Marriage of Mercy. Carla Kelly

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      Surrounded by a squad of marines, they entered the prison courtyard. ‘Don’t look at anyone. Eyes ahead,’ Mr Selway murmured, keeping a tight grip on her hand.

      She did as he said, taking shallow breaths as the stench grew the closer they came to a single prison block. Two men in plain uniforms stood at the entrance, blocking it with their muskets. As the squad advanced, one of them stepped forwards.

      ‘We’re here for Daniel Duncan of the Orontes,’ the corporal said. ‘Produce him at once.’

      One of the warders shook his head. ‘Can’t. He’s ill. You’ll have to fetch him out.’ His eyes stopped on Grace and she felt her face begin to burn. ‘Good Lord deliver us! He’s halfway back. Stall Fourteen, I think.’

      The squad of marines pressed closer to Grace and Mr Selway as they entered Block Four. Even above the odour of too many unwashed bodies, Grace could smell mould and damp. As dark as it was, the walls seemed to shine and drip. Dear God, how could anyone survive a day in this place? she thought, trying not to look at the misery around her: men lying on the rankest straw, others huddled together, one man muttering to himself and then shrieking, someone else coughing and coughing and then gasping to breathe.

      ‘We’ve passed into hell,’ she whispered to Mr Selway, who clung tighter to her hand.

      Guarded by the marines, they walked half the length of the building, which appeared to be comprised of open compartments that reminded her forcibly of the stalls in her father’s stable. Ten or more men appeared to be crammed into each stall, sitting or standing cheek by jowl.

      ‘‘Twas built for far fewer,’ the marine next to her said.

      Grace’s feet crunched over what felt like eggshells. It might have been glass; she was too terrified to look down. She walked on what she fervently hoped was nothing worse than slime and mould. The straw underfoot was slippery with it.

      ‘Here,’ the corporal said, and there was no denying the relief in his voice. ‘Daniel Duncan? Captain Duncan?’

      Grace screwed up her courage and peered into the enclosure. A man lay on the odourous straw, his head in someone’s lap. All around him were men equally ragged, some barely upright.

      ‘There he be,’ said one of the scarecrows, gesturing to the man on the filthy floor. ‘What can thee possibly do more to him that hasn’t already been done?’

      His voice was stringent and burred with an accent she was unfamiliar with. Grace looked at him and saw nothing in his expression to fear. She looked at Daniel Duncan and her heart went out to him. She came closer, the marines right with her, which forced some of the prisoners to leave the enclosure. She knelt by the still form.

      ‘Captain Duncan?’ she said. ‘Can you hear me?’

      After a long moment, the man nodded. Even that bare effort seemed to exhaust him.

      ‘Mr Selway and I are here to parole you to Quarle, the estate of the late Lord Thomson, Marquis of Quarle. Do you know that he was your father?’

      Another long pause, as her words seemed to seep into his tired brain, and then another nod. ‘I know,’ he whispered. She had to lean close to hear him. ‘I’m dying, though. Best you leave me alone to do that.’

      ‘You can’t die!’ she exclaimed and the prisoners close around her chuckled.

      ‘Like to see you stop him,’ a Yankee said. ‘It’s the only right we have left and, by God, we’re good at it.’

      ‘But we’re here to parole him,’ Grace said. ‘Mr Selway, do something!’

      Oddly, Mr Selway backed away, as though he hadn’t the stomach for such desperation. She hadn’t expected that of him, but then, he was a gentleman, and not the baker’s assistant she had become, used to throwing slops on middens.

      ‘I don’t know what I can do,’ he said.

      She shivered, then knelt in the straw. ‘Maybe we can help you,’ she said.

      Duncan shook his head. ‘Too late, miss.’ He turned his head slightly. ‘Choose another.’

      ‘But …’

      She stopped, listening to another commotion near the entrance to the prison block. The prisoners started to hiss in unison, which made her jump in terror. She looked at the enclosure entrance to see a warden carrying a cudgel. He spoke to Mr Selway, who looked at her.

      ‘I am to go with him and sign yet another infernal paper.’

      ‘Don’t leave me here!’ Grace said, her hand at her throat.

      ‘I’ll be right back, Gracie,’ Mr Selway said uncertainly. ‘You’re safe with the marines.’ He hurried after the warden. ‘I’ll bring a stretcher,’ he shouted over his shoulder, as the hissing started again.

      ‘Thee is safe with us, miss,’ said the first prisoner who had spoken to her. ‘We mean thee no harm.’ He chuckled. ‘Besides, thee has marines and we don’t.’

      She jumped again as Daniel Duncan reached out slowly to touch her arm. One of the marines moved closer, but she waved him back. ‘Please, miss,’ Duncan whispered, ‘I have an idea.’

      He looked into her eyes, then up at the marines. He did it twice, and she thought she understood. Grace stood up. ‘Would you mind giving this dying man some room?’ she asked the corporal. ‘I’d feel a great deal braver if you would guard the entrance to this enclosure. You can face out. It might be safer for all of us. I don’t trust the ones roving in the corridor.’

      ‘Nor I,’ the corporal said. He glared at the prisoners in the enclosure. ‘No trouble, mind, or you’ll be taken to the cachot and left there to rot!’

      Can there be a worse place than this? Grace thought. With an effort, she turned her attention back to the dying man. ‘Captain Duncan, what can I do?’ She knelt again, taking his hand. His bones felt as hollow as a bird’s.

      ‘Take someone in my place,’ he said again. He coughed and Grace wanted to put her hands over her ears at the harshness of the sound. ‘Now! Choose!’

      He closed his eyes in exhaustion, coughed again, took a gasping breath that went on and on, and died. His hand went slack in hers.

      Horrified, Grace sat back on her heels. She looked around her, but all the prisoners were looking at their captain, the man who must have led them well, because they were in tears. Two men—mere boys—sobbed in earnest.

      She glanced at the marines, who were facing out, concentrating on the prisoners milling in the passageway. Lord Thomson would want me to honour his son’s dying wish, she thought.

      ‘Quickly now, who should it be?’ she whispered, as one of the men rolled his captain to the side of the enclosure and shrouded him with a scrap of burlap. No one came forwards to be chosen. They were stalwart men—that she knew without knowing more. Choose, Grace, she ordered herself. Just choose.

      She knew then who it would be. He was sitting on the foul floor, leaning his head against the rough wood of the enclosure, eyes half-open. He СКАЧАТЬ