CHAPTER XVI.
FRIENDS IN NEED.
“I want to look up a Mr. and Mrs. Curtis—a young artist and his wife. He was pointed out to me at appel. They were at Brussels on their wedding tour when the arrest took place, and I'm afraid it is a serious matter with them, in more ways than one. Mr. Kinsland asked me to call.”
“Then they've come here from Brussels?”
“Yes, with Major Woodgate and his wife, in an open cart.”
“Why?”
“Couldn't afford anything better.”
“What a beastly shame! Is Major Woodgate badly off too?”
“He was short of money. A good many are, naturally enough, under the present condition of affairs. Your father is going to call on Major Woodgate.”
“To help him?”
“Possibly. That is only between you and me. I am treating you as my friend—speaking in confidence.” Roy's glance bespoke comprehension. “If you were in temporary difficulties, and a friend gave you quietly a little help, you would not wish to have the fact published.”
“No. And, Den, are you going to help the Curtises?”
“That is as may be. I wish to find out how things are with them. And I am taking you because it may be a help. If you can keep Mrs. Curtis' attention engaged, that will give me a chance for a few words with her husband. You see? You will not have anything to do with what goes on between him and me.”
“Good thing papa has lots of money!”
“He is better off than many; but bills are only to be cashed here at a heavy loss; and it is very uncertain how often he may be able to get remittances from England. So it will not do to spend recklessly. Besides, after the way we have been treated, we are not anxious to enrich our captors.”
Roy's “No!” was energetic.
“And, with so many of our countrymen in want, we must save all we can, to be able to help them the more. See, Roy?”
“I think I won't ask mamma to get me a new waistcoat just yet,” was Roy's practical response. “I'll wait. Are you going to stop?”
“This is the house. Remember, you have to get Mrs. Curtis into a talk.”
Roy was deeply interested. Mr. Curtis proved to be a gentlemanly young fellow, with a keen clever face, much overshadowed by present care, while his wife, hardly more than a child in age, was kitten-like in small plump prettiness.
“Oh, it is quite dreadful!” she said, speedily fraternising with Roy. Having had six brothers of her own, she was much at home with boys in general. “We were to have gone back the very next week, and everybody said there could be no need to hurry. And we were so enjoying ourselves—you know”—with a blush. “And then that terrible order came, that we were to count ourselves prisoners. At least, my husband was a prisoner, and that, of course, meant the same for me. And our dear little home, where we meant to be so happy, has been waiting for us ever since—empty. And Hugh's studio, and the picture he had in hand, which was to have been finished this autumn. He”—lowering her voice and speaking with childish unreserve—“was to have had a hundred pounds for it. And now everything is at a standstill. But you are in the same trouble too.”
She stole a glance across at Ivor, who was speaking in an undertone to her husband.
“It is so good of Captain Ivor to call. Mr. Kinsland told us that he would ask him to come; but we never dreamt of seeing him so soon. We feel strange here, you know; and it is a help to see anyone come in.” Mrs. Curtis dropped her voice afresh. “What a pleasant-looking man he is—and so soldierly! Mr. Kinsland said he had never seen a handsomer face; and I don't think I ever did either. It is such a kind face too. Mr. Kinsland said you were desperately fond of him.”
Roy laughed. It was not his fashion to talk about being “fond” of people. “Den's just the very best fellow that ever lived!” he declared—his usual formula. “And I suppose you got here before we did.”
“Only three days ago. We had to come to these rooms. Not very homelike, are they? But the landlady is pleasant; and nothing else would matter much if only Hugh could get back to his work. It makes him so depressed not to be able, poor fellow. Men are very soon depressed—don't you think so?”
Roy said “No” promptly, and then remembered Denham on the preceding evening, but he did not take back the monosyllable. He exerted himself to keep her talking, and he also did his utmost not to see or hear, yet he could not help being aware of a suspicious little movement of Denham's hand, and then of a startled “No, no! How can I—from a stranger?”
