by Simon Mayo
Men were pushed into stalls in his wake. Betsy hastily scooped the remaining loaves to her chest. Joe and Martha threw what they could into a basket, seconds before three men fell on to her table, splitting the wood in two places.
Joe watched the King move, then looked at Habs. ‘This is what he does, isn’t it?’
‘This is what he does, and this is how he does it,’ agreed Habs. ‘It’s why he’s the King.’
‘Where did Cobb and Lane go?’
‘Who cares? C’mon. You gotta see this.’
Habs and Joe pushed their way towards the melee, reaching the beer tables just after King Dick. The crowd here were slower to respond and the King cut a swathe through the revellers, Habs and Joe stepping gingerly over the bruised and battered. The King forced his way to where three heavily bearded men stood laughing and toasting each other with large jugs of ale. One spotted his arrival and fled, the others were too slow and too late.
‘That’s Parker and Tupper from Six,’ said Habs speaking quickly in Joe’s ear. ‘And that was Wilson who ran away. Last night, they set upon two of our men from Four.’
‘So it’s nothing to do with the boxers?’
‘Nothin’ at all.’
‘An eye for an eye, then.’
‘Goddamn right. They’re villains and thugs. And they got away with it till King Dick came,’ said Habs.
The clouds had thinned, the light in the square now brighter than it had been all day; it gave each man present a sharply defined shadow. For a few moments, the King stood motionless, hands on hips, club swinging on its strap, his eyes fixed on the startled, trembling men in front of him. Parker was hunched and round-faced, his friend shorter and heavier. They both looked as though they were trying to speak, but no words came from their mouths. No one moved; no one made a sound. Habs and Joe held their breath, waiting for the show to begin. Habs counted the silence. He reached fifteen. Then, in a swift lunge, King Dick stooped down and grabbed the smaller of the two men by his ankles. As he rose up, the man fell, his head cracking against the granite. He howled and the King adjusted his grip; one hand now on the drinker’s leg, the other on the man’s belt. The King had a new club. He was called Tupper.
‘The men of Four are, by providence, my men!’ he bellowed at Parker, who still stood, despite his trembling. The King began to brandish his new club. The club started to howl.
Those who found themselves nearest his swinging arc stepped back a few paces.
‘So when you Christian white savages attack my men, you attack me. I am the men of Four!’ he cried, and swung the club.
The Rough Ally Parker was still holding his beer when his friend’s head crashed into his ribs. As he tottered backwards, the King swung again and two heads cracked. Like a rifle shot, the sound bounced around the walled square, and the King dropped one unconscious man on top of the other. Tupper on Parker, legs splayed, heads bloodied. The King surveyed the damage, straightened his hat, brushed down his coat and strode away.
Habs applauded solemnly, Joe was astonished. ‘I have never, in two years of war, seen anything like that,’ said Joe. ‘He turned that man into a battering ram.’
‘I heard that he done that before. Never seen it, though,’ said Habs, still clapping.
The King acknowledged him as he left. ‘Blood, blood, blood,’ he said and walked from the square. Joe watched him go, certain he was the only man in Dartmoor without a stoop.
Around them, excited conversations. The men from Four beamed, re-enacting some of the King’s moves; the Rough Allies, outraged all over again, hurried to their fallen. Joe and Habs pushed their way back up the square.
‘Do the Brits just let that happen?’ asked Joe. ‘Don’t they try to stop him?’
‘They like the King,’ answered Habs. ‘Like the way he do things. And they’ll be talkin’ ’bout that one for a while.’
Betsy and Martha were laying out their stall again, making what they could of their broken table.
‘And what was the blood he mentioned?’ said Joe. ‘I’ve seen a lot worse.’
‘Oh, that’s Othello. It’s always Othello.’ They stopped to pick up some displaced loaves, placing them on the now-sloping stall.
‘I’d’ve liked to see your play.’
‘You’ve heard a lot of it already, and by Sunday next, you’ll pretty much’ve heard it all.’
‘And where did you get to know such things? I never met anyone talk theatre talk like you.’
Habs threw Joe a glance. ‘What with me bein’ all Negro an’ everythin’?’ he said.
