“Gaspard, my son,” the old man would say, “we must all die, and they live the happiest
who are best prepared for it. Religion is not for dying people only: it is for those who have years before them in this world, for those who are the busiest of the busy, for strong men as well as more feeble women, for old and young, for rich and poor alike, for those in the midst of temptation as well as for men shut up in convents, for the soldier amidst the excitements of war, and for the husbandman plying his peaceful occupations. Therefore, Gaspard, let us all have religion.”
It would not be becoming to attempt to narrate all that was said in the intercourse between the minister and his charge. There are many religions in the world, but only one way in which we can find peace with God. No mere form will save anybody; and to whatever communion we belong, there is but one essential mark that distinguishes in God’s sight all who are of the one true spiritual Church—and we have it on the highest authority—“They shall be all taught of God.” And for want of that
teaching men go wrong in a thousand different ways!
Gaspard died, and they buried him. The place of interment for the prisoners of Norman Cross was a large field of several acres about a quarter of a mile from the corner where the Peterborough and Great North Roads meet, and on the west side of the latter. It was therefore a very short distance from the barracks. Why the Government purchased so large a field for the purpose it is impossible to say, unless they anticipated a very indefinite duration of the war. Not more than a small quarter of it has apparently been consecrated by the presence of the dead.
Here they brought poor Gaspard’s emaciated body, and laid the child of sunny France in England’s colder soil. The prison officials carried him, but no mourners followed, save Poivre, who got leave for that purpose. The chaplain at the head, and a sergeant’s guard
bringing up the rear, completed the procession. It has been said that the same coffin was used over and over again, and that each body was taken out of it at the grave and lowered without one; but it is impossible to credit it for a moment. Such a man as the Bishop of Moulines would never have suffered such barbarism, and the country that spent £300,000 a year on this one prison, would never have grudged a coffin apiece to each poor fellow’s body that required one. The libel must have originated with somebody (not an undertaker,) who thought in his poor heart that one was good enough for all. “It was only a prisoner.”
There, without attracting the notice of the others, and so depressing them, but with decency and reverence, they laid the dead to rest.
It is a sacred spot still. How many have been laid there of those exiles from their fatherland, no record shows, and no one knows their
names save He who is the common Father of us all, and before whom not one of them is forgotten. No prisoner was buried in the church or churchyard; nor did such exclusion arise from any want of respect, but from necessity; though it would be pleasant to have had to relate that some notice was in some way taken in the parish books of Yaxley of these interesting parishioners, who were fellow-men, and who had done no wrong but die for their country. But not one word is written about them, nor one allusion made to them.