Mad Blood Stirring

by Simon Mayo

  ‘They’re mighty impressive,’ called Joe. ‘They run fast and box hard.’

  ‘Pugilism is all the rage in these parts!’ shouted Habs. ‘And if you can bet on it, we like it all the more. They just started, but there’ll be more fights, till the money runs out.’

  They stepped over four men propped up against a fifth, his eyes glazed and a bottle in each hand, then weaved their way between the card tables. ‘They’ll find me a mean contributor,’ said Joe.

  ‘Oh, you don’t need money. Your clothes’ll do just fine. You could trade that stylish hat of yours for many a round of Pitch and Toss. Over there.’ Habs pointed at a section of the wall where men were lined up, pitching coins. ‘Or you could trade provisions. Save your herring and potatoes, swap ’em for some games of Twenty-one.’

  All round them, dealers and gamblers hedged and shuffled, triumphed and failed.

  ‘It’s the Palais Royale of Dartmoor,’ said Habs, his voice dropping to a murmur. ‘This man here with the beaded queues’ – he indicated a man with a hand full of cards and an elaborately tied ponytail – ‘he has debts o’ twenty pounds or more. There’s talk that anyone with debts won’t be let home. He’s gettin’ desperate.’

  ‘Cobb warned us it could turn dangerous,’ said Joe.

  ‘Ha! Well, if it does, he’ll be the instigator of most of it. C’mon.’

  At the back wall, Ned and Sam sat at a table, clay pipes in hand. They took their time with the loading, lighting and kindling but, as Habs and Joe approached, great clouds of grey smoke billowed around them. Habs coughed theatrically.

  ‘I swear the cannons of the Bentham blasted less smoke than your goddamn pipes, Ned Penny. And you, too, Sam Snow. We ain’t gonna be able to read for the fumes.’

  Ned blew more smoke. ‘It’s a pitiful pipe and rank tobacco, too, but it’s better’n Sam’s fox piss. Besides, you rather stink o’ Craven pipe tobacco or unwashed sailors? Filthy bastards, all of ’em.’ He drew deeply on the lip and the bowl glowed red, the strands of tobacco catching and crackling.

  ‘And when I’m home,’ said Sam, pointing the long stem of his pipe for emphasis, ‘I’m gonna find me my father’s wood and metal pipes, some sweet smoke from Mount Vernon, and lie in my bed till three. And there’ll be no turnkeys, no British and nobody to tell me I can’t.’

  ‘Well, till that sweet day,’ said Habs, ‘here’s some readin’.’

  He placed the books on the table and Ned grabbed the one nearest him. ‘Are there enough?’

  ‘If we double up,’ said Sam, ‘we can perform most of it.’

  Joe placed his tricorn on the floor. ‘So you know the roles you’re playing? Is it always the same?’

  Ned laughed then coughed, small wisps of smoke shooting from his mouth. ‘Well, now, I read for Mercutio, Sam for Benvolio and Habs is Romeo, but kinda overdramatic.’

  ‘Enthusiastic and passionate’s what you mean, but I take your guidance, fair Mercutio.’ Habs bowed his head and Ned returned the gesture.

  ‘Have you read Juliet’s words before, Joe?’ asked Sam.

  ‘I read the whole play on my first ship.’

  There was a sudden flurry of feet, shouting and movement; Tommy the crier had arrived at speed. ‘King Dick is on the way!’ he managed, before a huge cheer rolled down from the far end of the cockloft. ‘Or should I say,’ he corrected himself, ‘King Dick is already here.’

  They all rose to watch.

  Standing by the boxing ring, the King was distracting the fighters so much they stopped moving altogether. The applause rolled around the cockloft, eventually picking up even the most incapacitated sailor.

  Joe, clapping heartily, leaned in close to Habs. ‘Looks like the men o’ Four liked what they saw this morning.’

  As the rest of the block heard the tumult, many more came rushing through the doors to join the applause. King Dick pushed the bearskin hat off his forehead, held his hands wide and turned his face to the ceiling.

  ‘Is he praying?’ asked Joe.

  ‘No, he’s actin’,’ was Ned’s whispered answer. ‘But it’s the same kinda thing.’

  After the ovation faded, it was the gamblers who picked up first, followed by the boxers. The King stayed to watch, calling out corrections and suggestions.

  ‘Will he want to join us?’ said Joe. ‘Was he a part of the Romeo and Juliet you were planning before?’

