by Simon Mayo
She nodded, closing the gap in the curtains and dressing swiftly.
‘He’s telling his men now,’ she said. ‘He’ll speak to the prisoners later, but it’s the troops he’s worried about. Peace with America means uncertainty. If there’s no war, there’ll be no need for them to be here.’
‘Or us,’ said Magrath.
‘Another time, George,’ Elizabeth said, repinning her hair with practised ease. ‘Were we asleep long?’ She watched him reach awkwardly for his clothes. Despite their intimacy, Magrath had always made it clear he loathed pity. Lame since childhood, he had learned to cope and to thrive. He wanted no charity.
‘Mere minutes,’ he said, pushing himself up with his black-and-silver cane.
‘Still too long, George. I can’t believe we fell asleep at all. What were we thinking?’
‘You know the answer to that very well, Mrs Shortland.’ He paused. ‘And I’m not sure there was much thinking involved anyway.’
‘You speak for yourself, George,’ she said. By the time he was standing, she was ready to go; from petticoat to top coat, boots to hair, had been two minutes.
‘Damn me, you’re fast!’ he said.
‘I’ll wait for you downstairs.’ She collected her medical bag and stood waiting for him in the hallway. Their affair had made her happier than she had been in years. Magrath had once had to caution her to smile less on leaving his house. ‘Everyone knows you are invaluable to me on the rounds, Elizabeth,’ he had said. ‘It would be best, I think, if they didn’t know how invaluable you were to me … behind closed doors also.’
But the sailor she had spied from his bedroom had triggered a cascade of emotions: regret, longing, irretrievable loss. Elizabeth dug her nails into her palms. ‘Pathetic,’ she muttered to herself.
‘What’s that?’ George shouted after her. He appeared at the top of the landing, buttoning his waistcoat. ‘You said something …’
‘It’s nothing,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Talking to myself again.’
Magrath was down the stairs as swiftly as a man with a crippled leg can be. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said. ‘When you talk to yourself, it’s never good.’
She offered him a sweet smile. ‘Are all doctors like you?’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning,’ she said, as she flattened his tangled, extravagant hair, ‘your warm, wonderful heart seems to beat for mine also.’ She kissed him softly. ‘And the answer to your question is Willoughby.’
Magrath was instantly alert. ‘Willoughby? Why, what’s happened?’ She had spoken often of her only son, a young officer in the Royal Navy. Now, he assumed the worst.
‘Oh, no, George, it’s not that,’ she said quickly, sorry for the alarm she had caused. ‘There was a sailor, one of the new prisoners. I saw him from the window. He …’ She bit her lip hard. ‘He just reminded me of Willoughby, that’s all. I miss him so …’
Magrath reached for her and she folded into him. ‘If he has his mother’s instinct for survival, he’ll be just fine,’ he said.
‘Is that what this is?’ she said, from the folds of his high collar. She felt his smile.
‘Among many other things.’
The extraordinary sound of wild, uninhibited cheering came from the direction of the market square and they broke apart.
‘The peace,’ she said. ‘It must be the peace.’ They moved to the back door. Magrath opened it slightly, the chilled air enveloping them in seconds. They listened to the swirl of shouts, applause and singing. ‘Everything is about to change,’ she whispered.
‘You should go, Elizabeth,’ said Magrath. ‘Who knows what will happen now.’
Elizabeth Shortland pulled her coat tightly around her and slipped unnoticed from the physician’s house. Keeping tight to the wall, she bustled past the prison entrance, locked and boarded, and under the shadow of its enormous arch, glided quietly into the darkness of her own home.
1.5
The Market Square
IT WASN’T an easy party to stop, even with rifles, bayonets and the onset of freezing rain. Fifty soldiers marched through the top gates into the square, urged on by the shouts of their sergeant and jeered by the prisoners.
‘Go back to your blocks!’ cried the officer.
‘Kiss my arse!’ came the reply.
The musicians were targeted first, their fiddles, accordions and drums snatched or smashed. Then the most obviously inebriated were dragged away. Any American protest that became too aggressive was silenced with a rifle butt.
