Mad Blood Stirring

by Simon Mayo

  ‘But that’s preposterous,’ Magrath insisted. ‘This is the hospital! There are guards outside and a brick wall between us and them.’

  ‘What if they don’t need to break in?’ she said. ‘What if there’s someone already here? Two hundred beds, and at least a hundred and fifty have white sailors in them. At least seven Allies that I can recall. You can’t possibly …’ She let go of his jacket, brushing down the lapels as she did so. ‘Can we really take that risk?’

  He walked a few paces across the corridor, then turned back. ‘Would Thomas put guards in the wards?’

  She shrugged. ‘He’s always complaining about being short-staffed,’ she said, ‘but he might do. For a while.’

  Magrath squinted at her. ‘I know that look, Elizabeth. Just tell me what you’re thinking.’

  She stared back at him. It was quite possible, she realized, that he was the only man who had ever considered her opinions at all, and here he seemed to have learned more of her in a matter of months than her husband had in eighteen years.

  ‘If he can, he needs to recover in Four. There’s a thousand men in there, George. You can visit him, too, but they can protect him. We can say he’s been taken to the hospital in Plymouth.’

  He glanced back at the ward. ‘This makes me nervous, Elizabeth.’

  ‘Of course it does,’ she said, ‘because you care. But we don’t have time for nerves. Is he stable?’

  Magrath looked aghast. ‘You want to move him now?’

  ‘He’s in danger now. Right now. And every minute he stays in here.’ Elizabeth strode to the ward doors, peered inside then nodded. ‘Maybe we have a few hours before the full story gets round, but that’s all. If Thomas agrees, we can have the turnkeys rouse King Dick within the hour.’

  There were shouts from the ward. Elizabeth and Magrath exchanged panicked glances then crashed through the doors. Haywood’s new neighbour, Miller, was out of bed and squaring up to a white sailor wrapped in sheets and peering down at John Haywood.

  ‘Step away!’ thundered Magrath, making up in volume what he lacked in speed. Mrs Shortland did the running, pulling the man in sheets away from the yelling Miller.

  ‘You got no right!’ he shouted. ‘You got no right. What you want, anyways?’ He aimed a boot at the man in sheets, who had now scuttled back into a bed on the other side of the ward and was curled up and muttering incomprehensibly. When the boot hit him on the head, he fell silent.

  But now the whole ward was awake and troubled. Elizabeth thought at least half the patients were getting out of bed, when Magrath let rip.

  ‘If anyone is out of their bed, it will be taken as a sign that they are completely well and ready for an immediate transfer back to their block.’ He glowered at the two rows of beds. ‘One step – that’s all it’ll take. I will call the guard in and you will be gone in seconds. Is that clear?’ he demanded, flushed with the effort.

  It appeared as though it was. Everyone stayed where they were. In the momentary silence, a voice called, ‘Who’s the new Negro? Anyone know?’

  Miller answered. ‘The man’s name is John Haywood and he’s from Virginia. Lamplighter. He’s a good man.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Stabbed. Looked like it, anyways.’

  ‘Must be the Allies. S’always the Allies.’

  ‘One less nigger can’t be bad, though, can it?’

  A few in the ward laughed, and Magrath had heard enough. He pulled a chair to where Haywood was lying.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said to Elizabeth, settling himself down. ‘Go and see Thomas, this is intolerable. I’ll stay here till it’s done.’

  3.16

  Monday, 13 February

  Dr Magrath’s Study

  3 a.m.

  KING DICK ARRIVED with an escort, four militiamen coming with him to Magrath’s study door. The ground-floor corridor rang to the sound of boots on stone. Elizabeth found herself standing.

  Magrath answered the brisk knocking, his eyes meeting the King’s.

  ‘Mr Crafus, come in. I’m sorry to get you from your bed and sorry, too, for what happened tonight.’

  The King removed his bearskin, then stooped as he entered Magrath’s tiny study. Once inside, he unfurled himself again, seeming to fill the entire room. One desk and two plain chairs were the only furnishings; books, jars and bottles occupied the rest. The King nodded at Elizabeth, surprised to see the Agent’s wife in attendance.

  ‘Mrs Shortland. I was ’spectin’ your husband, but no matter. You have news o’ the killer?’

  ‘Alas, no …’ she began.

  ‘So this is all ’cos John Haywood has passed?’ He aimed his question at Magrath, but it was Elizabeth who answered.