Joe considered his answer, studied Habs’s face. ‘Truth to tell, Habakkuk Snow, I hardly know you, so I don’t rightly know what to say to that. But I will say yes, you being Negro is some of it, but you knowing so much is the most of it. I’ve been at sea a while and I’ve never found anyone else who talks about plays like you do. Not one.’
‘Well, that’ll be books, Joe Hill,’ said Habs. ‘Jus’ books.’ He made a neat pile of five loaves while Joe worked on the small rolls. ‘My ma sent me to Quaker teachers, back in Philadelphia, when I was seven. Taught me everythin’ in two years. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. We had a little company right there in class. We did ol’ legends and Bible stories, but then our teacher tried us out with some Twelfth Night. Got me to read the part of Malvolio, and he said I was good. And he was right ’bout that. Looked like nothin’ on the page, but when it came out of my mouth it was different. Sounded … normal. Like the way it was meant to sound, almost. Does that make any sense?’
Betsy snatched a roll from Joe’s hands and sold it to a drunk from Three who devoured it whole. Joe barely noticed.
‘Well, what I heard up in your block yesterday?’ he said. ‘Sure sounded like you knew what you was doing, like it was natural. I give you that, Mr Snow.’ He looked down the square, then along the semicircle of prison blocks, and shook his head. ‘This is quite something. It really is. Here I am, in the biggest cesspit in the world, and I’m talking Shakespeare.’
‘And with a coloured man, too!’ said Habs.
‘And with a coloured man,’ agreed Joe. ‘Though, for the record, whatever King Dick says, William Shakespeare was as white as I am.’
‘Joe, no one is as white as you,’ said Habs.
‘Maybe. And going whiter by the day, no doubt.’ Joe licked some flour from his hands. ‘Did you stay with those teachers for long?’
Habs shook his head. ‘My pa died a couple years later and I took up sailcraft. Still loved the books, though, and they let me back when I wanted. Read all them plays in the end. We should try one, Joe.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Joe. ‘Romeo and Juliet?’
‘Why not?’ said Habs. ‘The pretty bakers of Tavistock here can assist in matters of deportment and kissin’.’
Martha was holding a wooden tray with three small loaves on it. She shot Habs a look. ‘We’ve sold nearly everything,’ she said. ‘Everyone seemed as hungry as you, Joe Hill.’
‘It’s the peace you’re profiting from,’ he replied. ‘We’ll be home soon enough, but there was much celebrating last night. Some have sore heads – your bread can work miracles.’
‘And did we win the war,’ asked Martha, ‘or did you Yankees win? I’m not sure I could say.’
‘Not sure I could say either,’ said Joe. ‘That’s about the measure of it. You should know better than us.’
‘The Flying Post doesn’t concern itself with such matters,’ she said, ‘but if you’re all going home, I’ll need some new customers.’ She sounded glum.
‘I’m hoping to persuade Mr Hill here that we could produce one more play before we go,’ said Habs. ‘Let’s at least read it through, Joe, there can be no harm in that.’
Joe shrugged. ‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘I can see no harm in that either.’
‘And Ned and Sam’ll read their parts, too.’ Habs was getting busy. ‘All we need are the manuscripts.’
Joe waited for an explanation of where t
hey would appear from, but none came. ‘You don’t have them?’
Habs shook his head.
‘So where are they?’
‘Where did you wake up, Mr Hill?’
‘Block Seven,’ Joe said, surprised, ‘but you know that.’
‘Where in Block Seven?’
‘In the cockloft.’
‘And what did you see there when you woke up?’
Joe thought awhile. ‘Apart from the crier’s face? I saw … of course! Books, I think. Rows and rows of books. Is that right?’
Habs nodded. ‘Old sailor in Seven by the name of Morris came into some prize money a while back and bought a library. Charges for it, but I know he has some Romeo and Juliets.’
‘That’s a library?’
A shrill voice cut through the market hubbub. ‘Noon bell! Noon bell! Afternoon watch!’
Tommy Jackson’s crier duties included timekeeping the daily market. Running into the square, woollen cap perched high on the back of his head, he tapped every stall with a stick before moving on to the next. ‘Noon bell! Noon bell! Afternoon watch!’
