Mad Blood Stirring

by Simon Mayo

  Sailors wake fast. Even exhausted, crapulous sailors can be fully alert in seconds if the order demands it. Their departure wasn’t as silent as young Tommy Jackson would have liked – he winced at every clank of the buckets on the stone steps – but as they stumbled on to the ground floor he seemed to relax a little. The main prison doors were open, but he steered them into the living quarters. Wooden shutters had been opened on small, glassless windows, but what light there was seemed weak and ineffectual.

  ‘Are we safe now?’ asked Joe.

  Tommy wasn’t sure. His words still tumbled from him. ‘You can sleep here or on the first floor. But not in the cockloft.’

  ‘But it’s empty,’ said Roche, wiping sleep from his eyes. ‘Who says we can’t sleep there?’

  The boy looked anxiously between the four new arrivals. ‘It’s orders is all.’

  ‘What was your ship, Master Jackson?’ asked Joe.

  ‘HMS Orontes,’ said Tommy, relieved to be on surer ground. ‘There were five of us Yankees on board who’d been pressed to fight for the English. We gave ourselves up when the war started. Never wanted to fight our own country.’ The boy’s eyes darted between the Eagle crew. ‘Only four of us left now. Joe Addis got the bloody flux. Buried in the graveyard outside the wall he is. With two hundred and twelve other good Americans. Maybe two hundred and thirteen soon – Mr Bloom was taken sick last week.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Roche. ‘So is he in the hospital?’

  Tommy shook his head. ‘It’s full, so he’s here. Block Seven, floor one.’

  ‘So that’s why it smelled like death last night,’ said Joe. ‘It was death. We need to find a berth down here. Do the English care where we sleep, Master Jackson?’

  Tommy shrugged. ‘You go where you’re told.’

  ‘Which block are you in?’ asked Lord.

  ‘I’m in Three. Been there since June 13th last year.’

  ‘So how come you were in Seven?’ asked Roche. ‘Do you go on patrol, lookin’ for sleepers who are out o’ bounds?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m the crier,’ he said, his obvious pride making Roche’s frown melt a little. ‘Mr Snow caught me in the square, asked me to check on you. And he also said you might want to come to church. I can show you, if you like.’

  The four men from the Eagle laughed.

  ‘Church?’ exclaimed Roche. ‘They have us in English chains as it is. I’ll not listen to any more Englishmen than I must.’

  ‘And you can barely understand what they’re saying, anyway, can you, Mr Roche?’ said Joe.

  ‘Ain’t my fault they can’t speak properly,’ said Roche. ‘I’m stayin’ here, where all these happy Americans live and talk clearly. But you go, Joe, you have your cross to bear. Give me your things. I’ll find us a nice room with flowers.’ He took Joe’s hammock, ropes and buckets and dragged them off, muttering, ‘And down with the English!’ into the gloom, Lord and Goffe following behind.

  ‘It ain’t no English church,’ said Tommy, watching them go, ‘I should’ve told ’em.’

  ‘Church is church,’ said Joe. ‘Unless you have dancing girls, Mr Roche will not be attending. But I’ll come to your church, Master Jackson, if I’m not too late.’ He paused. ‘It was getting dark when we arrived, and I confess I didn’t see a church …’

  ‘Oh no, sir, there’s no building. Church is in Four. The cockloft of Block Four.’

  Halfway down the steps to the main entrance, the sound of heavy boots interrupted Joe’s reply. Five heavily bearded men armed with cudgels and knives appeared in the doorway then took the steps four at a time. They glanced briefly at Joe and Tommy as they went past.

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Joe. ‘That’s who you came to warn us about?’ Tommy nodded. ‘Who are they?’ asked Joe.

  ‘It’s them Rough Allies,’ said Tommy in a whisper. No further information was forthcoming.

  ‘And who are the Rough Allies?’ Joe persisted.

  Tommy, hands deep in his jacket pockets, frowned. ‘They get things done,’ he said flatly.

  ‘I bet they do,’ said Joe, as they walked quickly out of the block.

  Freezing rain assailed them and they found shelter at the back of a crowd taking warmth from a blazing coffee stove. Joe squinted into the gale. There was no view to speak of. Low, rolling cloud blanketed whatever there might be to see. The seven prison blocks looked, if anything, even more forbidding than they had the day before.

