by Simon Mayo
‘What is it?’ asked Cobb.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but can we go knifin’ the wall yet? It looks like it’s maybe goin’ to be thirty minutes before we’re through, so we could start now?’
‘You could start now, yes,’ said Cobb, his tone studiously neutral. ‘But is Mr Lane back? D’you see him anywhere?’
‘No, sir,’ said Toker, ‘but the play might be done soon.’
‘Well, Mr Toker Johnson, when the order comes to break through the wall, I’ll make sure you get your turn with the knife. Until then, you wait for my word.’
Toker Johnson, unperturbed, had another question. ‘How long will you give him, sir, ’cos if we don’t start—’
Cobb hit him so hard he fell cold, three feet from his friends.
‘When he comes round,’ said Cobb, ‘tell him – and anyone else who might need to know – that we go when I say and not a moment before.’ Cobb turned back to look at the steps of Four.
He found his empty, cold pipe and placed it between his teeth. More applause from the cockloft of Four rolled across the courtyard. ‘Need you now, Lane. Need you right now.’
5.20
Block Four, Cockloft
KING DICK HAD always been clear about it: Act Four is Juliet’s. With Romeo in exile, the stage is hers. The Friar has given her the mixture she needs; now, she needs to ‘die’. This was Joe’s moment. In the thirty seconds he had before Juliet was back on stage, the King explained to Joe why Habs had run off. Joe nodded his understanding. He didn’t have time to worry. Juliet had to mourn Tybalt’s death, agree to marry Paris, then drink the mixture to fake her death.
On stage, Joe said his lines, moved, reacted and responded, but as the act played out he was aware of the King’s ever more agitated demeanour. From most places on the stage, Joe could see him: he’d watch for a few lines then turn and look at the backstage door. He would then watch for a few more lines, the worry etching deeper on to his brow. On more than one occasion Joe came close to missing his cue. Tommy, as Paris, was starting to look concerned.
Ignore the King. Just act. Habs is fine.
It was Tommy’s favourite scene. Paris gets to say he loves Juliet, announce their wedding, then leave with a ‘holy kiss’. Tommy, blushing deeply, kissed Joe on his cheek then ran from the stage. Alone now, Joe found he was delivering his words to the places where Habs might appear. These were his big scenes, Juliet’s tumultuous decisions, but his heart was elsewhere.
One final speech, Juliet’s longest. ‘Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again.’ Now Joe turned to the crowd and spoke of hidden love. He felt nothing but panic and dread, but he knew the speech and did it well. When he reached for the Friar’s potion, the crowd fell silent.
‘Oh, look! Methinks I see my cousin’s ghost
Seeking out Romeo, thou did spit his body
Upon a rapier’s point. Stay, Tybalt! Stay!
Romeo, Romeo, Romeo.
Here’s drink. I drink to thee.’
Joe drank its contents – water, after all – and collapsed. There was an intake of breath from some, applause from others. Joe had fallen, sprawled across a bed. The audience saw Juliet in a drug-induced sleep; the actors backstage saw Joe – eyes wide open – anxiously watching for Habs.
5.21
Block Four, The Kitchens
LANE’S BLADE BURIED itself in Habs’s shoulder. The force of the lunge toppled them both and, as they hit the floor, Habs pulled the trigger. At point-blank range, the bullet tore through Lane’s body, blowing half his stomach on to the floor. Habs felt Lane bounce on his stomach then lie still, his blood drenching him in seconds. Grey, sooty smoke filled his vision; a fierce ringing filled his ears.
‘Sweet Jesus. Sweet Jesus. Sweet Holy Jesus.’ Habs pushed Lane’s body away. It rolled once and lay face down.
Habs’s breathing was coming in short, rasping gulps. ‘Christ, what have I done?’ he breathed. He scrambled to his feet, then walked to Lane’s body and back again; back and forth, a hand over his mouth.
‘I saw everything!’ said Cole, trying and failing to get up.
‘But you’re black, you won’t count!’
‘Haywood saw it all, too.’ They both glanced at the tunnel. Haywood had disappeared again.
‘He’s black and crazy,’ said Habs, panic settling deep in the pit of his stomach.
