THE INJURED FROM the morning’s riot were laid wherever space could be found. Elizabeth Shortland had seen worse, but Magrath seemed anxious as he bandaged and strapped. ‘None of this feels safe,’ he said, glancing up and down the ward.
She wasn’t immediately sure of his meaning. ‘There’s a desperation here, now, with these men. I haven’t seen it before,’ he said. ‘They understood the war, knew why they were held here. But this damned peace has turned their heads.’ He indicated a man with bandages wrapped tightly around his chest. ‘Do you see that man, Elizabeth? I just strapped him up. He was agitating in the courtyard, attacking the troops. Broken ribs from a crush. He says as soon as he can bear the pain, he’ll be back and doing it all again.’ Magrath shook his head in despair.
He looked exhausted, she thought, strained; the lean on his cane heavier than usual. She resisted the temptation to assist him. She smiled instead. ‘They can’t just open the gates, George. Thomas wants them gone, too, but until there are ships … Just letting seven thousand men out on to Dartmoor would be a catastrophe.’
The returned smile was brief, reluctant. ‘I know his hands are tied,’ he said, sighing deeply. ‘But we all need to take care now.’
Echoing bootsteps rattled along the corridor and they both turned, instinctively stepping apart from each other as they did so. Captain Shortland and two redcoats marched into the ward.
‘Elizabeth. George. A minute, please!’ he called out.
Magrath and Elizabeth walked through the rows of beds towards him, a few heads following them as they passed.
Shortland nodded the briefest of greetings at his physician. ‘What injuries from this morning?’ His eyes scanned the room, alighting on the recently arrived mattresses in front of him.
Magrath followed his gaze. ‘Broken ankles, legs and ribs. Bruising, cuts. We got away with it, but only just,’ he said.
‘Meaning?’ asked Shortland, irritated.
Magrath shrugged. ‘Meaning we could easily have had fatalities out there, Thomas. The bullets missed, but—’
‘The bullets didn’t “miss”, George, they were fired over the heads of rioting prisoners. It was strategic, and it worked. The riot is over.’
‘I think what George is trying to say—’ began Elizabeth.
‘I know very well what he’s trying to say!’ snapped Shortland. ‘And I don’t like it one bit. Would you care to hear my opinion on your patients’ health? Shall I make an inspection? Well?’ The challenge was clear.
Elizabeth flushed. ‘Thomas, that’s not fair. We talk to these men, we know what they’re saying. Surely that’s helpful to you?’
Shortland’s blood was up. His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not sure that it is, Elizabeth, not sure at all. Maybe you talk to them too much, eh? How did the meeting with the English boy’s grandmother go? Did you recruit him, or do I have to get the recruiters back?’
With a start, she realized that she recognized his tone, that patronizing petulance she had heard so often. It was her father’s voice. Her husband now spoke to her as though she were a child. Elizabeth fought to keep the contempt from her voice. ‘Well, first of all, he’s not English,’ she said. Shortland was about to interrupt, but Elizabeth persisted, talking over him. ‘I know what our law says, Thomas, but that’s not how he sees it. Me telling him he’s English won’t stop him feeling American.’
‘Well, happily, he can now feel as American as he wants and still join up. We are fighting the French again, Elizabeth. This may very well be a good time for a visit from the recruiting sergeant.’ He glanced at Magrath. ‘I’m sending the turnkeys out, George. Locking the prisons down until it’s all quietened somewhat. Make sure the hospital is secure also.’ Shortland nodded at them both, turned on his heels and marched back down the corridor, the two redcoats following behind.
‘Locking the prisons!’ said Elizabeth, exasperation and fear in her voice. ‘I think he’s learned nothing, George.’
Magrath nodded slowly. ‘The turnkeys won’t quieten anything. Quite the reverse, I fear. Quite the reverse.’