EIGHT long, long months at Bitche!
No wonder Roy Baron was altered. He had grown fast in body, faster still in spirit. He had left Verdun a careless and light-hearted lad, almost a child, young in all respects for his age. Eight months at Bitche had ground every remnant of childishness out of him.
Not the whole of that time had been spent in the crowded dungeon. The gendarmes knew better, when a prisoner possessed a little money. For some weeks, by paying heavily, he had been permitted to occupy a smaller room above ground, in company with a few other prisoners of better grade. He had thankfully availed himself of the chance, and had tried in vain to get Will brought up also. When his money ran out, and no more arrived, he was remanded to the great dungeon.
He took it more quietly than at the first. By this time he was, in a manner, used to close captivity. Will and the other middies welcomed him with warmth; and he soon found that a plan for escape was brewing among them.
No wonder prisoners sought to get away. The life in those underground caverns must have been terrible.
From about eight at night till eight in the morning the three or four hundred prisoners were locked up in their dungeon. At eight in the morning they were turned out, like sheep from a pen, into the yard, a place one hundred and thirty paces in length by about thirty in breadth. There they stayed till noon, getting what air and exercise they could. At noon they were mustered in the dungeon. Two or three times a week a body of prisoners was allowed to go into the town, under supervision, to buy food, and Roy had his turn occasionally. These faint peeps of liberty made captivity harder to endure.
The very idea of escape from such an existence could not but be welcomed, though every attempt to get away meant danger to life. Many had escaped; many more were likely enough to do their best for the same end. When Will Peirce, with the consent of his friends, and under strictest vows of secrecy, confided to Roy their plan, Roy threw himself into it with fervour. Anything to be free!
He stood in the prison-yard one cold day in late autumn, leaning against the wall, with folded arms and abstracted look. A grey sky was overhead, and some drops of half-frozen rain had fallen. Hundreds of prisoners were assembled there: some walking about to keep themselves warm; some leaping or wrestling; some fighting in good earnest; others absorbed in games of chance; while many lounged listlessly, with no spirit to exert themselves. A dull inertia, as of semi-despair, characterised them.
Yet on the faces of a few, notably on that of Roy Baron, might have been detected a gleam of something like hope, carefully repressed. A blue-eyed little middy was at his side; for he and Will had drawn together, as they seldom failed to do. Will's high spirits were as helpful to Roy now, as Roy's in the past had been to Ivor.
About a dozen middies, besides one young Naval lieutenant and Roy Baron, were in the plot, all sworn to secrecy. None but active and agile young fellows could have hoped to succeed in what was proposed.