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.
{Robert Lewin, aged 94. The only Yaxley Man who remembers Norman Cross
Barracks. From a photograph taken by Rev. E. H. Brown: p113.jpg}
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
recherche 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.