‘ARE YOU SURE now is a good time?’
Breakfast had been quietly efficient, with few words spoken. Thomas had announced his imminent trip to Plymouth and London and had not been planning on discussing the matter further. But Elizabeth’s question had changed things. She had thought her tone breezy enough, but the scowl on her husband’s face suggested otherwise. He dropped his knife and fork with a clatter.
‘Elizabeth,’ he said, through a mouthful of bacon, ‘I know you speak with the prisoners, I know you … wish what is best for all of us, but just for once’ – he swallowed then wiped his mouth with a napkin – ‘just for once, will you trust me? I do not embark on these trips lightly.’ He took a breath, controlled himself. ‘All you need to know is that meetings in Plymouth and London have been called and my presence is requested. With the major still sick, my senior guard commander will be in charge here. Fortyne knows what he’s doing, he’s a good man.’ Shortland managed a conciliatory smile as he poured more tea, seemingly happy that he had said all that needed saying.
Elizabeth braced herself. ‘Thomas, I understand you are wanted at meetings, but do these people know what a powder keg this prison has become? You should tell them—’
Shortland slammed his cup into its saucer, tea slopping as far as the tablecloth.
‘I should tell them what?’ he snapped. ‘That my wife knows how to run my prison better than I do? That she thinks I have lost control of my prison and need her educated counsel to put things right? Is that it?’ She gently replaced her knife and fork either side of her plate.
‘That is not what I intended to say, Thomas—’
‘Well, unfortunately for you, that is precisely what you did say.’ His face was crimson now. She knew she was on dangerous ground.
‘Unfortunately for me?’ she said. ‘I wonder what you might mean by that?’
Shortland closed his eyes, as if praying for guidance or self-control. It worked. The pause checked his headlong rush to battle and he swept from the table.
‘Good day, Elizabeth,’ he managed, before disappearing into the hall.
‘Good day, Thomas!’ she called after him. ‘And travelling mercies!’ She listened intently to the sounds of his departure – the orders, the door slam and the carriage – then glanced at the clock. She waited five tedious, unbearable, tea-drinking minutes. Satisfied he was gone, she pulled on her pelisse coat and walked the short distance to Magrath’s house. Once there, the coat, her dress, petticoat and pantaloons lasted three minutes.
‘Everyone will know you’re here,’ said Magrath, dressing for the second time that morning.
‘They will,’ agreed Elizabeth from the bed. ‘We work together. Remember?’
‘We work very well together,’ laughed Magrath. ‘I know that, to my pleasure. But I think Captain Shortland’s idea was probably that we work in the hospital and for the benefit of the inmates. Wouldn’t that be right?’
‘He never specified, George,’ said Elizabeth, ‘and, anyway, this is for the benefit of the patients. You look so much more relaxed now.’
‘But I’m fifteen minutes late for my rounds …’
‘Blame me!’ she called after him. ‘Just say you were fornicating with the Agent’s wife. I’m sure they’ll understand.’
She heard Magrath laugh quietly under his breath and pull on his boots.
‘Wait, George,’ she said, swivelling out of the bed. ‘I should leave with you.’ She dressed hurriedly, retying her hair in seconds. ‘The one solitary advantage of being the only woman here,’ Elizabeth declared as she walked down the stairs, ‘is that no one will judge me if my linen is crumpled.’
From Magrath’s house on the prison’s outer wall, they passed through the three double gates needed to reach the blocks, each time receiving salutes – and sly grins – from the guards.
‘My God, they all know!’ said Magrath as they arrived in One. ‘By the time Thomas returns, the whole of the bloody Navy will be talking about us.’
Elizabeth knew this was true, knew that, however meat-headed her husband was, eventually even he would realize his wife was sleeping with his physician. They would row, he would demand an end to it, and she knew she would say no. Beyond that, she couldn’t say. The impossibly gallant, sweet-talking officer, the man who had dazzled her and her parents with his talk of adventures in New South Wales and sailing with Lord Hood’s fleet in the Mediterranean, seemed to her now to be something from another century, another life. Jaded, disappointed, peripheral. Napoleon and Dartmoor had taken a heavy toll on her husband. The stomach-churning nerves that were currently coursing through her body were only partly due to her imminent arrival in Block One. The rest were due to her husband and her yearning to be free of him and his wretched prison.
