Thomas and Miranda sit together in the upstairs parlor when it happens.
Peter adjourned to the study an hour past to read over Thomas' revised proposal should James' entreats to the Navy prove fruitless. Thomas hopes Peter can expand upon Thomas' ideas to make them still viable to the parliament's taste and approval. He does not want to give up yet despite the setback of the governor's murder. Surely, redemption can yet be attained for the pirates of Nassau? They are not all monsters despite the actions of a few. It could still work. Can they have come this far to fail now?
"You may have to accept the failure of this." Thomas looks at Miranda. She smiles in a grim way, clearly understanding his thoughts. "Progress is often unacceptable to men who hold to power and view that progress as a threat."
Thomas nods. "Does that mean we stop fighting for progress?"
"But for progress' sake?"
"Not for progress sake, for them." Thomas takes a sip of his wine. "For us."
Miranda opens her mouth to say something else then closes it again abruptly as they both hear the sound of rapid boots on wood from out in the hall. They turn together toward the far door to the parlor as it opens.
"Lord Thomas Hamilton." Thomas recognizes the group of men who enter as in the employ of his father. The one who spoke is called Rogers.
Thomas stands up. "What is the meaning of this?"
"We are hereby charged to take you into our custody."
"What?" Thomas and Miranda say at the same time.
Thomas hears her stand up behind him. Thomas glances back at Miranda who has an expression like dawning comprehension on her face. She shakes her head with a gasp. "Thomas…"
Thomas frowns and looks back the men. There are four of them and it is now that he notices one of them holds a set of manacles. He has to force himself not to take a step back.
"What is this about? Take me into your custody? Of what am I accused?"
Rogers holds up a folded piece of paper. "You are not accused, sir, you are judged."
"Judged?"
"You are to be committed to Bethlem Royal Hospital for crimes of gross indecency."
The floor seems to drop out from under Thomas. Behind him, Miranda makes a high quiet noise like pain. "This is ridiculous," Thomas says low and calm. "You are my father's men; you do not have the authority –"
"We do, sir."
One of the men steps forward and makes a move to grab Thomas' arm.
Thomas jerks away out of reach with a step back. "Do not touch me! This is absurd. My father –"
"Your father has brought this about. Your unnatural, profane behaviors must be paid for, a perversion of your mind only suitable for Bedlam."
"This is a pretense," Thomas insists. "My father cannot abide my political agenda running counter to his own. But to commit me?"
The men do not move from where they stand; do not stand down. Thomas wants to ask about James, fearful for what they might do, what they might be doing to him right now. He wants to run for the door but there is nowhere to go.
"This is unacceptable," Miranda says from behind him. "I will not allow you to take my husband anywhere."
Rogers, at the front of the gang, clearly in command, smiles in far too pleased a manner. "You have no choice, madam. Seize him."
The remaining three men move quickly, two grabbing Thomas by the arms almost before he realizes it. He tries to pull away but they are far stronger than he would have anticipated.
"Stop!" Miranda cries. She pulls at one of the men holding Thomas but he violently shoves her away so she knocks into the small wooden table between their chairs and falls to the floor with a cry, Thomas' glass of wine smashing into pieces.
"Leave her be!" Thomas snaps and struggles harder against the men holding him. "Unhand me!"
Peter suddenly appears from the study. "What in God's name is going on?"
"Lord Hamilton is overcome with grief at the knowledge of his wife's affair with Lieutenant McGraw," Rogers answers.
"What?" All three of them cry.
"Mrs. Hamilton and Lt. McGraw will flee this city, never to be seen again."
"What fiction is this?" Peter asks incredulously though the men pay him no mind.
"Stop this!" Thomas shouts, his panic attempting to get the better of him.
"And Lord Hamilton will be put away for his own safety." Rogers finishes as if Thomas and Peter have said nothing. Rogers smiles at Thomas in a hard way, with the knowledge of everything wrapped up into a perfect bow. Thomas the sacrificial lamb.
Suddenly things move very quickly. Thomas makes a renewed effort to pull free of his captors. The third man abruptly hits him hard on the head from behind. Peter rushes forward as Thomas feels himself falling. Miranda struggles to her feet, her skirts caught around her. Thomas hits the floor on his knees, feels blood on the back of his head. His vision clouds and he fights to keep from passing out. How hard did they hit him? Thomas struggles still, keeps thinking if he can just get away for a moment it will be close to even, three against four. Cold metal clamps around his one wrist and it sounds like the end.
Thomas' mind clears. He knows this is revenge, this is his father caring about power more than blood, hating Thomas as he as always hated him because they are not the same. This is his father ruining his life.
"Thomas!" Miranda's face fills Thomas' vision as she clutches at his hands, caught together now in the heavy manacles. "No! They cannot." She looks up. "You cannot do this!"
Thomas replays Rogers' words in his head 'Mrs. Hamilton and Lt. McGraw will flee this city,' which means James is not charged, convicted, or sentenced to hang. James is alive, he is all but free right now; James will live and Miranda can protect him.
