St. Ives, Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England

IT was in the month of May 1813 that I was so unlucky as to fall at last into the hands of the enemy.

My knowledge of the English language had marked me out for a certain employment.

Though I cannot conceive a soldier refusing to incur the risk, yet to be hanged for a spy is a disgusting business; and I was relieved to be held a prisoner of war.

Into the Castle of Edinburgh, standing in the midst of that city on the summit of an extraordinary rock, I was cast with several hundred fellow-sufferers, all privates like myself, and the more part of them, by an accident, very ignorant, plain fellows.

My English, which had brought me into that scrape, now helped me very materially to bear it.

I had a thousand advantages. I was often called to play the part of an interpreter, whether of orders or complaints, and thus brought in relations, sometimes of mirth, sometimes almost of friendship, with the officers in charge.

A young lieutenant singled me out to be his adversary at chess, a game in which I was extremely proficient, and would reward me for my gambits with excellent cigars