They all sprung up. Tournier himself sprung up. A general fight seemed imminent. But the greater part were gentlemen, and Tournier, still calm, said with a smile, “Take no notice of it, my friends. Let us withdraw. At least we will bear away the palm of victory over our tempers.”
The malcontents were disconcerted at this magnanimity.
Only Villemet would have a parting shot, and as he retired, said, “If ever I meet that coquin outside these cursed walls, I’ll horsewhip him black and blue.”
The man was making for Villemet, but his companions pulled him back.
Within an hour Captain Martin had returned with a troop of yeomanry. They had just had a field-day, and for some reason, one of the troops had not been dismissed like the rest. So, without waiting a moment, officers and men galloped off to Norman Cross. The other troops of yeomanry were to follow as soon as they could be got together, along with three or four companies of volunteers and militia.
The tumult was still continuing among the prisoners, though with more frequent spells of comparative quiet: symptoms, perhaps, of exhaustion. No opening had yet been discovered in the palisades, though the soldiers thought they sometimes heard, when a lull in the uproar occurred, the sound of heavy blows against them, which almost directly ceased when the uproar abated. And it made some entertain the idea, that the otherwise childish shouting was not without a rational object, namely, to drown the noise of blows.
At length darkness came on. It promised to be an intensely dark night—one of those nights, of which there are only a few in every year, when you cannot, as we say, see your own hand.
Watch-fires were kindled at every station where a detachment was posted round the prison enclosure. All the troops were under arms through the night; the gunners in the block-house ready for action; and the yeomanry patrolling the Peterborough and Great North roads. At about three in the morning a sentinel fired his piece, and the nearest detachment fell in, and hurried at the double to the spot. The prisoners were escaping through an opening in one of the palisades, but the prompt arrival of the soldiers quickly stopped the exodus. Some were thrust back again, and an array of bayonets at the charge, together with a volley from the rear ranks, fired, at first, by the commandant’s express orders, into the air, effectually prevented all further attempt. Nine prisoners escaped, and got clear away, surmounting the difficulty of the last palisading of all by friendly help from outside, as it was supposed, a rope with a hook at the end being found next morning at a certain spot. In all probability it was a sweet-heart’s act, some acquaintance formed at the barrack market.
Several other openings were made, but the soldiers, after the first alarm, were so much on the alert, that hardly any more escaped. Altogether less than a score got clear away, besides the nine already mentioned; but how they managed to get over the last palisade was a mystery, except there were, as in the other case, assistance from without, though no trace of it was discovered. Sad to relate, however, more than half of those who obtained their freedom were recaptured after a few days, some of them a long way off from Norman Cross.
One other attempt at escape deserves to be recorded, because it was planned with skill and daring worthy of a better result. In the barrack-yard where Malin was confined, there happened to be several sappers, and they had dug a mine, with very imperfect tools, some thirty-four feet in length, towards the Great North Road, but unfortunately it fell short of the required distance, and the men were found when daylight broke still within the outer wall of the prison.
So ended the only general outbreak that was ever made by the prisoners of Norman Cross; and Major Kelly could ever after enjoy the immense satisfaction of reflecting that the suppression of so serious an attempt was brought about without a drop of blood.
As an instance of the extreme peril they ran who contrived to escape, it is recorded on a tombstone in the Churchyard of East Dereham, how Jean de Narde, son of a Notary Public of St. Malo, a French prisoner of war (most likely from Norman Cross), escaped from the Bell Tower of the Church (where he had been confined temporarily on his re-capture), and was pursued and shot by a soldier on duty October 6th, 1799, aged 28 years. Oh, why did not that stupid fool of a soldier miss him!
But it is pleasant to add that, in the year 1857, when French and English were fighting side by side in the Crimea, the then Vicar and two friends erected a tombstone as a memorial of poor de Narde’s untimely fate, and “as a tribute of respect to that brave and generous Nation, once our foes, but now our allies and brethren.” And they add the words which all but those who make profit out of war will heartily echo and re-echo, “Ainsi soit il.”
An important change took place in the management of the barracks at Norman Cross a few months after the event narrated in the preceding chapter. Captain Mortimer, the admiralty agent, resigned his position there on promotion to another charge. Whether the relations between him and Major Kelly became rather strained, or whether he himself was a little ashamed of the violent measures he had recommended to suppress the mutiny, and which certainly had made him more unpopular than ever, cannot be determined. But resign he did in the month of August, 1811, and was succeeded by Captain John Draper, R.N. The exchange was a blessed one for the prisoners: not because the important duties were done more punctually and exactly, but because the one was a sympathising man, and the other a mere machine. There was all the difference between the two men that there is between the music of a street piano that rattles through long runs with provoking correctness, and a sweet air played by the fair hands of one whose soul is in her music.
The prisoners felt the relief before they knew whence it came, as men breathing the close atmosphere of a crowded room may feel invigorated before they know that a supply of pure oxygen has been introduced therein. It was not that they fared any better than before. They had the same rations, though the new agent saw with his own eyes that they were good and sufficient. They had the same cramped-up sleeping bunks, only he never let a man be without proper covering, even if he punished him afterwards if he gambled it away. They were still prisoners, hard and fast; yet, somehow, the bondage was not so galling as it used to be. The agent’s manner was kind and friendly. He spoke cheerily to the prisoners. He asked questions. He took notice of the desponding, and there were many such. The sick he tenderly cared for. This was to the ordinary rank and file. To the officers he was all this and more. Not because he cared more for them, but because, as a rule, he could unbend to them more than to the others without risk of lowering his position. He frequently visited their quarters, chatted freely with them, played billiards with them, was pleased to see the English officers mix at proper times with them, admired heartily the beautiful handiwork of the common men. The only man he could not abide was the one who, whether officer or private, was a fraud or a sham.
And in this treatment of his unfortunate charge the Commandant entirely went along with him.
War was still raging. That in the Peninsula—which so many now-a-days know nothing about, but prefer “Tit-Bits,” or the writings of sceptical ladies, but in which the most splendid generalship and indomitable bravery were displayed on both sides as in no other country, and which formed one of the hinges on which the fortune of Napoleon turned, the other being the ice-bound plains of Russia—was pouring fresh prisoners into England (20,000 in ten months is the number once mentioned in a despatch of Wellington’s), and no doubt Norman Cross had its share. But for all who arrived there Captain Draper had a friendly look, and for many a word of kindness.
