by Simon Mayo
Habs and Sam laughed. ‘You left out the grey fields,’ said Habs. ‘The miles and miles of grey desert.’
‘Uh-huh. My mistake. You’re right there. The only thing that ain’t grey here is your new friend, Mr Hill. He’s the shiniest, whitest white boy I ever seen.’
‘Give him time, Ned, give him time,’ said Sam. ‘The deathly Dartmoor grey will get him in the end.’
‘Musta seemed strange,’ said Ned, ‘having a white boy up in the cockloft like that.’
‘In the end, it got strange,’ conceded Habs. ‘To begin with, it was like bein’ back on the ships. We was all scared. Like there was an enemy out there and it could take us all. We could hear it killin’ every night. Then, when we all got to thinkin’ we would survive, Joe was suddenly the visitor, the stranger again.’
‘So we did some actin’,’ said Sam, ‘put on some scenes we all knew. Any lines we didn’t know, we jus’ made ’em up.’
‘This is you, Habs and Joe?’ asked Ned.
‘Uh-huh,’ said Sam. ‘We even got applause sometimes.’
They passed through the gates into the market square, streams of men now choosing which storehouse queue to join. Habs pulled them left and counted fifty-seven men ahead of them before they reached the small counter in the storehouse. He sensed he had heard a tone of censure in the words of his friend. He frowned at Ned, whose eyes were closed again.
‘Are you disapprovin’ of Joe Hill, Ned Penny?’ he said.
His friend opened his eyes. ‘Is there anythin’ to disapprove of?’
‘I’ve sailed with you, an’ been jailed with you, for two years or more,’ said Habs. ‘There’s a long list of things you disapprove of.’
Ned closed his eyes again. ‘Some more’n others.’
‘What Ned is sayin’,’ said Sam, ‘is you stand out. Folk notice you and Joe around …’
‘Chrissakes,’ said Habs, annoyed. ‘You want us to send letters? That way, we wouldn’t be seen together so much. That better for you?’
‘No, I jus’ …’
‘Enough, Ned, you’ve said your piece,’ said Sam. ‘It’s too early for this.’
Lines of men, laden with loaves, were streaming past them now, some of them finishing their ration before they had left the square.
‘All I’m sayin’,’ said Ned, ‘is you have us. You know us, is all …’ He left the sentence hanging.
They collected their bread from the hatch of the storehouse, four pasty-faced soldiers shovelling loaves into their hands. One raised an eyebrow, and Sam slipped him four coins. The bread stacked under-arm in columns of threes and fours, they tottered back down the square.
‘Carryin’ goddamn cannonballs was easier,’ muttered Sam. ‘What do they put in this bread, anyhow?’
‘A seditious rag, I’m hopin’ for,’ said Ned, peering closely at his loaves.
‘Jus’ wait till we’re inside,’ said Sam.
Habs was still frowning. ‘If we do the play, do you want to play Juliet, Ned? Is that it? You jealous of Joe?’
Ned coughed up his laughter.
‘Of his ears, yeah! I’d like ’em like they was before the cannon took one. He has fine ears, I’ll say that. But of the rest of him … Maybe you seen more, what’d you recommend?’
‘I’d recommend,’ said Habs, ‘that you keep them eyes open and that mouth closed. At least till after breakfast.’
The mess table was up, the loaves were dropped. Ned found the paper first, gently prising its pages from the dough. ‘How much do we pay that grey weasel for this?’ he said, assembling the paper in a loose order. ‘It says one shillin’ on the front. I’m guessin’ he ain’t cuttin’ the price ’cos it’s a week old.’
‘You guess right,’ said Sam. ‘Two shillings and sixpence we pay, but at least it ain’t a traitorous Federalist rag.’
‘Though, truth told, you can wipe your ass with them,’ said Ned. ‘The Times is most absorbent in that regard.’
Breakfast arrived, four mess men delivering the kitchen’s herring and potatoes in large pans, and they waited for the King.
Habs bent over the front page. ‘Is the news good? We had any more victories?’ Each of the men around the mess table eyed the food and the newspaper with hungry eyes. The coalition of subscribers needed for such an expensive publication had been hard won, and they waited eagerly for their allocated pages.
