by Robin Paige
“Yes,” Charlotte lied. “I shall see him this evening. Do you have a message for him?”
“Please give him my best wishes and tell him that I am thankful for the Army’s continuing generosity.”
“I shall indeed,” Charlotte said. “God bless your efforts on behalf of these poor souls, Chaplain.”
“And yours,” the chaplain replied piously. “You and your colleagues are to be deeply commended for bringing salvation to the lost. Without your prayers and continuing efforts, these men would be damned indeed.”
Charlotte thought about these words as she stood on the platform in front of the Princetown railway depot a half hour later, waiting for the train that would carry her south to Yelverton and the hotel room she had rented for yet another night.
Salvation to the lost.
She hoped with all her heart that the chaplain was right.
CHAPTER FIVE
I know not whether Laws be right,
Or whether Laws be wrong
All that we know who lie in gaol
Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
A year whose days are long.
And thus we rust Life’s iron chain,
Degraded and alone :
And some men curse, and some men weep,
And some men make no moan:
But God’s eternal Laws are kind
And break the heart of stone.
“Ballad of Reading Gaol”
Oscar Wilde
“Don’t dally, Three fifty-one.” The guard behind him gave him a hard shove. “Leave that Bible in yer cell an’ step back out here. ‘Nough shirkin’. Time ye wuz back in the bog fields.”
His face set, his mouth a thin line, Prisoner 351 did as he was ordered, then returned to Exercise Yard A with the rest of the men who had been briefly released from their afternoon’s labor to receive the Bibles. They formed a column and marched to the North Wall Gate, where the doors opened and they could see the moors stretching away to the far horizon, vast and rolling as the ocean. Since the work party was a small one, it was attended by only two mounted warders, each carrying a loaded carbine. The column made to the right and descended the slope of Cemetery Hill, where were buried the hapless prisoners of war who had met their deaths in Dartmoor almost a century before.
Prisoner 351 kept his eyes forward, but his thoughts were bleak. If the Crown had its way, he would lie in just such a burial ground one day, under the cold, peaty sod of the moor and its filmy blanket of blowing mist. And from now until then, he would labor without ceasing in the windswept bog fields and the brutal granite quarry and sleep like the dead in the cold granite coffin of his cell, while around him men wept and cursed all through the night. He thought as he often did of the lines from Oscar Wilde’s ballad, written while the poet was himself a prisoner. “Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard. Some do it with a bitter look...”
The warder nearest him caught his eye and motioned with his carbine. “Step it up there, Three Fifty-one. Ye’re laggin’.” But the rough voice was not unkind, and the prisoner thought he heard some sympathy in it. And why not? he reflected bitterly. The man could go home tonight to loving children and a trusting wife, while he—
He swallowed. “Yet each man kills the thing he loves.” And the thought came to him again, the frightful, gut-chilling thought that was never far from his mind, that Elizabeth was dead, and the baby within her, and that his bitter look was as much the cause of her death as the bloody poker that had smashed her skull. He might as well be punished for the one as for the other. Each was an equally hideous betrayal.
The other prisoners traded quips as they marched—the ban on conversation was unofficially lifted outside the walls—but 351, as usual, kept his silence, remote and alone. Within the half hour, they arrived at the bog fields, where they joined the men already at work digging up stones, loading them onto wooden barrows and horse-drawn sledges, and stacking them as boundary walls under the wary eyes of the sentries. The authorities called it “reclaiming the moor,” but what they expected to do with it when it was reclaimed was more than anyone could see. Bracken and heather and rank grass were the only plants that flourished in the peat soil, and no matter how many rocks were removed, that many yet remained.
