Cast No Shadows

by E.V. Thompson

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

South-West England, 1812. England is at war with America and when two hundred and fifty American prisoners-of-war arrive at Dartmoor prison, it is already overcrowded with French prisoners. Among the newcomers is Lieutenant Pilgrim Penn, an American merchant seaman, who soon falls in love with a local girl at a market held inside the prison walls. The inmates fight amongst themselves, despite their common enemy and the Americans are a particularly troublesome group. When the governor's daughter becomes romantically involved with one of them, he orders his soldiers to open fire during a minor disturbance, even though the war has ended and personal revenge is suspected as his true motivation.

Release date: February 20, 2014

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 484

Sample

Menacing grey cloud lowered over Dartmoor. It rolled down the rock-strewn slopes of the Beardown tors in a silent, diaphanous avalanche of mist. As it advanced it swallowed giant towers of balancing rocks, filled hollows excavated by long-forgotten generations of grubbing tin miners and spread a cloak of damp anonymity over the moor.

Tacy Elford was acutely aware that the mist was travelling faster than she could walk.

Accompanied by her nine-year-old sister and aided by two dogs, she drove three heavily pregnant ewes ahead of her and could travel no faster. One of the ewes was lame and found it difficult to keep up with the others at their present speed.

‘Look over there.’ Johanna, unconcerned about the advancing mist, pointed southwestwards. ‘It looks as though the prison is an island.’

Tacy looked in the direction indicated by her sister and could see what Johanna meant. The mist was spreading in an uneven pattern over the moor. From the tor behind Dartmoor prison it laid siege to the circular perimeter wall. Gaunt granite prison buildings rose from it, for all the world like grim, man-made islands, protruding from a restless grey sea of mist.

‘I’m glad I’m not in there,’ said Johanna. Her shiver was due in part to her thoughts, partly as a result of the mist, which had lowered the moorland temperature dramatically. ‘Billy said they hang most of the people who are sent to prison. Those who aren’t hung are left there to rot.’

‘You should know better than to take notice of anything Billy Yates tells you,’ retorted Tacy scornfully. ‘You start paying attention to what he says and you’ll finish up as simple as he is.’

Billy lived with his mother in a cottage on an old mine workings at Whiteworks, in a remote part of the moor. He helped the Elfords on their farm for most of the year, taking peat, farm produce and cooked foods from the farm kitchen in lieu of payment.

‘His mother’s told him all about prisons. She says he’ll likely end up inside one of ’em if he doesn’t behave himself.’

‘Tillie Yates is almost as simple as Billy,’ declared Tacy. ‘She probably said it when she was angry with him. If she had more sense she’d realise how much something like that plays on Billy’s mind. He’d have had nightmares about it. Poor Billy.’

Urging on the lame ewe, she said, ‘Anyway, Dartmoor isn’t that sort of prison. There are only French soldiers and sailors in there, not criminals. Some of them don’t speak English very well, but they’re no different to us, really. I should know, I meet them every time I go to the prison market.’

‘That doesn’t mean you know what they’re really like,’ retorted Johanna. She shivered again, but this time it was due entirely to the mist, which had now caught up with them.

‘I want to pee,’ she said suddenly.

‘We’ll be home in half an hour,’ said Tacy unsympathetically. ‘Wait until then.’

‘I can’t hold it that long,’ wailed Johanna. ‘I want to go now.’

Tacy was anxious to get the ewes back to Roundtor Farm before the mist became any more dense. Dartmoor was a dangerous place at such times … but Johanna had always been troubled with a weak bladder.

‘Hurry up and go then. Over there, among those rocks if you feel shy about going here.’

She pointed to a spot where great granite rocks were scattered about the hillside, their outlines softened by the mist, ‘Be quick!’

Johanna needed no urging. She hurried to the rocks and disappeared from view.

Tacy signalled to the dogs, instructing them to hold the sheep where they were. She needed to be firm with the youngest dog, Rip. It was still under training and it was Rosie who brought the sheep to a halt. Crouching low to the ground, the experienced sheepdog dared them to move.

Suddenly there was a scream from the direction of the rocks – and Tacy heard a man’s voice. There was another scream and this time it continued for some seconds.

Abandoning the sheep, Tacy ran towards the rocks. As she reached them she bumped into Johanna who was shaking with fright.

Clinging to Tacy, she said, ‘There’s a man here. A wild man. He’s … frightening. He spoke to me using strange words that didn’t make sense!’

