‘Don’t leave me here!’ Grace said, her hand at her throat.
‘I’ll be right back, Gracie,’ Mr Selway said uncertainly. ‘You’re safe with the marines.’ He hurried after the warden. ‘I’ll bring a stretcher,’ he shouted over his shoulder, as the hissing started again.
‘Thee is safe with us, miss,’ said the first prisoner who had spoken to her. ‘We mean thee no harm.’ He chuckled. ‘Besides, thee has marines and we don’t.’
She jumped again as Daniel Duncan reached out slowly to touch her arm. One of the marines moved closer, but she waved him back. ‘Please, miss,’ Duncan whispered, ‘I have an idea.’
He looked into her eyes, then up at the marines. He did it twice, and she thought she understood. Grace stood up. ‘Would you mind giving this dying man some room?’ she asked the corporal. ‘I’d feel a great deal braver if you would guard the entrance to this enclosure. You can face out. It might be safer for all of us. I don’t trust the ones roving in the corridor.’
‘Nor I,’ the corporal said. He glared at the prisoners in the enclosure. ‘No trouble, mind, or you’ll be taken to the cachot and left there to rot!’
Can there be a worse place than this? Grace thought. With an effort, she turned her attention back to the dying man. ‘Captain Duncan, what can I do?’ She knelt again, taking his hand. His bones felt as hollow as a bird’s.
‘Take someone in my place,’ he said again. He coughed and Grace wanted to put her hands over her ears at the harshness of the sound. ‘Now! Choose!’
He closed his eyes in exhaustion, coughed again, took a gasping breath that went on and on, and died. His hand went slack in hers.
Horrified, Grace sat back on her heels. She looked around her, but all the prisoners were looking at their captain, the man who must have led them well, because they were in tears. Two men—mere boys—sobbed in earnest.
She glanced at the marines, who were facing out, concentrating on the prisoners milling in the passageway. Lord Thomson would want me to honour his son’s dying wish, she thought.
‘Quickly now, who should it be?’ she whispered, as one of the men rolled his captain to the side of the enclosure and shrouded him with a scrap of burlap. No one came forwards to be chosen. They were stalwart men—that she knew without knowing more. Choose, Grace, she ordered herself. Just choose.
She knew then who it would be. He was sitting on the foul floor, leaning his head against the rough wood of the enclosure, eyes half-open. He looked as starved as the others, no healthier or sicker than his mates. What she saw in him, she could not tell, except that he was the man who would take his captain’s place.
Grace touched his arm. His eyes opened wider; they were blue as the ocean.
‘Who are you?’
‘Rob Inman,’ he said. His mates quickly moved him forwards to lie down where his captain had died.
‘I choose you, Rob Inman.’
Chapter Four
The whole business was deceptive in its ease. In less than a minute, Grace received an education in how desperation can grease the wheels. The only one who seemed to harbour any misgivings was the chosen man.
‘Don’t do this,’ he said, not opening his eyes. ‘Surely someone else is sicker.’
‘Nope. Thee is our ideal candidate,’ said the sailor who had spoken to Grace first.
He did something then that touched Grace’s heart and assured her she had nothing to fear from these rough, stinking men: he kissed Robert Inman on the forehead. ‘Thee is a sailing master fit to fight another day.’
‘No. No.’
‘Aye, lad. No argument now. We’ll see thee again in Nantucket.’ The man—he must have been a Quaker—transferred his gaze to Grace. ‘Keep him safe, miss.’
‘I will. I promise,’ she whispered.
She rocked back on her heels, ready to stand, when she heard the prisoners in the passageway hissing again. The warden with the cudgel reappeared, followed by a very concerned-looking Mr Selway and other marines carrying a stretcher.
Mr Selway sighed with relief to see her safe and looked at Rob Inman. Grace held her breath. In the gloom of the stall and his obvious eagerness to be gone, would he notice?
He didn’t. Mr Selway motioned to the stretcher bearers, who were none too gentle as they picked up the sailing master and plopped him on a stretcher marked with yellowish stains. Inman groaned and opened his eyes, reaching out for his mates, who gave him three feeble cheers and sent him on his way. Grace looked at the Quaker. ‘Thank you for doing that,’ she whispered. ‘I could not have thought so fast.’
‘Nothing to it,’ he whispered back. ‘Dartmoor sharpens the intellect.’
She had to smile at that. And England thinks to defeat these men, she told herself. Think again, Johnny Bull. ‘I wish I could help you,’ she whispered.
He indicated Rob Inman with his eyes. ‘Thee has.’
There was nothing more to say, not with Mr Selway looking at her with such a worried expression, and the prisoners starting to shift about, as though wishing her gone, and with her, their sailing master. I’m sorry we were too late to save your son, Lord Thomson, she thought, near tears. ‘Let us leave this place now, Mr Selway,’ she said.
She experienced momentary terror when the warden made them stop at Captain Shortland’s office again. ‘Can’t we just leave?’ she asked Mr Selway.
‘You have to sign the document releasing Captain Duncan,’ the solicitor said. ‘I signed when I was in here earlier.’
Anything, anything to get away, she thought, glancing at Rob Inman on the stretcher. He had shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun. She looked around quickly; everyone looked alike: thin, yellow-smocked, with hollow cheeks. She doubted the governor of the prison could tell any of them apart. Still…
She willed herself calm. ‘Mr Selway, do get… Captain Duncan in the chaise. The light is bothering his eyes.’
She held her breath. Surely no one would have any need to examine Rob Inman closely. To her relief, the solicitor indicated the post-chaise and addressed the marines. ‘Lads, help the captain into the chaise.’
Grace hurried up the stairs to the governor’s office. Handkerchief still to his nostrils, Captain Shortland stood at the window, watching the marines deposit Inman in the chaise. He returned to his desk, his lips tight together with every evidence of displeasure.
He pointed to where she should sign. ‘He’ll be nothing but trouble to you, I warrant, although he looks harmless enough now. Damned Americans.’
Grace signed her name, wondering if she would end up in a place like Dartmoor if anyone got wind of her deception. She signed more documents, the last of which the governor folded into a pouch. ‘This is the parole,’ he told her. ‘You are to keep your eyes on this man at all times. If he escapes or leaves Quarle without you, he will be shot on sight.’ The governor breathed deeply of the handkerchief. ‘One less rascal for me.’
He handed her the parole with a short laugh. ‘One less, but now we can turn our full attention to the United States. What with Boney soon to be exiled, this prison may harbour more of those damned Americans!’
Please, God, no, Grace thought, alarmed. They are already so mistreated. She opened her mouth to tell the prison governor precisely that, but closed it. He didn’t seem like someone concerned with the death of Americans.
He turned to a clerk, handing him the documents