Mad Blood Stirring

by Simon Mayo

  ‘And no more people. No more normal people. Now everyone we see is either a sailor or a soldier, a Yankee or a Brit. That’s all.’

  ‘It was jus’ possible,’ said Habs, ‘when you were hagglin’ and buyin’ and jostlin’ in there, it was jus’ possible to imagine for a second that we were free. Free and in some mad market at home, tradin’ food for earrings. Or earrings for food, dependin’ on what week it was. Outside of our cockloft, that was the liveliest place in the whole goddamn prison.’

  In the courtyard, only the craft-sellers and the coffee-brewers were trying their luck, but, with money running out, trade was slow.

  ‘If anyone did have a spare shilling, does old Jonah there think anyone would spend it on a ship in a bottle?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Maybe it’d make a fine weapon,’ suggested Habs. ‘Fill it with oil. The miniature sails would balance it jus’ right. And imagine the enemy’s surprise when they’re brought down by a tiny USS Constitution.’

  ‘Might as well stick to the courtyard coffee,’ said Joe. ‘Half a pint of grey, warm water?’

  ‘I swear it’s turning me grey.’

  Joe almost smiled. ‘Somehow, Mr Snow, you have retained your colour, while mine is draining away. That’s the rumour, anyway.’

  They sat on the ground, their backs against the block, faces once more to the sky. The air held a fragrance which Joe hadn’t noticed before. ‘Somewhere out there,’ he said, ‘there are flowers blooming. What grows on this godforsaken moor, Habs?’

  Habs shrugged. ‘I never noticed, Joe, and tha’s the truth. All I smell in here is sweat, tobacco and sickness.’

  The doors of Six opened and a group of Allies sauntered out. Joe and Habs watched as they stopped by Seven and another, similar-sized group of inmates joined them, Will Roche the last to appear. One of the sailors from Seven produced a rough leather ball and threw it against the courtyard wall. It bounced high, then dropped to the ground, whereupon everyone in the vicinity fell on it. Up against the wall, they tussled, fighting each other and yelling at the tops of their voices. The scrummage was never-ending, with men tumbling out of the brawl then piling back in again.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said Joe. ‘I never saw Will play any sport before.’

  More men arrived, and the wrestling for the ball spilled further out along the wall.

  ‘Ever seen anything like this?’ asked Joe.

  ‘No.’ Habs leaned forward, watching intently. ‘I reckon we should take a closer look.’

  They walked with as much indifference as they could muster, arcing right to take them closer to Blocks One, Two and Three. Each prison had spilled hundreds of its sailors on to the courtyard, the men gathering in groups to argue, protest, sing, smoke and – around Pastor Simon – to pray. Outside One, an inmate was reading a newspaper article to a row of the newly blind.

  ‘We was lucky,’ muttered Habs as they passed. ‘So goddamn lucky.’

  The wall that separated the prisons from the market square captured the afternoon sun and, even in late March, it carried enough heat to draw a crowd. Joe and Habs had to squeeze their way to a better view of whatever game the men of Six and Seven were playing. A ball appeared only occasionally; the rest of the time everyone just wrestled everyone else.

  ‘They seem to be making the rules up as they go along!’ shouted Joe over the yelling.

  From deep in the melee, a flash of metal caught the sunshine. ‘Sweet Mother of God!’ exclaimed Habs. ‘That’s why we ain’t seen nothin’ like this before. They ain’t playin’ no sport.’

  Joe turned to look at Habs. ‘What are they doing, then?’

  ‘Watch carefully, Joe, an’ you’ll see. One of ’em has a knife or somethin’ like it. Or some metal, anyways. I jus’ saw it flash.’

  Smaller skirmishes were breaking out, but the main group stayed stuck to the wall. Joe stared at the broiling ruckus.

  ‘They’re not attackin’ one another,’ observed Habs, ‘they’re attackin’ the wall.’

  ‘They’re escaping?’

  ‘The start of it, maybe. They must be tryin’ to make a hole in the wall. Must be shieldin’ a man doin’ the scrapin’, loosenin’ the rocks.’

  ‘Won’t that be obvious?’ said Joe. ‘Wouldn’t even the most stupid English soldier notice a hole in the wall leading to the armoury?’

  ‘It won’t be a hole,’ said Habs. ‘Not if they’re just scrapin’ the cement away. But yes, if the Brits have hard-workin’ troopers, nimble of mind and quick of thought, it might get spotted.’