"Miranda!" Thomas says desperately as the men try to pull him back to his feet. Her face snaps back to him. "Do not let him come after me!" Her face contorts in confusion. "Do not let James come after me, they will kill him!"
"We can't, we can't just leave you, Thomas!"
"They will kill him!" Thomas hisses urgently. The men's hands grip tighter, pulling back as though they will simply drag him across the floor. "No matter what happens next, take care of each other." They yank him up again so the manacles bite and his head stabs with the wound they caused but he is back on his feet once more, moving away from her.
Peter holds Miranda fast against himself as tears fall down her face. "No…"
"Please!" Thomas cries as they haul him toward the doors. "Promise me!"
"I promise… oh god, I promise!"
They reach the doors, the sound of hinges and wood scarping loud in Thomas' ears. He sees Miranda shove Peter away from her with an anguished cry then the heavy wooden doors slam shut in front of him.
Once the men drag Thomas outside his house, he has barely a minute to register the change in the air and mixed smells of London before they shove him in the back of a metal locking cab of the kind which ferry criminals. He thinks wildly how absurd such precautions are until he remembers that is what he is now, a prisoner, a criminal. The door locks and the cab trots quickly down the road. Thomas finds himself gripping the bars on the small back window watching his house recede from view. When they pause at a cross street, urchins from the corner come and look up at him, pointing and yelping to each other. Thomas pulls back into the recesses of the cab. He sits on the floor, keeping his back to the wall to ease some of the bumps and jolts of the cab with no usual soft seat to protect him from the uneven streets. He reaches with his manacled hands to feel the wound on the back of his head. His hands come away with spots of blood.
"Bastards," he mutters to himself.
After some time of travel with Thomas sliding about the cab and trying his best not to add injury to his person, the cab slows. Thomas hears the sound of a metal gate. He pulls himself back up to his knees so he may peer out of the barred side windows. As they pass through, he sees the wrought iron gate of Bedlam. From the side he looks out, he sees one of the statues which caps the column on one side of the gate. He remembers when Bedlam was rebuilt at Moorgate reading about the artist's renditions of the two states of the lunatic.
"Raving madness," Thomas whispers as he watches the twisted face of the statue pass by as the cab moves on.
He tries not to think things about symbols preceding reality. They drive by a manicured lawn, open with some trees and clearly never touched except to keep it trimmed. Then they pass through another gate and wall where Thomas sees people walking. The people wear simple clothes, some clearly ragged, dirty and Thomas realizes they are patients. It is in that moment that it truly hits home where Thomas has found himself.
The cab turns and stops with the tall, imposing edifice of Bethlehem Royal Hospital waiting beside it. The back of the cab clangs open and Thomas turns to Rogers waiting for him.
"We are here, my lord."
Rogers pulls Thomas from the cab. Two of the goons from earlier flank Thomas on either side while Rogers takes the lead. It seems all so unnecessary, so ridiculous. Do they think Thomas could run now with two sets of walls and gates behind him, with manacles on his wrists? Once they reach the stairs, the men grip his arms and walk him up through the door. Inside they meet a man who Thomas assumes must be the head of the hospital or some other high ranking doctor by the deference Rogers pays him.
"Mr. Thomas Weston, as Lord Alfred Hamilton wrote to you of earlier." Rogers steps to the side and holds out his hand to indicate Thomas. "His son, Thomas Hamilton."
"Ah yes," Weston looks down at some papers in his hand. "Extreme grief to the point of hysteria."
"I am Thomas Hamilton," Thomas says causing Weston to look up in surprise. Did he think Thomas could not speak? "And this fiction is of my father's making."
Weston raises his eyebrows once then looks at his papers again. "Due to his wife's affair I see."
"Do I appear hysterical?" Thomas says, trying to appeal to this man's rationality. Certainly, a doctor must only wish to attend to patients with real disorders. "This is a sham."
"No indeed, sir," Weston replies curtly, stepping closer. "My report does detail your father's story of your hysteria but we both know the real reason you are here."
"Politics is more dangerous than one might expect," Thomas says with derision.
"No, Lord Hamilton." Weston clasps his hands over the documents regarding Thomas low by his waist. "You are here because you are a sodomite." Thomas breathes in deeply but does not break their eye contact. "Your father would wish to spare your family such a mark in our registers, such a shame, but we are not ill informed here and we shall treat you accordingly."
"This is a sham," Thomas repeats but the look on the Weston's face tells Thomas there is no turning back now.
The man turns to two staff members dressed in gray. "Take him to Dr. Blake for his physical." He nods at Rogers. "Thank you sirs."
New hands grab Thomas' arms as Rogers flashes one final triumphant smile at Thomas on his way toward the front door. Thomas opens his mouth to protest, to try and tell Weston that this is a power play, this is politics, but Weston has walked down the hall without a backward glance.
"Wait –"
"Come along, sir," one of the staff members says. "Do not waste the Steward's time."
"Waste his –"
"You're lucky he even saw you," the other staffer says gruffly. "Your family must pay well."
