Shadow of the Hangman(5)

‘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.’