Barney dressed. He drew his sock up over the heavy bandages on his left ankle; he adjusted his greatcoat so that it swung closed in front and did not reveal any of him save his shoes. Then he eased the crutches in place, closed the sea chest, looked around the cell.
Everything was in order. No one could perceive that he wore a British uniform under his coat. He always went hatless; fortunately so did many officers, even the British, and often, too, they had their hair clipped short. Men of the sea were starting a fashion which others would follow. He waited by his door.
In five minutes he heard the tread of his fellow prisoners as they marched two by two. When the group from the first barrack room had passed, his own door opened again, and he fell into step with Colonel Silas Talbot. They nodded their good mornings, and it was not until they were out in the courtyard that they finally spoke.
The yard in which they stood was made up of two courts at right angles to each other as they extended around two sides of the prison. The stone walls were ten feet high, pierced by four gates. Past those walls was another ten-foot wall, but these outer gates stood open, and were manned by two sentries. The inner gates were also manned, each by a pair of sentries, but these gates were always locked. With Talbot trailing behind, Barney hobbled along on his crutches as fast
10
as possible, around the corner, looking toward the south gate. He stopped suddenly. Thomas Browne was one of the sentries on the south gate.
Talbot almost bumped into Barney. His eyes took in the figure of the sentry, he heard around him the noise of the men released from bondage. He was standing near the wall; he leaned back against it negligently and managed to convey a warning to Barney as he said:
"I saw by the paper last night that Charles Fox had been set upon by a highwayman, and succeeded in turning the tables and capturing him. Watch your coat."
"Yes," said Barney. "That was the Morning Post of three days ago." The south gate was the only gate that was not directly opposite the gate of the outer wall; further, it was set at right angles to the main yard.
"I take it you are not an admirer of Charles Fox," Talbot continued his conversation.
"I find the arrogance of the English Whigs almost as stinking as the Tories," Barney said truthfully.
Talbot smiled. "The Post suggested it was a pity Fox couldn't be hanged instead of the highwayman. Barney, are you sure you want to go through with this?" He looked sideways and up at the face of his fellow prisoner, at the thick, rough dark hair, and he met the gaze of the dark eyes as Barney turned toward him.
"Yes," Barney said. A boy was coming toward the two men. Barney's face softened and he smiled. "Good morning, lad," he said.
At ten o'clock the fog had lifted a little and was swirling over the lawns of the country residence of Lord Edgecomb, five miles from Plymouth on the river. The head gardener touched his cap as he saw a lady come down the wide stone steps toward the waiting carriage.
"Good morning. Lady Douglass."
"Good morning, Matthew," Douglass said, as the footman aided her into the open coach. She settled her skirts, raised a hand to touch her high-piled thick hair. Her grey eyes were wide set and fringed with heavy black lashes. Her red mouth was full; her chin dimpled. She yawned a little, and leaned back, while Lady Edgecomb gave her a brief envious glance. The carriage swung smartly out of the Ion? drive.
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"Have you ever seen the prison, Douglass?" Lady Edgecomb asked.
"No," said Douglass.
"It's not far. We do this quite often," she said, "because conditions at the prison are so bad; Bertram has spoken in Parliament about it. We take food and clothes." She had been speaking absently. With more wonder she asked, "Douglass, what are you going to do? Will you really meet your brother-in-law and let him make your decision?"
In answer Douglass Harris opened her gold-topped reticule, extracted a letter and held it out. "Read it," she suggested. Her delicate brows were drawn a little as she watched Clara run her eyes over the very brief message.
Clara Edgecomb read it twice, folded it and handed it back. "The Belgian packet to Brussels in three days, then," she said. "It's like a man, though. Will you go?"
Douglass replaced the letter. She shrugged. The shrug was belied by a gleam in her eyes. "I must. Sounds like a cold-blooded flounder, doesn't he? 'Considering that it is quite impossible for me to come to England, if you wish to confer with me, I suggest you take, etc' " She stopped. "As yet he—this Joshua—has not paid me a cent from James's estate, and two years have passed." Her red mouth set and the dimple in her chin became more pronounced. "I must go to 'confer' with him. I—" She broke off again, deciding not to tell Clara she had already asked Lord Edgecomb for a loan for her passage. Clara might not approve. "Is that Mill Prison?"
Ahead was the massive stone outline of the prison.
The coachman was slowing his horses, he turned their heads toward the wide open gate; the sentries saluted. The coach came to a halt outside the south gate.
Within, Thomas Browne took the heavy keys from the ring attached to his belt and unlocked the iron gates. They swung inward, and the coach entered the yard while the other sentry walked forward and motioned the men back toward the center of the court. There were very few men here anyway, in this part. The footman jumped down and began unloading boxes. Douglass sat straight and looked into the yard.
The ground was bare, gritty. There was shouting and laughter from the men around the comer who were playing games. And just ahead of her, standing rather awkwardly, was a man on crutches.
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Douglass' grey eyes fastened on him; she was sure it was he. She leaned over the side of the carriage to speak to the guard.
"Is that—could that be—Barney?" she asked, her eyes wide.
Browne nodded importantly. "Yes, ma'am."
She could not take her eyes from him. She had seen him pictured many times; he was one of those rarities of war—an admired enemy. She recalled one picture vividly, the pistols at his waist, the smoke curling around the dark head, and the legend written underneath: "Captain Barney, le terreur des Anglais." This had been reproduced in the English newspapers, and many English women were half in love with this raider.
She leaned forward a little. The sun had come out again and made her blond head gleam. He was coming toward her now, awkwardly, on the crutches, staring at her, as though there were no one else in this prison yard with its high stone walls. A bit of dust blew. Douglass' heart beat fast. Then a voice cut through.
"That's far enough, Barney!"
A man had swung around the corner, coming from the small guard house in the center of the middle court. He gave a few brief orders to the guards, but Douglass didn't hear what he said. Barney stood only ten feet away.
His handsome face was thin; the great wide shoulders looked thin, too, even under the big coat, but the superb and arrogant assurance was undimmed. She saw that quickly as he bowed very briefly, as if they had just met, according to their own code of introducing each other. His dark eyes went over her.
Douglass leaned over the side of the carriage toward him. For her he had a magnetic quality.
Blandly he appraised her. How bold an eye! Her sdhsation raised a telltale flush in her cheeks. The coachman cracked the whip. Douglass sighed, leaned back again in the seat. The carriage turned.
It moved slowly out of the gate. She heard, above the horse's hoofs, the sound of the gate's closing with finality.