  ‘Was he a part of it?’ asked Sam, incredulous. ‘He’s a part of everythin’ round here. He’s a part of that boxin’ match, he’s a part of that card game. And the traders outside Four? He expects to be a part of their takin’s, too.’

  ‘He was playin’ the Count of Verona and Friar Lawrence and the Apothecary.’

  ‘All right.’ Joe nodded slowly.

  ‘Jus’ assume he’s the captain o’ every ship round here,’ said Ned. ‘New ship, ol’ ship, same captain.’

  ‘I get the picture.’

  Habs sat back at the table. ‘So. Let us begin.’ He handed one book to Joe, who sat opposite, and opened his own. ‘King Dick, he can join in when he gets to us. Tommy, sit with me. You can be Paris again.’ The crier sat and grinned across at Joe.

  ‘I learned to read here, Mr Hill,’ he said. ‘In Block One, they had advertisements for classes. There was writin’. Readin’. Maths. Navigation. It cost a whole shillin’ a month, but King Dick paid. Said I should do all of ’em. Now I’m the crier and in a play.’ This speech produced a round of applause of its own.

  ‘And what would your folks at home make of that?’ asked Joe, still applauding.

  Tommy’s face clouded in an instant.

  Joe realized his mistake. ‘Tommy, I’m sorry …’ he began, but the boy shook his head, wiping his eyes.

  ‘It’s all right, Mr Hill, really it is. I got no folks back home no more. That’s that. Can we do the play?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ said Habs. ‘Tommy, maybe you start?’

  The crier leaned over Habs’s book and was smiling again.

  ‘The Most Excellent and Lamentable Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet,’ he read.

  2.7

  The Agent’s House

  9 p.m.

  ELIZABETH SHORTLAND HADN’T changed for dinner, just removed her chemisette. She had known her husband wouldn’t notice and known, too, that Dr Magrath would think of nothing else. She spun an ornate wooden box between her fingers as she waited for her husband to stop speaking. Fuelled by fine food and brandy, he seemed just as upset by the peace as he had been by the war. Head in hands, he squeezed his hair high above his forehead.

  She fiddled with her place setting, flattening the lace cloth where it had ruffled over the mahogany table. She should engage in their conversation, of course – it was the hour for discourse and her participation had been hard won – but, tonight, she longed for her bed and her books. She stared at her husband, puffy-faced now and with a distinct list to starboard, and wondered what had happened to her dashing lieutenant. The man who, the month before they married, had captured an armed French brig from under the batteries of the Bay of Corréjou. She reached for her snuff.

  ‘I tell you this, George,’ spluttered the captain. ‘We have gained nothing. We have finished nothing. The treaty merely restores the status quo ante bellum. And for what, I ask you? We have lost countless ships, many thousands of men. For what, I say?’

  George Magrath paused before offering a measured reply.

  ‘Canada is secure, sir. All the invasions of her border were defeated. And the blockades worked, did they not?’

  Thomas Shortland poured himself another brandy then offered the bottle to his wife. She declined, and the Agent frowned.

  ‘You always say no these days, Elizabeth. You used to enjoy a Duret – will you not take a small one?’

  ‘I’m fine, Thomas, really. It gives me headaches,’ she said. ‘Has done for a while now.’

  Shortland swiftly returned to his war arguments and Elizabeth marvelled again at his blindness. Her losing intere
st in alcohol had coincided precisely with the start of her affair, and the affair had coincided precisely with her and Magrath working together. But her husband saw nothing, understood nothing. As the men talked of Castlereagh’s troop levels, she unscrewed the top of her box and tapped out a small portion of snuff.

  The action was enough to cause both men to look up. The Agent moved the conversation back to include his wife.

  ‘I hear there is an English boy in the new arrivals, Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘Might he fight for us if we get him out of here?’

  ‘I would think not,’ she said. ‘He’s an American now, Thomas. Besides, the war is done and they all think they will be home soon.’ She pinched the ground tobacco on the back of her hand. ‘Dr Magrath and I met the crew of the Eagle this morning. Spirits were high – they believe their war to be over. None of them will want to fight any more. Except perhaps against us, here.’ She raised her hand to her nose and in two well-practised, sharp inhalations, the snuff was gone.

  ‘So’ – she snapped the box shut, immediately dabbing at her nose with a lilac handkerchief – ‘will Congress ratify the treaty, Thomas? Do they not want to be rid of this war, too?’

  ‘I have my doubts, Elizabeth, I really do.’

  Shortland’s hair was now higher than ever. ‘What is stitched into all the flags in all the prisons here? What do you see written on the walls when you do your rounds, Dr Magrath?’

