‘THE TURNKEYS’ MESSAGE was different this morning. After the usual dreaded ‘Tumble up and turn out!’ they added an extra cry. ‘Snow-clearing at Russets, Rounders and Hexworthy. First two hundred.’ The response in all blocks was instantaneous.
The hammocks spun.
‘Sixpenny crash!’ yelled Habs and a hundred others, as the more sober, able-bodied and awake inmates tipped out of their beds. The deliberate painful self-tipping ensured that the more robust inmates snatched an extra few seconds in the dash for the courtyard. Habs and Sam almost fell over each other in their eagerness to volunteer. ‘Crashing’ promised an extra sixpence in wages and, tantalizingly, a chance to leave the prison.
‘How much snow?’ called Sam, pulling gloves from his makeshift pillow.
‘Enough,’ said Habs. ‘Enough to warrant that extra sixpence. Where are my damn boots?’
They snatched what bread they had saved and threw coins at an early riser who had fired up an illegal stove for some coffee.
Still buttoning, tying and wrapping, sailors from each of the seven prisons swarmed to the courtyard gates. The few inches of snow that had fallen overnight ensured that those with poor boots had a precarious sprint. Everywhere, men were sliding and falling. Habs and Sam were amongst the first out of Four, merging quickly with the fastest of Three and Five. They could see the gates to the square were open, the lines of militia poised, waiting to slam them shut again once they had the number they wanted.
Habs took an elbow in the face, Sam a fist to the stomach. Arms and legs tangled; clothes were pulled and ripped as they closed on the gates. Sam was fastest through, then applauded Habs, who made it as the gates started to move.
‘Slowin’ down, boy,’ he laughed. ‘Too much liquor and tobacco.’
Joe, red-faced, tricorn pulled low, forced his way through the crowd.
‘Thought you’d slept in. What kept you?’
‘Block Four is farthest from the gates,’ said Habs, ‘so not surprisin’ you Sevens got here so easy.’ Habs offered Joe some bread from his pocket, Joe produced some rolled-up meat from his and they swapped some breakfast.
‘Thanks for the advice,’ Joe said. ‘If you hadn’t warned me about the crash, I’d never have been ready.’
‘Ol’ man Roche not here, I see,’ said Habs through a mouthful of food.
‘Said he was cold and in pain anyway,’ said Joe. ‘Didn’t see the point in getting more of both.’
The throng of inmates were surrounded by redcoats, guns held at the ready. Six officers were shouting and waving their arms, succeeding eventually in dividing the men into working parties. Habs, Sam and Joe were herded into a group with three other messes from Four then joined by a noisy gang from One. The latter made their displeasure felt immediately.
‘We don’t do the same work as fuckin’ Negroes,’ spat one man from the swathe of wool wrapped around his face. Clouds of steam billowed around him.
‘You do if you want the money,’ replied the nearest sergeant. ‘If you want to go back inside, Yankee boy, there’s plenty who’ll take your place.’
Their march through the recently swept courtyard and gates was straightforward. But as they filed under the arch, their progress slowed. Overnight, the Dartmoor hills had been covered by a foot of snow and the track that led from the prison to neighbouring Princetown had vanished. In the half-light of the early morning, each sailor turned his head to the dark, grey, overcast sky, judging wind and temperature; it was clear there would be more snow soon.
The men were split into left and right, and half the troop was directed left, towards Princetown, while Joe, Habs, Sam and a hundred others were forced to the right.
‘What’s this way?’ called Joe.
‘A whole load o’ nothin’,’ said Sam. ‘I did this last year – the moor goes on for miles. Grass, piles o’ rocks, bogs, grass, piles o’ rocks an’ bogs. For ever. But somewhere there’ll be some poor English farmer with his poor English cows and pigs that need rescuin’.’
‘How far away are these farms?’ Joe had his hat pulled low, his hands deep in the pockets of an old coat he had traded for in the market. He walked in the footsteps of the men in front but still trod gingerly, their progress painfully slow.
‘Hexworthy’s an hour off,’ said Habs, holding on to Sam’s shoulder, ‘more like two in this snow. That’ll be where the others have gone. Russets is closer, and Rounders before that.’
‘Well, let’s pray we’re Rounders and the snow waits awhile,’ said Joe, shivering hard.
‘Amen to that!’ said Sam. ‘And that the farmer has beautiful daughters who’re bored o’ their usual grass-combers and dreamin’ of meetin’ an American sailor.’
‘… who smells like shit,’ added Habs.
‘It’s a farm, Habs,’ said Joe. ‘Everything will smell like shit.’
Two men in front of them turned their heads. ‘We were there last snowfall,’ said one, his eyes and nose watery with the cold. ‘The ol’ boy there’s not so bad, even tried to offer us liquor, but the guards wouldn’t let ’im. Though they took plenty, mind.’
‘’Course they did,’ said Joe. ‘You from One?’
‘Yup.’
‘You’re all better now? Sounded like you had a real bad attack of the fever in there some days back.’
‘Back on our feet now, but it was bad, and no mistake. Headaches, sickness, and shit everywhere. Couldn’t wait to get out.’ He stuck a hand towards Joe. ‘Bill Gramm and Jonathan Tilson. Sailed with the Plainsman outta New York. You from the Eagle?’