Joe looked around, realized he’d lost his crew. He nodded once at Habs and was gone. When there was fighting to be done, most sailors wanted their ship’s company alongside them, and Joe Hill was no exception. Around the square, there was a great reordering, a shifting of men as they moved towards their blocks, and Joe pushed his way through to where he thought he’d last seen the Eagle crew. He barged shoulders, dodged punches, ducked flying bottles. In front of him, three black sailors refused to make way for an intoxicated white sailor with teeth the colour of old pennies. After threatening Hell and damnation on them, the man fell face first on to the macadam. Tripped or unlucky, Joe couldn’t tell.
He found Roche propped lopsidedly between other Eagle men and fell in behind them. Flat against the wall and halfway between the top and bottom gates, he observed the old ship’s crews re-forming. With one noticeable difference.
‘The Negroes are all separating out,’ he said aloud. ‘Why are they doing that?’
Roche shrugged. At the bottom of the square, the black sailors were gathering around the lower, more ornate gates.
‘What are they down there for?’ In front of him, some white crew turned round, their eyes narrowing as they took in the new arrivals. One sported the longest braided pigtail Joe had seen.
‘You need to be told?’ drawled the man with the queue. ‘Does it look like we’re still at sea?’ There was a flash of red by the upper gates. Ten soldiers had appeared, led by a short, stiff-backed man in the uniform of a Royal Navy captain. He positioned himself on an improvised dais and waited, hands on hips. The rain swirled round him and briefly threatened to set him off balance.
‘Well, we got the Agent out of his warm bed, then.’ It was the man with the pigtail again. ‘He’ll not be wantin’ to leave that wife o’ his for long. I wouldn’t be trustin’ her alone in this place, that’s for certain.’ His crewmen laughed.
‘Not with the likes of you around he won’t.’
‘Agent?’ asked Joe, leaning forward. ‘Who’s the Agent?’
‘The governor. He’s called the Agent. God knows why. Arrogant cock of a man by the name of Captain Thomas Shortland. Or just call him Cock.’
Shortland raised his hands for silence. This triggered scuffles, a volley of jeers and abuse and another round of singing. Four men were roughly hauled away. The Agent waited a while, then reached inside his coat, produced a rolled piece of paper tied with a ribbon and held it aloft. It was instantly soaked, but succeeded where his upheld hands had failed.
‘It’s the peace!’ cried a voice.
‘It’s the peace!’ called a hundred more.
‘Silence for the peace!’
‘So we got it right,’ muttered Joe to himself, as the square around him fell as close as it would ever get to silence.
On the dais, Shortland unrolled the document and took a deep breath.
‘Men of Dartmoor!’ he called, his clipped voice high and clear. ‘I have in my possession a copy of a document signed on 24 December in the city of Ghent. It is a treaty of peace and amity between His Britannic Majesty and the United States of America.’
An almighty cheer erupted from the square and the dancing started again.
Joe grabbed Roche, holding his creased and scarred face between his hands. ‘It’s over, Will! It really is. The treaty is signed!’
Roche grinned back at him. ‘Then, by rights, we should be able to walk straight out of here.’
By the high gates, S
hortland had more to say. Realizing he had no chance of silencing an end-of-war party, he nodded at the militiaman next to him and pointed skywards. A single volley from the soldier’s rifle silenced the crowd. The Agent had their attention now. He spoke quickly, knowing he might not have it for long.
‘Our nations are desirous of terminating the war which has unhappily subsisted between us. Peace, friendship and good understanding are to be established again, so any mistempered weapons can be thrown to the ground. But, gentlemen, listen here, to Article Three.’ He returned his attention to the scroll. ‘“All prisoners-of-war taken on either side, as well by land as by sea, shall be restored”’ – and here Shortland laid a heavy emphasis – ‘“as soon as practicable after the ratifications of this treaty.” His Majesty’s Government ratified it yesterday in London but, until your Congress has ratified this treaty, then returned it to Parliament, nothing has changed. Return to your prison blocks. The turnkeys will be locking up. Anyone still outside in thirty minutes will be in the cachot.’ He rolled up the treaty and placed it back inside his coat. ‘Tomorrow is the Lord’s day. No more brawls. No more drunkenness. All men, depart!’
