What a terrifying sight to greet prisoners of war, I mused. I’ll bet that as they marched forward, their fear was of being buried alive with these tons and tons of rock that towered over them as their stony tomb.
I couldn’t suppress the shudder that racked my bones and I felt Caleb straighten his spine in military correctness as we confronted the structure. Girding his loins, so to speak.
“Good God,” I said, speaking quietly so as not to waken the sad, yet malevolent forces I somehow knew surrounded the place. “This is awful. I’ve seen prisons before, old prisons. This…I get the feeling they’ve wetted the mortar between the stones with tears of sorrow.”
“Don’t be fanciful, Boothenay. You’re letting your imagination run away with you,” Caleb said. “It’s just a prison, much like any other prison. A little colder, a little more desolate perhaps. Still, only a prison.”
“No, it’s not,” I retorted, knowing he was trying to convince himself. “I can feel the despair from here.” I could, too. Perhaps the magic increased my sensitivity, allowing me to see and feel outside ordinary means. I felt certain every cloud in the sky had gathered over Dartmoor, so to be sure every inhabitant lived in gloom.
At last we came to the tiny village of Princeton whose primary reason for being was to supply off-duty militiamen with their daily ration of ale. The village’s commerce derived from the two or three taverns fronting the road through town. Visitors to Dartmoor must also have utilized the village as a place to leave their transportation while they walked up the hill to the prison, for there were a great many vehicles hitched in front of the taverns.
We collected Sergeant O'Malley outside one of them, pausing the horses only long enough for him to swing up onto the seat beside me. A small, agile gnome of a man, at first I took him to be nearing middle age, certainly older than either Caleb or me. When I got to know him better, I discovered he was only twenty-four years old. His face was peppered with black specks I associated with acne until Caleb—or perhaps in this case, Ethan—informed me it was gunpowder embedded under his skin. He had the repeated firing of a flintlock with a faulty sparking mechanism to thank for that. Apparently, the condition was fairly common within the ranks.
O’Malley saluted Caleb, though without any great formality, and bowed and blushed over the hand I extended to him. He didn’t actually touch me. Caleb’s elbow in my ribs reminded me this day and age was not so egalitarian.
“This is Miss Winthrop, O'Malley. She’s going to help us spirit Mr.
Harriman away from Dartmoor prison,” he said.
“Is that a fact now?” The sergeant had a lilt of Ireland in his accent.
“Pleased to meet you, mum.” He looked at me from the corners of his eyes as if expecting me to give over to the vapors, whatever vapors are.
“Have you been inside Dartmoor this morning?” Caleb asked the sergeant. “Have you seen my cousin?”
“Aye, sor,” the little man said. Sir came out as “sore,” at least in my ears. “He’ll be waiting for you by now, I’d be expecting. Somewhat anxious, sor, somewhat anxious. Though trying not to show it. You be a good bit late, sor.”
“Yes, I know. Unavoidably delayed, I’m afraid.” Caleb shrugged off Jonathan’s anxiety. “Is everything set up from his side, sergeant?
Did he find someone he could trust to help him?”
“Mr. Harriman is a closemouthed man, captain, and angry, too. He didn’t want to confide in me, not with me wearing my red jacket. He said to tell you he’s grateful to you for trying to help. Sounds to me, sor, like he don’t think he’s going to make it out.” Sergeant O'Malley stared straight ahead toward the prison. He must’ve felt the same nuances emanating from it that I did, for he shivered once and sketched the sign of a cross over his chest.
“I hope he’s not giving up before we even get started,” I said.
“He’s got no reason to trust any of us, Boo…Belle. Not even me.
He doesn’t know me from Adam, and I expect he questions my motives. I imagine he’s afraid of a trap.”
I understood that as being exactly the way Caleb would have felt had the coin been reversed.
“A trap? From you? But you’re his cousin!”
“I also wear a red coat and take the king’s pay,” Caleb reminded me. “A state of affairs which does not sit well with Jonathan, I fear.”
