Shadow of the Hangman Page 2

  Hale was about to point out that Yeomans had been equally incompetent when he remembered what happened when he last challenged the senior man. It was safer to accept the rebuke and lower his head to his chest.

  Nature had been unkind to Yeomans, giving him a face of unsurpassable ugliness with a misshapen nose competing for dominance against a pair of huge, angry green eyes, two monstrous bushy eyebrows and a long slit of a mouth from which a row of yellow teeth protruded. Even in repose he looked grotesque. When roused, as he was now, Yeomans was positively fearsome. A former blacksmith, he was a big, hulking man with powerful fists that were well known in the criminal fraternity. Hale was a solid man of medium height but he looked puny beside his companion. Both were in their forties with long, distinguished records as Principal Officers of Bow Street. They hated rivals.

  ‘The Skillen brothers live off blood money,’ said Yeomans, contemptuously.

  ‘We’ve had our share of that in the past,’ Hale reminded him.

  ‘Hold your tongue!’

  ‘It’s true, Micah.’

  ‘We have legal authority. They are floundering amateurs.’

  ‘Then why do they always show us up by harvesting our crop?’

  ‘They’ve trespassed on our land far too long,’ said Yeomans through gritted teeth. ‘It’s time to teach them a lesson, Alfred. Nobody can steal from us with impunity, least of all that pair of popinjays.’ His eyes blazed. ‘I want revenge.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘O’Gara is behind this,’ said Shortland, bitterly.

  ‘We don’t even know if he’s still in the prison, sir.’

  ‘He’s here, Lieutenant. I feel it.’

  ‘Then why have we never seen him?’

  ‘They’re hiding him somewhere. O’Gara’s been a confounded nuisance since he first arrived. He’s always trying to stir them up to mutiny and it looks as if he’s finally succeeded. We should have locked him in the Black Hole and left him to rot.’

  ‘The men did have a legitimate grievance,’ argued Reed. ‘The food contractor delivered a consignment of damaged hard tack that was almost inedible.’

  ‘That problem was solved yesterday,’ said Shortland, curtly. ‘Fresh bread was brought in. Unfortunately, it didn’t satisfy this rabble. They’re determined to cause trouble and it’s being orchestrated by Tom O’Gara.’

  ‘He’s only one of thousands of prisoners, sir, so it’s wrong to single him out. They all want the same thing. The war against the United States has ended. They’re demanding release.’

  ‘We run this prison, Lieutenant – not a mob of American sailors.’

  They were viewing the situation with increasing disquiet. Hundreds of prisoners were milling around the yard. The sense of resentment was tangible. Voices were raised, fists were bunched, and more and more prisoners joined the melee. Captain Thomas Shortland of the Royal Navy had been governor of Dartmoor for less than two years and he hated the bleak, unforgiving, isolated prison. He was determined to exert control but the strict discipline he imposed had only served to create anger and vocal resistance. It seemed now as if a full-scale riot was about to break out.

  A soldier came running breathlessly towards the governor.

  ‘They’re hacking a hole through to the barrack yard, sir!’ he yelled.

  ‘I was right,’ decided Shortland. ‘It is a plot.’ He swung round to face Reed. ‘Ring the alarm bell, Lieutenant. Rouse the whole garrison.’

  ‘There’s more to report,’ gabbled the soldier as Reed rushed off. ‘Someone has smashed a gate chain with an iron bar. Prisoners are flooding into the market square. They’re ignoring all commands.’

  ‘Then they’ll have to be taught a lesson.’

  Events moved swiftly. The alarm bell clanged and the soldiers grabbed their muskets before running out of the barrack yard. Bayonets fixed and lines formed, they faced the horde of jeering prisoners. Shortland first tried to persuade the crowd to return to their quarters but his voice went unheard in the pandemonium. He resorted instead to coercion and ordered a charge. Though hopelessly outnumbered, the soldiers surged across the yard, their gleaming bayonets driving many of the prisoners back. Those near the gate continued to taunt their guards who responded by firing a volley over their heads. Enraged by the tactic, the prisoners fought back with ferocity, throwing stones, lumps of turf and anything else they could lay their hands on.

