Ben Collins was on his way to Poole to bank the weekly shop takings when the thirst came upon him. Usually, Isabelle came with him. But today he was on his own, for his wife hadn’t been feeling well and had called for the doctor to attend her.
When he walked into the inn and heard the patrons gossiping about her, colour rose swiftly to his face.
‘I heard it said that Isabelle Collins set that shop fire herself, and blamed Elizabeth Skinner for it.’
Turning the speaker round, Ben thumped him soundly on the snout. The youth’s nose collapsed with a satisfying crunch. Blood squirted. ‘My wife didn’t set no shop fire,’ he roared. ‘You say one more disrespectful word about her, and I’ll be after thee with more than my bleddy fist.’
The other drinkers in the bar fell silent, for Ben was known to be a brawler when his dander was up. The victim’s two brothers gazed at each other, then stepped forward, beefy arms folded over their chests. One of them said, ‘You’m better bugger off back home, Ben. You ain’t one of us no more and we don’t want you drinking with us.’
Setting his money bag on the table, Ben began to remove his jacket. ‘I’ve got as much right as any of you to drink in this inn. Anyone who says different, can step forward.’
Ben had just got the coat off his shoulders when a pair of hands slapped against each ear. He went down backwards when a foot tripped him, arms trapped in his jacket, his ears ringing. A foot was planted in his stomach, weight applied.
Hard eyes stared down at him from a round, ruddy face. ‘This be my inn, Ben Collins. I says who has the right to drink here and I ain’t about to let the likes of you to smash it up, so don’t you go startin’ any trouble.’
‘Well, you tell ’em to stop talking about my wife.’
‘’Tain’t my place to tell a body what he can and can’t talk about. Robbie was only telling us what everyone else is saying, that the Skinner woman paid the price for your wife’s crime.’
When Ben began to struggle, the pressure on his chest increased. ‘No. You be still and listen, for there’s more. It ain’t right that a man shouldn’t know what’s being said about his own wife. In certain quarters it’s said she was responsible for Hannah Skinner’s death.’
Ben could hardly remember his first wife, the woman who’d given birth to his son, George. He recalled now the raw-boned slattern he’d first married with some surprise, for he rarely thought of her. He’d taken her in wedlock because he was tortured by an unnatural need that caused him embarrassment if it wasn’t seen to regularly.
Hannah hadn’t turned out to be much of a wife in that way, or much of a mother, come to that. He’d felt only relief when she’d died. It had meant he could wed Isabelle, a woman who had attended to his needs from the very first moment they’d met, and with much enthusiasm.
Ben’s brow furrowed into ridges. Things came slowly to his mind, but once they were there it took a lot to shift them out. The manner of Hannah’s death had been odd. Someone had run over her head with a cart and left her lying in the streets, like she was a piece of old rubbish. The constable had questioned him about it at the time, asking him where he’d been when Hannah had been killed.
‘I can’t rightly remember, sir,’ he’d said, truthfully and respectfully, for he’d never deliberately broken the law, except for burning the odd haystack or two in protest over low wages. Not that he needed to do that now, for he had Isabelle, and Isabelle had money.
Isabelle, taking no nonsense, had fixed the constable with a stare. ‘Mr Collins was at the warehouse with me,’ she’d said, which was wrong, for she’d left him at the warehouse alone and gone off to the shop.
But Ben hadn’t remembered that until a long time afterwards. A right scolding mouth, his woman had on her at times, he thought resentfully. When he’d told her what she’d said to the constable was wrong, she’d flown at him in a temper, smacking him back and forth across the face and shouting, ‘You great, daft oaf, are you trying to get us hanged for her murder? Hannah is dead and buried and can stay that way.’
But now, Hannah had risen from the grave to haunt him. Why else would they be wondering about it?
Uneasily, Ben shook his head from side to side, trying to clear his brain. Isabelle had got scared on his account, and she’d lied most like. But she’d let on that she’d maimed Squire Forbes’s favourite mare out of spite, taking advantage of a haystack firing to smash its fetlocks with a stick she’d found in the church. A right to-do there had been about that, at the time.
