Demelza (24 page)

The gaol was on the hill within the grounds of the old ruined Norman castle, and they made their way towards it through a narrow tangle of streets and across a rising path between laurels and bramble until they came to the outer wall of what once had been the castle keep. A padlocked iron gateway led through an arch, but no one answered their knocking or shouting. A thrush twittered on a stunted tree and far overhead in the evening a lark sang.

Dwight was admiring the view. On this high ground you could see the moors stretching away on all sides, north towards the sea, which gleamed like a bared knife in the setting sun, and east and south across the Tamar into Devon and the wild purples of Dartmoor. No wonder the Conqueror had chosen the place to build his castle to dominate all the approaches from the west. Robert, his half brother, had lived here and gazed out over all this foreign territory, which had now come to him and must be settled and pacified.

Dwight said: 'There's a cowherd by that fallen fence. I'll ask him.'

While Ross made the gate echo, Dwight went across and spoke to a dark-faced man in the canvas hat and smock of a farm labourer. He was soon back.

'At first I could make no sense of him. They speak quite different in these parts. He says everyone in the prison is ill of fever. It lies over there on the green, just to the right of our gate. He does not think we shall get in tonight.'

Ross stared through the bars. 'And the gaoler?'

'Lives distant. I have his address. Behind Southgate Street.'

Ross frowned up at the wall. 'This could be climbed, Dwight. The spikes are rusty and would pull out of the wall.'

'Yes, but we could do no good if the gaol itself were locked.'

'Well, there's no time to waste, for it will be dark in an hour.'

They turned and went down the hill again.

It took them time to find where the gaoler lived and minutes hammering on the door of the cottage before it came open a few inches and a ragged, spotty, bearded man blinked out. His anger wavered a little when he saw the dress of his visitors.

'You are the gaoler of the prison?' Ross said.

'Iss.'

'Have you a man in your custody named Carter, new moved from Bodmin?'

The gaoler blinked. 'Mebbe.'

'We wish to see Carter at once.'

'It bain't time for visiting.'

Ross put his foot quickly in the jamb of the door. 'Get your keys or I'll have you dismissed for neglecting your duty.'

'Nay,' said the gaoler. 'It be sundown now. There's the fever abroad. It bain't safe to go near…'

Ross had thrust open the door again with his shoulder. A strong smell of cheap spirits was in the air. Dwight followed into the room. An ancient woman, misshapen and tattered, crouched over the hearth.

'The keys,' said Ross. 'Come with us or we'll go ourselves.'

The gaoler wiped his arm across his nose. 'Where's your authority? Ye must have authority…'

Ross took him by the collar. 'We have authority. Get the keys.'

In about ten minutes a procession started through the cobbled alleys towards the summit of the hill, the ragged gaoler in the lead carrying four great keys on a ring. Faces watched them go.

As they climbed above the town the sunset flared and the sun dipped and was gone.

The cowherd had driven in his cows and the ruin looked shadowy and silent. They reached the iron gate and passed through it under the stone arch, the gaoler leading the way with slowing steps towards a moderate-sized square building in the centre of the green.

The man's lagging footsteps came to a stop. 'It be overlate to enter in. Ye maun show me the authority. There's fever in plenty. Yesterday one of 'em died. I'm not sure which twas. My mate…'

'How long since you were here yourself?'

'Nay, but the day before. I would ha' been over today, but for me mother an' 'er bein' ill. I sent over the food. Ye maun show yer authority…'

There was a sudden burst of cries, growing in tone and number, animal not human, barks and moans and grunts, not words. The prisoners had heard them.

'There,' said the gaoler, as Ross drew back. 'Ye see. Twould be unfit fur self-respectin' gents to go nearer. There be fever…'

But Ross had moved back to look for a window and now saw one set high in the wall on his right. The building was two-storied, and the window was to provide some light and ventilation for the dungeons on the ground floor. It was not three feet long and less than eighteen inches high, being set with thick bars. The cries and shouts came from here but echoed hollow, and it was clear that the window was out of reach of the inmates.

'Open the door, man,' Ross said. 'Here, give me the keys!'