He had not been long at his post before he became acquainted with Captain Tournier; and his sympathy for him, quickly awakened, was all the more increased by what he heard from Major Kelly. They both soon had more reason than ever to be drawn to him.
There was a French agency in London, sanctioned by the English government, through which prisoners of war had under certain restrictions the means of communication with their friends abroad. Tournier had from the first, as we may be sure, availed himself of this privilege. From his mother’s letters he could not hide from himself the fact that his absence from her, under such melancholy circumstances, was prejudicially affecting her health. The dear old soul always tried to make the best of it, but nature would out, although it was more from indirect remarks than from any positive complaints, that Tournier gathered the true state of the case. Of course it grieved him exceedingly, and added fresh poignancy to his unhappiness. But there was one thing that, for the first two years, her letters always contained in one form or another, that made some sweet amends, and that was that she invariably added how his dear Elise soothed and comforted her. “Whenever I see her,” his mother would write, “I seem to see you; and she says the same of me.”
For the last few months, however, Tournier could not but observe, but most unwillingly, there had been a gradual cessation of these fond remarks in his mother’s letters, and, worse still, a corresponding chilliness in those of his Elise. At first, it was “How weary it is without you!” then, “How can I go on living without you?” then, “How long will it be before I shall see you?” This is not a romantic way of putting it; but the downward progress of a woman’s heart that is not true, does not deserve romantic description. The auctioneer’s formula is quite good enough, “Going—going—gone.”
Still the man who loved her with true and generous affection could not, and would not, believe evil. “Poor dear heart,” he would say; “she is indeed to be pitied! How can she help being weary of my absence so long?”
And here it must not fail to be recorded, that Tournier was no longer the same man that he had been when first he arrived at Norman Cross—a proud, bitterly disappointed, sensitive, angry man, who had lost what little faith he ever had in God. He was still a faulty character, no doubt. Poor erring men do not leap into perfection at a bound. But the revolving light that first sent forth its rays into his mind, some two years ago, in Cosin’s house, had gone on revolving till it became a settled and influential conviction—that God is good, and will help all who want Him, even in their direst need. How good and how mighty to save God was, he had yet to learn: but that He was good, and that He would help him, that he firmly believed. And who had done it for him—this miracle, if you like to call it?—God. By weak human instrumentality, by degrees: but yet God: for none else could have done it.
It made him stronger, much stronger, to bear the bitter trouble that yet oppressed him day by day. It made him hope on, even in the dark. It gave him an object in life, when all he once had lived for seemed swept away.
The reality of his belief was before long put to a very severe test. A letter from his mother arrived one day. The unusually shaky hand-writing of the address instantly struck him, and a horrible dread that something was wrong seized him. It might have turned out nothing after all, for where we remember one presentiment that turns out true, we forget twenty that turn out false. But in this case it possessed him. He had been very far from well for some time past. In fact, the three years of prison life, and its attendant anxieties, were telling on him. He was lying on a sofa, which his friend at the farm had sent to the prison for him, when the letter was put in his hand. “I cannot read this here,” he muttered, and hurried out of the room, and thence into the road. Taking the way towards Yaxley, he almost ran down a lane that turned towards Whittlesea mere to a favourite spot by the water, where he had often gone fishing with Cosin (for it was deep there), and was very secluded. He called it his sanctuaire. Flinging himself down, he tore open the letter with trembling hands, and began to read:—
“Oh, my dear, dear son! How can I write what I have to say to you? The good God give you strength to bear it like a man. Elise has run away from her home. Your friend, Colonel Fontenoy, has been staying in our neighbourhood, having recovered from his wounds: and made love to her in spite of the opposition of her family (you know what a handsome man he is), and by this time they are married in Paris . . .”
Whether Tournier got as far as this, no one could say. He was found some hours after with the letter crumpled up in his hand, lying lifeless on the green turf.
But what had been going on during the interval between his beginning the letter and his swooning away? One thing was most certain: The footsteps leading to the brink of the water, again and again repeated, were signs of an awful struggle between the impulse to get free from the troubles of this life (though not of the next), and the determination to trust in God and do the right.
His fellow-prisoners had noticed his agitated manner and hasty departure after receiving the letter, and when he did not return to the barracks for some hours, they communicated with the officer of the guard, who lost no time in informing the Commandant. Major Kelly fancied Tournier might be with his friend at the Manor Farm, but, not being quite easy about it, he went there himself.
“Oh,” said Cosin, “I’ll be bound he is at his favourite haunt. The prison is not the place to read love-letters in. He always goes there when he wants to be alone. Shall we go and see, major?”
There, as has been said, they found him. The first impression was that he was dead. And no wonder: he looked so like it. But closer examination shewed that life was still in him. As quickly as possible they obtained a light cart, and tenderly placed the body in it—Cosin supporting the head—and gently drove away.
“I wish you would allow me to take him to my house,” said Cosin: “it is nearer than the barracks; and by the look of the poor, dear fellow, he will not bear much shaking, and—I should so like to have him.”
The major thought a minute, and said, “Perhaps you are right. It is nearer and quieter than the barracks. I can authorise you to take charge of him, though Draper may be jealous of you.”
So they brought him to the Manor House, and carried him upstairs with utmost care, and placed him in Cosin’s own room, for none other was ready, and put him to bed.
He was still unconscious, and no restoratives they applied to the best of their ability had any effect. Would he ever wake up again?
Meanwhile, a doctor was sent for post-haste. Those at the barracks were all English, of whom Mr. Vise, of Stilton, was chief; and he, happening to be there at the time, instantly drove to the Manor House.
“Brain fever,” said the doctor, after careful examination of the patient: “and a very bad case too I fear. It is of course too early to speak positively as yet: but so far as I see at present, I should say it is extremely improbable that he will ever regain consciousness. Perfect quietude is all-essential to him. His life depends on it. He must have had intense irritation of the brain, and some shock must have supervened to bring him to the state in which I find him. What is that paper clutched so tightly in his hand?” he added. “It may explain something.” And then, with a doctor’s skill, he succeeded in disengaging from his grasp the fatal letter, and read it.