  Battle had been joined.

  The next volley was aimed directly at the seething mass of prisoners, killing some outright and wounding many others. Retreating in panic, the men bumped into each other in a wild bid to escape. Muskets continued to fire and more victims fell to the ground. It was a massacre. The yard was soon covered with bodies and stained with blood. Eventually, the shooting stopped and the hospital surgeon was able to rush forwards to examine the wounded. There were over sixty of them, some with serious injuries. Seven prisoners were already dead. Forced and frightened back into their quarters, the rest of the men were howling in protest. The tumult was deafening and the sense of outrage was palpable.

  Horrified by what he’d seen, Lieutenant Reed sought out the governor.

  ‘There was no need to fire directly at them, sir,’ he complained.

  ‘They asked for it,’ said Shortland, unrepentantly.

  ‘We’ll have even more trouble from them now.’

  ‘They had to be reminded who was in charge, Lieutenant. We were up against an insurrection. Only force would quell it.’

  ‘We killed unarmed prisoners.’

  ‘It was done under severe provocation. This was an organised revolt. It had to be stopped in its tracks. And – God willing – there might be a bonus for us.’ Shortland smiled hopefully. ‘One of the dead men may turn out to be Tom O’Gara.’

  Henry Addington, 1st Viscount Sidmouth, studied the report with unease. As Home Secretary, he did not have direct control over prisons but, since he was responsible for public safety and was the ultimate authority on the regulation of foreigners, an account of the Dartmoor riot had been sent to him. When he finished reading the document, he summoned Bernard Grocott, one of his undersecretaries.

  ‘There’s been a mutiny at Dartmoor,’ he said.

  ‘Has it been suppressed?’

  ‘Yes it has, but with dire consequences.’ He handed the report over. ‘See for yourself. It’s dispiriting.’

  Grocott nodded then read the document with a searching eye. The elegant calligraphy yielded up a grim story and he clicked his tongue in disapproval. He was a short, fleshy man in his forties with a mask of permanent anxiety etched into his face. His eyebrows raised in consternation.

  ‘This is disturbing intelligence, my lord.’

  ‘I’d like to know more detail.’

  ‘There’s detail enough for us to form a judgement.’

  ‘That’s my concern,’ said Sidmouth. ‘Any judgement would be premature. At the moment, we only have one side of the argument. Far be it for me to take up cudgels on behalf of American prisoners of war, but they must have had cause to rebel in the way that they apparently did.’

  An image of George Washington popped up in the undersecretary’s mind.

  ‘Americans are seasoned in rebellion, as we know to our cost.’

  ‘That’s a valid point.’

  ‘I’m tempted to say that it’s in the nature of the beast.’

  ‘There’ll have to be a full investigation.’

  ‘It’s not the first trouble we’ve had in Dartmoor,’ said Grocott, putting the report back on the desk. ‘When thousands of French prisoners were held there, they were always voicing complaints even though all kinds of concessions had been granted to them. They ran their own courts, meted out punishments, were allowed to buy food from a prison market and had both a theatre and a gambling house to while away the time.’

  ‘Gambling was at the root of many of the disturbances there,’ said Sidmouth, ‘and doubtless it still is. If men bet and lose their entire food rations, t
hey are bound to become desperate. Then, of course, there’s the prevalence of disease in that Godforsaken place on the moors. The mortality rate is shameful. Prisoners have tried to escape simply to stay alive.’

  ‘That doesn’t make mutiny acceptable, my lord.’

  ‘Quite so, Grocott, quite so – but we have to allow for the fact that the men held there are under duress. French prisoners have money to soften the impact of the harsh conditions. The Americans, by and large, have none. They suffer.’

  Now in his later fifties, Sidmouth was a tall, slim, dignified man worn down by the constant pressure of affairs of state. Three years as Prime Minister had been especially burdensome, winning him few friends and a legion of detractors. Yet he was a kind, tolerant, unfailingly courteous man with greater abilities than his enemies recognised. By instinct, he was also scrupulously fair and liked to weigh the evidence regarding a particular issue before reaching a conclusion.

