Mad Blood Stirring

by Simon Mayo

  ‘I am aware that I owe you my thanks,’ said Shortland. ‘Elizabeth has told me what happened. But even so, you cannot expect me to enter one of my prisons without a guard.’

  Before the King could answer, Elizabeth stepped forward. ‘I never had the chance to thank you myself, Mr Crafus,’ she said, offering her hand.

  ‘We don’t like Cobb here,’ said the King, taking it. ‘We don’t like the Rough Allies, and we don’t behave like ’em neither. You’ll be safe in Four.’

  ‘And how many weapons would you say are in the cockloft right now,’ asked Elizabeth, ‘knowing sailors like you do? Many hundreds would be my guess.’ She cocked an ear to the riotous singing from the cockloft and pressed on, sensing he was off guard. ‘And how much ale and grog is being drunk right now? Many gallons, I’d assume. So you see why my husband and I wish to seek further protection, beyond your word.’

  ‘You may walk away, if you wish, Mrs Shortland,’ said the King. ‘You have not come to our other productions, there is no reason for you or your husband to attend this one.’

  Shortland looked exasperated. ‘Damn you, Crafus, is there no compromise you will accept? I could have marched the whole bloody barracks in here to see the show, if I’d wanted. We just want to be safe – is that really too much to ask?’

  The King held up his hand. ‘If I let you in, it gotta be on my terms or I lose the block. If I lose the block, you lose the prison. So. Your lieutenant can join you, if you wish, but tha’s all.’

  ‘I want a crew of men by the cockloft door.’

  ‘You can have your lieutenant by the door,’ said the King, ‘if tha’s where you choose to deploy him. The rest can wait here. If you need ’em, they’ll be jus’ seconds away.’ He could see Aveline was about to protest, so he added, ‘And the curtain goes up in a matter of minutes. Please, let me escort you.’

  The Shortlands hesitated, then it was Elizabeth who moved first. ‘I have heard about your play from young Mr Hill,’ she said, walking through the door. ‘And I declare I have never in all my life seen Romeo and Juliet. How very strange that I should see it here.’

  The King allowed Captain Shortland and his guard commander to follow on, then overtook them all on the stairs. As he led the way up the final flight, the noise of singing barrelled down to meet them. Elizabeth shrank back a little, Shortland walked taller, Aveline kept his hand on his sword. They all stared ahead to the doors of the cockloft.

  At the top landing, the King waited for his moment, biding his time until there was a lull in the singing. He gave his club a few more practice swings, then kicked at the door. The King walked in, shouting.

  ‘Make way, brothers! Make way! Clear a path!’ He swung the club, catching a slow-moving cook from Baltimore full in the face. On the swing back, he caught one of the block’s barbers in the neck. The singing had fallen away swiftly, so many heard the nose break and the yelps of pain. In the line between the King and the chairs, men scrambled away as far as the crowd permitted.

  Behind the King, the Shortlands and Aveline scurried to keep up. When they reached the chairs, they found an inebriated inmate lying face down across the arms of both. The King hailed him. ‘So, Benjamin Scarisbrick, you in need o’ sleep?’ He grabbed one ankle and suspended the man in front of him. The startled sailor woke with a jump and began wriggling like a fish on the end of a line. Laughing bystanders – including the Shortlands – watched him trying to work out why King Dick was suddenly upside down. ‘Mr Scarisbrick, it’s showtime.’ The King was now swinging the unfortunate sailor like a pendulum. ‘We are about to perform one of Shakespeare’s greatest plays, Romeo and Juliet. The Agent and his wife are in attendance, the whole block’s here, even some men from the other blocks here.’ The man vomited into his own hair. ‘Today,’ continued the King, ‘will be remembered by all who witness our tragedy. But not by you.’ The King marched him back through the crowd to the cockloft doors, and tossed him out, his howls and yelps as he fell down the stairs audible to all.

  ‘Bravo!’ muttered Shortland in admiration.

  The King strode back, inviting the Shortlands to take their seats. ‘They were stage thrones left by the French. We used ’em in Othello, but we don’t need ’em for Romeo and Juliet. Please … and, Lieutenant, you can stand behind the chairs. You won’t see the play, but you’ll be close enough.’