  Joe and Habs exchanged glances.

  ‘The hole is safe, then,’ said Joe.

  Habs tugged at his sleeve. ‘C’mon, we need to find King Dick. He’ll want to know what’s happenin’.’

  As they climbed the stairs of Four, the unmistakeable sounds of construction drew them to the cockloft. Through the doors, and thirty men were across the stage. Painting, sawing and hammering, there was no disputing what the King had set them to do.

  ‘So Verona comes to Dartmoor,’ said Habs.

  Large sections of the old French scenery were being cut up and repainted, with the King directing proceedings from the floor. Bearskin high on his head, he jabbed his club in all directions: ‘Mr Johnson! A darker brown, please. Mr Cook, more to the left. And again. Thank you.’

  He broke away and came to meet them. ‘My favourite part,’ he said. ‘Watchin’ a new world bein’ formed. Take a brush – these are your new streets. And they’re a goddamn sight safer than the ones we walk here.’ He registered their expressions at last. ‘You got news?’

  Joe and Habs explained what they had seen.

  ‘So they’re really doin’ it,’ he said, once they were clear of the stage party. He swiped the bearskin from his head. ‘They gonna run the English guns one more time.’

  Habs thought the King sounded bewildered. He’d never heard him sound like that before.

  ‘But they’re doin’ somethin’,’ he said. ‘They ain’t got no tunnel. They ain’t got no play. They ain’t got nothin’. If you think the ships ain’t comin’, why wouldn’t you try to bust out?’

  ‘’Cos you’ll get killed?’ suggested Joe.

  ‘But if the fates are against you and you think you gonna die anyways,’ said Habs, ‘better to go runnin’ at a British gun than die wastin’ to a skeleton in here.’

  ‘You wanna escape now, Mr Snow?’ The King seemed puzzled.

  ‘No, I wanna act!’ said Habs, struggling to keep his voice quiet. He pointed to the stage and the men working on it. ‘This is our escape. This play, this show. Everythin’ out there is madness. To me, this makes sense. It’s a love story …’

  ‘It’s a tragedy,’ said the King.

  ‘It’s both,’ said Habs. ‘It’s ink and paper. It’s a book. It’s solid. It’s a chart – you can set your compass by it. It counts for somethin’. But for everyone else? If you’re in Six or Seven, scrapin’ a hole in a wall probably makes more sense than doin’ nothin’.’

  King Dick nodded. ‘Well spoken, Mr Snow. Let’s find Mr Goffe and Mr Lord, get ourselves informed.’

  Tommy the crier found Goffe and Lord, then Pastor Simon and Sam. Within minutes, they had most of their principal cast and, with the stage still hectic, they gathered at the far corner of the cockloft.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said the King. ‘Some of you may have seen what Mr Snow and Mr Hill saw this mornin’ in the courtyard. That “game” up against the wall ain’t no such thing. Mr Jackson, you jus’ ran past there—’

  ‘Yes, sir, King Dick, sir!’ said Tommy, his face still glowing from the exertion. ‘They been scrapin’ away all right, and clearin’ up, too. You’d only see if you walked close by. But up close, that’s a dig happenin’.’

  ‘In full view of everybody and everythin’,’ said the King. ‘So it’s jus’ the masonry they chippin’ at, leavin’ the rocks in place, Mr Jackson?’

  ‘Yes, King Dick.’

  The King nodded. ‘And the Brit
s are thinkin’ more ’bout fightin’ Napoleon again than the upkeep o’ this place,’ he mused. ‘It’s bold, I’ll give ’em that. Mr Goffe? Mr Lord?’

  Jon Lord’s battered face was a study in anxiety. ‘We’re in the wrong mess to know for sure. Ol’ Will Roche has taken himself and half the Eagle crew to the mess with some Newport men. He’s fired them all up with revolutionary talk. And them’s the ones that’s fightin’ against the wall. Roche said it’s the armoury they’re after.’

  ‘Lord have mercy on us,’ muttered the pastor.

  ‘The armoury over at the barracks?’ Sam was incredulous. ‘They all got jail fever or somethin’?’

  Robert Goffe stepped forward, almost bowing to the King, then, embarrassed, changed his mind. He pulled nervously at his prison jacket instead. ‘Yes, I do believe they have.’ He stepped back again.