'Not that way!' said the gaoler. 'It ain't been opened that way since they was put in. Come you up to the chapel above and I'll open the trap door where the food d'go down. Tes a danger for fever, even that, I tell ee. If ye've a mind…'

Dwight said: 'It will be dark in ten minutes. We have no time to lose if we wish to see him today.'

'See here,' said Ross to the gaoler. 'This gentleman is a surgeon and wishes to see Carter at once. Open this door or I'll crack your head and do it myself.'

The gaoler cringed. 'It be as much as me job's worth, damme - 'Ere, I'll open of it… Mind, I take no blame, fever or no…'

The great door was unlocked and opened against their pressure, groaning on rusty hinges. Inside it was quite dark, and as they entered a terrible stench hit them. Ross was a man of his age and had travelled in rough places; Dwight was a doctor and had not neglected his duties; but this was new to them both. The gaoler went outside again and hawked and spat and hawked and spat. Ross caught him by the scruff and pulled him back.

'Is there a lantern here?'

'Iss, I reckon. Be'and the door.'

Trembling, he groped among the refuse and found the lantern. Then he scratched at his tinderbox to get a spark for the candle.

Inside the prison, after all the noise, silence had fallen. No doubt they thought more felons were to be added to their number.

As his eyes grew used to the dark, Ross saw they were in a passage. On one side the window let in the faint glimmer of the afterglow. On the other were the cells or cages. There were only three or four, and all of them small. As the tinder rag at last caught and the candle was lit, he saw that the largest of the cages was not more than three yards square. In each of them there were about a dozen convicts. All down the cages terrible faces peered between the bars.

'A pest spot,' said Dwight, walking down with his handkerchief to his nose. 'God, what an offence to human dignity! Are there sewers, man? Or any medical attention? Or even a chimney?'

'Look ee,' said the gaoler by the door, 'there's sickness an' fever. We'll all be down ourselves afore long. Let us go out an' come again tomorrow.'

'In which cell is Carter?'

'Save us, I dunno. I dunno one from t'other, s'elp me. Ye'd best find him yourself.'

Pushing the gaoler with his quavering lantern before him, Ross followed Dwight. In the last and smallest cage were a half dozen women. The cell was barely big enough for them to lie down. Filthy, emaciated, in rags, like strange devils they screeched and skirled - those of them who could stand - asking for money and bread.

Sick and horrified, Ross went back to the men. 'Quiet!' he shouted to the clamour that was growing again. Slowly it died.

'Is Jim Carter among you?' he shouted. 'Jim, are you there?'

No answer.

Then there was a rattle of chains and a voice said: 'He is here. But in no fit state to speak for himself.'

Ross went to the middle cage. 'Where?'

'Here.' The demons of the pit moved away from the bars, and the gaoler's lantern showed up two or three figures lying on the floor.

'Is he - dead?'

'No, but t'other one is. Carter is with the fever bad. And his arm…'

'Bring him to the bars.'

They did so, and Ross gazed on a man he would not have recognized. The face, wasted and with a long straggling black beard, was covered with a blotchy red rash. Every now and then Jim stirred and muttered and spoke to himself in his delirium.

'It is the petechial type,' Enys muttered. 'It looks to be past its height. How long has he been ill?'

'I don't know,' said the other convict. 'We lose count of days, as you will understand. Perhaps a week.'

'What is wrong with his arm?' Enys said sharply.

'We tried to check the fever by letting blood,' said the convict. 'Unhappily the arm has festered.'

Dwight looked at the delirious man a long moment, then stared at the speaker.

'What are you in this place for?'

'Oh,' said the other, 'I do not think my case can interest you, though at a happier meeting I might entertain you for an idle hour. When one has not the benefit of a patrimony one is sometimes forced to eke out one's livelihood by means which your profession, sir, prefers to keep in its own ranks. Natural that…'

Ross had stood up. 'Open this door.'

'What?' said the gaoler. 'What for?'

'I am taking this man away. He needs medical attention.'

'Aye, but he be servin' a sentence, an' nothing…'

'Damn you!' Ross's mounting anger had bubbled over. 'Open this door!'

