from Chemillé to Angers in the cold and without medical treatment. They simply tied the loose skin above his eyes so he could see. A military commission heard them immediately, without a lawyer, and condemned them.

He was shot on 25 February 1796, around 10 a.m., on the Champ-de-Mars at Angers. Stofflet refused a blindfold and gave his watch, his last possession, to a Lorrainer in the firing party. A plaque now marks the street corner where he was executed.

What happened to the body is unusually well documented. After the volley, the corpses were loaded onto a handcart and taken to the cemetery of Le Clon, on a site now replaced by Place La Fayette. Before burial, Stofflet was decapitated and one arm was cut off.

The arm ends up being lost. The head, however, is very much… visible.

On 12 March 1796 an officer municipal noted that a citizen named Gauthier had put the head on display for the public, and the municipal response was approving, since it would ensure there were no doubts as to Stofflet’s death.

Before 1800 the head was already in the hands of a surgeon at Brain-sur-l’Authion. He kept it in esprit de vin (ordinary brandy) in a jar that wasn’t very airtight. The soft tissue decayed, and by about 1811–1813 only the bone remained.

The skull stayed in that same family in Brain-sur-l’Authion through the nineteenth century, passed on through marriage, then kept at Angers in the twentieth century. It was shown at La Chabotterie in 1993. In 1996 it was deposited at the Musée d’Art et d’Histoire de Cholet. Anthropological analysis described an adult male consistent with Stofflet’s age (forty-three), consistent with a period of preservation in alcohol, and with a contusion on the frontal bone from a bladed weapon.

So, in short, Stofflet’s body went into a now-disappeared cemetery in Angers, without its head and missing an arm. As for the head, you can walk into the Musée d’Art et d’Histoire de Cholet and see it on display.

Stofflet has no grave in the traditional sense, but the comte de Colbert put up a very nice obelisk in his memory in the courtyard of Château Colbert. It’s in Maulévrier and it’s very easy to access. The château is now a hotel, where we spent a few nights last summer. The hotel itself isn’t particularly great, but it’s decorated with a lot of Vendée war memorabilia. The restaurant, fittingly called Stofflet, is a different story. It’s genuinely brilliant (it helps that they have their own prize-winning potager for the vegetables). We went twice and we’ll definitely go back.

So while you can’t visit Stofflet’s grave, you can at least have an excellent meal in the château where he spent five years serving.

Addresses:

Plaque to Stofflet on the street where he was executed: Boulevard du Maréchal Joffre, Angers, France

Stofflet’s head in the museum in Cholet: 27 avenue de l’Abreuvoir, 49300 Cholet, France

Château Colbert (obelisk in the courtyard): Place du Château de Colbert, 49360 Maulévrier, France

François-Athanase Charette de La Contrie (1763–1796)

Charette holds the dubious distinction of dying last, and also of being slightly apart from the others by sheer geography. While all the others operated together in the centre and east of the Vendée militaire, Charette mostly kept to the Pays de Retz, only joining the rest for specific operations (like the siege of Nantes or the battle of Cholet), often with mixed results. That didn’t stop him from being dubbed the “King of the Vendée” once everyone else but Stofflet was dead, or from becoming the most recognisable face of the war.

Born at Couffé near Ancenis, he was educated at the Oratorians’ college in Angers and pushed towards the navy. He embarked as a young officer in 1779, completed eleven campaigns in nine years (six in wartime), and rose quickly, becoming a first lieutenant by 1787. Like most of his noble counterparts, he welcomed the Revolution as a shift away from absolute monarchy.

When the uprising began in 1793, Charette was initially reluctant to join, but was persuaded by the peasants who came looking for him (one version is that he really did not want to join the madness, so he was hiding under his bed, and they literally had to drag him out). He attached himself to the insurgent centre at Machecoul, and set about turning badly armed peasants into something closer to a force, drilling them and organising rudimentary artillery. In a matter of weeks he carved out control in the Pays de Retz and the Marais, took Machecoul after hard fighting, and made Legé his base. He spent most of the war “ruling” his little kingdom and fighting a guerrilla war against the Republican army.