It was only a matter of minutes before the militia squadron found the Eagle crew again. Same soldiers, same sergeant.
‘Ah, our brave escort,’ said Roche. ‘And Ol’ Fat Bastard too. You disappeared. Were you readin’ the new peace? Are the terms good for you? Does the pride of Old England still float?’
‘Peace, Will! Peace, for pity’s sake,’ said Joe, pleading. ‘You need some yourself, I think.’
The sergeant moved so close that his bayonet tip pushed against Roche’s shoulder. ‘You don’t have to be put in Block Seven, you know.’ He had the air of a man who thought he should have been back in his barracks many hours ago. ‘I could say you tried to escape, that you assaulted one of our brave militia, that you indulged in immoral acts. Or that you tried all three. That I had to put you in Four instead. That it was for your own good. So be careful, sailor. Now, march!’
They joined the throng staggering towards the square’s exit, Joe once again steering Roche around obstacles. This time, most were unconscious sailors.
‘What’s wrong with Four?’ asked Roche, once the sergeant had passed. Joe shook his head.
‘No idea. That’s Habakkuk’s block. He says they’ve got a theatre company there, Will. Says they’ve just done a pantomime.’
Roche snorted. ‘And he thought we were lyin’,’ he said.
They passed through the square’s lower gates and, as they shuffled into a wide courtyard, the Eagle crew got their first real sight of the seven prison blocks. ‘Dear God in heaven,’ muttered Joe.
The black, rolling clouds had darkened the skies still further but, even in the dim light, the view of the blocks of Dartmoor Prison sucked out his breath. The seven buildings crowded in a rough semicircle, like massive ships at anchor around a courtyard harbour. Brick walls and iron palisades hemmed them in, surrounding and containing them, but it was the prison blocks, granite grey and running with water, that overwhelmed him. To his left, Blocks One, Two and Three were grouped together, hunkered against the storm. Straight ahead, Block Four stood apart, seemingly unprotected and adrift from the rest, narrow pathways leading either side into the darkness. Then, as far as Joe could see, Blocks Five, Six and Seven were close-hauled and line abreast, the mirror of the three blocks opposite. Behind him, the lower wall of the market square was revealed to be part of a large retaining wall, a radius separating the prisoners from the soldiers, the Americans from the British.
Joe had seen the USS Constitution once, back in ’11. At three hundred feet from bowsprit to spanker and two hundred and twenty to the top of its main mast, she had filled Joe’s vision, thrilled his heart, and he’d known her knots and guns would terrify her foes. Now, this unspeakable flotilla of jailhouses performed the same trick, striking black-hearted fear into the crew of the Eagle.
Each block had two rows of shuttered windows; a third row had been set into the middle of the gable-ended, slate-covered roof. The whole place was drenched in endless rain, as torrential now as any Joe could remember. Prisoners for Blocks One, Two and Three peeled off immediately, each returning sailor inspected by a uniformed man with a lantern. When each face had been seen, the man was nodded through large double doors. Joe suddenly stopped and a shipmate crashed into him.
‘Don’t stop like that, Mr Hill!’
‘Sorry, Mr Lord,’ said Joe, distracted.
‘You seen a ghost or somethin’?’ asked Roche.
‘Look at the men waiting to get in, Will,’ said Joe. ‘That’s what’s different about Block Four. It’s Negroes only.’
1.6
Block Seven
DESPITE THE HOUR, food was found for the new arrivals of Block Seven. Pickled fish, bread and water were served: ‘The sweetest repast I have ever taken,’ declared Roche. Each sailor had been issued with a hammock, a blanket, a pillow, rope yarns to sling the hammock, a piss pot, a wooden spoon and a three-gallon bucket. But that was the extent of the welcome. With the help of an old sailor, they walked the block in search of spaces. Lit only by the occasional candle, they passed row upon row of hammocks, sometimes slung in three tiers. Water dripped continuously from the ceiling.
‘Such a smell men make,’ murmured Joe. ‘And there must be five hundred or more in here.’
‘S’right,’ croaked the old man, stepping around the puddles of rainwater which had pooled on the floor. ‘’Nother five hundred souls upstairs, too. You’ll get used to the stink, but you don’t never get used to the cold ’n’ damp. Nor the lice neither.’