Tacy had a sudden glimmer of understanding. ‘How is he dressed?’

‘What difference does that make? I think … I think it might have been the Devil. Let’s go, Tacy. Quickly!’

‘What sort of clothes is he wearing?’ repeated Tacy.

‘He’s dressed all in yellow. Do you think it’s the Devil, Tacy?’ Johanna was still trembling.

‘No, I think he’s an escaped French prisoner.’

Tacy occasionally took produce to the daily market held inside Dartmoor prison. She knew that prisoners-of-war unable to pay to have new uniforms made, were issued by the prison authorities with uniforms made from yellow material.

At that moment both girls heard a cry, muffled by the thickening mist.

‘Which way did he go?’ asked Tacy.

‘I’m not sure. He ran off that way, I think,’ said Johanna, pointing.

‘Mudilake Marsh is over there!’

Mudilake Marsh was a large expanse of dangerous marshland. More than one moorland animal had lost its life here.

The cry came again and now it was almost as shrill as Johanna’s scream had been.

‘He’s in the marsh. Come on, Johanna. Stay close behind me.’

‘What if he’s not an escaped prisoner, Tacy? What if it’s the Devil, dressed up to look like a prisoner?’

‘Don’t be so stupid!’ Tacy called the words back to her sister who, despite her doubts, was hurrying along behind her.

Tacy’s instinct was to run, but that would be foolhardy. That was what the unknown man had done and Tacy feared he was now trapped in the marsh. If this were so, he would be very lucky to escape with his life.

‘Au secours! Au secours!’

The cry came from much closer now and slightly to one side of them.

‘What’s he saying, Tacy?’ Johanna put the question in a fearful voice.

‘I don’t know … shh!’

Tacy stopped. The ground was spongy underfoot. They needed to be careful.

‘Au secours!’ The plea was accompanied by a whole spate of unintelligible words now and it sounded as though the unseen man was sobbing.

The sisters were advancing with the utmost caution when suddenly the swirling mist thinned – and they both saw the man in yellow. Despite being spattered with mud, the attire was clearly that of a prisoner-of-war.

The trapped Frenchman saw them at the same time and his relief was touching. He had sunk up to his ribcage in the mire. Now he held out his arms towards them imploringly, at the same time appealing to them in his own language.

He made an attempt to flounder towards them, but the mud held him fast. His struggles only served to cause him to sink farther into the marsh.

‘Stay still!’ Tacy called. ‘Don’t move. Keep your arms spread out on the marsh … No! Don’t try to reach us!’

It was quite apparent the Frenchman did not understand her. He appealed to her once more, all the time struggling futilely to escape from the unrelenting grip of the marsh.

When she realised he could not understand what she was saying, Tacy turned to Johanna. Eyes wide with fright, the younger girl was still uncertain whether the man caught in the marsh was human or demon.

‘Go back to where we left the ewes. Take the dogs and follow the path down to Two Bridges. If you lose it, send the dogs on and follow where they tread. There’ll be someone at the inn. Tell them to come up here as quickly as they can – and they’re to bring a rope with them. Hurry now – but don’t stray from the path. Go on!’

She shouted the last two words as Johanna hesitated, seemingly reluctant to leave her sister alone with this strange-speaking man – if indeed man he was.

The urgency in Tacy’s voice got through to Johanna at last. She turned and was quickly swallowed up by the mist.

‘Be careful … you hear?’ Tacy called after her sister before returning her attention to the Frenchman. Despite her warning he was still struggling, snatching at coarse clumps of reedlike grass, only to have them come away in his hand.

The mud and water were enveloping his lower chest now. Tacy called to him yet again. ‘Stop struggling, you’ll only sink deeper. Spread your arms out and stay still. Like this.’ She demonstrated what she wanted him to do. ‘Help is coming.’

The Frenchman replied in his own language, clearly pleading with her to help him. He had not understood a word of what she had said. Indeed, he continued doing all she had told him not to do.

He was a young man of perhaps twenty-one, no more than three years older than herself. Somehow it made his plight all the more tragic. It seemed to Tacy he was sinking deeper in the mud of the marsh even as she looked at him.

She was not imagining it. No more than five minutes later he had sunk to his armpits – and suddenly he began sobbing.

Tacy found the sound unbearable. ‘Please … please don’t. Just stay still. Help is on the way.’

