Introduction
This very rare Westerman story was written for a paper titled Pink’s Pictorial, published by William Pink, a Portsmouth grocery business, for their Christmas 1908 edition. The story is preceded by a very flattering article about Percy and was clearly included to promote the release of his first book A Lad of Grit. The Prisoner of War is written to appeal to the more mature reader and is interlaced with flashes of humour. The story relies heavily on Percy’s local and historical knowledge and real locations. Today the locations referred to in the story are still easy for the literary tourist to access. Portchester Castle is open to the public; managed by English Heritage and the Old Portsmouth area still retains the early fortifications and is a thriving cultural centre of artists studios, cafes and bars. With some imagination it is not difficult to envisage how it might have looked to the heroes of our story.
Pink's Pictorial: There are two copies of this particular edition that we know of. One is held in the Westerman Yarns Collection and the other can found in the Portsmouth City Records Office. Both copies are in a fragile condition. The paper used has become fried with age and speaking only of our copy (now conserved in Melonex pockets), it has the consistency of a pack of very dry crisps - the paper will crumble if handled.
Portchester Castle is just a few minutes drive from my home and is a wonderful place for a walk at all times of the year. It's imposing walls are a breathtaking feature of the seascape at the head of Portsmouth Harbour. The picture above is taken at a high tide.
The Prisoner of War
A Tale of Portchester
Castle During the Napoleonic Wars
by Percy F Westerman
You ask me, my friends to
tell you of the circumstances under which I, Jean Francois Sainte-Marie du
Petite Thouars, ex lieutenant de vaisseau, became an Englishman – a citizen of
La Perfide Albion? It is a long explanation, but, in brief, I can reply, “C’est
l’amour.”
I hasten to explain. When in the year 1805, Milord Nelson had gone
on a fruitless voyage to the West Indies in pursuit of Villeneauve, the waters
of La Manche, or, as I must now term it, the English Channel, were thought to
be clear of the presence of the dreaded British men-of-war. Then it was that the 44-gun frigate “Curieux”
sailed from L’Orient, intent upon capturing such misguided English merchantmen
as dared to close over the shores of La Bella France, and on the “Curieux”
sailed I. Lieutenant Jean du Petite Thouars.
On the second night after
weathering Ushant we sighted a strange sail, and in close pursuit we held her
until late in the middle watch. At
length we fired a gun as a signal for her to heave-to, and, with a creaking of
tackle, her mainyard was swung aback, and we immediately forged close
alongside.
Then to our utter surprise
and consternation a voice hailed us in execrable attempt to speak the French
tongue: “Rendezvous, Johnny Crapaud; nous sommes dam big frigat de quatrevingt
cannons.”
Here was a terrible position
– over our vessel but 44 guns opposed to an English 80 gun. In the confusion that followed we attempted
to sheer off, but with a flash and a roar that shook the very heavens, the
Englishman let fly a broadside that brought our foremast down with a run, and
littered the decks with broken spars and tangled cordage. Then, almost before we were aware of it, the
accursed frigate was rubbing alongside, and three score half-naked fire-eaters
were slashing and hewing on our decks.
For my part, I was opposed
to a great brute of a man, armed with a heavy capstan bar. By the feeble light of the fighting-lanterns
I could see his huge body stripped to the waist, his powerful arms with muscles
like iron rods, and a head around which was bound a scarf of red silk that
served to intensify the look of ferocious hatred on his face.
It is an honourable deed to
be able to shed one’s blood in the defence of one’s country; but my faith, when
it comes to having one’s brains knocked out by a savage Englishman it is time
to cry “Halt”.
Can you blame me, then, my
friends when I incontinently turned and ran down the main-hatch? But, alas! it was the same everywhere; the
enemy had poured in through the main-deck gun-ports, and, before we could
realise the fact, we were battered down our own hold – prisoners of war.
What, then, do you think
these accursed English afterwards told us?
(Excuse me, my friends, if in the excitement of my narrative I for a
moment forgot that I myself am now an Englishman.) They informed us that the vessel which had captured
us was but a 28-gun frigate, and that our crew out-numbered theirs by at least
a hundred men.
