It had to be Rose Maddiford, didn’t it!
Ellen Williams poked her severely groomed head out of the open door of her grocery and drapers establishment, and her neatly contained bosom exploded in a sigh of exasperation. A pall of dust had been lifted from the parched surface of Prison Road by the clattering hooves of the charging horse, and Ellen quickly shut the door against it, for she hardly wanted the insidious layer to settle on her goods and products! But she could not resist sidling into her immaculate window display and pressing her nose against the glass so that she might have a better view along the street towards the prison, not that she could see the bleak and daunting edifice from her shop in the centre of Princetown. Sure enough, the billowing cloud had come to a whirlwind stop outside the Albert Inn, loose stones scattering in every direction as the rider brought the stampeding animal to a violent halt. The creature reared in protest with a bellicose neigh, its forelegs pawing furiously at the air before it dropped swiftly on all fours once more. The figure on its back, however, kept its seat as if it were glued to the raging beast and proceeded to turn the demented steed in tight circles until its bunched haunches relaxed and with a snort of disgust, the sleek young gelding bowed its head in submission. One long, shapely leg was swung over the hairy neck, two well-shod feet landed lightly on the ground, and taking the reins behind the foaming mouth, the rider led its mount, meek as a lamb now, towards the stables behind the Albert Inn, and out of Ellen’s view.
The older woman pursed her lips, her grey eyes steely with disappointment that the moment had passed without grave mishap. Her sharp features instantly hardened into a forced smile as she realised that two gentlewomen who had paused to witness the feckless rider’s progress, had now turned their attention to her window and were staring at her from the other side of the glass. Ellen Williams was not about to lose a sale by gaping rudely at potential customers, and moving with as much grace as her short, stocky form could muster, returned to her station behind the counter, tutting reproachfully with her tongue.
Someone really ought to take that girl in hand! She and that fiendish monster on whose perilous back she galloped all over the moor, well, they were as bad as each other in Ellen’s opinion! What on earth did the girl’s father think he was at, allowing her such behaviour! But then it was well known that Henry Maddiford, manager of the gunpowder mills three miles away at Cherrybrook, doted on his only child and had apparently done so ever since his dear wife had sacrificed her own life bringing her daughter into this sinful world. And it hadn’t done her any good, had it, being spoilt like that? Just look at the girl! Riding astride if you please! And beneath the full riding skirt, her legs were tightly clad in breeches as if she were a young man! Ellen had glimpsed them quite clearly as the hussy had dismounted, as if she hadn’t seen them often enough before! And what rankled Ellen’s sensibilities more, was that the little madam had sewn the outrageous riding outfit from a distinctive material bought in her shop and which had been prominently displayed in her window, so that everybody would know she was prepared to serve the wayward wench!
Ellen’s mouth wrinkled into a mean knot as the two women moved on down the street. Well, beggars couldn’t be choosers, could they? She couldn’t afford to turn down a sale, and Rose Maddiford was a good customer, for both groceries and material, and always sewing her clothes herself without using the services of one of Princetown’s dressmakers. And she was a good seamstress, Ellen had to give her that. And she supposed that, for a lively and wilful young girl, living at the isolated powder mills – slap in the middle of the great wilderness of Dartmoor and even lonelier than the grey community of Princetown – was hardly ideal. Life wasn’t always what you wanted, no one knew better than Ellen herself.
Her father had been a miner, his health broken as a young man by breathing in the choking air and dust deep beneath the surface of the earth, until the mine surgeon had told him if he didn’t change his occupation, he would be dead within the year. The re-opening in Princetown of the defunct prisoner of war depot as a convict gaol in 1850, revitalising the remote, decaying village, had been his salvation. Once the convicts arrived, the settlement had begun to flourish again as no less than a hundred warders and their families were gradually drafted in. John Williams, his wife and ten year old daughter had opened up the grocers shop with what meagre savings they had. They had worked every hour God sent and built up the thriving little business to what it was today, the beginning of September 1875. Ellen’s parents had now passed on, leaving her comfortable, though not wealthy. But at what cost?