Her pleas had no more effect than her earlier ones. He realised he was sinking deeper into the Dartmoor marsh by the minute and his panic grew. Tacy stretched out a hand towards him to no avail.

His response was equally futile. The distance between their fingertips was more than two arms’ length.

Tacy looked around her in desperation. If only there were a long pole, or the branch of a tree … but there was nothing.

Suddenly, she had an inspiration. She was wearing a cloak of brown, blanket-like material. Unfastening the clasp at her neck, she slipped the cloak from her shoulders. Swinging it through the air she aimed one end of it in the Frenchman’s direction.

The first cast fell short and she tried again.

This time the long hem at the front of the cloak fell within reach of one of the Frenchman’s outstretched hands. He grasped it eagerly.

As the cloak tautened between them, Tacy felt a great sense of achievement … but the Frenchman continued pulling. He was desperately trying to use the cloak as a lifeline to pull himself free from the marsh.

Thoroughly alarmed, Tacy cried, ‘No! Just keep a grip on it. Use it to keep your head above the marsh. Don’t try to pull yourself out … the cloak’s not strong enough…’

Unable to understand her, the young Frenchman pulled even harder and Tacy was in danger of tumbling in the marsh herself.

But the cloak was old. It had been handed down to Tacy by her grandmother. Suddenly the strands of the cloth could take the strain no more. They parted. There was no sound of rending cloth. No warning of what was about to happen.

Tacy fell backwards and when she scrambled to her feet she was holding less than half of her cloak. The remainder was still grasped by the Frenchman.

He too had slipped backwards and Tacy saw to her horror that the mire was now above his shoulders.

He opened his mouth and his lips formed the shape of a scream, but only a low, despairing moan escaped. Tacy found this even harder to bear than his earlier cries of terror.

‘Don’t give up. Stay still. Help is on the way,’ she pleaded, even though she knew he could not understand her words. Just saying them made her feel better.

The Frenchman continued moaning, all the time fixing her with a terror-stricken stare that seemed to contain an accusation.

At that moment Tacy thought she heard voices somewhere in the mist.

‘Hello! Hello! I’m over here.’

There was no answering call and Tacy believed she must have been mistaken. Then she heard them again. There could be no doubt about it now, but the mist made it difficult to make out the distance or the direction of the voices. She realised it would be equally difficult for them to locate her.

‘Hello … I’m here.’

She turned to the Frenchman who was now being forced to hold his chin up in order to keep it clear of the mud. ‘Do you hear that? Someone’s coming. Hold on. I’ll just go a little way towards them, otherwise they won’t find us.’

She could hear the voices more clearly now and they were calling her name. She ran towards the sound, shouting at the top of her voice.

The rescuers were farther away than she had realised, but suddenly she ran into them. There were four militiamen and Johanna was with them. One of the men carried a rope.

‘Where is he?’ said a militiaman who wore sergeant’s stripes on his arm.

‘He’s over here. Come quickly. There’s not much time.’

Tacy hurried ahead of them. To her dismay, when she came to the marshy ground she realised it was not the right spot.

‘Hello! Where are you?’ She called out to the trapped Frenchman. There was no reply.

Frantically, Tacy ran first this way and that, until commonsense told her to stop and think.

After a moment she headed slightly down the slope. When she had taken no more than a dozen paces, she stopped and frowned.

‘I thought it was about here … Perhaps I’m wrong…’

Suddenly, she looked down at her feet. She was almost standing on half of her torn cloak. Looking into the mist that swirled about the marsh, she saw the other half lying on top of the muddy ground.

There was no sign of the French prisoner-of-war.

‘Prisoners … Halt!’

The shouted command from the Somerset Militia captain prompted a surprised and ragged response from the two hundred and fifty men marching along the narrow Devon lane.

‘Prisoners … Fall out! All right, you can take your food and rest for a while now.’

‘How the hell are we supposed to cook our rations? Breathe on it?’

The grumbled question came from a giant black man. Towering head and shoulders above his fellow prisoners, he wore trousers, a ragged, sleeveless coat and nothing else.

Barefooted, he left a group of other black men, padded to the side of the lane and sank down heavily on a rain-sodden grass bank, along the length of which were numerous pockets of pale yellow primroses.

‘You don’t have to worry about cooking anything,’ said one of the militiamen. ‘As usual, we’ve done the thinking for you. Cooks were sent on ahead. Your grub’s ready and waiting through the gate in the field there. All you have to do is fall into line to collect it, then sit down and enjoy it, courtesy of the English Government.’

