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

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 recherchÉ 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.