by Simon Mayo
‘Damn right. What’s the other side o’ this block? A large British wall. And what’s the other side o’ that? A large British armoury.’
There was a silence after that. ‘What you suggestin’, Roche? Armed rebellion?’ Lord sounded incredulous.
Roche tugged at his beard, smoothing it between his fingers. ‘I call it a patriotic revolt. I dunno where you were in ’76, but seems to me that the Revolutionary War ain’t over just yet.’
4.5
Block Six
THE ROUGH ALLIES had taken over half of the messes on the ground floor, pushing out any other inmates. In recent weeks, the number of extravagantly bearded inmates had increased dramatically. Horace Cobb, leaning on a stanchion, counted his troops. ‘Two twenty-six. We could man a Navy if they wasn’t so agitated.’
An eve-of-battle urgency clung to the Allies’ conversations, the sudden shivers of fear causing voices to rise and emotions to spike.
‘And we could fight them English,’ breathed Lane, next to him, a new, manic energy in his voice. ‘That’s two hundred twenty-six angry, starvin’ Yankees against a thousand fat English who don’t give a good goddamn.’
Cobb shrugged. ‘Maybe. But that’s a thousand fat English with guns. And that’s a thousand more guns than we got.’
‘Right now, that may be so,’ corrected Lane. Cobb raised an eyebrow and Lane leaned in close. ‘If the market comes back next week,’ he whispered, ‘I’m hopeful of a delivery. It’ll only be a sidearm, but …’
Cobb’s lips were pinched together to hold the cigarillo in place, but he still managed a smirk. ‘Well, well,’ he said, smoke shooting out of both sides of his mouth. ‘Think of the … opportunities.’ He blew smoke high into the cloud that hung from the ceiling. ‘You trust your trader?’
Lane laughed again. ‘Not even slightly. A Jew, jus’ like the rest o’ them, swindlin’ every last penny out of us they can.’
‘How much?’
‘Two pounds ten shillings.’
Cobb whistled. ‘Swindle is right.’
A cluster of Allies nearby, heads together, launched into a patriotic song while others clapped their support. ‘Well, maybe when we ’scape we can pay the villagers a visit,’ said Lane, louder now.
‘And escaping,’ said Cobb, ‘is the only way we’ll ever get out of this godless, infested sewer. I used to think – like that bandit Crafus – that we’d all be released in the end, that Madison’d send ships and we’d all sail home in triumph, but now it seems clear to me that the President don’t want us back. He’s done a deal with the mad king.’
Lane wasn’t keeping up. ‘’Scuse me, Mr Cobb, but I ain’t got that exactly. D’you mean to say America don’t want us back?’
‘Isn’t that what it feels like, Mr Lane? Is that not obvious to you now? We’re an embarrassment, that’s what we are. “The war was won, but not by these men.” Can’t you hear them say it? Who wants to see the men who lost? No one. That’s the truth of it. We’re thousands of miles away. It’d be more convenient if we stayed that way. If we jus’ disappeared. That’s what they’re saying.’ He drew deeply on his cigarillo, then exhaled slowly.
‘Who’s sayin’ that?’ asked Lane. ‘Pardon my ignorance, but who’s sayin’ that?’
‘The men round Madison. Catholics. Jews. The profiteers who just made their own fortune from the war. If we just “disappeared”, who’d know the truth?’
Lane stared back at Cobb. ‘So today … it was jus’ the beginning?’
Cobb nodded. He dropped his voice further and Lane leaned in to catch every word. ‘And don’t be surprised if that African pox makes a return, this time in all the blocks.’
Lane had heard enough. Clearly agitated, he paced around the hammocks, ignoring the keenly offered greetings of the men he passed. At last calmer, he returned to Cobb. ‘When the men hear o’ this, they gonna go crazy. You think we can get out?’
‘I do. We are many. We can overwhelm them, but we need firepower. With your gun, we can make a start. But it’s just a start. The nigger play is just a nigger escape plan, I’m sure of it. And whatever it is, we need to be a part of it. We need to be watching. We need to be ready. We need to be in charge.’
‘So,’ said Lane, the softness of his tone exaggerating the high pitch of his voice, ‘I reckon we should take up Crafus’s offer. He says there ain’t no ’scape plan – well, let’s see ’bout that. How ’bout I go an’ see what I can find out? Spend an hour or two with them blackamoors, see what tricks they’re plannin’?’