His prominence only grew after the peace of La Jaunaye (1795) and the return to war that followed, especially once Louis XVIII himself acknowledged his command and treated him as central to any restoration project.

By then, however, whatever steam the Vendéan rebellion had had was completely gone (arguably it had been gone since December 1793). It didn’t help that the only two still standing, Stofflet and Charette, hated each other’s guts and were never going to work together. In short, like Stofflet, whatever return to arms Charette was planning was a folly and bound to fail.

On 23 March 1796, mostly abandoned by his army, after a fight with General Travot’s (20) troops in and around the woods of La Chabotterie, Charette was wounded, cornered, and taken alive. He was given first aid on a kitchen table before being taken to Nantes.

The Logis de la Chabotterie ended up becoming the key place tied to Charette. Now a museum, it has a really good exhibition on the Wars in the Vendée, complete with Charette’s death mask and a reconstruction of his face based on it. The building is preserved and furnished as a traditional 18th-century logis vendéen, which makes it genuinely beautiful to visit. The forest layout also follows the story of his capture and includes a cross placed where he was taken. When we were there in August, there was a live-action show about the capture of Charette that was actually quite fun to watch. In short, if you’re ever in the region, I really recommend it.

Anyway, he was sent downriver to Nantes on 27 March and brought to the Bouffay prison after midnight on the 28th, where he was interrogated. On Tuesday 29 March he appeared before a military council at the Bouffay, and he was executed by firing squad on the Place Viarme. He refused both blindfold and kneeling, asked to give the signal himself, and died after the volley. A marker was placed on the spot.

His body was immediately removed to the quarries on the road of Gigant, where the city disposed of the dead in a communal pit. A Nantes plasterer, Casanne, was authorised to take a death mask, likely shaving hair and beard to do it. The corpse was then thrown in without a coffin. Days later, Casanne was accused of having stolen the body and forced to return to the pit, locate it among decomposing corpses, and take a second imprint to prove identity. After that, Charette’s remains were simply left there, mixed with many others, somewhere in what later became suburban gardens near the road to Rennes, with no precise spot identified.

Addresses:

Marker placed where Charette was executed: Pl. Viarme, 44000 Nantes, France

Logis de la Chabotterie (where he was captured): Saint Sulpice le Verdon, 85260 Montréverd, France

Note

(1) Here I’m talking about the chefs. There were other generals leading the western armies, but let’s just say their survival rate wasn’t much better. I can count them on one hand and still have fingers left over.

(2) I really can’t stress this enough: when I say “Vendéan army”, I’m using it as a convenient umbrella term for the rebel forces of the Vendée militaire. It was not a monolith, and it didn’t even come solely from the Vendée itself. The Vendée militaire, the area where the uprising took place, actually spans four departments: Vendée, Loire-Atlantique, Maine-et-Loire, and Deux-Sèvres. The fighting forces were split into several armies. Very loosely, you can group them as follows: the Catholic and Royal Army (the largest one, what people usually mean when they say “the Vendéan army”, and the core of what we think of as the War in the Vendée), the Army of the Centre (which at various points either joined the Catholic and Royal Army or Charette), and Charette’s army in the Pays de Retz.

(3) In his defence, Lescure didn’t choose where he was injured. It also probably wasn’t a bush in 1793.

(4) I’m not joking: peasants genuinely believed that standing next to him would protect them from bullets.

(5) This was during a half-hearted attempt by the Vendée to rise in support of the Duchess of Berry, widow of Charles X’s son and mother of the “legitimate” Henri V.

(6) One particularity of the Vendéan armies was that they were made up almost entirely of peasants. Which meant zero military training. As a result, generals had to lead from the front, literally. They had to run ahead of the mass of peasants to show them what to do. Unsurprisingly, this contributed quite a lot to the extremely high mortality rate among Vendéan generals.

(7) The attack on the Tuileries on 10 August 1792, when a Parisian crowd and National Guards assaulted the royal palace, massacred the Swiss Guards, and effectively ended the monarchy. A lot of these men were in Paris at that point and were rather traumatised by it. 

(8) Bonchamps had really, really bad luck with bullets. He kept getting hit from June 1793 onward, right up until the one that killed him in October.