He muttered, almost to himself, ‘Isabelle wouldn’t kill anyone.’
‘That be all right then, don’t it? But at least you know what’s being said, now. If it do get to the ears of the authorities they might ask questions, and best you be prepared for that.’ Another foot came down across his throat, halfway choking him. His victim stared down at him, his broken nose dripping blood. ‘You should enter that woman of yours in the County Fair. I reckon she’d beat all the other sows to kingdom come.’
The laughter was raucous.
Giving a roar, Ben made a grab at the leg pinning him down. But his arms were trapped in the sleeves of his jacket. The pressure on his throat increased, cutting off his air. His eyes began to bulge from their sockets.
‘We don’t want to hurt you, Ben, but my brother has the need to give thee back what you gave him, for it were a coward’s punch, thrown before he had time to defend hisself. Now, Robbie be small, on account of he was the runt of the litter and ain’t growed into his manhood proper yet.’
‘Excepting his dangler. I hear tell all the maids be after pulling a length of that un,’ somebody shouted out.
‘When he ain’t pulling on it hisself, that is,’ said another.
Robbie’s face turned bright red when everyone laughed. ‘Aw, shuddup.’
His brothers waited until the laughter died down. ‘Now, will you take your punishment and leave peaceable, like, Ben? Or are we going to beat you into a pulp before we throws you out? You knows you can’t take us all on.’
Ben reluctantly nodded.
A few minutes later he was lying face down in the dirt, blood dripping from his nose and one eye puffy and closed. The money bag lay beside him, coins spilling out across the ground. He scooped them back into the bag. Isabelle would give him hell if he lost any. As he staggered to his feet, the horse turned its head to gaze down at him.
‘What you looking at, then?’ he said. ‘Ain’t you seen blood afore?’ Perhaps it had. Perhaps this was the horse and cart that had done for Hannah that day in Dorchester. But the old horse was saying nothing. As it usually did, the animal farted in his face as he clambered on to the buckboard.
‘Dirty bugger,’ Ben muttered and flicked the reins.
The men inside the inn laughed as they watched him move away, shaking his head from side to side. ‘That’s given Ben Collins something to think about, ain’t it? Who started that rumour about his missus?’
‘Jed Hawkins mentioned the old squire suspected her of having a hand in the slaughter of Ben’s first wife. And although he didn’t say she started the fire, Jed did say Isabelle and Elizabeth Skinner were both bidding for the shop premises. By hook or by crook, Isabelle was determined to have it all. It didn’t take much to work it out, did it?’
‘A nasty one to cross, that Isabelle. If it wasn’t for Ben, she would have thrown that aunt of hers out of her house long ago. There’s no love lost between them. Caroline isn’t much older than Isabelle, but she’s one to mind her tongue.’
‘Has to, else she’d be out on the street.’
‘That Isabelle has been after revenge since the old squire tossed her aside for Siana Matheson. He made a fool out of Isabelle, the old squire did, on account of Elizabeth Skinner being his doxie.’
‘If rumour is to be believed, both women were his doxies.’
‘Not the one who’s married to Dr Matheson now. The squire broke her on their wedding night. My Millie used to help with the laundry, and she saw the bridal sheets. Edward Forbes brought a right rosy blush to the girl’s cheeks by all accounts.’
‘I heard that Isabelle Collins went to the house the women lived in, as bold as brass, demanding they be evicted.’ The landlord shook his head and grinned. ‘Edward Forbes gave her a right earful, I’ll wager. Now the doxie’s son is running the estate. I dunno. Them fancy folk have strange ideas sometimes.’
‘And a right gent that Daniel Ayres thinks he be. He’ll give us something to think about if’n we don’t get the pastures prepared for the sowing of spring wheat, peas and beans, and make sure the bull is put to the cattle. By heck, I never expected to see the old man’s bastard running Cheverton Estate.’
‘Daniel Ayres won’t notice what’s what. He wasn’t brought up on the land, so he’s a bushel short of a brain when it comes to farming. Won’t get his hands dirty. He don’t take after his father on that one.’ The speaker gazed at the landlord. ‘Ale all round.’