At first, it had been army guards, and soon afterwards army pensioners, and finally in 1857 – when Ellen had been a fresh-faced girl of seventeen - younger men from the Civil Guard who had constituted the armed escorts for the convicts labouring outside the massive prison walls, assisting the warders who worked both in and outside the gaol. The warders were usually older men, burly miners or farmers, used themselves to the harsh discipline of the moor. It was a condition of their employment that they lived in Princetown so that they could be quickly summoned to assist in a riot or to search for an escapee. But for their families it was purgatory, incarcerated in the forlorn town, fourteen hundred feet above sea-level on the desolate moor, exposed to lacerating cold and deep snowdrifts in winter and miserable, rainy summers, imprisoned just as securely as the felons within the gaol itself. Any son of a warder would be off to better climes to make his own way in the world just as soon as he was old enough, that was if his entire family hadn’t had so much of the place that they had already upped sticks and moved away somewhere more hospitable.
So where had that left girls like Ellen? On the shelf, of course. She hadn’t been unattractive, she considered, but there simply hadn’t been enough suitable young men in the restricted vicinity in which she had been trapped. They were always snapped up by any girl whose beauty easily outshone the common crowd.
Girls like Rose Maddiford!
Ellen’s jaw clamped fiercely as the swirling jealousy threatened to choke her.
Ned Cornish looked up with a cheeky grin as he paused in his labours of shovelling the pile of steaming horse dung into the heavy wooden barrow. Stable work was all he had ever known in his young life. And if it meant he came into close contact with Rose Maddiford whenever she swept into Princetown and needed to leave that confounded animal in his care for a few hours, then he blessed the morning his father had deposited him at the door of the Albert Inn to do his first day’s work at the age of nine, for his family needed his wages to survive.
That was years ago, and now he was a strong, bulky youth with a wicked sense of humour and an eye for the girls. His secluded room above the stables behind the inn had seen more than one maiden willingly deflowered. But Rose Maddiford was not amongst them, and never would be.
She came towards him now, her cheeks flushed with the exhilaration of the gallop across the moor, her bouncing, ebony curls rippling wildly down her back in a shining cascade from beneath the apology of a hat that sat, somewhat askew, like a frilly pancake, on the top of her beautiful head. Her slanting, violet blue eyes danced, and beneath the jacket of her riding habit, her straining breasts heaved up and down above her slender, pliable waist.
Ned watched them. And smiled.
‘Good afternoon, Ned,’ she greeted him in her habitually friendly manner. ‘How are you today?’
Ned’s heart beat faster. ‘All the better for seeing you,’ he answered truthfully, leaning on the handle of the spade to contemplate her willowy figure. She was of average height, but her slight frame made her appear taller than she was, and her halo of unruly hair gave her at least another inch.
Her full red lips broke into a short laugh. ‘Flattery will get you nowhere with me!’ she chided playfully.
Ned sniffed. She was certainly right there! He had ever got so much as a harmless kiss out of Rose Maddiford. It was as if she was unaware of her tantalising charms. She was devoted to one man alone, and that was her father!
‘You off to visit young Molly?’ Ned asked, his chest giving a little jerk of jealousy as his generous mouth curled at one corner.
‘Miss Molly to you!’ Rose grinned. ‘But, yes, I am. So you will look after Gospel for me, won’t you? There’ll be sixpence in it for you, as usual.’
