Mad Blood Stirring

by Simon Mayo

  ‘Too late,’ said the King. Kale didn’t see his wrist snap, just felt the club momentarily lift from his forehead then slam into him with the force of a battering ram. As he staggered then collapsed, the King, both hands to the handle, swung the club into Dean’s ribs, then, reversing the action, into Boyce’s. Both men dropped to the floor and Boyce took an extra blow to the head. King Dick knelt by the fallen men, gently touching each one with his club. ‘I want two shillings by tomorrow. Each. Now, go see the physician.’

  Rising to his feet, he strode off, Habs and the rest of the entourage running to catch up.

  ‘I seen worse,’ breathed Habs, relieved.

  ‘Don’t they know nothin’?’ whispered Ned, glancing back at the injured men. ‘You can wake up here with most anything you might fancy, but dice? Why, tha’s terrible. Cards? An abomination!’

  Sam shook his head. ‘They say gamblin’ the French disease. Well, before they left, we all got infected.’

  Ahead of King Dick, the room had emptied. Now, the ground floor had its shutters open, its hammocks stowed and its mess tables put out for breakfast. The stench of sweat, smoke and urine was slowly being blown away by the winds from the moor and replaced by the smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchens. As they reached the final stanchions, Habs noticed two men still in their hammocks, one curled into a tight ball, the other sat hugging his knees. He steered the King in their direction.

  ‘And what is this?’ called King Dick. Both men looked up. Their movements were slow and painful. ‘What ails you, then? Are you sick?’

  Sam went closer. ‘They’re bruised, King Dick. And cut, too.’

  The King stepped closer. They both sported deep burgundy bruises around the eyes, and the knee-hugging man had a deep cut on his arm running from shoulder to elbow. Torn sheets had formed impromptu bandages; they were all soaked in blood.

  ‘Speak,’ said the King. ‘Explain.’

  Behind him, the sound of hundreds of sailors clattering down the stairs filled the room. The two injured men glanced quickly at each other but said nothing.

  The King nodded. ‘Very well. I seen that look before. I seen the fear. I’ll make some guesses. You were last to bed. Found yourselves outnumbered.’

  An almost imperceptible nod from the knee-hugger.

  ‘Rough Allies.’

  Another nod and then, finally, some words. King Dick leaned in close to hear.

  ‘Didn’t have no chance,’ the man whispered through swollen lips. ‘Now, me and Daniel there can’t get up soon of a mornin’ no more.’

  ‘You shoulda come to me,’ said the King. ‘Why didn’t you come to me straight ’way?’ The two men looked down, unwilling to meet King Dick’s eye.

  He sighed. ‘If you won’t speak, we’ll do the list. You were buggerin’ each other?’

  Both men shook their heads.

  ‘Tradin’ bad liquor?’

  More denials.

  ‘So gamblin’, then. Gamblin’ without the King’s approval.’

  Neither man moved, both frozen in fear.

  The King turned to Habs, exasperated. ‘Is every man here trying to swindle the King? Do they not know we spend all that money on the shows?’

  ‘I’m sure they do, King Dick,’ said Habs. ‘And these seem to have been punished already.’

  This time, the King’s club cracked a stanchion. ‘If there’s punishment to be had, by God Almighty, King Dick will do it, not some cocksuckers from Six!’ His explosion of rage terrified everyone who heard it. ‘Goddamn those Allies to Hell, I will not have this. Get some breakfast for these men.’ He handed coins to Alex and Jonathan, and they scampered for the door. ‘We’ll send for the physician. We’ll not let this stand.’

  2.2

  Dartmoor Hospital

  THE MEN OF the Eagle lingered as long as they could. The room was stark and high-ceilinged but its roaring fire was the first proper heat they had felt in weeks. They stood as close as they dared, relishing every flame.

  ‘Will, I do declare you’re cooking nicely,’ said Joe.

  Roche was the closest, and his woollen coat, still soaked with rain, condensation and snow from the day before, was steaming.

  ‘Smellin’ like a laundry is better’n smellin’ like a latrine,’ he said, arms spread wide to absorb as much heat as he could. ‘And if I burn, why, this is the place to be. There’ll be nurses and their lotions right at hand.’

  Joe scoffed. ‘So when they’ve stopped dealing with smallpox and jail fever, they can attend to your scalds and blisters?’