‘Let’s see the colour of your money first.’
A couple of silver shillings were thrown onto the bar. ‘They fell out of Ben Collins’s bag. I reckon he can afford to to stand us a round or two.’
The landlord slid the coins off the counter. ‘Poor old Ben. I’d rather have no money than service that great cow of his.’
‘Oh, I dunno. I met a carriage driver once who caught them going at it in the woods. He reckoned Ben was built like a stallion. And she was as juicy as a ripe pear and couldn’t get enough of it. The driver reckoned she sucked him in, balls and all.’
As they all began to laugh, the speaker scratched his crotch, thinking of his own wife. Her skin was as weather-beaten as an old gourd, her udders so long and stringy from suckling infants she could tuck them under the waist of her skirt. He gave a rueful smile. She’d been a right little beauty once.
Daniel Ayres stood in his father’s old chamber, a fine room at the front of the house with a commanding view over the estate. His father’s personal servant had been reinstated to his former position, but now served him instead.
In the adjoining room, the windows were barred. The room had belonged to Patricia, his father’s first wife. She’d become insane after her infant had died. Siana had slept there too, during her marriage to Edward, within easy reach when the man had needed to expend his lusts.
The room was empty now. Daniel would not allow anyone to sleep in the bed once occupied by his one true love. Esmé had settled herself in a grand room on the other side of the house, as far away from him as possible. She was not fond of his attention.
He closed his eyes, imagining the green-eyed woman who had always remained just beyond his reach, accepting his father’s caresses. Had she enjoyed the touch of Edward Forbes’s hands against her flesh, his mouth against hers or his thighs astride her hips as he plundered her depths? Had she arched towards him to beg for more, and cried out in the ecstasy of the moment – or had she been like Esmé, cold and unresponsive?
How he hated his wife. She’d been out visiting today, enjoying her role as lady of the manor as she patronized shop assistants, gushed to her equals and fawned over her betters. She had been all sweetness before their marriage, leading him on with smiles and flattery. How quickly she had lost her attractiveness. She was late with his medicine tonight. It had been prescribed for his constant headaches, but it also dampened his desire.
Thinking of Siana brought that desire to the surface. He could feel it, throbbing in his groin, gathering momentum. His hand closed over the powerful hardness of it.
He softly swore when a knock came at the door. ‘Come in.’
It was the maid Esmé had engaged at the hiring fair, a pretty little thing with lustrous dark eyes and bobbing brown curls. He’d watched her go about her duties, self-conscious in his presence, her hips swaying just that little bit extra when her mistress wasn’t around. She had a knowing look about her and carried a tray in her hands. ‘The mistress sent me with your medicine, sir.’
‘Set it on the table and come here. I want to talk to you.’
She came to stand in front of him, bobbed a curtsy and slanted him a flirty gaze from under her lashes before she straightened. He gazed at her full red lips, at the pink tongue that flicked out to moisten them. ‘What’s your name, girl?’
‘Florence, sir, though most people call me Florrie.’
He traced his finger over her bottom lip, took her hand and placed it against his rigidity. ‘Well, Florrie, how would you like to earn yourself an extra coin or two?’
Her eyes hooded over slightly. ‘I’ll lock the door then, shall I, sir?’
From his closet, Daniel brought forth a silk chemise he’d found behind Siana’s bed. Bunching it in his hands he pressed it against his face and inhaled her musky perfume before handing it to the girl. ‘Put this on.’
He took his time with her, touching her intimately. Not that she minded. The maid displayed sluttish tendencies, for she’d cried out with the sudden rush of pleasure he afforded her. He was pleased by it. He liked women to be responsive to his needs.
So he bade her go on all fours, like a dog, and he stood behind her, the length of him inside her as his fingers caressed underneath, bringing her nipples jutting against his fingertips through the silk, and sliding them downwards until he divided her cleft to touch the erect little bud. She gave little yelps of excitement when he teased it.
