by Simon Mayo
‘It says here we fight, but I ain’t got no weapon.’
King Dick strode over. ‘And that’d be jus’ wrong,’ he said. ‘A one-sided fight against a defenceless man? No, that’s not right either.’ He turned to the audience. ‘And o’ course, this is where Tybalt is viciously slain by Romeo.’
Habs raised a hand, and the inmates cheered. Lane was momentarily shocked, then balled his fists.
‘Says who?’
‘Shakespeare,’ said Habs.
Lane shrugged. ‘Another slack-assed Englishman.’
‘Mr Lane,’ said the King, ‘you might be a vile, murderin’ son of a bitch but you ain’t stupid. This is where Tybalt dies. I’d die now, if I were you.’
Lane shrugged. ‘You want me dead? How’s this?’ He fell to his knees, held out his arms, ‘There, you got me.’
Habs threw the bow at him. ‘One day, maybe,’ he said, then jumped from the stage.
The King clapped his hands to break the tension. He waved at a lopsided man leaning against the cockloft door. The rehearsals were over. Within minutes, the gambling tables were up. At the back of the room, a few members of the band had teamed up with some of the choir, and more songs of home and the sea filled the cockloft. Lane, escorted to a stool, watched in some surprise.
‘I know what you’re thinkin’, Mr Lane,’ said the King, his hand firmly on Lane’s shoulder. ‘You thinkin’ you ain’t got nothin’ like this back in Six. Am I right? ’Course I’m right. Now, why might that be, d’you reckon? Why might Six be so lackin’—’
‘I need the heads,’ replied Lane.
‘Is your cockloft like this one? Does it move like this one?’
‘I need the heads,’ repeated Lane.
‘You can piss in a pot,’ said the King. ‘I’ll go get you one.’
‘That ain’t too helpful.’
‘You can shit in it, too. We don’t mind.’
Lane sighed. ‘Can’t I do my toilet in peace?’
‘Be my guest.’ The King took his hands from Lane’s shoulders and Lane spun where he sat.
‘Jus’ like that?’
‘Jus’ like that. I wish you good luck. Know where it is? Same as your block. First floor, jus’ under here.’
Lane looked around at the many hostile faces that were watching their conversation. ‘I wouldn’t make it twenty yards.’
‘Aye, there is that. But if you gotta go …’
‘It can wait.’
‘Till morning? You Allies must have mighty strong control.’ He put his hands back on Lane’s shoulders and pressed as he bent to speak in his ear. ‘O’ course, the other conclusion is you jus’ wanted to go snoopin’. Maybe to see if we got that tunnel goin’ somewhere.’
‘Can I see it?’ said Lane.
‘No, you cannot. We ain’t havin’ that. But you seen the play. And you got my word on the tunnel – it ain’t goin’ nowhere.’
Lane snorted, and King Dick squeezed, his fingers digging deep into the Ally’s shoulder. ‘It’s the word of a king,’ he said. ‘And right now, tha’s all you gettin’.’
Lane was watched every minute up to the time the turnkeys opened up the next morning. The cockloft gathering had become an all-nighter, with the band, the choir and the card tables running strong until the money, the alcohol and the energy ran out. As soon as Lane left, the King closed his eyes. Everyone slept where they fell. The only movement came from the diminutive, scuttling secretaries Daniels and Singer, who were busy removing plates, bottles and cups from around the King and his throne.
‘I’m not asleep,’ murmured King Dick. ‘But I would sure like to be. Mr Daniels, Mr Singer. Would you assist in this matter?’
‘Yes, King Dick,’ they said in unison. They knew the routine; they had done it before. They took one arm each and the King allowed himself to be pulled upright. Alex offered him his bearskin, Jonathan the club. The King opened his eyes enough to take both.
‘Knowest thou the way to Dover?’
The well-drilled reply. ‘Both stile and gate, horse-way and footpath,’ they said, and tugged him towards the exit. It took longer than usual to negotiate a safe passage to his bed.
‘Stay with me,’ said the King, his eyes closed. ‘Sit with me a moment.’ Alex and Jonathan glanced at the King, then at each other. Alex shrugged, and they sat at the end of his mattress and waited. King Dick’s breathing became deep and rhythmic.