Once the round duties began, all conversation returned to the medical. Lists of medicines and dressings required were compiled, patients’ demands collated and symptoms checked. Elizabeth stayed tightly to Magrath’s side. She was sure she was safe, but being the only woman in a seven-thousand-man prison never felt entirely comfortable.
‘Thanks, Doc. I’ll never forget you saved my life,’ said one smallpox victim, left blind.
‘And he’ll never forget the ass of your girlfriend neither,’ said his colleague. ‘Says it’s the last thing he saw ’fore he lost his sight. Thinks about it a lot, he says.’
Magrath harrumphed. ‘I think you’re referring to my assistant, Mrs Shortland. The Agent’s wife, you’ll remember.’
‘Don’t remember the name. Just the ass.’ He smiled, pleased with himself.
Elizabeth crouched in front of the men. ‘Well, just remember I bathed your wounds,’ she said, ‘and tied your bandages, too. Remember I helped save your life. Then you can remember my “ass”.’
Both men blushed fiercely.
Block Two was rougher, the atmosphere unfriendly from the steps onwards. Three was more encouraging, the greetings civil, if not warm. By the time they reached Four, they were tired and wary.
‘I wonder how we’ll find John Haywood,’ Magrath murmured.
‘I do hope he’s holding up well,’ Elizabeth replied. Looking back down the steps of Four, she noticed for the first time how busy the courtyard was. But her concern was not for the healthy or the games they were well enough to play.
Inside Four, Joe and Habs were waiting for them, and Elizabeth nodded. ‘Mr Hill, Mr Snow,’ she said. ‘Good morning.’
‘Mrs Shortland, Dr Magrath,’ said Joe.
‘We saw you comin’,’ said Habs. ‘When you’ve done your walkin’, we’ll be waitin’ for you out back.’
Magrath and Mrs Shortland nodded a silent reply before quickly completing their rounds of the ground floor. At the entrance to the kitchens, a row of men six across parted to allow them through. King Dick stepped forward, indicating the store cupboard into which they had squeezed Haywood and his mattress.
Magrath crouched in the entrance.
‘Morning, Mr Haywood.’
Magrath lowered the blanket. Haywood stared at him; the last traces of his beating were still visible around his temples and ears, but a fresh series of cuts had appeared on his nose and forehead. Magrath glanced back at the King. ‘What in God’s name happened here?’ he asked, his anger and astonishment whispered and piercing.
The King beckoned him over. ‘I am told he was fightin’ to get out – had enough of goin’ nowhere. So we had to politely insist.’
‘By hitting him? A man who only just survived an attempt on his life? Are you mad?’ Magrath was breathless with indignation.
‘He was almost outta the buildin’. It was the only way to stop him. We’ve doubled the guard now.’
When Magrath returned to his patient, Elizabeth was already dressing his new wounds.
‘Well, you can come every time, ma’am,’ drawled Haywood. ‘That surgeon is so rough and ugly.’
‘Hush now,’ she said. ‘Any more cuts and bruises and you won’t be such an oil painting yourself.’ Haywood winced as the astringent did its work. ‘Do you understand why you can’t leave?’
Haywood shrugged. ‘I guess.’
‘You being here has to stay secret. The man, or men, who killed Ned Penny think you’re in Plymouth. If they know you’re here, they’ll kill you, too. Do you understand?’
‘I guess.’
‘And do you remember anything more about the attack? About who killed Ned?’
Haywood closed his eyes. ‘I’ve tried to remember, I really have, ma’am. But all I see is shadows. A few lights, a few flames. But the rest is shadows.’
Habs appeared over Elizabeth’s shoulder. ‘Are there men in the shadows, John?’
A pause. ‘Yes, I think there are,’ he said quietly.
