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 pounds 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."