"Yes..." Thomas says weakly. His father would pay well and money, as Thomas knows, speaks louder than almost anything.
They trio walks down the hall past offices. Lunatics roam the halls around them, most looking vacant and ill, several naked. Thomas spies one man taping his head against the wall in a rhythmic pattern.
"Should you not stop him?" Thomas asks as they pass.
"He'll only be at it again once we leave," the man on his right says, "why bother?"
Then they turn a corner and suddenly shove Thomas through a door. A man stands up from a desk without a word and begins poking and squeezing at Thomas. He grips Thomas' arm, makes an 'hmm' noise then looks up into Thomas' eyes, nodding. He grips Thomas' chin and tires to look into his mouth. Thomas pulls his head away but one of the men who brought him to the room roughly grabs both sides of his head so the man, who Thomas assume to be the physician, can stare into his mouth.
"Better teeth than most, a parliament son no doubt, an Earl maybe?"
"Not an Earl," Thomas retorts.
The doctor chuckles once as he walks around Thomas, pulls at his hair briefly, then grips one of Thomas' hands, turning it over. "Sound bones, very healthy." He walks over to his desk, picks up a pen from its ink well then write a few notes. He looks up again. "He should endure the treatment well enough."
"'Endure the treatment?'" Thomas repeats with surprise.
"Accepted," the doctor continues, not really looking at Thomas. "I see the family has paid for a proper bed and clothing; see him attired and put away."
"Now, wait..."
"The hair, sir?" the man on Thomas' left asks, none paying attention as Thomas speaks.
The doctor purses his lips at Thomas. "It is short enough, the hair stays for now."
"For now?"
"Off with you," the doctor says and Thomas' arms are grabbed once more as he is pulled backward out of the office.
They lead him down the white hall, high windows above them, and into another room.
"All right then," one of the orderlies says, "new clothes for you." He starts to pull at Thomas' coat. "Shirt, breeches… what about his shoes?"
"Now wait a moment!" Thomas retorts, trying to pull away.
"Do we have any shoes for him?" The other orderly continues. "So tall would have big feet, yeah?"
The first orderly keeps tugging at Thomas' coat, pulling it off him despite Thomas' protests. "Breeches might not fit him either."
"Then leave me my own clothes!" Thomas retorts.
Both orderlies laugh at Thomas then. The second orderly starts on Thomas' waistcoat buttons. "Wouldn't matter if they are short on him anyhow."
"Stop it!" Thomas shoves himself back, toward a low table in the room. "If you insist upon this I can change my own clothing!"
The two men stare at him for a moment. Thomas wonders oddly if they actually heard what he said. Then one of them throws the pile of white cloth in his hands at Thomas. Thomas catches them, a shirt and breeches. The cloth is linen, coarse, but they appear to be new. Apparently his own stockings and shoes will do, unless they mean to take them and leave him none?
"Suit yourself then, sir." The orderly's tone is obviously sarcastic. "Give you two minutes then we do it ourselves."
The two men turn to the side, looking away, but they do not leave the room. Thomas stands still for a moment. He cannot decide which thing to be more upset over. Then he breaks himself out of his stupor and removes his clothing quickly, pulling on the linen. He somehow knows that the 'two minute' allowance is not an idle threat. Thomas folds his own clothing into a neat pile and places it on the worn table behind him. He sees a cabinet in the corner, the door ajar and more white linen stacked on shelves.
"Right, let's find your cell."
One of the orderlies grips Thomas arm and pulls him back toward the room's exit. They walk back down the hall then up some stairs onto the second level. The smell instantly becomes worse. London itself carries with it a smell most full time residents become accustomed to. However, the smell of filth and shit, the unwashed man and decay, wafts over Thomas unmistakable. He gags for a moment as the trio continues to walk.
They pass by cells, the doors hanging open with a man each inside. Thomas notices some of them chained to the wall. One man lies face down on his bed clearly talking to himself. Another man paces back and forth, pulling at the short hairs on his head. He sees another staring straight at them through the door, not really seeing them, unmoving on the stone floor. A deep sense of pity and horror starts to fill Thomas' gut.
Suddenly a man screams behind them. They three of them turn as one. Thomas sees a man with a light beard and only a long dressing gown with holes in it run from his room, knocking into the walls.
"That man is –" Thomas starts.
"You got him?" the one orderly asks the other.
The second man sighs, lets go of Thomas, then hurries after the running patient.
"Come on," the remaining orderly says, turning Thomas down the hall and suddenly into one of the cells. "This is you."
Thomas stares around the room. A low, wood frame bed sits in one corner under a small window with a wire grill over it. In the opposite corner sits a small chamber pot. Apart from these two furnishings, the room is empty.
"This is…" Thomas cannot finish the sentence.
"Sleep there, shit there…." the orderly says needlessly. "Heh, lucky you got sheets. Anyway, we'll come round again for meals and your treatments."
"Treatments?" Thomas asks but the man already leaves the room.
