Paul curled on his side, his head pillowed on his arm. With a sigh, he ran his hand over his over his prickly scalp and fingered the long scar the prison barber had left earlier this year. Silently, he wished for sleep.
It was never quiet. The noise ebbed as the hundreds of men who lived in this moldering ship slipped into what freedom they may find in their dreams, but the high pitch clanking of chains and the bass snores would continue throughout the night. As he lay on the hard bed, sleep did not come. He listened to the men around him, the slapping of the waves against the hull, the flapping of the naval flags in the evening breeze and the footsteps of the guards making their rounds. From the commissioned ships across the harbor, he heard the whistles as the guard changed at midnight.
Softly, as if in a dream, came the sound of singing. It was the sound of many voices joined together in a joyful chorus. There was a church at the end of the pier beyond the prison gate and he thought he must be hearing their midnight service. He pictured the crowd of worshippers, standing close together, holding candles as they belted out the carol and shared the warmth of each other's company. He had done his best to banish the memories of his boyhood, but the tune brought him back to a time when he had stood belt-high among grownups, lending his small voice to the Christmas song.
The distant voices were joined by the sound of a soft tenor. It was a voice he recognized instantly. He had been joined to his new partner less than a month ago. In that time, Jean Valjean had said less than a dozen words to him, but his voice was unmistakable.
He knew of Jean Valjean of course. Paul had been on the dock when Jean Valjean had skittered through the rigging to rescue that sailor. He had gasped in horror with everyone around him when he had fallen from the mooring line into the harbor. And he had watched in silence as a pair of seamen had fished him out of the water and handed him back to the guards. Two days later, they had lined up to watch him be flogged for filing his chain.
From the way the other men acted, he understood there was more to his partner than he knew. However, even after two years in this prison, the French that was spoken around him continued to be an impenetrable wall and he only understood the most basic of conversations.
He rolled over and looked at his chain-mate. Jean Valjean was older than Paul by a score of years and what was left of his hair had gone snow white. He was sitting cross-legged; his eyes were closed and his hands clutched desperately at the chain, pulling it taunt against its anchor. His voice was barely louder than a whisper but the clear, beautiful sound of his singing held Paul entranced. The expression on Jean Valjean's face was unlike anything Paul had ever seen. A profound faith radiated from the depths of his countenance, twisted around and warring with true despair. Tears ran unchecked down Jean Valjean's lined face.
Subtly at first, the sound of the sleeping men began to change. From the far end of the room, someone grumbled. The snores ceased and men sat up. They moved with care, it seemed to Paul, lest they rattle the chains. From the far end of the room, a deep bass picked up the next verse, making a striking contrast to Jean Valjean's clear tenor. On the chorus, first two and then six and then ten voices joined in. By the end, even Paul, who had abandoned the faith with puberty, found himself singing along, using the English words he knew.
When the song was over, the most remarkable thing Paul had ever experienced occurred. For a moment, there was silence. True silence, broken only both the gentle lapping of the waves. In the silence, two hundred men, some of whom had been justly convicted and others of whom bore their chains in innocence, two hundred men who regardless of their past were now all hardened convicts, sat together in contemplative silence.
Notes: Solstice service at my church inspired this story. I apologize for the alternative timeline. I'd much rather have Valjean meeting Cosette on this night, but the idea gripped me and I wrote this in bits in pieces all day, coming back to it whenever I had a spare moment. This story was also inspired by Birdman of Alcatraz and other accounts from the prisoners and guards who lived on "The Rock". On Alcatraz (at the time one of the most restrictive prisons in the U.S.) certain cell blocks allowed the prisoners to both see and hear San Francisco. I realize that it is unlikely that "Adeste Fideles" is period appropriate in France, but that is not really the point.