  ‘You’re quiet, Mr Hill,’ said the King.

  Joe collected his thoughts. He’d listened to the exchanges with a particular despondency. ‘Will feels lost to me,’ he said. ‘We did everything together, but it seems the prison has taken him. I feel as though I should talk to him, but I’m not sure what good it would do. If he’s taken to sport, well, his head is turned and no mistake.’

  ‘How long till they break through?’ asked Sam. ‘Assumin’ no Brits put their head near that hole first?’

  ‘Tommy? You been up close,’ said the King.

  ‘Oh, they’re jus’ gettin’ started. That’s a big, thick wall. From what I saw, they’ve done about half an inch today, so … ten more days?’

  ‘Which takes us to … when, exactly?’ asked Sam.

  ‘April sixth,’ said Joe.

  5.3

  Saturday, 1 April

  The Agent’s House

  ‘ARE YOU SURE now is a good time?’

  Breakfast had been quietly efficient, with few words spoken. Thomas had announced his imminent trip to Plymouth and London and had not been planning on discussing the matter further. But Elizabeth’s question had changed things. She had thought her tone breezy enough, but the scowl on her husband’s face suggested otherwise. He dropped his knife and fork with a clatter.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ he said, through a mouthful of bacon, ‘I know you speak with the prisoners, I know you … wish what is best for all of us, but just for once’ – he swallowed then wiped his mouth with a napkin – ‘just for once, will you trust me? I do not embark on these trips lightly.’ He took a breath, controlled himself. ‘All you need to know is that meetings in Plymouth and London have been called and my presence is requested. With the major still sick, my senior guard commander will be in charge here. Fortyne knows what he’s doing, he’s a good man.’ Shortland managed a conciliatory smile as he poured more tea, seemingly happy that he had said all that needed saying.

  Elizabeth braced herself. ‘Thomas, I understand you are wanted at meetings, but do these people know what a powder keg this prison has become? You should tell them—’

  Shortland slammed his cup into its saucer, tea slopping as far as the tablecloth.

  ‘I should tell them what?’ he snapped. ‘That my wife knows how to run my prison better than I do? That she thinks I have lost control of my prison and need her educated counsel to put things right? Is that it?’ She gently replaced her knife and fork either side of her plate.

  ‘That is not what I intended to say, Thomas—’

  ‘Well, unfortunately for you, that is precisely what you did say.’ His face was crimson now. She knew she was on dangerous ground.

  ‘Unfortunately for me?’ she said. ‘I wonder what you might mean by that?’

  Shortland closed his eyes, as if praying for guidance or self-control. It worked. The pause checked his headlong rush to battle and he swept from the table.

  ‘Good day, Elizabeth,’ he managed, before disappearing into the hall.

  ‘Good day, Thomas!’ she called after him. ‘And travelling mercies!’ She listened intently to the sounds of his departure – the orders, the door slam and the carriage – then glanced at the clock. She waited five tedious, unbearable, tea-drinking minutes. Satisfied he was gone, she pulled on her pelisse coat and walked the short distance to Magrath’s house. Once there, the coat, her dress, petticoat and pantaloons lasted three minutes.

  ‘Everyone will know you’re here,’ said Magrath, dressing for the second time that morning.

  ‘They will,’ agreed Elizabeth from the bed. ‘We work together. Remember?’

  ‘We work very well together,’ laughed Magrath. ‘I know that, to my pleasure. But I think Captain Shortland’s idea was probably that we work in the hospital and for the benefit of the inmates. Wouldn’t that be right?’

  ‘He never specified, George,’ said Elizabeth, ‘and, anyway, this is for the benefit of the patients. You look so much more relaxed now.’

  ‘But I’m fifteen minutes late for my rounds …’

  ‘Blame me!’ she called after him. ‘Just say you were fornicating with the Agent’s wife. I’m sure they’ll understand.’

  She heard Magrath laugh quietly under his breath and pull on his boots.

  ‘Wait, George,’ she said, swivelling out of the bed. ‘I should leave with you.’ She dressed hurriedly, retying her hair in seconds. ‘The one solitary advantage of being the only woman here,’ Elizabeth declared as she walked down the stairs, ‘is that no one will judge me if my linen is crumpled.’

  From Magrath’s house on the prison’s outer wall, they passed through the three double gates needed to reach the blocks, each time receiving salutes – and sly grins – from the guards.

