A PRISON TRAGEDY
MORNING dawned, and half of another slow day passed. Ah, how slow those
unoccupied hours were! Roy could do nothing but hang listlessly about.
He could think of nothing but the coming nightfall, when, after dark,
but before they were ordered into the souterrain for the night, he and
his companions would steal softly away to that high outer wall, and
would scale it. All details of the plan thus far had been carefully
thought out and arranged. Beyond that, most of them were trusting
largely to what is called "the chapter of accidents."
To be free again! Ah, to be free!—free under the blue sky, free to
breathe heaven's breezes, free to sun himself in heaven's smile, free
to stretch his limbs, free to be a light-hearted English boy once more
instead of a careworn man before his time! Roy flung his arms out and
clutched the prison wall, in that craving for liberty.
Midday came, and the crowd of prisoners was, as usual, ordered in. A
hand touched Roy, and a rough voice ordered him to follow.
Roy faced the gendarme.
"Where?" he demanded blankly, in a moment realising what this might
mean.
No answer was vouchsafed. These gendarmes were for the most part
surly fellows, though even among them gleams of kindness towards the
prisoners were not wholly unknown.
Roy had no choice but to obey. Resistance would have done himself no
good, and might have drawn suspicion upon his comrades. The man laid a
grip upon his arm, and led him—not down but up—past the ground floor,
ascending to the floor above. At the end of a long passage, he stopped
at a door, opened it, and thrust Roy in. The door was shut and the lock
snapped.
Roy found himself alone in a small cell, with stone floor, stone
ceiling, stone walls, one little iron-barred window, deeply embrasured,
and a single wooden bench. Beside the bench were a jug of water, a
hunch of bread, and some cheese.
Was he now condemned to solitary confinement—perhaps for weeks, perhaps
for months, perhaps for years? And for what? What had he done to bring
this upon himself?
But for the planned escape, so near at hand, he might have welcomed
almost any change from the dungeon and its horrors. Now, however, now
with freedom in sight, to be carried off, to be placed where he was, to
be debarred from every hope of liberty—it was heart-breaking.
He flung himself upon the ground, hid his face on his crossed arms, and
gave himself over to despair.
Would he never leave this awful place? Was this the way in which his
prayers and his mother's prayers were to be answered? If so, what was
the use of praying? He would give it all up. He would never pray again.
It was of no use. Nothing was of any use.
Hours passed in one long agony. All that day he was left alone. At
nightfall a gendarme brought his allowance of coarse food, and went
away. Roy drank the water, and pushed the black bread aside, too sick
with misery to eat. The boys would now be escaping. He followed in
imagination every step of theirs, envying them bitterly. That they
should be on their way to dear old England, and that he should be held
back! It was too terrible too awful! too cruel!
He had no sleep that night. He could not see the pitying angels who
hovered over him in the darkness. He could not know what was going on
in another part of the fortress. He could not guess how some of his
comrades won their freedom.
All the next morning he lay upon the ground, listless, hopeless,
careless of what might happen next.
At midday he was ordered to go down into the yard. That was the hour
when the inhabitants of the great dungeon retired into their cavern,
and when the better class of prisoners might take their turn of fresh
air—if any air could be fresh which had just been breathed by hundreds
of men. Roy wondered languidly at being treated thus. He had expected
to remain in his cell. It mattered little either way, he said to
himself, as he found his way thither. All hope for the present was at
an end.
On reaching the yard, his first impression was of an unusual gravity
among even the gravest of the prisoners there before him. One or two
half spoke to Roy, and stopped, thinking from his look that he already
knew,—that he would not be taken by surprise. And so he was allowed
to pass on, unhindered. He saw the expression in their faces, and he
wondered a little, indifferently.
Then indifference fled, and a dazed bewilderment took possession of
him. His brain swam, and he staggered to the wall, clutching it for
support, staring and shuddering.
His eyes had fallen on something unexpected—on—what was it? What could
it mean?
A row of boys lying on the ground, peacefully asleep. Ah, so
peacefully! so awfully white and still, in their brave blue uniforms,
some of them spattered with mud. But they did not seem to mind. A smile
was on one quiet face; a second wore a look of high repose; one or two
carried a defiant frown, as if at the last moment they had known what
was come to them; and another was a little grieved, but not much. And
all were free. They had won their liberty, though not the liberty for
which they had craved and striven, but doubtless a better freedom.
Only, the poor mothers of those lads, away at home, what would it have
been to them to see their boys lying here?
Roy dragged himself nearer, his heart beating in heavy strokes, while
his head seemed to be bursting open. Yes, these were the boys with whom
he was to have made his escape—some of them at least. And here was
little Will Peirce, with blue eyes fast shut, lying in the placidest
sleep, smiling to himself, in a calm waxen whiteness. He had tried to
do his duty to the last. Brave little Will!
Roy caught his breath in one hard moan of bitter pain.
"Come away," a voice said, and somebody drew him, unresisting, to the
further side of the yard. Roy vaguely knew that it was an elderly
English officer, one of the quietest and most retiring of the upstairs
prisoners, seldom heard to speak. He made Roy sit down, and as the boy
hid his face, a compassionate hand was on his wrist.
"I know, You were in the dungeon with them, I believe. Don't look any
more. No good. It's over for them."
A sound asked the question which Roy could not put into words.
"It was last night. They tried to escape over the wall. It seems to
have been planned for some time. But they were overheard and betrayed
by a fellow-prisoner. The scoundrel! They got away safely to the top
of the wall, and let down the rope. Their plan had been to descend one
by one, I believe; but they found that too slow, and time was short.
So when they had fastened the rope, they got upon it all together. A
French officer was on the watch, and he seized the moment to cut it
above. The miscreant! The hound! He'll get his deserts some day! They
all fell. Several were killed instantly,—as we see. Some, with broken
limbs, are in hospital. This is not the first time that an escape has
ended thus. The bodies are always exposed next day."
Roy shuddered.
"You may be thankful that you were not among them."
Another shudder.
The grey-haired Colonel bent gravely towards him.
"If any friend of yours is there, do not grieve too much, my boy. Some
of us might well be disposed to envy them. They are in God's Hands now,
and that is well. God is kinder far than man."
He might indeed say so, looking across the yard. Roy lifted his face,
as if in bitter protest. Was man kind, if man could do such deeds as
these? And then he thought of Ivor, of his father, of Sir John Moore.
There may be very demons in human form upon earth; yet man was made in
the Image of God; and all the kindliness that is seen in the best of
men is a glimmer of that Image.