Oh! The bitter tears of
mortification that we shed at this astounding information of the heartless
perfidy of our foes; but lamentations were useless, and four days later the
“Curieux” was towed into Portsmouth Harbour, where, under a strong guard, we
were sent to the gloomy castle of Portchester.
Fortunately, we were spared the horrors of the prison-hulks, tales of
which had spread throughout the length and breadth of La Belle France; but even
now I cannot repress a shudder at the reminiscences of that terrible castle,
though, par Dieu, even that gruesome place brought me some good fortune, as I
will hasten to explain.
Two stories of the massive
castle keep were devoted to the use of captive officers. There were majors, captains and lieutenants
of all branches of the army; artillery, hussars, chasseurs, and infantry of the
line; but the greater part of the prisoners were naval officers, whom, you must
know, were of superior stock to those of the army, the latter having risen
almost to a man from the ranks of the Republican forces that had fought at
Valmy and Fleurus. In consequence, there was little love lost between the
representatives of the two arms of the service, and, instead of being staunch
companions in misfortune, petty jealousy led to frequent quarrels and strife.
Slowly the long months of
captivity passed, winter giving way to spring, which in turn was followed by
summer. During this time I applied
myself diligently to study of the English language, and by degrees became quite
proficient in its various idiosyncrasies.
Although treated in a
different manner to the common soldiers and seamen we were treated to the
indignity of being inspected every Thursday afternoon by crowds of curious
visitors. I say inspected advisedly, for
although some came to buy the small nick-nacks our men cleverly made from bones
and straw, or to haggle over the price of a few yards of lace, the majority
simply regarded us an exhibition for their idle curiosity.
But one afternoon towards
the end of June came a small party of visitors, escorted by a Major Parsons, of
Denbigh Militia, who was in charge of our guards.
The major was a short,
apoplectic-looking man, who apparently suffered from gout and an excess of ort
wine, judging by his complexion and his irascible temper.
On this occasion his
daughter formed one of the party. How
shall I describe Violet Parsons? C’est impossible. Imagine a dainty, petite maiden, with
clear-cut features, sweet blue eyes full of compassionate regard, and a wealth
of golden hair – not straw-coloured, but approaching the rich tints beloved by
Titian. To this day I marvel how the
major could have been the father of such a sweet little lady.
For one brief moment she
lingered behind the rest of the party
“Poor man, I am so sorry for you,” she whispered; then, as if abashed by
her boldness, she was gone.
It was but a glimpse of an
angel of pity, yet it left an ineffaceable impression on my mind.
Slowly the week passed, and
I lived only in the hope of seeing her again the following Thursday; but, alas,
my expectations were doomed to failure.
When next she came she was
accompanied by an elderly female, and for an all-too-brief five minutes we
conversed, during which time I learned that she lived in the adjoining village
and that she had taken a great interest in my unhappy condition.
From that time her visits
became regular, and I knew that a French officer can make other conquests than
those of arms. My actions, however, were
not to be kept concealed from my companions in captivity, and many a harmless
jest at my expense was passed by my brother officers, which, in the happiness
of my love, I could well afford to treat lightly; till one day an
ill-conditioned bully, one Du Barry, a captain of chasseurs, passed a course
remark concerning my idol, which no true gentleman could possibly ignore. What he said I need not repeat, but my reply
was a violet blow what wrought havoc on even his brutal features. As a result, his seconds waited upon me that
evening.
You have doubtless heard, my
friends of the manner in which a duel was fought amongst us in these affairs of
honour? No? Then I will tell you. In the north-east corner of the room in which
we were confined is a little cage-like hole in the outer wall of the keep. If you chance to visit the castle you may
still see it. Imagine a hole 7ft. in
length, and not high enough for a man to stand upright. Into this den, in the dead of night, the two
principals enter, both stripped (to avoid subsequent detection) like veritable
“Sans culottes,” and armed with formidable daggers fashioned from the ribs of
an ox.
