Soon after they took leave of each other, and the captain returned to his quarters. And as he went along this thought kept coming into his mind, like the flash of a revolving light—“Cosin not only believes in God, but has found Him a help in time of greatest trouble!”
CHAPTER IV.—MUTINY OF THE PRISONERS.
In the course of the following year, the prisoners of Norman Cross began to show a spirit of general insubordination. There had been from time to time individual cases of attempted outbreak, some few successful, but for the most part ending in recapture. No one can wonder that, among so many men, in the full vigour of life, there should be not a few who, sick at heart of their rigorous captivity, one day succeeding another with cheerless monotony, the shadows settling deeper and deeper upon their distant homes, should listen by degrees to any scheme that the more desperate around them might propose in order to regain their liberty. The growing agitation was almost entirely among the lower ranks of
soldiers and sailors, although the officers, in their separate quarters, knew what was going on, and more or less sympathized with it.
There was, however, a particular reason for this state of things. It did not originate it, but had a great deal to do with aggravating it. The prisoners, especially the rank and file, were not in the hands of a sympathetic controller. It was with them, as it sometimes is now, with large institutions where numbers are collected. The governor may be an excellent disciplinarian, and do his duty admirably; but the inmates never feel, consciously or unconsciously, that there is one over them who takes an interest in their welfare. They are in the cold, and, like plants, no one is likely to grow better in the cold. Such was the character of the administration of Captain Mortimer, the Admiralty agent. He had charge of the comforts of the prisoners; he treated them well according to the letter of his duty; but it was with coldness and want of sympathy. And
what he did, as is always the case, his subordinates did likewise. And there can be little doubt that this coldness of treatment had much to do with the increase of insubordination in the prison.
Victor Malin was a ringleader from the first in this matter. He was about forty years old; and, as a young man, had taken an active part in all the diabolical horrors of the streets of Paris during the reign of terror. He had seen Louis XVI. guillotined, and a few months later the poor Queen, and had screamed with joy over it. He had seen heads cut off by the score, and enjoyed his dinner all the more for the sight. He was therefore a brute, a great big brute, with plenty of animal courage; and there was no wickedness under the sun that he had not practised in his time. He was also one of the very few among the prisoners who insulted the venerable chaplain when he could, though all the notice the good man took of it was to mutter to himself, “N’importe.”
The days were getting short and the nights long when, one evening, a council of war was being held in one of the barrack rooms. Not all the inmates were engaged in it, but only a select few, round one of the tables at the end of the huge caserne. By far the greater part (and there must have been over two hundred crowded together in it,) were amusing themselves in various ways, so far as a very limited choice would allow. But a Frenchman will beat an Englishman hollow in finding amusement out of little or nothing; aye, and enjoying it too with lively satisfaction. Some were busy at work over the manufacture of those singularly ingenious models, toys, boxes, and other articles, for sale, which are so well known and so justly admired all round the neighbourhood, and found in almost every house to this day. These were the quiet and sensible men, who made the best of their misfortunes. Others were playing dominoes, draughts, backgammon, and cribbage, the boards and
appliances all their own work. Some sang songs to a small admiring audience. All talked and at the same time, and nowhere more than where card-playing was going on, which was all over the room, and the more vociferously because, if they could, they played for money or money’s worth, from a penny to an old shirt, or blanket, or even the next day’s rations.
The noise was deafening. Yet amidst it all the council of war went on deliberating as calmly as if they were chatting together in some peaceful meadow, with only the chirping of birds to disturb them. They literally put their heads together, as, figuratively, conspirators always do, and so made one another hear.