by Simon Mayo
‘Oh, help,’ muttered Joe, as the women strode towards him.
‘We’ll need a chair,’ said Betsy.
One from a gaming table was passed over, and Joe, blushing scarlet, sat on it, hands clutching both sides.
‘You watchin’ this, Mr Snow? You got a good view?’ called the King. Habs, amused, walked to within a few paces of the chair.
‘I can see jus’ fine, thank you, King Dick.’
Martha then, without pausing, without hesitating, hoisted her skirts and sat astride Joe. He squirmed as she settled herself into position and tucked some loose strands of her red hair behind her ears, then did the same to Joe, his growing hair just staying back off his face.
‘Ready?’ she whispered. He nodded, and Martha lifted his face to hers. She slowly leaned forward till their lips were barely touching. Her hand reached for his, then placed it firmly on her right breast. ‘Why are you holding your breath?’ she whispered.
As Joe went to apologize, Martha’s lips were on his and her tongue was in his mouth, warm and probing. Then it was over. Joe heard the wild applause and cheering, flicked a glance at Habs, who was clapping, too.
‘That’s how you do it,’ she said, and without pausing for breath, swooped again. The chair rocked back and Joe, pinned under Martha, lost his balance. He fell hard on to the ground, the wooden chair slamming hard into his spine, Martha hard into his chest. She raised her head briefly as they landed, then kissed him again. Winded, Joe could only accept the kisses, until Martha stopped and sat up. Gasping for air, Joe rolled on to his side, aware the applause had become laughter.
‘Something like that?’ she said to the King, brushing her skirts back down.
‘Somethin’ like that,’ he replied.
‘So, Habs. Reckon you can try it now?’
‘That’s supposed to be their first kiss?’ Habs was incredulous. ‘You want Romeo and Juliet to kiss like that?’
‘Maybe don’t break the chair,’ said the King.
‘And don’t break his ribs neither!’ called Sam.
Martha stepped back. ‘All yours,’ she said to Habs.
On their ‘stage’ and in the cockloft, the mood had become surprisingly light. In contrast to their grief-filled morning, the disastrous kiss, then Martha’s tuition, had filled the company with laughter. But Habs was nervous now. He fidgeted with his hair, rotated the miniature beads on his earrings, adjusted the straps on his boots. He had been ready to kiss Joe in the silence and the darkness of the night before, and he thought Joe had been ready, too, but here? With an audience watching? Now, he wasn’t so sure.
Joe was standing, studying the script. Or, Habs thought, more likely, he was merely staring at the script. Habs walked over to Joe and leaned in close.
‘Still a rehearsal,’ he whispered.
Joe tried a smile, relief in his eyes. ‘Still a rehearsal,’ he echoed.
‘Give us the line, then, Romeo!’ called the King. ‘Let’s see what you learned from Martha here.’
Habs and Joe took deep breaths at the same time. Joe noticed Goffe and Lord whispering to each other and held up his hand to halt Habs. ‘Mr Goffe and Mr Lord!’ he shouted. ‘If you don’t like this one, you two can perform the next.’
The ice broken, the tension gone, Habs said, ‘Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take.’ He reached out to tuck a loose strand of blond hair behind Joe’s ear as Martha had, and leaned forward slowly until their lips just touched. It was more a caress than a kiss, but Habs pulled back.
‘Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.’ There was a silence.
Joe gulped some air. ‘Then have my lips the sin that they have took.’
Habs was barely an inch away. ‘Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.’
Joe felt Habs’s fingertips on the back of his head, then their delicate push as their heads were gently pulled closer. This time, the kiss was longer.
Then King Dick was speaking. It took Joe a few seconds to realize he’d missed his cue.
‘You kiss by the book,’ said the King, prompting Joe, clearly for the second or maybe the third time.
‘You kiss by the book,’ muttered Joe, his head spinning.
3.18
Tuesday, 14 February
The Market Square
Just before the noon bell
KING DICK STRODE around the square, club trailing from his hand. He chatted easily with stall-holders, took payments from some, gave advice to others. He handed coins to sailors for errands he needed and some that he didn’t. Everything appeared normal, but many sailors, well used to spotting the smallest of changes in weather, ship or crew, suspected otherwise. When the King was on his own, and especially when Alex and Jonathan weren’t with him, violence was usually never far away. They passed on the information to the stall-holders, who surreptitiously began to pack up their stalls.