‘Do you like that?’
‘It do make me feel right wicked,’ she said, trembling in her pleasure.
‘We might as well enjoy that wickedness, then.’
A few moments later a knock came at the door, causing him to pause in the activity he was indulging in. ‘Daniel, are you in there?’
‘What is it, Esmé?’ he said, annoyed by the interruption. ‘I’m resting.’
‘Have you seen Florrie?’
‘Florrie?’
‘The maid I sent to you with your medicine.’
Palms grazing against her nipples, he began to slowly thrust in and out of her, another woman’s image in his mind, enjoying the way the maid tried to stifle her moans of pleasure.
The doorknob rattled. ‘Why is this door locked, Daniel? Are you all right?’
How sharp Esmé was. How he would love to make her watch, and see the shock on her face. ‘Let me be,’ he growled, ‘unless you’re here to provide some wifely duties. Are you, Esmé?’
Florrie giggled.
After a moment of tense silence, Esme whispered, ‘Don’t forget to take your medicine.’ Her footsteps pattered away.
Daniel began to laugh. ‘The mistress has no interest in being a wife today, it seems. Will you be my wife for today, Siana?’
‘My name be Florrie, sir.’
‘It will be anything I want to call you,’ he snarled. Grabbing her hair, he pulled her head back so she was forced to look up at him as he savagely impaled her. ‘Do you understand, you peasant slut?’
It was a dark night, thick with cloud. Josh was out in his boat. Sam Saynuthin was trawling the grapple and keeping a sharp eye out for the revenue men. But there wouldn’t be anybody about tonight. There was a big push on to capture a gang of smugglers over Lulworth way after one of the revenue men had been killed in a shoot-out the previous week.
Even if they saw him, Josh knew he and Sam were a familiar sight on the harbour. Mostly, the smugglers worked in gangs. A pair of lone crab-catchers wouldn’t rate a second look, he reckoned, as he hauled in a dripping crab basket.
The pair shivered as a cold wind keened over the black water, which reflected back the lights on the shore as rippling, glistening lines. They could send a man into a dream state if he stared too long at them. Dreams he didn’t want, for he was not like his sister, who was wise in a womanly intuitive way. Siana’s house was up there on the hill, shining as brightly as any of them.
He felt warm as he thought of his sister. She’d done right well for them since his parents had died. She’d be tucking little Daisy and Goldie into bed now, telling them a story she’d made up, just as she used to tell him stories when he’d been small. He was pleased she’d moved back to Poole. He liked being around her and the kids. And she was growing a bit plump, so there was another one on the way by the looks of her. The doctor would have a nice surprise to come home to.
When Francis did return, Josh had decided then might be time for him to move out. He might move into one of the cottages in Smuggler’s Lane when one became vacant. Now he’d learned from Giles Dennings how interest and money worked together, he knew he could have anything he wanted. He’d set his sights on building himself a new house.
He already had the land, a handsome acre overlooking the sea at Branksome Chine.
He’d bought the acre with the stash of accumulated cash made from smuggling. His smuggling activities were something his partner, Giles Dennings, knew nothing about. He never would either, for Giles was an upright and honest man, who wouldn’t want to be associated with something illegal.
Josh was still designing the house. As he described what he wanted, Sam Saynuthin drew it on a sheet of paper. When it was exactly how Josh wanted it, he was going to take it to an architect to draw up a proper plan. It wasn’t as big as Siana’s house, but it would be comfortable enough.
Josh began to wonder if he needed to smuggle any more. So far he’d got away with it, but the revenue men, aided by the Royal Navy, had become more vigilant over the last few months. If he was caught by them he could easily be killed, or pressed into the service. And if the smuggling gangs got hold of him no explanations would be needed. He’d be found floating in the harbour with his throat cut.
Josh grinned. He’d miss the excitement of pitting his wits against the authorities, though.
Sam Saynuthin’s grunt brought him to the alert. There was the gleam of a lantern bobbing over to the left. At the same time the grapple caught at something underwater. The tubs of brandy were tied together along a rope, which was anchored by stone sinkers to the sea bed. It took some time to haul up and remove the sinkers.
