by Simon Mayo
‘Crowd’ll be in shortly!’ shouted the King. ‘If you need the heads, go now. If you think you might need the heads, go now. Even if you don’t need the heads, go now.’
‘And what’ll I do?’ asked Goffe, emerging from behind the scenery. Over his prison jacket and stockings he had pulled a grey, low-cut ballgown with a lace collar. An extra seam had been added, as promised, to accommodate his girth, a slice of stained, green blanket stitched in to take the strain. His weathered features were set, his hands held in tight fists.
‘You and Juliet had better piss in a bucket.’ The King laughed.
The sounds of raucous singing came more loudly now. Some messes had decided they’d had enough of waiting below and begun the climb to the cockloft. Shanties, hymns and patriot songs ran into each other in a cacophony of expectation.
Joe looked at Habs and grimaced. ‘When you’re sober, all these songs sound threatening.’
‘Same as happened for Othello,’ said Habs. ‘Wait till they’re out there.’ He pointed through the curtain. ‘Then it’s noisy. They’ll be drunk and bored till we start. Then they’ll be drunk but enchanted.’
‘Hopefully. What if they’re drunk, then fight?’
‘Then King Dick’s mighty club will swing,’ said the King, handing Habs his wooden sword. Quietly, he passed Joe a small, silver-coloured knife. ‘It’s one o’ mine. Everyone assumes it’s wood an’ paint, but it’s for real. I keep it for the big shows – it looks better’n the fake ones. Can’t have Juliet stabbin’ herself with a bit of blunt wood.’
The cockloft’s doors burst open and Alex and Jonathan ran in, followed by the smartest-looking crier anyone could remember. Tommy jumped to the stage with a white dress shirt tucked into his trousers. ‘Alex found it,’ he said, smiling at everyone. ‘He says I can keep it, too.’
‘That is a fine improvement,’ said the King. ‘Now you are Paris. Now you can rival Romeo for Juliet’s hand.’
‘Thank you, King Dick.’ Tommy glanced again at his finery. ‘Oh, and I got a message from John Haywood for you.’
‘You do?’ said the King. ‘Underneath that fancy linen, you’re still the crier?’
‘O’ course. Always. His guard called us over. Says he won’t be ready for the start of the show, but to start without him. He might be sleeping.’
‘He’s not ready?’ said the King, incredulous. ‘How long does he need to get ready? How much sleep can a man take?’ He shrugged. ‘Time is up. Come, gentlemen, we burn daylight.’
5.10
Block Six
2 p.m.
‘WHO’S GOIN’?’ SAID Lane. ‘Who’s runnin’?’ He fluttered about the mess like a bird pecking at seed before settling on the hammock across from Cobb.
‘Everyone,’ said Cobb, playing with a pipe and missing his cigarillos. ‘Eventually. Once we’re through the wall and into the armoury, we’ll need every damn Yankee we can find.’
‘But Allies first.’
‘Of course Allies first,’ affirmed Cobb. ‘D’you see any other leaders here?’
‘I do not, sir.’
Cobb leaned forward. ‘D’you see anyone else armed?’
‘I do not, sir.’
‘Well, then.’ Cobb sucked on the unlit pipe. ‘Shut the doors.’
Lane checked that he’d heard right. ‘Completely? Like in Four?’
‘Shut the doors,’ repeated Cobb, his voice barely more than a growl. ‘Yes, completely. Yes, like in Four. Have you gone simple, Mr Lane? Do I need to do it myself?’
Lane shook his head then scuttled to the large double doors. He pushed each shut with both hands, the clicking of its lock cylinder and the loss of light causing heads to turn and shouts of alarm.
‘Hey, what’s with the dark already?’
‘Are the turnkeys mad?’
‘Is there a riot? Are we locked in?’
Lane scurried back to Cobb. ‘You need to speak up,’ he hissed, and started to flutter again.
‘Sit down, Mr Lane, I know what I have to do.’ He stood, then stooped close to Lane’s ear. ‘Check the cartridges. Check everythin’s dry.’
He turned quickly and, before he could witness Lane’s scowl, he had walked to the nearest stanchion. Using each hammock rope, he climbed it like a ladder. At the top hammock – the fifth – he tightrope-walked his way to its centre. He stood with his arms, and legs, wide.