The shuffling figure of George Magrath appeared in the kitchen, his stick working hard to move him as swiftly as he desired. Greeted by the horror show of a bloodied Habs, a still-bleeding Cole and the wrecked body of Lane, he staggered to a stop.
‘Dear God, what has happened here?’
Habs, now shaking from head to toe and bleeding from his shoulder wound, started to approach Magrath. It was only when the doctor retreated, horrified, that Habs realized he was still holding the pistol.
‘No, Doctor!’ he cried. ‘He attacked me, I was …’ He dropped the gun and felt his head spinning. The pain from his shoulder pulsed strongly through his body. He could barely think, never mind speak. He had killed a man. He was a murderer. Worse. He was a black man who had killed a white man. The worst kind of murderer, the most guilty kind of murderer. What had Lane said? ‘It’s niggers that swing.’
Magrath was crouched over Lane’s body, his fingers holding the dead man’s wrist briefly, as much instinct as professionalism. There was a hole in the man’s back the size of a grapefruit. He moved on to Cole, pulling gently at his bloodied shirt.
‘Lane killed Ned Penny,’ said Habs. ‘He came lookin’ for a tunnel, but he found John Haywood. He was about to kill him, too.’
‘You had a gun?’ Magrath was incredulous.
‘No, he had a gun. He was ’bout to shoot John. I hit him with a bottle, then we fought and—’
‘You blew his stomach away.’
Habs stood with his eyes screwed tight and his hands balled into fists. How was it possible to feel numb and on fire at the same time? He needed to run; he needed to stay. He needed to say nothing; he needed to explain everything. He needed to see Joe; he would never see him again.
‘Yes, I – I did. We fell and—’
‘You blew his stomach away.’
‘I fired, yes.’
In the kitchens, there was silence as the doctor knelt by the stricken Cole. In Habs’s head there was a riot of noise. He missed the distant cockloft applause and Magrath’s soft words of comfort to his patient. It was pain that brought him round.
‘Show me,’ said Magrath. Habs knelt down and eased his shirt from his shoulder, wincing as the fabric snagged on the open wound. Magrath leaned in close, his fingers pressing gently around the cut. From his medical bag he produced a roll of lint, cutting off a large square.
‘Hold this to it. The knife went deep, but you’ve had worse.’ He looked into Habs’s agonized eyes. ‘You’re a good man, Mr Snow, but you are in trouble here, I cannot pretend otherwise. You have killed a man in one of Her Majesty’s prisons. Whether it is English law or Navy law, they will see you swing for it – if you are taken.’
Through the swirl of pain and anguish, the hard facts hit Habs clearly enough, and he fought the tears. He had dreamed of home, of New York, of a sweet return to peace. He had dreamed, too, of a cockloft curtain call, a bow with Joe as the men of Four roared their appreciation. All gone.
‘If I am taken?’ said Habs.
‘If you are taken,’ repeated Magrath, now returned to tending Cole. Habs waited for more, but the doctor remained silent.
‘I cannot hide here.’
‘Then hide somewhere else.’
Habs shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor, I’m not thinkin’ straight—’
‘Well, try harder, man. You have a few moments before I have to raise the alarm.’
As Magrath finished with Cole, he turned to the tunnel and called for Haywood. Hiding somewhere else meant escape. And then he had it. The Allies’ wall game. Was that happening now? Would they let a black man run with them? Did Magrath kno
w about it? He didn’t know the answers to any of these questions, but he did realize that Magrath was telling him to go.
He stood and winced again as his shoulder muscles tightened.
‘Take something for the pain!’ called Magrath by the tunnel entrance. ‘Brown bottle, green stopper. Take it. Now, be gone. Away!’ Habs found the bottle in the doctor’s bag, shoved it deep into his jacket and ran.
Past the hammocks, through the hall and out of the doors, he forced his leaden legs to move. The late-afternoon sun made Habs squint and he hesitated on the steps, wiping his eyes. He felt utterly overwhelmed, lost in a whirlpool of pity. Just minutes ago, he had left the stage as Romeo, now he was leaving the block as a murderer. And a murderer who was on the run; he wasn’t sure how long it would be before Magrath raised the alarm, but it could only be a few minutes. Maybe seconds. He couldn’t stop now.