‘Yeah, Joe Hill from Seven.’ They shook with gloved hands. The men from One glanced at Habs, Sam and the rest of the Fours and nodded. There was, apparently, no need to ask where they were from.
‘And we’re from Four,’ Habs said pointedly. ‘Sam and Habs Snow.’ The men turned again, nodded again.
‘We know who you are. You were fast!’ said Gramm to Sam. ‘Saw you run. Not many from Four made it.’
‘One’s as close to the gates as Seven is,’ said Sam. ‘You have it easy round there.’
Tilson snorted. He spoke over his shoulder. ‘Sure don’t feel that way. Some in the mess still sick with the flu or some such. Lotta groanin’ goin’ on most nights.’
The troop of snow-clearers and militia trudged through the snow for an hour. Starlings screeched around a clump of battered pine trees, then swooped suddenly into its branches. The track to the farm was marked out with large granite stones every quarter-mile, ditches, hedges and spoil heaps from old tin mines taking it in turns to run alongside the route. The men saw no one. The excited chatter that had marked the first mile faded as the cold began to bite and the damp to seep. Aside from the cursing, coughing and sneezing, they walked in silence.
A sharp right turn produced a change in vista: fields with moss-covered, dry granite walls dipped away from the track. Farm buildings, most no more than tumbledown shacks, appeared, scattered ploughs and broken wheels propped against the drystone walls.
‘Rounders Farm,’ said Habs.
‘This it?’ asked Joe.
Habs shook his head. ‘Just the edge of it, but not far now.’
Bill Gramm turned again, checked for redcoats. ‘Ever thought of escapin’?’ he said, his voice only as loud as it needed to be. His question hung between them.
‘You suggestin’ we make a run for it?’ whispered Sam, incredulous. ‘Here? In the snow? With footprints ’n’ all?’
‘No. Just wonderin’ if you ever think them thoughts.’
‘Uh-huh. Don’t everyone who ever lived here?’
‘I been watchin’ these redcoats,’ said Habs. ‘They know nothin’ and see nothin’. We could fall in a ditch an’ they wouldn’t notice.’
‘So we could escape,’ said Joe, ‘and with peace not yet ratified, we’d be caught by the press gangs and sent to fight for the British.’
‘Or shot on sight,’ said Habs. ‘Less painful, maybe.’
They shuffled, slid and fell towards Rounders farmhouse. A florid sergeant handed out sticks, shovels, forks and slates and a militia colleague counted their charges. Satisfied, he set them to clear the snow that had drifted five feet deep against the farmer’s stables and cow sheds, imprisoning the horses and cattle. Around the farmer’s yard, the small army of inmates made short work of his animals’ predicament. Joe, Habs and Sam toiled alongside their new acquaintances from One. The work was welcome, their faces now red with exertion as well as cold.
‘These stables are better than our prisons,’ commented Joe, catching his breath.
‘Even if there’s no sign of the farmer’s daughters yet!’ said Bill, wiping his brow with his sodden sleeve.
‘You’ve got something on your forehead.’ Joe frowned at him.
Bill wiped again but the mark remained.
‘Maybe it’s the straw?’ Joe asked.
‘Yeah, I guess so, I get these rashes all the time here. Goddamn this country, and God bless America. Please ratify that peace and take us home soon.’
‘Amen!’ said anyone who’d heard him.
As the sailors cleared the courtyard of snow, the grateful farmer tried to shake every one by the hand, but few wanted his thanks. Within two hours of their arrival at Rounders, the inmates from One and Four were being marched back out again. Snaking up the hill before turning back to Dartmoor, their pace was slow, the men exhausted, their mood sombre. The sky, too, was against them, showing ominous layers of grey, cream and blue-black.
The soldiers talked and smoked among themselves, checking on their prisoners only with reluctance. Joe watched two redcoats amble along their line; they looked almost as cold and miserable as their prisoners. When the redcoats were no more than four strides away, they stopped alongside Gramm and Tilson. For a few seconds, the soldiers fell into step alongside the men from One, then they fell away.
‘What?’ said Habs to Joe. ‘What’s goin’ on?’
The prisoners at the back of the line had stopped marching, spilling off the track to see what was happening. More shouted orders, and the men at the front stopped, too. Joe and Habs circled round to try to see what the redcoats had seen.
‘Jesus Christ Almighty,’ muttered Joe, his hands covering his mouth. They stared at poor Gramm and Tilson, who were now on their own in the middle of the track, their friends and comrades retreating in an ever-widening circle. Terrified, they looked at each other and started to weep.
The guards, now at some distance, called to them. ‘Show us your hands! Remove your gloves!’
Both men pulled gently at the cotton fabric which they had wrapped around their hands.
The material fell to the ground. ‘Hands up! Hands where we can see them!’
Both men raised their hands as if in surrender.
All eyes, both of prisoners and guards, switched from their hands to the faces of the two men. Then from face to hands. From the deep red marks on their foreheads to the ferocious red spots on their palms.
They didn’t need a physician. Every man had seen it before. One word came from a hundred mouths.
‘Smallpox.’