Sliding from the bed, the boys had started for their hammocks when the King spoke in a low, private rumble.
‘And how did we do, then, m’boys? How did we do?’
Alex and Jonathan stood up straighter.
‘It was one of the best nights, King Dick, everyone said so,’ said Alex, almost standing to attention. When Jonathan hesitated, the King opened his eyes. It was all the prompting the boy needed.
‘No one liked having the Rough Ally here, King Dick,’ he blurted. ‘They said it wasn’t right.’ The King waited for more. Jonathan swallowed and carried on. ‘But then you did your speech and it was all right.’
The King sat up, propping himself against the wall. ‘Tell me what else you hear from the men.’
‘I don’t hear much, sir, not really.’
‘Tell me what you do hear.’
Now Alex piped up. ‘Some talk ’about ’scapin’. Everyone talks ’bout gettin’ home.’
The King nodded. ‘’S’only natural,’ he said. ‘Any mutinous talk? You hear any o’ that?’ He caught the glance between Alex and Jonathan before they both shook their heads.
‘No, King Dick,’ they said together.
‘Though a lotta folk are scared,’ added Jonathan, and then bit his lip.
‘And are you scared?’ asked the King.
Both boys nodded and Alex shuffled his feet.
‘Will we be all right, King Dick?’ he asked, his voice shaking slightly.
The familiar light, running steps of the crier halted their conversation. The King held his answer as Tommy arrived at his bedside, breathless and glowing.
‘Beg pardon, King Dick, sir,’ he said, ‘but the Agent wants to see you.’
‘Tommy,’ said the King, ‘I was jus’ ’bout to tell Mr Daniels and Mr Singer here that, in my opinion, the play will be the best we have seen, that Madison’s ships will arrive and that we will indeed all be home soon.’
Tommy smiled broadly. ‘That sure is good news, King Dick, sir, but I’ve got to take you to see Captain Shortland.’
The King rose from his bed with a deep sigh. ‘How poor they are that have no patience,’ he muttered. He took his bearskin from Alex’s outstretched hands and strode from the room.
4.9
The Agent’s Study
SHORTLAND (his tone is brusque, urgent, almost panicky): Mr Crafus, good day. You should know the recruiters are back; two of them are waiting in the barracks. They want to make a sweep of the blocks. They say it’s overdue, anyway, but they’ve heard of your Mr Hill and want to see him. I have my … reservations. What say you?
KING DICK (exhausted, though Shortland hasn’t noticed): Reservations? You got reservations? Ain’t it jus’ a little late for that?
SHORTLAND (waits for Dick to say more then realizes he’s finished): I’m concerned that the men in the blocks would react … badly. Aggressively.
KING DICK (stares at Shortland; he hasn’t been offered a seat but takes one anyway): Why have you asked me here, Captain? What do you want? What could you possibly want from a prisoner like me?
SHORTLAND (taking notice now): Why, answers to questions, of course, Mr Crafus. I thought … I thought you’d have a view on the matter …
KING DICK: On what would happen if your recruiters tried to do their recruitin’? If your recruiters, with all their uniforms, their bulgin’ stomachs and their fulsome lies, went from block to block to say, ‘Join the Navy! Fight for the King!’? Sure, I got an opinion. (The King closes his eyes briefly; Shortland waits.) Ever seen a lynchin’, Captain? ’Cos I have. Your me
n’d make it far as Block One, where those who can still see an’ those who can still move’d get a rope round their necks and be swingin’ from the kitchen rafters before they can say ‘God Save the King!’. Might even cut off their balls, if they feel like it. Which, seein’ as they’ve survived war, smallpox and your barbarous prison, they probably would. That is my view.
SHORTLAND (visibly shocked): Even if the recruiters have a troop with them?
KING DICK: Especially if they have a troop with ’em.
SHORTLAND (after a long silence): So what do I tell them? That I am no longer in control of my own prison?
KING DICK: That’s for you to decide. Men are sometimes master of their own fates. You have stopped the men’s wages. The war is over, but we’re still prisoners. There’s a price to be paid, Captain Shortland. And none of us can be certain who’ll be payin’ it.
SHORTLAND (incredulous): Are you saying your position in Four is threatened? Surely that cannot be right?