(9) It’s called la Viree de Galerne

(10) A short-lived royal guard unit created during the constitutional monarchy to protect Louis XVI. It existed for a matter of weeks in 1792 and was dissolved by the Legislative Assembly on 29 May 1792, partly because everyone was convinced it was an aristocratic nest of vipers 

(11) Le Mans is where the Catholic and Royal army pretty much collapses. The Vendéans take the town on 10 December 1793, then the Republicans retake it on 12–13 December and very much destroy the rebel army in the process.  

(12) Basically Louis uselessly got himself killed in 1815 trying to stop Napoleon’s return during the Hundred Days. He didn’t really need to do that. Napoleon had much bigger problems than a handful of people in the Vendée, but Louis seems to have wanted to be like his older brother.

(13) Victoire de Donnissan. First Madame de Lescure, then she remarried Henri’s brother Louis. She wrote the memoir that ended up setting a the narrative for the war, which is why her husbands keep showing up in footnotes.

(14) Charles Colbert de Maulévrier, owner of Château Colbert. Stofflet worked on his estate as head gamekeeper from 1787

(15) The name given to the Republican “incendiary columns” sent through the Vendée militaire from January to May 1794 under General Turreau. The idea was to sweep the area, burn, seize food, and wipe out the remaining insurgent base. In practice it meant a lot of civilians died.

(16) The manor near Nantes (Saint-Sébastien-sur-Loire) where the Treaty of La Jaunaye was signed on 17 February 1795, in an attempt to end the war. 

(17) Jean-Baptiste-Camille de Canclaux, Republican general. He defended Nantes against the Vendéans on 29 June 1793 and beyond

(18) Lazare Hoche, the Republican general who becomes the face of “pacification” in the west in 1795–1796. 

(19) Royalist insurgents operating mainly north of the Loire, in Brittany (and nearby bits). Related to the Vendée war, but not the same thing. 

One of my favourite episodes of the Vendéan War is the death of General Charles de Bonchamps, mortally wounded after the Battle of Cholet and carried to Saint-Florent-le-Vieil. 

It isn’t my favourite because I find Bonchamps particularly fascinating, or because of the inherent tragedy of it, nor even because it followed one of the war’s most decisive battles, but because it shows that humanity can exist even when violence has become routine.

On his deathbed, in unbearable pain, Bonchamps learned that the Republican prisoners, five thousand of them, were about to be executed. Horrified, he ordered their release. That was his final act as general. That gesture, made in the face of death, is , to me,  profoundly humbling.

Charles-Melchior-Artus, Marquis de Bonchamps (1760–1793)

Charles-Melchior-Artus de Bonchamps was born on 10 May 1760 at Juvardeil, in the province of Anjou. His family belonged to the rural nobility of western France, respected but not wealthy. His father had served as a page at Versailles and left him only a modest inheritance, including a small family estate in what is now the department of Maine-et-Loire.

Bonchamps entered military service at sixteen, joining the Régiment d’Aquitaine in 1776. He showed early promise as an officer. During the American War of Independence, he was sent to India in 1782 as part of the French expeditionary forces supporting the Sultan of Mysore, Tipu Sahib, against the British. He returned to France in 1783, was promoted captain, and later stationed at Mézières.

In 1789 he married Marie-Renée-Marguerite de Scépeaux, from another old Angevin family. The couple settled at La Baronnière, near La Chapelle-Saint-Florent, where they lived quietly through the first years of the Revolution. Bonchamps was not an émigré and did not participate in counter-revolutionary plots. In fact, he was one of many nobles who took the required oath of loyalty to the nation.

When the Vendée uprising broke out in March 1793, Bonchamps was drawn into it almost against his will. Peasants from Saint-Florent-le-Vieil came to ask him to lead them in revolt against the Republican levée en masse. Like many nobles drawn in the conflict,  he hesitated, then accepted command of the local insurgents knowing that their chances of survival were, at best, limited. His military background quickly made him one of the most capable leaders of the Catholic and Royal Army of Anjou.