“There is the explanation, at least in part.”
Each of the others read the letter so far as was needful, but, like gentlemen, no further. And Cosin understood it all better than the others could.
Full directions were given by the doctor as to treatment, and his last words were, “You must never leave him for a minute night nor day; and if he wake—if he wake—let nothing on any account excite him.”
No doubt the doctor was right in theory, but medical directions are sometimes more easy to give than to carry out.
The doctor then drove away with Major Kelly, having first ascertained that Alice Cosin had sent for the best nurse in the village, who, wonderful to say, was a very good one.
Soon after they had left, Villemet came hurrying to the house, having obtained leave from the major. He seemed to have run all the way.
“You are the very man I want,” said Cosin.
“Do let me see him,” cried the other, all out of breath.
“You shall directly, only you must restrain your feelings, and on no account disturb him. He is so ill, it would kill him outright if you did.”
And he told him why it was he was so glad he had come: because, if their friend chanced to arouse, it would not excite him so much to see Villemet, as it would to see any one else. “I only wish you could stop all night,” he added.
“So I can. The major said I might if you wanted me; but I did not like to intrude myself upon you.”
And they two kept watch all through the night, hearing the church-clock, close by, strike every hour; Cosin keeping out of sight, and Villemet sitting where the eyes of the patient might more easily see him, should they ever open again.
The fever increased. Restlessness began. Then a murmur, very faint, startled them; but it was nothing. Louder and articulate words came next; and delirium set in, lasting many weary hours. He was in France—always in France. He spoke of his mother; was talking to her: called her by name. But he never once mentioned the name Elise.
A tear came into Villemet’s eye when he heard his poor friend express his joy at seeing his mother—he thought of his own—but he dashed it away. Why be ashamed, strong man? It becomes the brave to weep sometimes. Only noodles never do so. There must be brains to produce tears, and a heart too: and noodles have neither.
This went on for many hours. They wanted Villemet to take some rest, but he refused. He dosed in his chair, but the slightest sound awoke him: a sentinel at the shrine of friendship. At length, on the third day in the early morning, the eyes of the sick man opened, and fully rested on the familiar face of his friend. Instantly, but without any startling haste, Villemet was on his knee beside him, looking at him with a placid smile, as if nothing had happened.
“I have been so happy. I have been to France, and seen the old place—and my mother. But is it not strange? I never saw her, E—.” And the eyes closed again, and the voice sank out.
Some hours of unconsciousness followed, but with decreasing restlessness. The doctor gave hope. Only he again warned them that the next waking would be the critical one. “Whatever you do,” he said, “keep him, if you can, from reverting to the past as long as possible.”
Yet it so happened that the next time Tournier aroused, Villemet was out of the room, and Cosin had taken his place. The afternoon sun was lighting up his face with a slanting ray as he sat by the bedside and looked toward the window; and when he turned his eyes again on his friend, he could hardly refrain from starting. Tournier was gazing on him with a look of intense earnestness.
“Where am I?”
“You are on a visit to me, and have been very ill, and I want you to go to sleep again, and not think about anything.”
“But do you know,” said Tournier, making a feeble effort to put out his hand, which his friend gently took, “that when I first woke up, such horrid thoughts came into my mind! but I caught sight of your face, and they went away.”
“That’s right. Now take this nourishment, and try to sleep again. We shall have plenty of time to talk when you are stronger, and I shall be always close by.”
It would be wearisome to describe at any length the various stages of recovery: for recover he did, and became as strong and vigorous as ever. No little share had Alice Cosin in bringing this about, though in that unobtrusive, and often unknown, way in which dear, kind women work, for she was one of those who had the mark of the true lady in her household duties. She knew everything, and saw to everything, and did anything that would make the household comfortable.
And when Tournier got strong enough to think and converse without restraint, he told Cosin, with great emotion, the terrible nature of that struggle he had had beside the water of the mere before they found him, and what it was God had made use of to save him.
“I cannot describe,” he said, “the hell that rose up within me when I read that she was married. I rushed to the water (I knew it was deep there,) in furious passion, to fling myself in. It was not fear that stopped me—never in my life was I afraid of anything—it was a voice, not outside me, but within: a voice that was more distinct to me than a bell tolled close to my ear, and all the more because it never reached me through the ear; it reached my brain though, aye, and my heart. And it said, ‘God is good. God can help.’ Over and over again I rushed to the water to drown myself, and over and over again that voice within stopped me at the brink. Oh, it was frightful! but God was good, and God did help me.”
Many a time after this did the friends converse together, in their walks, when they rode out, and as they sat at the fire-side; and without any affectation of superior wisdom, yet, when Tournier at any time appeared to flag or grow weary in bearing up under his still severe trials, Cosin would cheer him by telling him, out of the fulness of his own heart, that all hopeless trouble came from trying to live without God, and that no one is really wise who thinks he knows better than He.
And when, on one occasion, Tournier was much depressed, because he had asked himself a question which every man must one day ask, if he means to be truly happy, though some, by God’s grace, learn the answer before they know the immensity of it.
“I cannot understand how it is that God can be so good to such imperfect, nay, I will out with the word, sinful creatures as we are? I am afraid I have made use of religious jargon, like many others.”
“My dear fellow,” replied Cosin, “God is good to all; but we have no right to claim any share in His goodness except through Christ. If we left that out it would be jargon indeed.”
Victor Malin and Marc Poivre hated each other with perfect hatred. But there was this peculiarity in their mutual animosity: it was intermittent. One day they would be glaring at each other like wild beasts; the next, they would be walking in the prison-yard arm in arm, singing bacchanalian songs, as inseparable chums. Their relations had not improved since the riot, for Malin had lost credit with the other prisoners since the failure of it, and laid the blame on Poivre for making fun of him, while there rankled, deep in Poivre’s breast, the recollection that Malin had as good as called him a coward.
It was in one of the intermittent periods, when they were bosom friends again, that, on a certain evening, they were playing cards together. The stakes were high for them, for each had a little money just then, the result of the sale of some fancy work of theirs, at which they were very clever, though they did not often condescend to take the trouble. Malin had made the model of a guillotine out of a beef bone, and Poivre some dominoes, dice, and box of similar material.