When Horace Cobb and Edwin Lane appeared at the market square entrance, everyone else packed up, too. A few minutes away from the noon bell, staying open wasn’t worth the risk. Since Ned’s murder, tension in the prison was knife-edge sharp. Shortland’s men had snatched the first Rough Ally they’d found and thrown him in the cachot. Block Six had been told he would only be released if they surrendered the real culprit. Until that happened, they would assume they had the right man and hang him if they had to. Six and the other white blocks accused the British of bullying, but the Ally stayed, chained and howling, in the cachot.
Cobb had requested to see the King, and this was their chosen meeting place. It was a good venue, King Dick had conceded; it was neutral territory, a public space and one viewable, albeit from their distant platforms behind Blocks One and Seven, by the militia patrolling on the military walk.
Cobb and Lane waited, arms folded. Cobb relit his cigarillo, Lane smoked his clay pipe, the stall-holders rapidly put their goods away. A hundred yards away, the King stood in the middle of the square, next to a clothing stall, his free hand playing with a tartan blanket. The market trader, an emaciated retired Scottish sailor who had done a lot of business with the King, fidgeted nervously.
‘Might there be something you’d like, sir, King Dick, sir?’ said the man, his eyes darting from his stall to the Rough Allies at the gates.
‘There is somethin’,’ growled the King.
‘Happy to help, sir.’
The King was taking his time; he knew Cobb would prefer to wait until all the stalls had been taken down.
‘What can I do for you?’ urged the stall-holder, now the only one still trading.
The King pointed his club at Cobb and Lane. ‘Never grow a beard like them,’ he said.
‘Oh. Right you are, sir,’ he replied, trying not to sound too surprised.
‘Not unless you want to be seen as a criminal or a rogue or a murderin’ bully.’
‘No, I don’t want any of those things, sir. Will that be all?’
‘Yes,’ said the King, ‘and I’ll take this blanket.’ He handed over some coins and the stall-holder swapped them for the tartan. He was packed and gone within a minute.
King Dick looked up as the noon bell rang. Tommy Jackson appeared, glanced over at him, the Allies and the emptying market square and obviously concluded he wasn’t needed. The King wrapped his new blanket around himself and waited. As the blanket-seller left the square, Cobb and Lane sauntered over. They both wore long coats and had ensured that their beards were freshly decorated and on view.
Cobb and Lane stopped a dozen yards away. The King was used to this; any closer and they’d feel like dwarves, any further away and they’d all be shouting.
‘Mr Cobb, Mr Lane,’ said the King. ‘Good day to you both.’
‘Good day,’ said Cobb, adjusting his stovepipe hat, pushing it back from his forehead.
He inhaled deeply on his cigarillo, seemingly intent on finishing it before proceeding further. The King’s patience was draining fast, but still he waited. Faces now at the windows of the p
risons were rapidly joined by others as the word spread.
Eventually, King Dick had seen enough. ‘If you gentlemen jus’ needed some smokin’ time, you shoulda said. I coulda brought you some new tobacco I found from Virginia, has a special flavour. You want me to fix you some?’
Cobb spat out the cigarillo and ground it into a paving slab. ‘You know we don’t trade with you, Crafus,’ he said, his voice tight, the words more clipped than ever. ‘You know what we think of your business activities.’
‘My “business activities”?’ said the King. ‘I was merely passin’ time till you gentlemen get to the point.’
‘The point’ – Cobb’s voice dropped – ‘is escape. We hear you’ve got your tunnel going. That true?’
‘Well, now,’ said the King, ‘the point as I see it is Rough Allies killin’ and attackin’ black men jus’ when they fancy.’ The King addressed everything to Cobb. Cobb was the power in Six, his control over their committees almost total.
‘That was … unfortunate.’
‘That ain’t quite the right word, now, is it, Mr Cobb?’ the King snapped back. ‘How ’bout “shameful”? Or maybe “disgustin”’? Maybe we could try “scandalizin”’ and “horrifyin”’. And how ’bout “murderous” while we’re at it? How do those words sound to you, Mr Cobb?’