  ‘No, it’s because he hasn’t. He is alive, but in grave danger, even if he survives his wounds. He’s in C ward upstairs, but he needs to be under guard. Earlier, there was an incident with another patient.’

  ‘You can’t control the prison? Even here, in the hospital?’

  ‘Not at the moment’ were the words that formed in Elizabeth’s mind, but she said nothing.

  Magrath came to her aid. ‘The Agent has declared the matter a medical emergency, so the responsibility has passed directly to me. John Haywood has two knife wounds to the gut, severe bruising about the eyes and, for the moment, he isn’t speaking. Given the non-segregated wards, tonight’s murder of Mr Penny and the current demands on troop levels, we think Haywood should be transferred immediately, for his own protection, to Block Four. He would have to be hidden, away from view, away from the turnkeys, away from everyone. You have nearly a thousand men, Mr Crafus. Can you hide him, guard him and guarantee that your men won’t talk about him? Can they keep this secret? Without that, he’s a dead man.’

  The King looked from Magrath to Elizabeth and then back, unsure who to address. ‘Do we pretend he died?’ The King sounded unconvinced.

  ‘No, we say he’s been taken to Plymouth Hospital for treatment,’ said Elizabeth. ‘It happens from time to time.’

  The King fidgeted. He had nowhere to pace, barely any room to move. He wants his club, Elizabeth thought, he wants to hit something.

  ‘Do you realize what a disgrace this prison is?’ he said, his voice loud in the enclosed space, the anger barely controlled. ‘The war’s done, the fightin’ between our countries is over. New Orleans is over, Lake Erie is over, Chesapeake Bay is over. Everywhere is over ’part from here. In Dartmoor, the dyin’ continues.’ He shook his head in despair.

  ‘Mr Crafus …’ began Elizabeth. She waited until he was looking at her. ‘I understand your anger, but the fighting here is between Americans and other Americans. Mr Penny was killed by Americans, the threat to Mr Haywood is from Americans—’

  ‘We nothin’ but rats in a sack,’ interrupted the King. ‘You know that. O’ course we fight.’

  She continued, ‘Before the sun rises, we need to know if you will take Mr Haywood to Four. It will be difficult to manage in secret, but we’ll think of something.’

  ‘We don’t never give up on one of our own,’ said the King. ‘O’ course we’ll watch over him. And I’ll give you your reason, your “somethin”, so you don’t need to trouble yourselves no more. Mr Joe Hill in Seven wants to transfer to Four. Bring him here now, and we can cover up Mr Haywood’s arrival with his.’

  Magrath and Elizabeth looked relieved.

  ‘Good,’ said Magrath, ‘I know the man to help us out here. Thank you, Mr Crafus.’

  The King had been dismissed, but he didn’t move. He had something else to say and the room waited impatiently for him. His sigh when it came was the deepest exhalation; anger, exhaustion and fear seemed to fill the room.

  ‘Mrs Shortland. I need to say this, and I’ve earned the right.’ There was a sudden tiredness in his voice which he made no attempt to hide. ‘You seem to be losin’ control of this hospital, and I believe your husband is in danger of losin’ control of this whole prison.’ Elizabeth start
ed to protest, but he raised his hand and pressed on. ‘You ain’t seen nothin’, you ain’t understandin’ nothin’. You see things from the quarter deck. I see things from the gun deck. For us down there, for us in Four, we are surrounded, twice over. Surrounded by white prisoners who want us locked away, surrounded by white soldiers jus’ itchin’ to open fire at any damn Yankee they see. We have to be ’fraid of both. We have to be ’fraid of everybody. All it would take is for Captain Shortland to be away on one of them fancy trips, one of his dumbass guards to have a twitchy trigger-finger, and you’ll be buildin’ a bigger graveyard.’

  He’d said what he needed to say, stinging Elizabeth and Magrath into silence. King Dick replaced his bearskin; it touched the ceiling as he turned to the door. ‘When you bring Mr Haywood, we’ll be ready.’

  Joe was put in Four at just after 4 a.m., deposited by two baffled guards and an early-rising turnkey. As they turned to leave, Dr Magrath, with the King and an ensign named Crouch, bustled in with what appeared to be provisions carried between them. Crouch ordered the turnkey to wait for him outside and then they gently unpacked John Haywood from under the boxes and blankets that had been placed on his stretcher. Within fifteen minutes he’d been placed on the mattress nearest the kitchens; within thirty, and with most of the floor still asleep, the King had arranged men to stand watch for what remained of the night.

