by Simon Mayo
Joe nodded again. ‘Thank you, King Dick.’
Satisfied, the King waved his club in front of him to clear some space. ‘Leave room for Mr Daniels and Mr Singer,’ he said. ‘They will come soon, bringin’ sustenance.’
Some of his entourage shuffled away from the throne.
‘We need sustenance ’cos Pastor Simon likes his words and, when he runs out, he tries out some new words. Things get … exhaustin’.’ When he smiled, the King’s enormous eyes glittered; they were glittering now. ‘And when he asks, we will pretend we understand them.’ He turned again to Joe. ‘Why did you come here?’ he said.
Joe was caught off guard, unsure. ‘Well, I …’ He glanced at the crier. ‘Master Jackson there said I’d been invited. Me and the Eagle crew.’
‘Uh-huh,’ said the King. ‘But why d’you come and the others stay behind?’
Joe was again unsure how to respond, not wishing to incriminate his shipmates.
‘Maybe,’ the King prodded, ‘they weren’t feelin’ too spiritual, havin’ jus’ woken up in this particular Hell?’
‘Yes. Maybe,’ mumbled Joe.
The cockloft door swung open and two white boys, maybe twelve years old, appeared, walking slowly, concentrating hard on balancing the cups and plates they carried.
‘Ah. At last!’ boomed the King, his basso profundo cutting through the chatter. ‘With speed now, m’boys. Let’s see what you have.’
They tried a faster step but succeeded only in spilling hot, steaming liquid on the ground.
‘Steady, then!’ called the King. ‘Make way for the bearers of coffee and plum gudgeons.’
The crowd parted to allow the diminutive figures to pass, their faces a study in concentration. King Dick took a cup from one and a plate from the other, swapping it for his club. He slurped coffee, then spooned fish and potatoes until both were gone. The smells, sharp and familiar, reminded Joe how hungry he was and he wondered how long it would be before he ate.
The King thanked the boys, then from his cape produced two coins and gave one to each. ‘Mr Daniels, you did well. Mr Singer, thank you. I declare I have forgotten what real coffee tastes like. When we go home – how sweet that sounds, when we go home! – I declare I will brew my own coffee like this, made only from English peas.’
The King swallowed the rest of his coffee. ‘I’ll keep the next one for when the pastor here tells us about Hell. I can see he’s itchin’ to start his service.’ He pointed his empty cup at Pastor Simon, who had edged himself into King Dick’s eyeline. ‘He will talk about “good news”, I expect. Am I right, Reverend?’
Joe swivelled to see the pastor, dressed in yellow prison clothes but with a voluminous black cloak pulled over the top, raise a hand in acknowledgement.
‘You’re right, King Dick. Praise God!’
‘You see?’ said the King. ‘But it is you that brought us the good news, Mr Hill. And today is Sunday. It is the first day of the new year. Some of our people were not in the market square last night. So, as you have come to us, please, let us hear it from you. You spoke well in the square, a fine performance, but we demand an encore.’ He beckoned Joe forward. He took a few hesitant steps, but the King waved him closer. ‘A word …’ he said, and Joe lowered his head. He smelled soap and fish. ‘You can put the hat on,’ the King went on, his words slow and hushed. ‘This ain’t church. Not yet.’
Joe stepped back, sliding the tricorn gratefully into position. He stared at the King. He knew. Somehow, he knew.
With a flick of King Dick’s fingers, Joe was waved back into position.
‘And speak loud!’ called the King. ‘There are many who are still cannon-deaf.’
Joe turned to face the sailors of Block Four. When Tommy Jackson had invited him to church, Joe had, to the extent that he had thought about it at all, assumed it would be familiar. Maybe even comforting. But familiarity and comfort seemed remote right now. A wall of black faces stared back at him; he didn’t see individuals, he saw merely colour. He saw the dirty yellow of the Transport Office uniforms, he saw cream tarpaulin, grey blankets, the greens and browns of the theatre scenery, but mainly he saw his two pink hands in front of a thousand black faces. His throat felt tight and dry.
‘Are you all right, Mr Hill?’ asked the King.
‘Yes,’ said Joe, ‘just feeling a bit …’
‘A bit white?’ suggested the King, and a wave of laughter rippled out across the room.
Joe nodded. ‘Just a bit,’ he said.