  Aveline stepped behind the thrones, and the Shortlands sat tentatively, glancing at the many hundreds who were standing around them. Captain Shortland tried nodding politely at a few of the closest but received only glares in return. Elizabeth fared slightly better, a few of her patients acknowledging her but then looking away. She heard her husband snort and, following his eyeline, noticed the curtain for the first time.

  ‘This is an outrage!’ he blustered. She could see him twitch in anger. ‘Crafus! What is the meaning of this propaganda? You expect me, a captain in the King’s Navy, to sit here, looking at all your ballyhoo?’ His obvious discomfort was met with laughter by the nearest inmates.

  ‘’S’jus’ a curtain,’ said the King. ‘A curtain made o’ flags …’

  ‘A curtain made of insults, more like,’ huffed Shortland.

  ‘Though more courteous than some I have seen,’ said Elizabeth, smiling. ‘If I were you, Mr Crafus, I’d start the show as soon as possible.’

  She watched him walk to the stage and just caught the sight of Magrath slipping through the doors. He walked without trouble to the rear of the cockloft, the men parting to allow him passage. As he disappeared from her view, she turned her gaze back to the stage. Thunderous applause greeted the removal of the curtain. The streets of Verona were running through Dartmoor.

  The play was on.

  Habs was suddenly terrified. Awash with nerves, he rested a sweaty hand on Joe’s shoulder. Joe glanced round, tried to smile, but he, too, was struggling; Habs felt his body trembling. Sam and Lord, wide-eyed and poised like runners, glanced over as Habs mouthed a ‘good luck’. All the cast watched as four of the Requin men – two black Montagues and two with painted white Capulet faces – began insulting each other. The crowd took to it immediately.

  ‘Sam’s next,’ he whispered.

  As the quarrel between the men of Capulet and Montague escalated, Sam made his entrance. Many in the crowd cheered him, his Bentham crew leading the way. His first line – ‘Part, fools! Put up your swords!’ – brought Jon Lord to the stage. Now the Eagle crew noisily cheered their man and, when Benvolio and Tybalt started their sword fight, the shoving began again. Up and down the fault line, small scuffles broke out. As the wooden stage swords were drawn, angry, intoxicated men started to flail at each other. From the stage, they heard the words, ‘Strike! Beat them down!’ and decided to do just that.

  The actors hesitated, unsure of whether to continue. In front of them, the Shortlands were still seated but craning their necks to see what was happening. Aveline, hand still resting on his sword, looked ready for a duel. Captain Shortland attempted to stand, but his lieutenant held him back. The King, now in Mercutio’s uniform, burst from the stage. His club made short work of the first fighting group he came to, four men receiving blows to the head and chest. Blood streaming through their hair, they staggered for the cockloft door. One of the men from Three remonstrated with the King; lifted by his sideburns until he was at eye level, he swiftly and painfully apologized for his poor judgement.

  The skirmish dealt with, King Dick stayed in the crowd.

  ‘Proceed!’ he called. ‘Montague, Pastor. Your line, I believe.’

  5.13

  Block Six

  3 p.m.

  HORACE COBB’S NEW army, now many hundred strong, was having to be very patient. They had rolled from Six a few minutes before three o’clock, jostling, play-fighting, singing. Balls were hurled and kicked between the men, most of them sailing over the retaining wall and into the market square. They watched from afar as the Agent, his redcoats and King Dick seemed to be involved in a stand-off on the
steps of Four. When that seemed to have been resolved and the Agent had gone inside, his troop marched back to the market square gates. There, they waited.

  Frustrated lines of inmates buzzed around. Escape was now in their blood and the inactivity was driving them crazy.

  ‘Sweet Mary and Jesus,’ said Cobb, sitting on the steps. ‘We can hardly break out if half the British army are watching.’

  ‘What are they waitin’ for?’ said Lane. ‘The play’s two hours long, at least. They can’t be waitin’ there all that time.’

  ‘We could start the game, but there don’t seem much point if we can’t … finish it.’ Cobb stroked and separated his beard as he watched the British soldiers. ‘I’d thought about getting caught, thought about getting shot, too, but I never thought of this – this … waiting.’ He kicked at the ground in frustration. ‘We’re all greased up, Mr Lane, ready for battle, but we got nowhere to run.’