‘Sometimes I see them papers the Agent lets us see,’ said Sam, ‘the ones they want us to read. Ain’t nothin’ but British lies.’
‘But they’re free lies,’ said Ned, ‘and if I’m outta credit, I find I can make do with England’s lies for a while.’
The heavy tread, the tapping club, and the King was there, steaming coffee in hand. He’d been listening.
‘And when even England’s papers write about our victory in New Orleans,’ he growled, ‘you know it musta been a hu-mi-li-a-tion.’ The King stretched the last word, emphasizing each syllable. He spooned a pile of food into his bowl, the fish now indistinguishable from the potatoes, and stared at the paper. He swallowed half his breakfast down, then distributed the pages. ‘Call out the news when you see it. Don’t imagine there be too many more battles – news o’ the peace’ll reach America soon.’
Breakfast was gone in seconds, chunks of the bread used to mop up the last dregs.
Habs licked his bowl then took his sheet and scanned the densely printed script. It didn’t take him long to find the words he was looking for. ‘Ha!’ he shouted, ‘I got it.’ He put down the bowl, grabbing the sheet with both hands. The other mess readers lowered their pages to listen. ‘“On 8 January 1815, ten to twelve thousand British troops sent from France, an army furnished with all the means of destruction, were attacked by the American General Jackson.”’
Applause punctuated Habs’s reading; other messes were now listening intently. He enjoyed the moment. He had a speech. He read on. ‘“With as much coolness as if he had been aiming at harmless birds, Jackson opened fire upon them and swept them down like grass before the scythe of the mower.”’
More applause, but Habs urged them to stop.
‘Wait, wait. Hear this. “He sallied in pursuit, marching over blood and brains and mangled carcases, and finally drove the survivors to their ships and bade them carry to England the proof that the soil of freedom was not to be invaded with impunity.”’
The metal plates were banged loudly, spoons rattled against the stanchions. King Dick conspicuously folded his arms, his expression grave. The clamour subsided as each man realized he was out of step with the King.
‘Like I was sayin’,’ he said, ‘a hu-mi-li-a-tion. So then, then comes the re-tal-i-a-tion. If we was in Louisiana or Mississippi, it would feel good. Real good. But we ain’t. We in England and, if the English are humiliated, then our guards are humiliated. The militia on these walls is humiliated. And we all know what kinda men they are. They’ll have friends and brothers in that expedition. The blood and brains you read about, Mr Snow, is the blood and brains o’ them. We should expect some score-settlin’ sometime soon.’ He threw his bowl on to the table. ‘Now, find me some other news. Preferably containin’ the word “ra-ti-fic-a-tion”.’
3.6
The Blocks
‘TOMMY JACKSON, CRIER, left the clerks’ house and sprinted past the weary militia (who barely saw him coming), took a hard left at the alarm gates and was in the market square within seconds. Soon, it would be full of troops on parade but for now it was empty, save for the sweepers finishing their work after the bread handout. One of them raised his broom in salute, but Tommy had already gone, under the military walk and away.
The seven prison blocks had already turned out, and everywhere the fires of the coffee-makers and meat-boilers filled the yards with smoke, steam and fumes. Some of the recently extinguished indoor stoves were in evidence, too, most of them adapted to fry the bread, beef and cabbage that made up the bulk of the rations. Trails of grey smoke drifted across the courtyard befo
re disappearing into the granite.
Tommy fought his way left into the reopened Block One, stood at the bottom of its stairs and bellowed, ‘All hands! All hands! News this day! I have news!’
Instantly, a crowd had formed around him. The stairs filled with the half dressed and the barely dressed and those who had been outside now scrambled to get inside. All the men had livid, corroded, pockmarked faces and arms, the scars of their recent nightmare; some were now blind. They stared at Tommy, but he had trained himself not to stare back.
The men heaved forward and all but enveloped him. An old sailor with a model ship for a hat hauled him from the scrum and stood him on the first step. Tommy took a breath. The prison flooded with hope.