‘Well, you feel a bit white to us, too.’ More laughter. ‘And we not used to be bein’ addressed by white folk on our own deck. But today is different, don’t you think?’
Many cries of ‘Yes, King Dick!’
Joe felt a tug at his sleeve. One of the King’s boys was handing him a cup.
‘Have a little Dartmoor coffee to start you off,’ said the King. Joe took the cup and sipped tentatively. It was thin and bitter, but better than the stickiness in his mouth. ‘It’s just a speech,’ said the King, ‘and this is your cue.’ Joe handed back the empty cup, nodded his thanks.
He tried again. ‘Good morning. My name is Joe Hill. I’m from Boston.’ Better. He could see a few hands raised and heads nodding. ‘I was part of the crew of the Eagle, but we were taken off Halifax. We lost plenty of good men to the Yankee cause, many more in the ship bringing us here.’ He saw movement: the men were nodding in understanding. ‘We arrived in Plymouth Dock three days ago, held there for reasons we couldn’t fathom. But we heard the captain tell his crew that there was peace. That America and Britain had signed a treaty.’ The nods had become smiles. Joe added, ‘That no one else need fight, and that no one else need die.’
The smiles became shouts and the shouts became singing. King Dick shouted, ‘Pastor Simon? Now it’s your turn!’ and within seconds the choir was in full voice.
1.8
Block Four, Cockloft
HABS CAME OVER, blue jacket buttoned. Joe tugged the tricorn a little lower.
‘You see!’ shouted Habs above the hymns. ‘An audience that needed a speech.’
‘I thought I was coming to church,’ said Joe. ‘Had no idea.’
They stood with their backs to the cockloft wall. At the far end, the band and the choir were taking it in turns to fill the room with the loudest church music Joe had ever heard; for a moment, he thought he recognized the hymn they were playing but then the tambourines started and he was lost again.
Habs was laughing. ‘You lookin’ like you maybe confused.’
‘It isn’t exactly the way of things at our Baptist hall.’
‘That may be true,’ said Habs. ‘So let me guess. The coloured folk worship somewhere different?’
‘I suppose they do.’
‘You know where?’ asked Habs.
‘Can’t say I do.’ Joe stared at the floor, aware he was floundering.
‘And why is that?’
Joe noticed Habs’s full, arching eyebrows for the first time – both were raised in expectation. He knew his answers mattered. He struggled on.
‘There’s not a lot of … mixing goes on back home, if you know what I mean,’ he said, and instantly knew that wasn’t going to be good enough. If Habs’s eyebrows indicated a challenge, he’d failed it. The truth was, he’d never been questioned like this before, never felt he had to justify himself, and Habs knew it.
‘Not a lot o’ mixin’ goes on here either,’ said Habs. ‘So you’ll get on fine. It’ll be jus’ like home.’
Joe frowned. ‘You know I didn’t mean that.’
‘You ever been the only white man before today, Joe?’ said Habs. ‘The only white man in a big room like this?’
‘You know I haven’t,’ said Joe, irritated. ‘But I was invited. You invited me. That’s why I came. Did you invite any others?’
‘No. Jus’ the crew o’ the Eagle.’
Joe shook his head. ‘But this is England. My parents came from here. They never said the whites and the
coloureds were kept separate. They never told me it was like this.’
‘It ain’t,’ said Habs. ‘This is new. This here’s an American idea. Last year, some o’ the white sailors went to the Agent and told him they couldn’t stand the “thievin’ o’ the Negroes” no more. That we didn’t “wash like white folk”, that our hygiene was so bad we had to be separated.’
Joe whistled slowly. ‘And did you know these white sailors?’
Habs’s voice hardened. ‘Did I know them?’ he said. ‘They were my crew.’
‘The Bentham?’ said Joe, astonished. ‘The men of the Bentham asked for this?’
Habs nodded. ‘Some o’ them. Enough o’ them.’
‘But we all share the same ships,’ said Joe. ‘We had lots of Negro sailors on the Eagle before the fighting started …’
‘Uh-huh. There’s no room to be separate on a ship,’ said Habs. ‘But soon’s there’s space, it seems the white sailor wants it all to himself. So the Agent agreed and put anyone who wasn’t as white as him in here.’
‘Where’s the rest of your crew?’
‘In Six. You’ll have seen some around – they like to be noticed. Long beards, most of ’em.’