  ‘“Free trade and sailors’ rights” is the usual one,’ said the physician.

  ‘Precisely!’ cried Shortland. ‘They’ll get their trade, but there is nothing in Ghent about sailors’ rights, no mention of impressment. The first reason President Madison gave for the war was the Navy snatching Americans, forcing them to work on our ships. On this singular issue, the peace treaty is silent. I fear Congress may not ratify.’

  There was silence in the dining room. The men lit pipes and Elizabeth took to spinning her wooden box between her fingers.

  ‘In which case, Thomas, I fear for the future,’ she said. ‘There is an easier humour in the blocks since the announcement. In spite of the cold and the sickness, you can hear them sing most days. They dance, too, sometimes. They seem to have hope once more.’

  ‘Piffle,’ said Shortland. ‘They dance and sing because they are drunk. That is the end of it.’

  Dr Magrath eased his chair back and, clasping his stick, pushed his body upright.

  ‘If I may, Captain Shortland, I believe you are both correct. The gaiety is fuelled by alcohol, of course, but it may, in time, also fuel anger. And it will be us who are on the receiving end of that anger. Your militias may well come under extreme provocation. They need to be ready.’

  Shortland gripped his pipe between his teeth, inhaled deeply then blew smoke at the chandelier. His lips pursed.

  ‘I have lost Major Joliffe to the palsy, as you know. I have two guard commanders who are doing their best. We are all doing our best. Your advice on military matters is always … an education.’ He got to his feet and marched from the room.

  Magrath and Elizabeth stood and faced each other across the table. She smiled briefly then held up her hand for quiet. In the silence, they listened to him walk to his office and slam the door. She walked around the table and, as she drew alongside a bewildered Magrath, kissed him full on the mouth. He recoiled, pulling away and glancing at the open dining-room door.

  ‘Are you mad?’ he spluttered.

  She waited for the shock to subside. ‘He’ll be some time,’ she whispered. ‘At least half a bottle’s worth.’

  Magrath exhaled slowly. ‘My heartbeat is out of control, Elizabeth.’ He reached for his chair, needing its support. ‘How can you be so … so … daring?’ She put a finger to her lips, placed her legs either side of his and kissed him again. This time, she held him in place until they were both breathless.

  2.8

  Block Four

  9 p.m.

  HABS FINISHED TYING his hammock, pulling the ropes, testing the knots. His was the lowest bunk and had been since he’d arrived; he preferred it that way. ‘Too many falls,’ he’d say. Three feet up the stanchions, Ned was already splayed across his hammock and humming, loudly.

  Habs winced. ‘That ain’t like no tune I ever heard.’

  ‘It’s a harmony, Habs,’ said Ned.

  ‘Tha’s what you think?’

  ‘Tha’s what I think,’ said Ned. ‘And my one and a half ears still better’n your two.’

  Habs laughed, slid into his hammock and pushed his feet against the sagging shape above him. ‘But I have two good legs here sayin’ it’s time to hush, old man,’ he said. ‘King Dick can’t be far away.’

  They both lay still and listened.

  The turnkeys had called the roll then shut and bolted the doors. This was the daily cue for nine hundred and ninety-five hammocks to be slung, but in Mess 190 they were still waiting for the King. Habs peered from his lowly vantage point. King Dick’s mess was at the back of the first floor, two mattresses and a heap of blankets marking his sleeping quarters. Above him, two hammocks held the already sleeping forms of Alex Daniels and Jonathan Singer; one pale arm dangled from the lower, a mop of brown hair from the upper. In the other berths, the King’s favourites: the sailors he could rely on. Some acted with him, some made him laugh, others ran the gaming. All would fight for him.

  Outside, it was snowing again, a few flakes making their way through the prison’s shutters and melting into small puddles. Inside, the temperature had been pushed above freezing only by the sheer number of men clustered together and their flickering pipes. As usual, a cloud of grey smoke rose from Sam’s hammock.

  ‘Good night, King Dick!’ and ‘God bless you, King Dick!’ came from all around and, instinctively, Habs rolled back out of his hammock.

  ‘You gonna blow his candle out for him or some such?’ said Ned, peering from under his thin blanket. ‘’Cos I’m sure he can do that by himself, y’know.’

  ‘Shut up, Ned,’ said Habs. ‘He’s here now.’