  ‘I’ve left some spare dressings,’ said Magrath to the King on his way out, his voice thick with exhaustion. ‘I’ll make sure I visit tomorrow, or today, whenever it is.’ He leaned heavily on his stick then. ‘Look, Crafus, about what you said earlier. I agree this’ – he gestured around him to indicate the whole prison – ‘this could all blow at any time. I’ll talk to the Agent. But anything you can do to keep it calm in here … With your men, with your block … you make quite a difference, you know.’

  ‘And anythin’ you can do to get us all out o’ here,’ said the King, ‘that would make a difference, too. Now, if you’ll ’scuse me, I have a funeral to prepare.’

  3.17

  Block Four, Cockloft

  12.05 p.m.

  EVEN THOUGH THEY buried Ned that morning, King Dick called a rehearsal in the afternoon. On the way back into Four, the King steered Joe, Habs and Sam through to the kitchens. ‘Come an’ see,’ he said.

  They found a pale and dazed-looking John Haywood propped up on a small mattress that had been squeezed into a deep storeroom, a guard of three vigilant inmates armed with sticks standing among the displaced potatoes, cabbages and turnips. He was staring unblinkingly at the roof.

  ‘I don’t rightly know where John is,’ said the King, ‘but he sure as hell ain’t here, with us. The physician says this happen sometimes. He seen it before. John can’t remember nothin’. He might get better, might not. He might talk to us, might not.’

  They stood at Haywood’s bedside.

  ‘What happened out there, Mr Haywood?’ called Habs, his voice bouncing loud in the small brick-lined room. ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘Why you shoutin’?’ said Haywood, his voice thick and groggy. ‘’Course I can hear you. Jus’ can’t remember shit, tha’s all.’

  ‘Do you remember goin’ out to light the lamps?’ said Habs.

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Do you remember Ned sayin’ anythin’ …’

  Haywood closed his eyes. ‘That’s precisely the kinda shit I’m talkin’ ’bout.’

  ‘We’ll be back to sit with you later,’ said Joe.

  Before they climbed to the cockloft, the King spoke to the inmate guards.

  ‘No one gets in here, you know that. You see anyone who isn’t Four, you arrest ’em, tie ’em up, cosh ’em – whatever you have to do. Then you come get me. Yes?’

  ‘Yes, King Dick,’ came the three voices in unison.

  ‘We doin’ it in watches,’ said Sam as they climbed to the cockloft. ‘First watch is eight till midnight, middle watch till four, mornin’ till eight, and so on. Reckon pretty much everyone in the block knows now.’

  By the time they reached the top of Four, the gambling tables were out, though most were empty. Joe, Habs, Sam and the crier had been joined by Pastor Simon and a rather awkward-looking Robert Goffe, with Jon Lord at his side. Alex and Jonathan sat apart but watched intently. The theatre company had their tabled-off section of the cockloft again, each of them standing mute, painfully aware of the absence of Ned Penny.

  ‘Everythin’ the same, even when it ain’t,’ said the King. ‘Everythin’ the same. The play goes on, the market goes on, the gamin’ goes on. If it don’t, well then, we get to sittin’ round talkin’ ’bout tunnels, escape and all o’ that. We keep our tragedy on the stage, gentlemen, but we jus’ sell tickets to Four this time. We can’t be doin’ with the others, not with Mr Haywood in his predicament.’

  Murmurs of agreement floated between them. ‘We don’t need to tell no one ’bout that, we jus’ keeping the play to ourselves,’ continued the King. ‘I’ll play Mercutio, ’cos there ain’t nobody else to play him now. Mr Snow, we still need to recruit some more players. Welcome, anyways, to Pastor Simon, Mr Goffe and Mr Lord. We need your help.’ He nodded a salute to the newly enlisted, ignoring their obvious discomfort.

  ‘So. I believe we had got to Act One, Scene Five.’

  Habs and Joe shifted nervously. They hadn’t spoken of the night before. Their rehearsal kiss seemed a lifetime ago.

  ‘Mr Snow, did you sort out the matter?’ said the King.

  Habs looked briefly at Joe. ‘Well, we did start to rehearse, King Dick, but … we was interrupted.’ He gestured impotently around him. ‘Never sorted it out, really.’