‘What else, John?’ said Habs, a twist of excitement in his voice. ‘Can you see anythin’ else? How many shadows?’
Another, longer pause. ‘Maybe three. I don’t rightly know, to be truthful.’
Magrath left a supply of dressings and more ointment. ‘Take more care, Mr Haywood,’ he said, ‘and keep yourself out of sight.’ He turned to King Dick. ‘There is a date for the play, I hear?’
The King nodded. ‘Fixed by the Agent for when he returns. April sixth.’
‘He wants it to be quite something,’ said Magrath. ‘Bring the prison together. Invite men from the other blocks, and so on.’
The King looked intently at Magrath, then at Elizabeth. He pushed the bearskin high on his head. ‘I don’t hate your husband the way some men in here do, Mrs Shortland,’ he said. ‘I want you to know that. We talk sometimes. But, and no offence, Mrs Shortland, sometimes, he got shit for brains. First, we always sell tickets to the plays. Anyone can come. Your husband, he should know that. But second, we ain’t gonna do that this time. This play requires two warrin’ families, so we got that quite easy – some men from Seven, friends of Mr Hill here – are playin’ the parts of the Capulets. But we ain’t invitin’ the other blocks, not this time. Not with Mr Haywood here to protect.’ He glanced between Magrath and Elizabeth; both looked too stunned to reply. The King pressed on. ‘The captain wants the blocks “brought together”, he says. Does he think this is some kinda church congregation? These are the men who asked for the Negroes to be put away. And he’s the man who agreed to it.’ The King folded his arms, managing to make it look like a threatening gesture. ‘The only way we bein’ brought together is on the ships outta here.’
Elizabeth cleared her throat. ‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I will make sure my husband knows of this. And what of your Romeo and your Juliet?’
The King pointed to Joe and Habs. ‘Well, they both here – why don’t you ask ’em?’
Under scrutiny, Joe was suddenly awkward. ‘Why, yes, it’s happening just as King Dick says it is,’ he said. ‘And we have the men from Seven in the cast, too, so …’
‘And you are Juliet?’ asked Magrath. When Joe nodded, he said, ‘And the kiss?’
‘Obviously, there are some things that are intolerable,’ said Joe. ‘Not stopping our wages, not losing the market, not keeping us here when the war is over, no none of them. But Romeo kissing Juliet … well, we had to put a stop to that. Of course we did.’
Magrath nodded, smiling. He turned to Elizabeth. ‘I think this play might be rather good, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, looking between Habs and Joe. ‘I’m sure you’ll negotiate the … challenges with style.’
Just before they reached the steps, the King called after them. ‘You visitin’ all the blocks?’
‘We are,’ said Magrath. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘When you get to Seven, could you ask after a John Matthews and a Robert Drake? From Detroit. Ain’t seen ’em in a while. Tell ’em to watch out for themselves. Tha’s all.’
As they were walking down the steps of Four, Elizabeth hesitated, tugging at Magrath’s arm.
‘What was that?’ she asked. ‘Who were those men he was asking after?’
‘John Matthews and Robert Drake. Maybe they killed Ned Penny,’ said Magrath, climbing the steps to Five. ‘I heard from the guard that Thomas had had a tip-off about the murder. That he’d sent some men to investigate but nothing had happened.’
Enthusiastic singing was coming from deep within the block.
‘You know, King Dick is certainly right about one thing, George,’ said Elizabeth, peering through the doors. ‘They have to protect John Haywood. We have to persuade Thomas to accept that it wouldn’t be safe to invite the other blocks to the play.’
‘He’ll see that,’ said Magrath, ‘I’m sure of it. Now let’s get this done swiftly. They’re usually an orderly crew in Five.’
A prison representative greeted them with a list of the sick who had asked for attention. To the accompaniment of non-stop patriotic singing, Magrath dispensed what he could, advised where he could. Everywhere, men were involved in crafts of some kind; on closer examination, it turned out to be flags and banners that were being stitched, most of them bearing slogans. An American Stars and Stripes bore the words ‘Death to King George’. Elizabeth looked on, mouth agape. Until now, she had only seen Yankee slogans. This felt like an escalation, a deliberate provocation. A strip of cloth proclaiming ‘We are slaves too’ was hung from a hammock, and a hangman’s noose had been added to a crude Union flag. She showed it to Magrath, but he’d seen enough.