His lips pressed tight together, the prisoner took up a long steel crowbar and began to pry up on a stubborn block of granite. The work actually came as a kind of relief, the effort loosening his muscles and making him sweat, its rhythms moving him into something of a meditative state. The other men worked together in noisy gangs, swearing and snarling at one another, but 351 preferred to labor alone, digging the stones and hauling them to the section of wall that he had taken as his responsibility. The task seemed to him something like that of a sculptor: envisioning the section of wall he wanted to build, selecting the proper stones, and wedging them into place against the force of gravity and the pressures of the other stones, in exactly the spot required to fill out and manifest his imaginary wall. Accustomed as he had been to working chiefly with his mind in what he now thought of as his “other” life, the life he had lived before he came to Dartmoor, there was something satisfying about the physicality of all this prying and lifting and fitting, under the open sky where the wind blew off the high tors hard enough to push a man right off his feet. The prisoner could feel his body growing stronger and more able, and after the first week of work in the bog fields, he began to imagine everything around him as empty spaces to be filled, while his mind searched for exactly the right shapes to fill them.
One of the other prisoners came up to him, his black brows pulled together in an envious scowl. “Wish I wuz a Scotsman,” he growled. “I don’t much fancy Bibles, but I bloody well wud’ve liked t’ lay me eyes on that mission‘ry ’oo wuz passin’ ’em out. ’Aven’t seen a woman in two bloody years.” He grinned toothlessly. “Lay eyes, did I say? Lay me ’ands, is wot I mean.”
The prisoner didn’t answer. But the remark brought back the scene in the chapel, the young woman in the somber black dress and bonnet of the Salvation Army, her blue eyes passionate, her tremulous voice half breaking as she said “God bless you” and whispered the number of his verse, handing him the Bible in which he was meant to look it up. Her cheeks had been red-stained, her eyes brimming with tears, and he could smell her scent.
He arched his back and gave a mighty push down on the bar, and the stone began to lift. But at that moment a flowery perfume struck his nostrils with such a poignant force that he had to stop and sniff the air, half persuaded that the young woman in the Army bonnet had followed him here, to this very field. And then he realized that a delicate, ginger-haired young man, scarcely more than nineteen, had sidled up very close, warbling a London music-hall ditty in a lisping falsetto.
A sweet tuxedo girl you see,
Queen of swell society,
Just the kind you’d like to hold,
Just the kind for sport I’m told.
He put his mouth close to the prisoner’s ear and sang the chorus softly: “Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay, Ta-ra-ra Boom—”
“That’ll do, Ginger.” A surly warder interrupted the serenade. “T’ the wall wi’ yez, an’ stop actin’ a damn fool, er I’ll put yez on report.” To the prisoner, he growled. “Lay on that bar, Number Three Fifty-one. I wants t’ see them bloody rocks bounce.”
Ginger minced away, and the prisoner returned to his labors. But he had been working for only a short time when a whistle shrilled. He leaned on his bar and looked up to see a wave of gray white mist tumbling like a foaming surf down the slope of North Hessary Tor.
“Down tools!” a warder barked. “Form up, boys. No talkin’, now.”
Accustomed to this precautionary drill, the men assembled in small circles, standing shoulder to shoulder, facing outward. At times like these, the guards strictly enforced the prohibition against speaking, for they knew that in each man’s mind the swirling, swift-moving
fog awakened the hope of escape. Of course, it was a vain hope, for everyone believed that the moor itself was as secure a prison as Dartmoor’s high stone walls, vanishing now into the enveloping mist. When the prisoners spoke surreptitiously of it among themselves, they agreed that the most favorable seasons of escape were the warmer months and the best possible direction of escape was to the east, toward Torquay, for in that direction the terrain was said to be firm enough to cross safely. It was well known that to attempt escape to the north, west, or south was to invite death in the treacherous mires, for the paths across them were few and known only to those who had lived their whole lives on the moor. Moreover, it was said that a stranger crossing the open ground, where there was little cover, would be instantly seen and reported by one of its inhabitants or by guards that were immediately stationed at certain checkpoints when an escape occurred. It would be only a matter of time before the bell sounded and the Prisoner Recaptured flag was hoisted over the prison gate. When each man was admitted to Dartmoor, the impossibility of escape was dinned into him repeatedly, and it was beyond reason to think that any would make the attempt.