It is soon over. The survivor emerges, often covered with
blood; the body of the vanquished is reclothed and cast through a narrow window
into the courtyard of the castle, 80ft below.
Next morning the British military authorities announce that yet another
prisoner has embraced suicide as the only way of escape.
This was the manner in which
we fought, but, needless to say, it was not the body of Jean du Petit-Thouars
that was unceremoniously buried without the castle walls.
At our next meeting I told
my love of this little incident and never shall I forget the horrified look
that overspread her features, and by her unguarded reply I know my affection
was reciprocated.
“To think you killed a
fellow-man on my account!” she exclaimed.
“Promise me that you will not quarrel with any of them again; for, if
anything befell you, I know not what I should do.”
In truth the affair with Du
Barry had established my reputation amongst my comrades, and I had little to
fear in that respect; but my one desire was to break out of this gloomy prison
and flee with Violet as my wife. Though
not romantic, my sweetheart consented to the project with fervour.
“Once you are free,” she
said, “we can make our way to the Isle of Wight, where I have relations, and
there we can be married. By posing as an
émigré – and there are thousands of
Frenchmen loyal to the successor of Louis XVI who have taken refuge in this country
– you will be free from molestation.”
We thereupon formed a plan,
which we put into instant execution.
Every Thursday for nine long weeks my fiancée brought, with the greatest
secrecy, a piece of rope ten or eleven feet in length, which, with a sailor’s
dexterity, I spliced into one long length, working the silent hours of the
night and hiding my handiwork by day.
At length the time for my
attempt arrived. It was Christmas Eve, a
black night, with a keen east wind, while ever and anon the snow fell
heavily. Directly my companions had
turned in I vigorously attacked the iron bars of one of the windows with a
well-oiled file. Half an hour’s work and
the task was completed. Hastily knotting
one end of the rope to a broken bar, I cautiously looked out through the
aperture before dropping the cord to the ground.
Outside was all quiet; the
last roisterers keeping Christmas Eve in the village had fallen asleep, while
not a light glimmered through the darkness.
Just as I was about to lower the rope I heard the voice of the
sentries. “Number Four: all’s well!”
shouted a hoarse voice almost beneath my window, and the cry was taken up by
Number Five, some fifty yards away. Leaning
well out, I could detect immediately beneath me the glint of the man’s bayonet,
and the dim outlines of the top of his shako and his heavy knapsack.
“Mon Dieu! It is hopeless,”
I muttered; but, to my great satisfaction, I heard the sentry’s footsteps as he
made off, doubtless to join his comrade in some shelter from the keen wind
until the sergeant made the rounds.
“Courage, mon ami,” I
whispered to myself; then, dropping the free end of the rope, I swung over the
edge of the abyss, and the descent began.
Spinning round and round, like a joint of a roasting jack, at one time
grazing my face against the rough stone wall, at another gazing into the black
obscurity of the night, my progress was painfully slow. In spite of the muscular effort, which caused
the sweat to pour down my face in rivulets, my hands were rapidly becoming
numbed with the piercing cold, till the distance between each hand-grip became
shorter and shorter, and I felt my strength ebbing away. A torrent of thoughts flashed through my mind
in those awful moments, till, my arms refusing to perform their task, the rope
slipped through my hands, and, hardly suppressing an involuntary cry, I fell –
I struck the soft earth with
a dull thud, and helplessly rolled several feet. Then, realising that I was still alive, I
staggered to my feet, conscious of a sickly pain in the neck and burning wounds
in my lacerated palms. Wading through
the tidal moat, I reached the friendly shelter of an avenue of trees, and
followed the pathway towards the shore where Violet had promised to await me.
True to her tryst, my sweetheart
was there, and even in the darkness saw that she was attired in the garb of a
sailor her figure trembling with suppressed emotion.
“Put these on,” she
whispered, thrusting a bundle into my arms, and a few seconds found me clad in
the uniform of a British captain of Marines, a heavy sea cloak completing my
disguise.
Without another word she
turned and made her way down a slippery hard, I following closely at her
heels. It was now nearly three-quarter
ebb, and the tide was rushing furiously down the narrow channel. With the utmost caution we launched a small
boat, and with muffled oars I rowed silently down the stream, the dark, grim
outlines of my former prison seeming to slip past as the swift current bore us
southward towards happiness and freedom.