As soon as they had been tapped, each stall-holder began packing away their produce.
The militia barely seemed to notice fights or drunkenness, but the market was different; the Agent’s rules said it shut at noon. So it shut at noon.
‘I swear that boy is getting louder,’ said Betsy, and she thrust a bundled cloth at Habs. ‘We need to be away. A few crumbs and crusts for when your friend here needs a taste of Tavistock.’
‘He’s certainly had that,’ said Habs.
Tommy approached and smacked his hand on one of the trays. ‘You’ve been tapped, Miss Elizabeth,’ he said, grinning as he flew past.
‘Hey, Tommy!’ called Habs, and the boy glanced over his shoulder. ‘Cockloft in an hour.’
‘Yes, sir!’ he called back.
‘He’s a player, too?’ asked Joe.
‘Uh-huh,’ said Habs, as they watched the crier shutting down the market. ‘He plays a fine Paris. The play says he’s a young count and there’s none younger than him here.’
‘Only King Dick’s secretaries,’ suggested Joe.
The briefest pause. ‘Yes, Mr Hill, only the secretaries. Who are busy bein’ secretaries.’
2.5
Block Seven, Cockloft
JOE AND WILL were back where Tommy Jackson had woken them with such urgency the day before. They knew this was their room; as residents of Block Seven, albeit new ones, they were entitled to use it whenever they chose. But they appeared to be trespassers, intruders who had stumbled into a forbidden land.
‘So this is where they ran to,’ muttered Joe, looking at the gathering before him.
Around forty men were arranged around card tables, another dozen sprawled on the floor. The air was thick with stale ale, pipe smoke and molasses. Discarded plates of food were scattered on the floor. Horace Cobb and Edwin Lane stood to greet them.
‘What’ve they done with their beards?’ asked Roche.
‘Don’t stare, for pity’s sake,’ hissed Joe. ‘If you’re in the Rough Allies, you have a forked beard, that’s all.’
‘Tied with rope? What kind o’ sailor does that?’
‘The ones as rough as untamed bears. It’s what they do.’
‘And they just ran from that King Dick?’
‘After calling me a nigger-lover, yes.’
‘Well, we are all free Americans,’ said Roche. ‘Even if we might be in prison.’ He stepped forward a few paces, then checked back. ‘I faced the tars of HMS Glasgow back in ’76,’ he said to Joe. ‘Now, they were scary.’
With Joe a few paces behind, Roche walked towards the Allies.
‘Prodigious fine day!’ he said, hailing them like officers on the bridge. ‘My friend and me are jus’ borrowin’ a book or two. We’ve settled with Mr Morris below. We’ll jus’ find what we need – you … carry on.’
Roche and Joe turned and walked a few paces to the book tables.
‘They can “carry on”, can they?’ whispered Joe. ‘And in their own cockloft?’
‘It’s our cockloft. Theirs is in Six …’
Lane’s weasel voice stopped them in their tracks. His words were laced with threat. ‘Mr Roche, ain’t it?’ he said.
Roche nodded.
Cobb shrugged. Ash tumbled on to his beard. ‘You been associating with the wrong kind, Mr Roche, like your friend here?’
‘You mean King Dick?’
Cobb leaned forward, the burnt-out stub of the cigarillo now stuck to his upper lip.
‘His name is Richard Crafus and he’s just another sailor from Maryland. He’s no king to us, though it serves the English well to treat him like one. You’ll not call him king in this block. He’s a thief, a cockroach. A leech that has attached itself to all of us.’ He sat back, staring at Roche. ‘And as we just saw, a wild man, a thug who threatens us all. You’ll be needing to guide this boy. Help him get used to things …’
‘I don’t need any guidance,’ said Joe.
‘Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong,’ said Lane.
‘We jus’ wanted some books,’ said Roche.
‘So you said,’ said Lane. ‘And that’s strange, when we’re all s’posed to be goin’ home, Mr Hill. Why the need for books when the peace is about to be ratified?’ He used both hands to smooth and separate the two forks of his beard.
‘For readin’,’ said Roche. ‘A useful distraction, don’t you find? C’mon, Mr Hill.’
They turned and carried on towards the shelves.