The luck, as we say, had run all along in favour of Poivre. Malin was becoming savage. He lost all his money, then his next day’s rations, then his shirt (not worth much). Poivre was one of those gamblers who take infernal delight in heaping on the agony when their opponent loses his temper badly. He made the other furious by pretending to pity him for his ill-fortune; and when he got down to the shirt, calmly suggested whether there was not something else he had that he might stake in order to regain his luck.
“You’d take my soul,” cried Malin, with an oath so loud and frightful, or rather such a volley of them, that the other men in the room came crowding around them.
“Not worth anything,” replied Poivre; “can’t see it.”
“It’s worth as much as yours.”
“That’s not saying much.”
The atmosphere was thick with oaths, and as oaths and devils go together, the atmosphere must have been of a sulphureous nature, as it always is at such times, though we may not notice it.
“Don’t talk to me, poltron!” cried Malin.
“That’s the second time you have called me so,” said Poivre, starting up, his temper rising at a bound to “stormy,” and shaking his fist at the other.
“And not the last!” shouted Malin, glad to find the other as angry as himself. “I tell you, you are a poltron, before all these gentlemen. You have no more courage than a rabbit, and no more spirit than an old woman. You ran away at Talavera. You did all you could to make us afraid the night before we struck for liberty. You—”
“Liar!” screamed Poivre: “to-morrow I will prove it on your great big carcase. Valentin, my friend, come with me.”
A gentleman of not very prepossessing appearance responded to the call.
Most of the prisoners were delighted. It was the prospect of a little amusement, of which they did not enjoy much.
The formalities of a duel were gone through with the utmost possible punctilio. The seconds arranged that, as there were no swords to be had, the principals should fight with knives fastened to short sticks, with guards and handles. And as this took up time, it was agreed to put off the duel to sunrise on the second day. So all the next they were shaping and sharpening the knives with the best tools they had; and some armourers, who happened to belong to their yard, helped them.
Warning was given in the common room that night that there should be as little noise and talking as possible on the part of the prisoners, lest the soldiers on guard should hear it, and be led to interfere.
So, as soon as it was light, the two men, Malin and Poivre, were standing, like two fools, in due position, and in that part of the yard which was furthest from the gates, ready, as soon as the signal was given, to try and cut each other to pieces.
Yet, were they greater fools than they who fight with better weapons? We may admire their pluck, but we cannot admire their sense. A duel proves nothing but that each is a brave man, except it be the duel between French political adversaries in these days, when one pricks the other, and both are satisfied!
But they have saluted and begun. At first they eyed each other steadily, and made feints, and changed their ground. And this went on so long that at last some irreverent bystander, longing to see business done, cried out, “Allons, mes amis, avancez.” And at that moment a skilful thrust from Malin wounded Poivre in the face, and the first blood was drawn. But Malin received it back with interest, for Poivre, who was a tall and very muscular man, beat down the other’s guard, and laid open his bare head. And then both slashed and gashed away without any attempt at guarding, till the disgusting spectacle was ended by Malin dropping down, like a fat pig cut up before he was killed.
The guards came up, and the doctor was sent for. They were both removed to the prison hospital. But there was nothing to be done for Malin. His gross habit of body, from years of dissipation, made his many wounds fatal. He died the next day. The good chaplain visited him—but he was insensible.
Poivre remained some time in hospital, and listened respectfully to the bishop; but when he came out he was received as a hero, and that soon drowned reflection. So hard is it to turn to God one who has for years forsaken Him. It is not impossible, and there is good reason for saying so; but it is not probable, for experience teaches us that such is the case.
* * * * *
There was a young man in hospital at the same time as Poivre, in an advanced stage of consumption. Nature had never intended him to be a soldier. He was a sturdy, well-made, good-looking young fellow, but with the hidden seeds of that fell disease in his constitution which only waited development. Had he been let alone in his little heritage in the sunny south of France, he might have lived happily to at least a fair age: but conscription, mercilessly enforced, not for defence of country, but to gratify the satanic ambition of one man, seized upon him, and he became a soldier, sorely against his will, in one of the armies of the Peninsula.
It is always a marvel how men could stand the wear and tear of those seven years of incessant warfare in that country. Yet the veteran soldiers of France and England did stand it, and many lived to tell the tale in after years to their children in quiet resting-places. But how many, who survived, came home when all was over to suffer to their dying day the effects of over-taxed energies?
Such was the case, though taken prisoner some time before all was over, with Gaspard Berthier, who now lay broken-down in the prison hospital at Norman Cross.
Marc Poivre was a rough comforter to him. Their berths were near each other, and as Poivre was somewhat softened at first, he deigned to notice the poor young fellow.
“That cough of yours, Gaspard,” said he, “is very bad.”
“I fear it annoys you,” replied the other. “I am very sorry, but I cannot help it. I wish I could, for my sake as well as others!”
“I think you might stop it more than you do,” said a gruff voice from a face of vinegar close by: “specially of nights.”
“Don’t vex the poor lad,” said Poivre; “he won’t be here long; his time is very short.”
“I am not so sure of that,” replied Gaspard, with some animation. “I thought your time was short, when they brought you in the other day in such a pickle: but I was wrong, you see.”
Poivre laughed; but added with more feeling than he usually shewed, “I fear not, Gaspard; your last campaign is over, depend upon it.”
A bright answer came to this doleful prophecy. “I am glad of it, for then they will discharge me, and let me go home.”
“He never ought to have been a soldier,” growled the man of vinegar.
This remark was not relished by those of the patients who belonged to the same yard as Gaspard—there were from thirty to forty in hospital all told—for he was a kind-hearted fellow, ready to do anyone a good turn, and, though quiet, by no means a fool, as rowdies always are. So the man of vinegar was hushed down.
The truth was that, as is sometimes the case with consumptive patients, Gaspard was so sanguine about himself, that he never thought he was going to die. To the last he believed he would recover. And, happily, his was not that painful form of the disease where there is a great deal of suffering, and a literal dying by inches, so that the poor sick one longs to be released.
The good chaplain noticed this feature of his complaint, but instead of continually insisting on the fact that he was a dying man, he took the poor fellow, as it were, on his own ground, and treated him as if he were going to live.