The strong, south-westerly wind had been behind the men as they marched. It dropped momentarily now and the pungent aroma of cooking fish reached the nostrils of the prisoners.

‘If I wasn’t so damned hungry I’d leave it where it is and let you English think how to get rid of a quarter of a ton of stinking fish stew.’

The arms of the speaker bulged with muscle and they also carried an interesting variety of scars, etched by sword and bullet.

‘Eat what you can, while you can, Ephraim.’

The suggestion came from Lieutenant Pilgrim Penn. Reaching out, he picked a primrose and examined it closely. The flower reminded him of a garden in Ohio. Of his mother’s flower beds. The plants had been nurtured from seeds carried with her in covered wagons on the trek westwards, as his father sought new frontiers.

‘You never know, the next meal might be even worse.’

Pilgrim was probably half the age of Ephraim, but his shabby United States Marines uniform bore the insignia of a lieutenant. Ephraim’s missing sleeves had carried a corporal’s stripes.

‘You’re right there, Pilgrim. The things these English do with food would choke a hog.’

Captain Virgil Howard sat down heavily on the grass beside the muscled corporal and eased his left leg out in front of him.

‘How’s the leg standing up to the march?’ Pilgrim asked the question anxiously. Although only seven years older than the lieutenant, Virgil was the senior commissioned officer among the American prisoners-of-war. Not only were the two men good friends but, if anything happened to Virgil, responsibility for the well-being of the men would fall upon Pilgrim’s shoulders. The authority was more than a nineteen-year-old junior officer should have to assume.

The three men, Pilgrim, Virgil and Ephraim were the only members of the United States fighting forces among the prisoners. The remainder were men of the United States merchant service. All had been taken at sea by the British navy.

The three men had not been the only marines captured when the United States frigate Delaware was defeated in battle by two British men-of-war off the coast of Bermuda. However, during numerous changes of ship the Americans had become split up.

The three men had become separated from the last of their colleagues when, despite Virgil’s barely healed wound, they escaped from a British man-of-war off one of the West Indian islands.

They were at liberty for only thirty-six hours before being recaptured by a party of British plantation owners.

The escape was the reason why the two officers had been lodged with Ephraim on board the prison hulk Le Brave in the Hamoaze, off Plymouth Dock.

It was usual for captured French officers to be offered parole in a small town, at a suitable distance from the coast. But American prisoners-of-war were still a novelty. The British authorities did not seem to know what to do with them.

‘You stay here and rest your leg, Virgil. I’ll go and fetch your food.’

Pilgrim made his way to the head of the line of men which stretched along the lane and through an open gateway into a nearby field.

Standing at intervals on either side of the lane were armed men of the Somerset Militia. They maintained a close watch on the American prisoners. One of the part-time soldiers moved to challenge Pilgrim, but a sergeant, recognising his rank, intervened and walked with him to ensure he had no more problems.

‘Thank you.’ Pilgrim acknowledged the militiaman’s help. ‘I’m fetching two meals. One for my captain. He has a leg wound that’s barely healed. This march is hard on him. Do we have much farther to go?’

‘About seven miles,’ said the sergeant. ‘But you’ll notice a difference in the countryside from here on. It’s moorland, and pretty bleak.’

‘This prison we’re going to – what’s it like?’ It was Pilgrim’s first opportunity to talk to anyone about their destination.

‘Dartmoor?’ The militia sergeant shrugged. ‘I’d rather be a guard than a prisoner there. They only finished building it about four years ago and I reckon the builders were glad to get away. I doubt if you’ll find a bleaker place anywhere. The only time it stops raining is when it snows. Most times you won’t know the difference because you can’t see anything for mist.’

‘It can’t be as bad as that, surely?’ said Pilgrim, his spirits sinking.

‘No? You ask the French prisoners when you reach Dartmoor. There are about nine thousand of ’em. Some have been there since it opened.’

‘Nine thousand?’ Pilgrim looked at the militia sergeant in disbelief. ‘How big is this place?’

‘Not big enough for the number of men in there right now,’ declared the sergeant. ‘But you shouldn’t be too badly off. You and your captain will be put in the Petty Officers’ Block, I daresay. There’s a bit more room there – though not too much.’

Collecting two bowls of fish stew, Pilgrim returned to where Virgil was now sitting alone. He repeated what the militia sergeant had told him.