KING DICK: O’ course it is threatened! Everythin’ is threatened. You gotta bring back the wages, increase the bread ration, do somethin’ to slow this all down.
SHORTLAND: They are orders from the Transport Office. My hands are tied.
KING DICK (aside): Well, that’s how a lynchin’ starts …
SHORTLAND (has an idea): And what of your play, Mr Crafus? How close are you to being able to perform it?
KING DICK: The play? A few days, maybe.
SHORTLAND: Soon, I have to leave on prison business to Plymouth and London. I will argue your case, believe me, and on my return, Elizabeth and I will come and watch the show. How’s that?
KING DICK (astonished): You wanna visit the cockloft? With Mrs Shortland?
SHORTLAND: It’ll hold the prison together, Mr Crafus. Invite some of the other blocks. I’m ‘slowing this thing down’, as you asked. I can’t guarantee more bread and wages, but a Dartmoor Romeo and Juliet will be quite a distraction. I will not be away long. So shall we say the sixth?
KING DICK: Assumin’ your prison is still standin’.
SHORTLAND: And now, Mr Crafus, I believe you are being overly dramatic. I look forward to seeing your show on the sixth. Elizabeth will be thrilled.
KING DICK (leaving): I jus’ thought of a job for your recruiters.
SHORTLAND: You have?
KING DICK: I have. They can visit Block Seven. Find John Matthews and Robert Drake. They from Detroit.
SHORTLAND (disbelieving): Might they want to serve in the Royal Navy?
KING DICK: They might. Mr Cobb and Mr Lane outta Six tell me they’re the men who killed Ned Penny.
SHORTLAND (astonished): Really? And why would they tell you that?
KING DICK (shrugs): Maybe their natural sense o’ justice. Maybe they settlin’ scores. More likely hidin’ their own involvement. Either way, Matthews and Drake are in trouble. If it’s a choice between a hangin’ or your Navy, they might jus’ be tempted.
5.1
Friday, 24 March
The Market Square
THE MARKET STRUGGLED on for a week. None of the stall-holders truly believed the British would stop the Americans’ wages; they were expecting a reversal as soon as the implications became clear. Even when none was forthcoming, there was enough cash in circulation to keep most of the stall-holders, if not happy, then at least in attendance. But takings were down and thieving was up.
Today’s market was smaller, quieter. Empty spaces appeared in the market square where, previously, stalls had jostled for the best position. The bakers of Tavistock were there still, but only just.
Betsy Wade was rearranging her baskets of bread. ‘This is no good, Martha, no good at all.’ She looked around the square, counting. ‘Sixteen, we’ve got. That means we lost nineteen. Not much of a market with just sixteen stalls.’
Martha shrugged. ‘You got beer an’ clothes. Meat. That man selling shoes an’ boots. Keep most men happy enough.’
‘And how many honest men do you see, Martha? At least, men with money in their pockets to go with the tongue in their mouths?’ The square was full of inmates, very few of them buying. Most of them were gathered in groups, hands deep in their pockets, their faces grey and sullen.
‘Not many,’ she acknowledged.
‘We have two baskets of unsold bread, Martha. You know if we don’t sell here we’ll have to find somewhere else. Trading with Yankee sailors is one thing, but trading with hungry, angry Yankee thieves is quite another.’
‘Talk of the devil,’ said Martha, nudging Betsy and nodding at the gates. Edwin Lane emerged, flanked by two other Allies.
‘What’s up with them, then?’ said Betsy. ‘They normally just march in and take what they want.’ Lane was smiling, pulling at his beard and nodding greetings at fellow inmates. He examined some meat, peered at some fish, picked up a bottle then moved on.
‘Not exactly stocking up on supplies, is he?’ said Betsy.
‘So where’s he heading?’ said Martha. She scanned the depleted market. ‘Not many of us left. Are you sure he’s not after bread?’
Betsy nodded. ‘I am. Look at the cobbler.’ The stooped man behind the shoes twitched as he saw Lane and the other Allies approaching. ‘Cover the loaves, Martha – stow ’em. Quickly. He might need some help.’
Lane had reached the cobbler’s stall and was picking up shoes at random. His two cohorts had turned their backs to Lane and were now watching the square. Betsy glanced at her fellow stall-holders but none of them seemed interested in what was going on, talking among themselves instead.
