SPRINTING FOOTSTEPS AND a cry. A shout so unexpected Habs turned. Elizabeth Shortland flew at Joe, smacking his knife-hand high, sending the shank arcing from his hand and spinning across the macadam. One of the orderlies recovered it, swiftly placing it inside his jacket.
‘No more dying!’ she shouted. ‘Enough life has been lost today.’ She spoke fast, her eyes wild. Hair loose around her shoulders, dress drenched in blood, she knelt, grabbing Joe’s slashed wrist. ‘No more death, boys.’
‘Then I shall hang,’ said Habs, slumped, broken.
She wrapped a bandage tightly around Joe’s wrist and held it hard. Joe grimaced, but she kept the pressure as tight as she could manage.
‘No, you shall not,’ she said. Three attendants and two soldiers approached, but she waved them away. ‘Deal with the dying,’ she said to her staff, then to the guards: ‘Watch the square. Get to the gates.’
‘Begging your pardon, miss,’ said one, ‘but Captain Shortland insisted we stay with you …’
‘Did he?’ said Elizabeth, still with her eyes on Joe. ‘How very resolute and brave of him. The thing you need to know about Captain Shortland,’ she told the squirming redcoats, ‘is that he might command you, but he does not command me. And that, after this butchery, he won’t be commanding here much longer.’ She glanced around the square. ‘So. To the gates. You can protect me from there.’
Joe, head in Elizabeth’s lap, whispered, ‘He killed a man—’
‘I know what happened,’ Elizabeth cut across him. ‘Dr Magrath told me.’
‘So you know I will hang, then.’ Habs, scornful now, stared at her. ‘You save us only to condemn us.’
‘No, I don’t.’ She cut the bandage with scissors, then resumed the pressure on Joe’s arm. ‘You are not condemned.’
Habs leaned in so close their noses almost touched. ‘You think a coloured American prisoner who has killed a white man won’t swing for it? Are you mad? You think the spirit of the peace will extend to men like me?’
Elizabeth tied the bandage off. ‘Of course it won’t,’ she said.
Joe squinted in confusion. ‘So a court would condemn Habs, even though he was the one being attacked?’
‘They would, yes. Undoubtedly.’ She wiped some of the blood from Joe’s face.
‘You playin’ with us,’ said Habs, disgusted.
Elizabeth looked around her. ‘There is a game you can play, if you wish,’ she said.
‘Go away,’ said Habs, lying back on the ground, ‘but you can leave the scissors.’
She turned to Joe and, as she tied his arm in a sling, words came tumbling from her mouth.
‘Listen. I shall go and attend, briefly, the wounded up near the top of the square. There’s two men with bullets in their legs, and one bayonetting. You see them?’ Habs sat up again. ‘I will leave the gates open. Walk past the storehouses, under the alarm bell and turn right towards the physician’s house. You understand?’ She moved without pause to dress Habs’s bayoneted arm.
‘Wait—’ he said.
‘There is a moment here, Mr Snow,’ she said, ‘but it is just a moment. Mr Hill will live. His injury is bad, but I got to the wound in time, I think. This arm will heal, too. Considering what carnage has been done here …’
She called her attendants and, weaving her way around the fallen, strode to the top of the square. Habs sat, stunned. Had he understood her right? Another volley of fire from the prison yards and he was on his feet.
‘Joe, get up.’ He tugged at Joe’s good hand, then pulled hard. ‘Joe, we’re leavin’.’
‘But—’
‘Get up.’
Their exhausted, traumatized bodies resisted, but they hurried as fast as they could across the square, following her zigzagging path. Some of the injured called out, but they had no time. ‘The attendants will come for you!’ called Habs as he passed.
‘Eagle man, ho!’ replied one, the voice pained and thin, but Joe knew him in an instant.
‘Will!’ He doubled back, searching.
‘Joe, we—’
‘One second.’ Joe found Will Roche with a messy bandage around his thigh. The old man managed a half-smile, the familiar lines in his face creasing again. ‘Missed the bone, she said. Jus’ bleedin’ is all now.’ He took in Joe’s bandaged hand. ‘You, too, huh?’ Joe knew he had no time to explain. He dropped to his knees, kissing Will on the forehead. ‘Will, I … I’m sorry.’
‘Joe …’ urged Habs.