Joe pushed himself off the wall. ‘The Rough Allies? Two of them tried to get to us this morning. Mean-looking bastards.’
‘Well, that’s the truth,’ said Habs. ‘And pathetic, mostly. But Lane and Cobb – they’re the ones you have to watch out for.’
Joe grabbed Habs’s arm. ‘Lane was there this morning.’
‘Had the Bentham hammock three along from me,’ said Habs. ‘Always hated us, but was only when he got here he was able to do anythin’ ’bout it. Cleaned us all out, then put us all together. Tha’s why you bein’ in Block Four now is a big deal.’
There was movement in front of them. Ned and Sam had brought plates of plum gudgeon with them, and Joe eyed them keenly.
‘No breakfast?’ laughed Sam. ‘It’s cold, but it only costs a penny.’
‘Oh, I have no money,’ said Joe. ‘We arrived with nothing, not even a King’s penny.’
‘You’ll get your wages soon enough,’ said Ned. ‘Eat what you will. I got it from Mr Daniels and Mr Singer. Seemed to have more than two small lads could need.’
Joe gulped down the thick paste of fish and potatoes. It was tasteless and stuck to his mouth like molasses, but he didn’t care. He had weeks of hunger to assuage. ‘Who are those boys?’ he said, his mouth still full. ‘I saw them next to King Dick.’
‘They, well, we call them his secretaries,’ said Habs.
‘Secretaries?’ said Joe. ‘They can write and organize a ledger?’
Sam put his hand on Joe’s elbow. ‘We call them secretaries, and then we don’t have to call them anythin’ else.’
‘I see,’ said Joe, surprised by his candour. ‘And they stay in Four?’
‘Yeah, Alex an’ Jonathan are here,’ said Sam. ‘An’ a few other sailors who ain’t fit in where they been put. Or they got themselves into trouble, needed to be somewhere else. If King Dick allow it, they stay here. He picks up strays. That’s what he does.’
‘An’ when Sam says, “ain’t fit in”,’ said Ned, ‘what he means is freaks. And when he says, “got themselves into trouble”, he means criminals. Welcome to Big Dick’s Circus, Mr Hill.’
At the front of the cockloft, the hymn died away and Pastor Simon climbed on to a makeshift pulpit made of two card tables. Every man present immediately seemed to realize they had something better to do; conversations sprang up, packs of cards appeared, and dice rolled. The pastor tried to speak above the hubbub.
‘The preacher is popular, then,’ said Joe.
‘He has only a few things to say,’ said Habs. ‘We’re in prison with him – we heard ’em before.’
‘Church and gambling at the same time? The folks at the Baptist Union back home would rather be struck down by Satan Himself,’ said Joe.
‘Well, Pastor Simon runs the church and King Dick runs the gamblin’,’ said Habs. ‘Though, if he wanted, I think the King could have the church, too.’
As if he’d heard their talk, King Dick had climbed on to the pulpit. His head now nearly touching the ceiling, he stood with his eyes and arms wide. He was clearly waiting for silence, and he had it within seconds. The talking died down, the cards and the dice were pocketed. All eyes were on the stage.
The King held out his club then swept it in an arc. ‘How poor are they that have not patience!’ he called, staring around his audience.
Joe’s eyes narrowed. ‘What wound did ever heal but by degrees?’ he whispered.
Then, as if an echo from the stage, the King thundered, ‘What wound did ever heal but by degrees?’
Joe dropped his head, sliding down the wall. Habs followed him to the floor.
‘But this is Shakespeare,’ Joe said.
‘The Dartmoor Amateur Dramatic Society,’ said Habs. ‘They’re the King’s shows. He runs everything anyways, but the theatre? That’s what he really loves.’
‘That line,’ said Joe. ‘That line was Iago’s. From Othello.’
‘It was,’ said Habs, ‘and it was my line.’
‘You put on a production of Othello here?’ Joe failed to keep the disbelief out of his voice. ‘You played Iago?’
Habs looked intently at his new friend, then jumped up, offering Joe his hand, the one with H.O.L.D tattooed on the fingers.
‘Come,’ said Habs. ‘Close haul.’
Joe followed Habs as he fought his way through the crowd. Finding gaps to get through took time but, when they saw who was doing the pushing, most made way.
‘In a hurry, Habs?’ asked one voice.