  A roar of laughter and applause erupted from Block Four and both men glanced along the courtyard.

  ‘An idea, Mr Cobb,’ said Lane, still staring at Four.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The play sounds like it’s goin’ well.’

  ‘It does,’ conceded Cobb.

  ‘Must be quite a pull if you’re inside Four.’

  ‘What’s your point, Mr Lane?’

  ‘You see a guard outside their block? Or in the doorway? Anywhere?’

  ‘No.’ Cobb drew the word out as he began to realize what Lane was thinking.

  ‘If they got a tunnel, now might be a good time to find out. My bet is, ain’t no blackjacks downstairs at all.’

  ‘Unless they’re escapin’.’

  ‘And if they are, shouldn’t we know ’bout it?’

  They sat in silence. The would-be escapers from Six and Seven were still play-fighting, singing shanties or insulting the British. Across the yard, the men of One were cooking on an old stove; others were throwing balls off the roof and catching them.

  ‘We should know,’ decided Cobb. ‘Of course we should know.’

  5.14

  Block Four

  ROMEO’S FIRST APPEARANCE was applauded; his first line – ‘Is the day so young?’ – cheered. His discussion with Benvolio about love was greeted with much hilarity; when he reached the line, ‘In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman,’ many voices called back, ‘No, you don’t!’ and ‘Liar!’ Juliet’s first appearance received the expected whistles but, alongside the rotund and embarrassed Goffe making his debut as Nurse, Joe was all poise and delicate grace.

  When Nurse said, ‘Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days,’ they left the stage to rapturous applause. By the time King Dick entered the stage as Mercutio, the mood in the cockloft had changed – the play was working. The fights of the opening scene had calmed, a truce engineered by comedy, intrigue and the promise of doomed love.

  Backstage, Joe and Habs drank swiftly from a water jug.

  ‘They’re lovin’ it!’ said Habs.

  ‘I was watching the Shortlands when you were on with the King,’ whispered Joe. ‘Slightly less miserable, I thought.’

  ‘Kiss next, then.’

  ‘Imagine. The whole place’d go crazy.’ He knew Habs was joking but made his point anyway. ‘Nothing stupid, Habs. You know it’s not worth it.’

  ‘Ain’t it?’

  ‘Not if I kick you in the balls, it isn’t.’

  Joe felt sure that Habs would never disobey the King, especially now, especially here. He walked on stage with Lord and Goffe and some of the Requin extras. Two fiddlers stood at the side of the stage and began playing a reel, ‘The Female Cabin Boy’. Some of the crowd recognized the tune, laughing and clapping in delight at the joke. On stage, Joe stepped and weaved with the others, everyone making it up as they went along.

  The dance over, Romeo spotted Juliet and the crowd started to buzz. When he asked, ‘What lady’s that?’ a few even applauded. A shiver of dangerous expectation ran through the cockloft. The players felt it, too, all eyes switching between Habs and Joe then back again. When Romeo finally approached Juliet’s bench, there was a shout of, ‘Aye-aye! Here we go!’ before the man was roundly shushed. Joe saw that Habs was enjoying himself; his nerves had gone, the audience was his and there was a swagger to his performance that Joe hadn’t seen before. He sensed danger. He knew that when Habs’s blood was up, anything was possible. He noticed Elizabeth Shortland staring at him, eyebrow raised. Joe thought he understood. If the play was to get to its end, Juliet would need to be in charge of their imminent first encounter.

  Habs finally sat next to Joe, and the cockloft held its breath. Fixing him with a glare, Joe swung his legs to form a barrier between them. He wanted to scream, ‘This is a statement, not a challenge!’ but hoped his body language would do that for him. Habs grinned, flattened some out-of-control curls behind his ear and took Joe’s hand in his. An audible gasp from some in the crowd lit the fuse.

  Romeo spoke. ‘If I profane with my unworthiest hand, this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this. My lips, my two blushing pilgrims, ready stand, to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.’

  Joe, eyes on Habs, slowly and deliberately shook his head. Then Juliet spoke.

  ‘Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this. For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.’