“Gaspard, my son,” the old man would say, “we must all die, and they live the happiest who are best prepared for it. Religion is not for dying people only: it is for those who have years before them in this world, for those who are the busiest of the busy, for strong men as well as more feeble women, for old and young, for rich and poor alike, for those in the midst of temptation as well as for men shut up in convents, for the soldier amidst the excitements of war, and for the husbandman plying his peaceful occupations. Therefore, Gaspard, let us all have religion.”
It would not be becoming to attempt to narrate all that was said in the intercourse between the minister and his charge. There are many religions in the world, but only one way in which we can find peace with God. No mere form will save anybody; and to whatever communion we belong, there is but one essential mark that distinguishes in God’s sight all who are of the one true spiritual Church—and we have it on the highest authority—“They shall be all taught of God.” And for want of that teaching men go wrong in a thousand different ways!
Gaspard died, and they buried him. The place of interment for the prisoners of Norman Cross was a large field of several acres about a quarter of a mile from the corner where the Peterborough and Great North Roads meet, and on the west side of the latter. It was therefore a very short distance from the barracks. Why the Government purchased so large a field for the purpose it is impossible to say, unless they anticipated a very indefinite duration of the war. Not more than a small quarter of it has apparently been consecrated by the presence of the dead.
Here they brought poor Gaspard’s emaciated body, and laid the child of sunny France in England’s colder soil. The prison officials carried him, but no mourners followed, save Poivre, who got leave for that purpose. The chaplain at the head, and a sergeant’s guard bringing up the rear, completed the procession. It has been said that the same coffin was used over and over again, and that each body was taken out of it at the grave and lowered without one; but it is impossible to credit it for a moment. Such a man as the Bishop of Moulines would never have suffered such barbarism, and the country that spent £300,000 a year on this one prison, would never have grudged a coffin apiece to each poor fellow’s body that required one. The libel must have originated with somebody (not an undertaker,) who thought in his poor heart that one was good enough for all. “It was only a prisoner.”
There, without attracting the notice of the others, and so depressing them, but with decency and reverence, they laid the dead to rest.
It is a sacred spot still. How many have been laid there of those exiles from their fatherland, no record shows, and no one knows their names save He who is the common Father of us all, and before whom not one of them is forgotten. No prisoner was buried in the church or churchyard; nor did such exclusion arise from any want of respect, but from necessity; though it would be pleasant to have had to relate that some notice was in some way taken in the parish books of Yaxley of these interesting parishioners, who were fellow-men, and who had done no wrong but die for their country. But not one word is written about them, nor one allusion made to them.
Much more to be regretted, however, is the fact that, in the portion of the pasture field where the dust of these poor fellows awaits the day of resurrection, not one single thing of any the slightest sort is to be seen to indicate the solemn use to which it has been put. The soil, more sympathetic than man, still points by its depression to the spot where each grave has been, but no other record, no token whatever, not even an enclosure. So that when the authorities sold back the field, they sold it along with all the dead that lay in part of it.
Cui bono?
The answer is—in the words of the “Stranger”—
“Give something to the dead.
“Give what?
Respect.”
It must have been a great aggravation of the trials of a prisoner of war that, from first to last, he was uncertain as to the duration of his captivity. Had it not been for the sham peace of Amiens, some of the prisoners would have been in confinement seventeen years, while others were set at liberty after only one or two. It may be said, Yes, but then they might always hope. But hope, like other things, wants something to feed upon. It cannot bring much consolation, when it lives upon fluctuation and uncertainty. And so a criminal, who knows how long exactly his term will last, is in this respect better off than a prisoner of war, for he escapes the agitation of uncertainty; just as it has been known that a person threatened with blindness, has become much less irritable when he knew for certain he could never see again, than he was when recovery was doubtful.
The scales of hope went up and down continually at Norman Cross, according to the intelligence that reached the prisoners from each seat of war. The triumphs of Napoleon on the Continent, and the victories of Wellington in the Peninsula, were pondered over with deepest interest by both officers and men. But no prophet was there among them, or anywhere else, who could forecast the issue that was swiftly coming on. At the commencement of the year 1812, all was still uncertain. In the Eastern provinces of Spain the French were almost everywhere triumphant. Napoleon was beginning his grand preparation for the invasion of Russia. Our cousins in America were displaying their brotherly instincts by declaring war against us in our trouble. Peace seemed as far off as ever.
Captain Tournier did not return to the barracks until his health was completely re-established, and Major Kelly was very liberal in his allowance of time. He quitted the hospitable roof of his friend with much regret, but with a heart full of gratitude, and went back to his discomforts as a man returning to his duty, not what he liked, but his duty, and what he meant to make the best of.
Alice Cosin was much struck with the alteration in him, so much so indeed that she did not quite like it. “He seems so cheerful,” she remarked to her brother, “going back to that horrid place after all the comforts he has enjoyed with us.”
“Ah, dear Alice,” he replied, “Tournier always was a man, but he is more a man than ever now, and is going to play the man with his troubles, which is far harder work than fighting with sword and pistol.”
Villemet, however, had been ordered back some time before, and returned to prison, it must be owned, with very bad grace.
That nice little bedroom, so sweet and clean, with creepers peeping in at him through the window, and reminding him of home; and those blue eyes, that always looked so true, made it hard work to leave. He went off with a heavy heart and the gloominess of a mute; and as he shook hands with his friends, he made the most profound bow to Alice, and said, “Miss Cosin, I am going from paradise to I’ll not say what. You cannot imagine how awful the change will be.”
A shower of good wishes refreshed him for the moment, but they did not prevent his entering the hated prison like a bear with a scalded head.
This amiable mood, not altogether to be wondered at, was not improved by the atmosphere of the prison, which he found more than ever charged with the depressing opinion among the prisoners that there was less likelihood than ever of the war coming to an end. Villemet, as we have seen, was a light-hearted fellow, even to a fault; but his light-heartedness was simply nature’s good gift to him, it was not the fruit of principle, like the newly-found cheerfulness of his friend Tournier, and could not, or at least did not, stand the strain of long continued uncertainty.
