Mad Blood Stirring

by Simon Mayo

  His gaze scoured the crowd, looking for and receiving approval. ‘Today is April first, the fools’ holy day. Horace Cobb, if he still thinkin’ at all, will remember it. It was the day King Dick took his senses. And some of his teeth.’ Some of the men laughed, but he cut them off. ‘Hear this now. The British guns are loaded. They are primed. And they are pointin’ at us. If we shout, “Fire!”, they will fire. They will fire, I tell you. And now, a new danger.’

  King Dick folded his arms, the club resting over his shoulder. Each man leaned in closer to hear this unexpected news. His voice dropped only slightly. ‘Y’all need to know that the Rough Allies have gotten themselves a gun.’

  The whole prison took a breath, then, on the exhale, started to shout.

  He held up his hands to calm the uproar. ‘Hear me now! Hear me now!’ he bellowed. ‘You ask what should we do? I say this. We stay in here. We wait. We take courage. This is our stickin’ place. We know it. We close the doors. In here, we understand how it is. And so we will watch. We will listen. We will be ready. Ready for the Allies if they come, ready for the ships when they come.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Who is our head cook now?’

  There was a moment of surprised silence at the unexpected question, before a chorus of voices called back.

  ‘Portland Byrne, King Dick!’

  A small, round-shouldered man was pushed to the front of the first-floor railings. He raised a shaking hand. ‘That’s me,’ he said, though most missed it; his voice didn’t carry beyond the railings.

  ‘Mr Byrne,’ said the King, pointing his club at him. ‘What supplies do you have in store? And speak truly. And as loud as you ever have.’

  Byrne shrugged. ‘Not much, King Dick.’ Now, at least the landing and stairs could hear him. ‘Two days’ worth, maybe. With the market closed an’ all, everyone’s eatin’ more. I’m havin’ to watch my store cupboards, if I’m honest with you.’

  ‘Thievin’?’

  ‘Thievin’.’

  The King cracked his club on the stairs. ‘Goddammit, this will stop! There will be no thievin’ here. Am I clear?’

  This, Habs thought, is his battle voice, the voice that could cut right through enemy fire.

  ‘Anyone caught stealin’ in this place will find himself cast out. And with a broken face for their sins. We need all those who have been cooks, all those who have money spare, all those who have food spare, to work together.’ He produced two pockets’ worth of coins and notes, thrusting them at the nearest men. ‘Buy what you can from any sailors’ stalls still standin’, then bring it to Mr Byrne there in the kitchens.’

  Byrne raised a hand in acknowledgement.

  ‘The Agent returns on Wednesday. I will talk to him before we perform Romeo and Juliet on Thursday. Until then, we choose to be separate. Back in ’13, we had it forced on us, but now, with them Rough Allies roamin’ round, armed, this is our decision. We choose to be in control, choose to close the door. We choose to be apart.’

  5.5

  Block Four, Cockloft

  THE DARTMOOR THEATRE Company’s cast of Romeo and Juliet sat in a circle on the cockloft stage. The painted backdrop showed the roughly drawn brick walls of Verona. King Dick, Joe, Habs, Tommy, Sam, Pastor Simon, Goffe and Lord all sat facing each other. A few extra faces had turned up. To a man, they were the King’s old crew mates. They all drank coffee, they all smoked pipes; even Tommy, who hated tobacco, felt he had to try what was offered. Alex and Jonathan did what Alex and Jonathan did best – they stood where no one noticed, eyes only on the King.

  ‘Welcome to the men of the Requin,’ said the King. ‘I have found that, in times of need, the men of the Requin will not fail me. They will not let me down.’

  Joe sensed Habs shift uncomfortably next to him and shared his evident apprehension. This was not how King Dick talked – ‘fail’ and ‘let me down’ were not his words; they had been disguised by a nod to his men, and their salute back, but to Joe’s and Habs’s ears, they were still stark and shocking. ‘Same as when we performed Othello here, if we need more voices, more hands for the fight scenes,’ the King continued, ‘my old shipmates will be there. We fought the real battles, we can fight these, too.’

  The pastor leaned forward. ‘The choir could also lend a hand, King Dick. Good men, stout hearts.’

  Sam blew an elegant stream of smoke from his lips. ‘I was wonderin’, King Dick, if you could use more men to build scenery, make costumes, that kinda thing? Now that we all stayin’ inside for a while …’

  The King nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Snow, yes, that would help focus minds. And I know you will organize that well. Mr Goffe, Mr Lord, you got somethin’ to say?’