‘Look alive there!’ hissed Habs, turning sideways to squeeze between two scrawny sailors who were sharing a large bottle.
‘Habs, what are we doing?’
Joe received no reply.
As they reached the front, the King appeared as if a giant, his club still swaying dangerously close to the heads of the sailors. As it passed, many ducked or leaned out of its path. He flourished it again then brought it to rest on his shoulder. The King was wrapping up.
‘Do we have Pitch and Toss? Yes, gentlemen, we do.’ Cheers from many in the crowd. ‘Do we have Twenty-one? O’ course.’ The cheers were louder now and came with applause. The King nodded, acknowledging the approval. ‘And we have Rat Race – o’ course – but … in time. Keep your coins for the moment. Patience, m’boys.’
Habs, still with Joe in his wake, stuck up his hand. ‘My noble Lord …’
King Dick saw Habs and laughed, his temporary pulpit rocking. He stuck his hands on his hips, his cloak parting to expose the large buckled belt around his waist. He edged his feet apart, his stance strong.
‘What dost thou say, Iago?’ said the King, and applause rolled around the room.
Habs called back, ‘Did Michael Cassio, when you wooed my lady, know of your love?’
From somewhere behind them a voice shouted, ‘Do the play! Do the whole play!’
King Dick called to Habs. ‘He did, from first to last. Why dost thou ask?’
Habs leaned close to Joe.
‘So here’s your answer. Yes, we put on Othello.’
Habs leapt on to the stage, followed by Ned Penny and two others. Joe saw Pastor Simon shrug and usher the choir away. Dick jumped from the pulpit and, to a backdrop of cheers and clapping, they performed lines and scenes from Othello, seemingly at random. Joe looked on in wonder as a stooped, grey-haired man miraculously became Desdemona, one of the drunks he’d squeezed past became Michael Cassio and Ned recited the lines of Roderigo.
When the players were spent, the applause and stomping went on, Joe clapping long and hard, too.
When Habs finally jumped from the stage, King Dick wasn’t far behind. ‘So, Mr Hill from Boston,’ said the King, sweat running from under his hat, ‘what say you?’
‘I know the play, King Dick,’ said Joe, smiling, ‘and … I am s
peechless.’
King Dick nodded appreciatively.
‘How many players do you have?’ asked Joe.
‘We manage with eleven,’ said the King. ‘We lost our clown to the pox and Montano to jail fever, but everyone came to see it anyway.’
‘And did you have white men play any parts, King Dick?’ asked Joe.
The King’s eyes narrowed slightly and he adjusted his hat. ‘Do we need white men, Mr Hill?’
Joe realized that many of the nearby conversations had quietened or stopped altogether. ‘Well, no, I suppose—’ began Joe.
‘Shakespeare was black, Mr Hill. We all know that,’ interrupted the King. ‘So why would we need any white men?’ It was a question, but it still sounded like a threat.
To Joe’s puzzled expression, Habs slowly, subtly, shook his head.
Joe swallowed his question and pointed instead at the stage and the scenery. ‘Oh, you don’t … I was just hoping,’ he said, ‘to maybe offer my services …’
‘That so?’ said the King, his face solemn again. ‘And what would we do with a young sailor so fair of face?’
Joe stood rooted to the spot, unsure of his reply. ‘I … I don’t know, sir,’ he stammered.
‘Ha!’ King Dick shouted, and everyone jumped. ‘Mr Snow here does. Tell ’im, Mr Snow, and be done with it.’ The King gathered his cape around himself and walked off, young Alex and Jonathan running to catch up.
‘Shakespeare was black?’
Habs waited for the crowd to drift away to the gambling tables. ‘You wanna argue with him?’
‘Not really,’ said Joe. ‘And what is it you know? What was he talking about?’
Habs placed a hand on Joe’s shoulder. ‘Before the French left, the King was thinkin’ of puttin’ on a play with ’em. They had their own theatre company, made some fine scenery. Then Napoleon went an’ lost and they all went home. We took some of their flats, and the rest made that boxing ring you were leanin’ on last night.’
Joe nodded. ‘Neat painting, too. But they were white French?’
‘White French,’ confirmed Habs. ‘They were in Seven, too. They never knew about the King’s idea. Coulda refused. But it would’ve been perfect. A play with two families living in a lawless town. It was a good fit.’