‘Is it the peace?’ ‘Have we ratified?’ were the first shouts. Then: ‘The English must have given up?’ ‘Has the King died?’ ‘Let the boy speak!’ Since they had heard of the American victory against the British in New Orleans, any news was greeted with wild enthusiasm. Tommy had to wait a full minute before reading out what he had to say. Clasping both sides of the paper, he read slowly, and with a furious concentration.
‘The Agent of the Depot for Prisoners of War at Dartmoor, Captain Thomas G. Shortland, wishes it to be known that at 08.30 hours, there will be a proclamation read to all prison blocks. An unarmed senior officer will attend in each case.’
When Tommy had finished, there was a brief silence as the men waited to see if he was going to say anything else. But when he folded the piece of paper and they realized he was finished, the bedlam was greater than ever.
Tommy pushed his way outside – half the prison seemed to be camped out in One’s courtyard. He had been ordered by the clerk to ‘make great haste’ in distributing this bulletin, but he couldn’t even see Block Two, never mind reach it. ‘Read it again!’ came the cry. Tommy looked at the wall of sailors facing him and understood that, even though it was most irregular, repeating the dispatch outside was the only way he was going to be allowed to leave. So, framed in Block One’s wide doorway, he read his script once more.
They were already waiting for him at Two, where he delivered his news, again. A swarm of men then followed him to his own in Three.
At Four, Tommy leapt inside to find King Dick reclining over three steps, Habs, Sam and Ned all sitting on the stairs beneath, waiting for him.
‘We saw you comin’!’ called Ned.
‘We heard you comin’!’ said Sam.
‘So now let the crier do his cryin’,’ declaimed King Dick.
Tommy read aloud from the piece of paper once more.
‘So you are preparin’ the way, Mr Jackson,’ said the King when he was finished. ‘Like John the Baptist, there is another comin’ after you. Well, we shall wait here till he comes but, first, whisper to me.’ From the folds of a purple blanket, he beckoned Tommy closer.
The boy edged forward in small, reluctant steps.
‘Come, come!’ urged the King impatiently, until Tommy stood at the foot of the stairs. King Dick inclined his massive head, the bearskin hat hovering inches above the crier’s head. A fog of sweat, tobacco and pine enveloped him as the King whispered, ‘Will it be the peace, boy? Do you know?’
Tommy stood rigidly to attention. All he could see was the side of the King’s head – the old scars, a pierced but empty lobe, the wisps of black hair protruding from under the bearskin’s brim.
‘I … I don’t know, sir. I haven’t heard, King Dick, sir. I’m sorry. And I got to go.’ He bowed, just to be on the safe side, then turned and ran.
The throng had moved to Five. Tommy ran through the men who lined the route and now packed in to the entrance. ‘It’s the same news! It hasn’t changed!’ he shouted in exasperation as he fought his way inside. He had to get to Seven before the Agent sent his men in, or he would lose his job, for certain. One reading of the papers did for Five, and then for Six. By the time he reached Seven, his cry was a breathless one.
‘All hands! I got news!’ They all knew what was coming but they listened anyway, and when Tommy was done he was relieved to see Joe beckoning him outside.
‘I don’t know any more, Mr Hill, honest I don’t,’ he called.
Joe offered him some coffee. ‘It’s cold and tastes of rotting wood, but I found I got used to it after the first pint.’
Tommy took a small sip then grimaced and spat. A sudden silence fell over the prisoners, and Joe and Tommy glanced towards the market square. A voice carried from one of the blocks: ‘Here we are, boys. Look alive there!’
Across the courtyard, a small platoon had appeared by the gate. Red coats, green epaulets. ‘The Derbyshire militia,’ said Roche. ‘Our favourite.’
To Tommy’s puzzled look, Joe replied, ‘They marched us here. We sang at them all the way. They hated us.’
‘And we hated ’em back,’ said Roche. ‘Ugly sons of bitches, ain’t they?’
From their ranks, seven men now marched, fanning out, one heading for each block. The clapping and the shouting started in Seven, but it quickly spread across the blocks. The sailors around Joe had no doubt what was coming.
‘Here we go, m’boys! America is calling!’
‘Lady Liberty wants us home!’
‘Send the ships, we’re ready!’
