The French Prisoners of Norman Cross Part 4

Captain Mortimer at once shewed his quality when asked for his opinion.

"Put it down, major," he said, "with a strong hand, and lose no time about it. What I venture to recommend is, first of all send a shot from the block-house into one of the prison yards by way of warning; then march two or three hundred men right into the yard; draw them up, and let them shoot every rascal that does not take shelter in the barrack-room.

Give them time. Then let an officer go to the door with a bugler, and tell the _canaille_, if they don't at once leave off their infernal noise and keep quietly inside, they will be shot down like rats: then fasten up the door. Depend on it, this will soon settle the other yards. One example will be enough. A rough beginning will make a speedy ending."

"But these men," said Major Kelly sternly, and with evident disgust, "are not rascals, they are not to be treated as _canaille_. The only crime they are guilty of is fighting for their country. That they want to escape, however foolish, is only natural. Of course they must be put down, even if it should cost some lives: but I should prefer trying milder measures first. What do you say, gentlemen?"

The other officers all fell in with their commander's idea: for, as a rule, the majority of officers partake of the spirit of their chief without any subserviency; and thus, as we so often find, a Colonel makes or mars his regiment.

"Then we must have help from Peterborough," said the Major. "Take a message from me, Captain Martin, to the officer in command there. Say that I want all the men he can spare, and specially every troop of yeomanry he can muster, for we may have to scour the country. My horse shall be at the main gate in ten minutes--you know he is a good one; and you, Captain, like a fair pace."

The gallant Captain smiled as he saluted, and in less than ten minutes he was in the saddle and flying like a meteor along the road, for he was a very Jehu.

The stone steps by which the officers mounted are still to be seen where the main entrance was.

And what were the French and other officers doing all this time?

They had all along known of the intended outbreak, and urgent requests had in some way been made to them that they would take part in it. But with some few exceptions, they had positively refused. Not, however, without much acrimonious debate. Those who were in favour of joining in the mutiny were some captains of privateers, whose sense of honour was not rendered more acute by their manner of life, and two or three army officers of indifferent character, who had either abused their parole, or never obtained it.

A night or two before the crisis, the dispute became very violent.

"What a shame," cried one of the malcontents, "that we, who are ready for anything to get free, should be hindered by you careful and very scrupulous gentlemen!"

"We are not hindering you," replied Villemet: "get out if you can whenever you like. We heartily wish all the prisoners may get out. None of us will interfere."

"But you will not help us: and not to help is to hinder."

"And we have told you why a score of times," put in Tournier in the quietest possible way. "The English have deprived us of liberty, but they shall never deprive us of honour. We are on parole, and we are bound in honour, therefore, not to try and escape even if we could."

"Honour!" said a privateer captain, turning up his nose in a very p.r.o.nounced manner.

"Yes, sir, honour! Perhaps you do not know the meaning of the word."

The nose went down, and the temper went up. "I do, sir, quite as much as you. But I don't call truckling to the enemy honour."

"Nor do I," said Tournier.

The perfect quietness of his manner provoked the other more than any angry words would have done.

"But that's what you are doing--truckling to the English."

The malcontents applauded.

This emboldened him to go on. "You are traitors to your own countrymen."

"You know," said Tournier calmly, "I cannot treat you for that insult as I would if free--that is, if it were not beneath me to notice it from one like you."

He sprung up and struck Tournier.

They all sprung up. Tournier himself sprung up. A general fight seemed imminent. But the greater part were gentlemen, and Tournier, still calm, said with a smile, "Take no notice of it, my friends. Let us withdraw.

At least we will bear away the palm of victory over our tempers."

The malcontents were disconcerted at this magnanimity.

Only Villemet would have a parting shot, and as he retired, said, "If ever I meet that _coquin_ outside these cursed walls, I'll horsewhip him black and blue."

The man was making for Villemet, but his companions pulled him back.

Within an hour Captain Martin had returned with a troop of yeomanry. They had just had a field-day, and for some reason, one of the troops had not been dismissed like the rest. So, without waiting a moment, officers and men galloped off to Norman Cross. The other troops of yeomanry were to follow as soon as they could be got together, along with three or four companies of volunteers and militia.

The tumult was still continuing among the prisoners, though with more frequent spells of comparative quiet: symptoms, perhaps, of exhaustion.

No opening had yet been discovered in the palisades, though the soldiers thought they sometimes heard, when a lull in the uproar occurred, the sound of heavy blows against them, which almost directly ceased when the uproar abated. And it made some entertain the idea, that the otherwise childish shouting was not without a rational object, namely, to drown the noise of blows.

At length darkness came on. It promised to be an intensely dark night--one of those nights, of which there are only a few in every year, when you cannot, as we say, see your own hand.

Watch-fires were kindled at every station where a detachment was posted round the prison enclosure. All the troops were under arms through the night; the gunners in the block-house ready for action; and the yeomanry patrolling the Peterborough and Great North roads. At about three in the morning a sentinel fired his piece, and the nearest detachment fell in, and hurried at the double to the spot. The prisoners were escaping through an opening in one of the palisades, but the prompt arrival of the soldiers quickly stopped the exodus. Some were thrust back again, and an array of bayonets at the charge, together with a volley from the rear ranks, fired, at first, by the commandant's express orders, into the air, effectually prevented all further attempt. Nine prisoners escaped, and got clear away, surmounting the difficulty of the last palisading of all by friendly help from outside, as it was supposed, a rope with a hook at the end being found next morning at a certain spot. In all probability it was a sweet-heart's act, some acquaintance formed at the barrack market.

Several other openings were made, but the soldiers, after the first alarm, were so much on the alert, that hardly any more escaped.