The cell door remains open; no one comes in to ask him anything, to tell him anything. Thomas turns back to the room. He steps over to the bed and touches the sheets, the same linen he wears though the bedding does not appear to be straw as he feared. He turns in place, looking at the stone walls, the cracked chamber pot, the small window. A line of water drips from one section of the wall. He feels suddenly colder than the autumn weather. His breathing increases, wanting to come faster, to run away from him. Can this truly be happening?
Thomas receives some meager broth and bread for supper, which he manages to choke down, stiff and alone on his bed. The door to his cell closes and locks when they return for his bowl. Thomas has to clench his teeth together tightly to keep from screaming.
He lies on his hard bed, the one thin sheet over him and stares at the ceiling as the light fades. He hears the skittering of rats somewhere near; he finds himself turning to check the floor constantly. He hears moans, the occasional scream, from the cells around him. He wonders at the poor wretches confined here for a time until it begins to sink in that he is a poor wretch now too.
It is not until the next morning that he actually speaks to someone again.
"Thomas Hamilton?"
Thomas stands up as Dr. Blake from his admission waits in the door. "Yes."
"Well, we had best start straight away on your treatments."
"I do not think that is necessary," Thomas starts. "If you would allow me, I am not mad. This… sequestering me away here by my father is –"
"For you own good, Thomas," the doctor interrupts. "You will be calmed here. Your inappropriate proclivities can be purged from your mind here. We have many methods."
"No," Thomas says. "I am not some raving madman, not the hypochondriac or the –"
"Eccentric?" He raises both eyebrows. "Not a sodomite?"
Thomas shuts his mouth suddenly then takes a deep breath. "You have no proof of that. I will speak to a magistrate. The courts must –"
"Enough talk, Thomas, we must begin." The doctor turns out of the room as an orderly suddenly grips Thomas' arm.
"Stop." Thomas yanks his arm back. "If you would simply listen to what I say!"
"No fuss!" The orderly snaps. "You will listen to the doctor." He grips Thomas by the arm again, hard and tight this time so Thomas hisses in surprised pain.
The man pulls him from the room, back down the hall toward the first floor. The ceilings rises higher again, the light more piercing, and Thomas has to squint, not realizing how much darker his cell had been. Then they take him into a room with rows of tubs. He sees two men already submerged in water. At the far end of the room, he sees a larger apparatus built around one tub which allows for a flow of water to cascade over the man in the tub. Thomas hears, what he did not notice before, a low groan of pain from the man under the flow.
"We shall start with two cold baths a week until winter," the doctor says to the orderly, "as well as purgatives. We can start with balancing the humours. I shall check on your progress in a week."
Then the doctor turns and walks away from the pair of them, back down the rows.
"Wait!" Thomas calls and starts to walk after him. "I would speak to you. This is not –"
Then the orderly grabs Thomas' arm and pulls him back. "No, Thomas, leave the doctor be. He has more patients to see." He talks as if to a child. "This bath here is yours."
Thomas stares at the man. "I do not need…"
The man pulls at Thomas' shirt but Thomas steps backward. "Stop! I am not climbing into that tub and you need not handle me so."
"Thomas, we need your clothes off. You wish to be wet all day?"
"What?" Thomas scoffs and looks around for someone else to appeal to. He cannot understand why they will not listen to him.
"Come now." The man begins to try and take off Thomas' shirt again.
Thomas shoves his hands away. "Stop!"
Then the man backhands Thomas across the face. Thomas gasps in surprise, stumbling once. The man yanks Thomas' shirt over Thomas' head quickly while Thomas still blinks in shock. His teeth hurt from the blow and he finds himself clutching one hand at his cheek.
"Are you going to behave?" the man asks.
"You cannot do this…" Thomas retorts but his voice has lost some of its fire. This man will not listen to him.
The orderly forces Thomas out of his breeches and small clothes, then manhandles him naked into the tub. Thomas steps one foot in and cannot stop a gasp at the frigid water as he eases down. The orderly dunks him under once then Thomas breaks the surface again, sputtering and shivering.
"Freezing…" he mutters.
"It calms the mad nerves," the orderly explains.
"Calms?" Thomas says incredulously, his body shaking now.
Thomas tries to stand up, get out of this ice bath, but the orderly puts on a hand heavy on this shoulder. "Not yet, Thomas."
The man forces Thomas to sit in the cold for what feels like an hour. Thomas' legs start to numb, then his arms. He feels his mind fogging with the cold. Perhaps this is what they mean by calming? He blinks over and over, tries to recall speeches from Parliament to keep his mind sharp. Yet all he can concentrate on is the fog and some memory of snow.
"Up now, Thomas, there we go."
When he realizes he stands on the stone floor again, the orderly is already pulling Thomas' shirt back over his head and rubbing a towel briefly over his hair.
"I am…"
"You are back to your cell, or around the halls, come now."
They walk back toward Thomas' room, his movements slow what with his circulation catching up. Thomas understands the glassy look in some of the other patients' eyes now.
"There we are."