Oh! The memories of that
Christmas morning, as, in the piercing cold and blinding flakes that tended, if
possible, to increase the darkness – for it was now snowing heavily - found
myself afloat in a frail cockle-shell with one who had staked her all in the
welfare of a Frenchman and an enemy, and even as I pulled laboriously at the
heavy oars, I indulged in pleasant reveries of the future.
My dreams were rudely
shattered by an almost imperceptible shock, the boat running hard and fast on a
hidden mud-bank. Try as I could, the
little craft remained immovable. Violet
gave a little cry of dismay.
“It’s Basket Point!” she exclaimed. “We are doomed to stay here till the tide
floats us, and long before that we shall be seen by the guards at the castle.”
“Never, if I can help it,” I
replied; “I’ll jump overboard and haul her off.”
“No, you must not,” she
answered imperatively. “Look!” And,
suiting the action to the words, she pushed one of the oars into the filthy
slime. Six feet it sank without the
slightest effort, and I realised the fruitlessness of the attempt.
Nothing could be done, so we
sat huddled together for mutual warmth, awaiting in blank despair the daylight
that was to reveal our presence to my captors, till, to our intense delight, we
found that the tide had changed and the waves were already lapping the boat’s
stern.
Filled with renewed hope, we
waited till the boat floated, and then resumed our perilous journey. An hour’s hard rowing brought us abreast of
the first of the line of yellow-painted prison hulks, and we could distinctly
hear the measure tread of the vigilant sentries.
“Hark! A boat is coming this
way,” whispered my love. “What if they
hail us?”
“I will reply to them,” I
answered stoutly. “My English is perfect.”
“Your English is perfect
only when your mouth is shut firmly, Jean,” retorted Violet, with a suppressed
laugh. “Quick! Tie this round your face, and pretend you
have been wounded in the mouth, and that you cannot speak a word,” and,
whipping a black silk scarf from round her neck, she dexterously bound it about
my head.
My heart was literally in my
mouth, in spite of my confidence in a woman’s wit; but, fortunately, we were
not observed, though the strange boat passed within a few oars’ lengths of us,
and without further incident we passed the last of the hulks and gained the
more frequented part of the harbour, where the presence of a boat was not
likely to excite suspicion.
The snow had long left off,
and a grey light was dawning in the east. All at once the sound of a peal of bells
floated over the water.
“St Thomas’s bells!” exclaimed Violet; “’Peace, goodwill towards
men.’ It is a happy omen, Jean,” to
which I returned a fervent “Amen.”
Faint with hunger and
exposure, we at length ran our boat ashore at Point, the watermen, seeing we
were without baggage, giving us but scant head, for maimed and wounded officers
were common objects in those days; and Violet, in her role of ship’s boy, led
me to an inn, where she ordered breakfast for her “master, who had just been
wounded in action.”
It was a dingy room,
smelling vilely of rum and tobacco smoke, and, while the slatternly maid was
busy preparing the meal, I, for the sake of appearances, took up a “Gazette”
that lay on the table.
Suddenly my indifference was
turned to intense excitement, for in the list of names of officers to be
exchanged appeared, “Lieutenant George Herbert Willoughby, His Britannic
Majesty’s Ship ‘Blazer,’ in exchange with Lieut. Jean Francoise Ste. M. Du
Petit-Thouars.”
Patriotism and love fought
but for an instant in my heart; then, directly the servant had retired, I
showed Violet the fateful message. A
deathlike pallor overspread her sweet features as she whispered:
“Then what we have done is
of no purpose. You are now free to
return to the France you love so well.
Forget the unhappy English girl –“
But she could say no more,
for, folding her in my arms, our lips met for the first time.
“The English officer can
find another French Lieutenant,” I exclaimed.
“Jean Francois du Petit-Thouars has found another country, and, what is
more, a devoted woman’s love.”
Pinks Pictorial
Christmas Edition
1909