But desperate men are not always reasonable, and the prisoner was aware that there had been far more attempts at escape than the warders would admit—several successful ones, too, which had never been publicly acknowledged. During dry weather, it was quite possible to navigate the mires—in fact, it was done all the time by ramblers and botanical enthusiasts on holiday—and the increasing numbers of these visitors to the moor meant that the natives no longer paid particular attention to those they did not recognize. Furthermore, the moor itself was not as extensive as might be imagined, for while the vacant land might seem to stretch endlessly to the horizon, the port of Plymouth was only twelve miles to the south, and the town of Okehampton a similar distance to the north, while the moor at its widest was no more than seventeen miles. An escapee might not know exactly where he was going, but if he persevered steadily in any direction, he would reach civilization in a matter of hours, not days. Truth be told, the climate probably presented the worst obstacle, for the very best chance of escape was not in the summer, but during the winter or early spring, under cover of mist and long nights but in the face of icy rain, sleet, or snow and bitter winds that sliced to the bone. Of course, it wasn’t to the authorities’ advantage to concede that anyone had ever managed to defeat the obstacles and get clean away, so the difficulties of escape continued to be exaggerated in the hope that the idea would be defeated before it could take root.
But still, there were tense moments like this one, when an impenetrable mist descended while the prisoners were outside the walls. The warders moved closer, holding their carbines tightly, eyes wary as they waited for the fog to lift. But when it was so thick that it was impossible to see more than twenty paces in any direction, the chief warder spoke.
“That’ll do it fer today,” he said in a resigned tone. “Let’s be off, boys. Eyes front and lockstep. Move smart, now.”
They made a column again, but this time they were wedged together, the man behind pressing closely against the one in front, compacting the line and making observation easier. Rifles at the ready, the warders watched closely, preventing any effort to talk and immediately closing any gap in the ranks. Shortly, the men were back in the prison, where they spent the rest of the afternoon in the stone sheds, using iron hammers to smash granite into pebbles the size of half-crowns, suitable for road repair. They did not stop until it grew dark and the cease-labor bell ended their monotonous task.
After the prisoner returned to his cell to eat his lonely evening meal, it was far too dark and he was much too weary to do anything more than open his Bible, sniff it in the hope of catching the woman’s scent, and riffle, unseeing, through the pages. Then he put it under his thin pillow, covered himself with a blanket, and went to sleep.
CHAPTER SIX
The parcel was directed by a man—the printing is distinctly masculine—of limited education.... The box is a yellow, half-pound honeydew box, with nothing distinctive save two thumb marks at the left bottom corner.
“The Cardboard Box,” 1893
Arthur Conan Doyle
“The envelope, too, please,” (said Holmes). “Post-mark, London, S.W. Date, July 7. Hum! Man’s thumb-mark on corner—probably postman.... ”
The Sign of the Four, 1890
Arthur Conan Doyle
Lord Charles Sheridan had gone out of his way to view the church of Saint Michael and All Angels, in the southwest quadrant of town. The gray stone building with its three-story bell tower had been built largely by French and American prisoners of war, using granite quarried from North Hessory Tor. Still shrouded in the sad hopelessness of its builders, the church seemed now to brood over the town, a graceful companion to the squat, ugly prison not far away. Charles stopped for a moment to enjoy a spreading patch of cheerful yellow daffodils beside the cemetery wall, the only color in an otherwise gray scene. Above them was a stone tablet, inscribed to the memory of Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt, “whose name and memory are inseparable from all great works in Dartmoor.”