Ned grunted his displeasure. If it weren’t for Rose, he wouldn’t have gone near the animal for two guineas, let alone sixpence! Bad-tempered creature it was, at least it was the minute Rose was out of its sight. Black as the devil, and that would have been a better name for it, Devil, Ned thought! As for calling it Gospel, well! When he had questioned Rose on her strange choice, he couldn’t quite fathom her explanation. It was something to do with the monster’s dark coat, and the religious chants that the African slaves in the American cotton fields apparently sang to ease their aching spirits. Well, Ned didn’t know anything about that. He didn’t even know where America and Africa were! A long way off, he knew that. But then to Ned, so was anywhere beyond Plymouth which he visited possibly once a year. Back along, there had been American as well as French prisoners of war held in what was now the convict gaol that stood within spitting distance of the Albert Inn. So America couldn’t be that far away, Ned reasoned. Americans spoke English, so America must be nearer than France where they gabbled on in some incomprehensible language – or at least, Ned imagined they did. But, to be honest, he wasn’t really bothered where other countries might be. It hardly made any difference to his life, did it? He could write his own name when he put his mind to it, which was more than his parents could do, and that was enough for him.
Except when it came to Rose. Then, and only then, did his ignorance trouble him. Rose devoured books. She adored Jane Austen’s novels – whoever she was – and now she was reading this controversial fellow, Charles Dickens. And how she would love to see a theatre production of Macbeth. It was set in the Highlands of Scotland, but couldn’t you imagine it happening amongst the wild and spectacular beauty of Dartmoor? Ned had nodded cautiously, praying it was sufficient response. He knew she read the Tavistock Gazette each week from cover to cover, for not only did it report local news, but national and international events as well, events she evidently discussed at length with her father. It was no wonder she was way out of Ned’s league. And out of the league of virtually every young male in the vicinity, although plenty of them wouldn’t have minded getting their hands on her virginal figure!
‘You can put that nag of yourn in the end box,’ he ordered with a disgruntled snort. ‘And take its tack off yoursel, if you wants to. I’ll not go near the brute.’
Rose raised a teasing eyebrow as Gospel nuzzled against her shoulder and she stroked his arching neck in response. ‘You’re not afeared, are you, Ned?’ she asked.
Ned flushed. But he wasn’t going to let Rose’s clever tongue get the better of him, so he threw back his head with a throaty laugh. ‘No. But the marks ’aven’t quite faded from the last time ’er bit me, and I doesn’t want a matching set just yet.’
It was Rose’s turn to look abashed. ‘I’m really sorry about that,’ she said with feeling. ‘Of course I’ll see to him myself. I’m just grateful to have somewhere safe I can leave him.’ And so saying, she clicked her tongue and led the infamous beast into the stable Ned had indicated, emerging a few minutes later with the heavy saddle which the youth was pleased to take from her, delighted at the opportunity to show her some gallantry. He lowered his eyes to the gleaming leather with a lecherous smirk. An astride saddle, of course. But that was Rose Maddiford for you, wasn’t it! And his heart sighed as he watched her stride out of the yard.
Rose hurried down Prison Road with a spring in her step. Not that she had far to go, but the prospect of spending a few hours in the company of her good friend, Molly Cartwright, filled her with happiness. As she left the relative tranquillity of the village behind, a general bustle of activity took its place in the warm, early autumn sunshine. Just beyond the encircling wall of the barracks which was her destination, work was continuing apace on the new accommodation block for the prison warders and their families. Molly’s mother was praying they would be allocated one of its thirty flats, each of which was to boast two tiny bedrooms, a small living room and a working scullery. And who could blame her, when two adults – three if you counted Molly who was nineteen – and five younger children had been squeezed into just two rooms in the decaying barracks for years!