“I will stand this vile bondage no longer,” he said to himself one day. “Better be shot in trying to escape than stay longer in this foul den, and lose all my best days of manhood, buried before my time. Honour! What’s honour among thieves? The English have robbed me of my liberty, and I will rob them of my presence. So we shall be quits. If they catch me, I will pay the penalty with my life. Is that not a fair bargain?”
It was bad logic. But when passion urges a man, good-bye to his logic!
Villemet said nothing to Tournier about it. He knew it would be of no use. Nor did he say anything to anybody. He had no wish to incur the responsibility of involving others in the rash attempt.
There was an inn called the “Wheat Sheaf” in the parish of Stibbington, about five miles from the barracks. It was a favourite rendezvous of the officers on parole, not for the sake of tippling, the chief attraction of such places in these more enlightened days, but because they could get a recherché dinner there, the mother of the highly respectable landlord being a singularly good cook. Villemet knew the place well, and had been often there. Thither he proceeded one afternoon on a day when he knew few, if any, from the barracks would be there, and had some dinner all by himself in the familiar parlour. Then he sat down in the well-worn arm-chair, and rang for a cigar. “If anybody calls to see me,” he said to the waiting-maid, “shew him in here, and mind you don’t let anyone disturb me while he is here. Now don’t you forget,” he added with a severe look the girl had never seen before in the merry fellow’s face; “nobody whatever is to come in while we are talking.”
In the evening of the same day, as it began to get dark, Tournier, who had been spending the day with Cosin, was on the point of getting up to return to the barracks, when the landlord of the “Wheat Sheaf” was announced. He had asked to see Tournier.
“Tell him to come in here,” said Cosin, “and I will leave you to yourselves.”
“Pray don’t,” said the other laughing; “I have no secrets with the worthy host of the ‘Wheat Sheaf.’”
“I have brought bad news, gentlemen,” said the man hurriedly; “your friend, Mr. Villemet, has made away with himself—”
“What! killed himself?” both exclaimed in horror.
“Not quite so bad as that, though it may end in something quite as bad. He has bolted, and never means to come back alive.”
“How do you know?”
“My servant girl took it into her head to listen at the door, while a stranger, who had called upon the gentleman, was talking with him in the parlour; and she heard him mention something about a brace of pistols he had brought; and also, which was the best way to the Lincolnshire coast; and whether he could find him up a horse somewhere, she couldn’t catch the name of the place. My wife and I were out at the time, but when we came home she let out all about it.”
Well might they both look grave.
“How long ago did you first hear about this?”
“Less than two hours. I started directly. If the girl had only repeated some tittle-tattle I should have taken no notice of course, but as it was, I felt bound to let you know.”
“Had Mr. Villemet left before you came away?”
“Oh, certainly: full an hour before.”
“Don’t let anyone know about it. It will be better for you not to mention it. It might spoil your custom.”
Thus cautioned, the worthy landlord went away.
“Can you lend me a horse, Cosin?”
“Yes, and go with you myself.”
He ordered two horses to be ready in half-an-hour, and himself went round to three or four neighbours, and invited them to join the party, telling them, of course, the object of their sudden departure. Not one of them hesitated a moment, for Villemet was popular among them; and the farmers of Yaxley were, at that time, manly, steady, and obliging fellows, in no wise ashamed to be seen in their place in the house of God. And the race is happily not extinct.
“Shall we take pistols?”
“Yes. But don’t use them if you can possibly help it.”
They cantered off, a party of six, all firm in the saddle, and passed the barracks without attracting much attention, as it was dark.
The difficulty was to know what road Villemet had taken, but they all agreed they must chance it, and go straight away to Spalding. Thither they galloped as fast as horses’ legs could carry them, arriving there soon after midnight.
A belated hostler at one of the inns was asked whether he had seen a horseman, or horsemen, pass through the town lately. He scratched his head and meditated.
“Aye, to be sure I have. Leastways, one. What a memory I have! Why I had my lantern with me, and took a good look at him. By George, his horse was steaming. But it was a poor creature, and would sweat, I should think, if he only whisked his tail twice, only he’d got none.”
“What a picture of a screw!” said one of the party, laughing heartily with the rest.
“Just what we wanted,” said Tournier; and giving the man a tip, they all went off again.
They had gone but a few miles when they heard the sound of horse’s feet in front of them. They halted and listened. It was only one horse, and they could distinguish the voice of the rider urging the poor beast along, with not very gentle thuds of a whip.
“It is Villemet’s voice,” said Tournier: “and he evidently hears us coming.”
And now was the critical time. They wanted to secure without hurting him; and they also wanted to save him from the after misery of having hurt, or perhaps killed, one of them. So they broke into a canter, and, as they had arranged beforehand, began to sing at the top of their voices a jolly uproarious huntman’s song; and passing Villemet (who took them for roysterers going home,) on the right and left, reined up their horses, the foremost riders seizing the bridle, and the next two pointing their pistols at the runaway, and cried, “Stand and deliver in the king’s name,” and then all burst out laughing.
Bewildered by this, Villemet’s hand yet sought his pistol, but Tournier grasped his wrist and held it as in a vice, saying, “Don’t you know me, old friend?”
“I don’t call you a friend,” said Villemet, “to put a pistol at my head, and stop me from escaping!”
“My dear man,” answered one of the party, “none of our pistols are cocked.”
At this, Villemet made a frantic effort to disengage his hand, but he was overpowered, and both his pistols taken from him.
“Remember, sir,” the other said, “we can cock our pistols in a moment, and use them too: they are all loaded.”
“Look here, my friend,” said Tournier, calmly, “we have no wish to attend your funeral at Yaxley, or to have you shut up in the barracks all the rest of your time. So, if you will pass your word of honour to me that you will not again attempt to escape, and come back with us, no one shall know anything about this matter; and, as you will remember, your parole from the major extends over to-morrow, so you will be all right in that quarter.”
Villemet made no reply. The proposal was hard of digestion in his very ruffled state, but there was certainly gilt on the gingerbread.
“And what if I refuse your gracious offer?” at last he said.
“Then, in that case,” replied Tournier, “we shall tie your feet under the belly of this noble steed, with our pistols at full cock, lest he should run away, and take you back in triumph to Norman Cross to meet the fate you deserve.”
The compact was made, and faithfully adhered to.
All parties concerned kept the secret well, and happily the air of Yaxley was unfavourable to idle gossip.