Thomas looks up at what must be his cell as the pair of them stop at the open door. Thomas cannot tell the difference yet except that this cell is empty. He turns to ask the orderly about the doctor again but the man already walks away.
"Sir, wait!" Thomas tries but he does not turn back.
Thomas is unsure what he is to do. Most patients appear to stay in their cells but some others he notices wandering the wide hall. Will no one stop him? Thomas turns and walks down the hall, some of the feeling returning to his limbs with each step. Each cell he passes bears the same features as his own in varying states of filth. Some beds have sheets, others to do not, some men are clothed, some in rags and even some naked. Few of them seem to notice or care about his presence as he passes.
He reaches a more open area, a few men looking out of windows. Thomas steps next to one.
"Pardon me…"
The man glances at him then back at the window.
"I am Thomas Hamilton, might I…"
The man turns and walks away from Thomas. Thomas considers following him but he has no idea the nature of the man's madness. He sighs and walks further down. He notices the man from yesterday who continuously knocked his head upon the wall. He continues to do the same beside one window. Thomas sees blood on the stone. He stops next to the man.
"Please stop," he says, "you are hurting yourself."
The man, dressed only in breeches, continues to tap his head on the stone. He does not slam it hard but he clearly has not stopped in some time. Thomas sees a bruise on his forehead leading up into his hair. Thomas reaches up and puts his hand against the stone where the man hits his head. He knocks his head against Thomas' palm twice then stills.
"There," Thomas says quietly. "You may stop."
The man blinks dully for a moment then his eyes tick up to Thomas. A low guttural sound starts to emanate from the man. Thomas frowns as the sound grows louder, not a groan but nor is it a scream. He stares at Thomas, the sound growing louder, until Thomas pulls his hand away and backs up a step. The man turns back to the wall and starts tapping his head against it again. Thomas watches him for a minute, the dull thud of his head against the stone causing Thomas' stomach to churn.
He steps away then turns down the hall toward his cell. He stops at one of the cells near his own. The man inside sits on his bed, clothes somewhat dirty but not in an obvious state of disrepair as some.
"Sir?"
The man looks up at Thomas. "Yes?"
Thomas smiles, pleased at someone genuinely replying to him. "I am Thomas Hamilton."
"Aye?"
"I have just arrived here and I find myself confused."
The man laughs. "Because you are mad? That does cause confusion, doesn't? Confusion is the mad."
Thomas clears his throat. "Not that, nor am I mad."
"Then why are you here?" The man tilts his head. "It's a madhouse."
Thomas purses his lips. "I might ask you the same, sir."
The man laughs again. "Oh, never said I wasn't mad but staying here long enough will make you plenty mad, I'll say. But if you're asking, seems I like a drink or two much more than they'd like and that makes me mad."
Thomas frowns. "That makes you an alcoholic."
"And you? Look too fine as now but they'll wring that out of you."
"I wanted to ask –"
"Just go on, you'll learn soon enough. I can't tell you nothing. None of it makes sense!" The man snaps, kicking the wall. "You get on!"
Thomas puts up a hand to placate the man's shouts. "I only wish to know about their treatments, what am I –"
"Leave me alone!" The man shouts again. "Think you'll learn something, think it'll make sense? Get on!"
Thomas backs up and leaves as the man asks, walking toward his own cell. He does not know what else he might do. Thomas sits back on the bed in his cell. He watches water drip down the wall. He stands on his bed and looks out of his small window. He tries to think of a plan, a way to end this ridiculous confinement. The doctors may know about him, about his private passions, but what evidence do they have; they have only his father's word, his suspicions. His father is a powerful man but he is not above the law. If Thomas could appeal to the courts, they could find the truth in his sanity and release him. However, they could also hang him.
It is not until after his mid-day meal of bread and something like meat – no breakfast to be had – that his orderly, by the name of Smith another patient tells him, returns.
"You have as emetics session, Thomas, time to go."
Thomas frowns, hanging on the word 'emetics' and how many meanings it could involve. "I am well; I do not need any 'session.'"
The man crosses his arms and walks into the cell toward Thomas. "Do I need to drag you, eh?"
Thomas stares at him for a beat then stands with as much dignity as he can manage. He walks around Smith and waits just outside the door. "Well then?"
Smith smiles, walks out and grips Thomas' arm again despite Thomas' ability to walk well on his own. He leads Thomas down to the first floor again, past the bath room and into another room with chairs and cabinets against the wall. He deposits Thomas into one chair. Another man walks over to Thomas, a glass of some dark liquid in his hand.
"Thomas?"
Thomas nods. "Yes?"
"Good." He holds out the glass, which Thomas takes. "You are to drink this." He picks up a tin pail and slides in forward in front of Thomas. "You will need this."
"What is it?"
"A pail."
Thomas frowns. "How witty."
"Drink it. It will help to balance out the noxious humours."
"What is it?" Thomas asks again.
"Drink it or I'll have to make you," Smith says from behind Thomas.