Horace Cobb’s eyes narrowed as he inhaled deeply. ‘Good,’ he said, then exhaled slowly. ‘Crafus invited you personally – I reckon you’ll be safe enough. But’ – he pulled on the cigarillo again – ‘there is of course the matter of Ned Penny …’ He looked at Lane, who shrugged.
‘What ’bout him?’ A nearby card game finished amid a flurry of insults and threats.
Cobb waited for them to subside. ‘Well, you killed him, Mr Lane, so if you’re planning to spend some time with his shipmates, I had better feed them some names. Else they might want to keep hold of you awhile.’
‘Whose names?’ asked Lane. ‘I told James ’n’ Hitch that doin’ Penny was our idea.’
‘We don’t need to explain nothing,’ said Cobb. ‘Just give them a pair of names. Anyone who’s causing you trouble, maybe …’
Lane looked relieved. ‘If they find out I had anythin’ …’ he began.
‘Then you’ll be prepared,’ insisted Cobb.
‘Always.’
Cobb nodded. ‘You don’t stay there any longer than you need. I’ll want you back here soon enough.’ He indicated the other Allies, stabbing his cigarillo as he spoke. ‘Time’ll come when they’ll fight. They want to fight. They need to fight. Whatever’s happening in Four won’t do for all of us.’ He flicked ash from his arm. ‘First, though, we have some prison visits to make …’
4.6
The Hospital
THE INJURED FROM the morning’s riot were laid wherever space could be found. Elizabeth Shortland had seen worse, but Magrath seemed anxious as he bandaged and strapped. ‘None of this feels safe,’ he said, glancing up and down the ward.
She wasn’t immediately sure of his meaning. ‘There’s a desperation here, now, with these men. I haven’t seen it before,’ he said. ‘They understood the war, knew why they were held here. But this damned peace has turned their heads.’ He indicated a man with bandages wrapped tightly around his chest. ‘Do you see that man, Elizabeth? I just strapped him up. He was agitating in the courtyard, attacking the troops. Broken ribs from a crush. He says as soon as he can bear the pain, he’ll be back and doing it all again.’ Magrath shook his head in despair.
He looked exhausted, she thought, strained; the lean on his cane heavier than usual. She resisted the temptation to assist him. She smiled instead. ‘They can’t just open the gates, George. Thomas wants them gone, too, but until there are ships … Just letting seven thousand men out on to Dartmoor would be a catastrophe.’
The returned smile was brief, reluctant. ‘I know his hands are tied,’ he said, sighing deeply. ‘But we all need to take care now.’
Echoing bootsteps rattled along the corridor and they both turned, instinctively stepping apart from each other as they did so. Captain Shortland and two redcoats marched into the ward.
‘Elizabeth. George. A minute, please!’ he called out.
Magrath and Elizabeth walked through the rows of beds towards him, a few heads following them as they passed.
Shortland nodded the briefest of greetings at his physician. ‘What injuries from this morning?’ His eyes scanned the room, alighting on the recently arrived mattresses in front of him.
Magrath followed his gaze. ‘Broken ankles, legs and ribs. Bruising, cuts. We got away with it, but only just,’ he said.
‘Meaning?’ asked Shortland, irritated.
Magrath shrugged. ‘Meaning we could easily have had fatalities out there, Thomas. T
he bullets missed, but—’
‘The bullets didn’t “miss”, George, they were fired over the heads of rioting prisoners. It was strategic, and it worked. The riot is over.’
‘I think what George is trying to say—’ began Elizabeth.
‘I know very well what he’s trying to say!’ snapped Shortland. ‘And I don’t like it one bit. Would you care to hear my opinion on your patients’ health? Shall I make an inspection? Well?’ The challenge was clear.
Elizabeth flushed. ‘Thomas, that’s not fair. We talk to these men, we know what they’re saying. Surely that’s helpful to you?’
Shortland’s blood was up. His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not sure that it is, Elizabeth, not sure at all. Maybe you talk to them too much, eh? How did the meeting with the English boy’s grandmother go? Did you recruit him, or do I have to get the recruiters back?’
