Mad Blood Stirring

by Simon Mayo

  ‘And did they?’ In the near-dark Habs caught the smallest, briefest of nods. He felt his stomach turn. ‘Oh my Lord,’ he said from behind his hands.

  ‘So I bribed my way to the sharpest knife on the ship,’ said Joe, ‘which wasn’t very sharp at all. And instead of cutting their cocks off, which I should’ve done, I cut my hair off. Then, after about a hogshead of rum, I cut myself an eagle, too.’

  ‘Those gashes on your head!’ exclaimed Habs. ‘’Course.’

  ‘As you saw, I didn’t make a very good job of it. But that was kind of the point.’

  Habs rubbed a hand over Joe’s scalp, tousled the new growth. ‘Growin’ it again now?’

  ‘Growing it again now. Got a play coming up, you know. Longer is better.’

  Habs jumped to his feet. ‘I jus’ thought o’ somethin’. Stay here.’

  ‘Right now I haven’t got anywhere to go,’ said Joe, ‘so I’m not planning to leave any time soon.’

  Habs climbed over the flat and Joe was alone. He listened to the sound of his friend disappearing, footsteps on wood, on stone, a swinging door, then nothing. He pulled his knees up to his chest and closed his eyes. He didn’t dare move in case it all changed, the spell broke and everything went back to normal.

  For six weeks, he hadn’t talked about the scars, hadn’t needed to. Everyone on his ship knew the story, everyone on his ship had one of their own. But he had told Habs and it had felt good; he wondered why it had taken so long.

  3.12

  Block Four, Steps and Courtyard

  NED PENNY STOOD with Four’s other lamplighter, the beanpole John Haywood, and wondered what the hell had happened. The lamps had been lit at 5 p.m., as usual. His duties included all the lights of Four as well as the thirteen along the long, straight path up to the gates of the market square. Haywood, a veteran from Virginia, had lit the twelve along the iron palisades that ran behind their block. The job was simple: when the oil needed lighting, you lit it; when the oil ran out, you replaced it; and if the weather blew out your flame, you came out and relit it. Sixpence a week said it was worth doing. But from the steps they could see that most of their lamps were out, while, as far as they could see, all the prison’s other lights were still lit.

  ‘Could be a mighty wind,’ said Pastor Simon, walking outside with the King next to him. ‘It’s blowin’ across the moor then funnellin’ straight through the middle o’ the camp.’

  ‘You reckon?’ said King Dick. ‘That kinda religious wind only happens in the Old Testament. And ain’t too usual in Devon. More likely they just ran outta oil. You check the lamps tonight?’ he called to Penny and Haywood. They both nodded.

  ‘Sure we did, King Dick.’

  ‘Well, looks like you need to go and light ’em again ’fore the British come round. Take some more oil jus’ in case.’ King Dick turned and went back inside.

  Penny and Haywood trudged out, a lit taper and a jug of oil at the ready. They looped Four then walked along the palisade, lighting and cursing as they went.

  ‘All these lamps are full o’ goddamn oil,’ said Ned. ‘Ain’t nothin’ wrong with my wicks neither. Folk call me King Wick. You know that, John?’

  Haywood laughed. ‘All hail, King Wick!’

  Ned saluted Haywood as they cut back past Four, heading for the still-gloomy path to the market square. They walked passed the lit lamps, each one flaming healthily. ‘Ain’t nothin’ wrong with these,’ said Ned, ‘so what happened up here?’

  The first extinguished lamp told them everything they needed to know. Its protective glass cover had been left open and the wick was wet. They looked down the line of lamps. They all looked the same.

  ‘This was done deliberate,’ said Haywood. ‘No doubt about it. No way did we leave all them lamps jus’ flappin’ like this. We got to tell King Dick.’

  ‘Let’s get ’em lit back up again,’ said Ned. ‘Then we tell him.’ One by one, they got each wick burning and carefully covered them with the glass.

  ‘That closed, Lamplighter Ned?’

  ‘That surely closed, Lamplighter John.’

  They were at the penultimate lamp when John’s shoes slipped on something.

  Ned lowered the taper to see what it was. ‘You know anyone in Four chews tobacco, John?’

  John considered for a minute. ‘Mostly it’s the Allies, ain’t it? They prefer it to pipes.’