The choppy water slopped over the side of the boat, soaking them through as they headed carefully for one of the channels into the backwater. Josh swore when the clouds thinned to reveal a half-moon riding high in the sky. There was enough danger of exposure from the light it cast to make his ear sing with tension. Of late, he’d been getting these uneasy feelings inside him, like someone was watching him. It made the hairs on his arm prickle and he wondered if he should heed what his intuition told him, which was to abandon the illegal trade as soon as posssible.
The tide was out. Rolling the contraband brandy across the mud flats was easy, loading it on the waiting horse and cart, hard work. Twenty half-anker kegs, containing approximately eighty-five gallons of spirit, was worth well over a hundred pounds in profit to him. They fitted into the bed of the cart exactly.
Over them, he placed a false floor, then piled his crab baskets on top. The contents would be cooked over a brazier on the quayside, for he’d handed over the cockle and crab business to Sam, so he could earn himself an independent living. He sent the mute off to his bed in the coach station. He’d have no trouble getting rid of the brandy, he thought, as he set the cart in motion. All he had to do was deliver it to his regular customers.
It didn’t take long to empty the cart. Josh sighed with relief when the last barrel was bought by a barber surgeon. The man watered it down, bottled it, added a few herbs and sold it as a miracle cure for everything. Placing the proceeds of his night’s work in a small canvas satchel, Josh strapped it in a space under the box that served as a seat.
By crikey, he was cold! He would be glad to get home to his cosy bed above the stable. But as he was about to set the horse in motion, a figure strode out of the shadows in front of him and yanked the reins from his hands. A gun was held against his head. ‘My name is Henry Weaver.’
Josh’s heart flapped in his chest like a stranded eel. ‘Shit! What the hell are you after? I ain’t got no money on me.’
The man stepped back into the dim light cast by the lantern, the gun held steady at arm’s length. His face was familiar. ‘You keep your stash under your arse, Skinner.’
Josh nearly groaned out loud. Of all the bleddy luck! To get caught just as he’d decided to give up the trade.
It was the revenue man whose brat he’d pulled from the harbour. It wouldn’t hurt to remind him of it. ‘Oh, it’s you, sir. You gave me a right turn. How’s the young tyke, these days? I hope his ducking didn’t do him any harm.’ He shrugged when the man didn’t answer, decided he might be able to talk his way out of this. ‘You don’t have to keep the pistol on me, Mr Weaver. I’m not armed and I’m going about my lawful business.’
The gun was lowered. ‘Lawful, it ain’t at this time of night, lad. I’ve been watching your activities of late. Since you brought those tubs ashore tonight I could’ve placed you and your rig under arrest at any time, and had enough evidence to hang you with. I could also have blown a hole in your head a moment ago, and nobody would’ve been the wiser.’
That accounted for the uneasy feeling he’d had earlier that evening. Josh didn’t see much sense in lying, so nodded, interested to find out why he hadn’t been arrested. ‘May I ask why you did none of them things, Mr Weaver?’
‘I know the adventure of smuggling appeals to someone of your age, for I did it myself once or twice. Take heed, though, it’s a hanging offence, and there ain’t no adventure in that. A hanged man’s eyes bulge from their sockets, his face turns purple and his tongue hangs out. The rope stops the air getting into the body, see. And a man craps in his trousers as he jerks about trying to reach the ground with his feet afore he dies, so the last thing he smells is his own shit. But that ground is just out of reach, and the more a body struggles the tighter the noose gets. A most undignified and painful way to go.’
Josh’s eyes widened. ‘It doesn’t sound peaceful, for sure.’
‘Think on, lad. If I catch you at it again you’ll be apprehended.’ He jerked his head towards the hill. ‘If you want to make old bones, bugger off home, consider my debt to you paid in full and mark my soddin’ words. You won’t hear them twice.’
‘Thank you, Mr Weaver,’ Josh said hastily. ‘I won’t need to.’