Thomas glances at Smith behind him then back to the glass in his hand. He would imagine they would not poison him. So Thomas takes a reluctant sip of the liquid. It tastes foul and he gags for a moment. He shakes his head but the man keeps watching him, so Thomas quickly chokes down the rest of the liquid. Then the man reaches out and quickly snatches the glass away from Thomas. Thomas frowns in surprise but before he wonders more, his stomach clenches. Thomas groans, bends in half and heaves into the pail laid before him. He grips the edge of the pail, gasping, heaving again until he thinks he might throw up blood. His stomach seizes still, feels like stabbing and Thomas reconsiders the idea of poison. Perhaps it is fortunate they fed him little, as there was less to void.
Finally Thomas is able to sit up again and speak. "What was that?" Thomas pulls in another deep breath. "Why would you give me that?"
"To balance the humours, as I said." The man looks over Thomas' head. "Smith?"
"Yes, sir." Smith slides Thomas' chair back from the vomit filled pail then grips his arm. "Come along."
He pulls Thomas up from the chair. Thomas almost snaps about his own ability to stand but finds himself weaker than he would expect as he rises. He feels lightheaded, swaying for a moment so he must lean on Smith. Then Smith walks them both away and out of the door.
Back on the second floor, Smith leaves Thomas in his cell, depositing him on his bed. Thomas breathes in and out, his stomach still queasy. He focuses on breathing, just breathing.
When night falls, he lies on his bed again – stiff, his back aching, an itch he cannot place as either the fabric of his clothes or perhaps insects. He watches the light change from a setting sun to a rising moon at his window. He finally allows himself to think of James. Will he listen to Miranda? Are they already gone, escaped and safe? Thomas breathes in slowly to keep the sorrow at bay. He had only just regained James again from his ocean to now have lost him once more. Thomas was only able to touch his hand, to see him in public and not in private. He was not given a last kiss; not allowed to hold James in his arms. Not much more than a day has passed and here Thomas lies alone, caged, condemned with Miranda and James far from him.
"Feels like twice as long," Thomas says to the darkness.
The days start to form a pattern. Thomas receives his two meals a day, meat, broth, bread, milk pottage, little else. He receives their so called treatments, two or sometimes more a day. He sits in freezing bathtubs, sometimes with ice clustered around him. They force him to drink stinking liquid which he vomits up again or worse. He lies each night on his hard bed unable to sleep only in small amounts; the bed pains him, the sounds of human suffering or rats crawling or dripping water wake him. He feels weaker each day and must force himself to walk around the space of his cell or in the halls so he does not turn incapacitated. He flinches at the filth – dirt and excrement and simple neglect. He knows he has been pampered by his status but the state he lives in now proves to be a perfect opposite.
Visitors sometimes tour the hospital, peering into cells, laughing at what they see. Thomas' door is always closed these days. Perhaps they fear he should attempt escape or be found too sane by the visitors? He sees men he knew, men from parliament, men who hardly recognize him now and the humiliation creeps under his skin despite Thomas' attempts to hold his head high.
Thomas finds himself staring out of his window as other patients do, looking at the small patch of green and dirt of one garden. He walks outside in the patient garden only seldom. It becomes a gift, the true sunlight without glass and mesh between him, the grass and gravel under his shoes. He finds it strange that the usual rank London air should smell sweeter what with the stench of inside Bedlam's walls.
The days turn into weeks with the same rounds of treatments which do nothing but break Thomas down. He stomach always clenches; it becomes difficult to eat with the knowledge he will lose it all soon. His clothing turns dirtier each day and he receives no others.
Every curative session Thomas asks, "May I speak to the doctor?"
Every time Smith or another man replies, "No."
Sometimes they do not even answer him, ignoring his words as if they were only mad ravings.
Thomas tries to talk to some of the other patients, to gain an ally or learn more about their own treatment. Most of the patients will not speak to him or make little sense.
Smith strikes him once when the man Thomas attempts to speak with begins screaming.
"Do not incite the other patients!" Smith commands him, blood at the corner of Thomas' mouth from the blow. "Don't think I won't chain you!"
Thomas has seen orderlies beating other patients, confining them to chains, even metal bars around their chest and neck so they cannot move. Can this be right? Should there not be a method more humane?
When Thomas objects, tries to come between a patient and a beating, the orderlies only throw him aside or repeat, "It is for their own good."
Thomas attempts to call on their reason, to show his own rationality.
"I am calm enough without this freezing water. Do you see me screaming or hitting my head upon the stone?"
"It is your treatment. Get into the water, Thomas."
He argues against the purgatives, the emetics. He tries to tell them they do nothing, they make him no better.
"If you think this is a cure I see no result." Thomas gestures to himself. "If anything you make me worse."
"It takes time, Thomas. Drink."
It starts to cause his teeth to grind, the use of his first name. He was never one for formality, for his title, to be touted as 'Lord Hamilton' by all. Yet here it is not a choice. Here he is 'Thomas' because he is their charge, because Thomas has sunk lower by their estimation. Thomas only needs his given name because he is sick, because he is mad.
