CWARD WAS FULL – every ward was full – but Elizabeth Shortland had carved a space out for John Haywood. A mattress and three tea chests had been pushed between the hammocks. There were shouts from every side – the sick had heard the tumult and were desperate for news. The arrival of a wounded and stricken inmate confirmed their fears.
‘Who’s that come in?’
‘Is he stabbed, Doc?’
‘That some kinda riot out there?’
Magrath and Elizabeth ignored them all.
The four wards of Dartmoor hospital were an improvement on the prison blocks: the windows had glass in them, the floor was washed daily and there was, usually, no fighting. There was also no segregation. When Block Four had been designated ‘for non-whites’, Magrath had refused to follow suit. He had told the Agent that he could accommodate and allocate the sick only according to their illness. ‘The pox can turn a man’s skin as black as night,’ he had told Shortland. ‘What then? Should we change his ward because he’s no longer white?’
Under some hastily assembled oil lamps, Dr Magrath examined Haywood more closely. Two stab wounds, one shallow, across his right hip, the other deeper, much deeper, under his rib cage. Magrath bent close, a bloodied gauze in his hand, catching the rivulets of Haywood’s blood as they rolled down his side.
‘The wounds are clean now, as far as I can see. He might have a chance if he avoids infection. This second cut troubles me; he was bleeding heavily out there. The knife, or whatever it was, may just have missed the kidney. He might be lucky. Strap him tight, Elizabeth.’ He stepped away as she produced fresh bandages.
‘I don’t think “lucky” is quite the word,’ she said quietly, her hands making quick work of the dressing.
‘Of course,’ he said, accepting the correction. ‘Then let’s hope the fates are kind to him now.’ Haywood groaned then gasped as his bandages were tied off.
‘Mr Haywood, you’re in the hospital,’ called Magrath. ‘You have stab wounds and we are attending to them.’ He studied the green-and-blue bruising around Haywood’s eyes. ‘Do you remember what happened?’ said Magrath. ‘Who attacked you?’
A pained whimper was the only reply, Haywood’s eyes staying squeezed shut.
One of the nearby patients spoke up. ‘Is he gonna die, Doc? Looks like they cut him bad.’
Magrath turned to the man, another resident of Four, who was peering across from his bed. ‘I don’t know, Mr Miller, to be honest with you. You might say some prayers for him, maybe.’
‘That bad, then,’ said Miller, and turned away.
‘Prayer and morphine,’ said Magrath.
Elizabeth Shortland took his arm. ‘He’ll need more than that, George.’
‘All I have is my supplies, Elizabeth.’ He reached for his bag. ‘This batch came up from Plymouth yesterday …’
She shook her head and pulled him away from the beds. They walked in silence to the small corridor that linked C and D wards, ignoring the shouts and questions from the beds. When they were out of sight, she pulled Magrath as close as she dared.
‘He can’t stay here,’ she whispered. He tried to pull back, but her hands were on his jacket lapels, holding him in position.
‘Whyever not?’ he whispered. ‘Where else can he go?’
‘Think about it, George. He probably witnessed a murder tonight. If it was the Rough Allies and they find out he’s still alive, they’ll be back.’
‘But that’s preposterous,’ Magrath insisted. ‘This is the hospital! There are guards outside and a brick wall between us and them.’
‘What if they don’t need to break in?’ she said. ‘What if there’s someone already here? Two hundred beds, and at least a hundred and fifty have white sailors in them. At least seven Allies that I can recall. You can’t possibly …’ She let go of his jacket, brushing down the lapels as she did so. ‘Can we really take that risk?’
He walked a few paces across the corridor, then turned back. ‘Would Thomas put guards in the wards?’
She shrugged. ‘He’s always complaining about being short-staffed,’ she said, ‘but he might do. For a while.’
Magrath squinted at her. ‘I know that look, Elizabeth. Just tell me what you’re thinking.’
She stared back at him. It was quite possible, she realized, that he was the only man who had ever considered her opinions at all, and here he seemed to have learned more of her in a matter of months than her husband had in eighteen years.
‘If he can, he needs to recover in Four. There’s a thousand men in there, George. You can visit him, too, but they can protect him. We can say he’s been taken to the hospital in Plymouth.’
He glanced back at the ward. ‘This makes me nervous, Elizabeth.’
‘Of course it does,’ she said, ‘because you care. But we don’t have time for nerves. Is he stable?’
Magrath looked aghast. ‘You want to move him now?’
‘He’s in danger now. Right now. And every minute he stays in here.’ Elizabeth strode to the ward doors, peered inside then nodded. ‘Maybe we have a few hours before the full story gets round, but that’s all. If Thomas agrees, we can have the turnkeys rouse King Dick within the hour.’
There were shouts from the ward. Elizabeth and Magrath exchanged panicked glances then crashed through the doors. Haywood’s new neighbour, Miller, was out of bed and squaring up to a white sailor wrapped in sheets and peering down at John Haywood.
‘Step away!’ thundered Magrath, making up in volume what he lacked in speed. Mrs Shortland did the running, pulling the man in sheets away from the yelling Miller.
‘You got no right!’ he shouted. ‘You got no right. What you want, anyways?’ He aimed a boot at the man in sheets, who had now scuttled back into a bed on the other side of the ward and was curled up and muttering incomprehensibly. When the boot hit him on the head, he fell silent.
But now the whole ward was awake and troubled. Elizabeth thought at least half the patients were getting out of bed, when Magrath let rip.
‘If anyone is out of their bed, it will be taken as a sign that they are completely well and ready for an immediate transfer back to their block.’ He glowered at the two rows of beds. ‘One step – that’s all it’ll take. I will call the guard in and you will be gone in seconds. Is that clear?’ he demanded, flushed with the effort.
It appeared as though it was. Everyone stayed where they were. In the momentary silence, a voice called, ‘Who’s the new Negro? Anyone know?’
Miller answered. ‘The man’s name is John Haywood and he’s from Virginia. Lamplighter. He’s a good man.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Stabbed. Looked like it, anyways.’
‘Must be the Allies. S’always the Allies.’
‘One less nigger can’t be bad, though, can it?’
A few in the ward laughed, and Magrath had heard enough. He pulled a chair to where Haywood was lying.
‘You’re right,’ he said to Elizabeth, settling himself down. ‘Go and see Thomas, this is intolerable. I’ll stay here till it’s done.’