“But, I say, will it be safe for you to go back to Verdun? What if they find out that you have helped me to get away?”
“They will not find out, M’sieu. It was known that I should leave Bitche that night—and my friends will have diverted suspicion from me. Moreover, it is no such hard matter to make a little disguise of myself—if need be.”
Then they reached the farm, and Roy found himself among friends, ready all to shield him for Jean’s sake. It was decided that he should work as a boy upon the farm, sufficiently to draw no attention upon himself, since the waiting for a passage might be long. Roy was willing to be or to do anything, if only he might at last escape to England.
The farmer’s eldest son, a soldier by conscription in the army of Napoleon, had been a prisoner in England; and he, like Roy, had made his escape, getting safely back to France. Roy, immensely interested in this story, plied the farmer and his wife with questions as to the experiences of the young fellow in an English prison—questions which they were not loath to answer. They had, of course, the whole story at their fingers’ ends.
It was at a place called “Norman’s Cross” that their Philippe had been confined—somewhere not far from the eastern coast of England. About seven thousand prisoners of war, chiefly Frenchmen, were there kept under close surveillance. The prison and the barracks were built on high land, healthy enough—yes, certainly, as to that, the farmer said—with plenty of fresh air. And the prisoners were guarded more by sentinels in all directions, than by fortifications, walls, moats, or dungeons.
“Not like Bitche!” interjected Roy.
Well, no, certainly—Monsieur spoke correctly. The place—Norman’s Cross, and the old farmer made a funny sound of these two words—was not precisely like Bitche. As to arrangements, Philippe had had no fault to find with the food provided. It was good of its kind; and cooks were chosen from among the French prisoners by themselves, being paid for their work of cooking by the English Government. Also, when Philippe fell ill, he found the hospital well managed. A school for prisoners was kept going; and several billiard-tables as well as other amusements were provided.
But, ah, the poor Philippe, he had been unhappy in captivity! Was it not natural? Had not Monsieur himself experienced the same? He had longed to be free—to return to his own country once more. And though on the whole the prisoners had been fairly well treated, at all events in that particular place, yet of course there had been cases of roughness and of harsh treatment. Moreover, there was much to make a prisoner sad—the desperate gaming, the perpetual duelling, among his fellow-prisoners were of themselves sufficient.[1] So, after more than a year of captivity, always more and more hopeless, with no token of the war drawing to a close, he had at last resolved to make his escape. And, through great dangers, privations, difficulties, he had actually succeeded.
Where was Philippe now? Ah—pour cela—he had rejoined his regiment, and was again at his old occupation. Fighting, fighting—who could say for how long? Perhaps to be again taken prisoner, and once again to be at Norman’s Cross! Who could foretell?
(To be continued.)