‘Whatever it’s like, it can’t be worse than life on that stinking hulk,’ declared the American marine captain. Taking a spoonful of the soup, he pulled a wry face. ‘Ephraim’s right about the food. Salt haddock doesn’t make a good stew.’

‘It’s an uppity nigger who’d dare complain about his food,’ commented a merchant navy officer sitting nearby. ‘Most of those we have down south are only too happy to be given anything at all to eat.’

‘We’re not “down south” now,’ retorted Pilgrim. ‘And Ephraim’s not an “uppity nigger”. He’s a corporal of marines, who’s earned his rank in battle. He’s entitled to good food, same as the rest of us. I, for one, will make damn sure he gets it.’

‘I don’t care what he’s done,’ persisted the merchant seaman. ‘A spoiled nigger is a dangerous nigger. You’ll learn that, one day.’

With this warning, the merchant navy officer rose to his feet and walked away.

Angry by now, Pilgrim would have gone after him but Virgil put a restraining hand on his arm. He inclined his head to where the subject of their exchange was walking towards them.

Ephraim had only just sat down with his bowl of food when the militia officer began shouting for the prisoners-of-war to fall in again to resume the march.

There was much grumbling from the Americans, but the guards moved among them, threatening to use musket butts to add weight to the militia officer’s orders.

‘You all right?’ Pilgrim’s anxiety showed once more as Virgil struggled to his feet.

‘I’ll last another seven miles,’ said the captain, gritting his teeth. ‘Come on, let’s fall in with the others.’

The militia sergeant had been right about the nature of the countryside through which they were soon marching. The narrow lane climbed steadily and less than an hour after their meal stop they were on Dartmoor.

For as far as could be seen there was a bleak, rolling landscape, dotted here and there with tors surmounted by bare, grey, tumbled rocks.

The rain was heavier now, preventing the prisoners from seeing for much more than a mile. However, the impression they had already gained was that the moorland went on for ever.

The moor was not entirely deserted. They were nearing their destination when a young girl of perhaps seventeen or eighteen came into view. Accompanied by two dogs, she was driving sheep inside a large paddock enclosed by freestone walls.

The sight of the lone girl brought a noisy outburst from the Americans. Few had even glimpsed a woman during many months of internment on board the prison hulk. They ignored the attempts of the militiamen to bring them to order.

The girl tried to ignore the calls of the men, as did the older and more experienced of the two dogs. The other was younger and not yet fully trained. For some moments it seemed undecided whether the sheep or the marching men were of more interest.

The men won the day. The dog ran towards them, barking noisily, ignoring the shouted command of the young shepherdess for it to return to her.

The dog’s disobedience was compounded by the prisoners-of-war who whistled and shouted encouragement to the errant animal.

For some of the men it was a genuine wish to commune with the dog. After months spent in the dehumanising confines of a prison hulk, it was a link with life as they had once known it.

To others it was merely a mischievous and not-too-serious diversion.

Eventually, the captain in charge of the militiamen rode back along the line of men from the head of the column, to ascertain the reason for the noisy disorder.

Captain Henry Pollit was the only mounted member of the escort. The young dog immediately began barking at the horse. Running around it excitedly, it was urged on by the prisoners.

‘Get away! Go on. Off with you!’

The officer’s unsuccessful attempts to drive away the dog brought howls of glee from the American prisoners.

Henry Pollit possessed no military experience whatsoever, and was unused to commanding men. The only reason he had been granted a militia commission was because he had influential family connections in his own county.

He also possessed an exaggerated view of the importance of his command. Angered by the derision of the American prisoners-of-war and the antics of the disobedient dog, he called to one of the militiamen.

‘Corporal! I’ll not allow a blasted dog to threaten discipline in such a manner. Shoot it!’

The militiaman looked at the officer uncertainly. ‘It’s not really doing any harm, sir. It’ll leave us in a few minutes.’

‘Damn you, Corporal! Did you hear what I said? I gave you an order. Shoot it, or I’ll take your gun and do it myself.’

Reluctantly, the corporal put the musket he carried to his shoulder and took aim.

The move brought a howl of protest from the marching men. At the same time, Pilgrim saw the girl begin to run towards the column, aware of what was about to happen to her young and disobedient dog.

He was among the men closest to the corporal. As the militiaman thumbed back the hammer on his musket, Pilgrim jumped at him without pausing to think of the consequences of his action.

