Chapter Five: The Old Gaol

Joseph Stoner, alias Creeper, slumped against the mildewy wall. The cheap brick and old mortar crumbled as his frockcoat brushed against them with a rasping noise. The guard had plunged them all into dank darkness when he took the lantern away with him; now the smuggler was left blind in the narrow cell. His comrades were huddled together in the corner; whenever some poor soul wailed, they let out a collective gasp of fright.

It’s like being in an unmucked stable, Creeper decided, screwing his nose up against the stench of faecal matter that attacked him from all sides. There were piles of it in every cell as the Deadman family saw fit to furnish nobody with even a bucket. He was surrounded by unwashed bodies, and the sight of the grey maggots squirming in the corpse of a much decomposed cat made him want to throw-up his breakfast of rum and sweet potato. Meanwhile, a squeaking rat splashed through the smelly puddle of piss and rainwater that stood outside in the corridor. It was stagnant and the ammonia it gave off made Creeper’s eyes sting and water as much as his heart throbbed painfully. The constant drip-drip of water from the holey roof and the tinkle as it fell into the overflowing pool was slowly driving him mad.

He reached into his pocket; with a shaking hand, he pulled out a dirty kerchief and clasped it to his mouth. He staggered over the narrow door, which was made of solid wood. It had barely been wide enough to admit him, but was sturdy enough to support his weight as he leant against it. The moon shone in a little through a gap between two tiles in the roof, and Creeper lifted his tarnished watch to it, straining to see what time was ticking past on the cracked face.

It was very late and was later still when a sliver light reached under the door, bringing the sound of feet with it. Creeper, who had been nodding off, straightened quickly, but was not the only inmate to realise that somebody was coming.

“Water!”

“Bread!”

“Please, I’m innocent-!”

“My children! Think of my children-!”

The air grew hotter as the dull people came to life with cries and the banging of their fists on the doors and walls. Creeper found himself pushed back as his gang rushed forward.

“Guard!” They cried, thumping the door, “Guard!”

The smuggler gulped down a mouthful of hot air, which did nothing to quell his rolling stomach. The atmosphere grew closer and the noise blocked out all sound of the approaching man; only the light got stronger until it was nearly blinding after a night in the dark.

A key on a ring jangled and then the door opened, nearly piling his grotty comrades into the whiffy water.

“Ged back!” The guard bellowed, “I said ged back!”

It was the large Negro from earlier. His left hand was full of a belaying pin and the key as his right held the flickering lantern aloft; silence fell all around him as Creeper wondered whether the man had been purchased from a circus.

“My masder said one of you dogs ‘ad useful news. ‘Oo wad it?”

His accent was strong but it made him no less fierce when he dealt with the wash of sweat and men that came at him. The desperation to be freed was palpable.

“You!” The guard jabbed a thick finger at Creeper, who stood away from his cowering comrades, “Come wid me!”

Creeper came forward and let himself be manacled. He flinched when the cell door slammed shut, and scrunched his face up as he was dragged by the scruff through the dark gaol.

It seemed to be full of people suffering with consumption; their violent coughing was everywhere, infecting the cellblock, as more sobbed and bemoaned their imprisonment. His manacles chaffed his skin and the spiral staircase was so narrow that his shoulders scraped against the rough, slimy stone. The ground floor of cellblock, which resembled a castle keep, was, he found, more spacious than the hastily added upper floor. A large number of women were locked up in a quantity brick cages with barred fronts; none of them appeared to be older than their thirties as they stared, bruised and dirty, at the passing pair.

“Dis way,” the Negro ordered, and Creeper found himself thrust through an open door and into a square atrium lit by a wooden chandelier. The walls had been freshly plastered and painted a nauseating puce colour, almost like the jaded jacket one of the women by the oak lectern was wearing.

Creeper grimaced to look at her. She was swarthy and short and had apparently pawned her stays, for her flabby breasts were outlined beneath her threadbare dress. It had not done her any good, however, as she tried to strike a bargain.

“My daughter’ll pay!” She exclaimed loudly, “She’ll bring the money!”

“I fear not,” replied the man who was sitting behind the lectern, his bulbous nose buried in a huge leather-bound ledger, “however, if what yer say is true, I’ll send a man ter the Calico Cat to get the £5 from yer daughter.”

He leered, and it was a terrible sight.

“Take ‘em away,” he waved at the big guard holding them, “put them upstairs, then go and look for a Mrs Turner at this brothel in Liguanea.”