After two months of endless days, nothing but weakness creeping over him more and more, he decides to put his foot down. He was not a member of the House of Lords, not a man who wished to pardon pirates and change a broken system, for lack of conviction. He is a man of ideals, a man of action and even in the lowest of places he can attempt to effect change, even be it just a benefit to himself for now.
The apothecarist Lewis, Thomas finally learned, holds out the usual drink but Thomas crosses his arms. "No."
Smith comes around his chair. "None of that, Thomas."
"No. I shall not."
"Yes, you shall," Lewis insists. "You must."
"I will not drink it. I have said it does nothing but cause me pain; it is no cure. I will not drink it."
Smith laughs. "Oh, you don't know pain yet, son."
Thomas frowns at Smith but stays fast, arms crossed. Lewis sighs, still holding out the glass. "If you do not drink it on your own, we shall force you."
Thomas shakes his head. "No. You will not."
Smith laughs then looks at Lewis. Lewis nods and Smith grips Thomas' arms suddenly, holding him tight against the chair.
"Wait, if you would –"
"Open your mouth," Lewis says as he moves close and grabs Thomas by the chin.
Thomas tries to turn his head away but Lewis forces it back, pushing the glass up to Thomas' lips. Thomas tries to pull himself out of Smith's grip, to twist away, but he has grown weak and Smith is strong. Lewis shoves the glass against Thomas' lips but he keeps his mouth shut.
"Come now," Lewis chides, "you've had it before."
"Here." Smith shifts one of his hands to cover Thomas' nose.
Thomas knows this will work; he will have to breathe eventually. However, having to put his hand on Thomas' face loosens Smith's grip on Thomas' arms. Thomas manages to pull one arm free, twists to the side and knocks the glass out of Lewis' hand so it shatters on the floor.
"Thomas!" Lewis snaps.
"All right." Smith hauls Thomas roughly out of the chair. He yanks Thomas to the side so his head collides with the cabinet. Thomas shouts in pain as the glasses inside rattle around.
"Careful!" Lewis snaps at Smith.
"Let's calm you down, eh?" Smith says as he pulls Thomas out of the room with Thomas' arms pulled tight behind his back.
Thomas tries to struggle. "Unhand me!"
Smith, however, does not reply, only pulls Thomas backward out in to the hall. He drags him down past men whose heads turn to watch them, clearly some sort of altercation. Then Smith pulls Thomas into the bath room down the line of tubs. He takes Thomas to the end of the room where the tub with the falling water waits vacant. Another orderly comes up alongside them as Thomas struggles.
"Trouble?"
"He needs a bit more calming."
"I do not," Thomas protests, "If you would only release me."
"Refused his medicine just now," Smith explains to the other man. "Broke a glass in fact."
"Right, strap him in."
Thomas' eyes widen. "I will not be put into that contraption. It does nothing but dull the senses. It is no cure."
"Calm now, Thomas."
Smith and the other orderly shove Thomas over the edge of the tub and push him down into the chair under the wooden spout. Thomas, however, has the benefit of height on both of them. He heaves forward with his shoulders so they stumbled off balance. Thomas manages to get one arm free and twists away from Smith.
He stands up again and half falls out of the tub, the other orderly still trying to control him. "I do not need this. I will not submit to it."
Smith comes back around the tub to grab Thomas' arm again. "Do not fight us!"
"I am not fighting. I simply ask that you listen to reason!"
The other orderly abruptly clocks Thomas in the jaw with his elbow. Thomas hears the crack and shouts in surprise, the pain acute. Then he feels a pinch on his shoulder. He turns to see Dr. Blake suddenly beside them pushing the plunger of a needle into Thomas' arm.
"Relax," he says.
Thomas opens his mouth to reply but his limbs turn to mush, his vision fogs and he falls.
Thomas wakes up in his cell with his wrists chained to the wall.
Dr. Blake stands in the doorway, papers and quill in hand. "This is most disappointing, Thomas."
"Why am I chained?" Thomas asks.
"You have turned violent, Thomas."
"Violent! I simply refused a useless treatment."
"Yes." The doctor looks up from his papers. "And we will not tolerate such behavior. Every patient here receives the same treatment. You are not excused."
"Nor am I 'cured' as you would say. I have nothing to cure. I do not require your treatments."
"We have decided to accelerate your treatments," the doctor continues as if Thomas' words went unheard. "We shall move on to bloodletting and other methods."
"Other methods?" Thomas parrots.
Dr. Blake only smiles. "Yes."
Two orderlies strap Thomas down on a bed in the doctor's office. They place a porcelain bowl under his arm and one of the orderlies waits with a small knife. They let his blood, a pint, perhaps more, until he lies weak, only blinking up at them. He hears the doctor talk of humours – black and yellow bile – of calming methods, of purging the psyche of unnatural behaviors but his concentrations wanes.
He asks oddly, "would you bleed me dry?"
They strap him down again and press hot metal to his skin, blistering and burning him. Thomas screams and struggles against the straps, smells the char of his own skin. He cries and asks them to stop but they continue speaking of pain bringing about restorative behavior.
