Shadow of the Raven

by Tessa Harris

  “Indeed I will, Widow Cuthbert,” he said. “Here.” He rose, still pressing on Smith’s head wound, and the old woman knelt and took his stead. Just as she did so, the air was split by a raucous cry. Simultaneously Thomas and the widow looked up to see a raven circling overhead. They both knew it was waiting to taste dead flesh.

  Chapter 48

  The cart trundled down the hill, bouncing and lurching without regard to its passengers, who clung to life by a thread. By the time they reached the Three Tuns, word of the rout had already set the wheels in motion. Mr. Peabody, the apothecary, had been summoned and had brought with him an array of medicaments. He had even overcome his usual reticence to instruct Peter Geech and his staff to line up tables to receive the wounded.

  Outside the inn an anxious crowd had gathered, so that by the time Thomas arrived, the soldiers had to clear the way to allow the injured to be transported inside. The taproom had been turned into a makeshift hospital. Mr. Peabody had already ordered pails of water, and a large kettle was steaming on the blazing fire.

  There were more injured than Thomas had at first feared. A long straggle of villagers with ferocious splinters in their hands or faces now presented itself. Thomas guessed they had been holding fencing stakes when the soldiers fired on them, sending shards of wood piercing like spears through their flesh.

  “Dr. Silkstone! Dr. Silkstone!” Peter Geech approached Thomas wearing the expression of a man on whom the sky was about to fall. “What is to be done?”

  Thomas knew that above all he had to remain calm. “I would ask that you provide me with plenty of your finest spirits, Mr. Geech,” he replied.

  “Spirits, Doctor?” repeated the puzzled landlord.

  “Yes,” Thomas replied firmly. “They will both dull the patients’ pain and clean out the wounds, so none of your gin, Mr. Geech.”

  “Very good, sir. But who will pay for my best brandy?”

  Thomas took a deep breath. Even in times of crisis, it seemed that Mr. Geech had an eye to the main chance. “I will see you are compensated,” he said.

  The doctor knew he had to prioritize treatment. Now that the battle had been fought, there were new enemies to confront. Lurking unseen among the blood and guts of his patients would be the seeds of certain diseases, the rigors and wound fever that needed to be destroyed before they held sway. He set Widow Cuthbert to work cleaning and dressing minor wounds, which he would check on later. For the moment he knew that lives could still be saved if he acted quickly. With Mr. Peabody at his side, he began his taste.

  First he tended to Will Ketch’s leg. Laying him flat, he let the apothecary administer a liberal dose of laudanum before he inserted a gag between the man’s teeth to silence his agonized cries. Cutting away his breeches, Thomas could tell immediately that the shot had missed the femur. Molly had paled at the sight of so much blood, but after a moment to compose herself she had rallied and fetched the doctor his medical case from his room upstairs, before attending to the kettle. Using his forceps, Thomas managed to remove several large pieces of splintered wood from Ketch’s wound. There was little hope of the flesh knitting together again naturally. It would need suturing, but at least if he could prevent blood rot, the cowman stood a chance of survival. The ball had embedded itself deep within the thigh muscle. Incising the wound at such a depth not only would be exceedingly painful but, Thomas feared, might also cause even more trauma to the patient, possibly leading to wound fever. There were many surgeons who would, he knew, question his judgment, but he’d seen more men die of subsequent infections than of gunshot wounds themselves. Most of his fellows would advise he take the saw to the leg and have done with it, too. Taking neither action was debatable, but it was a risk he was prepared to run. Satisfied that the wound was as clean as he could make it, Thomas sutured the thigh, leaving Mr. Peabody to bandage it. He moved on to the next casualty.

  Zeb Godson’s weathered face had turned as pale as a corpse. The tourniquet had saved his life, of that Thomas was sure, but staunching the blood flow once and for all grew more imperative by the minute. The brachial artery in the arm had been severed, causing a torrent of blood to gush from it. The makeshift tourniquet he had applied was now dripping with blood, so Thomas quickly replaced it with a screw tourniquet from his case. It was his goal to dam the great flood for good. His senses dulled by gin and laudanum, Zeb Godson offered little resistance as Thomas probed his wound. Taking a ligature from his case, he got to work, managing to bind the blood vessel securely with catgut. Widow Cuthbert had moved in to dress the wound when suddenly an urgent plea went up from Mr. Peabody.