‘I won’t be back until there’s a civil spirit in this place!’ he yelled at the block representative, slapping the list he’d been given back into his hand.
Still angry, he stormed towards Six, Elizabeth close behind. Tommy, the crier, ran past, nodding a greeting to them both, but they missed it. They found Block Six deserted and pulled up short. While Magrath inspected the rows of empty hammocks, Elizabeth spotted Cobb’s obscene flags strung high on a stanchion.
‘Oh my!’ she said. She mouthed the rhyme, glanced again at the crude drawings. ‘Oh my!’ she repeated.
Magrath followed her gaze then shouted his disgust. ‘Brutes! Brutes is what they are!’ He swiped his stick in the air, missing the flags by many feet. ‘If I could climb, Elizabeth …’
‘Come,’ she said. ‘Let’s not stay where we’re not wanted. Where are they all, anyway?’
A huge cheer came from the courtyard, and they hurried outside.
‘How did we miss that?’ asked Magrath, staring at a particularly anarchic ball game being played hard against the market square wall.
A man with a face full of scars sat on the steps of Seven watching the game and nursing a bloody nose. Magrath handed him a gauze and he took it gratefully.
‘Everyone playing?’ asked Magrath.
‘Pretty much,’ said the man.
‘Looks rough.’
‘Yup.’ The man noticed the Agent’s wife for the first time. He made a point of allowing his eyes to wander slowly over Elizabeth’s body, his hand slipping inside his breeches. ‘But not as rough as your Limey whore,’ he said.
In an instant, Magrath had swiped at the man with his walking stick, its steel point catching him on the ear.
The man’s howls managed what hadn’t seemed possible – it stopped the game. In seconds, they were surrounded by a crowd of angry, dusty men. Magrath brandished his stick like a sword to fend them off.
‘Stand back now!’ he cried.
Elizabeth glanced up to the military walk. Everywhere, redcoats were readying their rifles. Horace Cobb pushed his way to the front of the scrum, his face streaked with sweat.
‘Mr Magrath,’ he said, spitting dirt. ‘You may be our respected physician. You also may be screwing the Agent’s wife here. But you have attacked one of my men.’ Shouts from the walkway, keys rattled in the market square gate. ‘And that we cannot accept.’
‘You cannot accept?’ echoed Elizabeth in a fury, letting go of Magrath’s arm and pushing forwards. ‘You, sir, are a prisoner-of-war. And we are tending the sick. We have no guns, no weapons. You will allow us free passage.’
Bellowed commands from the walkway:
‘Back away!’
‘Stand down!’
‘Go back to your blocks!’
Elizabeth saw the raised rifles and froze. Some of the inmates peeled away, running low and away from the firing line. The market square gates burst open, twelve militiamen running through, guns held high in readiness. As most of the inmates scrambled away, Elizabeth felt rough hands around her mouth, felt her head pulled back by the hair and a sharp serrated object pressing into her throat. She heard a shout from just behind her right ear. Cobb.
‘Drop your weapons, you redcoat bastards! Now!’ he yelled. And then, as an aside, ‘Get Lane. And his new toy.’
Somewhere in the distance, Elizabeth heard the alarm bell being rung. She wondered what Thomas would do if he were there, and where his guard commanders might be. Magrath was pinioned by both arms, an Ally on either side of him, his stick broken in two on the ground. The militiamen had pulled up, uncertain how to continue. The rifles on the military walk had been lowered, the men unwilling to aim, however inadvertently, at the Agent’s wife.
Cobb’s mouth was against her ear, his body pressed hard against hers. Her skin prickled with fear. She could feel his words as he spat them out.
‘I’m taking you to our prison, whore,’ he growled. ‘You’re gonna be our ticket out o’ here. And maybe a bit of entertainment while we’re waitin’.’