With a start, she realized that she recognized his tone, that patronizing petulance she had heard so often. It was her father’s voice. Her husband now spoke to her as though she were a child. Elizabeth fought to keep the contempt from her voice. ‘Well, first of all, he’s not English,’ she said. Shortland was about to interrupt, but Elizabeth persisted, talking over him. ‘I know what our law says, Thomas, but that’s not how he sees it. Me telling him he’s English won’t stop him feeling American.’
‘Well, happily, he can now feel as American as he wants and still join up. We are fighting the French again, Elizabeth. This may very well be a good time for a visit from the recruiting sergeant.’ He glanced at Magrath. ‘I’m sending the turnkeys out, George. Locking the prisons down until it’s all quietened somewhat. Make sure the hospital is secure also.’ Shortland nodded at them both, turned on his heels and marched back down the corridor, the two redcoats following behind.
‘Locking the prisons!’ said Elizabeth, exasperation and fear in her voice. ‘I think he’s learned nothing, George.’
Magrath nodded slowly. ‘The turnkeys won’t quieten anything. Quite the reverse, I fear. Quite the reverse.’
4.7
Block Four, Cockloft
THE COCKLOFT WAS rammed, each of its traditional functions of sanctuary, town hall, bar, casino and church now fully engaged. The belief that their tuppence ha’penny daily wage had been stopped triggered wild, reckless gambling in some and panicked, immediate thrift in others. Pastor Simon had tried to call for prayer but, without support from King Dick, had got nowhere. Now, he queued for his attention. The King was besieged by questions. He answered as best he could.
‘No, it ain’t the last times. No, no one died today. Yes, I believe the ships are on their way. Yes, I would like coffee. I agree we need to be on our guard. No, I don’t think the British King is Satan Himself.’ He looked up. ‘Ah, Pastor Simon, you are, after all, a blessin’. Our very own Pontifex Maximus. Come, let us climb the stage. Let us see what Church and state can manage together. I’m sure Thomas Jefferson won’t be concernin’ himself with us anytime soon.’ The King and the pastor pushed their way through the melee.
‘I’m hopin’ you gotta spiritual song for us, Pastor? Some succour for our ravaged souls? We got some work to do right now. Anythin’ ’bout peace an’ patience would be fine.’
Pastor Simon turned as they stepped on to the stage. ‘We sing ’em sperichills all day, King Dick, and half the choir are right there.’ He pointed to the first few rows.
‘Get ’em up here,’ said the King. ‘Put ’em to work.’
Pastor Simon waved his men up, and eight of them clambered on to the stage. Straight away, two of them began clapping and stamping, the rhythm quickly taken up by the others. Simon bowed his head then, resting a hand on the man next to him, and began to sing.
‘I ain’t gonna tarry here,
I ain’t gonna tarry here.’
The choristers responded, they, too, resting an arm on the sailor next to them.
‘I ain’t gonna tarry here,
I ain’t gonna tarry here.’
Pastor Simon led them on, his querulous baritone finding its range and passion.
‘But my Lord, He knows the time,
My Lord, He knows the time.
And when He calls me home,
And when He calls me home,
Gonna ring that freedom chime,
Gonna let that freedom chime.’
Many in the crowd began to sing, too, but the moment was short-lived. Cries and shouts cut across the singing. The whole cockloft could hear ‘Sweet Mary, Mother of God!’, then ‘Get King Dick!’ and a sharp, forceful slamming.
The King jumped from the stage. ‘Everyone stay here!’ he yelled, and was about to open the door when he was met by an anxious trio of lookouts falling over themselves to get to him. ‘You have left your posts?’ called the King.
‘It’s Cobb and Lane. Horace Cobb and Edwin Lane.’ The look-outs’ words were tumbling fast. ‘The Rough Allies. The leaders, from Six, they’re outside, and they’re just standin’ there. Right by the steps!’
‘You gotta do somethin’, King Dick,’ panted one of them. ‘They could be invadin’ or somethin’.’ The crowd in the cockloft stirred.
The King turned back. ‘Y’all stay and watch!’ he shouted. ‘Y’all stay and listen! I’ll take the first thirty men here with me; the rest of you, stay and watch. But steady now. Two men in beards ain’t even a boardin’ party, never mind an invasion. So, before you go off makin’ war, let’s see what they want.’
The King crashed down the two floors, and a posse followed, Habs, Joe and Sam riding the wave. He stopped by the doors, held up four fingers then pointed them at the kitchens. Four men silently peeled off, doubling the protection for John Haywood.