Bonchamps took part in the principal operations of that army: the capture of Bressuire, Thouars, Fontenay, and Saumur, and the failed assault on Nantes. Though he supported the royalist cause, he often opposed the excesses committed by some insurgents and tried to enforce discipline. 

He was seriously wounded several times during the campaign. On 17 October 1793, at the Battle of Cholet, he received a mortal wound to his abdomen while leading his troops. 

This is how his wife recounts the event in her memories (translation by me). 

The death of Bonchamps

The Vendéan generals resolved to make a final attempt to save Cholet (1), a town of vital importance, for it was the key to the Vendée. M. de Bonchamps and his fellow commanders prepared accordingly for a general engagement. The Vendéan forces took position upon the heights of Saint-Christophe-du-Bois, resolved to perish rather than suffer the enemy to take the town.

M. de Bonchamps, whose foresight never failed him (2), understood that the outcome of this battle would decide the fate of the royalist army. He accordingly turned his thoughts to the possibility of retreat and gave counsel on this critical matter. Time would prove the prudence and sagacity of his advice, yet unfortunately it was not heeded. All the generals agreed to entrust him with the arrangement of the army’s order of battle, and his dispositions were universally admired.

At the given signal, the Vendéans charged with impetuous fury. The centre of the Republican army was broken through by M. de Bonchamps himself. The ferocious Carrier (3), present in the ranks, had a horse shot from under him. The two sides soon met in close combat, fighting hand to hand, and nothing could withstand the royalist advance. Their victory seemed assured.

The Vendéans had swept all before them and had already entered the outskirts of Cholet. Suddenly, however, the Convention’s grenadiers re-formed, and the troops of Mayence (Mainz) (4) pressed forward. The tide of battle turned. Flanked upon the great heath by Republican cavalry, the royalists were driven back. Their generals sought in vain to stem the rout. Even the voice of my husband went unheeded amidst the panic.

In a last desperate effort, the chiefs gathered what men they could, formed a squadron, and with a handful of Vendéan horsemen hurled themselves, like men possessed, into the midst of the enemy lines. It was in that fatal moment that M. de Bonchamps received a mortal wound to the lower abdomen. He fell, covered in blood.

M. Piron (5) managed to cut through the enemy and carry him off, sparing him at least the horror of falling alive into enemy hands. The Republicans were executing prisoners indiscriminately. A stretcher was procured. At this sight, the Vendéans rallied, determined to escort and protect their wounded general. They surrounded him, taking turns to bear the stretcher for five long leagues, all the while pursued by the enemy.

He was conveyed to Saint-Florent (6), where five thousand Republican prisoners were being held within the church. Until then, religion had preserved the Vendéans from the crime of bloody reprisals (7). As I have already said, they had treated their enemies with honour and generosity. But when the report spread that my unfortunate husband had been mortally wounded, their fury equalled their despair. They swore to put the prisoners to death.

At that moment, M. de Bonchamps was taken to the house of Madame Duval in the lower part of the town. The officers of his army gathered, knelt around the mattress upon which he lay, and awaited with cruel anxiety the surgeon’s verdict. But the wound was grave beyond hope. M. de Bonchamps read it in the sombre expression on every face. He sought to calm the sorrow of his officers and insisted that his final orders be obeyed.

He commanded that the prisoners held in the abbey be spared. Then, turning to M. d’Autichamp (8), one of the officers he held most dear, he added:

“My friend, this shall surely be the last order I give you. Let me die knowing it will be carried out.”

That dying command had the effect one might expect of a man so deeply revered. Scarcely had it been made known than cries arose from every part of the camp: “Mercy! Mercy! Bonchamps commands it!” And so the prisoners were saved.

A brief improvement in his condition raised some faint hope, and my husband wished to be moved from Saint-Florent. He had himself carried to the village of La Meilleraie (9), to the house of a fisherman. There, feeling death approach, he turned wholly to his religious duties. In his final hours he was attended by two venerable priests, Messieurs Courgeon and Martin. He received their exhortations not only with courage, but with joy. They promised him the eternal rewards reserved for a life of purity, the fulfilment of duty, and the keeping of one’s oath.