  It had been obvious for a while that the most agitated men in the company were Jon Lord and Robert Goffe. They had fidgeted and sighed since their arrival in the cockloft. Goffe had sucked his pipe so hard his tobacco was all burnt up; he waved his pipe as he spoke.

  ‘I mentioned this to Joe here on the way up, but he said to tell you straight, sir,’ said Goffe. ‘We came here to rehearse, but then we got to go. We’re not stayin’ here till the sixth, no goddamn way.’

  ‘You got to let us say our words then let us go back to Seven.’ Lord spoke more slowly than Goffe. ‘And in Seven, you gotta know, no one thinks any ships are comin’. Not now, not never. That’s why ’s’all gone desperate.’

  ‘They really think that?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Yup,’ said Goffe. ‘So no wonder they’re tunnellin’ fast.’

  ‘You tunnellin’, too?’ asked Habs.

  ‘Not so far,’ said Goffe. ‘We’re here, ain’t we? But if we stay here, if we stay in Four, then we can’t never go back. They won’t take us. Not even when the ships come.’

  ‘If the ships come,’ said Lord.

  The King raised both hands. ‘Gentlemen. You’re right, o’ course, you gotta come and go as you need. Your mess is in Seven; they’ll not be wanting to lose any more fine seamen from the Eagle.’ All eyes flicked momentarily to Joe, but his reaction was lost beneath his tricorn.

  Goffe and Lord nodded their thanks, and the King tapped his club twice on the floor.

  ‘So. Unless there’re other matters to attend to, we gotta get to rehearsin’. We’re doublin’ up some roles, o’ course – Pastor, you got Montague and the Apothecary – and if you need to have them words in front of you, you jus’ go right ahead. I don’t reckon I’ll know all of Mercutio’s and Friar Lawrence’s words by Thursday, so don’t no one worry about that. Mr Snow and Mr Hill?’

  Joe was leafing through one of the scripts. ‘When Act Two, Scene Three ends and becomes Scene Four,’ he said, ‘you leave as Friar Lawrence, then straight away enter as Mercutio.’ He looked up at the King.

  ‘Why, it’s theatre, Mr Hill. We are in the business of illusion, are we not? I will hope that my priestly robes fit over my kinsman costume. A swift change, and all will be well.’

  ‘And by then,’ said Habs, ‘the magic of the story will have worked its way into their hearts.’

  ‘You mean everyone will be drunk,’ said Joe.

  ‘That is true,’ said the King. ‘For Othello, we had to break a few heads ’fore some scenes, jus’ to get some quiet.’

  Those who had been there laughed and nodded.

  ‘And did that work?’ asked Joe.

  ‘What do you think, Mr Hill?’

  ‘My guess is it did, King Dick.’

  ‘And your words? Do you know your Juliet? Habs, how goes your Romeo?’

  Habs and Joe looked at each other.

  ‘Well, we got most of it,’ said Habs. ‘My speech before I take the poison in Act Five is fiendish long. Tha’s the one I’m forgettin’ the most.’

  ‘Eyes look your last!’ said the King, ‘That one?’

  ‘There. You got it already.’ Habs bowed his head towards the King.

  ‘Arms, take your last embrace!’ the King bellowed, a titan now. ‘And lips, O you the doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
, a dateless bargain to engrossing death!’

  There was applause from the company.

  ‘And so you have it,’ said the King, easing his way down again. ‘What’s so hard there?’

  ‘I’ll try harder,’ said Habs.

  ‘You rehearse well together?’ asked the King. ‘Seem like you practisin’ a lot.’

  ‘We speak of little else,’ said Joe. ‘The bunk whispering you hear is usually Act Two. Sometimes Act One, but mainly Two.’

  ‘What light through yonder window breaks?’ said the King.

  ‘Yes,’ said Habs. ‘Then Joe says, “The barracks are on fire.” And that’s the end of it.’

  ‘And the kiss?’ asked the pastor.

  ‘Not happenin’,’ said the King.

  Pastor Simon persisted. ‘So what is happenin’, then? We don’t want to upset no one.’

  ‘Show them.’ The King waved Joe and Habs into the circle.

