Forgotten past of Lothians PoWs revealed

EVEN among the miserable and sorry bunch of prisoners being jostled by a curious crowd on a chilly February day in the shadow of St Giles' Cathedral, the Dutch sailor stood out for his pitiful appearance.

He could not stop shivering – perhaps because his coat was threadbare and his shoes full of holes – and, standing at the front of the group of 600 men captured in the course of the Napoleonic Wars, he was moaning about his fate.

But suddenly his resigned demeanour changed. He grabbed the prisoner standing next to him and pulled him into the middle of the group until he was out of sight of the encircling guards.

More than 30 years later, the man he grabbed, a French privateer by the name of Henri-Ferdinand Marote, recalled what happened next on that day in 1811 in Parliament Square.

"Without a word, he cast off his old frock coat and appeared clothed in a costume so fine that he looked as if he'd stepped straight out of a tailor's shop. He shook off his big shoes and showed he was wearing brilliantly polished boots (underneath]. He grasped his hat, pulled off its soiled cover."

The Dutchman pulled out handfuls of coins from his pockets, which he scattered around the crowd. Marote remembered his words: "'Here you are, take it my poor people', he said, speaking in faultless English and moving as he did so towards our guards. Arriving among the prisoners on the fringes, he moved out of the circle, raising his voice and continuing to cast his alms into everyone's hands. The soldiers at once saw this man who was by his appearance a real gentleman, so generous with his money . . They immediately approached him: 'What the devil are you doing? What are you doing among the prisoners? Get along with you! Quick! Out of there!'"

And with a sly glance back at his fellow prisoner, the Dutchman did as he was told.

It wasn't the last Marote heard from him. Three months later, when he was languishing in a prisoner of war camp – or depot as they were called – in Valleyfield, a converted paper mill near Penicuik, he received a letter from the escapee, now safely home in Amsterdam. In the letter, he explained how, after his sharp exit from Parliament Square, he'd treated himself to a fine dinner, booked into a hotel in the city, then headed to Leith the next morning, where he'd managed to board a Dutch ship headed for home.

It was a swift end to captivity that Marote, destined to be imprisoned for three years, could only dream of. He was one of many thousands of mostly French, but also Dutch, Danish, West Indian and a host of other nationalities, captured and held prisoner in the war between the British and the French, led by the imperialistically ambitious Napoleon, from 1803 to 1814. Little is known about most, but as an elderly man, Marote became friendly with a Belgian historian, who published his recollections of life in Scotland. Now his stories are included in a new book, All Men Are Brethren, the result of 22 years of research by Edinburgh author Ian MacDougall, a 74-year-old former history teacher and research fellow who lives in Liberton. The exhaustive study details the prisons and their inhabitants at Edinburgh Castle, Greenlaw Mansion, Esk Mills and Valleyfield, as well as at Perth.

Over the years, thousands of prisoners entered the doors of these human "depots" and several hundred spent more than a decade locked up. But there are few physical signs of their time here – "if there had been barbed wire at the time, they would have been behind it", explains Ian. "But they were confined and their contact with locals was very limited."

The prisoners didn't, as myth has it, build the walls around Dalkeith Palace and Floors Castle. The gloomy vaults at Edinburgh Castle remain, but Esk Mills, which became a paper mill again after the war, has gone, as has the mansion at Greenlaw – Glencorse Barracks stands there now. Valleyfield was restored as a paper mill in 1820, which it remained until the 1970s. Houses now stand on the site, but nearby there is a monument – the only one of its kind in Scotland – to the prisoners. It was mostly paid for by the mill owner Alexander Cowan in 1830. It urges visitors to the spot to remember that "all men are brethren".

But at the time the presence of the prisoners in rural Lothian had quite an impact – and not all of it positive. Nearly two decades after the last prisoner had gone home, local minister Rev Scott Moncrieff claimed the countryside was only just getting back to normal from the time "the peaceful artisan gave way to the soldier, and the din of the camp with its attendant irregularities".