He’d had silence from the moment he stepped out. ‘They can take many things from us,’ he said, his voice bouncing from the roof now not far from his head, ‘but they can’t take an ol’ sailor’s balance.’
Cheers rang from every mess.
‘And the sea is still! Look – no waves at all. We are becalmed here and have been for too long. But that finishes today. We have a storm brewing, and it’s an American storm.’
A loud knocking on the doors caused heads to turn and sparked startled, worried faces. Cobb faltered. ‘Check who it is,’ he ordered, and Lane grabbed the handles.
‘It’s men from Seven!’ he called after the briefest of checks. ‘Dozens of ’em.’
‘Let ’em in!’ called one.
‘Yeah, let ’em in!’ shouted many others. ‘They been attackin’ that wall, too.’
Cobb thought for a moment then called down to Lane. ‘If they come in, they’re staying in. No leaving from now on. When the door opens again, it’ll be ’cos we’re getting out of here. Tell them that. If they can’t stay, they ain’t coming in.’
They all came in. Forty or fifty of them shuffling into Six, each glancing in turn at Cobb’s lofty, precarious position and realizing they had interrupted a speech of some sort. They settled quickly. Cobb saw them all: Will Roche just behind the ginger-headed Joseph Toker Johnson.
‘No one leaves till we all do!’ Cobb’s eyes rested on Roche. ‘I hope that’s clear.’
Roche, and all of the Sevens, nodded, and cries of ‘’S’clear!’ and ‘We got it!’ rang through the block.
‘All right,’ said Cobb. ‘The nigger play starts in one hour. Maybe they’re acting, maybe they’re escaping. Maybe both. But, anyways, it don’t matter to us. We got our own plan. We got a wall that’s about ready to crumble and we got stout hearts. And we got a gun.’
It was like a lightning bolt. Some jumped up; some sat down; everyone exclaimed. It was too good to be true. What type of gun? A rifle? A musket? How many bullets? Had anyone fired it? Cobb realized he had released a whirlwind and held up his hands in an effort to quieten the storm.
‘It’s nothing grand. An overcoat pistol with only a precious few cartridges. But it is ours and, with it, we can secure others. Once the play has begun, we go back to our wall game, spill through to the armoury. Lane goes first with his gun, in case we encounter any redcoats. We get in, arm ourselves and attack. We take control, gentlemen. Everyone thinks this war is over, but we know there is one battle left to fight. Share what food and drink you got left. Your enslavement is at an end.’
To an explosion of cheering, Cobb walked back to the stanchion and shimmied down.
As he walked back to his mess, back-slapped and applauded all the way, Lane greeted him with a small bow.
‘Looks like you jus’ got yourself an army,’ he said.
5.11
Block Four, Cockloft
BACKSTAGE, LINES WERE repeated, cues checked and sword fights rehearsed. No one cared how much noise they made – the audience was in. To start with, they sat in groups, filling up from the stage outwards, but within minutes it became clear that sitting was not an option. Thirty minutes before curtain, everyone stood. Twenty minutes before curtain, the front rows were so crushed they spilled on to the stage. Viewed from the other side of the curtain, Sam and Lord, now in their opening positions, watched the scores of shadows milling around a few feet in front of them.
‘King Dick’s gonna hate this,’ said Lord.
‘King Dick is already hatin’ it,’ said Sam. ‘Look.’ A giant silhouette had appeared on the curtain, its size
exaggerated by the King’s closeness. Viewed from their position upstage, the black and almost-white images looked like more of a puppet show than the opening of a Shakespeare play – an ogre swiping at dwarves.
‘Step back!’ he bellowed. ‘Everyone step back off our stage!’
Habs, Joe and most of the cast found the temptation to peer at the audience overwhelming, and they jockeyed for position at the edges of the curtain. As some of the crowd tried to follow the King’s command, tiny gaps began to appear in front of him. ‘Fill the hole, sailors,’ he said, inviting, then pushing, men off the stage.
‘It’s like it’s Washington’s birthday all over again,’ said the pastor. ‘Everyone got a bottle.’
‘At least one,’ said Habs. ‘And a few in their pockets for later, too.’
Joe felt a tug on his shirt. An awkward, hand-wringing crier looked desperate to speak to him.
‘Is there a problem, Tommy?’ asked Joe. ‘You really look the part now, you know.’