Rose paused for a moment to contemplate the progress on the new building which was to be named, most imaginatively, she mocked, Number One Warders’ Block. There was some way to go before it would be finished, despite the convicts that swarmed over the growing edifice like ants in their drab uniforms with the distinctive arrows. And they worked like ants, too, at least they did if they didn’t want to feel a warder’s truncheon across their back. The term ‘hard labour’ was somewhat of an understatement, Rose always thought. Inhuman it was sometimes, in her opinion, gruelling, non-stop, physical toil on prison buildings that were being doubled or trebled in size from the original prisoner of war blocks; or out on the extensive prison lands, clearing them of granite boulders or working up to the waist in cold water as they dug drainage ditches, all to extend the workable areas of the prison farm. If not that, then digging mountains of peat for the new gasworks just outside the prison wall which supplied light for the prison itself and all prison property within the village; or slaving on the public roads or in the prison quarry a hundred yards or so further down towards Rundlestone. It was no wonder a convict would suddenly lose his reason and, in a moment of madness, make a dash across the moor, even knowing the armed warders or Civil Guard who accompanied all outside work parties would shoot him down. Still, if you didn’t like it, you shouldn’t have come, was the old prison saying. Hardened criminals, most of them, violent, incorrigible villains. Though some were merely habitual thieves or forgers, innocent of any physical violence, but sentenced to a minimum of five years to qualify for Dartmoor’s infamous gaol. But what if, Rose’s questioning mind considered, you really were wrongfully convicted . . .
She flicked her head as if tossing out the unwelcome thought, kicked the hem of her riding skirt out of the way of her strong, athletic legs, and marched through the gateway of the barracks compound. She braced herself against the coming onslaught from the Cartwright family, and then stepped across the yard, greeting people as she went. A woman was lugging a basket overflowing with laundry to the little hexagonal wash-house in the centre of the compound which served the hundred or more families who were crowded into the eleven barracks. Children too young to attend the new prison officers’ school - built and maintained, it went without saying, by convict labour – played safely outside in the sunshine, amongst them the youngest of the Cartwright clan. The wife of one of the twenty-four Civil Guards, younger, fitter men who were all housed in number six barracks, was leaning against a wall, her stomach jutting with her first child, as she chatted to a neighbour. Rose hailed them all as she passed, and then bound up the outside steps to the humble dwelling in number seven barracks.
The small front room was a jumble of garments and linen, for Molly and her mother were tackling the weekly mountain of ironing, taking it in turns to do the ironing itself whilst the other folded the pressed articles and hung them over the wooden slats of the airing rack which would later be hoisted to the ceiling. The air was heavy with warmth and moisture, a strange mix of the freshness of ironing and the acrid smell of the peat fire that smouldered in the small grate where the two spare irons were reheating whilst Mrs Cartwright used the third.
‘Oh, Rose! How lovely to see you!’
Molly’s naturally pale cheeks were flushed with the afternoon’s activity and she pushed back a wayward wisp of light ginger hair that had escaped from beneath the plain white muslin cap on her head. Her small but well-shaped mouth broke into a grin, and above it, her eyes, a distinct feline green, danced with delight.
‘Well,’ Rose replied with an exaggerated tilt of her head, ‘I’d not seen you for a week and I wanted to make certain you were behaving yourself.’
A faint smile lifted Mrs Cartwright’s workworn face at their irrepressible visitor, but with eight mouths to feed and the apparel of eight bodies to launder, she had no time to stop and chat. But Rose always brought a breath of fresh air into their humdrum lives, and was always welcome. Besides, she was a lady, and perhaps one day some practical advantage might come of their association and lift Molly from the drab future she faced at present.
Molly’s lips, however, twisted into a mock grimace. ‘Behave myself!’ she groaned. ‘And what chance d’you imagine I’d have to do ort else?’
‘Well, I don’t know! Perhaps one of the new Civil Guards?’ Rose teased. ‘There’s one particularly attractive fellow . . . Why don’t we walk down to the quarry and see if he’s on duty there?’
‘Oh, Rose, you’m a real devil!’ Molly chuckled. ‘But I cas’n. Look at this pile of ironing! The girls’ll be home from school directly, and we must get it finished by then.’
‘Let me help, then.’ And throwing her riding gloves onto the bed Molly shared with the elder two of her three younger sisters, Rose unfastened the jacket of her riding habit, tossed it on top of the gloves and rolled up the sleeves of her shirt. ‘Now, what can I do? Or would it be more use to you if I start preparing the meal?’
