In a huge vault, where sunlight never entered, where the dim daylight had to be always supplemented by candles, where the atmosphere was heavy and dank, where water dripped from the roof or ran down the walls, might be found a motley crowd of about three hundred captives. English soldiers, English sailors, English middies, détenus from Verdun and elsewhere, mingled with French swindlers, pickpockets, and highwaymen—this was the society into which Roy Baron was thrust.
With the descent down and down those stone steps, his heart sank lower and lower. How long might he have to wait for his next glimpse of the outside world?
An outburst of uproarious cheering greeted the new arrivals, as the heavy door was unlocked, and they were ushered in. Three cheers were given; then each was hoisted on the shoulders of three or four men, and was paraded round the dungeon. After this rough welcome came a severe blanket-tossing, which Roy and the middies were wise enough to take in good part. Any who wished to fight were then cordially invited to do so; and, lastly, those who had money were called upon to treat others to drink.
Such ceremonies being ended, comparative quiet descended on the scene. It was past eight o'clock when first they arrived, and night was near.
Roy Baron's first night in a French dungeon!
Each prisoner was provided with a worn blanket, cast off by a French soldier. Wrapped in these, the crowd of over three hundred men and boys laid themselves down to rest. Some slumbered silently; some tossed to and fro; some talked or shouted in their sleep; some snored loudly. Roy at first had rejected his ragged blanket with scorn; but these subterranean regions were cold, and reeking with damp. Shivering, he at length drew it round him, as he lay with arms crossed, and face pressed into them. The handcuffs had been removed in the guard-room.
He was not thinking of the bruises he had received, when the rough blanket-tossers had allowed him to drop upon the stone floor. Bruises to a hardy boy are a small matter. But the desolation of the lad that awful night went beyond bounds; and desperate blank despair took possession of him.
For hours he hardly stirred. He could not sleep. He could only lie in a trance of misery. He saw no gleam of hope, no chance of escape from this terrible place. Yet, to stay on here, week after week, month after month, perhaps year after year—could he bear it? Through all previous troubles Roy had borne up bravely; but at last his spirit gave way beneath the strain.
Molly's face came up before his mind. Not Molly, a sedate maiden, but Molly the little eager child, whom he remembered. O to see her again! Roy pressed his face closer into the folded arms.
Then his mother! He hardly dared to think of her. What would she not suffer? Unknowing indeed what her boy had to endure, but fearing the worst. Would any picturings of hers approach the reality?