He knocked the barrel of the weapon up at the very moment the militiaman pulled the trigger. A thick cloud of white smoke enveloped both men, but the musket ball sped harmlessly away, to fall to earth far away on the open moorland.

The noise of the shot succeeded where all else had failed. The dog turned and fled towards the running girl.

‘Seize that man!’ Furious, Captain Pollit pointed to Pilgrim. Before he could return to the column of prisoners, he was secured by two of the militiamen.

The move brought an angry response from the other American prisoners, all of whom had come to a halt. But the sound of the shot had brought other militiamen to the spot. Their muskets and bayonets were sufficient deterrent to any attempt to help Pilgrim.

‘Put manacles on him. When we reach Dartmoor he’ll be dealt with for assaulting a militiaman.’

One of the part-time soldiers produced a pair of heavy manacles. As they were secured to Pilgrim’s wrists, Virgil limped forward and addressed the militia captain.

‘I must protest, sir. Lieutenant Pilgrim Penn is an officer of the United States Marines and a prisoner-of-war. He is not a common criminal.’

‘He’s lucky he wasn’t shot,’ retorted Captain Pollit. ‘He’s under escort and he assaulted one of my men.’

‘All he did was stop you from shooting my dog.’ The girl was close enough to hear the captain’s words.

Brushing long, dark hair back from her face, she spoke angrily and breathlessly. ‘You should be grateful to him. The dog belongs to Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt, Lord Warden of the Stannaries. He gave it to my father for training. It’s to be a present for the Prince Regent. If it had been shot you’d be in serious trouble now.’

The militia captain was startled by her disclosure. Although he had never met Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt, he certainly knew of him. Personal secretary and a close friend to England’s future monarch, he was a man who wielded great power. There was no doubting the truth of the girl’s words. But Henry Pollit was not prepared to admit he might have acted hastily.

‘Your father should keep the dog at home until it’s learned obedience, not send it out with a slip of a girl to stir up trouble among prisoners-of-war.’

Tacy bit back an angry retort. Instead, she looked to where Pilgrim stood between the two militiamen, his wrists manacled in front of him. ‘Are you going to release him now?’

‘No. He’ll be taken to Dartmoor prison and punished for assaulting one of my men.’

‘Then I’ll have my father tell Sir Thomas you ordered one of your men to shoot his dog. You’ll be hearing from him, have no doubt about that!’

Turning her back on the stubborn militia captain she spoke to Pilgrim for the first time. ‘Thank you for saving the dog. I’m sorry it got you in trouble, but I’ll tell Sir Thomas what happened. What’s your name?’

The rowdier element among the prisoners had resumed their whistling and catcalling and Captain Pollit called to the girl. ‘Stop talking to the prisoners or I’ll have you arrested too.’

Pilgrim just had time to call out his name to the girl before he was pushed back among the others and the prisoners-of-war were prodded into movement once more. He would have liked to ask her name too, but they had moved away from her now. He was not even certain she had heard his words.

He thought it made little difference. He would probably never see her again – and he had other matters to worry about. In manacles now, he wondered what would happen to him when he and his fellow prisoners-of-war reached their destination.

He was certainly in trouble. What came of it would depend on how determined the militia captain was to press charges against him.

When the high granite walls of Dartmoor prison came into view, the American prisoners-of-war fell strangely silent. To Pilgrim, the prison resembled the drawings of grim medieval castles he had seen in books on the shelves of his grandfather’s library in Washington, before Pilgrim’s father took his family westwards, to Ohio.

But the pictures had lacked reality. The prison did not. The sheer size of it was awesome. It had been built on land which sloped gently away from the road. Because of this, despite its eighteen-feet-high circular perimeter wall, it was possible for a while to see something of the tall grey granite buildings rising inside the walls.

However, as the Americans drew closer, the walls themselves towered above them and nothing more could be seen of the prison buildings.

‘Here we are, Pilgrim. This is likely to be our home until the war’s over.’

Virgil spoke to the manacled young lieutenant, but it was Ephraim who replied. He had joined them to check whether Virgil had any orders for him when they entered the prison.

‘It don’t look a lot like the cabin back home on the plantation,’ he said laconically.

Despite his predicament, Pilgrim smiled at the marine corporal’s dry humour. He was aware that Ephraim had been born a slave. How he had escaped from his environment was something Pilgrim had never queried.

Probably the only coloure