  Joe scrambled to the middle, sitting, leaning back on his hands. Habs stooped over him until their heads touched, then stood up again, shrugged, went back to his place. The pastor nodded approvingly. Goffe snorted.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘That was nothing,’ said Joe. ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘But a “nothin’ at all” that means, gentlemen, that we can still do the play. As we all know,’ said the King, a gimlet gaze fixing them all in the circle. ‘Mr Sam Snow. Your Benvolio is failin’ in one regard.’

  ‘I know it,’ said Sam.

  ‘You are kind an’ gentle.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘You are a fine peacemaker.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘But you are weak. When Mercutio has been slain by Tybalt, you drag him offstage. Tha’s what Benvolio does.’

  ‘I know that, too, King Dick, but the thing is …’ He paused briefly then sighed. ‘When Ned was Mercutio, I could do it. Now … it’s you and I jus’ worried I can’t.’ The distress in Sam’s face was real.

  ‘Well then, I will make it easier for you, and fall by the edge of the stage.’ Sam looked unconvinced, but the King had moved on. ‘And young master crier, how do you like the Count Paris?’

  Tommy grinned widely. ‘I like him very much, King Dick, and ’specially the way he fights Romeo.’

  ‘And gets killed,’ commented Habs.

  Tommy’s smile became even broader. ‘I never been killed before. I reckon I could do it right, King Dick. I been practising, look.’ He ran to Habs, who shouted, ‘Have at thee, boy!’ then mimed a few sword thrusts. Tommy’s legs buckled, and he fell, clutching his heart. ‘Oh, I am slain! Lay me with Juliet!’ he cried.

  Joe led the applause, and Tommy risked a brief bow.

  ‘Bravo!’ said the King, tapping his club on the floor. ‘Now, Mr Lord, Mr Goffe. While we have you …’ He gestured for them to speak.

  ‘Nurse is funny,’ said Goffe. ‘She got some good lines, but I don’t reckon she’d wear a dress. I could play her in trousers, I was thinkin’, and see—’

  This time the King hit the club hard on the floor, a staccato rap which stopped Goffe dead. ‘Romeo will dress as Romeo. Juliet will dress as Juliet. Nurse will dress as Nurse. And in a dress, please, Mr Goffe. It is the way of things, even in here, and it’ll make her funnier. Mr Hill, is there somethin’ we might have for Mr Goffe? I asked for the Othello costumes to be kept; I recall Desdemona and Bianca had a pretty fine line in frocks.’

  Joe put his arm round Goffe, then patted his stomach. ‘If we have some dressmakers, King Dick, we could set them to sewing two dresses together. Maybe even Desdemona’s gown with a big slice out of Iago’s shirt would fit.’

  ‘A sailmaker could do it,’ said Habs. ‘I only got six months’ trainin’, but I reckon I could fix it.’

  Goffe looked unimpressed. ‘I don’t want to wear no sail. Jus’ trousers.’

  Habs tried to be encouraging. ‘You’ll look … extraordinary, Mr Goffe. Everyone loves Nurse.’

  Goffe harrumphed. ‘Romeo don’t love Nurse,’ he said, ‘and Nurse disapproves of Romeo. So let’s hear no more of your bluster, Mr Snow.’

  ‘No more bluster? Bluster’s all I got, Mr Goffe. C’mon, Mr Lord, this is your cue. Let’s show what we can do.’

  Lord sprang to his feet, his enthusiasm for the role plain for all to see. The King threw them their swords – painted chair legs with cloth-wrapped handles – and they set about each other with a fearful intensity. The ‘blades’ cracked and thudded against each other until the King called a halt.

  ‘Remember to lose, Mr Lord – that, we cannot change,’ he called, whereupon Lord collapsed in a heap. The cast applauded until the King stood up, looking unimpressed. ‘Fight was good, but the dyin’ needs work. And there’s a whole lot a dyin’ to be done in this play, gentlemen, so it gotta be right. Mercutio, Tybalt and Paris by the sword, Romeo by poison, Juliet by her own dagger. Tha’s a lot of us. We all know how a man dies, we all seen it. In battle, in prison. With guns, bayonets, cannonball, smallpox, pneumonia. The audience know all this, too. We don’t have no blood, no amputations, no guts on the floor, but if we can’t die right, it won’t feel right. So, while we have Mr Goffe and Mr Lord here with us, we should practise dyin’.’

  Sam leaned in towards Joe and Habs. ‘Ain’t that what we do most days anyways?’