  ‘I’d like to know more about this business,’ he said. ‘The war with the United States is, blessedly, finally over. These men should not be fretting away their days behind prison walls. They should be sailing back home.’

  ‘The Peace of Ghent has been ratified,’ Grocott pointed out. ‘What is holding them up is the lack of transport. The sooner they are shipped out, the sooner we shall stop having alarming reports from Dartmoor.’

  ‘It’s a place of unrelieved misery.’

  His companion grimaced. ‘It was ever thus, my lord.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that the Home Office is principally the recipient of unending bad news.’ He struck a pose. ‘After a long war, Britain is in a parlous state. We have a gigantic national debt, falling revenue, a disordered currency, chronic unemployment and whole sections of our population are on the brink of rebellion. Only yesterday, for instance, we heard of more violence in factories where new machinery has been installed and secret societies are being formed with the sole purpose of undermining the government. On whom are these problems dropped? It is always us.’

  ‘You are right,’ agreed Sidmouth, sadly. ‘Almost all the troubles of the nation are dumped on us. I own that there are times when I feel that the Home Office is nothing but a glorified wastepaper basket into which every other department of government can throw its unwanted litter. We are truly beleaguered.’ He sat back wearily, then remembered something. ‘Talking of wastepaper baskets, I couldn’t help noticing that mine has not been emptied today.’

  ‘We’ve all suffered that inconvenience, my lord.’

  ‘What happened to our necessary woman?’

  ‘She appears to have been lax in her duties.’

  ‘That’s highly uncharacteristic of Horner. Someone must tax her. When one is the nation’s largest wastepaper basket,’ he went on with a rare attempt at humour, ‘one does at least expect to be emptied on a daily basis.’

  Tom O’Gara was still furious about what had happened at Dartmoor. When the soldiers had fired their first murderous volley, he’d seen defenceless comrades fall to the ground. Unlike most of the prisoners, O’Gara had not fled back to his quarters. He and his friend, Moses Dagg, had taken advantage of the confusion to climb a picket fence, find a hiding place behind the hospital and stay there until nightfall. Under cover of darkness, they’d made their way to the Military Walk – the gap between the high, concentric stone walls that encircled the prison – and bided their time until the sentries on the wooden platforms went past. They then clambered up the steps to the top of the perimeter wall. After dropping to the ground beyond, they’d run as if the hounds of hell were baying at their heels. The next couple of days were spent dodging the search parties who’d come out looking for them.

  ‘They’ll never get me back inside that place,’ vowed O’Gara.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Dagg.

  ‘It ought to be burnt to the ground – and Captain Shortland with it.’

  ‘I’d enjoy dancing round the blaze.’

  ‘So would I, Moses.’

  O’Gara was a sturdy Irish-American in his late twenties with a mop of dark hair and a fringe beard. He’d rubbed his face, arms and hands liberally with dirt so that he could be concealed in the part of the prison where the black sailors had been segregated. One of them, Moses Dagg, had been his shipmate when their vessel was captured. Both had been kept in custody in Plymouth before being transferred to Dartmoor. Conditions had been so appalling there that O’Gara acted as a spokesman for the other prisoners, voicing his demands with such insistence that he aroused the ire of the governor. Instead of winning concessions, therefore, O’Gara was promptly sent off to the Black Hole, a punishment cell made entirely of stone blocks. There was no natural light and only a tiny grille for ventilation. O’Gara was forced to sleep on the bare floor. The sparse rations were poked in through an aperture in the reinforced metal door. Though the maximum sentence was ten days in the Black Hole, the vindictive governor kept him in there for a fortnight. Instead of breaking his spirit, however, all that Captain Shortland did was to strengthen O’Gara’s will to resist.

  ‘Someone should be told the truth,’ said Dagg.

  ‘They will be.’

  ‘But who would listen to us?’

  ‘We have to make them listen, Moses.’

  ‘How do we do that?’