The gaoler backed against the cage, looked round for a way of escape, found none, and his eyes again met those of the man confronting him. He turned quickly, fumbled with the great keys, unlocked the door in haste, stood back sweating.

'Bring him out,' said Ross.

Dwight and the gaoler went in, their feet slipping over ordure on the damp earth floor. Happily Jim was not one of those chained to another prisoner. They picked him up and carried him out of the cage and out of the prison, Ross following. On the sweet grass outside they laid him down, and the gaoler went stumbling back to lock the doors.

Dwight mopped his forehead. 'What now?'

Ross stared down at the wreck of a human being stirring in the half-dark at their feet. He took great breaths of the beautiful fresh evening air, which was blowing like the bounty of God over from the sea.

'What chance is there for him, Dwight?'

Dwight spat and spat. 'He should survive the fever. But that meddling fool in there… though he did it for the best. This arm is mortifying.'

'We must get him somewhere, under cover. He can't survive the night out here.'

'Well, they will not have him at the White Hart. As well ask them to house a leper.'

The gaoler had locked up his prison again and was standing by the door watching them with an envenomed gaze. But he was coming no nearer.

'There must be a shed somewhere, Dwight. Or a room. All men are not inhuman.'

'They tend to be where fever is concerned. It is self-preservation. Our only resort, I should say, is a stable somewhere. A little from the prison would be better, lest the gaoler makes an early report on our doings.'

'There may be a hospital in the town.'

'None that would take such a patient.'

'I'll be all right, Jinny. They won't catch me,' came in a husky voice from the figure at their feet.

Ross bent down. 'Give me a hand. We must get him somewhere, and at once.'

'Avoid his breath,' said Dwight. 'It will be deadly at this stage.'

JIM WAS LAUGHING while they undressed him. It was a peculiar cross-grained broken sound. Now and again he would begin to talk, but it was senseless stuff, now in conversation with a prisoner, now with Nick Vigus, now with Jinny.

They had found a store barn - some relic, from its architecture, of the early history of the town - and had taken possession, turning out the chickens and the bullock cart and the two mules before informing the farmer who owned it. Then a mixture of bribery and threats had withstood his anger. They had bought two blankets from him and two cups and some milk and some brandy. They had lit a fire at the end of the barn - the farmer had come back to shout about this but, being terrified of the fever, had done nothing more.

So now Dwight made his examination by the light of two candles and the smoky glimmer of the fire. Ross had taken the last of Jim's clothes and flung them outside, and he came back to find Enys gingerly touching the boy's poisoned arm. He lifted one of the candles and looked at it himself. Then he straightened up. He had seen too many cases like it in the fighting in America.

'Well?' he said.

'Well, I must take that arm off if he is to stand a chance, Ross.'

'Yes,' said Ross. 'And what chance is there then?'

'Somewhat less than an even one, I should say.'

'There is not much to commend it. He loses his arm and the poison begins again.'

'Not of necessity.'

Ross went to the door and looked out into the darkness. 'Oh, God,' he said. 'He is in too poor a shape, Dwight. Let him die in peace.'

Dwight was silent a moment, watching the delirious man. He gave him brandy and Jim swallowed it.

'He would feel little, I believe. I am not happy to let him go without a chance.'

'Have you done it before?'

'No, but it is a straightforward thing. Merely a matter of common anatomy and common precaution.'

'What precautions can you take here? And what have you here to do it with?'

'Oh, I could get something. The precautions are to prevent loss of blood or further poisoning. Well, a tourniquet is simple and... we have a fire and plenty of water.'

'And the fever?'

'Is on the wane. His pulse is slowing.'

Ross came back and stared at the emaciated bearded figure. 'He had a year or two of happiness with Jinny. They had that together before one thing after another went wrong. He never had health in the best of times. He will be a cripple now, even if he survives. Yet I suppose we must give him the chance. I would like to wring someone's neck for this.'

Dwight got up. 'Notice how our own clothes stink. We should do better to burn them after this.' He looked at Ross. 'You can help me with the operation?'

'Oh, I can help you. I am not likely to faint at blood. My queasiness is at this waste of a young life. I could vomit over that; and would quick enough if the magistrates were here who sent him to… When has it to be?'