A Bouquet of Thorns by Tania Crosse Page B

report to the governor, but had the convict removed to the infirmary at once. Fortunately, it had been less than forty-eight hours since his recapture, but had it been much longer, it may well have been a death certificate rather than a medical report he needed to complete. The governor had, of course, been furious, and the vindictive sergeant who had lied about the escapee’s state of health had been severely reprimanded, but that was it. After all, who really cared about the fate of just another convict at the isolated prison?
    And now the authorization for Collingwood’s sentence had arrived. The maximum of thirty-six lashes with the cat-o’-nine tails, not just for his escape, but also for his terrorizing of the heavily pregnant young woman. Dr Power ran his hand over his jaw. A few days previously, a flustered and red-faced Florrie Bennett had come to his door with the letter from her little mistress, which, once he had read it, he had secreted where no one could ever find it, and now he had committed it to ashes. What could he do? Collingwood – though of course he was referred to by his prison number only – had improved somewhat. At first, the doctor had feared consumption, but upon examination and with the history of pneumonia at Exeter gaol eighteen months previously, he had concluded that it was a recurrence of the same ailment, the patient’s general health having been weakened, like so many, by the harsh prison conditions. This new episode had most likely been triggered by the inactivity of lying for days and nights on end on the stable floor, which, though dry enough for animals, was damp by human standards. The painful, scourging cough and bloodstained sputum was the first stage of pleurisy before the pleural cavity filled with cushioning fluid. After ten days propped upright in bed, with an hourly hobble up and down the infirmary to help drain the lungs, together with the superior invalid diet, the felon’s constitution, which must have been generally strong, had allowed him to improve considerably. But he was nowhere near sufficiently recovered to endure the barbaric torture to which he had been sentenced.
    And yet . . .
    Dr Power dropped his head into his hands. It was a huge risk to take, but it was the only way to save Collingwood from the entire punishment. A total of three hundred and twenty-four strokes of each vicious tail clawing at the young,
innocent
flesh and horribly disfiguring him for life – well, it was unthinkable. Though a heavy leather hide was placed as protection over the vital organs, within a few lashes, the bruised and swelling welts would open and run with blood until the cat could cut through to the bone. The agony of it must be indescribable, the torment reaching to every fibre of the body. The physician shuddered. He had seen it many times, and now, Dear Sweet Jesus, he was to witness it again. He shook his head. What in the name of God was he doing in this job?
    He stood up, his eyes screwed tightly shut at what he knew he must do.
    The prisoner’s face was inscrutable as his wrists and ankles were put in chains, spreadeagling him on the flogging frame. Some offered resistance as the moment of punishment came, but this fellow waited patiently while the problem of how to secure the plaster cast was solved, as the prison surgeon would not have it removed. When he offered the felon a gag for his mouth, he refused with a shake of his head, but the doctor leant forward to hiss in his ear.
    â€˜Take it, you fool. I don’t want to have to stitch your tongue or your lip as well. For God’s sake, do as I say. Mrs Chadwick won’t want to have risked herself for nothing.’
    He drew back hastily, not wanting to arouse the suspicions of the governor and the burly, unfeeling warder who had been chosen to deliver the gruesome punishment. But he caught the flash of amazed comprehension in the convict’s eyes as he took up his