  ‘How old?’ asked Joe. ‘How old are these monsters?’

  Tommy shrugged. ‘They were built for the French. So six years? Maybe seven.’

  ‘They look ancient,’ said Joe. ‘A thousand years old at least.’ He edged round the coffee crowd to the narrow, buffeted alley that ran between Six and Seven and gaped at the monstrous edifices.

  Tommy read his face well. ‘You get used to it,’ he said.

  The storm had only served to enhance the prison’s unmistakeable air of menace. The blocks, it seemed to Joe, had been built to avenge a nation’s wounded pride at the loss of their America. He had survived British ships, their cannonfire, rifles and pistols, but now he wondered if it would be their buildings that would be the end of him.

  ‘I’ll take your word on that,’ he said, and he and Tommy made their way to Block Four.

  ‘Them cuts on your head,’ said Tommy, looking up at Joe.

  ‘What about them?’ said Joe, staring at the ground.

  ‘Where’d they come from, then?’

  But the memories were too raw, too recent. ‘They come from bad times,’ Joe said eventually.

  ‘Worse than these times?’ asked Tommy, and Joe heard again the voices of the savages he had been chained to on the prison ship.

  ‘Worse than these times,’ he agreed.

  ‘Well, that’s somethin’, ain’t it?’ said Tommy.

  ‘Yes, I suppose.’ Joe smiled one of his almost-smiles. ‘I like you, Crier, I think we’ll be good friends.’

  ‘Really?’ Tommy’s face radiated pleasure. He looked, momentarily, like the thirteen-year-old boy he was. ‘Thanks, Mr Hill.’

  ‘Joe is fine.’

  ‘Thanks, Joe,’ said Tommy, sounding pleased with his morning’s work.

  ‘These Rough Allies,’ continued Joe, wiping rain from his face, ‘was one of them boxing last night?’

  Tommy nodded.

  ‘Of course. The one with the wood. And you said if we didn’t move from the cockloft in Seven that a Mr Cobb and a Mr Lane would stab us.’

  Another nod. ‘S’their space, so they say. In Six and Seven. They say they don’t like intruders.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Joe. ‘And was that Mr Cobb and Mr Lane we just saw? Do they have many men working for them?’

  More nodding.

  ‘There are thugs and bullies on every ship, so it’ll be the same here. They run the place?’

  ‘When the Brits ain’t looking,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Which is when?’

  ‘Most o’ the time.’

  They had walked past Block Six, which was set slightly further back than its neighbours, then a busy Block Five. Sailors, indifferent to the weather, huddled around fires, eating bubbling stew or smoking pipes. Tommy strode on, but Joe called him back.

  ‘Block Four is a Negro prison?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘The Rough Allies run that, too?’

  Tommy laughed. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘But we can go in?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘How is that possible?’

  The crier smiled. A proper, uninhibited, face-splitting smile. ‘It is possible, Mr Hill, ’cos King Dick says it is possible.’

  1.7

  Block Four, Cockloft

  JOE AND TOMMY climbed the steps to the cockloft of Block Four. In physical appearance, the block appeared to be identical to all the rest: the same wide doors, the same stone steps, the same air of pervading darkness.

  ‘You see much church, Mr Hill?’ said Tommy, as the
y climbed.

  ‘Sure,’ said Joe, surprised by the question. ‘I was baptized back in Suffolk, England. And when we came to America we attended the local chapel at least twice a week. Baptist, I think it was. At sea, there were services aplenty. Reckon I seen enough church.’ He realized his new companion was smiling again.

  ‘You say your prayers, Mr Hill?’

  Joe, amused at all these questions, raised an eyebrow. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘All sailors do. I’ve been praying for a full stomach, for us to go home, for America to win this damned war, and for my sweet mother and sister to stay well. Maybe I’ll say them again today if …’ He broke off as a sound like a low rumble came from above them. He glanced upwards. ‘Church?’

  Tommy nodded.

  ‘And you’re sure Mr Snow invited me?’

  ‘He did, sir, yes.’

  They had reached the top landing, and Joe paused, listening at the door. He frowned at the stomping and shouting they could hear within. ‘Sounds more like fighting than praying.’

  Tommy shrugged.

  ‘How many in Block Four?’

  ‘Nine hundred and ninety-five, sir.’

  ‘And are they all in here?’

