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
depot; 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 _a 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.
"Colonel Fontenoy," he said, with the coldness of the grave: "my friend
here has something to say to you on my behalf."
The colonel began to speak; but Tournier at once silenced him.
"_I_ have nothing to say to you, sir," and passed on.
Then Villemet proceeded to execute his commission with all frigid
politeness and particularity. It is not worth while to relate what such
a man as Fontenoy said on the occasion. But the challenge was accepted.
The seconds were to arrange all the rest.
As the day drew near when, as Tournier learned, the colonel would again
be out on parole, he felt a strong desire to make his confession to the
bishop. There might be but a step between him and death. Besides, he
was not easy in his mind. He was not quite sure he was doing right in
thus seeking the life of his enemy.
So he sought and, as always, found a ready hearer in the chaplain. But
when he came to tell him what he contemplated doing, the good man looked
pained and surprised.
"And do you really think, my son, that the minister of God can forgive a
sin before it is committed? and that sin wilful murder?"
"Murder?"
"Yes, murder!"
"How can that be, when each has an equal chance?"
"Of committing murder!"
"There are many who fight duels."
"There are many who do wrong, my son."
"Then is killing in battle murder?"
"No, for it is not done in revenge. It is the motive that makes killing
murder. Your motive is revenge."
And then he went on to urge Tournier, for whom he had entertained the
tenderest regard, that he would give up his bloody intention, and leave
his enemy to God. He expostulated with him, used the most affectionate
entreaties, appealed to the authority of his holy office.
But all in vain. Tournier stoutly, but in the most respectful language,
refused to comply, and the bishop refused to grant him absolution.
But Tournier was most unhappy. Let those who remonstrate with another,
apparently in vain, remember to their comfort, that oftentimes the
remonstrance has not been entirely thrown away. The first blow of the
hammer does not drive home the nail, but it begins to do so.
One more evening before the fatal day: That evening he would spend with
his friends at the Manor House. He had treated them badly for several
weeks, and never gone near them; but they received him just as cordially
as ever, and took no notice of his absence, only expressed their pleasure
at seeing him, which touched him all the more; and then the thought
caused a lump in his throat that, perhaps, he might never see them again.
He did not like to speak of what he was about to do before Alice, because
it was an unpleasant subject for ladies' ears, but when she went out of
the room, he began at once to tell her brother all, from first to last.
Never had he seen Cosin so greatly disturbed. He listened with open
mouth and staring eyes to all that Tournier said without uttering a word.
Not a remark did he make: not a question did he ask. Then, when the tale
was told, and Tournier was waiting for some reply, Cosin started from his
chair, and began to pace up and down the room in extreme agitation. At
length he stopped in front of the other, and said, sternly but
sorrowfully,--
"Then, after all, you have given up God."
"I hope not."
"But you have, on your own shewing: and taken up with the devil."
Tournier writhed under this, and was about to say something sharp, but
Cosin went on,--
"I will prove it to you. God says, 'Vengeance is mine: I will repay';
and you say, 'Not so, I will avenge myself.' And whenever we contradict
God, we take up with the devil."
Then Cosin sat down again, and in his old gentle tone of voice, said,--
"Which do you think has sinned most against the other: Fontenoy against
you, or you against God?"
Tournier was silent. He was thinking of all the misery _that_ man had
brought upon him. How happy he might have been, if he had not come
between him and his love. He thought of his future, and how, even if
ever he were set at liberty again, life would be a blank to him. And he
ground his teeth with rage.
And then he heard his friend Cosin saying with quiet voice, like the
voice of conscience,--
"When once you had given up God, in years gone by, and you scouted Him
who had given you every comfort and blessing you possessed, who had
preserved you every day and night, so that you would have dropped down
dead had He withheld His hand any moment, and who had covered your head
in the day of battle--did He take vengeance on you? or did He open your
eyes and make you see some glimpse of His goodness?"
Then, after a pause, he went on in the same quiet way,--
"And when, in the madness of your distress, you tried again and again to
drown yourself, as if there were no God, no life after death, no power to
help in the Almighty; whose voice was it in your heart that bade you stop
each time, and bade you hope?
"And, as you lay on that sick bed, and your life trembled in the balance,
whose power was it that gave the turn to your distempered mind, instead
of dealing with you after your sin, and rewarding you after your
iniquity?"
Once more he paused. Then said in a yet lower tone of voice, almost in a
whisper, but with perfect naturalness, "And far, far above all, when we
were yet without strength, ungodly sinners, who was it signalized His
love towards us by dying for us on the cross?"
More passed between the two friends that night. But Cosin could elicit
no definite promise from the other. He only said, with great emotion, as
they parted,--
"Truest and best of friends, I shall think all night of these things."
And he did turn and twist about for hours in his berth, so that more than
once his fellow prisoners cried out angrily, "What _is_ the matter with
you, Tournier?" But he fell asleep towards morning, as soon as he had at
last made up his mind that Fontenoy might kill _him_ if he could, but he
himself would fire into the ground.
As he went out in the morning he met the chaplain. He stopped him and
said, "You are going, I see, to keep your appointment. Spare yourself
the trouble. Your enemy has been struck down by another hand than yours.
The Almighty has smitten him with paralysis. He is never likely to
recover."
But he _did_ recover; and so we take our leave of him with the greatest
possible pleasure.