  Instinctively, Ned glanced across to Six. ‘Well, tha’s what you slipped on, John. I’ll light this one and we can get back.’ Ned held the taper to the wick until it was dry enough to light.

  ‘I don’t like this, Ned. Somethin’s wrong here. Don’t take so damn long,’ said John, his voice urgent and low. ‘So what if we miss one goddamn lamp.’

  Ned’s hand was cupping the taper. ‘Jus’ a few more seconds.’

  3.13

  Block Four, Cockloft

  JOE STARTED AS something enormous was thrown over the scenery, landing softly in front of him, closely followed by Habs himself.

  ‘Brought us a mattress and some liquor,’ he breathed. ‘Felt like it might be a long night. And the longer you can be away from everyone else, the better.’

  The mattress filled the floor space under them and they returned to their sitting positions against the backdrop. Habs uncorked the bottle and passed it to Joe, who sipped and swallowed. ‘Do you think King Dick knows …?’ he began.

  ‘King Dick knows everythin’,’ said Habs, taking his turn with the bottle.

  ‘You told him?’ Joe was alarmed. ‘I should’ve done that.’

  ‘You should. Tomorrow. I said we had a visitor, tha’s all.’

  ‘A visitor?’

  ‘It was enough,’ said Habs. ‘He guessed. He was kinda busy, sendin’ Ned out to relight some of the lamps, but yeah, he guessed.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘’Cos he called me over and whispered to me.’

  ‘Habs, just tell me what he said!’

  Habs swigged again. ‘He said, “Act One, Scene Five”.’

  Joe allowed himself a small, rueful laugh. ‘Of course he did. I don’t think Will is ever going to accept me doing this play,’ he said. ‘And any mention of this kiss is going to drive him crazy.’

  ‘And Lord knows there’s a lotta men like Will here. How d’we play it, Joe?’

  There was a silence, then Joe reached for the liquor. ‘You should know that I stink,’ he said.

  Habs drank some more then wiped his lips on his coat sleeve. ‘Me, too.’

  Joe cleared his throat. ‘What’s my line?’

  ‘Saints do not move …’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Joe. Habs felt him shift against their wooden rest. When he spoke again, it was a tremulous whisper. ‘Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.’

  ‘Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take,’ said Habs, and he leaned over and kissed Joe. It was brief, chaste, their lips barely touching.

  ‘You really do stink,’ said Joe, and they both snorted with laughter.

  ‘You need a shave,’ said Habs.

  ‘No, that’s not your line. You say, “Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.”’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Habs. Then added, ‘D’you think this is a sin?’

  ‘Habs, it’s a play.’

  ‘But what if it wasn’t?’

  ‘You mean …’

  ‘What if … I was kissin’ you … ’cos I wanted to kiss you?’ The cockloft was silent. Habs’s heart was leaping in his chest.

  ‘It would be an abomination,’ Joe said.

  Habs exhaled slowly. ‘That what you really think?’

  There was another long pause as Joe shifted uncomfortably. ‘Then have my lips the sin that they have took,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Give me my sin again.’

  ‘No, you missed a line, Habs, it’s—’

  ‘Give me my sin again,’ insisted Habs, and he waited.

  Joe’s mind was a tumult, his heart a
convulsion. Shocked by his own desire, terrified of the consequences, he dug his nails into his hands and froze, becalmed by confusion and conflict.

  Somewhere out in the courtyard, he registered a commotion: raised voices and a brief cry. Habs caught it, too, his head turning briefly to the window.

  Joe called him back. ‘Can this just be a rehearsal? he whispered. ‘Please?’

  Habs hesitated. Joe’s gaze was intent, watching, he thought, for disappointment or annoyance. He hid them both. ‘It can be a rehearsal, yes,’ he said. ‘’Course it can.’

  Outside, again the sound of running footsteps. A whistle. The alarm bell.

  ‘’Nother time,’ said Habs.

  3.14

  Block Four, Courtyard

  HABS AND JOE may have been the last to emerge from Four but they knew Ned had been killed before they reached the first landing. Most of the rumours in Dartmoor turned out to be false, but these – the ones that flew up the stairs of Block Four – had the speed and force of truth about them. The two gave up fighting through the melee and moved outside at the crowd’s pace. Sam was waiting, and he flung himself at Habs, the words tumbling out.

