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.

They were a sorry lot, both in face and clothing. Not one had a decent set of garments on him. The only difference between the soldiers and the sailors who composed the council was--the soldiers' clothes were in rags, while the sailors mended theirs. In face they were all alike unsavoury, but Victor Malin "took the cake."

"Comrades," he was saying, leaning forward and speaking with a harsh powerful voice into the space between the bowed heads of the others, where, by the way, there must have been some blue fire playing: "Comrades, we must not follow the advice of our brother Poivre there. Delay with us is dangerous. Every day makes it more likely that these soldiers,"--there was an adjective prefixed, a favourite one, applied by him to almost everything--"will find out what we are planning. The dark nights, now there is no moon, will favour us when once we get away. Now or never is the word. The men in all the other yards are waiting for the red flag to be hoisted over our prison. To-morrow morning, at daybreak, let us begin."

Marc Poivre, the man he had alluded to, was a tall, lank fellow, with muscles of iron, and sunken fiery eyes, that betokened a fierce temper which would not brook much contradiction.

"I say, wait!" was his sententious reply.

"What for?" said Malin.

"Till the days get shorter still. Till we know more for certain that the others are ready. Till the soldiers have lost the suspicions they certainly have, that something is up. Only to-day I heard one of the red- coats say to his fellow, 'When are they going to kick up a row?' You know, yourself, Malin, they have doubled the guard all round."

"Are you afraid?" sneered Malin.

The sunken eyes burned. But it was not the time for quarrelling: so Poivre restrained himself, and only said, "I will answer you another time. Begin to-morrow if you will. Have your own way. I am content."

All the others agreed to this, for Poivre was not popular among them. He was too fond of brawling; and most councils, especially small ones, are ruled by personal prejudices of some sort, rather than by honest, independent opinion.

Then all the councillors got on their legs, and shouted, "Silence! Silence!"

It took some little time to get it owing to the babel that was going on. At last they prevailed, and then Malin addressed those present in his stentorian voice:

"Brothers! Our captivity will end to-morrow. It will be our own fault if we are not all free men before another sun sets. Then many hours of darkness will befriend us. Hide by day and hurry on by night. Make for the sea, but not all in the same direction. With the first light of day, our companions, all over the prison, will see the red flag flying. Then shout! Shout every one of you. Keep on shouting! and the walls of our jail will fall down flat."

"Like the walls of Jericho," cried a derisive voice. Some said Poivre's. Malin knew it was, and did not forget it. But it damped his ardour for a moment, though the prisoners were too numerous to hear, or too interested to heed it.

"To-morrow! Liberty!" was all the mighty voice of Malin could add; and then an outburst of cheers followed that made the red tiles of the long roof rattle.

The morning broke; and then, sure enough, the guards observed the red flag waving in the breeze. They had not long to wait before the meaning of it was made plain. A tremendous shout arose from the yard where the flag was hoisted, and then an answering shout from each of the other yards in succession, till they all blended in one continuous roar from more than three thousand throats. If it subsided in part, or altogether, for a few moments, it quickly broke out again. The turnkeys, looking through the gratings of the wickets, saw the prisoners leaping and jumping about in the greatest state of excitement (and when a Frenchman is excited, he is excited indeed); and in some of the yards they had evidently got tools and implements which must have been brought in by outsiders.

Major Kelly was promptly on the spot, and at once saw that the situation was threatening. It was not the uproar that alarmed him. That, alone, could do no harm, except to the throats of the shouters, though it betrayed the fact that the whole of the prisoners were taking part in the rising. What he feared most was the possession of tools by the prisoners, and the consequent danger that, if any sufficient opening were made in one or more of the outer palisades, a considerable number of prisoners might get out, and much bloodshed take place. This his humane nature shrank from.

The force under his command consisted, at that particular time, of only a regiment of militia, and a battalion of the army reserve, about eleven hundred bayonets. The whole of these were immediately under arms, and ordered to surround the enclosure in detachments, with instructions to combine at any point where there seemed any signs of an opening being made by the prisoners.

Major Kelly then proceeded to consult with his senior officers and Captain Mortimer. The question was not whether he had force enough to put down the mutiny by violent measures, but whether there were men enough to do it without considerable effusion of blood.

Captain Mortimer at once shewed his quality when asked for his opinion. "Put it down, major," he said, "with a strong hand, and lose no time about it. What I venture to recommend is, first of all send a shot from the block-house into one of the prison yards by way of warning; then march two or three hundred men right into the yard; draw them up, and let them shoot every rascal that does not take shelter in the barrack-room. Give them time. Then let an officer go to the door with a bugler, and tell the _canaille_, if they don't at once leave off their infernal noise and keep quietly inside, they will be shot down like rats: then fasten up the door. Depend on it, this will soon settle the other yards. One example will be enough. A rough beginning will make a speedy ending."

"But these men," said Major Kelly sternly, and with evident disgust, "are not rascals, they are not to be treated as _canaille_. The only crime they are guilty of is fighting for their country. That they want to escape, however foolish, is only natural. Of course they must be put down, even if it should cost some lives: but I should prefer trying milder measures first. What do you say, gentlemen?"

The other officers all fell in with their commander's idea: for, as a rule, the majority of officers partake of the spirit of their chief without any subserviency; and thus, as we so often find, a Colonel makes or mars his regiment.

"Then we must have help from Peterborough," said the Major. "Take a message from me, Captain Martin, to the officer in command there. Say that I want all the men he can spare, and specially every troop of yeomanry he can muster, for we may have to scour the country. My horse shall be at the main gate in ten minutes--you know he is a good one; and you, Captain, like a fair pace."

The gallant Captain smiled as he saluted, and in less than ten minutes he was in the saddle and flying like a meteor along the road, for he was a very Jehu.