Approaching the crescent of prisons, the British officers for One and Seven arrived first, rapidly followed by those for Two and Six. The soldier who had stopped just a few yards from Joe stood rooted to attention, staring straight ahead, apparently seeing nothing of his audience. Many of them had dropped their trousers and were calling, ‘Here’s to your mad old King!’ As the officer waited for his colleagues to reach Three, Four and Five, he was subjected to the full range of insults that the sailors had perfected in the course of their incarceration. The recently gleaned news of America’s overwhelming victory in New Orleans was fresh in every sailor’s mind.
‘Hang your head, John Bull! England is routed!’
‘Our victory is certain!’
‘The Mississippi runs red with British blood!’
The officer glanced left. One colleague had just reached Four, and Joe thought he saw a flicker of a smile pass across the officer’s face.
‘This might not be what we think it is,’ he murmured, but no one was listening.
‘Here we go!’
‘Send us home!’
The officer produced a sheet of paper.
‘There it is! It’s from Uncle Sam!’
The officer in front of Four raised his hand then lowered it. All seven proclamations were read together, the voices overlapping with each other around the square.
‘From the Agent at Dartmoor to all prisoners. Following the signing of the Treaty of Ghent, which provided for peace between our nations, many among you hoped for a speedy release. His Majesty’s government was also desirous of a swift return of our soldiers and sailors held in American jails. I have to report to you that your Congress has still not ratified the peace. Until such time, there can be no prisoner release or exchange.’
There were other words, but they were lost in barrage of groans, catcalls and abuse. Despair turned to fury in a flash. Breakfasts suddenly became weapons; all seven officers were hit by a rain of fish, pastries and scalding coffee. In front of Seven, to huge cheers, a plate of hot plum gudgeon arced over the sailors’ heads then splashed on to the officer’s tunic.
‘Thank the Lord he’s unarmed,’ said Joe.
‘Sure, but them others ain’t,’ said Roche. ‘Look.’ Behind the officers, many of the platoon had instinctively raised their rifles, aiming straight at the prisoners. On the military walk, each of the patrolling soldiers had men in their sights. A swift, bellowed command from their sergeant and they were reluctantly lowered again. The humiliated, food-splattered officers performed a swift about-turn, then made a swift retreat.
‘Runnin’ away like your brothers in New Orleans!’ shouted Roche, joining some of the other sailors shaking their fists at the departing British. ‘C
owards! We want our freedom.’
A group of them advanced towards the militia, arms wide, taunting.
‘Will!’ Joe shouted. ‘You’ll get us all shot. Why fight them when we have nothing to fight with?’
‘’Cos this,’ said Roche, stabbing his finger where the troops had been, ‘ain’t about Congress. It’s ’bout the British gettin’ whipped in Louisiana. And losin’ two thousand men. And losin’ their general. That’s what this is ’bout, and this is their revenge. This is a provocation.’
Tommy, next to Joe, looked close to tears.
‘This is bad, Mr Hill, ain’t it?’ he said. ‘You should’ve seen all them faces. In all them prisons. They thought they was going home. Smokin’ their last pipes, you know? Things gonna be bitterer now, and no mistake.’
Joe knew the crier was right. And Will, too. The war was over, but they couldn’t go home.
‘Yes, Tommy. Just when we thought we might be gone. Then their silken thread plucks us back again.’
Tommy slid an arm through Joe’s.
‘That you speakin’ or Juliet?’ he asked.
‘Both of us, Tommy,’ said Joe. ‘That’s both of us speaking.’
3.7
Sunday, 12 February
Block Four
HABS AND JOE walked fast. Their circuit took them round the back of all seven prison blocks – a vast semicircular track that ran alongside the twelve-foot-high iron palisade that ringed the prisons. If they walked tight against the fence, they were for long stretches invisible to the watching, twitchy British who peered down from the military walk. The late-morning air carried a welcome tang of salt and the sun cut the sharpest shadows of the year so far.
‘And you’re sure this is King Dick’s idea?’ asked Joe.
‘Would I make that up?’
Joe was frowning, persistent; he needed this to be clear. ‘But was it his suggestion?’