“Didn’t you tell him we are operating under the auspices of the qu…his grandmother? Or doesn’t he trust her either?”
Caleb’s warning glower reminded me of Sergeant O'Malley sitting beside us, all ears, just in time to stop me from blurting out the queen’s title. I’d forgotten we were keeping her identity a secret.
Caleb shook his head. “Maybe he thinks she’s not completely reliable. As far as he is concerned, she’s just another rather ineffectual old lady, regardless of her rank. And you know? He’s right.
“I wouldn’t say as we got much in the way of support from her, would you? As equipment goes, well, this coach is quite comfortable, I suppose. However, something that draws a bit less attention might well be more appropriate. And the pistols she gave me, while looking very pretty, are no better than my own set of pistols I used while fighting in Spain.”
I listened to Caleb talk, and by the time he finished his speech, he had me in a serious state of alarm. We’d floated back and forth, he and I, one moment our memories, our actions, our words reflecting our lives as Ethan and Annabelle The next instant, we might revert to Caleb and Boothenay. I couldn’t say that either of us had been wholly one or the other. Now, apparent within the last few hours, I had the feeling Ethan had gained ascendancy over Caleb once more. The feeling came as much from his posture, his attitude, the nuances of his body language as much as from anything he said. The illness racking his body posed more than one danger to him.
Did I say his words alarmed me? Say instead they terrified me. I wanted, more than anything, for this to be over with Caleb home safe and in possession of all his appendages, not to mention his psyche.
Now I had some serious worrying to do. And I couldn’t even say anything because Ethan’s sergeant sat next to us, regarding his commanding officer with deferential eyes.
Caleb became aware of my regard. Perhaps I was staring at him too hard, trying to see if the changes I sensed in him were visible. With the uncanny knack he had of reading my every expression, he grinned crookedly at me and winked.
I know what he wanted me to think. I know he wanted me to be reassured. Damn. What I wouldn’t give to accommodate him.
Caleb stopped the carriage at the last slope in front of Dartmoor prison. High walls loomed far into the sky, their cold height shading the road from the sun.
“Both of you now,” he said. “Step lively. Into the carriage with you.
Annabelle, do you have your story prepared? Sergeant O'Malley, I want the guards to see the red of your uniform and nothing else, especially not your face, so stay back and keep to the shadows as much as you can. I want all of their attention to be on Miss Winthrop. She’ll sit out front and do the talking.”
“Sor,” replied Sergeant O'Malley. He jumped down and opened the carriage door.
“You know how to get out again without being seen?”
“Sor, I won money from the guard playing dice. He’ll let me out.”
“Ethan,” I began, intending to ask just one more question.
He interrupted me with a brusque, “Later.” Then he pulled me to him and kissed me, hard, on the lips. “For luck,” he said.
The heat of his kiss rocked me. “For luck,” I repeated, and forgetting the question climbed over the wheel by myself.
The touch of his lips was a potent reminder that there are better things to do with your time than spend it in, at, or near Dartmoor prison. Then Sergeant O'Malley slammed the door shut, closing the two of us inside. Caleb clicked his tongue at the horses, urging them in the final stage.
We reached the wide gate opening into the prison. Caleb wh
eeled the carriage through and came to a halt at the order of the guard. By then, I was engaged in a rambling monologue with Sergeant O’Malley that I hoped covered the hysterical excitement raging through my veins.
As luck would have it, we stopped right in the middle of a sunbeam.
The light bounced off the vivid scarlet of my cloak, carrying the color into all the little rods and cones of the guard’s eyes. I doubt he saw any more than a red blur as he opened the door and peered inside. What he heard was me prattling on and on. I didn’t pause in my speech as he squinted into the coach, but raised my eyebrows and kept on talking.
“…so I said to Lady Elizabeth, if this is the quality of artwork these prisoners are capable of producing, I must purchase some as gifts for my brothers. With all four of them having been in the thick of the fighting, I’m quite, quite sure they will get a tremendous kick out of owning a piece so fine, and to think it came from one of their vanquished enemy.