Cobb ran his hands over his beard, separating the two strands, then looked up. ‘I grant you,’ he said, ‘Mr Penny’s death was shameful. The attack on Mr Haywood was shameful, too.’
The King, surprised, sensed a sudden nervousness from Lane. Maybe he had been surprised, too. ‘The man in the cachot,’ he asked. ‘Is he the murderer?’
‘Might be.’
‘Are there others?’
‘Might be.’
‘And what will you do if there are others?’
But Cobb was done with the revelations. ‘I don’t answer to the likes of you, Crafus. None of us do.’
‘“The likes of me”? Now, what does that mean, I wonder?’
‘You know.’
‘Oh, you meanin’ slaves – you shoulda said. It would avoid any misunderstandin’. “Those who think themselves the master of others are indeed greater slaves than they.” D’you know who said that? Mr Cobb? Mr Lane?’
Lane looked annoyed. Cobb sighed. ‘These foolish games of yours, Crafus. It’s tiresome is what it is.’
‘Now, I might be wrong ’bout this,’ said the King, ‘but I think you might just be pretendin’ to be stupid. I’m sure you’ve read your Rousseau; I have some in my mess if you’d like a reminder. He has a lot to say on the matter.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You wanna talk tunnels, first you talk Ned Penny. You know exactly what happened and who was involved. If you want some kind o’ peace deal, some kind o’ ’scape plan, justice comes first.’
In the prison blocks, every window was occupied. Cobb made up his mind. ‘The man in the cachot wasn’t involved in killing your precious Ned Penny or sending John Haywood crying to Plymouth. It was two others.’
‘Who?’
‘I’ll tell the British.’ The briefest of glances from Lane at Cobb.
‘You might wanna tell your deputy, too,’ said the King. ‘He’s lookin’ … un-com-for-ta-ble there.’
‘We know there’s a tunnel in Four,’ said Cobb, ignoring the barb. ‘It’s the only one that was never found. We know that much.’
The King acknowledged both points. ‘Yeah, there was a tunnel. And yeah, it’s the only Dartmoor tunnel the Brits never found. That is true.’
‘And we think,’ said Cobb, ‘that your little play, your little Romeo and Juliet, is just a cover. No one needs another one of your Dick shows now, not when the only thing anyone is interested in is gettin’ home.’
The King covered his surprise with a rearrangement of his new blanket.
‘We need an escape plan, Crafus. The war is over, but we ain’t ever getting out. I do believe that. My men are desperate – they’ll fight their way out if they got to. We wanna use that tunnel.’
‘But it’s a nigger tunnel, Mr Cobb! You surely would prefer a separate one, a less con-ta-min-at-ed one? There were tunnels in the white blocks, y’know – surely a white tunnel’d suit you better? I’m sure with a little diggin’ you could get it all goin’ again.’
The challenge was plain, but it went unanswered. Cobb said nothing. Lane was twitching.
After a while the King shook his head. ‘There ain’t no ’scape plan, Cobb, the play’s a play. We’ve been waitin’ all this time for home – why get yourself shot when it’s this close?’
‘We don’t believe you,’ said Cobb, stepping closer.
The King pointed his club at Cobb’s chest. ‘No nearer,’ he growled.
‘I’ve told you ’bout your colleague’s murder,’ continued Cobb. ‘Now you tell me what you’re really doing with your Shakespeare.’
The King was disgusted. ‘You tradin’ with me now? You kill an innocent man, try to kill another – my men, Mr Cobb – then think you can fix some kinda deal?’
They stared at each other.
‘You do deals,’ said Cobb. ‘I do deals. It’s what we do.’
The King took a deep breath and turned to Edwin Lane. ‘I seen you come to our shows, Mr Lane. Ain’t that right? Saw you at Othello, at some of our musical evenings and at the pantomime, too. I am correct in that, I think? We don’t have too many of the Allies watchin’, so you kinda stand out.’
Lane nodded. ‘You are correct in that,’ he said, his tone wary.
‘Well, then, may I invite you to join us in rehearsals? Come ’n’ watch. Look for yourself. Then you see all you need to see.’