* * * * *
The overpowering sense of weariness and impatience which must have afflicted the prisoners, as in the case of Villemet, had its simplest and most direct antidote in occupation. A well known German poet has said, that occupation and sympathy are the two great remedies for grief of all sorts. Happily there were a great many of the prisoners who tried the first of these specifics. They spent a considerable portion of their time in making a variety of articles of more or less elaborate workmanship, and in many cases of great artistic beauty. Indeed, it is difficult which to admire most, the skill displayed in their work, or the dexterity with which they turned to account the very limited material that was within their reach—for the most part wood, straw, and beef-bones. It is surprising what delicate things they produced out of the last, which the kitchen supplied them with in abundance.
Some of them (no doubt sailors,) made models of ships, exact in the minutest details. Others, of the same material, made work-boxes, watch-stands, statuettes (one of the crucifixion and madonna), boxes of dominoes, a carved spinning-jenny, the figures representing the costumes of the period, guillotines, models of the block-house (partly wood), and many more articles of all descriptions.
Besides these really wonderful survivals of the soup-caldron (which by the way was five feet across, and more than three feet deep), the straw work of the prisoners was equally beautiful. There was a model of the noble west front of Peterborough Cathedral in straw marqueterie (and another in grass); also a picture representing a church, with mill and bridge, and a barge on the river; with all kinds of boxes, fire-screens, dressing-cases, tea-caddies, etc. These are given simply as specimens of the really skilled work they did, and which must have cost them much patience, and an infinite amount of care and trouble.
It is said that some of the prisoners made a good deal of money by the sale of these articles to visitors at the prison, and that when their liberation came at last, they had amassed fabulous little fortunes. At all events, their industry was rewarded. They obtained the means of adding to their comforts; and much better than this, whether they gained much or little in money, busy employment saved them from that greatest of all evils, the curse of even enforced idleness.
And so the handiwork of the prisoners of Norman Cross, who wisely chose to work, instead of idly repining in their trouble, is a useful lesson to all—to make the best of our circumstances, however trying and forlorn, by doing with our might the work we can do, even if it be not the work we like the best.
Captain Draper had only been eighteen months at Norman Cross when, to the great regret of all—prisoners, officials, and soldiers, he was seized with sudden illness and died. He was admirably fitted for the position he held there, but, like many a man engaged in much higher and more important work than his, and for which far greater qualifications are required, he was cut off in the midst of his usefulness.
That we cannot understand why such things happen is only to confess how limited is our knowledge; to complain of them, is to doubt the goodness and wisdom of the Almighty. Perhaps it is not a bad guess to suppose they are intended to teach us that most wholesome lesson—that few in this world are important, none necessary.
Every possible token of respect was shewed to his memory. With the prisoners themselves it was more than respect. Rough as many of them were, demoralized by severance from family ties, soured by hopelessness, they had found a man, to use an expression of holy writ, who had showed them “the kindness of God” in their affliction: and now he was gone from them for ever.
They addressed a petition to the commandant that some of them might be allowed to attend the funeral at Yaxley Church, a request which Major Kelly granted with the greatest readiness, and was much touched by the concluding words of the petition, that he need not be afraid of incurring any risk by letting them come out for the occasion, because, wild as many of them were, there was not a single man amongst them that was such a mauvais sujet as to take advantage of the opportunity to attempt his escape.
Both officers and men were represented, as well as a considerable number of the regiments on guard, though Major Kelly was too sound a soldier to detach too many, knowing that it was right to provide against not only what was likely, but also what was possible to happen.
It was a touching sight, as a military funeral always is, even when the departed one is an ordinary and undistinguished man. How much more when he has taken an honourable part in many a glorious field of battle! And how much more yet, when, as in this case, he has fallen on the field of unromantic duty, done with faithfulness, and with kindness, and with humanity.
His record still exists, and may be seen to this day on the north wall of the Lady-chapel of the grand old church of Yaxley, honouring alike the good man whose remains lie there, and the “poor prisoners,” whose friend he was.
The tablet has the following words on it:
“Inscribed at the desire and at the sole expense of the French prisoners of war at Norman Cross, to the memory of Captain John Draper, R.N., who for the last 18 months of his life was agent to the depôt; in testimony of their esteem and gratitude for his humane attention to their comforts during that too short period. He died Feb. 23, 1813, aged 53 years.”
When all was over, Tournier remained behind to view the sacred edifice with his friend Cosin.
“What a magnificent church,” he exclaimed, after he had looked round. “Why, it is a small cathedral! Are all your parish churches like this?”
“No,” said Cosin, smiling, “this is the finest in the neighbourhood.”
“But what is the meaning of those wooden boxes all about?” asked Tournier: “they look like (forgive me for saying so,) what we call ‘stalles pour les bestiaux,’ but there are seats in them”—peeping into one of the square pews.
“Oh, that is where we sit and worship.”
“How droll!”
So it strikes a stranger! Taste in such matters had not yet come into fashion, or rather, it had gone away, and not yet come back.
“Well,” said Tournier, greatly interested, and looking round with admiration on the noble building, with its beautiful windows and four fine chapels, “if my village church in France were anything like this, I would take a pride in doing my utmost to preserve and beautify it. It is a glorious gift. But, excuse me, my dear friend, it does not look cared for.”
Then he asked about its age, and Cosin shewed him a place in the wall of one of the chapels where two hands are supporting a heart in some sort of relief. No inscription whatever accompanies the simple representation. “There,” he told Tournier, “is said to be deposited the heart of William of Yaxley, a native of the place, who was Abbot of Thorney, near Peterborough, and who built, or enlarged this church. He was a true Yaxley man, and directed that his body should be buried in Thorney Abbey, and his heart in the wall of Yaxley Church. I have often thought how I should like to make a hole [133] in that wall, and search for that heart, but to my mind it would be nothing less than sacrilege to do such a thing merely to gratify curiosity. No! Let William of Yaxley’s heart rest where he wished it to be. Yaxley was the home of his heart; Yaxley Church is the gift of his heart, and there should his heart rest in peace.”