Mrs Cartwright shook her head. That was Rose for you! Heart as big as the ocean. And it wasn’t an empty gesture. The girl knew how to cook, sew and iron, and would work as hard as any of them. And so it was that by the time the three younger siblings arrived back from school, the laundry was stowed away on the airing rack, Rose had rescued little Philip from the compound and cleaned him up, and a pile of bread and dripping was waiting on the table next to a heap of vegetables prepared by Rose’s hand ready for the cooking pot for supper. She supervised the tea, entertained the children and helped wash up, while Mrs Cartwright sat with her feet up, sipping the hot brew from a chipped enamel mug. So that by five o’clock, the two young women were able to set out, arm in arm, down the road towards Rundlestone.
Work on the new accommodation block would soon be stopping for the night, and Molly paused to glance ruefully at its progress. ‘I do hope as we gets one of they flats!’ she breathed with feeling, her full breasts rising and falling in a deep sigh. ‘’Tis so cramped in the barracks and we’re all getting so big.’
Rose looked askew at her friend, her heart torn. It was hard to know quite what to say. She felt so sorry for the Cartwright family, but she didn’t want to offend. ‘What about Brian? Could he not be moving out soon? He is sixteen.’
Molly cocked an eyebrow. ‘Too old to be sleeping on the floor in the same room as mesel and Annie and Emma, you mean? I’ll not disagree with you, there! Though he’s usually so tired arter his work, he sleeps like a log. But Annie’s got a live-in position down in Yelverton so she’ll be stopping school, so at least ’twill be one less squeezed into the bed. It shoulda been me really, being the eldest girl, going into service. But I’ve always been needed at home, and it sort of stayed that way.’
‘And I’m so glad it did!’ Rose beamed at her, patting her friend’s arm. Their eyes met, Molly’s a glistening emerald whilst Rose’s softened to lavender, the bond between the two girls ever deepening.
They had inadvertently stopped to look at the growing walls of the building, and as if of one mind, continued on their walk. It might not do to stop too long. The two pretty young women had already attracted the silent attention of more than one prisoner, and that could cause trouble. And so they stepped out briskly, their eyes averted, as they approached the gaol itself. But, familiar as they were with its grey, stone severity, neither could help glancing at the forbidding complex and the prison farmland that stretched out behind it as far as the eye could see. Within the horseshoe shaped outer wall, the cell blocks radiated like the spokes of a half wheel, an ominous backdrop to the workshops, hospital and lesser buildings at the front of the compound. Over them all towered the massive Number Five Prison, the first of the original prisoner of war blocks to be rebuilt as a five-storey monster with regimented rows of small barred windows in its unyielding walls. Constructed by convicts with stone from the quarry, it had only opened two years previously, and yet they knew from Molly’s father that damp was already seeping into some of the three hundred unheated cells, and prisoners who had been moved there from the old buildings - which had been converted internally with dry, iron cells - wished they were back in their former abode, grim as it was.
Rose shivered as they passed the main gate, for even her own comfortable home with its blazing fires could be cold in the depths of the long Dartmoor winter. She squared her slim shoulders. It had been a glorious autumn day; she should enjoy it whilst she could, and put such dark thoughts aside.
‘Amber’s still behaving like a lunatic,’ she began anew. ‘She’s very obedient and willing to learn, but the instant anything exciting happens, like a rabbit or something, she forgets everything I’ve taught her and won’t obey a single command!’
Molly’s face lit up at the mention of Rose’s young dog, far more of a pet in her opinion than the fearsome Gospel, of whom like most other people, she was petrified. ‘But she’s only a puppy, Rose! You cas’n expect her - ’
‘She’s nearly a year old. She should be able to contain herself by now. I want to be able to take her out riding with me.’
‘What! And frighten everyone even more than you does already with that monster you calls an ’orse!’