Charles shook his head, half amused. Tyrwhitt, secretary to that foolish, profligate Prince of Wales who later became King George IV, had dreamed of transforming Dartmoor’s barren upland wastes into rich farmland. But he foolishly failed to take into account the harsh realities of climate and terrain, and the village he named in honor of his benefactor had failed to prosper until he came up with a scheme to build a war depot there and convinced the Crown to house prisoners of war in his “great work.” Happily or sadly, Princetown was the progeny of a prison, and most of its citizens, in one way or another, owed their livelihoods to its forbidding presence.
Thinking that it must be nearly time for tea, Charles went through the iron gates and down the hill in the direction of the Duchy Hotel, where he and Kate had rooms for the next few days. But he had gone only a few paces when a man hailed him out of the mist.
“Lord Sheridan!” The man who came hurrying up to him was tall and burly, clad in knickers, a tweed jacket, and tweed cap. “Good afternoon, sir! Good to see you!”
“Conan Doyle,” Charles said in surprise, as they shook hands. “What are you doing here, at the top of England?”
Doyle grinned. “Working on a bit of a story, actually,” he replied. “I would ask you the same question, but I’ve already seen her ladyship at the Duchy. She tells me that you are here on an enterprise for the Home Office. Something to do with the prison, I take it?”
“An identification project,” Charles replied as they set off toward the hotel. “We’ve undertaken to fingerprint the prisoners.” He cast a glance at Doyle. “A business near to the heart of your Sherlock, perhaps. No doubt you’ve read Edward Henry’s recent book on the subject.”
“Afraid not,” Doyle said with a dismissive laugh. “The method is scarcely reliable, I understand. In matters of identification, Sherlock and I have always preferred the techniques of Alphonse Bertillon.”
“You and Sherlock may want to reconsider,” Charles said quietly. He was not one of those who worshiped at the altar of Holmes and Watson. In fact, it was his private opinion that Doyle, who had gone to a great deal of trouble to make his detective seem scientific, should also have gone to the trouble of giving Sherlock an interest in the modern forensic sciences. Ballistics, for example, and toxicology, and dactyloscopy, which had developed so rapidly in the last decade and which Dr. Doyle should certainly know about if he kept up with any of the scientific journals or even the newspapers. Charles was still amazed, when he thought of it, by Holmes’s carelessness with fingerprints, as in “The Case of the Cardboard Box,” where he disregarded the evidence of two thumbprints; and in “The Sign of the Four,” where he simply assumed, without a shred of corroborating evidence, that the thumbprint on an envelope was the postman’s. As far as fingerprints were concerned, Holmes was no more up to date than the parochial New Scotland Yard officials whom Acting Commissioner
Henry now had the difficult duty of instructing.
His reservations about Holmes notwithstanding, however, Charles had been considerably impressed by Doyle’s most recent book, a 500-page critique of the Boer War based on observations made while serving as a field doctor in South Africa. He said so now.
“That book of yours that Smith and Elder brought out last September—The Great Boer War. I must say, Doyle, it’s quite the best thing written on the subject—far more comprehensive than those pieces by young Churchill. In my opinion, it will push the government in the direction of necessary military reform, at long last.”
“Do you really think so?” Doyle asked warmly. The two of them pressed against a building as a flock of sheep, led by a belled ewe and followed by a ragged young shepherd, passed by on the street. “I would certainly be pleased by any sign of reform. What I saw when I was in South Africa last year taught me that the day of sword and lance is gone forever. Ceremonial weapons simply can’t prevail against modern weaponry.” The flock having vanished into the mist, the two men stepped back into the vacant street. “But I’m afraid that my proposals are not exactly welcome,” Doyle added with some irony. “You read Colonel Maude’s letter in the Times, I suppose?”
“Colonel Maude is a fool,” Charles said shortly, “as is anyone who argues that a charging cavalry armed with swords and lances is more effective than infantry troops firing magazine rifles. It’s absurd.” He shook his head. “Maude can say what he likes; your book is a rigorous piece of military scholarship. I shall advance your recommendations when and wherever I can.”