The French Prisoners of Norman Cross Part 8

"My dear man," answered one of the party, "none of our pistols are c.o.c.ked."

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 c.o.c.k 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 pa.s.s 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 n.o.ble steed, with our pistols at full c.o.c.k, 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 n.o.ble west front of Peterborough Cathedral in straw marqueterie (and another in _gra.s.s_); 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 ama.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances, 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.

CHAPTER VIII.--AN ENEMY TURNS UP.

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 G.o.d" in their affliction: and now he was gone from them for ever.

They addressed a pet.i.tion 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 pet.i.tion, 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 grat.i.tude 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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, "G.o.d is good, and can help." But he thrust it from him, and said aloud, "Then why did G.o.d _send_ him to me."

"How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds, "Makes deeds ill done!"