overlooked a yard enclosed by a wall. The building’s barred windows were deeply recessed and well above the height of a man. They accentuated rather than relieved the monolithic blankness of the façade.
‘This place is for prisoners of war,’ he murmured in my ear. ‘Marryot’s man shouldn’t be here at all, but the Provost is full.’
We stood aside to allow a file of soldiers to march down the road to the high wooden gates, which were guarded by two sentries. One leaf of the gates opened at the sentry’s double- knock and the file passed through to a yard. We followed them in.
Once inside, the sergeant of the guard told us to wait in the hall. Townley chafed at the delay.
‘At least it is cool and pleasant in here,’ I said.
‘The walls are immensely thick, sir. And there are few windows, as you see. The place was built to store sugar in good condition and safe from thieves. But it keeps people in as well as it keeps people out.’
A door at the back of the hall opened and Mr Noak came through.
Townley stared at him. ‘What? You? Here already?’
Noak bobbed his head to us, more like a bird pecking at a worm than a mark of respect. ‘Yes, sir. I made myself known to Major Marryot and showed him your letter. If you would care to step this way.’
As soon as we left the hall, the atmosphere changed. Sights and smells assaulted the senses. But I was first aware of the noise: a chaotic concerto of voices, groans, cries, and restless movements, all of them bouncing off the high, barrel-vaulted ceiling and setting off rolling echoes.
On the other side of the door to the hall was a table at which three soldiers were playing cards, apparently oblivious of what was going on around them. They glanced up incuriously and nodded us through.
Noak led us down a long, stone-flagged corridor lined with doors on either side. Along the centre of the passage was a drainage gulley apparently used as a sewer. Both Townley and I covered our noses with handkerchiefs.
A barred opening was set high in each door, and each opening framed a man’s face; his hands clung to the bars; and behind him was a multitude of other faces, packed together in one heaving, shouting, stinking mass of humanity.
‘For the love of Christ, your honours,’ a man called to us, ‘for the love of Christ, I can’t stop the bleeding.’
We walked faster and faster to a door at the far end. A guard let us into a lobby at the foot of a flight of stairs.
‘Dear God,’ I said. ‘It’s a perfect Bedlam in there. Worse than Bedlam – a foretaste of hell itself.’
‘They have only themselves to thank, sir,’ Townley said. ‘If they take up arms against their lawful government, they must expect to pay the price. The problem is that we have so many rebels to cope with. We are obliged to pack them in the best we can, wherever we find room.’
We mounted the stairs first to an anteroom guarded by a sentry and then to an inner apartment. A narrow window looked out across a neatly tended churchyard at the blackened ruins of Trinity Church.
Marryot was sitting at a long oak table, his lame leg resting on a footstool. He was leafing through a pile of papers. ‘Good morning, sirs,’ he said, looking up. ‘Pray sit down, now you are come at last. I was about to start without you.’ He nodded to Noak. ‘Tell the man outside to pass the word for the prisoner.’
We took chairs on either side of the Major. When he returned, Noak sat at the end nearer the window, with pen, ink and paper set out before him.
‘How fortunate that an informer came forward, sir,’ Townley said.
‘Fortunate?’ Marryot sniffed. ‘Fortune has nothing to do with it, sir. The army pays for its information. There are always men in want of gold.’
‘Can you be sure that the information is accurate, sir?’ I asked.
‘Little is certain in this world, sir, but the fellow we have in custody is certainly a rogue.’
We heard the stamp of marching feet outside. There
‘This place is for prisoners of war,’ he murmured in my ear. ‘Marryot’s man shouldn’t be here at all, but the Provost is full.’
We stood aside to allow a file of soldiers to march down the road to the high wooden gates, which were guarded by two sentries. One leaf of the gates opened at the sentry’s double- knock and the file passed through to a yard. We followed them in.
Once inside, the sergeant of the guard told us to wait in the hall. Townley chafed at the delay.
‘At least it is cool and pleasant in here,’ I said.
‘The walls are immensely thick, sir. And there are few windows, as you see. The place was built to store sugar in good condition and safe from thieves. But it keeps people in as well as it keeps people out.’
A door at the back of the hall opened and Mr Noak came through.
Townley stared at him. ‘What? You? Here already?’
Noak bobbed his head to us, more like a bird pecking at a worm than a mark of respect. ‘Yes, sir. I made myself known to Major Marryot and showed him your letter. If you would care to step this way.’
As soon as we left the hall, the atmosphere changed. Sights and smells assaulted the senses. But I was first aware of the noise: a chaotic concerto of voices, groans, cries, and restless movements, all of them bouncing off the high, barrel-vaulted ceiling and setting off rolling echoes.
On the other side of the door to the hall was a table at which three soldiers were playing cards, apparently oblivious of what was going on around them. They glanced up incuriously and nodded us through.
Noak led us down a long, stone-flagged corridor lined with doors on either side. Along the centre of the passage was a drainage gulley apparently used as a sewer. Both Townley and I covered our noses with handkerchiefs.
A barred opening was set high in each door, and each opening framed a man’s face; his hands clung to the bars; and behind him was a multitude of other faces, packed together in one heaving, shouting, stinking mass of humanity.
‘For the love of Christ, your honours,’ a man called to us, ‘for the love of Christ, I can’t stop the bleeding.’
We walked faster and faster to a door at the far end. A guard let us into a lobby at the foot of a flight of stairs.
‘Dear God,’ I said. ‘It’s a perfect Bedlam in there. Worse than Bedlam – a foretaste of hell itself.’
‘They have only themselves to thank, sir,’ Townley said. ‘If they take up arms against their lawful government, they must expect to pay the price. The problem is that we have so many rebels to cope with. We are obliged to pack them in the best we can, wherever we find room.’
We mounted the stairs first to an anteroom guarded by a sentry and then to an inner apartment. A narrow window looked out across a neatly tended churchyard at the blackened ruins of Trinity Church.
Marryot was sitting at a long oak table, his lame leg resting on a footstool. He was leafing through a pile of papers. ‘Good morning, sirs,’ he said, looking up. ‘Pray sit down, now you are come at last. I was about to start without you.’ He nodded to Noak. ‘Tell the man outside to pass the word for the prisoner.’
We took chairs on either side of the Major. When he returned, Noak sat at the end nearer the window, with pen, ink and paper set out before him.
‘How fortunate that an informer came forward, sir,’ Townley said.
‘Fortunate?’ Marryot sniffed. ‘Fortune has nothing to do with it, sir. The army pays for its information. There are always men in want of gold.’
‘Can you be sure that the information is accurate, sir?’ I asked.
‘Little is certain in this world, sir, but the fellow we have in custody is certainly a rogue.’
We heard the stamp of marching feet outside. There
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