  ‘They beat him, Habs, then they used a blade. Haywood’s pretty bad, too. King Dick was callin’ for you.’ The three of them pushed their way into the throng. The now-lit lamps around Four showed thirty militiamen penning in seven or eight hundred angry prisoners. The crowds made way for Sam, and they made way for Habs. Joe tucked in just behind. When the throng resisted, Habs, tear-filled eyes fixed on the black bearskin hat at the centre of the pandemonium, shouted, ‘Crew o’ the Bentham coming through!’ Joe glanced up. All around them a scattering of lights flickered from the other blocks’ unshuttered windows, illuminating the curious, all straining for a better view.

  When the three broke through the cordon, a tableau of tragedy confronted them. A few yards from the last of the path’s lamps, Elizabeth Shortland knelt at John Haywood’s side, a blood-drenched cloth held to a wound in his stomach. Dr Magrath was holding a cup of water to his pale lips. King Dick and Agent Shortland were arguing. And just beyond them all, Pastor Simon knelt over the stricken, sackcloth-covered body of Ned Penny. Habs ran the final few yards then collapsed at his friend’s feet.

  ‘Dear Mother of God, what’d they do to you?’ he whispered. He lifted the sheet and answered his own question. Two stab wounds to the heart. Many fists to the face. Sam knelt beside him and, when they had replaced the sacking together, joined in another one of Pastor Simon’s prayers.

  ‘They was trapped, Habs,’ said Sam. ‘Tricked. Someone put the lamps out then waited for the lighters to come. When Ned and John got to the end here, they was set upon.’

  ‘Rough Allies,’ said King Dick, appearing next to them. ‘Only the Allies’d do this.’ A new detachment of guards ran to form a line in front of Block Six. ‘And tha’s what Shortland thinks, too.’ A few of the prisoners started to run towards the guards.

  ‘If the Rough Allies break out now, there’ll be a bloodbath,’ said Habs. ‘You gotta say somethin’, King Dick. Right now.’

  They exchanged the briefest of glances, and then the King roared. It was the loudest, most commanding order anyone there had ever heard. Everyone present in the courtyard had fought at sea, all had followed orders as cannon and musket fired around them; they knew how to distinguish order in the chaos, knew when to stop their own thinking and take notice of someone else’s.

  ‘Men of Four!’

  The first shout grabbed their attention, the second demanded their action. ‘Men of Four! We kneel together now. There will be time for anger, but now we grieve. We kneel together for our fallen brothers.’ The King removed his bearskin and stood with his arms outstretched, head turned up. ‘We kneel!’ he shouted again, and around him, hundreds of men got on the ground. They knelt in waves all the way back to the steps of Four. Elizabeth Shortland and Dr Magrath were already kneeling at the side of John Haywood, but what the crowd saw was a white man and a white woman following King Dick’s instruction. And they marvelled.

  ‘We been here before,’ he said, his words now edged with anger and grief. ‘All o’ us been here before. We know this. We see our brother lyin’ on the cold ground and our hearts break. We seen it all before.’

  Shouts of agreement from the sailors of Four.

  The King’s whole body shuddered. ‘’Cos he is not jus’ one!’ he cried. ‘This is not jus’ Ned Penny from Philadelphia. He is many. He is hundreds. Thousands. And sometimes it seem as though we have seen ’em all. Every one. And the truth is, we’re still countin’.’ The King’s black eyes swung to Shortland and fixed him with a ferocious stare, the bearskin stabbing into the space between them. ‘So now the Agent will do his work. The Agent will bring us justice. And, for today, for tomorrow, we will wait for him.’

  The two men held each other’s gaze. It was Shortland who looked away first.

  The King waved Pastor Simon forward. The preacher prayed over Ned then over John Haywood, before Magrath and some of his orderlies carried the injured man away, Elizabeth Shortland still holding a compress to his side.

  By the time the prayers had finished, heavy rain had started falling. Many prisoners were too cold and too wet to stay outside any longer. For now, the situation was under control.

  Shortland stood in the downpour with his troops, watching the prisoners of Four withdraw, until he was sure the danger had passed, then he nodded briefly at King Dick and marched away.