Tommy ignored the compliment. ‘I think we got trouble,’ he said. ‘I think we got trouble.’
‘We?’
‘You and me.’ He waved his finger between the two of them. ‘You and me, and Mr Goffe and Mr Lord.’
‘Agreed,’ said Habs. ‘You all too white.’ He laughed, but Tommy nodded in agreement.
‘Yes, that’s exactly what it is. Outside. By the steps. I jus’ seen ’em.’
‘Seen who, Tommy?’ asked Joe, alarmed.
‘When I was gettin’ the shirt. I heard ’em. Recognized the voices, y’see.’
‘Who, Tommy?’ tried Habs.
‘Our shipmates.’ Tommy said it as though it had been obvious all along. ‘Mine from the Orontes.’ He turned to Joe. ‘Yours from the Eagle. They’re outside, and they want to see the show.’
‘Really?’ Joe was flabbergasted. ‘I assumed they’d rather burn in Hell. Is Mr Roche there, too?’
‘No, Mr Hill, he ain’t.’
‘No, o’ course not. Foolish question. How many in line?’
‘’Bout twelve, I s’pose. And …’ Tommy flushed with embarrassment once more. ‘They seem quite keen to see how I do. Some has been doin’ the lines with me, y’see. I might’ve said they could see the play.’ He stared at the floor.
Joe and Habs exchanged glances, Habs shaking his head. ‘You know it’s Four only now, Tommy. It’s not safe to start letting outsiders in. And there ain’t no room – where’d they go?’
‘I know!’ said Tommy. ‘I know. I know. I didn’t know how to tell ’em. But what can I do now? I can’t send ’em away.’ He was on the brink of tears.
Habs produced a scrap of cloth from his pocket. ‘Take this,’ he said. ‘Paris can’t go on with snot down his shirt.’
Tommy smiled his thanks, dabbed and wiped, then pocketed the cloth.
‘Wait,’ said Joe, wiping a tear from Tommy’s eye. ‘First, you only have to deal with your mates from Block Three. I’ll deal with the men from the Eagle. And that’s only if we have to. Because, second, this is for King Dick to decide, no one else. Agreed?’
‘But it’s so late—’
‘Agreed?’
The crier nodded his thanks, and the three of them waited for the King.
‘What is it?’ he said, as soon as he stepped through the curtain. He noticed the crier’s red eyes. ‘Mr Jackson?’
Tommy’s breaths were coming in ever shorter bursts and, as he tried to tell his story, he started to cough and splutter. The King had seen enough. ‘Mr Hill, Mr Snow, will you explain what has upset my Count Paris? We ain’t got much time.’
Joe told the King how the men of the Eagle and the Orontes came to be waiting for admission. The King’s eyes never left Tommy. As Joe talked, Tommy squeezed his eyes shut, releasing a river of tears down his face. The King crouched and took both of Tommy’s hands in his.
‘Mr Jackson. We can’t do this play without you. No one can perform Romeo and Juliet without Paris. We got to have you here. How many men from Three have come to see you?’
‘Just four, sir.’
‘And do you know them all? Can you vouch for their good character?’
‘I can, sir.’
‘And would these tears leave us if we allow your friends in?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Tommy was smiling now.
‘Then it is done. Your first line, Mr Jackson?’
Tommy wiped his nose again. ‘Er, it’s “Of honourable reckoning are you both, and pity ’tis you lived at odds so long—”
‘Exactly,’ said the King. ‘Ain’t that the truth. Get ready, please, Mr Jackson. Mr Snow, Mr Hill, a word?’
As the crier ran off, Habs could wait no longer. ‘Sir, you said only men of Four could attend. How can we protect John Haywood if we don’t know who’s here? How—’
The King held up his hand. ‘Enough. There ain’t time. It’s a risk, yes, but we need our Paris actin’, not sobbin’. Mr Hill, take the crier and some of the Requin. Go to this line. Only let in the men of the Orontes and the Eagle. Men you can vouch for. And make sure they’re escorted straight here. Mr Haywood still has his guard.’
There was no time to discuss it further. Habs, clearly unhappy, held on to Joe’s arm, his grip firm. ‘Just the men you’re certain about, Joe, for Chrissake. Of all the crazy—’
Joe cut across him. ‘I get it. I agree. Only the nice white men.’
