Meanwhile death was busy among the starving hundreds thus huddled together. We saw every day hasty burials in the potter’s field. I wrote twice, with charred wood, on the half of a handkerchief, and threw it out of the window, but no good came of this; I suppose the sentries were too vigilant.
A turnkey took one of my guineas, promising to let my aunt hear of me. I saw him no more. As to Cunningham, he was either too drunk to care, or expected to make more out of our rations than by a bribe, and probably did not credit the wild promises of a ragged prisoner. At all events, no good came of our many efforts and devices, which were more numerous than I have patience to relate. From the beginning my mind was full of schemes for escaping, and these I confided to Delaney. They served, at least, to keep hope fat, as he said.
Early in December I began to have dysentery, and could eat no more, or rarely; but for Delaney I should have died. He told me, about this time, that the men meant to kill Cunningham and make a mad effort to overcome the guard and escape. It seemed to me the wildest folly, but they were grown quite desperate and resolute for something—all but the butcher, who sang obscene songs or doleful hymns, and sat dejected in a corner.
The day after I saw the little commissary clerk talking in the yard to Cunningham, and that evening this rascal appeared with two soldiers and carried off four of the dozen left in our room; for within a week several had died of the typhus, which now raged among us. The next morning the clerk was found dead, strangled, as I believe, in the night, but by whom we never knew.
I got over the dysentery more speedily than was common, but it was quickly followed by a burning fever. For how long I know not I lay on the floor in the straw, miserably rolling from side to side. The last impression I recall was of my swearing wildly at Delaney because he would insist on putting under me his own blanket. Then I lost consciousness of my pain and unrest, and knew no more for many days. I came to a knowledge of myself to find Delaney again caring for me, and was of a sudden aware how delicious was the milk he was pouring down my throat. What else Delaney did for me I know not, except that he found and cared for my money, and bribed the turnkey with part of it to bring me milk daily for some two weeks. But that we had hid the guineas for a while in the ashes of the fireplace, I should have lost this chance and have died; for one day Cunningham made us all strip, and searched us thoroughly.
About the end of January, Delaney, seeing me bettered and able to sit up a little, told me this strange story. While I was ill and unconscious, an officer had come to inspect the prison. Cunningham was very obsequious to this gentleman, and on Delaney’s seizing the chance to complain, said it was a pack of lies, and how could he help the dysentery and typhus? All jails had them, even in England, which was too true.
“I went on,” said Delaney, “to say that it was an outrage to confine officers and men together, and that Mr. Wynne and myself should be put on parole. The inspector seemed startled at this, and said, ‘Who?’ I had no mind to let a lie stand in your way, and I repeated, ‘Captain Wynne,’ pointing to you, who were raving and wild enough. He came over and stood just here, looking down on you for so long that I thought he must be sorry for us. Then he said, in a queer way, and very deliberately, ‘Will he get well? He ought to be better looked after.’ Cunningham said it was useless, because the surgeon had said you would be over yonder (pointing to the potter’s field) in a day or two.” Which, in fact, was his cheerful prediction. It was safe to say it of any who fell ill in the jail.
“This officer appeared puzzled or undecided. He went out and came back alone, and leaned over you, asking me to pull the blanket from your face. I did so, as he seemed afraid to touch it. You, my dear Wynne, were saying ‘Dorothea’ over and over; but who is Dorothea the Lord knows, or you. The officer, after standing a while, said, ‘it was a pity, but it was of no use; you would die.’ As for me, I told him that we were officers starving, and were entitled to better treatment. He said he would see to it; and that is all. He went away, and we are still here; but if ever—”
I broke in on Delaney’s threat with, “Who was the man?”
“Cunningham consigned me to a more comfortable climate than this when I asked him, and the turnkey did not know.”