BLOCKS TWO AND Six were slightly set back in the arc of buildings that made up Dartmoor Prison. They had been late additions, hurriedly built, and appeared to have forced their way in; the crescent of buildings was now somewhat jagged and irregular. As a result, there was a small patch of ground, no more than a few yards square on either side, where it was possible to hide. Edwin Lane and two other Rough Allies were taking full advantage. Crouched in the shadows between Five and Six, he pointed a gloved hand at the thirteen flaming lamps that lit the path from Four all the way up to the market square.
‘Top six got to go out,’ he said, his high nasal twang travelling easily to his colleagues. ‘The ones nearest the square. They’re yours, James. I’ll snuff out the ones on the block. And the six on the palisades behind are yours, Hitch. The darker we make it, the better.’ He gripped both men’s arms, silently pulling them back against the wall while a British patrol passed along the military walk above their heads. ‘We got about a minute before more of them cursed Brits come back the other way.’ The Allies watched as the redcoats ambled beyond the roof tiles of Four. ‘Let’s go.’
Armed with a thick glove and a wet cloth, they each set about their work. James sprinted, crouching low, across the patch of open ground. Reaching the path’s first oil lamp, he flung open the glass and smothered the wick in a fluid motion. As he moved on to his second, Lane had just reached the corner of Four. Each block had six lamps – one on each corner, one halfway down each side – and he extinguished the first. As Lane’s lights started to go out, Hitch began his work on the iron palisades. These were by some measure the highest of the lamps, and Lane had been glad to persuade the six-foot Hitch to join him in the task. As Lane ran around Four, he glanced in through the cracks in the block’s stuffed-up windows: through one he saw a game of cards, through another men reading. ‘Nigger games, nigger books,’ he said. ‘Ain’t nothin’ good gonna come from that.’ He ran to the next lamp.
By the time Lane had put out his fourth he knew the minute was up and he’d have to leave the rest lit. He ran for the no-man’s-land behind Five, the two shadows of James and Hitch closing in from left and right. They dived into darkness just as the next patrol swung into view. Lying low and breathless, they surveyed their work.
‘Put out seven on the path.’
‘Four out on the palisades. Sorry, boss. There weren’t no time.’
‘Still enough,’ said Lane. ‘I only got four o’ the six. Now we wait for them dopey Brits to realize they need the lamplighters out again.’