The stone steps by which the officers mounted are still to be seen where the main entrance was.

And what were the French and other officers doing all this time?

They had all along known of the intended outbreak, and urgent requests had in some way been made to them that they would take part in it. But with some few exceptions, they had positively refused. Not, however, without much acrimonious debate. Those who were in favour of joining in the mutiny were some captains of privateers, whose sense of honour was not rendered more acute by their manner of life, and two or three army officers of indifferent character, who had either abused their parole, or never obtained it.

A night or two before the crisis, the dispute became very violent.

"What a shame," cried one of the malcontents, "that we, who are ready for anything to get free, should be hindered by you careful and very scrupulous gentlemen!"

"We are not hindering you," replied Villemet: "get out if you can whenever you like. We heartily wish all the prisoners may get out. None of us will interfere."

"But you will not help us: and not to help is to hinder."

"And we have told you why a score of times," put in Tournier in the quietest possible way. "The English have deprived us of liberty, but they shall never deprive us of honour. We are on parole, and we are bound in honour, therefore, not to try and escape even if we could."

"Honour!" said a privateer captain, turning up his nose in a very pronounced manner.

"Yes, sir, honour! Perhaps you do not know the meaning of the word."

The nose went down, and the temper went up. "I do, sir, quite as much as you. But I don't call truckling to the enemy honour."

"Nor do I," said Tournier.

The perfect quietness of his manner provoked the other more than any angry words would have done.

"But that's what you are doing--truckling to the English."

The malcontents applauded.

This emboldened him to go on. "You are traitors to your own countrymen."

"You know," said Tournier calmly, "I cannot treat you for that insult as I would if free--that is, if it were not beneath me to notice it from one like you."

He sprung up and struck Tournier.

They all sprung up. Tournier himself sprung up. A general fight seemed imminent. But the greater part were gentlemen, and Tournier, still calm, said with a smile, "Take no notice of it, my friends. Let us withdraw. At least we will bear away the palm of victory over our tempers."

The malcontents were disconcerted at this magnanimity.

Only Villemet would have a parting shot, and as he retired, said, "If ever I meet that _coquin_ outside these cursed walls, I'll horsewhip him black and blue."

The man was making for Villemet, but his companions pulled him back.

Within an hour Captain Martin had returned with a troop of yeomanry. They had just had a field-day, and for some reason, one of the troops had not been dismissed like the rest. So, without waiting a moment, officers and men galloped off to Norman Cross. The other troops of yeomanry were to follow as soon as they could be got together, along with three or four companies of volunteers and militia.

The tumult was still continuing among the prisoners, though with more frequent spells of comparative quiet: symptoms, perhaps, of exhaustion. No opening had yet been discovered in the palisades, though the soldiers thought they sometimes heard, when a lull in the uproar occurred, the sound of heavy blows against them, which almost directly ceased when the uproar abated. And it made some entertain the idea, that the otherwise childish shouting was not without a rational object, namely, to drown the noise of blows.

At length darkness came on. It promised to be an intensely dark night--one of those nights, of which there are only a few in every year, when you cannot, as we say, see your own hand.

Watch-fires were kindled at every station where a detachment was posted round the prison enclosure. All the troops were under arms through the night; the gunners in the block-house ready for action; and the yeomanry patrolling the Peterborough and Great North roads. At about three in the morning a sentinel fired his piece, and the nearest detachment fell in, and hurried at the double to the spot. The prisoners were escaping through an opening in one of the palisades, but the prompt arrival of the soldiers quickly stopped the exodus. Some were thrust back again, and an array of bayonets at the charge, together with a volley from the rear ranks, fired, at first, by the commandant's express orders, into the air, effectually prevented all further attempt. Nine prisoners escaped, and got clear away, surmounting the difficulty of the last palisading of all by friendly help from outside, as it was supposed, a rope with a hook at the end being found next morning at a certain spot. In all probability it was a sweet-heart's act, some acquaintance formed at the barrack market.

Several other openings were made, but the soldiers, after the first alarm, were so much on the alert, that hardly any more escaped. Altogether less than a score got clear away, besides the nine already mentioned; but how they managed to get over the last palisade was a mystery, except there were, as in the other case, assistance from without, though no trace of it was discovered. Sad to relate, however, more than half of those who obtained their freedom were recaptured after a few days, some of them a long way off from Norman Cross.

One other attempt at escape deserves to be recorded, because it was planned with skill and daring worthy of a better result. In the barrack- yard where Malin was confined, there happened to be several sappers, and they had dug a mine, with very imperfect tools, some thirty-four feet in length, towards the Great North Road, but unfortunately it fell short of the required distance, and the men were found when daylight broke still within the outer wall of the prison.

So ended the only general outbreak that was ever made by the prisoners of Norman Cross; and Major Kelly could ever after enjoy the immense satisfaction of reflecting that the suppression of so serious an attempt was brought about without a drop of blood.

As an instance of the extreme peril they ran who contrived to escape, it is recorded on a tombstone in the Churchyard of East Dereham, how Jean de Narde, son of a Notary Public of St. Malo, a French prisoner of war (most likely from Norman Cross), escaped from the Bell Tower of the Church (where he had been confined temporarily on his re-capture), and was pursued and shot by a soldier on duty October 6th, 1799, aged 28 years. Oh, why did not that stupid fool of a soldier miss him!

But it is pleasant to add that, in the year 1857, when French and English were fighting side by side in the Crimea, the then Vicar and two friends erected a tombstone as a memorial of poor de Narde's untimely fate, and "as a tribute of respect to that brave and generous Nation, once our foes, but now our allies and brethren." And they add the words which all but those who make profit out of war will heartily echo and re-echo, "Ainsi soit il."