Where one leads, others are sure to follow.  It was wonderful how many of the prisoners discovered a talent for music after Punchard and Runnles had thus led the way.  Our jailers encouraged this pastime; it was not merely harmless in itself, but it had a quietening effect on the temper of the men, and the squabbles and brawls among them notably diminished.  One of the Frenchmen unearthed an old fiddle, and though one of its strings was wanting, a man named Ben Tolliday contrived to scrape very passable melody out of it.  Old John Dilly announced that he had played the cornet in his youth, and before very long an instrument was found for him, and after a few days’ practice (during which we had to suffer a variety of discordant and ear-splitting noises) he recovered something of his former skill.  An old drum with a very loose membrane was found in the lumber room of the keep, and this the bosun appropriated, though being quite destitute of a sense of rhythm he made but an indifferent performer.  Some of the men fashioned original instruments for themselves, one of these, a mouth organ, being a real triumph of ingenuity.

I, alas, had no singing voice, and was totally ignorant of music; but Joe kindly informed me that any fool could play the bones, and made two pairs of castanets for me out of beef bones supplied by the soldiers (we had no joints ourselves, but only a bullock’s cheek now and then) so that I too was able to bear my part in the concerts which now became of daily occurrence.

The soldiers of the guard often came and listened to our performances, and even the sour-faced commandant once condescended to form part of our audience, and smiled broadly when Dilly, who was a Devon man, sang with much expressive pantomime the pleasant ditty of Widdicombe Fair, though the Frenchman did not understand a word of it.

This condescension on the part of the commandant emboldened me to proffer a request which I had been meditating for some days.  I had by no means given up the hope of escaping from the castle, but the more I thought of it, the less likely it appeared that I could succeed without assistance.  Of course, Joe Punchard should accompany me, and when I talked the matter over with him, neither of us had the heart to scheme for our own freedom without regard to those of our fellow prisoners with whom we had become more closely connected through our musical interests.

“There is old John Dilly,” I said one day, when we were discussing the subject, “he was good to me aboard the Dolphin; I shouldn’t like to leave him behind.”

“True,” says Punchard, “and Runnles is a quiet, good soul; besides his name is Joe.”

“And the bosun, he’s as strong as an ox, and might be a useful man.”

“And Tolliday, he’s for ever sighing about Molly, his sweetheart; ’twould make two folks happy (maybe) if he got away among us.”