  ‘First of all, we have to get well clear of Devon,’ said O’Gara. ‘We’ll have to steal to eat here. The best place for food and protection is London. I’ve a cousin there who’ll take us in.’

  ‘He may take you in, Tom, but do I look like an Irishman?’

  ‘Yes – I’ll tell them you’re a lad from Killarney who caught too much sun.’

  Dagg shook with mirth and punched his friend playfully on the shoulder. Adversity had deepened the bonds between them. Dagg was a solid young man with bulging muscles and a ready grin. When O’Gara’s persistent protests had aroused the governor’s ire, he put himself in grave danger. He became Shortland’s scapegoat and was blamed for every sign of unrest. Dagg had sheltered his friend in the segregated area and thereby saved his life.

  ‘Well,’ said Dagg, chuckling, ‘if you can be a black man, then I can be an Irish leprechaun. How do we get to London, Tom?’

  ‘We’ll do what we know best.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘We’re sailors, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, we are.’

  ‘Then let’s get afloat. When we reach the coast, we’ll steal a boat and plot a course to London. Once we have a refuge, we can tell the truth about Dartmoor.’

  ‘Who will we speak to?’

  ‘Well, it won’t be the Transport Office,’ said O’Gara, vehemently. ‘They’re supposed to look after prisoners of war but they answer to the British Admiralty and we’ve seen the way they treat us.’

  ‘Yes, they put that monster, Shortland, in charge of Dartmoor.’

  ‘We’d never get fair treatment from the Royal Navy so we’ll have to go above their heads. We’ve got a tale to tell, Moses, and we must tell it loud and clear. The person who really needs to hear it is the Prime Minister himself.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After a busy morning teaching the noble art of self-defence to a couple of young blades, Gully Ackford adjourned to the room at the rear of the shooting gallery and sat down gratefully behind the desk. Within minutes there was a respectful tap on the door then it opened so that Jem Huckvale could usher a stranger into the room before slipping out again. The newcomer was a stout, pale-faced individual of middle years with an air of prosperity about him. He introduced himself as Everett Hobday.

  ‘I need your help, Mr Ackford.’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ said Ackford, noting the man’s paunch, ‘you are not exactly built for the boxing ring. It would be folly on my part to attempt to persuade you otherwise. I take it, therefore, that you seek instruction of another kind.’

  ‘I’ve come to engage the services of your detectives.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’
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  ‘I read the newspaper report of their latest success and decided that they are the men for me. I want the best and I’m prepared to pay accordingly.’

  ‘How can we be of assistance to you?’

  Hobday explained that he was leaving London the following day and was taking the servants to his country residence. The last time he did that, his town house in Mayfair had been burgled. He needed someone to look after it while he was away. His request was not unusual. Peter and Paul Skillen had acted as night watchmen before in some of the more opulent houses. The difference this time was that their payment would be unduly generous. Hobday was well spoken and plausible. As proof of his honesty, he offered an appreciable deposit.

  ‘Then I gratefully accept it, sir,’ said Ackford, taking the money. ‘Though one question – I have to confess – does remain.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Why not leave a servant at the house? It would be a much cheaper solution. A servant would know the property well, whereas my men do not.’

  ‘I tried that once before,’ said Hobday with a sigh, ‘and it ended in disaster. The servant whom I left alone to guard the house was surprised by the burglars and given the beating of his life. I could never subject an employee of mine to that fate again. This is a task for experienced men like yours. Since they were trained by you, they will be proficient in the use of arms.’

  ‘They are proficient in everything, I do assure you.’

  ‘That is the very reason which brought me here.’

  ‘How long will you be away, sir?’

  ‘Four or five days – I’ll send word of my return. Needless to say,’ he added, ‘if my home is broken into again, and if the rogues in question have a price on their heads, your detectives will be able to claim every penny of the reward.’

  ‘You speak as if you expect a burglary.’

  ‘Houses are watched carefully in Mayfair. Properties that are left empty and unprotected are fair game for thieves. What I am really paying for, you see, is peace of mind. I wish to be able to leave London without any tremors.’