The guard sneered at the women and dragged both the old whore and her vague looking sister away into the darkness. His boss threw down his quill as the door shut, and fixed his yellowed eyes on Creeper and the Negro.

“Is this the man, Rafe?” He asked in his gravelly voice.

Cassius Deadman was a fugly man. The midwife had nearly drowned him at birth before his father had stopped her, and his mother, who was normally a rational woman, had exclaimed that she must have had some god-awful nightmare whilst with child. However, she had quite clearly forgotten about it, except when she looked at her first child from her second marriage. He personally believed that she was being a tad extreme, for his younger sister, whose own birth was late because of the horror left over from his, was not a looker either.

He resembled a blighted potato. His skin was jaundiced and mottled and scabby and his eyes bulged as though he had been hung at some point but without any luck. He was going bald on top, which gave him a tonsure and made him look like some misplaced monk as he scowled at Creeper.

“Dis is,” Rafe replied, shaking the smuggler a little and pushing him forward slightly.

The gaoler eyeballed him.

“What’s yer name?”

“Joseph Stoner, sir,” Creeper replied hastily, “I was arrested this morn-”

He shut up quickly and stared at the old flagstone floor when he caught sight of the expression that Deadman was wearing. The latter flipped through his ledger, and read out, “Joseph Stoner, former overseer on the Belmont Estate from where yer stole a horse. Yer charged with fencing and smuggling an’ horse theft.”

He looked up and leered.

“The punishment’s death fer all of ‘em.”

Creeper swallowed and tugged on his cravat, which felt tight all of a sudden. He was sweating under the heat of the chandelier, and a glance at his hand alerted him to how pale he had become. He looked around desperately and found four doors. The one on his left led back into the cellblock, and the one on his right was wide open; warm, summer air blew in. He did not know where the door in front or the one behind went, but they were heavy and bolted shut.

“Well?” Deadman intruded, “What d’yer ‘ave ter say fer yourself?”

Creeper mouthed. His throat had suddenly gone dry.

“I provide this island with a valuable service!” Deadman barked, “By runnin’ this place an’ hangin’ people like you, an’ if yer don’t talk now, yer’ll swing with the rest of yer scummy lot tomorrah!”

The smuggler recoiled as the gaoler leant over the lectern and huffed his cider-laden breath all over Creeper. He stared back, swallowing, and glanced at the Negro that towered about him.

“Says ‘ere,” Deadman added, “That yer meant to be gibbeted fer the Dook of Powys ‘imself. Yer were ‘is man and then yer go and steal from ‘im.”

He tutted, but did not sound displeased. Indeed, he looked downright gleeful as he leant forward again, rolling like a human ball on his great belly, “So what yer got tell? If yer lie, I’ll order Telfer ter ferget the rope and cage yer alive!”

Creeper swallowed, and cried, “Please, sir! I speak nothing but the truth-the whole truth!”

He nodded earnestly but Deadman just sneered. His eyes filled with scathing as he said, “So, come on then. What tale d’yer ‘ave to tell me? Do you even ‘ave one?”

The other little man jumped in his too-big clothes as Rafe moved closer. The melted mass of tallow candles overhead flickered away in their wooden frame and threw Deadman’s face, with his undisguised syphilis lesions, into sharp relief.

“I have, sir,” Creeper breathed raggedly. He tried to be humble by stooping as he replied, “The very best news, sir.”

“Which is? ‘Ow I can believe you?”

The smuggler twitched, and stuttered, truly afraid, “Yer j-just will, s-sir.”

His breath caught in his throat as the gaoler glared distrustfully at him.

“Yer’ve been warned,” Deadman said at last, “lie and yer’ll be gibbeted alive, but if yer speak the truth…”

He tailed off tantalisingly, and Creeper, swallowing fearfully, glanced one last time at guard, who had knuckles the size of ripe conkers.

“I were camped in Negril with the rest of the gang when this ship appeared on the ‘orizon-this were just yesterday, at sundown. It were just business-some of ‘em came ashore, and the gang packed our stuff up, and took it out-”

“Stolen produce,” Deadman made an extra note in the ledger, “’Is Grace ‘as been complaining of thieves on ‘is land for a while now.”

Creeper swallowed, and resumed hastily, “The ship was moored about a mile offshore. It weren’t yer normal pirate ship-that I saw immediately-”

“Yer sure they were pirates?” Deadman fixed him with a piercing, shrewd look.

“Yes, sir,” Creeper nodded avidly, “there were a Jolly Roger at the top of their mast-”

There was a loud rustling noise as Deadman pulled out a clean sheet of paper and poised his dripping quill above it.

