Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

My mind raced, trying to think of some way to stop this – to stay on the right side of the wall. But I was too shocked to think straight. They were locking me in the Strong Room – where Roberts and Jack Carter died. Where they stored the dead. My knees buckled. ‘Come on, Hawkins, be a man,’ Cross said cheerfully, grabbing me before I slid to the ground. ‘I gave you a week, didn’t I?’ he murmured in my ear. ‘Might need to revise that one.’

Gilbert Hand was standing with Mack by the lamppost a few paces away. ‘Bad luck, Hawkins,’ he called, without a glimmer of fellow feeling. Mack gave me a distant nod. Neither drew any closer. I was no longer part of their world.

Only Trim came to my aid. ‘For God’s sake,’ he said, staring in horror as Chapman returned with the heavy iron skull cap and collar under his arm. ‘You can’t mean to use those on him?’

Cross began pulling me towards the Common Side wall. ‘Governor’s orders.’

Trim trailed after us. ‘Let me see to his injuries first. What’s happened to his throat? He looks half-strangled! Damn it, Cross, where’s your conscience?’

‘Can’t afford one.’ He gestured at Wills to unlock the door.

‘Trim,’ I called out. He came closer and I managed to slip my letter to Charles beneath his jacket. ‘Tell him what’s happened. I beg you, tell him-’

Cross cuffed me hard across the head. ‘No messages.’ He pushed a finger in Trim’s chest. ‘Watch yourself, barber. Do you want to be thrown in with him?’ He grabbed my shoulder and was pushing me through the door when Fleet jumped out on to the Tap Room balcony.

‘Tom! What’s this? What’s happened?’

I glared at him, hatred burning like a furnace in my chest. I would have torn him to pieces if I could.

Trim ran towards the balcony. ‘What have you done , Fleet? They’re taking him to the Strong Room!’

Fleet turned pale, stunned into silence. And then he swung over the balcony and clambered two storey to the ground, agile as a cat. ‘Wait! Mr Cross. I have money!’

Too late. Chapman shoved me through the door. I fell to my knees in the dirt. The door slammed and a key turned in the lock.

For a few moments I could hear Fleet’s voice faintly through the wall, calling my name. He might as well have been calling from another country. And then a cry went up around the Common Side, drowning out any noise from the other side of the wall. They shouted down from cracked windows and came from every corner of the yard to gather round me, eager to see what fresh meat had been thrown into the pot. Chapman and Wills drew their clubs and kept them at bay.

‘He’s back.’

‘Couldn’t keep away.’

Roars of laughter. As they pressed closer I caught the stench of rotting, unwashed bodies. I flung my arm about my mouth.

‘Ahh, do we offend you, sir? You’ll be as bad as us in a few days,’ a woman with rotting gums called out, and they all roared again. ‘Even gentlemen stink in here.’

Cross raised his club. They stepped back, mute and sullen, but I could feel the tension pulsing in the air between us.

Chapman kicked me in the ribs. ‘Get up.’

I staggered to my feet. A few of the stronger men had started to creep closer again, watching me keenly. I could feel their eyes upon my shoes, my clothes, the gold cross about my neck.

‘Oh, they like the look of you,’ Cross snorted. He spied the dagger tucked in my jacket and pulled it out, weighed it approvingly. ‘Who gave you this? Jakes?’ he asked, grunting when he saw he’d guessed correctly. He held the blade to my throat. ‘Not so brave on your own, eh?’ He pushed the tip harder and a trickle of blood slid down my skin. ‘If I were a merciful man, I’d slit your throat right here.’

‘Mr Cross…’ I began to shake, despite myself.

‘Oh, it’s Mister now, is it…?’ Cross smiled. He traced a line across my throat, playing with me. The tip of the blade caught against the cross around my neck. He hesitated, then lowered the dagger, slipping it into his belt. ‘Lock him up.’

Wills and Chapman grabbed my arms and dragged me across the yard. For a brief moment I saw Captain Anderson standing in the doorway of his ward. Our eyes met; then he stepped back into the shadows, shaking his head.

The Strong Room was a rough wooden hut squeezed in the furthest corner of the yard. As we drew closer the hot, putrid stench of the common shore caught in our throats, making us gag. The rain had turned the shit and piss into a slimy, mustard-yellow slop and sluiced it out into the yard, mixing with the rubbish and the mud. Fat flies buzzed low over the mess.

An old man lay with his back against the door of the hut, indifferent to the stink. He looked feverish, and was scratching at a livid rash running across his chest.

‘Gaol fever,’ Wills muttered.

Cross stepped back. ‘Move him out of the way.’

Wills scowled. ‘I’m not touching him. Let him do it.’

I backed away but they pushed me forward with their blades. What could I do? I couldn’t fight them and I couldn’t run. I might as well have been on the cart to the gallows for all the choice I had. I kneeled down and pulled him out of the way as best I could with my hands chained. As I settled him by the wall he grabbed my wrist. His skin was hot. ‘Am I dead?’ he whispered, voice slurred with delirium. ‘Am I dead, sir?’

I pulled myself free and staggered back. As I did so I heard a splashing sound, followed by a loud, angry squeal. Rats. The narrow gap between the hut and the Common wall was teeming with them, splashing in a pool of stagnant water, fighting and scrabbling across each other’s backs.

‘Oh, God,’ I cried. The men laughed and pushed me into the hut.

I stared about me, trembling softly. The stench was terrible. Rotten meat. Death. There were rats here too – I could hear them scuffling in the shadows. This was where Jack Carter had died. Where his body now lay, somewhere in the dark. I sank to my knees.

Cross lit a torch and entered the room, holding a cloth to his mouth. I could see the bodies now, wrapped in old sheets and piled in the far corner like pieces of kindling. The rats were swarming over them, squealing and biting, tearing the cloth. Tearing and shredding.

Oh, please God, no.

‘Chain him up, Chapman,’ Cross snapped, kicking the rats away with his boot. ‘Fix him tight.’

Chapman tore off my wig and shoved the iron skull cap hard on to my head. The weight of it – twelve pounds or more – was pain enough on its own. But then he fastened the screws and the metal bit into my skull, squeezing until I was sure it would crack. I begged them to stop but they just laughed again, pushing me to the ground until my back slammed hard against the cold, dank wall.

‘You can’t do this,’ I cried. ‘You can’t leave me in here. Cross! For God’s sake, have mercy!’

They fixed the back of the cap to the wall, screwing it firmly until I was held fast and couldn’t move my head. Then they set the collar around my neck, squeezing it tight. My throat was already bruised and swollen where Acton had choked me, and the rough iron bit deep into my skin. I began to panic, fighting to breathe as Cross checked my chains, cloth still pressed to his mouth. He nodded, satisfied, and rose to leave. The other men had already fled the room.

‘Cross, please, I beg you. I will choke to death.’ I clutched desperately at his jacket, all pride gone. The collar cut deeper as I tried to lean forward. ‘Would you murder me, sir?’

He hesitated. Then he reached out and loosened the collar by a few precious breaths. I was about to thank him when he poked his fingers into my jacket and pulled out all of my coins, down to the last farthing, and the silver watch Fleet had given me. He picked up the torch and moved to the door.