LIFE IN A FRENCH DUNGEON
EIGHT long, long months at Bitche!
No wonder Roy Baron was altered. He had grown fast in body, faster
still in spirit. He had left Verdun a careless and light-hearted lad,
almost a child, young in all respects for his age. Eight months at
Bitche had ground every remnant of childishness out of him.
Not the whole of that time had been spent in the crowded dungeon.
The gendarmes knew better, when a prisoner possessed a little money.
For some weeks, by paying heavily, he had been permitted to occupy a
smaller room above ground, in company with a few other prisoners of
better grade. He had thankfully availed himself of the chance, and had
tried in vain to get Will brought up also. When his money ran out, and
no more arrived, he was remanded to the great dungeon.
He took it more quietly than at the first. By this time he was, in a
manner, used to close captivity. Will and the other middies welcomed
him with warmth; and he soon found that a plan for escape was brewing
among them.
No wonder prisoners sought to get away. The life in those underground
caverns must have been terrible.
From about eight at night till eight in the morning the three or four
hundred prisoners were locked up in their dungeon. At eight in the
morning they were turned out, like sheep from a pen, into the yard,
a place one hundred and thirty paces in length by about thirty in
breadth. There they stayed till noon, getting what air and exercise
they could. At noon they were mustered in the dungeon. Two or three
times a week a body of prisoners was allowed to go into the town, under
supervision, to buy food, and Roy had his turn occasionally. These
faint peeps of liberty made captivity harder to endure.
The very idea of escape from such an existence could not but be
welcomed, though every attempt to get away meant danger to life.
Many had escaped; many more were likely enough to do their best for
the same end. When Will Peirce, with the consent of his friends, and
under strictest vows of secrecy, confided to Roy their plan, Roy threw
himself into it with fervour. Anything to be free!
He stood in the prison-yard one cold day in late autumn, leaning
against the wall, with folded arms and abstracted look. A grey sky was
overhead, and some drops of half-frozen rain had fallen. Hundreds of
prisoners were assembled there: some walking about to keep themselves
warm; some leaping or wrestling; some fighting in good earnest; others
absorbed in games of chance; while many lounged listlessly, with
no spirit to exert themselves. A dull inertia, as of semi-despair,
characterised them.
Yet on the faces of a few, notably on that of Roy Baron, might have
been detected a gleam of something like hope, carefully repressed.
A blue-eyed little middy was at his side; for he and Will had drawn
together, as they seldom failed to do. Will's high spirits were as
helpful to Roy now, as Roy's in the past had been to Ivor.
About a dozen middies, besides one young Naval lieutenant and Roy
Baron, were in the plot, all sworn to secrecy. None but active and
agile young fellows could have hoped to succeed in what was proposed.
They had made a stout rope out of such materials as they were able to
get together; and their intention was to descend by means of this from
the high outer wall, which must first be scaled from within. One or two
would have to reach the top with no help from above, and, when they
were up, to lower the rope for the use of the rest. On the other side
of the wall lay fresh difficulties: sentries, perils of starvation,
dangers of being retaken, fears of worse treatment to follow. Those who
failed to get away might expect to be despatched to the fortress of
Sédan for solitary confinement. But with the hope of liberty to cheer
them on, not one of the number hesitated.
"Two days more! Only two days!" Roy was saying to himself. He hardly
dared to look up when anybody not in the secret drew near, so much he
feared to suggest by even a cheerful glance that hope had dawned.
"I know what you're thinking, Roy," muttered Will, under cover of a
noisy fight between a couple of imprisoned professional boxers.
"I'm thinking that this is an awful place."
Will drew closer, and spoke in lowered tones. "I say—don't look as if
we were saying anything particular. I say, mind we keep together. And
if—you know what I mean—"
Roy made a hasty gesture. "Then you tell my people. And if—the other
way—then I tell yours."
"Tell 'em I've tried to do my duty," said Will, as manly a note
breathing through his hushed tones as if he had measured six feet in
length. "And, Roy, tell my mother I haven't forgot what she said to me.
And I've got the Bible still; and I've said my prayers. I don't mind
telling you, because you're not the sort to jeer."
"And, Will, if it's the other way, you'll tell my people—tell 'em—"
Roy's voice faltered.
"I'll say you're as brave a chap as any officer in His Majesty's Navy.
Couldn't say more, could I?"
"Only that I've tried—that too. And tell Den I've kept my promise. It's
been hard work, but I have."
Somebody came near, and they dashed into careless talk.
Roy looked round that night with a strange moved gaze, when the bulk of
the prisoners were asleep. One night more after this—only one!—and then
away for dear old England, for the land of freedom.
He thought of Molly, and of how she would look when she saw him walk
in. He thought how glad his father and mother and Den would be, if once
they could know that their boy, Den's friend, was safe in England. Not
that Roy meant to stay at home. A little time in what now looked to him
like heaven itself, and then away to fight for his Country, to help to
overthrow the great tyrant.
It was worth while making the attempt, even though in that attempt he
should die. He was so sick and weary of this long captivity. He had
the craving of a caged bird for light and air, for exercise and active
life. At the bare notion of liberty once more, his heart danced and
sang. Then he bowed his head on his knees, and he prayed passionately
that—if only it might be—he should succeed, and should find his way
home. Home to Molly! Home to the dear old Country! The rapture of it!
"For Christ's sake, O God, let me go! Let me get away! O do not let
them take us prisoners again!" he implored.
But prayer, though heard, is not always answered in the manner wished.
And often one has to wait to know the reason.