Rose blinked her eyes wide, and then the pair of them fell about laughing as they wandered on down the road. As their merriment subsided, they paused again to gaze on the sheer immensity of the landscape, the prison lands that had been cleared and drained under cultivation to some hardy crop, while sheep or cattle grazed in other fields. And yet what they could see was merely a small patch of the three hundred and sixty or more square miles of spectacular scenery, exposed, rugged hills with impressive outcrops of granite tors, or pretty valleys and sheltered pockets of fertile farmland that made up Dartmoor. A hostile wilderness, and yet a luring sense of peace and infinity . . .
‘Get along there, you, six four nine!’
Molly flicked her head with surprised pleasure. ‘’Tis Father’s voice. He must’ve been on duty at the quarry today. That’ll have pleased ’en no end.’
They both turned instinctively to peer down over the low but solid stone wall on their right. Behind them, on the opposite side of the road, was the entrance to the heavily guarded prison quarry, but to avoid the inmates marching down a public road to and from the place of their labour, a tunnel passed beneath the highway, emerging on the other side onto prison farmland and a well trodden track that entered the gaol by a side gateway in the massive wall. The day’s back-breaking toil was over, and sure enough, a line of weary convicts, some – the least trustworthy – chained together with heavy leg-irons, were dragging themselves back towards the comfortless buildings that would swallow up their very existence until it began all over again the following day. The track was some twenty feet immediately below the two girls who watched from their vantage point, entirely unseen.
The line of men in their ugly uniforms and forage caps sat on their closely cropped heads was lengthening as they were marched out of the tunnel accompanied by several armed guards and even more prison warders amongst them Molly’s father. Jacob Cartwright had worked since a boy in the Dartmoor quarries, his skill and experience gaining him a respected position as the years went by. That was how Rose and Molly had originally met, when Jacob had come to Cherrybrook to order gunpowder for quarry-blasting, and for some reason had brought Molly with him. But he wasn’t getting any younger, and some time ago had decided, like other of his colleagues, that being a prison warder would be more suitable employment for a man of more mature years. The Governor had to be careful who he employed, and Jacob fitted the bill admirably. A strong, sturdy local, experienced in directing strong-willed men, and of course his expertise in quarrying was invaluable. He was a fair and just warder, popular with the inmates, for though he would deal toughly with those who deserved it, he was one of the few who found room in his own strictly-regulated role to reward good behaviour with clemency and understanding.
He hurried along now, his sharp eye ever watchful, unaware of his eldest daughter and her friend looking immediately down upon him. The girls would not utter a sound, of course, for they knew his concentration must not be distracted for one second. It filled them both with unimaginable horror, therefore, when one of the convicts behind him swiftly picked up a heavy stone that happened by some oversight to be lying by the side of the track, and went to smash it over his head.
The scream lodged in Molly’s throat, her suddenly weak and trembling knees buckling under her whilst at her side, Rose’s jaw hung open in appalled disbelief. But in that terrible moment, another prisoner bounded forward and in a brief struggle, plied the weapon from his fellow inmate’s grasp. Before Jacob Cartwright could turn round to investigate the scuffle behind him, two Civil Guards emerged from the tunnel and spying the second convict with the rock still in his raised hands, rushed at him with a lustful cry. One of them slammed the butt of his Snider carbine into the man’s stomach. He fell to the ground, dropping the stone, totally defenceless against the two guards who became intent upon kicking him into submission with their steel-capped boots.
Molly remained motionless, her muscles incapable of doing anything more than keeping her upright, but beside her, the indignation swirled in Rose’s breast like a rising tide, drowning her senses in unleashed fury. In a trice, she flung aside her riding skirt, vaulted the stone wall and careering down the steep bank, began to pummel the back of one of the guards.
‘No, you senseless fools!’ she shrieked, spittle spraying from her incensed lips. ‘’Twasn’t him! He stopped the other one!’
Her fists continued to pound ineffectually at their target, and it wasn’t until Jacob’s arms encircled her, pinning her own to her sides, that she was forced to stop, though she wriggled like a mad woman, her hat flying from her head and her dark curls whipping across her face like some wild witch.
‘Hush now, Miss Rose!’ the strong, steady voice commanded. ‘And you two, stop before you kill ’en, will you!’
