drawn to her. It made him feel a little ashamed, though there was nothing more than admiration for her in his breast, not only for her undeniable beauty, but for her vivacity, her strength of character, her soul. She had such an immense capacity for compassion, whether it be for the high moorland where she lived, animals of every description, or the men and their families who had worked for her father. The father whose death, as he had witnessed for himself, had broken the poor girlâs heart.
And now she had sent this plea for help.
He filled his lungs deeply, and slowly let them collapse again. Did she realize what she was asking? And yet he understood entirely. His own position at the prison was humbling and irresolute, his allegiances torn asunder. He was supposed to be a man of mercy, healer of the sick, and yet he had to uphold the cruel regime of the harshest punishment imaginable. The prison infirmary was full of convicts from other gaols across the country, sent there not because they were particularly heinous, but because they were suffering from consumption, and Dartmoorâs clean air helped them to recover sufficiently to be returned to serve their sentences whence they had come. There were other inmates who feigned illness to escape the back-breaking hard labour, some who even put their own lives at risk by swallowing anything to hand â such as soap, ground glass or even pins â that would incapacitate them. Dr Power had to be equal to all their tricks. And then, ironically, perfectly fit and healthy men had their constitutions decimated by the meagre starvation diet, the vicious punishments and inhumane, gruelling tasks they were put to day in, day out, enduring conditions to which no farmer would subject his animals.
Men like Seth Collingwood.
The fellow had been in his care for a few days once before. Shortly after arriving at Her Majestyâs hotel, he had apparently saved the life of Warder Cartwright as the work party returned from its racking and dangerous dayâs toil at the quarry. For his trouble, he had been assaulted by a group of maddened inmates â nothing too serious, but battered and bruised enough to require the medical officerâs attentions. Dr Power had to admit to taking an instant liking to his patient, which was something he could rarely say of his charges. Even then, Collingwood had been protesting his innocence and Dr Power had been inclined to believe his claims, but he was hardly in a position to argue with the authorities who had committed the accused to gaol.
And then, ten days ago, the physician had been appalled to discover the poor devil chained in a punishment cell, awaiting sentence from the Director of Prisons for his attempted â and almost successful â escape. He had taken some lead shot in his shoulder from one of the guardsâ Snider carbines, but the wounds were healing well. How well his broken ankle inside its plaster cast was mending would only be known when it was removed. It was the doctorâs considered opinion that the cast had been professionally applied and was not Roseâs own remarkably successful attempt, as she claimed in the letter. However, he had determined that, were he to be questioned, he would keep that view to himself, for he would inform on neither Rose nor his respected colleague, the elderly Dr Seaton. What had horrified him, though, was that the prisoner had been set to the usual punishment task of oakum picking â teasing into shreds a statutory length of old tar-saturated shipsâ rope which had since dried into razor-sharp fibres that sliced into the fingertips, rendering them excruciatingly painful. This when the prisoner was most obviously running a fever and coughing up blood, sitting in a cramped position in a cold, damp cell, with nothing but bare boards for a bed and existing on the so-called jockey diet of bread and water. Dr Power didnât even wait for the result of his immediate
And now she had sent this plea for help.
He filled his lungs deeply, and slowly let them collapse again. Did she realize what she was asking? And yet he understood entirely. His own position at the prison was humbling and irresolute, his allegiances torn asunder. He was supposed to be a man of mercy, healer of the sick, and yet he had to uphold the cruel regime of the harshest punishment imaginable. The prison infirmary was full of convicts from other gaols across the country, sent there not because they were particularly heinous, but because they were suffering from consumption, and Dartmoorâs clean air helped them to recover sufficiently to be returned to serve their sentences whence they had come. There were other inmates who feigned illness to escape the back-breaking hard labour, some who even put their own lives at risk by swallowing anything to hand â such as soap, ground glass or even pins â that would incapacitate them. Dr Power had to be equal to all their tricks. And then, ironically, perfectly fit and healthy men had their constitutions decimated by the meagre starvation diet, the vicious punishments and inhumane, gruelling tasks they were put to day in, day out, enduring conditions to which no farmer would subject his animals.
Men like Seth Collingwood.
The fellow had been in his care for a few days once before. Shortly after arriving at Her Majestyâs hotel, he had apparently saved the life of Warder Cartwright as the work party returned from its racking and dangerous dayâs toil at the quarry. For his trouble, he had been assaulted by a group of maddened inmates â nothing too serious, but battered and bruised enough to require the medical officerâs attentions. Dr Power had to admit to taking an instant liking to his patient, which was something he could rarely say of his charges. Even then, Collingwood had been protesting his innocence and Dr Power had been inclined to believe his claims, but he was hardly in a position to argue with the authorities who had committed the accused to gaol.
And then, ten days ago, the physician had been appalled to discover the poor devil chained in a punishment cell, awaiting sentence from the Director of Prisons for his attempted â and almost successful â escape. He had taken some lead shot in his shoulder from one of the guardsâ Snider carbines, but the wounds were healing well. How well his broken ankle inside its plaster cast was mending would only be known when it was removed. It was the doctorâs considered opinion that the cast had been professionally applied and was not Roseâs own remarkably successful attempt, as she claimed in the letter. However, he had determined that, were he to be questioned, he would keep that view to himself, for he would inform on neither Rose nor his respected colleague, the elderly Dr Seaton. What had horrified him, though, was that the prisoner had been set to the usual punishment task of oakum picking â teasing into shreds a statutory length of old tar-saturated shipsâ rope which had since dried into razor-sharp fibres that sliced into the fingertips, rendering them excruciatingly painful. This when the prisoner was most obviously running a fever and coughing up blood, sitting in a cramped position in a cold, damp cell, with nothing but bare boards for a bed and existing on the so-called jockey diet of bread and water. Dr Power didnât even wait for the result of his immediate
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