  ‘King Dick likes everyone to be there, but ’bout twenty-three don’t come no more. Black Simon throws some folk out sometimes. He’s the pastor.’

  ‘And are you coming in?’ Joe couldn’t believe he was seeking the support of a thirteen-year-old boy to attend a church meeting.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Then lead the way.’ Joe removed his hat and stepped aside as Tommy pushed at the doors.

  They opened just enough for the boy to squeeze through. He disappeared inside. For a moment, Joe thought he had been deserted, then the doors were wrenched wide and he, too, stepped in. He couldn’t see Tommy, but then, apart from the backs of heads, he couldn’t see much at all. At five feet nine, Joe was taller than most sailors he’d met, but he still couldn’t see what was causing such a clamour. He tried pushing in further, but the men were too tightly packed. From the looks cast in his direction, he wasn’t sure they would let him in, anyway.

  Straining as high as he could on his tiptoes, Joe finally made out what he guessed was a choir, lined up in three rows. The men stood on a stage littered with instruments: tambourines, clarinets, violins and flageolets. On the back wall, painted battlements gave the room a theatrical flourish. ‘The Dartmoor Amateur Dramatic Society,’ he said. ‘Of course.’

  Distracted, Joe hadn’t noticed that the room had gone quiet. Or that the best part of a thousand people had turned to look at him. Now, he did. And every face black, he thought. He suddenly felt profoundly alone. A trespasser, an intruder – an imposter.

  ‘My apologies,’ he mumbled, and had turned to leave when a massive voice filled the room.

  ‘I spy a stranger!’

  Joe froze, then turned back slowly. Now, he could see the far end of the cockloft. Habs and Tommy Jackson stood next to a bear of a man who was sitting on a wooden chest. He beckoned Joe over with one huge hand and, miraculously, a path cleared through the multitude.

  As he stepped over arms and legs, a distant memory of a Baptist sermon back home on the parting of the Red Sea came to him, but this new miracle was happening right now. I am being summoned, he thought. This must be King Dick.

  The man wore a bearskin hat high on his head, and a battered club swung in one hand. An image from Sunday School came to Joe: the hat was a crown, the club a sceptre. Courtiers sat scattered at this giant’s feet. There was no doubt in Joe’s mind who this man thought he was and who his subjects considered him to be. He found himself staring into a solemn, serious face – monumental, a broad nose, a powerful forehead overshadowing intense, burning eyes. Deep scarring was clearly visible on both cheeks and ivory-and-pearl earrings hung from his ears. He was magnificent. Joe held his breath.

  The King pulled the bearskin low on his head then rearranged the embroidered cape that was wrapped around him. Underneath, a sash with four gold stars. Joe wondered briefly whether he should bow.

  Habs stepped forward. ‘King Dick, this is Joe Hill from the crew of the Eagle. Arrived last night. Put in Seven. He brought the news of the peace—’

  ‘I know who he is,’ said the King, his words rumbling deep like a storm on the horizon. Gathering his cape, he rose from the chest and Joe looked up, dumbstruck.

  King Dick was, without doubt, the tallest, broadest man he had ever seen. Six feet seven, maybe six feet eight, he seemed to go on for ever. On his feet he wore polished military boots. His thick woollen trousers were held up with a wide belt, and an ornate silver clasp kept his cape in place.

  ‘Mr Hill.’ The King was looking at Joe, but his voice reached everyone. ‘Our stranger.’ He raised a steaming cup of something. ‘You look … un-com-for-tab-le.’

  Joe dropped his head, twisted his cap. ‘I guess I am, sir.’

  ‘Welcome to Block Four,’ said the King, waving his club expansively in front of him. The weapon – for that is what it undoubtedly was – looked as though it might originally have been some sort of bat, but it was now painted black and the square edges had been rounded off. Its many dents and scratches revealed it to be a working cudgel.

  ‘So, Mr Hill, have you read Thomas Hobbes? He was English, like you.’

  Joe’s brow creased. Was this some kind of test, a trap he’d walked into?

  ‘No, I have not. And I am a naturalized American. My family moved from England when I was a small child.’

  ‘But you read, Mr Hill?’

  ‘Yes, whenever I can.’