* * * * *
On the 21st of June, 1813, the battle of Vittoria was fought. The French, under Marshal Jourdan, took up a strong position before the town, but after obstinate resistance were beaten and driven through the place. The whole of their artillery, baggage, and ammunition, together with property valued at a million sterling, was captured; and they fled in the greatest disorder, never rallying till they reached the Pyrenees. It was the last great battle on the soil of Spain, but it was not the first time the pass of Roncesvalles had witnessed a French disaster.
The consequence was—a fresh batch of prisoners arrived at Norman Cross, and it was probably the last.
Captain Tournier was standing talking with a number of other officers, both English and French, near the entrance gate of the barracks, when they saw them approaching along the road.
As the new comers passed by, their reception, as always, was respectful and sympathetic. The Frenchmen scrutinized their fellows with friendly eyes to see if they could detect among them some former comrade, and when they happened to do so, which of course was not often, gave lively tokens of recognition. Tournier was not in the front part of the group of officers, but nevertheless could see fairly well.
And he did see! He saw a face he had not looked on for years, and which he had hoped never to see again: a face that he had tried, oh, so hard, to forget: a face that haunted him in his dreams: the face of the man he hated more than anybody in the world! and there he was walking along (even in this his humiliation,) with his old air of a man for whom all the world was made; handsome as ever, but with those same cold eyes that looked on everything as a joke, whether it were a man’s life or a woman’s honour!
“What’s the matter with Tournier?” said one of the officers; “he has broken through like a madman and gone after someone yonder, as if he meant to do him grievous bodily harm!”
It was true. Tournier had uttered a strong exclamation, and broken through those in front of him with almost violence, and gone after somebody. He made for his man, and got up to him near enough to touch him, when he stopped short. “Fool that I am!” he thought; “I shall save his life by exposing him now! No! I will wait till I can make sure of him!”
And he turned away in terrible agitation.
All was brought back to his mind, and yet more to his heart. The man that had wronged him, that had caused him such anguish, that had well-nigh destroyed his life as he had his happiness, was brought close to him, at his very elbow, by this strange chance. And what for? Was it not that he might take vengeance on the scoundrel? He had forgiven her, but he never could forgive him. It was not meant that he should. So he thought.
And up and down the road he walked for hours, still thinking, till the stars came out in their glory, and looked down on him like pitying eyes. And once he looked up and noticed them, and they seemed to repeat the sweet refrain, “God is good, and can help.” But he thrust it from him, and said aloud, “Then why did God send him to me.”
“How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds,
“Makes deeds ill done!”
Wearied with walking, he bethought himself where he should go for the night. Not to the barracks. How could he sleep under the same roof with that villain? The very sight of him would goad him on to commit some indecorum before the others. Should he go to his friend Cosin’s? No! Something within made him shrink from encountering, in his present temper, that tranquil eye. He would be all for peace; and what had he to do with peace while her dishonour (as he put it) was unavenged, as well as his own.
However, to walk about all night, especially when by yourself, is not pleasant. Alas, for those who have to do it, and with no relief to come its rounds! So Tournier determined to get quarters at the “Wheat Sheaf,” and knocked the landlord up, as it was past midnight.
Next morning he went to the barracks, and sent in his name to the commandant, asking for an interview. Major Kelly looked surprised; it was not the usual way of approach.
“I am very sorry, sir,” said Tournier, “to trouble you in this irregular way; but the fact is, I am in great perplexity as to what I ought to do, and could not explain myself first to anyone else.”
“What is your difficulty, Captain Tournier?” said the major, rather coldly.
“Among the prisoners who arrived yesterday was a certain Colonel Fontenoy, who is my bitterest enemy, having wronged me past all endurance. I cannot be in the same quarters with him. Could you do me the very great kindness of putting me into one of the other wards, even though it be that of common men?”
Major Kelly paused awhile, as if thinking. “Is this Colonel Fontenoy,” he said, at length, “the same man as he who did indeed wrong you so shamefully, and drove you to desperation?”
“The very same.”
“When you first spoke,” said the major, “I was going to say that it was quite out of my power to arrange the prisoners with exact regard, or even any regard, to their private quarrels; but then yours is no common case, and I may add, your sensitiveness of no ordinary kind, I will see to the matter. But not to put you among the common men. You can stay in your old quarters, and I will put the colonel into other, and perhaps better ones. Of course I am bound to act justly towards him; and if he behaves himself, he will be out on parole; but I will confine him to the road in the west direction, so that you can keep out of his way.”
Major Kelly was as good as his word. But Tournier had no intention of keeping out of the colonel’s way, whenever he should get out on parole. The old feelings, natural but not Christian, had revived in him with a sudden rush at the sight of the man, and he was completely carried away by them. His only fear was lest, through precipitancy, or the interference of others, he should be hindered from obtaining from Fontenoy the satisfaction he demanded, if that be rightly satisfaction which consists in killing or wounding another, or in being killed or wounded oneself.
He never left the barracks for many days after this, but relapsed into his old moody ways. Villemet could not make out what was the matter with him.
One day they were walking together in the yard, when Tournier suddenly said, “Villemet, I want you to do something for me. It will, perhaps, be the last favour you will ever show me.”
“Then I would rather not do it.”
“But you must. Who do you think is in the prison at this present moment?—Fontenoy. He came with the others some days ago.”
“Is it possible?” cried Villemet, almost jumping with astonishment.
“And I want you to be my second: for as soon as ever he gets out on parole, I mean to challenge him, and the duel must be à l’ontrance.”
“With the greatest possible pleasure,” said his friend.
But they had to wait. It was some time before Fontenoy was out on parole. The major was in no hurry about it, out of consideration probably for Tournier.
At last, one day, Villemet, who kept up a sharp enquiry, announced the good news that the colonel was to be out next day. Both of them accordingly were on the watch for him in the road; and, sure enough, saw him coming along towards them, snuffing the air with great delight, and looking about him with evident satisfaction. The satisfaction, however, was not of long duration.
As the colonel’s eye caught the first glimpse of two gentlemen approaching him, he seemed to smell, as it were, something wrong, for
“Conscience does make cowards of us all”;
and when he came near enough to distinguish features as well as figure, he turned pale, and his effrontery for the moment left him. But it soon came back, and he met Tournier’s cruelly stern gaze with a look of careless defiance. Tournier stopped in front of him.