  “Dr. Silkstone,” he cried. The apothecary was standing over Abel Smith. He had lapsed into unconsciousness and his breathing was very shallow. Thomas felt for his pulse. It barely registered. Head injuries always presented their own problems. On inspection it seemed as though Abel had been hit by a musket ball just above the left temple. It should have killed him outright, but by some remarkable chance, it had lodged in his skull.

  Thomas sighed deeply. “I fear trepanning is the only course,” he replied warily. The procedure was precarious, but he was aware that another respected surgeon, Percival Pott, had employed the method in field hospitals on several occasions. He had reduced the risk of infection in head wounds by extracting blood from extradural and subdural spaces by cranial draining. Thomas realized that if he were to save the fowler’s life, he would have to do the same.

  “I will need your assistance, Mr. Peabody,” he told the apothecary.

  The little man looked askance. “But I am no surgeon, sir.”

  “You have a brain in your head and a pair of hands, haven’t you?” said Thomas curtly, without waiting for a reply. “Smith’s life hangs in the balance.”

  Next Thomas called to the landlord, who was busying himself with supplying kettles of hot water. “Mr. Geech, we need to get this man into another room. I need absolute quiet for the procedure I am about to perform.”

  Geech nodded. “This way, sir,” he told Thomas, leading him into the private dining room. It was small, but the table was large and serviceable and Smith was laid on it flat with his head resting on a folded sack. Candles were quickly lit and Thomas tilted the skull away from him so that he could see the wound more clearly. It was evident that he had been hit at fairly close range. The swelling and contusions around his left eye were such that Thomas feared for Smith’s sight, but it was the cranium that needed his most urgent attention. The flint had cracked it as if it were an eggshell, and a slice of bone the size of a walnut had been forced downward to press on the brain.

  Although Thomas had performed the procedure twice before with success, he had seen many other surgeons’ patients die shortly afterward. Sometimes death came swiftly, on the operating table; for others the surgery triggered delirium, agonizing headaches, or terrible seizures. He knew, however, that without treatment, Abel Smith’s death was assured.

  Reaching into a case, the surgeon brought out his trepanation implements. Mr. Peabody’s eyes widened at the sight of them, as if they were instruments of torture rather than healing. Thomas, however, remained focused.

  “Hot water, if you please,” he directed, craning his head over to the kettle in the hearth, where a good fire flickered.

  After cleaning the head wound, Thomas carefully shaved the area of the fowler’s head around the entry point of the ball. And there it was: a fragment of lead embedded in the bone. Peabody watched, transfixed, as Thomas fixed the top of the trepan handle with his left hand and turned it cautiously with his right. Lowering his own chin onto the turning instrument to stabilize it, he reinforced the pressure on the crown and rotated the handle slowly in a workmanlike fashion.

  Tension seeped through Thomas’s pores and appeared as dots of perspiration on his brow. No one dared speak. No one dared move. For a few moments it seemed that even the horses’ hooves that clattered on the cobbles outside were stilled. The only noise was the whirring of the instrument as it
tunneled through the bone. Each rotation of the trepan handle took the metal tip a little closer to this man’s brain. Slowly but surely, the skull gave way to the trepan’s bore and a small disc of bone was extracted, bringing with it the embedded lead shot.

  Thomas straightened his aching back and gave a self-satisfied nod. “ ’Tis done,” he said quietly. “Now all we can do is wait and hope the swelling of the brain goes down.”

  Mercifully, the patient had remained completely motionless during the procedure. It would be several hours before Thomas could ascertain whether or not his gamble had paid off. “Call one of the women to sit with him,” he said, wiping his bloodied hands on a towel.

  For the first time in six hours, Thomas looked out of the inn’s window, as the sky was lightened by the rising sun. It had been the longest night of his life, but he feared this new day just as keenly. Peabody had left the door ajar, and suddenly shouts from the taproom confirmed the doctor’s worries.