“We are not strangers; we are brothers in misfortune,” Denham answered, with the smile which always drew people to him. “Call it a loan, if you like. For your wife's sake”—softly—“do not refuse.”
Roy did not hear all this, but he heard more than he was intended to hear. A move then was made, and Curtis replied huskily to some careless remark as the callers took leave.
“Den, I say, I didn't mean to listen, but I couldn't quite help,” came outside as a confession.
“Then your next duty is to forget. Now for the ramparts,” Ivor said, dropping the subject. Roy knew him better than to put questions.
On this first arrival of the large body of English détenus in Verdun, they found a quiet town, with little going on in it, with few shops, and those second-rate in style. There were some small manufactories, as of coarse felt hats and sweetmeats, and also some tanneries. A limited number of “hôtels”[2] belonged to members of the old “noblesse,” who had been allowed since Revolution days to return to France, though in few cases had their confiscated property been restored to them. Those who were in Verdun lived in a very retired style. The bourgeoisie too were rural and unsophisticated. But this condition of things, unfortunately, was soon to be changed, and by no means for the better.
A sudden rush into the place of hundreds of strangers, many of them used to a luxurious style of living, many of them lavishly free with their money, could not but have a marked effect upon the inhabitants.
Among the détenus, it is true, a goodly number lived with close economy, refusing to keep horse or carriage or one single servant more than they counted strictly necessary. They only broke through this self-imposed rule on behalf of their poorer countrymen, dozens of whom were condemned to live, or rather to half starve, upon the wretched pittance, allowed by the French Government to those who had no other means of support, of three sous and half-a-pound of bread each day.
But the détenus, as a body, included men of various descriptions, not only those of high principle and loyal feeling. There were rich men, rendered reckless by their captivity; and there were others, not rich, yet equally reckless and extravagant, who rushed into debt with complete indifference as to consequences. As may easily be supposed, they did much harm by their example and influence, more especially among young naval officers, who as time passed by were taken prisoners in the course of the war, and were sent to Verdun. When first Verdun was appointed to be a dépôt for prisoners, the commandant was a General Roussel, of whom no English prisoner had any complaint to make. He treated them well and justly, and such hardships as they had to endure were for the most part not his fault but the fault of the French Government.
Unhappily, before many months were past, General Roussel was sent elsewhere; and his successor, General Wirion, soon showed himself to be a man of a totally different stamp.
Wirion was a product of the Revolution; originally the son of a pork-dealer in Picardy; later an attorney's clerk, with a shady reputation; then an active terrorist, approved of by the villain Robespierre. He was, in fact, a low-born and ill-bred scoundrel, avaricious and grasping, who, under Napoleon, had risen to be a general of gendarmerie.
Prolonged captivity, with such a creature in authority, was likely to become even worse than it had been before; and so, to their cost, the captives at Verdun speedily found.
All indulgences allowed by the first commandant were removed. Prisoners and détenus alike, no matter what their grade or position, were compelled twice a day to report themselves at appel, unless they preferred by payment to escape the unpleasant necessity. Instead of being free to walk or drive as far as five miles from the town in any direction, they now might not leave the gates without payment of six francs. Incessant douceurs were demanded on every possible pretext, and oppressions, bribery, and rank injustice became the order of the day. Wirion and his gendarmes showed a shameless capacity for pocketing money—nay, for inventing opportunities to wring gifts from the English.
Again and again numbers of the détenus, on some false excuse or with no excuse at all, were closely imprisoned in the citadel, being set free only on the payment of heavy sums of money. This terror hung over them all, as a perpetual possibility. Worse still was the dread of being some day suddenly despatched to the grim fortress of Bitche, where numbers of British prisoners pined in close confinement. The tales of Bitche dungeons and of Bitche horrors, which from time to time filtered round to those who lived at Verdun, read now like stories of mediæval days.[3]
And Roy was still at Verdun. Every effort to get a passport for him had failed. In that direction Colonel Baron would thankfully have paid aught in his power, if thereby he might have sent his boy safe to England. But the time was gone by. Napoleon was very bitter against England; and passports were refused to almost all who requested them.