Altogether less than a score got clear away, besides the nine already mentioned; but how they managed to get over the last palisade was a mystery, except there were, as in the other case, a.s.sistance from without, though no trace of it was discovered. Sad to relate, however, more than half of those who obtained their freedom were recaptured after a few days, some of them a long way off from Norman Cross.

One other attempt at escape deserves to be recorded, because it was planned with skill and daring worthy of a better result. In the barrack- yard where Malin was confined, there happened to be several sappers, and they had dug a mine, with very imperfect tools, some thirty-four feet in length, towards the Great North Road, but unfortunately it fell short of the required distance, and the men were found when daylight broke still within the outer wall of the prison.

So ended the only general outbreak that was ever made by the prisoners of Norman Cross; and Major Kelly could ever after enjoy the immense satisfaction of reflecting that the suppression of so serious an attempt was brought about without a drop of blood.

As an instance of the extreme peril they ran who contrived to escape, it is recorded on a tombstone in the Churchyard of East Dereham, how Jean de Narde, son of a Notary Public of St. Malo, a French prisoner of war (most likely from Norman Cross), escaped from the Bell Tower of the Church (where he had been confined temporarily on his re-capture), and was pursued and shot by a soldier on duty October 6th, 1799, aged 28 years.

Oh, why did not that stupid fool of a soldier miss him!

But it is pleasant to add that, in the year 1857, when French and English were fighting side by side in the Crimea, the then Vicar and two friends erected a tombstone as a memorial of poor de Narde's untimely fate, and "as a tribute of respect to that brave and generous Nation, once our foes, but now our allies and brethren." And they add the words which all but those who make profit out of war will heartily echo and re-echo, "Ainsi soit il."

CHAPTER V.--NEARLY A SUICIDE.

An important change took place in the management of the barracks at Norman Cross a few months after the event narrated in the preceding chapter. Captain Mortimer, the admiralty agent, resigned his position there on promotion to another charge. Whether the relations between him and Major Kelly became rather strained, or whether he himself was a little ashamed of the violent measures he had recommended to suppress the mutiny, and which certainly had made him more unpopular than ever, cannot be determined. But resign he did in the month of August, 1811, and was succeeded by Captain John Draper, R.N. The exchange was a blessed one for the prisoners: not because the important duties were done more punctually and exactly, but because the one was a sympathising man, and the other a mere machine. There was all the difference between the two men that there is between the music of a street piano that rattles through long runs with provoking correctness, and a sweet air played by the fair hands of one whose soul is in her music.

The prisoners felt the relief before they knew whence it came, as men breathing the close atmosphere of a crowded room may feel invigorated before they know that a supply of pure oxygen has been introduced therein. It was not that they fared any better than before. They had the same rations, though the new agent saw with his own eyes that they were good and sufficient. They had the same cramped-up sleeping bunks, only he never let a man be without proper covering, even if he punished him afterwards if he gambled it away. They were still prisoners, hard and fast; yet, somehow, the bondage was not so galling as it used to be.

The agent's manner was kind and friendly. He spoke cheerily to the prisoners. He asked questions. He took notice of the desponding, and there were many such. The sick he tenderly cared for. This was to the ordinary rank and file. To the officers he was all this and more. Not because he cared more for them, but because, as a rule, he could unbend to them more than to the others without risk of lowering his position. He frequently visited their quarters, chatted freely with them, played billiards with them, was pleased to see the English officers mix at proper times with them, admired heartily the beautiful handiwork of the common men. The only man he could not abide was the one who, whether officer or private, was a fraud or a sham.

And in this treatment of his unfortunate charge the Commandant entirely went along with him.

War was still raging. That in the Peninsula--which so many now-a-days know nothing about, but prefer "t.i.t-Bits," or the writings of sceptical ladies, but in which the most splendid generals.h.i.+p and indomitable bravery were displayed on _both_ sides as in no other country, and which formed one of the hinges on which the fortune of Napoleon turned, the other being the ice-bound plains of Russia--was pouring fresh prisoners into England (20,000 in ten months is the number once mentioned in a despatch of Wellington's), and no doubt Norman Cross had its share. But for all who arrived there Captain Draper had a friendly look, and for many a word of kindness.

He had not been long at his post before he became acquainted with Captain Tournier; and his sympathy for him, quickly awakened, was all the more increased by what he heard from Major Kelly. They both soon had more reason than ever to be drawn to him.

There was a French agency in London, sanctioned by the English government, through which prisoners of war had under certain restrictions the means of communication with their friends abroad. Tournier had from the first, as we may be sure, availed himself of this privilege. From his mother's letters he could not hide from himself the fact that his absence from her, under such melancholy circ.u.mstances, was prejudicially affecting her health. The dear old soul always tried to make the best of it, but nature would out, although it was more from indirect remarks than from any positive complaints, that Tournier gathered the true state of the case. Of course it grieved him exceedingly, and added fresh poignancy to his unhappiness. But there was one thing that, for the first two years, her letters always contained in one form or another, that made some sweet amends, and that was that she invariably added how his dear Elise soothed and comforted her. "Whenever I see her," his mother would write, "I seem to see you; and she says the same of me."

For the last few months, however, Tournier could not but observe, but most unwillingly, there had been a gradual cessation of these fond remarks in his mother's letters, and, worse still, a corresponding chilliness in those of his Elise. At first, it was "How weary it is without you!" then, "How can I go on living without you?" then, "How long will it be before I shall see you?" This is not a romantic way of putting it; but the downward progress of a woman's heart that is not true, does not deserve romantic description. The auctioneer's formula is quite good enough, "Going--going--gone."

Still the man who loved her with true and generous affection could not, and would not, believe evil. "Poor dear heart," he would say; "she is indeed to be pitied! How can she help being weary of my absence so long?"