‘So he shall,’ said Roger, and on the next market-day he brought a fine neck and chine of bull beef, from which lots of steaks were cut, and soon sold.
Presently the old officer came by, and Roger solicited his custom for his line show of bones. The indignant Frenchman again exclaimed, ‘Non bon! non bon!’
‘Confound the fellow,’ said Roger, ‘what can he want, why, ’tis a’al booin, idden it?’
Both men were becoming really angry, when a boy standing by, who had speedily acquired some knowledge of French, explained the matter to both men. When at length they understood each other they both laughed heartily at the misunderstanding, but the incident became a standing joke against Roger as long as he lived.
The mile boundaries of the prisoners were Bayford Elm on the London road; Anchor Bridge on the Ilchester road; Abergavenny Gate on the Castle Cary road; and Gorselands on the Bruton road. The prisoners frequently promenaded the streets in great numbers, four abreast. The large rooms in the public-houses were often rented for holding meetings of various kinds. On one occasion the large room at the Swan Inn was used for the lying in state of a Freemason, who was buried in a very imposing manner. Two other great officers lay in state at the Greyhound and The Dogs. Many died from various causes incidental to captivity. They were buried in the churchyard, and a stone there marks the resting-place of a Russian or a Pole who was said to have died of grief.[[17]] One of them committed suicide. Another poor fellow became demented, and every day might have been heard playing on a flute a mournful dirge, which tune he never changed. Others bore their estrangement from home and country less sorrowfully, and employed their time in athletic sports or in carving various articles of different kinds of wood and bone. Some were allowed to visit friends at a distance, always returning faithfully to their parole.
During the winter months they gave, twice a week, musical and theatrical entertainments. Many of the captives, especially those of the upper ranks, were good musicians. These held concerts, which were attended by the people of the town.
Sunday was to them the dullest day of the week; they did not know what to make of it. Some of them went to the parish church and assisted in the instrumental part of the service. A few attended the Congregational, or as it was then called, the Independent Chapel. The majority of them were, in name at least, Roman Catholics; whatever they were, they spent Sundays in playing chess, draughts, cards and dominoes,—indeed, almost anything to while the time away.
The prisoners used to meet in large rooms which they hired for various amusements. Some of them were artists, and Mr. Sweetman speaks of many rooms which they decorated with wall-pictures. In one—the ‘Orange Room’ at The Dogs in South Street—may still be seen wall-paintings done by them; also in the house of Mr. James, in the High Street, three panels of a bedroom are painted with three of the Muses. Miss Impey, of Street, has some drawings done by a prisoner, Charles Aubert, who probably did the paintings above alluded to.
As time went on and the prisoners became more homesick and more impatient of restraint, desertions became frequent, and it was necessary to station a company of infantry in Wincanton, and they were ‘kept lively’. One night a party was escaping and the constable of the town, attempting to prevent them, was roughly handled. The soldiers were on guard all night in the streets, but nevertheless some prisoners managed even then to escape.
‘In 1811’, said the Salisbury Journal, ‘Culliford, a notorious smuggler, was committed to Ilchester Gaol for conveying from Wincanton several of the prisoners there to the Dorsetshire coast, whence they crossed to Cherbourg. Culliford was caught with great difficulty, and then only because of the large reward offered.’