The boy’s cries faded to whimpers, then silence, as the blows came down.
Slowly, without a word, people moved away from the window. Only Kitty remained, still clutching my arm, her fingers digging in with every lash as if she could feel it ripping her own skin. A tear slid down her cheek.
You must act, a voice spoke in my head. You must do something, for pity’s sake. He’s just a boy, and they’re beating him to death in front of your eyes.
He was on his knees, now, crawling through the dirt. Acton raised his boot and stamped down hard on his back.
‘Henry. Oh God, no!’ Kitty cried, bringing me to my senses. Her tiny charge – forgotten in all the confusion – had wandered out of the coffeehouse and was now toddling across the yard towards Acton and the whip, arms outstretched and giggling.
Before I could even think to stop her Kitty dropped my arm and ran after him. Mrs Bradshaw flung herself in front of the door. ‘You can’t stop it, sweetheart,’ she cried in a panic. ‘You’ll only bring trouble on yourself.’
‘He’s just a baby, Sarah,’ Kitty hissed. ‘He thinks it’s a game, don’t you see? He thinks they’re playing a game!’ She pushed her way past Mrs Bradshaw and darted outside.
A moment later I found myself chasing after her.
What possessed me? To this day, I still wonder. One moment I was standing in the coffeehouse, the next I was outside, the prison buildings spinning about me like a carousel, the blood roaring in my ears. Kitty ran out and I followed her, as if there were a chain tying us one to the other.
Some men are wise. Some men are cowards. In dangerous times, both stand back and think hard before they act. A coward would have let Kitty stand up to Acton alone and swallowed down the shame of doing nothing. A wise man would have realised that Kitty didn’t need his help – all she was trying to do was catch Henry before he witnessed a bloody, violent act no child should see.
Prison taught me many things about myself, and here was my first lesson, something I had not suspected. I could not stand back and let things happen. I had to act, no matter the consequences. Those few steps from the coffeehouse into the yard sent a pulse through my life and nothing would be the same again. I had moved out of the audience and taken my place on the stage. Or on the gallow steps. Perhaps that is a better way to put it.
Every eye in the prison was upon us.
Little Henry was only a few short steps away from Acton, who was still bringing his whip down hard on the boy as Cross watched. Kitty shouted for Henry to stop, to come back inside and play with her, but he just carried on toddling towards them, chattering to himself, his feet pattering on the cobbles.
Kitty would never reach him in time. I leapt forward and snaked my arms about her waist, dragging her away. She gave a scream and kicked at my shins, beat my arms with her fists. ‘Let me go. Let me go, damn you!’
‘Close your eyes,’ I whispered hard in her ear. ‘Don’t look.’ She slumped against me, defeated, but she didn’t turn away.
I was close enough to see Acton clearly now. This was not a man to reason with. He was beating a child to death, and yet there was no expression on his face, no malice, no pleasure, just the dogged concentration of a man doing his job.
Henry tottered closer, then stretched out his arms. I held my breath.
‘Papa!’
Acton spun round, whip raised high in his fist. For a moment I thought he would bring it down upon the little boy. But then his face transformed, brightening with pleasure. ‘Henry!’ he exclaimed. ‘Bless my soul! Where did you spring from?’ He tossed the whip to the ground and swung his son up into the air, setting him firmly on his shoulders. Henry squealed and laughed, grabbing at his father’s wig with chubby fingers.
‘That’s his son?’ I whispered.
Kitty bowed her head. ‘I didn’t want him to see,’ she whispered.
‘He’s too young to understand. He won’t remember this.’
‘I pray to God you’re right.’
I took her hand and backed away quietly towards the coffeehouse.
‘Stay where you are, sir,’ Acton barked, lifting his son from his shoulders. He glanced at his deputy. ‘Who’s this?’
Cross scowled. ‘Hawkins.’ He touched a hand to his swollen jaw. ‘The one I told you about.’
Acton pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood and sweat from his hands. He had the fleshy, pock-marked face and heavy jaw of a brothel bully, but his piercing blue eyes were sharp and clever as they looked me up and down. He swaggered closer, until I could feel his breath upon my face, hot and tangy with liquor. There were spots of blood on his shirt. ‘Hawkins.’ He spat my name out as if he didn’t like the taste of it. ‘Why did you punch my head turnkey?’
Behind us, his last victim was curled up on the ground, shuddering softly. Still alive; just. I swallowed hard. The wrong answer would kill me, I knew it. I took a deep breath. ‘Because he’s an arsehole, sir.’
Acton blinked in surprise. And then – thank God – he roared with laughter. ‘Aye, that’s the truth!’ he agreed, and laughed again.
I almost sank to my knees with relief.
‘Why did you come after my boy?’
Henry was throwing pebbles at the ground, oblivious to the drama playing out above his head. I could see his father in him now. The same square face, the same wide, full lips. ‘I thought he might hurt himself, Mr Acton.’
He grunted, pleased. ‘Henry’s always safe in the Marshalsea,’ he said, rolling down his sleeves and picking up his whip. ‘But I’m obliged to you, sir. Always happy to welcome a proper gent to my Castle.’ He grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously.
I looked at my hand in his and felt my stomach turn. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Acton gestured to the house next to the Lodge. ‘You must join me and the governess for supper tomorrow night.’
Cross started to protest, thick brows drawn in fury. Acton silenced him with one glance. He pointed at the body on the ground. ‘Lock young Carter here in the Strong Room. Chains and the collar. Tighten the screws, Mr Cross. Let’s remind our little pigeons what happens when they try to fly away.’ He looked up at the prison quarters, at all the white faces peering down upon the spectacle, and gave a low chuckle. Then he took Henry’s hand and strode towards the bar.
As soon as Acton had left, Kitty ran over to Jack Carter and cradled him in her arms. His face was swollen, his shirt shredded and drenched with blood. His ribs would be broken, I was sure of it – there was barely any flesh on him to cushion Acton’s blows. It looked bad, very bad. He raised his head weakly, eyes flickering open.
Cross pushed me aside and stood over Kitty, his shadow falling across her face. ‘Move, hussy. You heard Mr Acton, he’s for the Strong Room.’
She gripped the boy tight. ‘Just you try it, Joseph Cross,’ she snarled. ‘I’ll rip your eyes out their sockets and shove ’em up your arse.’
Cross blinked, then shot her a grudging look of respect.
Woodburn appeared from the coffeehouse, eager to help now that Acton was gone. ‘Come now, Joseph,’ he said, gently. ‘Let’s clean the lad up first, eh? Fetch the nurse, perhaps…?’
‘Thoughtful of you, sir,’ Cross sneered. ‘Will you pay her fee?’
‘I’ll tend him,’ Kitty said firmly. She was already checking her patient, fingers prodding and testing along his sunken ribcage.
Cross glanced back towards the Lodge. ‘Governor won’t like it.’
‘Governor won’t like it,’ Kitty mimicked. ‘You wouldn’t rub your own prick without asking him first, would you?’
The turnkey laughed, despite himself. ‘Oh, go on, take him if you must,’ he said with a shrug. ‘We’ll sling him in the Strong Room once he’s cleaned up.’