‘Quick as you can,’ whispered Roche, his eyes flicking along the rows of books.
‘Found them,’ hissed Joe, and pulled two volumes down. He turned for the door.
‘Mr Hill, if you please.’ Lane was pointing at the books.
Roche steered Joe around. ‘Oh, I see. You’re the librarians!’ he said. ‘I thought we’d fallen upon a gang of cut-throats and pirates. Then we really would be in danger. But if you jus’ want to see the books …’
All the Allies now jumped to their feet, chairs flying. An assortment of knives had appeared on the tables, but Lane’s was already in his hand. Joe and Roche halted mid-stride, Joe holding out the books as if a peace offering.
Cobb squinted at the title then sat down again, the other Allies following suit.
‘You both need copies?’ said Cobb. ‘You putting on a play or something?’
‘We’re jus’ readin’, Mr Cobb,’ said Roche, getting irritated. ‘C’mon, Joe, we got to be goin’.’
Lane hawked noisily. ‘Is Habakkuk Snow in your play, too?’
Joe could now see the evidence of the gun that had exploded in Lane’s face. His beard had grown around a burn which had charred his skin to the colour of tobacco. His eyes narrowed but the thickened skin around them barely moved.
‘It’s not my play …’ he began.
‘Precisely,’ said Lane. ‘Then leave it to ’em. The Negroes like a pantomime. I seen one of them … it was most entertainin’.’
‘You saw a show in Four?’ said Joe, surprised. ‘With all those coloured men around you? Must have been like the old days on the Bentham.’
Lane held up his knife, pointed it at Joe’s chest. ‘I’ve cut men for less,’ he spat. ‘Take your books and run away, boy.’
Joe and Roche had got to the door when Cobb called after them. ‘Either of you two sailors been in prison before?’
They shook their heads.
‘Getting out and going home,’ said Cobb. ‘They’re thoughts that can do strange things to a man. It can be a dangerous time. We all lose our inhibitions. Act a little crazy, do things we shouldn’t. You should be watching yourself, my young friend.’
‘What was that?’ said Joe, as they hurried down the steps. ‘Was he warning us or threatening us?’
‘Both, I reckon,’ said Roche. ‘And he’s right, too. We saw it in the market square: if you’ve got money, you spend it; if you’ve got liquor, you d
rink it. And if you’ve got a score to settle, you might feel you need to make haste.’ By the front door, he held Joe back. ‘You happy playin’ in Four, Joe? If you spend too much time in the Negro prison, that might look like you don’t want to be with your own mess. Word’ll spread quickly here.’
Joe looked disgusted. ‘Will, you sound like the Allies.’
Roche shook his head. ‘This is nothin’ to do with ’em. This is ’bout us.’
‘Really?’ said Joe, unconvinced. ‘Well, where do you suggest we meet, given that the Negroes aren’t allowed in the other blocks?’
Roche heard the edge in Joe’s voice and shrugged. ‘Jus’ lookin’ out for you.’
2.6
Block Four
JOE KEPT HIS eyes on the frozen path round to Four. It helped him to avoid the assault course of prisoners-turned-hawkers who stood in his way but, if he was honest, he did it because it meant he could avert his gaze from the overwhelming presence of the prison blocks. Tommy had said he would get used to them. ‘I hope to God that’s not true,’ he murmured.
Habs met Joe on the steps of Four and ushered him inside. ‘In a hundred yards,’ Joe said, ‘I’ve been offered more coffee than I could ever drink, something looking like a stew made with mice, and a small model of the USS Constitution in a tiny bottle. Norfolk County boys like me are not used to this.’
‘Coffee made o’ peas ain’t coffee,’ said Habs, as they climbed the stairs. ‘There’s some brewers outside o’ Two make better. And the best stews just have molasses in the oats. Trust me.’
He pushed the doors open and Joe marvelled at the cockloft’s transformation. The stage where King Dick had performed his impromptu Othello was now a boxing ring; two bloodied men in prison-issue stockings and trousers were grappling with each other as scores of onlookers yelled encouragement. It took Joe a few seconds to recognize them as the boxers who had run from the square. Two men at ringside tables exchanged money and scribbled in ledgers.