‘Consider yourself warned then, lad. From what I’ve heard, you’ve worked damned hard for what you’ve got. The fact that you’re still alive is a testament to your cunning and luck. But the luck will run out before too long. Ask yourself if the game is worth the risk.’
That notion alone was enough to make Josh’s cockiness disappear. ‘Thank you, sir. I will consider your advice most carefully.’ Clicking his tongue, he set the horse in motion, determined to reform in his ways.
Henry Weaver watched him go, a smile inching across his face when Giles Dennings detached himself from the shadows. ‘Will that put the fear of God into him, Giles?’
‘Thanks, Henry. I can breathe easy in my bed now. I don’t think my young partner will be tempted to stray from the straight and narrow again. I’m in your debt.’
‘No, Giles. I owed the lad for young Joshua. It was a brave thing he did, jumping in the harbour after him, and I’ll never forget it. Now, I’m off home to my bed. I suggest you do likewise.’
The pair shook hands and parted.
Never in his imagination had Francis thought he’d live in a such a grim place as Port Arthur penal settlement. Never had he felt so helpless and despairing.
Despite his protestations of innocence, the authorities had chosen not to believe he was any other but the escapee, Philip Piper. He’d received a second flogging, much more severe than the caning Captain McPhee had dealt him. It had taken a long time before the agony of that had healed. His back would retain the scars for the rest of his life.
In the past, he’d always observed poverty from the outside, looking in. Now, manacled at the ankles, covered in lice and unimaginable filth, his stomach hollowed from hunger, Francis experienced it first-hand.
The wooden prisoners’ barracks were set into the side of a slope. The convicts’ berths were separated by low partitions which afforded no privacy, and allowed free pass to illnesses passed on by infected breath. Lung complaints were common.
It was true. There was no honour amongst thieves. Every scrap of food was fought for, whether rancid or not. He’d learned to fight for his share with the rest of the pack, snatching it and stuffing it down as fast as he was able.
He’d lost weight, but not muscle, for being part of a convict team, clearing bush was a labour which had made him strong of body. How long his strength would last before malnutrition took its toll of him was another matter.
Here, as an inmate of the notorious Port Arthur penal settlement, where discipline was rigidly enforced, the niceties of life were abandoned in the need to exist from moment to moment.
Francis was not ashamed of his behaviour. In a few short weeks, the authorities had reduced him to little more than an animal. He was innocent of any crime and must put himself first, do anything to survive – even lie and cheat. He tried not to weep as he remembered his family, for to weep was a sign of weakness in this underclass he inhabited.
Had Siana received the letter he’d sent from Sydney Town, he wondered. He imagined the children standing around her, listening whilst she read it to them, telling them of his life aboard ship and the bustling port called Sydney that he’d explored. He imagined her sweet face, her trembling, sensuous mouth, the mysterious forest-green darkness of the eyes he so loved. Would he ever see her, or his children again?
He drew in a deep, shuddering breath. He must not lose hope. He’d requested to see the prison commandant, who was reputed to be a fair man. Francis had been waiting for several weeks to see him. Some convicts had been waiting for several months.
Waking up was always a chore. Sometimes he forgot he was no longer waking a free man, but a convict. By his reckoning, it was early April. In England, rain would come softly in showers to drench the massed daffodils. He took a deep breath, his nostrils seeking in vain for their elusive scent.
All he could smell were the foul vapours of waking humanity, with their sweating, corrupt flesh, farts, coughs and curses. He was just as foul himself. One of them, in fact.
Unexpectedly, a hand dropped on his shoulder. ‘Commandant will see yer this morning, Piper.’
Francis shot upright, cracking his head on the berth above. He stroked his matted beard, muttering, ‘He can’t receive me looking like this, I’m filthy.’
‘Yes, your lordship, so you are. Shall I ring for your servant to come and shave you? Perhaps he could bring you a clean suit of clothes, as well.’ The man went off, chuckling to himself.
The prison commandant, Charles O’Hara Booth, was a lean and upright man. A receding hairline, side-whiskers and dark, straight eyebrows, made his face appear long and gaunt. He didn’t bother looking up from the paper he was studying.