After hearing them, M. de Bonchamps lifted his eyes and hands to Heaven, and said, in a voice still firm:

“Yes, I dare to trust in the mercy of the Most High. I did not act from pride, nor to secure a name that perishes with time. I did not fight for human glory. I sought to overthrow the bloody tyranny of impiety and crime. If I have failed to raise again the altar and the throne, I have at least defended them. I have served God, my King, and my country. I have learned to forgive.”

All who were present were moved to tears. His faith and his quiet fervour seemed to pass from his soul into theirs. M. de Bonchamps repeated more than once that he had been promised the prisoners would be spared, and that he counted upon it. And after receiving the last rites with angelic piety, he gave up his soul in the arms of Messieurs Courgeon and Martin.

The tears of every brave man were the funeral oration of M. de Bonchamps. Even his enemies paid just tribute to his memory.

(Mémoires de Madame la Marquise de Bonchamps, sur la Vendée, 1823)

A tomb worthy of a hero

Charles de Bonchamps was first buried in Varades, near the place where he died. Twenty years later, however, his family decided to bring him home to Saint-Florent-le-Vieil.

It was 1824, nine years after Napoleon’s fall, with a Bourbon securely back on the throne. France was weary of division, and the new regime was eager to cultivate a spirit of reconciliation. The king (10)  himself had little interest in reopening the wounds of the Vendée, yet the mood of the time allowed certain figures from the war to be honoured as national heroes (11). Among them, Bonchamps was the least controversial: a moderate, politically centrist, his legacy untainted by fanaticism. When his family launched a public subscription to finance a monument to him, no one objected.

The chosen sculptor, however, was an unexpected one. Pierre-Jean David, later known as David d’Angers, was a committed republican. His selection had nothing to do with politics and everything to do with talent, and with a curious link between sculptor and subject. 

Among the five thousand Republican prisoners spared by Bonchamps on his deathbed was a carpenter and wood sculptor named Pierre Louis David. He was not a particularly important man, but he had a son who would become one of France’s foremost sculptors. That son was David d’Angers.

It was he who created the extraordinary monument that now stands in the church at Saint-Florent-le-Vieil. It shows Bonchamps dying, half-reclining on a stretcher, bare to the waist, his right arm lifted in command. The pose, with the arm extended and hand open, comes from classical models. David had studied the figure of the river-god Ilissos from the Parthenon’s west pediment while in London in 1815, and the clean lines of the body show that influence. But in Bonchamps he moved away from the calm of Classicism, giving the figure a human urgency closer to early Romanticism. The general’s head is thrown back, his mouth slightly open, his face tight with pain, his hair falling in loose curls, reminiscent of Alexander the Great.

It is a striking work. When I saw it, I stood there for twenty minutes. If he were not carved in marble, I could almost imagine him crying out for mercy, trying to rise, to pardon the prisoners himself.

The genius of David d’Angers lies not just in the classical precision of the form, but in its expression of something far more difficult: the brutal truth of pain. The polished marble doesn’t hide the agony of the man, or the chaos of the moment it captures. It’s an agony that bridges across politics, across sides. Because life is sacred. Because it’s worth protecting. Because even in defeat, even in rage, we should err on the side of mercy. The Royalist general can pardon the Republican. The Republican can carve the tomb of the Royalist general.I will not wax pseudo-philosophical or poetic, but surely there is a lesson to be drawn there.

Notes

(1) Cholet was the principal town of the Vendée region and a strategic crossroads. Its loss would have opened the interior to Republican forces. The Battle of Cholet, fought on 17 October 1793, was a turning point in the war and marked the beginning of the Vendéan army’s retreat across the Loire.

(2) Bonchamps was a former officer in the royal army, a professional soldier known for his prudence and moderation. He was arguably the best strategist in the Vendéan army.

(3) Jean-Baptiste Carrier (1756–1794) was the Representative on Mission sent by the Convention to Nantes. I am fairly sure she is mistaken and that he was not present at Cholet.

(4) The armée de Mayence was a veteran corps paroled after the capitulation of Mainz in July 1793 and redeployed in the Vendée under Kléber. Hardened by siege service, the Mayençais had exceptional cohesion and dependable officers. They were later disbanded after being defeated by La Rochejaquelein at Entrammes.