“I must say I am quite amazed to find persons of their talent in a prison, of all places. What if my purchases will have been made by one of the very men whom they actually helped to capture? Wouldn’t that be the strangest coincidence? What do you think, Harold? Should I get each one a precious little ship carving, or do you think Alvin, and George, and Artemis and Dartanion and Philip—(how many was that?)—would prefer a deck of cards made especially for him—them?
Oh, not the naughtiest ones, although just for fun I’m going to take a little peek at those myself. Do you think I could find so many decks with different designs? Or do you think if I buy each one the same thing the gift will be cheapened, no longer exclusive to each?”
Sergeant O'Malley shrank further in his shadow in the face of all this nonsense, while the guard’s moon face blanched in dismay. Men hate talk of shopping in any century, I guess. He backed away, no more than a quick impression of us possible before he shut the door, his eyes half closed against the sun’s glare.
I sucked air into my own starved lungs. My God! I’d nearly asphyxiated myself.
“Well done, mum,” said Sergeant O'Malley with new respect, yet seeming to choke on what might have been a laugh.
I knew he hadn’t been at ease, for I smelled rankness in his nervous sweat. Or perhaps I smelled myself for it occurred to me that the tension building in all of us must be like the mental preparation of a soldier heading into battle.
I was still swallowing convulsively, trying to rid myself of a miserably dry mouth when a guard motioned us on.
The carriage moved forward again a dozen yards and, when I looked through the window, I saw the space where Caleb had elected to park was bounded on one side by the high wall of the prison’s outer rim and on the other by a series of two or three curricles and a high perch phaeton.
Neatly boxed in, I thought, and wondered why he’d parked here.
Caleb clambered painfully from the driver’s perch, then came around to fling open the door with what I could only construe as a flourish. He let down the steps and, with my head held high, I swirled the wide skirt of my cloak out in a performance worthy of a fashion model—or perhaps a queen—condescendingly took my coachman’s hand and allowed him to help me from the elegant traveling coach.
The exhibition did not go unnoticed. Grooms from several of the adjacent carriages caught the act, as well as a gentleman mounting a saddle horse and a naval officer just climbing out of his own carriage. I raised my high-bridged nose at all of them. Caleb nudged my ribs twice, drawing my attention to a fat officer stumbling over his own feet while he stared at me.
“Oh, Lord,” I muttered to Caleb out of the side of my mouth. “I hope nobody mentions I’ve got my cloak on wrong side out. Can you tell?”
“It’s fine,” Caleb whispered in return. “No one is looking at your cloak anyway. They’re looking at you. Just sway a little when you walk, lift your skirt above your ankles—right excellent ankles they are, by the way—and keep on talking. I guarantee their interest isn’t in your attire.”
“Keep talking!” I groaned. “Easy for you to say.”
“Just repeat all you said the first time. No one will know.”
“Repeat!” How could I? I didn’t remember a thing I’d said. The sway in my walk was easier, as the extra baggage I had concealed under my cloak made the motion almost natural. We approached the gate opening into the market square before I was ready. I hefted my skirt high enough to show more than just my ankles, which I hoped someone appreciated. Caleb walked behind me; the position I had reminded him was a servant’s proper place, back when we had first appeared in this world. I had marked his limp then as we walked together through the halls to Queen Charlotte’s apartments.
The limp was ten times worse now. He didn’t know his breath hesitated with a tiny little whump every time his foot hit the ground.
But even if he had his difficulties walking, his mind hadn’t gone to sleep. Working overtime, more like.
“Here,” he murmured. “Let the navy man go ahead of you, then step in front of the army officer wearing the red uniform. I want us in a group, with you center stage. And start talking now.”
The naval officer, whom I had already recognized as an ogler with prurient interests, took control of Caleb’s talk order by starting up a mildly flirtatious conversation with me as we formed a short line in front of the gate. Caleb and I were as neatly sandwiched between the two soldiers as the hamburger and tomato in a sliced bun.