‘State your business with me, Piper.’
‘I’m not Philip Piper, sir. My name is Francis Matheson. I’m a doctor, and I was on the Adriana when she sank. I was washed ashore, and was arrested by mistake for—’
‘Yes, yes, I have your statement here.’ The commandant looked up then. ‘You were recognized from the wanted poster as Philip Piper, confidence trickster, petty thief, and an absconder from the work gangs.’
‘I’m a physician and surgeon by profession, and a land-owner.’
The commandant turned a wanted poster his way. ‘Are you denying this is you?’
Francis stared at the likeness. ‘I admit, it looks like me, but—’
‘Take him back to the barracks. Give him fifty lashes first, for his impertinence.’
‘My eldest brother is the Earl of Kylchester,’ Francis said, resisting as the guard tried to march him away, ‘and my second brother is Admiral Augustus Matheson of Her Majesty’s navy.’ A second guard stepped forward and took him in an arm lock.
‘For God’s sake, man, you have a reputation for being fair-minded,’ Francis shouted as they began to drag him out. ‘Surely you can check my veracity.’
The commandant held up his hand. ‘You say you’re a doctor?’
When Francis nodded he said to one of the guards, ‘Fetch the Assistant Colonial Surgeon.’
When the prison doctor arrived, Charles Booth told him, ‘This man is attempting to make me believe he’s a physician and surgeon. Perhaps you could determine how much knowledge he possesses, in my presence.’
The assistant surgeon grinned, for it had happened before. ‘With great pleasure. Under whom did you study your profession, Doctor?’
‘Sir Astley Paton Cooper.’
The prison surgeon’s smile faded. ‘Ah yes . . . but most people would have heard of him, no doubt. Can you tell me of Edward Jenner’s contribution to medicine?’
‘He injected pus from a cowpox pustule into a patient and discovered what’s thought to be a preventative for smallpox.’
There were more questions, then the surgeon asked him, ‘Have you ever performed surgery?’
‘On many occasions. I have my own country practice in Dorset.’
A surgical instrument case was placed on the desk. ‘Can you name these?’
‘Syringe, forceps, scalpel, trepanning drill -’
‘I think that’s enough.’ The surgeon nodded towards the commandant. ‘I wouldn’t rule out that this man is in possession of medical knowledge, but it could have been learned from a book. In fact, I would suggest I examine him further by observing any practical skill he may possess.’
‘You mean you’ve decided you’d like to have him as an assistant, Doctor.’
The assistant surgeon grinned. ‘He seems to be a cut above the others I’ve had.’
‘Then keep a good eye on him, for I’ll hold you responsible should he abscond again.’ The commandant nodded to the guards. ‘The order for fifty lashes is rescinded. Make sure Piper is scrubbed clean of dirt and deloused before he’s taken to the hospital. He stinks.’
‘My name is Francis Matheson, sir.’
‘Not until you can prove it, it isn’t.’
‘How can I prove it?’ Francis shouted as he was hustled away.
Sir Charles drummed his fingers on the desk when the door shut behind the convict. ‘He speaks well and seems to be well educated.’
‘You think there may be some truth in the tale he tells?’
‘I’m dubious. Piper has a reputation of being able to talk himself out of any situation. The Adriana did go down about the time he was caught. The stripes on his back are more indicative of a truer tale, though. A ship’s captain might flog his crew, but I doubt if he’d flog a fellow officer and surgeon. It’s not gentlemanly conduct.
‘However, I’ll bear it in mind, in case the opportunity arises to prove it one way or the other. In the meantime, you can do with the help. If nothing else, helping his fellow man might influence his rehabilitation when the time comes. I’ll make enquiries as to the land he says he inherited from his brother.’
But Francis was forgotten when the next petitioner was brought in.
‘Thomas Webb, sir. He was caught stealing food from the kitchen, sir. First offence.’
‘Then we must make sure he doesn’t do it again. Fifty lashes and bread and water for a week. Take him off kitchen duty and put him to hard labour . . .’