Habs stared up the crowded courtyard. To the left of the market square gates, hundreds of men – watched and cheered by hundreds more – rolled and fought. It looked as chaotic as it was intended to, and it answered his first question. Yes, the escape was on. He jumped from the steps, pushing through the throng of sailors, his bloodied appearance causing many inmates to stop. Some shouted questions. He felt no need to explain anything to anybody.
By the time he was alongside Five, a clear passage was opening up ahead of him. Bored with their courtyard routine, the sailors saw a bloodied, beaten-up, crazed-looking black man running towards them and got out of his way. Habs slowed his approach as soon as he realized that the man watching him at the end of the makeshift alley was Horace Cobb – the man whose deputy was lying face down in his own blood back in the kitchens. The Rough Allies’ leader ran a few steps towards him, then pulled up. The two men stared at each other. Cobb took in Habs’s blood-soaked shirt and jacket; Habs saw him recoil in horror.
He knows. He was expecting Lane and he got me. He knows.
Cobb turned on his heels and ran back towards the wall game, the crowd filling in behind him. So that answered his second question: no, he wasn’t welcome to join the escape. There was a chance, of course, that, if the wall was breached, it would become a free-for-all, but Habs knew he didn’t have the time to wait and find out.
Out of options and in excruciating pain, he turned and ran back into Four. In the darkest corner of the ground-floor dormitory, he flung himself unseen under a pile of broken hammocks. He would hang for certain, he knew that. There wasn’t a judge in England would save him from the gallows. Magrath would report the murder, the guard would be called and he’d be in the cachot before the day was done.
His shoulder sent a spasm of pain down his side and he remembered the bottle he’d taken from Magrath’s bag. He lifted it from his pocket then pulled back a few hammocks to examine it. He held a green bottle with a brown stopper. Habs frowned. ‘Brown bottle, green stopper’ was what Magrath had said, he was sure of it; he could hear the words still. ‘Wrong bottle,’ he said to himself. ‘I got the wrong fuckin’ bottle.’ He flipped it over. ‘Strychnine,’ he read. ‘Stimulant. Tonic. Poison.’
From the cockloft, the sound of stamping feet and rousing applause. Habs’s first thought was that the play had finished, then he managed a laugh. Not without Romeo it wouldn’t. He realized with a start that it was just the end of Act Four – he hadn’t even been missed yet. It seemed like a whole lifetime had swept past him since he took King Dick’s errand, yet it had been just one act. He looked again at the bottle, weighing it in his hand. He felt its contents slop around.
Stimulant. Tonic. Poison.
5.22
Outside Block Seven
COBB HANDED OUT the knives. No Lane, no gun, but they were going anyway. As he walked to the wall, his lieutenants surrounded him. The Allies were leading this, but the men from Seven were right behind, pushing and jostling for position. Will Roche slid through the throng.
‘Are we goin’? We must be goin’. S’time, surely?’
Cobb nodded. ‘We go now. Dig till you’re through. The English ain’t far away, so we move fast. Take hostages if you got to – that should get us into the armoury. Go!’ He watched as the tools were distributed, passing their way through the scrummaging and up to the wall. On the military walk, the redcoats took no notice; their watch was over, their replacements overdue.
At the wall, under the ruckus, a bloodied Joseph Toker Johnson attacked the cement in a series of stabbing actions. The stones were loosening, he could feel that, but men needed to crawl through this hole. His guess was that they needed to move five. Six stones would be ideal – anyone could crawl through that – but five might suffice. He slashed again across the wall, a large slice of crumbling cement falling on his boots. He pushed the largest stone with his shoulder and it dropped a quarter of an inch. Next to him, a grim-faced Ally, dust and powder settled deep in his beard, felt the change. He nodded confidently.
‘Felt that,’ he said. ‘Can y’see much?’
Toker Johnson squinted through the crack in the retaining wall. ‘Nope. But I can see the armoury door, true ’nough. Twenty yards, I reckon. Pass the word back. When the wall goes, we all go with it. We’re clear for action.’
In the thrill and bedlam of the moment, Toker Johnson and the would-be escapers missed the shuffle of boots above them, high up on the military walk. The new shift had, at last, arrived.