My spiel regarding gifts for my brothers came easier this time, as I’d had time to think of one or two more twists, just to add verisimilitude to the story. The trouble is, Vice-Admiral Stanton asked my family name and said he believed any family with so many sons serving in the Peninsula deserved mention in the London Times.
“I can arrange an interview, my dear. See that your brothers get the attention they deserve.” He was quite taken with the idea and seemed to think I should be grateful on the behalf of my imaginary brothers. I’m sure he didn’t understand why I was so appalled. Or why I never did put a name to my family.
“Certainly not,” I snapped at him. “How embarrassing should they discover their name in the papers. Why, one would believe them to be no more than common soldiers.” Gracious me. Then I had to cover up my brusqueness by taking up the long-winded explanation again. When his eyes went blank, I knew I’d succeeded in losing my audience. I kept right on talking.
Then, at last, the sentry passed our group into the market square and I went silent.
The disgusting stench of several thousand men, unwashed from week to week, month to month, came close to flattening me. Add the reek of open latrines and rotting garbage, and I thought slamming head on into a stone wall probably wasn’t a whole lot worse. And, as if the smell was not bad enough, the noise of those several thousand men rolled over and over and over, like endless thunder.
Good God! I thought, shocked to the core. How do people manage to live in this?
Well, they did. No one except me seemed affected, although I did notice Caleb falter just a little before he took a choking breath and regained his stride. He caught hold of my arm and led me further into the mass of humanity.
“You could’ve warned me,” I said.
“Warned you? About what?”
As if he didn’t know! By this time, I had one of Belle’s creamy white handkerchiefs with the tatted lace edge held up to my nose. I growled through the makeshift filter.
“Oh,” he said, wrinkling his own nose. “That.”
I didn’t know how Caleb planned on finding Jonathan Harriman in this noisy crowd of people, all of whom darted back and forth in a constant whirlpool of activity. When I took the plunge and put the inefficient handkerchief away, leaving my nose to manage on its own, I asked him.
“Not to worry,” he said, looking anxious himself. “He’ll find us. A-ha,” he added. “Over there.”
The object of his a-ha was a squat, little man built along the same lines as your average gorilla, who made a furtive gest
ure for us to follow him. “That’s your cousin, Jon?” I asked, aghast. “Can’t be,” I answered my own question. “You said Jon looks like you—or vice versa.”
“That’s his man,” Caleb said, drawing me with him to chase after our guide. “He’ll lead us to Jon.”
“His man? Do you mean his man as in servant? How can he have a servant when he’s in prison?”
Caleb’s limp grew more pronounced as we followed Jonathan Harriman’s man. “Maybe servant is the wrong word. Mr. Bates was taken from the same ship as Jon, and he looks to Jon, as his commanding officer, to give him his daily orders and let him know how to carry on.”
“How in the world are we going to get him out?” Inconsiderate of Caleb to say the least, springing this on me now.
“We’re not,” Caleb said. “He knows he has to stay here, and trusts Jon will try to get him out later. Mr. Bates understands.”
“My, how convenient for Jon. And what if he doesn’t, or can’t, help Mr. Bates?”
“Oh, Jonathan will try, I’m sure.” Caleb took my elbow to hurry me along when we almost lost the man from our sight. “He has a very well developed sense of noblesse oblige”
Jonathan’s man led us on a circuitous route through the market. We passed tables laden with items of artistic value, some of erotic value, and some that looked to be totally worthless. There were stalls where vendors called out the services they offered—all kinds of services from educational instruction in languages, history or the sciences, to callings where some of those erotic implements might be utilized. At last we came to a tent, or a glorified awning, with a neatly lettered sign in front advertising barber services.
Mr. Bates lead Caleb and me into this tent, then plopped himself down on an empty stool. The only other stool was occupied by a man who sat with closed eyes, a steaming hot towel wrapped around the lower part of his face while the barber cut long snippets from his hair, leaving just enough length to cover his neck. His hair was dark and curled slightly as the weight fell away.
In The Service Of The Queen (The Gunsmith Book 1) Page 22
