A Bouquet of Thorns (26 page)

‘Water,' the sick man moaned, and Dr Power raised an eyebrow. That would all be pretty easy to fake, as many an inmate would to have a few days away from his gruelling labour. Eat soap, candle-wax, even pins they would! Raymond Power took the fellow's wrist. His pulse was racing. Now that was harder to fake, unless it was from fear of discovery. But his skin was hot and dry, and a dusky flush was spreading over his cheeks. The medical officer frowned as he undid the filthy jacket and shirt, turning his head slightly at the stench. The past May week had been unseasonably warm and this chap who had been employed in physical toil on the building works had evidently not washed himself every day. The physician's frown deepened. Lice. Crawling in the folds of the uniform. He quickly pulled up one sleeve. There it was, on the back of the wrist. The mulberry, mottling rash. And there, on the borders of the armpits. Jesus Christ.

He spun round to the two warders who were leaving the long ward. ‘You idiots, it's gaol fever! Typhus. This chap must be three or four days into it. Any more like him?'

The two men exchanged glances. ‘Not that us knows of.'

‘Well, watch out for it. Or anyone else with lice. Spreads like wild fire. Saunders!' he called to one of his medical assistants. ‘Give him some water and then get him stripped and washed and have his uniform sent to the laundry. I need to see the governor.'

A few minutes later, he was in urgent consultation with the prison governor. ‘I want all uniforms and all bedding washed in chloride of lime,' he was saying in an unusually dictatorial tone, ‘and all cells lime-washed. The warders are to ensure personally that every inmate washes himself thoroughly each morning, and I want the bathhouse constantly in use. And anyone with the slightest symptoms is to be brought to me immediately for checking. And the warders had better look out for themselves, too, or they'll be taking it home to their families.'

The governor leaned back in his chair, lips pursed pensively and his fingers joined over his stomach. ‘Hmm,' he grunted under his breath. ‘Dr Power, I have nearly nine hundred men in this gaol. With the best will in the world, the laundry could take several weeks to wash all the linen and uniforms, and what are we supposed to use in the meantime? We only have a certain amount for rotation purposes, you know that. And I don't want panic setting in, or for it to become common knowledge among the inmates. Half of them would claim they had it just to get a few days off work. Before we knew it, we'd have a riot on our hands.'

Raymond Power ground his teeth in bitter frustration. ‘Rather have half of them dead, would you?'

‘It's a risk I'll have to take. We can have the devils white-lime their own cells, I suppose. It's done periodically anyway, of course, but I don't want it looking like something urgent. And you must remember these are convicted criminals, not children in a nursery.'

‘But they were all human beings. Once,' he concluded sardonically and, slamming his fist on the table, he strode out of the room.

Seth Warrington lowered himself wearily on to the edge of the plank bed and, with his elbows on his knees, sat for ten minutes with his head in his hands. He was bone-weary, every muscle screaming at him, and his head was throbbing. He had noticed that several of the men he had been working closely with had disappeared, but he hardly cared about it. It wasn't unusual. You were moved around, associations being forbidden, as if you could form them anyway with the Silent Rule. Not that he liked the look of most of his fellow inmates. Most of them seemed uncouth devils, swearing under their breath or making obscene gestures at the warders' backs whenever they could get away with it. And all their uniforms were thick with grime and sweat, his own included. Even when you were given a so-called clean one, it was still rank with other men's odours.

It had been a long, hard, back-breaking day, the sun beating down and the forage cap hot and itchy on his shorn head. Now all he wanted was to lie down and sleep, though there was the daily length of oakum waiting to be teased into shreds. Perhaps he could allow himself the luxury of a few minutes on the thin mattress, though if he were caught, he'd be punished for it. Lying down was only allowed from ‘lights out' at eight o'clock until five the next morning. Even when the literate were supposed to read for an hour in their cells, they had to sit, since they had to endure the same as those who couldn't read and write and so had to attend lessons. Usually Seth considered the hour engrossed in a book from the prison library the highlight of his day, but this evening he hadn't the energy even for that. And first there was the oakum.