His authoritative tone ran like ice through the guards’ brains as they ceased their retribution with reluctance. Every man held his breath, his heartbeat quickened, as the tension crackled along the halted line, those that were near enough confounded by the savage but beautiful apparition that even now was desperately attempting to break free from the burly warder’s hold, her chest heaving deliciously up and down.
‘Is this true?’ Jacob asked in his usual calm manner.
‘Yes. Of course ’tis!’ Rose told him. ‘He was the one who was about to hit you over the head with the stone!’ she accused, pointing at the guilty villain who merely grinned back. ‘That poor fellow stopped him, and those idiots – ’
‘All right, all right!’ Jacob tried to interrupt.
‘We saw it all from up there! Ask any one of these men – ’
‘Rose, do calm down!’ Jacob hissed warningly in her ear. ‘Never ask a prisoner to cop another! Now!’ He raised his voice again as he turned back to the guards, slowly releasing his grip on her as he did so. ‘I believe what this young woman says. Six four nine’s always been a troublemaker. I’d just that second had to rebuke ’en. The other fellow’s new. Model prisoner, so far. So, all right, everyone! Show’s over! Move along now!’
A general moan rumbled along the line of convicts as they began to trudge back towards their meagre evening meal, an hour of oakum picking and an hour of reading or writing in their cells, or if they weren’t literate under the prison teacher’s tuition, before lights out. It had been a rare entertainment, and that untamed, spirited wench . . .
‘Yes, get up, you bastard.’
Jacob had already moved on and didn’t see the final blow that one of the guards inflicted with his boot upon the prostrate form of the prisoner. But Rose did, and the soldier’s shin felt the crack of her own foot as she lashed out at him, her blazing eyes deepening to an outraged indigo. He backed away. He had the feeling he’d seen her somewhere before. She was dressed like a lady in a riding habit, and although she spoke with a local accent, it was refined, and her words were well chosen and articulate. You never knew . . . And he didn’t want any trouble.
With a scathing glance in her direction, he bent down to thrust a hand under the criminal’s armpit and drag him to his feet. The convict stifled a gasp of pain, one arm clutched across his middle, but he lifted his head and turned to look at his saviour.
The tortured expression on his face was like a spike in her compassionate heart. He was young. At least, fine creases were only just beginning to radiate from the outer corners of his clear hazel eyes, so she imagined he could be no more than thirty. It was difficult to tell exactly, for though his cap had been knocked from his head, his hair had been clipped so closely, the scissors had grazed his scalp in places, but a cap of light down was just visible here and there. A trickle of blood was curling down his chin from his torn lip, but the pained shadow of a smile twitched at his mouth and his gaze held hers until the other guard cuffed him about the ear and forced him to stumble onwards.
Rose stood and watched as the rest of the work party was marched past, a strange knot frozen solid in her chest as she fought her way back to reality. A convict. Guilty of some heinous crime. Ah, well . . . He must deserve to be incarcerated in Dartmoor’s infamous gaol. Put to some of the most gruelling toil known to man, treated like the scum of the earth. The quarry was probably the most feared and hated of prison work. Not a moment’s rest was allowed from the strenuous, crushing labour. Serious accidents were frequent, no care given to the prisoners’ safety – except if Warder Cartwright was on duty, for he could not find it in his Christian soul to allow even a convicted felon to be maimed if he could help it. Others were less mindful and as well as paying no heed to other dangers in the quarry, would order convicts to pick out by hand any unexploded charges. It was not uncommon for a hapless villain to be blinded or have his hand blown away when the powder went off belatedly.
A whimper scraped from Rose’s lungs. And she somehow prayed that the prisoner – whoever he was, but who had possibly saved Jacob’s life – never suffered such a tragedy.
She buried the sickening thought somewhere deep in the darkest recesses of her passionate young mind, and retrieving her hat from amongst the grass at the side of the track, scrambled back up the slope to where Molly was waiting.