  ‘My God, they all know!’ said Magrath as they arrived in One. ‘By the time Thomas returns, the whole of the bloody Navy will be talking about us.’

  Elizabeth knew this was true, knew that, however meat-headed her husband was, eventually even he would realize his wife was sleeping with his physician. They would row, he would demand an end to it, and she knew she would say no. Beyond that, she couldn’t say. The impossibly gallant, sweet-talking officer, the man who had dazzled her and her parents with his talk of adventures in New South Wales and sailing with Lord Hood’s fleet in the Mediterranean, seemed to her now to be something from another century, another life. Jaded, disappointed, peripheral. Napoleon and Dartmoor had taken a heavy toll on her husband. The stomach-churning nerves that were currently coursing through her body were only partly due to her imminent arrival in Block One. The rest were due to her husband and her yearning to be free of him and his wretched prison.

  Once the round duties began, all conversation returned to the medical. Lists of medicines and dressings required were compiled, patients’ demands collated and symptoms checked. Elizabeth stayed tightly to Magrath’s side. She was sure she was safe, but being the only woman in a seven-thousand-man prison never felt entirely comfortable.

  ‘Thanks, Doc. I’ll never forget you saved my life,’ said one smallpox victim, left blind.

  ‘And he’ll never forget the ass of your girlfriend neither,’ said his colleague. ‘Says it’s the last thing he saw ’fore he lost his sight. Thinks about it a lot, he says.’

  Magrath harrumphed. ‘I think you’re referring to my assistant, Mrs Shortland. The Agent’s wife, you’ll remember.’

  ‘Don’t remember the name. Just the ass.’ He smiled, pleased with himself.

  Elizabeth crouched in front of the men. ‘Well, just remember I bathed your wounds,’ she said, ‘and tied your bandages, too. Remember I helped save your life. Then you can remember my “ass”.’

  Both men blushed fiercely.

  Block Two was rougher, the atmosphere unfriendly from the steps onwards. Three was more encouraging, the greetings civil, if not warm. By the time they reached Four, they were tired and wary.

  ‘I wonder how we’ll find John Haywood,’ Magrath murmured.

  ‘I do hope he’s holding up well,’ Elizabeth replied. Looking back down the steps of Four, she noticed for the first time how busy the courtyard was. Bu
t her concern was not for the healthy or the games they were well enough to play.

  Inside Four, Joe and Habs were waiting for them, and Elizabeth nodded. ‘Mr Hill, Mr Snow,’ she said. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Mrs Shortland, Dr Magrath,’ said Joe.

  ‘We saw you comin’,’ said Habs. ‘When you’ve done your walkin’, we’ll be waitin’ for you out back.’

  Magrath and Mrs Shortland nodded a silent reply before quickly completing their rounds of the ground floor. At the entrance to the kitchens, a row of men six across parted to allow them through. King Dick stepped forward, indicating the store cupboard into which they had squeezed Haywood and his mattress.

  Magrath crouched in the entrance.

  ‘Morning, Mr Haywood.’

  Magrath lowered the blanket. Haywood stared at him; the last traces of his beating were still visible around his temples and ears, but a fresh series of cuts had appeared on his nose and forehead. Magrath glanced back at the King. ‘What in God’s name happened here?’ he asked, his anger and astonishment whispered and piercing.

  The King beckoned him over. ‘I am told he was fightin’ to get out – had enough of goin’ nowhere. So we had to politely insist.’

  ‘By hitting him? A man who only just survived an attempt on his life? Are you mad?’ Magrath was breathless with indignation.

  ‘He was almost outta the buildin’. It was the only way to stop him. We’ve doubled the guard now.’

  When Magrath returned to his patient, Elizabeth was already dressing his new wounds.

  ‘Well, you can come every time, ma’am,’ drawled Haywood. ‘That surgeon is so rough and ugly.’

  ‘Hush now,’ she said. ‘Any more cuts and bruises and you won’t be such an oil painting yourself.’ Haywood winced as the astringent did its work. ‘Do you understand why you can’t leave?’

  Haywood shrugged. ‘I guess.’

  ‘You being here has to stay secret. The man, or men, who killed Ned Penny think you’re in Plymouth. If they know you’re here, they’ll kill you, too. Do you understand?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘And do you remember anything more about the attack? About who killed Ned?’