He forced himself, his back aching mercilessly and his fingers bleeding as he pulled apart the tar-hardened fibres. It wasn't often that he cried, but silent tears strolled down his gaunt cheeks, blurring his vision as he worked. He simply couldn't stop them. He felt wretched and a coward, but his misery was so overwhelming that evening that he was helpless against it.

He paused in his work to scratch at his neck. He could feel a small, sore, itchy lump. He had noticed it the previous evening, but you hardly worried about such little things. How to drag yourself through the day or night, the next hour, was more important. For some inexplicable reason, he hadn't slept much the last couple of nights, despite his exhaustion. He had been too restless, and this persistent headache had been unbearable. During the day, he had been so hot and thirsty, drinking water whenever possible, even though it came from the open leat and would probably end in a griping bout of diarrhoea. He was gasping again now, his mouth like sandpaper, but he wouldn't get a drink until the lukewarm cocoa and dry bread of supper came round later on. And he suddenly yearned for a piping hot cup of tea as, amazingly, he began to shiver.

He stopped again, biting so hard on his lip that he drew blood in his attempt to stem his tears. He wiped the back of his hand across his running nose since there was no such thing as a handkerchief in Her Majesty's hotel. And as he did so, something tiny and moving caught his eye. Something crawling in the stale, malodorous blanket on his bed. He looked again, bending down close. And stared in horrified fascination at the scattered platoon of wriggling, creeping lice.

He sprang up, tearing at his uniform like someone deranged. He stripped off, throwing each putrid, infested garment on the floor. Sweet Jesus Christ, he hadn't noticed! Every morning he had always washed himself thoroughly in the bucket of cold water, even all through the winter when he'd had to break the ice on the top. To stop just this. Exactly what they had fought against in the army. Tyhpus!

Half naked, he sat down again on the bed, his hands over his mouth. Then he leapt up again. The bed was contaminated as well. He had done his best to keep clean, but he had lost the battle. He had been working in close quarters with other uncaring devils, and the lice had simply walked across from one uniform to the next.

His hand went to scratch at his neck again, and he stopped. Dear God. He'd been bitten and it was infected. No wonder he felt so rough. He threw back his head and laughed hysterically. After all he'd been through, the way he had tried to keep his spirits up since Captain Bradley's visit – not that he'd heard anything in the six or seven months since – was he to die from gaol fever now? It invariably went to the chest, and with his weakened lungs . . . Ironic, wasn't it? Oh, well, he thought, at least it would put an end to his misery.

He waited for the supper to come.

‘I want to see Dr Power,' he begged. ‘I feel really unwell. It's gaol fever.'

‘Oh, yes? Pull the other one, you shyster!'

Raymond Power put his hands up to his head and literally pulled at his hair. They were going down like flies. Prostrate bodies lay all over the floor, writhing in delirium or deathly still. You could hardly step between them. Nearly thirty had died already. The doctor hadn't slept for nights on end himself. And now they were hauling in another one, tall, already thin as a rake. What chance did they stand, poor sods?

God Almighty, it was Collingwood. The one prisoner he had ever felt a true affinity with. And the one Rose Chadwick had some feelings for. He simply mustn't let the bugger die. For her sake.

He was already delirious, his skin searingly hot to touch, and when the physician pulled off his shirt, the rash was already covering his torso. A large, painful-looking lump had erupted on his neck – site of the original bite, no doubt – and there were sores on his mouth.

Dr Power at once tried to get some water down him, but the poor devil was confused and tried to push him away. But he must drink. And he must get mustard poultices on the inmate's chest before his lungs were attacked.

‘Rose. Rose,' the prisoner muttered incoherently, and the doctor's hands balled into fists of frustration.

‘Molly, what are you doing here?' Rose cried in surprise. ‘And you've walked all this way carrying Henrietta! Well, I'm delighted to see you, but you must be exhausted. Here, let me take her.'

‘Oh, thanks, Rose. My arms are killing me.'

Rose took the child from Molly's arms and Henrietta gave a gummy smile to the young woman she now recognized. But as she did so, Rose caught the anguished look on Molly's face and the blood left her head, sending the room spinning before her dimmed eyes. Her heart missed a beat, jerking in excruciating pain. She watched as Molly pulled a crumpled envelope from her pocket, a telegraph message, and Rose's eyes remained fixed on it, though she shook her head in denial.