King Dick stepped outside, bearskin strapped high, his men packed tightly around him. The sun was slipping away, the vast shadows thrown by the blocks overlapping each other in the darkening courtyard. No more than ten feet from the steps, Cobb and Lane stood waiting. No cigarillos, no pipes, arms folded and beards partially hidden by their tunics – every man present knew this was as unthreatening as the Allies could be.
‘With a hatchet in one hand and a Bible in the other,’ said the King. ‘Gentlemen, are you sure?’
‘Sure of what?’ asked Cobb, taken aback.
‘Comin’ so close. What’ll people say?’
Cobb ignored him. ‘You made an offer. Extended an invitation to Mr Lane here to watch your rehearsals. If it still stands, we would like to accept.’
Lane fidgeted nervously beside him, his balance shifting from leg to leg, his thumbs running endlessly over his clenched fists. Cobb, like King Dick, was motionless. The few men remaining in the courtyard had stopped what they were doing to watch the stand-off.
Eventually, King Dick said, ‘We’ve put the play back. Today ain’t the day. Like you say, it’s gotten even more serious. Reckon you think so, too, or you wouldn’t be standin’ there. The offer to Mr Lane still holds; watchin’ a rehearsal won’t hurt no one. But my question to you, Mr Cobb, holds, too.’
‘And what question might that be?’
The King continued to look unblinkingly at him. ‘The question is, who killed Ned Penny?’ he said quietly. ‘And you can tell it to his family here.’ He nodded to Habs and Sam standing behind him.
It was, as Cobb had forecast, the entrance fee that needed paying. Without it, no one was going anywhere. Cobb glanced at all three men.
‘Matthews and Drake,’ he said. The King waited for more. When nothing came, he spread his arms, the club swinging casually from his fingers.
‘Go on, Mr Cobb. I am not the keeper of your register.’
‘John Matthews and Robert Drake. From Detroit.’
The King was waiting for more.
Cobb folded his arms. After a while, he said, ‘I’m dealin’ with it.’
The sun had gone now, the courtyard in twilight.
‘Well, Mr Cobb,’ said the King with the beginnings of a laugh in his throat. ‘You’ll forgive my stupidity. I kno
w there are other matters to address but, jus’ for now, what does you “dealin’ with it” actually mean?’
‘It means, if I have to, I’ll hang ’em myself.’
‘You told the British that?’
‘I don’t talk to the British.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Not all of us talk to the Brits.’
‘Well, not blessed with the moral purity that comes with bein’ white, maybe you wouldn’t mind if I tell the British,’ said the King. ‘In your place, you understand. Save you the effort. Keep you special.’
‘Like I said, Crafus,’ said Cobb, ‘I’ll deal with it.’
The King indicated Habs and Sam next to him. ‘These here is Mr Penny’s closest,’ he said. ‘They’re also in the play. They get the final say. They say you can watch, you can watch.’
Habs knew what Sam was thinking. He ducked behind the King, put his arm round his cousin and pulled his head close.
‘Hey, cuz,’ he said, before Sam could say a word in a half-whisper. ‘It’s jus’ upstairs. Jus’ the cockloft.’
Sam could barely speak, his eyes wide with incredulity. ‘Are … you … crazy?’ he spluttered. He flicked his eyes towards the open door of Four and beyond. To the hidden, protected, damaged John Haywood.
Habs understood. ‘’S’jus the second floor, Sam. He ain’t goin’ nowhere but the second. He got us with him, always. A thousand of us against one o’ him. Reckon the King thinks there’s some sport to be had.’
Sam looked utterly unconvinced, his eyes darting from Cobb to Lane and back again. At last, he shook his head and shrugged, surrendering to Habs, deferring to him, as ever. Habs and Sam sprang back to their positions either side of the King.
‘We’re all right,’ Habs said to the King. ‘Let him in.’
4.8
Block Four
WHEN KING DICK stepped aside, most of the crowd on the steps of Four followed. Their reluctance was clear – glares and muttered curses followed Lane every step of the way – but they allowed him to approach their prison. A few didn’t move; Abe Cook from Connecticut took a blow to the chest from the King’s club before he gave way. The sailors of Four packed themselves around Lane then shuffled back into the block.