(5) Dominique-Louis Piron (1760–1794) was a veteran of the American War of Independence and later an officer in the merchant navy. He eventually settled near Nantes, where he became captain of the National Guard. Soon viewed with suspicion, he emigrated for a time before returning to France and establishing himself at La Varenne, in the Mauges, near the Loire. When the uprising began, he joined Bonchamps’s army and distinguished himself in several victories at Vihiers, Coron, and Pont-Barré. He later took part in the disastrous Virée de Galerne and was killed while attempting to recross the Loire.

(6) Saint-Florent-le-Vieil, situated on the Loire, was a key town at several points in the Vendéan War. It was where the uprising began and where most of the army crossed the Loire river during its flight towards Brittany.

(7) Pardons were not uncommon in the Vendéan army. On the contrary, it was rarer for the generals to tolerate excessive cruelty. What makes Bonchamps’s gesture exceptional is that he was dying, that it came after a devastating defeat which had inflamed the army’s anger, and that it concerned such a large number of prisoners.

(8) Charles-Marie de Beaumont, Count of Autichamp, was one of the few senior leaders of the 1793 uprising to survive. An Angevin nobleman, d’Autichamp began his career in the regiment of Condé before the Revolution. He emigrated for a time but later returned to France and joined the Constitutional Guard of Louis XVI, taking part in the defence of the Tuileries on 10 August 1792 alongside Henri de La Rochejaquelein. When unrest broke out in the Vendée, he joined his neighbour and cousin General Bonchamps, becoming his chief lieutenant. After the defeat at Cholet, he took part in the Virée de Galerne as far as Granville, narrowly escaping death at Le Mans. He remained in arms until his surrender to General Hoche in 1797.

(9) La Meilleraie was a village now absorbed into Varades. The house where Bonchamps died is still standing and open to the public. It is often used as an exhibition space.

(10) Either Louis XVIII or Charles X, depending on the period of the Restoration in question.

I couldn’t help myself; I did it. The seven Vendéan generals and their signatures. Credit for the idea goes to the now-deactivated historival, who did the same with several prominent revolutionary figures.

For Bonchamps, d’Elbée, La Rochejaquelein, Lescure, and Stofflet, the signatures are taken from the document proclaiming Cathelineau as the first General-in-Chief of the Royal and Catholic Army. Charette and Cathelineau come from a rather obscure German almanac.

For those unfamiliar with these men: they were the seven who, at one point or another between 1793 and 1796, led the civil war in the Vendée on the Vendéan side.

Owing to a very interesting question I received in my inbox, I’m working on a more detailed piece explaining who they were and what truly motivated their actions (spoiler: the monarchy had little to do with it). But until that’s ready, here you go; the men and their signatures.

The Seven Vendéan Generals:

Charles de Bonchamps (1760–1793)

Jacques Cathelineau (1759–1793)

François-Athanase Charette de La Contrie (1763–1796)

Maurice d’Elbée (1752–1794)

Louis de Lescure (1766–1793)

Henri de La Rochejaquelein (1772–1794)

I'm still neck-deep in my studies of the Vendée, and what I've found particularly fascinating is that nearly every (1) prominent general not only boasts an impressively cool portrait but also sports a rather fetching nickname.

The nicknames are sourced from the Memoirs of the Marquise de La Rochejaquelein. How reliable is she? The lady lost her father and both her husbands in two separate Vendéen royalist uprisings, so she's hardly an unbiased chronicler. However, it's a reasonable assumption that, irrespective of one's views on the beliefs of these six men, they exhibited considerable courage and grace in their tragically brief lives—something even their Republican foes, begrudgingly, acknowledged.

Moreover, even if the cool monikers might be embellished, they're somewhat incidental to the broader mythos surrounding the Vendéen generals(2)

The truly intriguing part is the blatantly obvious piece of Royalist propaganda embodied by the six portraits and what they reveal—not so much about the portrayed subjects, but about the man who commissioned them: Louis XVIII (3).

Every Vendée General needs a Good, King-approved, Profile Picture