  Looking ’round the door, he could see a commotion in the hallway. Men and women were jostling with redcoats. Peabody returned with Molly and an anxious look on his face.

  “They’re arresting some of the wounded men,” he said breathlessly.

  “Takin’ them to Oxford, they are!” blurted Molly, her face crumpled with concern.

  Thomas strode out of the dining room to see a clutch of villagers being herded through the main doorway. Rushing back to the window, he watched as the men, some with their hands tied behind their backs, were bundled into waiting wagons. Those who were injured were not spared. He saw Joseph Makepeace, his torso swathed in a bandage, and Zeb Godson, his arm in a sling, being prodded and poked like cattle. It seemed that most of the male population of the village was being rounded up and sent off for trial to the Oxford assizes.

  The thud of heavy footsteps was suddenly heard coming down the passage, and the door burst open. Two soldiers thundered in but stopped short when they saw Abel Smith lying on the table, the fluid still draining from his head. A look of disgust swept over their faces when they realized what they were seeing. One of them turned and retched. The other eyed Thomas.

  “Sir, this man is under arrest. We are to take him to Oxford to await trial.” His delivery was garbled and lacked conviction, and he turned his head away from the table so that he did not have to linger on the fluid draining from Smith’s brain.

  Had it not been made in earnest, the request would have been comical. Thomas snorted. “This man is going nowhere. If he is moved he will die.” He pointed to Smith’s head.

  The soldier who had spoken gulped hard. “ ’Tis Captain Ponsonby’s orders, sir,” he replied, almost apologetically.

  “Then I would speak with the captain,” countered Thomas. “Tell him Dr. Silkstone would see him.”

  Moments later the young captain was standing in the dining room. Thomas could see that his eyes were being drawn involuntarily toward Smith’s fractured skull, which was now being drained of fluid through a cannula.

  “This man is close to death as it is, Captain Ponsonby. Any movement and you may as well tighten a noose around his neck,” he told the officer in no uncertain terms.

  Ponsonby nodded. “You make yourself plain, sir, but I will need to station a man to guard him, so that if he revives, he will stand trial.”

  Thomas nodded. He knew that even if Smith lived and was transported to Oxford Jail to await trial, he would probably contract a terrible fever and die before the hangman could get to him. He was doomed just like the rest of the dissenting villagers. Yet again, Sir Montagu appeared to have scored a victory over the people of Brandwick.

  Chapter 49

  Now, it just so happened that Oxford was making ready for St. Giles Fair, a highlight of the city’s calendar. Scores of carts and caravans had planted themselves on the ground, and an encampment of striped tents and sideshows had been erected during the day. Fiddlers and jugglers meandered among wooden horses and whirligigs. Gaming tables appeared to entice the men, and fortune-tellers wooed the women. All around there was a gaiety and sense of anticipation that had not been seen since before the Great Fogg of the previous year. Into this feverishly excited atmosphere trundled the four wagons carrying forty-one villagers from Brandwick and its surrounds.

  Thomas had decided to accompany the prisoners, riding behind them. He had maintained that at least four of them were too badly injured to stand trial, but he had lost the argument and Captain Ponsonsby, backed up of course by Nicholas Lupton, had won the day. They had been bundled into the carts on crutches or on makeshift stretchers and forced to brave the buffets and blows of the journey, regardless of whether they arrived at their destination alive or dead.

  As he saw the throng ahead of him, Thomas sensed there would be trouble. He had seen Oxford crowds turn ugly before. The city was not known for its restraint, and despite the fact that it was still early in the day, strong liquor flowed like water among the revelers. Four horsemen of the Oxfordshire Militia had ridden ahead, announcing the arrival of a platoon with their prisoners. It had been their task to prepare the way, but instead of causing the crowd to stand to one side in respectful reverence for the law, the prisoners’ arrival only seemed to fuel the event’s incendiary mood.