Cobb and Lane appeared caught off guard. ‘We’ll consider that,’ said Cobb, ‘but hear me now. We reckon you do have your ’scape plan and we reckon your play ain’t nothin’ but a fake. If we’re wrong and you’re jus’ dressing up for another sixpence, you’re a bigger fool than everyone says. We are free-born Americans, Crafus, and, as God is my witness, the British won’t hold us much longer.’
‘So, let me be clear as the sun in this sky,’ said the King. ‘You plan all you want. I’ll not be a part of nothin’ that puts more Americans in that graveyard.’
‘Ain’t none of us going anywhere near that graveyard,’ said Cobb.
‘The redcoats’ll probably be disappointed we ain’t started beatin’ and stabbin’ each other,’ said the King.
Cobb turned to walk away. ‘Oh, there’ll be time enough for that.’
3.19
The Agent’s Study
SHORTLAND: Good morning to you, Mr Crafus.
KING DICK: My name is King Dick.
SHORTLAND: Not in this room. I have only one king, King George.
KING DICK: ‘In England a king has little more to do than to make war and give away places.’ (Shortland looks puzzled.) It’s Thomas Paine, Captain. We all read him back home.
SHORTLAND: But I thought you like crowned ruffians. You’re a crowned ruffian. Isn’t King George one of your ‘unaccountable sovereigns’?
KING DICK: Not if he’s mad, he ain’t. And you’d choose a crazy fool of a king over me? No wonder this war gone so badly for you.
SHORTLAND: This war has gone badly for both of us. Thousands dead, so many ships sunk, your White House burned to the ground and the peace treaty says, ‘No change.’ It says, ‘As you were.’ But it is done, and the treaty is ratified by your Congress at last. Here. (He hands King Dick a document.) It says here that the Senate voted unanimously for ratification.
KING DICK (reads, then reads aloud): ‘The Senate do advise and consent to the ratification of the treaty of peace and amity between the United States of America and his Britannic Majesty.’ Well, that is good of them, and good news o’ course. We can all go home.
SHORTLAND: Once the treaty has been returned to London, the measures for your return will be put in place. You must tell your men. They will have to be patient, I’m afraid. (Sighs deeply.) Can I offer you tea? I might have a
pipe of tobacco here …
KING DICK: There somethin’ else you wanted with me, Captain? Only I warned you ’bout the mood here and you didn’t take no notice or nothin’, so I don’t exactly see the point. Mr Ned Penny, murdered in your prison, Captain, and on your watch. Mr John Haywood, hidin’ in Four and ’fraid for his life.
SHORTLAND (stops rummaging and fussing): I take counsel and then I make my decision, Mr Crafus. This is not a committee. I have expressed my regret at the circumstances of Mr Penny’s death; a suspect is in the cachot, awaiting trial. Mr Haywood’s relocation was vital for his safety, and that is that, Mr Crafus. I am grateful for your cooperation.
KING DICK: You got the wrong man in that hole, jus’ so you know. There’s two Rough Allies gettin’ away with murder.
SHORTLAND: He will do. For now. (The words trigger a memory.) The words you used in your eulogy for Mr Penny, I believe. You said you supported me ‘for now’.
KING DICK: I was bein’ generous. There was many there that night woulda taken up arms if they’d had the means. You know that. I will bring the killers to you. You’d be wise to arrest ’em.
SHORTLAND: You forget your place. (King Dick remains impassive; Shortland becomes more awkward.) Now, on other matters. (He shuffles some papers.) You’re in charge of this play? The Romeo and Juliet I’ve been hearing about?
KING DICK (not surprised): You heard ’bout that?
SHORTLAND: Of course. A fine play, I know it well, but your production is a problem.
KING DICK (knowing what the problem is, playing with him): Too long? Some folks like it better shorter.
SHORTLAND: That is not the issue, as you are well aware. Your Romeo is coloured, yes? (Dick nods.) And your Juliet is white? (Dick nods again.) And they kiss? (A third nod.)
KING DICK: It’s in the play. They kiss, they get married, they die. Jus’ like in life. But shorter. Thought you said you knew the story?
SHORTLAND (sighing again): They have kissed in rehearsals?