5.23
Block Four
AS HABS CLIMBED the stairs to the cockloft, the crowd had begun to slow-handclap and shout abuse. Habs pushed open the doors and elbowed his way through. Shouts of protest were silenced as they saw their Romeo return.
‘He’s back! Here he is! Bravo!’
Backstage, his reappearance triggered a convulsion of relief, then, when his fellow players saw the blood, cries of alarm. Habs ignored them all; he knew he didn’t have long. He caught sight of King Dick approaching, Tommy jumping to his feet and then Joe running; he ignored them, too. Pushing past Sam and the pastor, he walked straight out into the middle of the stage.
The crowd applauded wildly, many assuming the blood was part of the show. Romeo had returned from exile – why wouldn’t he have been fighting? Captain Shortland and Elizabeth Shortland clapped, too, then Elizabeth, leaning forward, stopped abruptly.
She could see something was different. Something was wrong.
The entire cast had gathered in the wings, Joe frantically calling him back in, his voice lost among the crowd’s noise.
Habs began his speech but, instead of beginning where he should, he skipped two whole scenes. His mind was clear. In fact, he realized with grim certainty, it had never been clearer.
‘Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.’
He was supposed to be talking to Juliet.
Joe walked out on stage, visibly uncertain as to what to do next. The crowd began to sense that all was not well.
‘Ain’t Juliet asleep?’
Joe made a tentative step towards Habs, his horrified face trying to comprehend the mess Habs was in. ‘What happened?’ he mouthed, even now unwilling to interrupt Romeo’s big speech. He edged closer, and Habs grabbed his hand, pulling him to his side. Shoulder to shoulder, Joe smelled blood and sweat, but the true horror was the sulphur. When you have fired cannon, you never forget the assault it makes on your senses. And there was no doubt that Habs smelled of burnt gunpowder. Joe looked again at his jacket and shirt and choked. He had missed it at first, distracted by the blood, but now he saw it clearly – Habs’s shirt and jacket were burnt, the black-and-brown discharge spread across his stomach.
‘I will stay with thee, and never from this palace of dim night depart again.’
Habs could see Joe piecing everything together and squeezed his hand. He knew he had just a few seconds left. The pain in his shoulder was gone. His head was clear. He saw everyone with stunning clarity. He reached for the bottle in his pocket.
‘Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last
embrace! and lips! O you, the doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss, a dateless bargain to engrossing death.’
Habs took the strychnine in one hand and Joe in the other. Face to face now, Habs could see Joe’s pale blue eyes illuminated with fear. He kissed him. He pressed his lips against Joe’s and held him fast. The roaring he heard could have been his shell-shocked ears, the outraged audience, or a force nine out of Nantucket. He didn’t care. This was their kiss, the one they should have tried in Act One, and if it was to be his last, he wanted it to count. If it was the end of the play, then so be it.
Joe pulled away. Breathless, stunned, afraid. Now Habs heard the crowd. The howls of outrage crashed on to the stage like a tidal wave. Fists were shaking, bottles thrown. Captain Shortland was on his feet. Behind him, Lieutenant Aveline had drawn a pistol. Even Dr Magrath was pushing his way to the stage, red-faced and shouting.
But Habs was unstoppable. Romeo had four final lines and a drink to wash them down. He uncorked the bottle, his eyes swimming with tears.
‘A dateless bargain to engrossing death!’ Habs’s voice was losing strength.
‘Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!’
Magrath, clearly distraught, was shouting at the King but his words were lost in the noise. Somewhere, a bell started ringing.
‘Thou desperate pilot …’ Habs was faltering.
Magrath was pointing now, stabbing his arm at Habs and shouting one word over and over. Now Joe had seen him and he leaned to catch it. From the whirlpool of slurred profanity and outrage, he finally caught it.
Poison. The word was ‘poison’. And he wasn’t pointing at Habs, he was pointing at the bottle he held. The bell kept ringing.
Habs held the bottle high, his arm shaking, his grip uncertain. ‘Here’s to my love!’ he cried, and tipped the clear liquid into his mouth.
5.24
Block Seven, Retaining Wall