  Roche smiled, his eyes shut. ‘That’s ’bout it, Mr Hill. That is jus’ ’bout it.

  The sailors formed a ramshackle queue. Three plump men sat at desks, glancing between their records and their new arrivals. A weighing machine and a pile of prison uniforms stood behind them, an empty chair before them, and the largest of the men gestured with his dip-pen, waving the sailors forward, his voice shrill and impatient.

  ‘Come. Let’s get this done.’

  None of the Eagle men moved. ‘Go bugger yer eyes,’ muttered Lord. ‘I ain’t leavin’ this fire.’

  ‘Really?’ piped the clerk. He was standing now.

  ‘Makin’ Englishmen mad seems to be somethin’ we do with ease,’ said Roche, still staring into the fire. ‘We can have sport with this one. He’s puffed up and red-faced already. Let’s make him yearn for the feeble-minded French.’

  There was just one guard left in the room, a lumpy, pock-faced youth who was easing dirt from his fingernails with a small knife. It took him a while to realize that the irate clerk was shouting at him.

  ‘We need order here, sir!’

  The guard looked startled, pulled the rifle from his shoulder and walked towards the men of the Eagle. Before he’d had a chance to be threatening, the Americans took him by surprise.

  ‘Make way for this fine soldier!’ called Roche. ‘Give him space by the fire, please.’ He added, ‘Are you cold, sir? You look as though a few minutes by this fine fire would stand you well on a day like today. We Americans shouldn’t have all the heat, now should we?’

  The guard looked bemused. ‘S’pose not,’ he said.

  ‘English heat for English bones!’ called Joe. ‘Can’t say fairer than that, can we?’

  The guard edged closer. ‘No, I don’t think you can.’

  Joe held out his hand. ‘I’m Joe Hill and these are my shipmates from the Eagle. What’s your name, soldier?’ The militiaman was about to tell him when an eruption of righteous fury shut his mouth.

  ‘You damnable fool! Soldier, please approach the bench. This instant!’ Now, the other two clerks had pulled themselves to their feet and were waving their ledgers. As the guard shuffled away from the fire, the men of the Eagle laughed heartily.

  ‘When you’ve faced an English broadside of forty cannon or more,’ called Roche to the clerks, ‘you’ll not be scared by men flappin’ their books!’

  ‘But as an act of goodwill,’ added Joe, ‘as the war is over and we are at peace, we will agree to be signed up to your register. Just as soon as we’re warm, eh, boys?’

  The militiaman returned, his face flushed and rifle cocked. ‘You line up by Mr Nellist now or he says you’ll be in the cachot.’ Then he added quietly, ‘And I’ll be there, too, I reckon.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Roche asked Joe.

  ‘He said we sign their book or we get thrown in the pit.’

  ‘And d’you believe there’s a warm fire in that pit, Joe?’

  ‘That I do not.’

  ‘So …’ Roche saluted the guard and led the way to the clerks’ desk, pulling Joe behind him. He sat down and bowed to the clerks. ‘I’m Will Roche from the Eagle, and this man with me is Joe Hill – he’s my translator, case I can’t understan’ you.’ The laughs behind him only served to agitate Nellist further.

  The sound of a heavy door opening made everyone turn and suddenly the three clerks were on their feet, Nellist smoothing his shirt as he spoke.
‘Mrs Shortland. Dr Magrath. We were just about to start. Please …’

  Nellist pulled out two chairs as the newcomers approached the tables. Mrs Shortland wore her high-waisted Empire-style dress neatly; her hair was pulled back in a chignon. Behind her, a drawn-looking man with unkempt grey hair and a cane limped as he tried to keep up with her. Having reached the table, the woman paused and smiled at the prisoners.

  The physician held her chair for her as she sat. A low, square décolleté was softened by a chemisette worn underneath; every sailor present was transfixed.

  ‘Gentlemen, good morning,’ she said. ‘My name is Elizabeth Shortland, and my husband is Captain Shortland, the Agent here. This is Dr George Magrath. I assist him in the hospital and, together, we are responsible for your health. We will do what we can for you while you are here. Which, God and your Congress willing, will not be too long.’ Her voice was powerful; there was no doubt where the authority in the room lay. ‘Dr Magrath?’

  The physician rose awkwardly to his feet, sweeping his hair from his forehead as he did so.