Habs did what he could to clear some space. He shouted into the bedlam that some latecomers were on their way and that it was King Dick’s idea that they should stand along the wall. Some moved; some didn’t; most couldn’t.
‘This is such a terrible idea,’ he said into the thick, smoky air. Some choir members proved malleable, a few even helping in the herding, and one mess out of Charleston took pity on him and forced their way into the crowd. Everyone else just cursed and stayed put.
‘Wait till you see who’s comin’ in,’ he muttered to himself.
Two minutes later, Joe, a coat over his dress, led his shipmates from the Eagle into the cockloft. Right behind him, a beaming crier walked at the head of his small Orontes crew. From the looks of trepidation and wide-eyed astonishment on the men’s faces, it was quite clear that most of them had never attended an event here before. They shuffled their way into the space Habs had tried to create and, slowly, the room fell silent.
Joe and Tommy were almost back on stage when the shoving started. It was innocent enough to begin with, fuelled only by a desire to see what was happening in the room, but when the word went round that ‘a hundred or more’ white sailors had just forced their way in, it became organized and violent. Waves of men staggered towards the new arrivals, pinning them against the wall. The wave then melted away, only to roll back again with even greater force seconds later. Joe and Tommy shot through the curtain to find the King, but the shouts and howls had been loud enough to bring him back to the stage anyway. It took the strongest pounding of his club and the loudest, most piercing tones of his stage voice to quell the storm.
‘Enough! Come to order! We must have order!’ The King’s neck bulged with the force of his projection. ‘These men are shipmates of Mr Hill, and Mr Jackson, our crier. There are jus’ twelve of them. They are guests in this place and they will be made to feel welcome.’
The swirl of the crowd calmed.
The smallest of gaps appeared, a fault line between the black and white inmates that ran along the side of the cockloft. The Orontes and Eagle men called out to each other and drew in tighter, unsure of what was coming next. Some men of Four, still suspicious and resentful, glowered at the newcomers; others held out helping hands and murmured apologies.
‘Is there peace?’ called the King. The muttered and muted affirmations spoke more of a truce than a peace, but it was enough. He had what he needed to work with. ‘Is there peace? Do you want a show?’ The cry this time was more full-blooded. The King spread his arms wide. ‘We have peace, we’ll bring you a show!’ he called, and by the side of the curta
in, Habs, along with everyone else, applauded. King Dick waved his arms for quiet.
‘As you know, the Agent and his wife will be here shortly.’ Whistles and boos accompanied this announcement, but the King held his hands up again. ‘As you can see from our curtain, we have prepared a warm American welcome.’ He acknowledged the cheers, then peered into the crowd. A few feet from the stage, two high-backed chairs had been placed for the Shortlands, but they had disappeared from view ages ago. The King now waved four Requin guards in to evict the occupants, two of whom drunkenly decided to fight.
‘Will Shortland really sit there?’ wondered Habs out loud. He sounded doubtful.
‘The King says he wants to come,’ said Joe, shrugging. ‘He must’ve known what it was going to be like.’
From the doors, men started to wave at the King, calling him over.
‘Well, we’ll find out,’ said Habs. ‘This’ll be him now.’
‘My money says the Agent’ll take one look at all this and run for his life,’ said Joe.
‘You ain’t had any money since you got here,’ said Habs.
5.12
Block Four
2.45 p.m.
KING DICK EMERGED on to the steps of Four to find Captain and Mrs Shortland waiting for him. They both looked strained and nervous but managed courteous smiles.
‘Mr Crafus,’ said Shortland, nodding.
‘Captain Shortland. Mrs Shortland,’ said the King. ‘You came. I was wonderin’ if you might go and change your mind.’ Behind them, Lieutenant Aveline and a score of redcoats bristled at the indignity of it all. ‘Lieutenant,’ said the King. ‘You missed the coffee and the spaces, I’m ’fraid. There ain’t no room for you now. The house is full, but we got your seats reserved, Captain and Mrs Shortland.’
The Agent looked briefly at Aveline, then back to the King. ‘You guaranteed our safety here but, after what happened to my wife, I will need more than that. My guard commander will be in charge.’
‘Your guard commander was nowhere when your wife needed rescuin’,’ said the King. ‘None of your troops were. King Dick, on the other hand …’