  Lamp in one hand, club in the other, the King strode up to the mess. ‘Mr Hobbs, Mr Watson, Mr Palmer.’ He raised the flame to each in greeting, and three voices shot back, ‘Good evening, King Dick!’ He walked to his bed, nodding at Habs as he passed, gently placed Alex’s arm inside the hammock, then slumped to the floor. The hammocks trembled and Habs fancied that everyone in Four always knew the exact moment King Dick had reached his bed. And maybe in Five and Seven, too.

  ‘Mr Habakkuk Snow, Mr Sam Snow and Mr Ned Penny,’ said the King. ‘I enjoyed that readin’ today. And your new friend. Mr Joe Hill, is quite somethin’ as Juliet. Providence has been good to us, don’t you think?’

  ‘I say so, too,’ said Habs, ‘and by the end we had quite a crowd, didn’t we? They was sorry to see us go.’

  King Dick propped himself up against the wall, blankets behind him, blankets on top of him. Swapping his club for a bottle of rum, he poured a large portion into a cup then swallowed half in one deep draught. ‘For never was a story of more woe,’ he intoned, his voice easily projecting through the prison din, ‘than this of Juliet and her Romeo. I love that line,’ said the King. ‘Ever since I first read it. No wonder they applauded – I wanted to applaud, too.’

  ‘Poor Master Jackson shed a tear,’ said Sam.

  ‘Which,’ said Ned, ‘as he was playin’ the recently slain Paris, was mighty clever.’

  A voice from a nearby mess. ‘Will there be time for a show, King Dick?’ Then another: ‘Will we be home soon, King Dick?’

  ‘Who is that callin’?’ said the King, peering past his candles.

  ‘Fountain, sir,’ came the reply. ‘Fountain MacFall, freeman from New York.’

  ‘And before New York, Mr MacFall? Where did your family call home?’

  ‘Charleston, South Carolina, sir. Place called Rocky Point.’

  ‘And before that?’ said the King. ‘Do you know your history, Mr MacFall?’

  ‘My folks said
we come from a country called Senegal, but I never been there and I know nothin’ ’bout it. Like I said, home is New York. Place called Fresh Water Pond, but there’s no fresh water there, King Dick, case you come callin’.’

  The King laughed and raised his cup towards Fountain’s hammock. ‘Well, I might just do that, Mr MacFall from Fresh Water Pond and Senegal. My ol’ family musta been your neighbours, jus’ down the coast.’

  Ned, his mouth up close to Habs’s hammock, whispered, ‘Penny on the kidnap story again.’

  Habs reached out to shake Ned’s hand.

  The King finished his rum in two mouthfuls. He had seen the transaction.

  ‘You got some business goin’ on there, Mr Penny, Mr Snow? Somethin’ I should know about?’

  Habs jumped in, thinking fast. ‘No, sir. I was jus’ offerin’ Mr Penny here one penny to tell his story, if you need him. You know how reluctant he is …’

  A voice from the hammocks. ‘Yeah, you got that ’scapin’ story, Mr Penny, tell us that one.’ A chorus of agreement around the messes.

  ‘Say your piece, Mr Penny,’ said the King, ‘then Mr Snow can pay you.’ He wafted his free hand. The stage was Ned’s.

  ‘If you sure, King Dick,’ protested Ned. ‘I reckon pretty much everyone knows …’

  He was silenced by the King’s theatrical coughing.

  ‘I have a question for Mr Penny,’ he said, after loudly clearing his throat. ‘You a free man, Mr Penny?’

  Ned was now sitting upright on his hammock. Sam handed him a pipe, Habs a bottle. ‘Uh-huh. In my head, yes. In my soul, yes. Always.’

  Applause and shouts of ‘Amen!’ greeted that.

  ‘But legally speakin’ and in truth, I am property. I am ’scaped from the Pointe plantation, state of Louisiana.’

  Applause rolled around the room.

  ‘Had an overseer on that land, name of McDonnall. I still shiver to say his name. Meanest fucker I ever saw. We cut his stalks, did his grindin’, did his boilin’, workin’ sixteen hours a day, an’ if we dropped dead then he’d jus’ buy another one of us. When them census takers came callin’, they was jus’ chased off the land, on account of McDonnall not wantin’ anyone to know who’s alive and who ain’t. So when he died – I forget how that happened exactly – many of us jus’ took to the road. We knew we was headin’ north, knew Massachusetts was the only state, so we was told, with no slaves. And we said that over and over. We said that all the time, it was like a magic spell to us. No slaves! Who’d heard o’ such a thing?’ He took a swig of beer and inhaled deeply from the pipe. ‘This story takes two years, by the way – you want it all?’