Thomas thinks their actions only punishment, only pain, only a message to stop fighting back. He sometimes receives four treatments a day – blistering, vomiting, bathing, bloodletting – so by the time they drop him back on his bed and chain him to the wall again, Thomas sleeps from sheer exhaustion.
He shivers with the cold of winter, no warmer clothing or bedding to shield him. They shave his head and face talking of lice. He watches scars form in lines on his arms. He grows used to the presence of blood and scabs around his wrists or ankles.
If he tries to question anything now they simply beat him.
Thomas asks, "Why should you need to let my blood so often?"
The orderly with him, Jones today, smacks him across the face and shoves him down onto the chair. "Don't back talk now!"
Thomas asks, "Can we not have more food? A man cannot survive on broth alone."
The orderly who brought his meal, smacks Thomas back against the wall so his head cracks and he passes out without hearing a response.
When the doctor asks him, "Are you ready for your treatment today, have you had any of your unnatural sodomite desires since your last emetic session?"
Thomas replies, "You may call them unnatural but I have no shame."
Smith beats him three times with a short stick, snapping. "You should have shame!"
They lock Thomas in his cell every day now. They lock him in chains every hour he does not spend in treatment. Any protest or request he makes is ignored. He starts to fear the opening of his door.
He thinks of James. He thinks of James' cynicism, his surprise and disbelief at Thomas' plan for pardons to supposedly unpardonable men. Thomas wonders what James would say of this place? Would he have expected such violence in a place intended to ease suffering? Perhaps James would say it would be Thomas' folly to believe Bedlam meant to ease anything.
Thomas, because he can think of no other recourse, asks to speak to his father. "If you would give me paper and pen I could write him."
"And why would you need to speak to him?" Smith asks as they take Thomas to a cold bath once more now that winter fades.
"It was he who put me here, who felt I needed punishment. He can have me released; his revenge against me is done."
"Well now Thomas, see the doctor has spoken to your father."
Thomas stares in surprise as they pull at his clothing. "What?"
"His standing order is you're not to leave. We're to do what we can, what the doctor orders, but your father thinks you incurable." Smith steers him toward the tub. "In you get."
Thomas tells himself his father would not truly leave him here, not to such treatment, but another voice quickly replies, 'Of course he would. You are every disappointment he could have feared.' His father is glad to forget him.
Thomas realizes the monsters were never in Nassau, never on the seas, they were in London all along, in his own blood.
During the long hours locked in his cell alone, Thomas rereads Marcus Aurelius in his head. He dwells on Meditations, recalls his own voice reading out the words to James beside him.
"'When you arise in the morning think of what a privilege it is to be alive, to think, to enjoy, to love ...'" he whispers to the James who is not there.
"'You have power over your mind – not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.'" Thomas chuckles. "An apt sentiment when one is chained."
He finds the more he remembers, the more he reads the absent book, that the words feel hollow, privileged from a man who did not know such pain.
Marcus Aurelius wrote, 'The happiness of your life depends upon the quality of your thoughts,' which Thomas always thought true, right even, a sentiment to call a man to control the outlook and character of his life. Yet now as he sits in filthier clothes, in a darker room, pushed underwater, beaten, burned, ignored, how can his own thoughts improve his happiness when so much pain and sorrow grows tighter around him?
As the months drag on longer, five, six, the words become less and less distinct as he tries to remember each page.
"'It is not death that a man should fear…'" Thomas says to himself. "'But he should fear…' he should fear… imprisonment... a cage." Thomas shakes his head. "No… he wrote…" But Thomas cannot finish the line when there is so much to fear.
"Good morning, Thomas," says Dr. Blake as he comes through Thomas' cell door.
Thomas stays where he sits, motionless, non-threatening as if perhaps his inaction could allow him to disappear into the wall, unseen.
"What do you think of a purgative this morning?"
"No," Thomas says. "I am well."
"Are you?"
"Yes," Thomas repeats though he is anything but well.
"You are calm?"
"I am calm," Thomas replies though he is anything but calm.
He tries not to shiver, tries not to show the fear, the itching of his skin and the desire to run straight at the doctor, despite his chains, knock the man down and flee as far as he can. Thomas breathes in and out and waits as still as possible, close to the wall, waits for mercy or malice.
"Perhaps not today then, perhaps some solitude will calm you further, allow you to ponder on your unnatural thoughts and how you may atone."
"Yes," Thomas replies quietly, does not rise to the bait as he has in the past.
The doctor turns, walks back through the door and the turn of the lock sounds like church bells to Thomas' ears.
He wants to be brave, to keep his dignity and mind, but he cannot help the darkness of this place creeping inside him. When will this stop? When will he be free of this torture and fear? He wonders what could have possessed him to tell Miranda to stay away, to make her promise to keep James away? What idea of nobility or sacrifice could have made him believe he could survive this alone?
In his mind now a loop repeats – calling out to those he loves – 'Come save me. Save me. Save me. Save me.'