  As King Dick had ordained, for the next four days the doors of Block Four stayed shut. When the turnkeys came to unlock each morning, there was always a sentry on hand to close the doors again once they had gone. Sam enlisted as many hands as he could to finish the scenery and make the costumes; the one hundred and thirteen men who had been sailmakers or tailors before the war had never been busier. All the Othello outfits were altered, cut up or restitched; any old cloth, however thin and worn, was brought into service. Byrne, the head cook, found himself with a legion of helpers; anyone who had taken their turn in the kitchen now volunteered. With barely enough food to go round, the work was slight. Alex and Jonathan, their pockets full of the King’s cash supplies, hovered around the ground-floor windows. If an inmate started setting up a stall within hollering distance, the boys swooped and bought him out. As word got out that Four were still buying, more stall-holders turned up and prices climbed. On Sunday, they had purchased portions of hot freco stew for threepence; by Monday, it was a shilling. No one knew how deep King Dick’s pockets were, but without the proceeds from the gambling tables, there was a danger that even his money could run out any day.

  Outside, the withdrawal of Four’s inmates from prison life was greeted with bafflement, then indifference. With the exception of the few sellers taking advantage of the King’s largesse, most inmates were simply grateful for the extra space.

  In Block Six, the flintlock pistol was handled like a holy relic. Every man present had fired better weapons, but that had been in a previous life, a life of liberty, a life at sea, a life of colour. Now, they spoke in hushed tones of the miracles this single firearm would perform for them.

  ‘One shot to Shortland’s head and we’d be straight out o’ here.’

  ‘We could blast the armoury door right off its hinges.’

  Its walnut stock, worn-grey lock-firing mechanism and brass barrel were examined in minute detail. Cobb, still groggy from his clash with King Dick, lay on his hammock, an unlit cigarillo stuck to his dry lips. Lane handed him the shooter, then leaned against the nearest stanchion. Their invited guests from Seven, Joseph Toker Johnson and former president Rose, stood with him, shielding the weapon from onlookers. The Rough Allies had discussed inviting Will Roche – he had been the most vocal advocate of rebellion – but his closeness to Joe Hill had ruled him untrustworthy.

  Cobb turned the pistol in his hands, feeling the weight, smelling the acrid gunpowder residue. He closed his eyes with pleasure. ‘How sweet this moment is. Not since the Antelope, not since then have I held such power in my hand.’ He studied the woodwork again. ‘French, I’d say. It’s got 1805 stamped right here, so this he
re pistol has had some work to do. Hopefully killed a few English already.’ He ran his fingers along the length of the six-inch barrel. ‘An overcoat pistol wouldn’t be my choice of weapon, but up close …’ He closed one eye and sighted an imaginary shot, causing the others to move swiftly out of his way, shuffling around his bedside. ‘Up close, I could blow Crafus’s brains into his lap with one shot.’

  Toker Johnson rolled two small tubes in his trembling hand. ‘You could,’ he said, nodding fast, keen to agree. ‘We got jus’ the six cartridges, though. We got to pick our targets well.’

  ‘Did you know there’d be just the six?’ asked Cobb.

  ‘Asked for twelve,’ said Lane. ‘Paid for twelve. Hard to complain right now. I’ll get the swindlin’ bastard when I’m out o’ here.’

  ‘Do we know it works?’ asked Rose.

  Toker Johnson sighed, embarrassed by his colleague. He had pushed for Roche to be invited instead of Rose, but had been overruled. ‘You wanna use up one of them cartridges to find out?’ He shook his head. ‘We clean it, load it and pray. Same as always.’

  ‘Back on the Siroc one time,’ said Lane, reclaiming his weapon, ‘I had a gun wouldn’t fire ’cos o’ the rain. Got myself into some trouble, as you see right here.’ He drew the barrel along the scar tissue on his face. ‘Can’t let that happen here. The pistol and the cartridges feel dry, but as this whole goddamn country is drenched in rain or snow all year round and this whole goddamn prison runs with piss and spit, we got to make sure everythin’ stays dry.’

  ‘And secret,’ added Cobb. ‘’Specially in Seven. How many from the Eagle you got in there?’

  ‘Don’t quite recall.’ Rose shrugged. ‘But around twelve, somethin’ like that.’

  ‘And two of them in the play, too?’

  Rose nodded. ‘Jon Goffe and Robert Lord. They come and go a lot.’

  ‘Do they?’ said Cobb. ‘Well, it’s your job to make sure they mainly go. Keep them well away from us. That clear?’ Rose and Toker Johnson nodded. ‘And if they ask about the wall, you say you got no idea how long it will take to get through it.’