  The King tapped his club on the floor impatiently. ‘Never sorted it out, really,’ he repeated. ‘Well, let’s do a little sortin’. Mr Hill, your line, please.’

  Joe had no more wanted to rehearse than anyone else present; in the hours after the burial most had just wanted to talk and drink. But the King had been insistent – there was an urgency now to everything he was doing, as though to delay would be to surrender. Joe stood awkwardly and closed his eyes.

  ‘Saints do not move though grant for prayers’ sake,’ he said flatly. Everyone looked to Habs.

  ‘Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take,’ he said, equally stilted. Then, without looking up, Habs bent over to Joe and kissed him on the cheek. There was the briefest of silences before Goffe snorted with laughter. Once the King started to smile, the laughing spread fast.

  ‘That was pathetic,’ said Joe.

  ‘Well, what else could I do?’ Habs protested earnestly. ‘What kinda kiss would you have preferred?’

  King Dick summoned one of the gamblers he knew, a thin, stooped sailor out of Maryland called Palmer. The whispered instructions elicited the beginnings of a protest, but a handful of coins from the King’s pocket quickly silenced it.

  ‘What’s happenin’ there?’ asked Habs watching the man leave. ‘Never seen Palmer walk so fast. He took a bullet back in ’13, says he can’t move fast no more.’

  ‘Anyone ever offer him money?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Can’t say they have.’

  ‘Maybe tha’s the reason right there.’

  They waited for ten minutes before the newly nimble Palmer hurried back in. He gave the King a confident nod and sat himself near the cockloft door.

  ‘So, gentlemen, the matter of this troublesome kiss,’ said the King. He stood, stretched, then wheeled his club with one arm and then the other.

  ‘Christ, he’s going to flatten us,’ muttered Joe.

  ‘We all saw what Mr Snow was capable of earlier,’ the King continued. ‘A kiss that wouldn’t win a spinster’s heart, never mind that of the fair Juliet.’ He was enjoying himself. ‘This prison done its best to provide an education for the needy, as Tommy here will agree.’ The crier nodded sagely. ‘So King Dick has decided to help Mr Snow and Mr Hill, if he can.’ He waved at Palmer and waited.

  ‘This is going to be terribl
e,’ Joe whispered. ‘I just know it.’ They both stared at the cockloft doors, Joe holding his breath. The whistles and applause began as soon as Betsy Wade and Martha Slater appeared in the cockloft.

  ‘The beautiful bakers of Tavistock,’ he said in wonder and relief. ‘At least, I assume it’s them …’ Sporting Derby high hats and hidden under enormous overcoats, the market women were bustled into the room.

  ‘O’ course,’ exhaled Habs.

  The two bewildered women cast glances to all corners as they were ushered down the aisle of the cockloft by the less-than-stooped Palmer. When they saw Habs and Joe, they smirked, and Betsy curtseyed.

  She pulled her hat from her head, tying a pile of black hair back with a strip of cloth from her wrist. ‘Hey, boys!’ she called.

  ‘Hey, Betsy,’ said Habs.

  ‘We were just packing up,’ said Martha. ‘Your man here caught us just in time.’ She looked around. ‘This your theatre, then?’

  ‘And church, and concert hall,’ said Joe.

  King Dick bowed extravagantly. ‘Ladies, you are most welcome, but ain’t got much time. You are not allowed in the blocks, as you know, but I hope Mr Palmer has paid you for your time? Your disguises seem to be relyin’ on the redcoats not lookin’ too hard.’

  Martha waved the hat she’d been given. ‘Aye, sir,’ she said, ‘and we can keep the hats, too, he says.’

  The King waved them forward. ‘We need your help. We’re rehearsin’ the magnificent tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. Mr Snow here is Romeo, and Mr Hill here is Juliet.’ Both women whistled and curtseyed again. ‘But our Romeo is unsure how to kiss our Juliet. He tried it earlier and, well …’ Goffe and Lord started to laugh again. ‘Let’s just say it was none too impressive. Would one of you ladies show him how it can be done?’

  Betsy beckoned Martha forward. ‘It beats selling bread, girl,’ she said.

  Martha, hands on her hips, stared at the King. ‘All that money is to come here and just kiss Joe? That beautiful boy? Well, Your Majesty, or whatever it is I should call you, you’re a very generous employer. I’ll come and work for you anytime.’