  ‘Where is your home, Mr Hill? Please tell us.’ The King sat back down, being careful not to spill his drink. In sharp contrast to everyone else Joe had seen in Dartmoor, King Dick’s hands were clean, his nails neatly trimmed.

  Joe cleared his throat. ‘Boston, sir. Dedham, Norfolk County, to be precise.’

  ‘And who do you have waitin’ for you?’

  ‘My mother and sister, God willing. Not seen them these two years past.’

  The King nodded. ‘We don’t have no Fours from Norfolk County, I don’t believe. Though we come from all over.’ He turned his head to Habs. ‘Where’s home for you, Mr Habakkuk Snow? Remind me.’

  ‘Philadelphia, sir!’

  ‘Uh-huh. You, too, Mr Samuel Snow?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Where else is home?’ The King picked up his club again, pointing it at random.

  ‘New York!’ shouted one man.

  Many others nodded and called out, ‘That’s where I’m goin’!’

  Then came a flurry of shouts from around the room.

  ‘Massachusetts!’

  ‘Virginia!’

  ‘I’m goin’ back to Delaware!’

  ‘Rhode Island.’

  ‘Mississippi, King Dick! Come an’ visit!’

  ‘Connecticut!’

  ‘South Carolina.’

  After each had spoken, the King said, ‘Going home, going home …’

  And other voices sounded out.

  A thin-faced, white-haired man raised a hand. ‘I am going home. I am from the Tupi people. My home is Brazil. I am the last one here.’

  Another stood, then another. ‘We are Bakongo. From Kongo. That is our home,’ one of the men said, before wrapping himself in what appeared to be a tarpaulin and sitting down again.

  Hundreds were calling out to name their state or city, as if, by saying it publicly, reaching their destination became more real. Joe assumed this show was for him, though perhaps they performed this roll call every week.

  ‘Goin’ back to Georgia!’

  ‘Washington, DC.’

  ‘Vermont.’

  ‘I am a Jivaroan from Peru.’

  ‘New Hampshire.’

  ‘My home is in Bengal.’

  ‘North Carolina.’

  King Dick pointed, acknowledged, moved on. Then it was his turn.

  ‘And from Maryland?’ he asked. The loudest sh
out so far. The King beamed. They had all waited, knowing he would give them pride of place. He called out the towns in Maryland and they hollered them back.

  ‘From Annapolis!’

  ‘From Baltimore!’

  ‘From Frederick!’

  Eventually, the names fell away, and the King stood again, an elaborate unfurling.

  ‘King Dick is from many places,’ he announced. ‘The seas and oceans first, o’ course, then Salem, Boston and Baltimore. Also Haiti. And also Guinea. Before it all, was Guinea. My grandfather, he was taken.’ He paused. ‘Snatched!’ A longer pause. ‘Stolen from Africa!’

  A few voices echoed: ‘Stolen from Africa!’

  The King nodded. ‘He was always told, his brothers and him, never trust the men with the mahogany skin. The men who move like ghosts, who smile like beasts. That if you let them, they swallow you whole, they take you, take your soul, they take your ev-er-y-thin’.’

  The King emphasized each syllable of this last word, the shiver in his voice triggering shivers in his audience. Joe assumed everyone in the room had heard this story before, maybe many times, but they were as captivated as he was; it wasn’t just the story’s rhythm, cadence and tragedy that gave it power, it was its familiarity. The King was pacing now.

  ‘But they came for him. They came from the coast, they came when he was playin’ by the river, he and his brother. Twenty of the ghosts, with fearsome knives, stabbin’ an’ pokin’ till my grandpa and his poor brother were in sacks a hundred miles away, ’fore they knew what was happenin’. One day he wakes from a beatin’ and he find he been sold to the Europeans. His brother gone – never to see him again. When he gets out of that sack, he thinks he will truly be eaten by these men with red skin, their women’s hair an’ disgustin’ faces.’

  ‘An’ they no prettier now!’ Ned called out.

  Joe shuffled his feet uncomfortably, eyes to the floor. The King waited for the laughter to die away, then refocused on Joe.

  ‘You feel like I’m pickin’ on you, Mr Hill?’ Joe nodded before he realized what he was doing. ‘You want to look at me, Mr Hill?’

  Joe whipped his head up. The black eyes were waiting for him.

  ‘We are jus’ tellin’ you things you need to hear. Tellin’ you things maybe you missed back in Norfolk County.’