  The cockloft fell silent. They all knew – they had all heard the stories – that in rehearsal a black Romeo had kissed a white Juliet. That it wasn’t a prim little peck on the cheek but a full-blooded, open-mouthed embrace, and that the Agent had banned it. They knew all that, yet here were the two men, one black, one white, speaking of nothing else. Lips, hands, holy oil, touching. It was manifest to all that the fuse was still burning.

  Joe noticed Captain Shortland shift awkwardly in his seat, saw the King strain for a better view; he cast his eyes to the floor.

  Juliet again. ‘Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.’ Joe tensed. Every nerve, every fibre, was alive to the dangers of the moment. Unwanted, the memory of that first, thrilling kiss returned and Joe dug his nails into his palms to clear it.

  Romeo again. ‘Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take.’

  The men in the cockloft held their breath. Joe and Habs stared at each other, their faces frozen. As Habs began to lean closer, Joe pushed their still-held hands in front of Habs’s mouth. A flicker of a smile, and Habs kissed Joe’s hand. The collective release of breath was so loud it generated its own embarrassed laughter, drowning out Romeo’s ‘Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purged.’ When the second kiss was due, Joe again blocked with his hand and the fuse was out. The applause to mark the end of Act One was deafening. In the brief respite, Habs waited for Joe, his eyes dancing with delight.

  ‘You really thought I’d do it, didn’t you? And in front of Shortland!’

  ‘Tell me you weren’t tempted,’ said Joe, unconvinced. ‘I saw it in your eyes, Habakkuk Snow.’

  ‘A trespass sweetly urged,’ said Habs.

  ‘And sweetly denied,’ said Joe.

  The King strode over, his expression sombre. Habs raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘I know what it looked like, King Dick, but, really, I was just teasin’. I would never go against—’

  ‘That ain’t what I saw, Mr Snow,’ said the King, cutting across him. ‘I saw Mr Hill here rescue a dangerous situation with great cunning – thank you, Mr Hill.’ The King looked around. ‘John Haywood here yet? He’s missin’ a fine show. I’m tempted to go down there myself, persuade him to attend.’

  ‘I think maybe you’re needed here,’ said Joe. ‘I’m sure he’ll be up shortly.’

  5.15

  Block Six

  3.40 p.m.

  BACK IN THE darkness and quiet of his own block, Lane forced himself to be still. Reckless speed now would be catastrophic. He placed the pistol and the cartridges on his hammock. He’d kept everything as
dry as he could, folding the cartridges into a small piece of cloth and placing them in a metal tin. He’d kept the gun with him, kept it warm, kept it shielded from the prison damp. The cartridges felt dry, the gun felt dry, but there was no proof without firing. With a quick glance around, he picked up the pistol, unclipped its ramrod from under the barrel and pulled the cock to the half-cock position. The loading mechanism was sound. He ran his finger over the flint, the frizzen and the flash pan, then pulled the trigger. It snapped into action, the cock hitting the frizzen and then the pan. There would be two puffs of smoke – one from the pan, one from the barrel – then the deafening crack of the gunpowder igniting and the sharp recoil from the blast.

  The cartridges looked the same. Maybe one was slightly discoloured, the paper surrounding the bullet and powder beginning to yellow, but it was nothing serious. He had six good shots. He reached for the nearest and, placing it in his teeth, tore off the top. With the gun again at half-cock, he poured some of the cartridge’s powder into the pan then closed it. Holding the pistol vertically, he poured the rest of the powder down the barrel, spilling a few grains on his trousers in the process. Cursing quietly, he shoved the cartridge into the barrel, then used the ramrod to force it and the powder all the way down to the breech. His gun was loaded. He felt the weight of the loaded pistol in his hand and unwound a slow smile. There was a smell to a loaded pistol, and he breathed it deeply. Charcoal from the powder, oils, wood and steamy sulphur from the gun; gooseflesh ran over his arms and neck. He was ready to play.

  The English were still encamped by the gates, so he resumed studying the entrance of Four. Both doors appeared closed, but a deep shadow running down the middle suggested a partial opening. Though hundreds walked around and between the blocks, Lane saw no one arrive or leave Block Four. Many turned their heads as another wave of applause or shouting leaked from the cockloft, but still no one tried to enter.