  Thomas knew their entry into the city would be risky and that the officers had underestimated the strength of support for the villagers. Interestingly, he could see no musketeers in the ranks. Could it be they wished to avoid further bloodshed? he wondered. Overnight, word had spread from Brandwick about the destruction of the common fences and the arrest of those who had dared defy the new laws. Rather than condemn them, the citizens of Oxford and visiting country folk decided to show their support. As the militia approached, the men in the wagons raised the cry “Brandwick forever,” the crowd took it to their hearts, and a chant struck up.

  “Brandwick forever! Brandwick forever!”

  The cry could be heard on hundreds of lips. Thomas surveyed the mob. Fists were raised against the guards and lips curled. He dropped back from the main procession. He did not wish to be associated with the platoon of about twenty militiamen.

  “Brandwick forever! Brandwick forever!”

  From the mouths of men and women, youths and children, the cry welled up and rose into the air. Everywhere he looked, Thomas could see the people pressing ’round the wagons, slowing their progress. The drivers and mounted soldiers were whipping away those who gathered around them with their riding crops, but they were no match for the sheer numbers that surged forward.

  By now the procession had drawn level with St. John’s College. Thomas remained by the Eagle and Child inn, but had a good vantage point. Just a few more yards and the procession would arrive at Beaumont Street and the way toward the jail would be clearer. Then suddenly, someone in the crowd hurled a brickbat at one of the guards. Others followed suit, and sticks and stones rained down on the militia from every side. With each missile that hit its target, the crowd seemed bolder, and Thomas watched amazed as the guards were overpowered and the back boards of the carts were let down, allowing the prisoners to escape. They came streaming down from the wagons and melted into the melee. The crowd swallowed up the men and resumed the business of reveling and feasting, leaving the outnumbered militiamen to re-form and march away, their pride as tattered as their uniforms after the fray.

  Over dinner at the Jolly Trooper that evening, Thomas related the whole extraordinary episode to Sir Theodisius.

  “This is a terrible state of affairs,” bemoaned the coroner, chomping through tough venison.

  Thomas had to agree. “I can see no good outcome, sir,” he replied. “The men will return to the village, but they will be rearrested for sure.”

  Sir Theodisius nodded. “Malthus will see to that. His authority has been challenged and he will not stand for it.”

  “And I fear, sir, there will be more trouble to come,” said Thomas.

  “Oh?”

  “When I was last at Boughton Hall, Lupton show
ed me a map detailing new plans for the estate and beyond.”

  “Beyond Boughton? Speak plain, if you please!” Sir Theodisius’s jowls wobbled with indignation.

  Thomas took a deep breath. “There are plans to connect the canal at Banbury to Oxford, sir. There is a consortium of landowners, led by Sir Montagu, which is raising funds as we speak.”

  Sir Theodisius hit the table with the butt of his knife. “Of course,” he drawled. “Why did I not see this?” His forehead was scoured with deep furrows. “I remember an Act of Parliament authorized the canal about fifteen years ago. The intention was to link the industrial lands around the Midlands to London via the River Thames. It reached Napton a few years back, but the money ran out. If I recall correctly, a second act allowed the company to raise more funds and the canal reached Banbury about six years ago.”

  “Sir Montagu’s home turf,” interrupted Thomas.

  The coroner nodded. “I might’ve known he would want to put his finger in that particular pie,” he said, unthinkingly dipping his own finger in a jug of gravy at his side. “But there were money problems again.”

  Thomas arched a brow and nodded. “Hence the need to raise more income from the land by enclosing it.”

  Sir Theodisius licked the gravy from his finger. “So Malthus is a man of business now, as well as a lawyer and a landowner.”

  “And an unscrupulous villain,” added Thomas bitterly. He leaned closer to the coroner. “My first concern is not for Sir Montagu’s plans, sir, but for the escaped men. They will surely face the gallows on their return to Brandwick.”

  Sir Theodisius nodded slowly. “Indeed they will,” he agreed. “And they will need to be taken to Oxford again.” As he spoke, Thomas could see that a kernel of an idea was taking root in the older man’s brain. His eyes widened as the thought blossomed. “There was a great show of support for them today, you say?”