‘The maid said as your husband's out,' Molly whispered urgently.

Rose gulped and nodded, her throat knotted into silence and her gaze still riveted on the envelope. Molly held it out to her, but her muscles were locked in some strange paralysis. Oh, God. Dear God . . .

‘I can't,' her lips mouthed, and her eyes glittered with fear.

‘But, if 'twere bad news, Captain Bradley wouldn't have sent a telegram,' Molly reasoned. ‘Surely he'd have waited. To see you in person. Or at least to have written to you.'

Rose took it then, and it rustled in her shaking fingers. Was Molly right? Would Adam have foreseen her dread? There was only one way to find out, and her heart thudded for several cruel, agonizing seconds.

The first few words gave her the answer. Molly watched as she cried out, crunching the paper in her hands, her head bowed as a tearing intake of breath broke into a wailing sob. Oh, no. Oh, poor, poor Rose. Molly sucked in her lips as her friend moaned and wept, and with such compassion, she prised the paper from her hands.

She began to read, and then read it again, distrusting her own skills of literacy.

‘Rose!' she gasped, disbelieving.

‘I know.' The tiny squeal uttered from Rose's mouth as she lifted her tear-ravaged face. ‘Oh, Molly! He's . . . he's free! But he's so dreadfully ill. Oh, Moll, I can't bear it . . .'

O
h, why was Peter Tavy so far? Rose groaned in her head. She had ached to see Seth the day after Molly had brought her Adam's telegram, but when she had announced to Charles her intention of riding into Tavistock to do some shopping, he had told her curtly not to be so ridiculous as it was pelting with rain, and the sky promised it would do so all day. Reluctantly, Rose had agreed, for her heart had struggled and strained all night, but Charles's suspicions must not be aroused. She had foamed with frustration all day, and Charles had observed aloud that she seemed on edge. She had replied it was merely because the weather had turned after two weeks of warm sunshine and she was longing to be outside again.

Yes, it was well into spring, Charles had agreed. His own sap was rising and, to prove it, he took her twice that night. She wanted to lash out, but what good would it do? She mustn't anger him. And she supposed she should give him another child. But, pray God, not yet. She simply couldn't rest, couldn't think of anything else, until Seth was well again. But in his telegram Adam had warned her that he was desperately ill with gaol fever and she knew how serious that was. Though she knew if anyone could nurse him back to health, it was Elizabeth.

The next day dawned fresh and clear, and she was away early, champing at the bit and leaving an almost drooling Charles announcing that he had enjoyed the previous night so much he couldn't wait for the day to be over so that he could repeat the experience. Rose cringed and shuddered. But the day was long . . .

Her heart was thundering as she entered the farmhouse kitchen at Rosebank Hall. The wondrous aroma of dried herbs mingled with the smell of fresh baking tantalized her nostrils, the healing tranquillity that naturally exuded from Elizabeth's caring compassion wreathing about her troubled spirit. Elizabeth came towards her with that calm, reassuring smile, her velvet eyes soft with understanding.

‘How . . . how is he?' Rose asked without waiting to exchange greetings, her voice choking in her constricted throat.

‘You'd better sit down, my dear,' Elizabeth answered gently.

Rose's knees were buckling beneath her and she reached automatically to pull out a chair from the table and dropped into it. Oh, dear God, surely after everything, Beth wasn't about to tell her that it had been too late? That all Adam's efforts had been in vain? Oh, no. She couldn't . . .

‘As soon as Adam procured the pardon, he came straight down here by train the same day,' Elizabeth explained, speaking in that steady and serene way Rose had come to know and trust. ‘He arrived here late at night, too late to go to the prison, but he and Richard went there first thing the next morning. 'Twas then they discovered there'd been an outbreak of fever, and Seth was in the infirmary. But the medical officer there, Dr Power, who I believe you know, said his temperature had dropped and he was just able to travel.'

Rose's heart soared on a crest of hope. ‘He's all right, then?' she cried, leaping to her feet.