As a writer of the day states, France had become one huge prison, not only to such English as were compelled to stay there, but also to the French themselves. If a Frenchman wished to leave his country and to go elsewhere, leave would in most cases be refused. As conscripts in the army men might go; seldom otherwise.
In the autumn of 1805, not many weeks before the battle of Trafalgar, a fresh blow fell.
Roy had felt his captivity much, boyishly gay though he was and rarely to be seen out of spirits. But he had had Denham all through; and Denham, though commonly looked upon as a grave and dignified man, had been to Roy the most delightful of companions.
From the spring of 1803 to the autumn of 1805 the two had been seldom apart for a whole day. Denham had been Roy's tutor, friend, and playfellow. Roy had in the place one or two boy-friends; but, compared with Denham, he cared little for any other. His absolute devotion to Ivor somewhat resembled Jack Keene's adoration for John Moore, only it meant greater personal intimacy. Roy was known among friends as “Captain Ivor's shadow” and “Captain Ivor's echo.” What Denham thought, Roy thought; what Denham said, Roy said.
“I don't know what he would do without you,” Colonel Baron sometimes said gratefully to Ivor. “No use to say how much we owe to your kindness. You have been the making of the boy.”
Ivor would reply, “Roy is as much to me as I am to him.” And, in a sense this might be true, though not in all senses.
September came, and with it a fresh device of the pork-dealer's son. General Wirion decided to send a large number of the Verdun détenus away to Valenciennes, a distance of about one hundred and fifty miles. No reasons were given, and the choice made of those who should go was entirely arbitrary. The wishes or convenience of anyone received not the slightest consideration.[4]
On Saturday, September 17th, the order went forth that about forty of them were to leave on the Monday, only two days later. Many had made their arrangements for the winter, even buying and laying by little stores; and now, no matter at what cost or loss, they had to leave. Some were artisans who had just begun to make a little headway, others were gentlemen hardly able to pay their way from the perpetual uncertainty as to remittances from England. But the autocratic order had to be obeyed.
Early on Monday morning the first batch started, being seen off at the gates by a crowd of their English friends. And that afternoon at appel forty more were desired to hold themselves in readiness to start on the Wednesday. Still no reasons, no explanations, were vouchsafed, no apologies were made; and every détenu in the place lived on tenterhooks of suspense, not knowing whether his turn might come next.
The second forty departed; and on Thursday another announcement was made to a third forty, that they too must prepare to go to Valenciennes on the Saturday.
Upon some who were concerned the blow fell a few hours earlier. Although Wirion curtly declined to inform the détenus themselves which among them would be despatched next, he did take the trouble to send lists of their names to some leading tradesmen in the town; and from those quarters information might be obtained, though many of the détenus proudly refused so to seek it.
“Roy, I want a word with you,” Denham said, towards the evening of Wednesday, putting his head into the salon. “Come here.”
“Just in a minute. May I get——”
“Never mind anything else. Come to my room.”
Roy obeyed at once.
“Shut the door. I have something to say to you.” Ivor motioned the boy to a chair. “I have just seen Curtis.”
The tone was unusual. Roy looked hard at Denham.
“Is something the matter?”
“Yes. Wirion——” significantly.
“Do tell me.”
“Mrs. Curtis was so anxious about this Valenciennes business that she persuaded her husband to see one of the shop-lists.”
“I know. Papa said he'd have nothing to do with that way of finding out.”
“No. But Curtis went—and he finds——”
“Are they ordered off? O I'm sorry. I like Mrs. Curtis. She's so jolly—like a boy, almost. I shall miss them ever so much. Are they really going? What a bother!”
“Yes.”
“Anybody else?”
“Yes.”
Denham's grave eyes met Roy's, with an expression which somehow sent Roy's heart down and down into his very shoes. The boy sat and stared—aghast and wordless.