  ‘Yes, hello. I’m Dr Magrath. You’ll be seeing me most days, I fear. My hospital is just down the corridor here. It is full today, as ever; Dartmoor is no place to be sick, gentlemen. But we strive, Mrs Shortland, my staff and I, to do our best. I can’t stop the pneumonia or the measles, but I am in the process of inoculating everyone against smallpox. You know the signs. If you see anyone with the rash …’

  Roche turned his head to Joe. ‘Where’s he from? That accent is familiar …’

  Joe leaned down. ‘Ireland, I reckon,’ he said. ‘You understand him then?’

  ‘What I understan’,’ whispered Roche, ‘is that the good doctor is certainly injectin’ the good lady whenever he can. Look at ’em watchin’ each other.’

  Joe reprimanded Roche with a punch on the shoulder. Joe was still smiling as the physician finished his speech.

  ‘Also, if I may,’ he said, looking around the men in front of him, seemingly engaging each one in turn. ‘Your allowance, when you get it, is tuppence ha’penny a day. That, I know, can get you five chews of tobacco or a pot of beer, but I’ve seen men go hungry here for their thirst and need to expectorate. A few pounds of potatoes from the market will serve you better.’ He nodded to Mrs Shortland to indicate he had finished, and she rose to her feet again.

  ‘Once you are weighed, you will be given fresh clothes. We have uniforms in most sizes. You are to take a woollen cap, one cloth jacket, two cotton shirts, two stockings, one pair of trousers, one vest. They are supposed to last eighteen months, but it looks like you won’t need them for that long. Mr Nellist here will need to take records. Please help him, and this shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘We ain’t in no hurry, miss,’ called Goffe. ‘We can stay for tea if you like.’ The men laughed; all except Nellist, who pointed his pen at Roche.

  ‘You first. Name?’

  ‘And good mornin’ to you, sir,’ Roche replied. ‘How is Mrs Nellist today?’ He sat, grinning at the reddening clerk.

  ‘Do you have a name?’ Nellist said curtly, his lips barely moving.

  Roche leaned forward and, mimicking his tone, he said, ‘Yes, thank you, sir, I do.’

  ‘And what is it?’

  ‘What is what?’

  Nellist had had enough. Calling the guard over, he put his elbows on the desk, folding his fingers together. With the militiaman standing behind him, he tried again.

  ‘I don’t know if you have seen the cachot yet, sailor. Essentially, it’s a bricked-up shit-pit. You boil to death in summer, you freeze to death in winter and it is where you are heading if you cannot answer the next three questions. Understood?’

  ‘I think it’s your accent,’ said Joe, stepping forward. ‘Try again.’

  Nellist threw a disbelieving glance at Joe. With the other clerks poised with their pens, and Elizabeth Shortland and Dr Magrath listening, he sighed deeply.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked.

  ‘He wants your name,’ said Joe.

  ‘Oh. Will Roche of the Eagle. You should’ve said …’

  ‘What type of ship is the Eagle?’

  ‘He wants to know …’

  ‘It’s one of America’s finest brigs,’ Roche continued, understanding perfectly. ‘Sixteen guns and many prizes.’

  Nellist’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not a Navy vessel, then. You are a privateer.’ He scowled. ‘Little more than a chartered pirate.’

  ‘A proud privateer, to be precise,’ corrected Roche. ‘We are savin’ our country and more than a match for your fat-assed admirals.’

  Nellist glowered. ‘Where are you from?’ he managed.

  ‘Boston, Massachusetts. And I’ll be back there before—’

  ‘Age?’ said Nellist, cutting across him.

  ‘Fifty-two.’

  ‘Complexion,’ said Nellist, now staring at Roche’s face and dictating to his clerks, ‘sallow. Scars on nose and forehead. Now’ – he gestured to the scales behind him – ‘you need to be weighed and measured. Then be gone with you, Roche.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Joe, ‘that’s Mr Roche.’ And before Nellist could complain he continued, ‘Joe Hill, also from Boston, Massachusetts. I’m sixteen, complexion poor after being in your prison-ship hells for weeks on end but normally radiant. I’ll go and get measured.’

  ‘Sit down,’ said Nellist. ‘You’ll go when I tell you to.’