“Well, what did it look like, man?”

The smuggler started, and babbled, “It were a bit too dark ter see-”

Rafe shifted behind him, and Creeper quickly reeled off a detailed description.

“Satan’s balls,” Deadman breathed after a minute or so of frantic sketching, “it’s…”

He looked sharply at Creeper, and demanded, “Are yer sure this is what yer saw?”

The other nodded frantically, adding, “It wasn’t no ordinary pirate ship either-yer learn what sort they ‘ave, in smuggling, but this weren’t no sloop, brigantine or even schooner. It looked more like a man o’ war, ter me-”

He suddenly rued leaving his job as an overseer as the ugliest man alive turned to him with fire in eyes and a greedy twist to his mean mouth.

“What else?” He demanded, quill in hand.

“The figurehead was a horse painted black, and I met the leader when I went aboard,” Creeper answered weakly, “an’ ‘e were scarred like a Negro’s back-”

Rafe moved again, but his master waved at hand at him irritably.

“It were Storm, I’m sure o’ it. ‘E’s a nasty bit ‘o work-broke one of ‘is men’s nose just then, an’ ‘e’s a blackguard who wouldn’t even pay a market price fer that fruit-”

“Stolen as it was,” Deadman butted in drily. He seemed to be in thought, which looked painful for him.

The Negro moved closer to the gaoler, and said in low but carrying voice, “’E’s on about a pirate, sir.”

“I know, Rafe!”

The latter looked unperturbed and added, “Captain Pickering said they’d give us ten guineas fer every pirate-yer could still get some money for ‘is words, sir-”

“Or be cast out penniless if that dog’s a tale spinner!” Deadman snapped.

He glared at Creeper.

“Where’s ‘e gonna make berth next?” He demanded.

Creeper hesitated.

“’E was going out into the Windward channel, sir, so I suppose ‘e was on ‘is way inter the Bahamas-”

“And that legendary pirate fortress where they gamble away their gold an’ drink until they can’t sail fer a week?”

The gaoler did not sound entirely disbelieving.

“Prolly, sir,” Creeper shrugged warily, “but the Bahamas is dangerous to pass through unless yer know where. ‘E’s prolly after more-”

Deadman waved at him to shut up, and after staring at his ledger for a moment, muttered, “There’s a patrol ship berthed at Spanish Wells…”

He quickly shook his head and looked blackly at the prisoner.

“No boat’d get there in time,” he concluded unhappily, before sighing and saying a little grudgingly, “yer story’s good, Stoner, but we’ll see. Yer’ll be returned ter yer cell fer now an’ if it turns out that yer spoke the truth, yer’ll be freed-but if not-!”

He glowered dangerously and left his sentence hanging like a dead man. He jerked his head at Rafe, who took Creeper by the arm and dragged him back into the dark.

“Please sir!” He cried out, as he teetered on the threshold, “I have a wife and nine children in St Ann’s Bay, and they depend on me-please sir, might I ‘ave the fer ‘em? The little ones-!”

He affected a puppy dog look that shattered when Deadman roared indignantly, “Yer’ll get not a penny! That money’s fer the Dook ter reimburse ‘im!”

Creeper crumpled even more, and silently cursed to himself as he reluctantly turned around.

“But if that pirate’s caught,” Deadman then said, “and it’s Storm, yer’ll get the five hundred guineas due fer yer service-an’ a pardon.”

He seemed unhappy at both but nevertheless waved at Rafe, who began leading Creeper off again.

“Thank you, sir!” The cried out, and not with false relief and glee. He looked into the cellblock with a buoyed heart, and stopped again when the light fell on a girl with dark hair and a tattered dress.

“Wait!”

He ground his boot-heels into the stone floor, staring as if possessed at the girl in the cell. She was not very old, and was dirty as she held out her emaciated arms in search of bread and mercy.

“What?” A diminutive silhouette appeared in the doorway, sounding disgruntled.

“’E’s a little girl with ‘im!” Creeper called back as Rafe stopped walking, “Storm ‘as a little girl!”

“So what?” Deadman shouted back, annoyed and disinterested.

“The girl-her clothes were Spanish silk!”

He stared ardently at the shape in the doorway.

“She’s ‘is prisoner!”

He knew by instinct that he had struck some sort of gold, for Deadman suddenly stiffened as he realised something.

“She only spoke Spanish,” Creeper added, “but wasn’t harmed-”

“Pirates take prisoners all the time,” Deadman replied casually, as he tried to act that the news did not affect him, “it’s not new.”

And with that, he slammed the door shut.