When a meagre space was found, an Eagle sailor would peel off and sling his hammock. They had walked the floor twice, but four of them – Joe, Roche, Jon Lord and Robert Goffe – still needed a berth.
‘How goes the war?’ asked the old man, leading them up a stone stairway to the first floor.
‘Didn’t you hear?’ Joe was astonished. ‘The war is done. It’s peace now. We’ll be going home.’
The old man’s weathered, deathly face showed no emotion. Joe wondered if he’d heard. He tried again. ‘They say it’s peace. The treaty was signed in Belgium just last week.’ Again, there was no reply.
They followed him to a wide landing lit with a solitary lantern, and through more doors. If anything, the stench was worse here; Lord and Goffe gagged as they breathed in the fetid air. This floor seemed warmer, thick with pipe smoke and ripe with sickness. Around them, the groans, howls and arguments seemed unrelenting.
‘No folks’ll be sleepin’ here tonight,’ muttered Roche. ‘Bedlam, more like. If anyone ain’t movin’, they’re most likely dead.’
‘That sergeant seemed to think Block Seven was a cushy berth,’ said Joe, holding his hat in front of his mouth.
‘Maybe the others are worse,’ said Roche.
‘Hard to imagine,’ said Joe, looking round. The four remaining members of the Eagle crew were on their own. ‘Where’s the old-timer gone?’
A brawl clattered past them. One of the men fighting was completely naked, the others carried bottles, whether as weapons or to sate their thirst was unclear.
‘The stairs went on to another floor,’ said Joe, as the tumult disappeared into darkness. ‘Maybe he went up again?’
The landing lamp was weak, its flickering, feeble light reaching only as far as the first few steps, but as their eyes adjusted, they climbed further. With what felt like the last of their strength, the four sailors dragged their kit to the second floor. Another stone landing, more heavy wooden doors. Goffe and Lord eased them open. Silence. No fighting. No madness. The only smell was dampness.
‘Here,’ said Joe, dropping his hammock. ‘Please, here.’
‘But why is it empty?’ whispered Goffe. ‘There must be a reason. Why don’t anyone come up here?’
Will Roche dropped his bucket and the resulting clang reverberated around the empty-sounding room. ‘Whatever the reas
on, it can wait till the mornin’. We have marched, fought and drank. The war is finished, but the English still have us jailed. So now we sleep.’
No one disagreed. They walked a few paces, spread their hammocks on the wooden floor and were asleep in seconds.
Joe Hill slept like a dead man. He didn’t notice daylight coming a scant six hours later or the small boy crouched by his side.
‘Mister! Mister! Wake up! You shouldn’t be here!’ Slender hands shook Joe’s shoulders. ‘You have to move, sir. They won’t like you sleeping like this.’ He kept shaking and, when that failed, he kicked Joe sharply on his shins. That worked.
‘Who are you?’ Joe managed through sticky lips, looking up into bright blue eyes and a face full of freckles under a mop of red hair.
‘Master Tommy Jackson, sir.’ Great clouds of steam came from the boy’s mouth as he spoke.
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirteen, sir. Fourteen this March 25th.’
‘And why shouldn’t we be here?’
The boy looked as though he might have a hundred answers, then decided on the best one he could think of. ‘’Cos you’ll get stabbed with knives by Mr Cobb or Mr Lane if you stay,’ he said. ‘This is their space, you see.’
‘Is that right?’ said Joe, hauling himself up and wincing; every muscle was screaming. He had a pounding headache. He put his tricorn on his head and looked round the second-floor room they had collapsed into. It was vast: two hundred feet long, fifty wide and with a high ceiling. There were tables, chairs and piles of books.
The boy nudged him again. There was no doubting the urgency in his voice. He spoke in short, nervous bursts. ‘Please, mister. You need to wake your friends.’
‘All right, Master Jackson, I get it,’ said Joe. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘And quietly,’ urged the boy.
‘Quietly,’ agreed Joe, smiling. As he tried to rouse his shipmates, the boy stood lookout by the door.
Joe gave Roche, Goffe and Lord a gentle nudge with his boot. ‘Downstairs. Clear for action.’