And Roy was still at Verdun. Every effort to get a passport for him had failed. In that direction Colonel Baron would thankfully have paid aught in his power, if thereby he might have sent his boy safe to England. But the time was gone by. Napoleon was very bitter against England; and passports were refused to almost all who requested them. As a writer of the day states, France had become one huge prison, not only to such English as were compelled to stay there, but also to the French themselves. If a Frenchman wished to leave his country and to go elsewhere, leave would in most cases be refused. As conscripts in the army men might go; seldom otherwise. In the autumn of 1805, not many weeks before the battle of Trafalgar, a fresh blow fell. Roy had felt his captivity much, boyishly gay though he was and rarely to be seen out of spirits. But he had had Denham all through; and Denham, though commonly looked upon as a grave and dignified man, had been to Roy the most delightful of companions. From the spring of 1803 to the autumn of 1805 the two had been seldom apart for a whole day. Denham had been Roy's tutor, friend, and playfellow. Roy had in the place one or two boy-friends; but, compared with Denham, he cared little for any other. His absolute devotion to Ivor somewhat resembled Jack Keene's adoration for John Moore, only it meant greater personal intimacy. Roy was known among friends as “Captain Ivor's shadow” and “Captain Ivor's echo.” What Denham thought, Roy thought; what Denham said, Roy said. “I don't know what he would do without you,” Colonel Baron sometimes said gratefully to Ivor. “No use to say how much we owe to your kindness. You have been the making of the boy.” Ivor would reply, “Roy is as much to me as I am to him.” And, in a sense this might be true, though not in all senses. September came, and with it a fresh device of the pork-dealer's son. General Wirion decided to send a large number of the Verdun détenus away to Valenciennes, a distance of about one hundred and fifty miles. No reasons were given, and the choice made of those who should go was entirely arbitrary. The wishes or convenience of anyone received not the slightest consideration.[4] On Saturday, September 17th, the order went forth that about forty of them were to leave on the Monday, only two days later. Many had made their arrangements for the winter, even buying and laying by little stores; and now, no matter at what cost or loss, they had to leave. Some were artisans who had just begun to make a little headway, others were gentlemen hardly able to pay their way from the perpetual uncertainty as to remittances from England. But the autocratic order had to be obeyed.