  Elizabeth Shortland appeared at his shoulder, smiling at Joe. ‘Mr Hill, good morning. Your accent is different, I believe. You sound a little English at times, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  Joe was taken aback; he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had addressed him directly.

  ‘Oh. Well. Good morning to you.’ He found himself bowing slightly. ‘Yes. I was born here. In Suffolk. We – my parents and I – left when I was two. I’m told I sound like my father, which might explain the accent. But I am a naturalized American now. I have my papers about me still.’ Joe reached into his pocket, but Nellist banged the desk with his palm.

  ‘Scoundrel!’ he shouted. ‘Your “naturalization” papers will not serve you here. You were born English yet you fight for our enemy? You’ll be hanged for a rebel and no mistake!’

  Elizabeth Shortland sighed. ‘Oh, Mr Nellist, haven’t you heard? The war is over. Let’s not keep stoking those fires. Come, Mr Hill, let’s get you weighed before Mr Nellist finds his noose.’ Joe stood gratefully from the chair, saluted the now purple-faced clerk and walked over to the scales. Another clerk adjusted a calibrated shaft with a brass pointer then balanced some weights on a dish.

  ‘Those are nasty cuts on your head.’ Elizabeth Shortland had followed him round. ‘Are they healing? Would you like me or Dr Magrath to examine them?’

  Joe, embarrassed, avoided her gaze. ‘No, thank you,’ he said. ‘They’re healing just fine.’

  She looked unconvinced. ‘If you change your mind …’

  Joe nodded his thanks.

  ‘Do you still have family in Suffolk?’ she asked then.

  ‘Oh yes, ma’am,’ said Joe, relieved at the switch of conversation. ‘I believe my grandparents are still alive there. In a place called Dunwich, but I have been at sea for so long I’ve had no news for many a year.’

  Her face clouded. ‘You poor boy,’ she said, and for a moment Joe was sure she was going to reach out to comfort him.

  ‘It’s no matter,’ said Joe. ‘We’ll be going home soon enough.’ Am I reassuring her now? he thought. ‘You have seen the peace? Your husband read it out …’

  ‘Yes, I have seen it,’ she said. ‘Though I am not sure what will change.’ She paused, and Joe wondered if he was about to discuss the terms of the peace with the Agent’s wife, but then she emerged from whatever reverie had settled over her and looked at him brightly. ‘Well, good day to you, Mr Hill,’ she said, and, clasping a small, round box between her fingers, was gone.

  Joe breathed deeply. ‘Lavender and rosewat
er,’ he said to the weighing clerk. ‘In case you were wondering what her scent is.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Certainly makes a change from piss and shit,’ he muttered. ‘Get the uniform and be gone.’

  Upstairs in Ward B, which echoed with the cries of the sick, Elizabeth Shortland pulled the bedsheets tight then brushed them smooth. She glanced again at her patient before moving on.

  The fifty-bed ward was, as usual, full; there were the newly injured from a recent brawl on three mattresses laid out along the aisle. Dr Magrath, a wooden splint in his hand, was crouched over one man, whose howls of pain had been tormenting the ward. He was quieter now, Magrath’s words and medicine finally taking their effect. She would be alongside George in eight beds’ time. She knew they would speak. Her time on the wards was usually a frenzy of poultices, bandages and ligatures, but where there was an opportunity for innocent interaction, they always took it.

  Elizabeth’s next patient, an exhausted sailor from Two with a severe coffee scald over most of his face, was wide awake. She found some words of comfort for him as she adjusted the gauze and he managed a murmur of thanks in return. All the sick men wanted was a word, a smile, some encouragement; she had become very good at that. A ‘gift’ is how George had put it. She had been surprised how natural it had felt, this tending the sick.

  Now she poured a linctus on to a spoon and held it out for a recovering sailor. He swallowed, grimaced, then nodded his thanks before falling back to his pillow. As she turned to move on, he was there.

  ‘And how are your patients, Elizabeth?’

  He meant one thing only: is anyone showing any smallpox symptoms? Broken bones, burns, stab wounds, influenza and syphilis he could handle, but any smallpox and the prison would cease to function.

  ‘All is well. They are recovering slowly, George. Lingering even, in some cases. No rashes.’

  ‘We need more vaccine,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid my supplies are too old to be properly effective. I am promised more by the end of the week, but I am impatient, Elizabeth.’

  ‘I know you are, George.’