"Who could feel but sympathy for these prisoners held in such conditions?" says Ian. But he adds that there were many appalling criminal acts committed during the war. "And it would be surprising if none of the prisoners in Scotland weren't guilty of taking part in some atrocity or other."

Certainly, several locals ended up in hot water – and the Edinburgh Tolbooth – due to their hand in distributing the prisoners' poor attempts at forged bank notes. Most of the notes were amateurish, too big, badly spelt or drawn with pen or pencil instead of engraved.

But some captives used their hands for more useful purposes, making handicrafts to sell out of bone, wood, paper, straw, cloth, even human hair.

At Greenlaw, a prisoner called Beaudoin recalled in his diary: "To try to lighten my unhappy fate a little, I attempted to make some straw plait. It seemed very difficult at first, I had fingers that were too fat, but after some days I managed to make it well." Soon Beaudoin, along with many other prisoners, was churning out the straw goods at a belting rate, but even this landed them in hot water. Complaints from British straw goods makers led to prisoners being banned from making them and fines of £10 were levied on those found buying them.

Craftwork, however, continued – for instance, Beaudoin turned to making rings from human hair with names inscribed on them.

These goods were sold at markets held at all the Scottish depots. Engineer James Naysmith, in his autobiography, recalled the market at Edinburgh Castle: "These poor prisoners of war were allowed to work at their tasteful handicrafts in small sheds or temporary workshops at the Castle, behind the palisades that separated them from their free customers outside. There was just enough room between the bars to hand through their exquisite works and to receive the modest prices that they charged. The front of these palisades became a favourite resort for the inhabitants of Edinburgh and especially for the young folks."

At Valleyfield, many people from Edinburgh went to see the prisoners "grinning through their gratings", says historian Macbeth Forbes. But many bought out of charitable feelings – or other affections: "The offering of the prisoners' wares for sale at the markets furnished an occasion that was utilised as only a lover can do with limited time at his disposal. Making love through the grille was a common distraction."

And sometimes this affection led to a lasting legacy. 1814 marked the end of the war, but not all prisoners went home.

"The evidence is very sketchy, but there were four or five prisoners who were known to have remained in Scotland," explains Ian. One became a knife sharpener, another a shepherd and a third, a Dutchman called Van Beck, escaped from Penicuik with the help of a family. He later married one of their daughters and settled in Musselburgh – and Van Becks still live in the area, says Ian.

As for Marote, arriving in Leith to board his ship back to France, he ran into a fellow former inmate, a man he nicknamed the "Galerian". A serial and daring escapee while at Valleyfield, the Galerian told Marote he had tired of bidding for his freedom and instead volunteered to serve for Britain. He was now a cook on a British frigate – and life was good, since he had met and married a very pretty 17-year-old Scotswoman.

• All Men Are Brethren: Prisoners of War in Scotland 1803-1814 by Ian MacDougall is published by John Donald, priced £25.

HISTORY OF BITTER CONFLICT
FRANCE and Britain had been at war on and off since 1793 when the British joined forces with Austria, Sardinia, Naples, Prussia and Spain in a bid to crush the newly formed French Republic.

An uneasy peace was agreed in 1802 between Britain and France but it didn't last long – hostilities flared up again in May 1803.

France, led by Napoleon Bonaparte who was crowned Emperor in 1804, wanted to push out British influence in Europe and set up its own mercantilist empire – Britain wanted to block this and restore the French monarchy. Nations as diverse as Haiti, Austria, Sweden, Spain and Russia were drawn into the conflict.

The British landed a number of victories – mostly memorably Nelson's at Trafalgar in 1805 – and Napoleon, despite greater manpower, suffered a series of military disasters, including losing half a million men during his abortive invasion of Russia in 1812.

By 1813, British hero Wellington had the French emperor on the back foot and the following year Napoleon abdicated and headed into exile in Elba.

The news was greeted with rejoicing in Edinburgh – according to the Evening Courant, a forerunner of the News, there was dancing and partying in the streets, with a bonfire lit on Arthur's Seat, a band playing on the balcony of the Tron Church and a royal salute at the Castle.