  ‘He owes you more’n that,’ said Sam bitterly. There was desperation in his eyes. ‘But what do we do, King Dick? Ned is gone and there’s a murderer right there, in those walls.’ Rain and tears streamed down his face.

  ‘Do, Mr Snow?’ echoed the King. ‘What do we do? We survive. Tha’s what we do. Tha’s what we always do. And we wait. If the British find who killed our friend, he will hang. If they don’t, we’ll have our own justice.’ Sam nodded, pacified for the moment. ‘We need our justice, Mr Snow, I know, but we also need to get home alive. All of us. The Rough Allies want a fight. If they can’t fight the British, they’ll fight us, but we gotta deny them that pleasure, whatever it takes. Then maybe they’ll fight each other. Mr Hill. You have somethin’ to say?’

  Joe, in shock, stumbled over his words.

  The King cut him off, anyway. ‘You have somethin’ to say ’bout why you’re here?’

  Joe blanched, glancing at Habs, who gave the tiniest of reassuring nods.

  ‘Well, if the offer is still open …’ began Joe.

  ‘It is,’ said the King. ‘Move in soon as you can.’

  3.15

  The Hospital

  Midnight

  CWARD WAS FULL – every ward was full – but Elizabeth Shortland had carved a space out for John Haywood. A mattress and three tea chests had been pushed between the hammocks. There were shouts from every side – the sick had heard the tumult and were desperate for news. The arrival of a wounded and stricken inmate confirmed their fears.

  ‘Who’s that come in?’

  ‘Is he stabbed, Doc?’

  ‘That some kinda riot out there?’

  Magrath and Elizabeth ignored them all.

  The four wards of Dartmoor hospital were an improvement on the prison blocks: the windows had glass in them, the floor was washed daily and there was, usually, no fighting. There was also no segregation. When Block Four had been designated ‘for non-whites’, Magrath had refused to follow suit. He had told the Agent that he could accommodate and allocate the sick only according to their illness. ‘The pox can turn a man’s skin as black as night,’ he had told Shortland. ‘What then? Should we change his ward because he’s no longer white?’

  Under some hastily assembled oil lamps, Dr Magrath examined Haywood more closely. Two stab wounds, one shallow, across his right hip, the other deeper, much deeper, under his rib cage. Magrath bent close, a bloodied gauze in his hand, catching the rivulets of Haywood’s blood as they rolled down his side.

>   ‘The wounds are clean now, as far as I can see. He might have a chance if he avoids infection. This second cut troubles me; he was bleeding heavily out there. The knife, or whatever it was, may just have missed the kidney. He might be lucky. Strap him tight, Elizabeth.’ He stepped away as she produced fresh bandages.

  ‘I don’t think “lucky” is quite the word,’ she said quietly, her hands making quick work of the dressing.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, accepting the correction. ‘Then let’s hope the fates are kind to him now.’ Haywood groaned then gasped as his bandages were tied off.

  ‘Mr Haywood, you’re in the hospital,’ called Magrath. ‘You have stab wounds and we are attending to them.’ He studied the green-and-blue bruising around Haywood’s eyes. ‘Do you remember what happened?’ said Magrath. ‘Who attacked you?’

  A pained whimper was the only reply, Haywood’s eyes staying squeezed shut.

  One of the nearby patients spoke up. ‘Is he gonna die, Doc? Looks like they cut him bad.’

  Magrath turned to the man, another resident of Four, who was peering across from his bed. ‘I don’t know, Mr Miller, to be honest with you. You might say some prayers for him, maybe.’

  ‘That bad, then,’ said Miller, and turned away.

  ‘Prayer and morphine,’ said Magrath.

  Elizabeth Shortland took his arm. ‘He’ll need more than that, George.’

  ‘All I have is my supplies, Elizabeth.’ He reached for his bag. ‘This batch came up from Plymouth yesterday …’

  She shook her head and pulled him away from the beds. They walked in silence to the small corridor that linked C and D wards, ignoring the shouts and questions from the beds. When they were out of sight, she pulled Magrath as close as she dared.

  ‘He can’t stay here,’ she whispered. He tried to pull back, but her hands were on his jacket lapels, holding him in position.

  ‘Whyever not?’ he whispered. ‘Where else can he go?’

  ‘Think about it, George. He probably witnessed a murder tonight. If it was the Rough Allies and they find out he’s still alive, they’ll be back.’