‘I have to go.’
Roche nodded his understanding. ‘Listen, I’m sorry ’bout them words we had ’bout you and your friend back there. What do I know?’
Joe found a smile for his oldest friend. ‘Bless you, Will. Stay safe, won’t you?’
‘And down with the English,’ added Roche, closing his eyes.
‘And down with the English,’ echoed Joe, clambering to his feet again.
At the top of the square, a man with blood-soaked bandages around his knee raised a hand in acknowledgement but pointed back the way they had come. ‘Your friend …’ he said.
They stopped and looked back. In the far corner, King Dick was stooping low over the bodies of Tommy Jackson and John Haywood, Alex and Jonathan – hands over their mouths – lurking just behind. Habs and Joe raised simultaneous arms in salute, and Alex alerted the King, tugging on his sleeve. King Dick wheeled round. Across the charnel house between them, Joe and Habs saw the King’s stricken face brighten with unexpected relief. He clasped his huge hands together as if in prayer, beating them against his chest. Habs pointed at the open gates. The King nodded, then raised his bearskin in salute. It was a farewell. A haunted, devastated farewell. When Joe could look no more, he bowed slightly and found Habs doing the same. The King then knelt and lifted the crier over one shoulder, the lamplighter over the other. Standing again, he staggered, and Habs noticed his bloody shirt. ‘He’s hurt …’ Steadier now, the King seemed to gather himself for one last walk. Jonathan carried the club; the bearskin, he handed to Alex. The King carried the dead away, the two boys following mournfully behind.
Now, they knew they had lost time. At the top of the square, they hesitated. The heavy wood-panelled gates were ajar, as Elizabeth Shortland had said they would be, the gap just large enough to see the alarm bell beyond and the arch it sat on.
‘The bell is dead ahead,’ said Habs. ‘Thirty yards.’
‘Habs, what are we doing?’ asked Joe, tucked in tight behind him. ‘What is this?’
‘This is probably better than my strychnine or your knife,’ said Habs, and sprinted for the alarm bell. Joe followed and, under its arch, they paused again, eyes everywhere, the crushing tiredness of the day forgotten.
‘One soldier now and we’re dead,’ said Joe.
‘Jus’ like the rest o’ the prison, then,’ said Habs. ‘She said to turn right.’
They looked across the gravelled courtyard. The Parcere subjectis arch, gates firmly bolted, was ahead of them; the Agent’s house to the left, lights ablaze; Magrath’s to the right, in darkness. Two plain slate buildings faced the physician’s house, and from one of them came raised voices. Joe held tightly to Habs’s arm.
‘It’s her! She’s shouting at someone,’ he said.
‘She’s keepin’ ’em busy,’ whispered Habs. ‘Look, the courtyard is empty. If they’re not out here killin’ Americans, they’re in there bein’ shouted at by Mrs Shortland. She’s quite somethin’ …’
Magrath’s house had five first-floor windows and four on the ground, all with curtains drawn. A small porch marked a back door.
‘Do we jus’ let ourselves in?’ Habs’s heart was thumping in his ribs. There was a sudden quiet – the haranguing had stopped. ‘Too late.’
The slate house door opened, and five workmen trudged out. They walked in a diagonal towards the Agent’s house. In fifty yards, they would be in Joe and Habs’s eyeline; another eighty, and they would be inside.
‘Soon as they shut that door, we go,’ muttered Joe.
The first of the workmen came into view, a cook maybe, then two in heavy aprons, a man in a dark suit and, heart-stoppingly, a soldier, his musket held in front of him. Joe and Habs barely breathed. They prayed. They listened.
‘I reckon her ’ead’s been turned by all that shooting,’ said a voice.
‘She sounded bloody terrified, if you ask me,’ said another.
‘Don’t see why she takes it out on us, though.’
Joe had a sudden recollection of his words to Roche, many months ago: ‘That’s Devonshire talk, that is.’
The first workman pulled the Agent’s back door open, and the yard brightened.
‘Ready?’ whispered Habs.
‘Ready,’ confirmed Joe.
Four of the men were inside. Joe and Habs readied themselves for the final sprint. The Agent’s door closed. The yard darkened.
‘Shit.’
The soldier had become a sentry. He stood with his back to the door, staring out into the gloom, the silhouette of his readied musket clear to all.
‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’
A voice from across the courtyard, from the steps of the slate house. Elizabeth Shortland: imperious, commanding, brooking no argument. ‘At ease, Soldier. No need for a sentry, I’m sure. Thank you, we’ll be fine now.’
Joe and Habs saw the soldier glance around, adjust the angle of his gun. ‘With respect, ma’am—’ he called back.
‘With respect,’ Elizabeth bellowed, ‘you’ll go inside, lock the doors and protect the Agent’s affairs. Now!’
The soldier shrugged, disappeared inside.
Joe reached the door handle first and the door flew open. They both tumbled inside, Habs kicking the door shut behind them.
Crouched low on the physician’s floor, they froze, keening for sounds from the courtyard. Joe and Habs were still hunkered down when Elizabeth entered. She clicked the door shut, turned the lock and lit the nearest lamp. ‘Quick, up,’ she said.
Joe and Habs scrambled to their feet.
‘We have only seconds,’ she said. ‘Where will you go? Your grandmother’s?’
Joe, dumbfounded, spluttered, trying to find a reply. He didn’t know what to say, hadn’t thought that far. She was already moving them to the front of the house.
‘Put as many miles between you and this place as you can. After today, they might not notice you’re missing for a while. Here, take these.’ She threw two of Magrath’s coats at them; hats, too. ‘Wait,’ she said, disappearing briefly, before returning with bread, cheeses and some coins. ‘In your pockets. And you’ll need bandages to dress your wounds.’ She handed him a roll from her bag.
They were in the hall now, the huge front door at their backs.
‘The other side of this door is Dartmoor. It is a hateful, godforsaken place, as you well know, but it’s better than being hunted like rats in here. Today was a scandal, a disgrace. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have thought my countrymen capable of such barbarism. I am only sorry so many of your comrades have suffered. Go now.’ She moved to open the door, but Joe put up his hand.
‘Wait one second. Do you know how many have died? If we’re leaving, then we should know at least what happened to our friends.’
‘But I cannot tell you,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I only saw the square, I never went beyond. Mr Haywood and Mr Jackson, you know about; others have passed also. Mainly, I tended the wounded …’ She broke off.
‘Why are you doin’ all this?’ asked Habs. ‘We’re grateful, o’ course, but why you helpin’ us?’
‘I tolerated it for too long, Mr Snow.’ She pointed right, to her house. ‘I tolerated him for too long. I know it’s just a gesture – what good is helping two prisoners when there are seven thousand desperate for home? But.’ She smiled now. ‘But when I took your knife away, all this, it seemed obvious to me.’ She tucked some of Joe’s loose hair behind his ear, then wiped some blood from Habs’s face with her thumb. ‘And I saw your show. I will never forget it.’
There was a moment of silence between the three prisoners.
‘And besides, in the morning, I’ll be gone, too. Let me deal with the guards at the front. Give me thirty seconds. God speed.’
She unbolted Magrath’s door and slipped away without another glance. The smell of the moor rolled into the hall, moist, peaty and sweet with gorse. Both men inhaled deeply.
‘I declare my head is spinnin’ and my arm is throbbin’,’ whispered Habs.
‘Mine, too,’ said Joe. ‘I can’t quite believe any of it. What if they see us run?’
‘I think you know what happens.’
They listened to Mrs Shortland’s footsteps: steady, confident.
‘Here’s to the men of Four and all the good men of Dartmoor,’ whispered Joe. ‘The crews of the Eagle and the Bentham. To Sam. All our cast. I wish we could all go.’
‘Amen to that. And long live the King.’
They heard the guards salute the Agent’s wife.
‘So where’ll we go?’ asked Habs. ‘Now we’re all dressed like gentlemen? London? Dublin? They can’t be far.’
‘Sure,’ said Joe. ‘They’re just over the moor. We could be there before sunrise.’ He moved closer to the door.
‘And Suffolk’s close too, right?’
‘Yes. And you’ll blend in just fine.’
‘So there’s more coloured men like me there?’
‘Everywhere you look.’
‘Thought as much.’
They could hear the gate guards talking now.
‘Ready?’ said Habs.
‘Ready,’ said Joe.
Elizabeth’s voice, as fast and loud as a force nine, came at them hard, and they slipped from the house, on to the moor.