‘Just me, then,’ she said. ‘Walk with me, Martha.’
The two women set off across the square, apparently deep in conversation, heading for the stand next to the cobbler’s. ‘The woman selling the clothes is Clarity,’ said Betsy. ‘One of us talks to her; the other listens to them.’ She indicated the Allies and the cobbler, who had just ducked behind his stall and was searching for something.
‘Hey, Clarity, still here then?’ called Betsy, as they approached.
A mousey woman with pinched cheeks and a sullen expression greeted them with a shrug. ‘For what it’s worth,’ she said. ‘Which right this minute is precisely nothing.’
Martha picked up some folds of cloth from the stall then held them up for closer inspection, blocking Lane from her eyesight. The cobbler, however, was in plain view. He found what he was looking for and, hands trembling, passed Lane a single brown leather boot. She saw it tilted, as if for inspection, heard words exchanged, then the boot, and the Allies, disappeared.
As soon as they had gone the cobbler hurriedly scooped all his shoes into a canvas bag.
‘You all right, m’love?’ Martha asked him. ‘They giving you trouble?’
The cobbler didn’t reply, didn’t even look up. As soon as his table was empty, he heaved the bag over his shoulder and ran from the square.
‘Rude man,’ said Clarity.
‘Rude man in a hurry,’ said Betsy.
Martha watched the cobbler go. ‘How can one boot cost two pounds ten shillings?’ she said.
5.2
Monday, 27 March
Block Four
JOHN HAYWOOD DIDN’T like visitors. He peered at Joe and Habs from under a sheet, his sickly eyes shot wide with fear. The news from King Dick that two men from Six had been named as his attackers had pushed him further under it. There was a guard present at all times, but that seemed to give him little comfort.
‘They don’t notice nothin’. They’re playin’ cards most o’ the time,’ he whispered. ‘Wouldn’t notice if the King of England walked in to stab me. If I hear anythin’ bad, I jus’ head down the tunnel the King built for me.’ He gestured through the precarious wooden slats at the back of the cupboard.
‘You hide in the tunnel?’ asked Habs, astonished. ‘Is it safe?’
‘No, it’s dangerous,’ whispered Haywood, then added, ‘obviously.’
‘Why are we whisperin’?’ whispered Habs.
Haywood looked contemptuous. ‘You know as well as I do,’ he said, and disappeared under the sheet once more. Joe and Habs glanced at each other.
‘Don’t think we do, Mr Haywood,’ said Joe.
‘Well then, you’re as foolish as you look,’ said Haywood.
‘Is it ’cos of Matthews and Drake in Six?’ asked Habs.
Even though Habs was still whispering, the mere mention of the Allies’ names sent a spasm through Haywood. He curled up into a ball, pulling the old sheet tightly around his thin frame.
‘They can’t get you here, John, and they can’t hear us either.’ Joe nodded to Habs to continue.
‘Was it them, John? Was it them that attacked you and Ned? Did Edwin Lane have anythin’ to do with it? You said you dreamed of three shadows …’
A yellow stain had appeared on the sheet, the pungent smell of urine filling Haywood’s makeshift bedroom.
Joe flicked his head to the door. ‘We should leave,’ he mouthed.
Habs nodded and they stood.
‘We’ll be home soon, John,’ said Habs. ‘Don’t you worry – the ships’ll come.’
They walked outside, squinting in the misty haze of the morning.
‘That’s one scared sailor,’ said Joe. ‘Maybe we should’ve changed the sheets?’
‘He wanted us to leave,’ said Habs.
‘Maybe the guards’ll do it.’
‘Once they’ve finished their game of Twenty-one, maybe.’ Habs peered around the courtyard and to the market square beyond. ‘What day is it?’
‘Monday.’
Habs shook his head. ‘So they actually gone an’ done it. They really have shut it down.’
Joe followed his stare. The market square was empty, the gates to the courtyard locked. Hundreds of men had gathered to take turns to rattle the padlocks and jeer any soldier who came into view. The steps of Four, perfectly aligned with the entrance to the square, gave Joe and Habs all the information they required.
They stared at where the traders should have been. ‘No more loaves, no more grog,’ said Habs.
