Shadow of the Hangman(6)

‘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, they 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.