“I want you to know beforehand, not to be taken by surprise. When a thing has to be, it's no use making a fuss. For your mother's sake you must bear it bravely.”
Roy had grown pale, and his gaze spoke of dismay and incredulity.
“But you don't mean—you! Not you!”
“Yes.”
“Den!”
“It is not difficult to find a cause. You see, we have held aloof from Wirion's set, and have declined his invitations. And I have managed to hold back one or two young fellows from those miserable gaming-tables. No doubt he prefers to have me out of the way for a while. It may be only for a few weeks. But——”
Roy walked to the window, and stood with his back to Denham. Silence lasted fully three minutes. Denham remained where he was, looking sadly enough towards the boy. He had much to do, but Roy was his first consideration; and he knew from his own sensations what the parting would be to the other.
“Come,” he said at length. “It can't be helped. And—I don't know what you feel about it, but I have an objection to letting Wirion see that he can make us unhappy.”
Roy came back slowly.
“That—brute!” he burst out, choking over the word.
“Yes—I know. There's no sort of excuse for him. Roy, I want a promise from you.”
“What?”
“You know the sort of thing that is going on here. Promise me faithfully that, whatever happens, you will keep clear of the gaming-tables. You may be tempted, and I shall not be at hand to look after you.”
Roy was silent—perhaps because of those last words.
“Promise. I can depend upon your word.”
“I do—promise,” Roy said with difficulty.
“Faithfully?”
“Yes—faithfully.”
“And you will do your best to keep up your mother's spirits? You must be the same plucky fellow with them that you have been all along with me. Don't make any difference. They will need it now, more than ever.”
“It's so beastly hard,” muttered Roy.
“Yes—it is!”—and a pause. “There's one thought that always is a help to me, and I hope it will be to you. Whatever happens—remember, God is over all. By-and-by we shall see it to be so. Things won't go on always like this.”
The interview was getting to be too much for both of them, and Denham drew one hand across his forehead. “There!—that will do. No need to say more. You won't forget that I depend on you; and you'll be just the same as if I were here. The same—every way. I shall miss my——”
He was going to say “friend;” but he stopped in time. Roy could stand no more; and Ivor hardly felt as if he could himself. The boy's face worked painfully, and Denham's hand grasped his.
“Not for long, I hope,” he said in a cheerful tone. “Now I must go and tell your father.”
Three days later the third company of forty détenus quitted Verdun for Valenciennes. Roy and his father, with others, were at the gate, to see the detachment off upon their enforced pilgrimage. Denham had never held his head higher, or looked more sternly composed, and Roy did his best to imitate his friend; but he found it hard work. This was not like an ordinary farewell. He and Denham were alike in the power of an unscrupulous martinet, behind whom was another equally unscrupulous and quite irresponsible despot. Neither could guess what might become of the other, or whether they might hope again to meet before the close of the war: and each could be sure that every possible impediment would be thrown in the way of their communicating by letter one with another.
“Remember, Denham, you are always one of us. Wherever we may be, there is your home,” Colonel Baron said, in moved tones. “When you can join us again, your welcome is certain.”
“I could never doubt it, sir, after the past,” Denham answered.
Then he was gone, and Roy returned with his father to M. Courant's house, a heavy sense of blank weighing upon them both. Ivor's was a personality which never failed to make itself felt, and he had largely the power of winning affection, without apparent effort. The difference made in their little circle by his departure was more than could beforehand have been imagined.
Not in their own little circle only. Many in Verdun knew that they had lost a valued friend that day; and even downstairs Denham was strangely missed. Somebody else, besides Roy, shed at night a few quiet tears, when nobody could see. Lucille herself was perplexed at the acute consciousness which clung to her of Captain Ivor's absence.
Somehow, she had not of late thought a very great deal of that poor young De Bertrand, whose image once had filled her thoughts. Not that she forgot him, but that other thoughts and other interests had taken possession of the foreground of her mind.
(To be continued.)