Mad Blood Stirring

by Simon Mayo

  ‘The war is over,’ he said quietly. ‘All the men hope to be going home soon. What should I tell Mother of you?’

  Now Alice clasped both his hands in hers. ‘That her father passed. That never a day went by without us talking about her. And now, never a day passes without me praying for her. And you, Joe-boy. And now I shall pray for Alice, too.’ She closed her eyes again, and Joe wondered if she was praying for them already.

  ‘Help me up, I want to get a better look at you.’ Joe gave her both his hands. ‘Your mistress is tough but, Lord knows, I shall hurt the same after three minutes as after thirty. If you ever feel like you need to see yer old house, there’ll be a welcome for you and a bed made up. There’s always a bed made up, in case.’ She reached up and took his head in her hands. They trembled slightly but her voice was firm. ‘You keep this head high, Joe-boy.’

  The door burst open and Alice jumped. The guard who had escorted her tumbled in.

  ‘The Favorite has docked …’ he began, then stopped as he scanned the room, surprised to find only a prisoner and an old woman present.

  ‘The Favorite?’ asked Joe.

  The guard nodded. ‘Arrived from America. It brought the Treaty of Ghent, signed by your President Madison himself.’ The soldier shrugged his shoulders. ‘So that’s it.’

  4.2

  Block Four

  BY THE TIME a prisoner escort had been gathered to take Joe back to Four, news of the Favorite’s arrival had spread across all the prison blocks. As he was marched across the market square, Joe was aware of the sound of the celebrations, but it was all submerged, overwhelmed by a torrent of emotions. One of the guard unlocked the gate to the courtyards but then had to push him through before locking up again. The image of his grandmother’s smile came to him again, so like his own mother’s it hurt.

  At sea, at war, there was no time for reflection or regret, but in prison it could be all you did. Some inmates were so lost in their longing for home they had become ghosts in the present. Joe had avoided that fate but now he felt its power, felt once more the need to be with his family. Might American ships finally come to Plymouth and carry them home? He hoped so, with all his heart, and he set about committing everything about Alice Webb to memory: her hair, her clothes, her smell, her voice; what they spoke of, how she had embraced him and her final sad wave as she left the study. For his mother’s sake alone, he needed to remember everything about her.

  Joe detoured around a circle of dancing sailors. He felt sadness at the death of his grandfather, a man he had never known and, until an hour ago, had never thought about. That his grandmother prayed for him every day moved him profoundly. And the offer of the permanently made-up bed. So, the Favorite had made it back and the treaty was signed. There was no war, so there could be no prisoners-of-war. He squeezed his way past a nine-man brawl, stepped over a sailor sprawled on the ground and into an almost-deserted Block Four. The stairs echoed to his trudging steps as he climbed to the first floor.

  And the kiss, he thought, as he collapsed into his hammock. Sweet Jesus. King Dick had cut it from the play, and most of Joe was relieved. He knew what everyone had said, what he himself had thought. It was for the best, he was sure of it. The prisons had been fevered enough without the added tension of that kiss. But, in truth, he had thought of little else since their last rehearsal. He remembered his heart rate, remembered the sweat that had run down his back, remembered the way he had trembled afterwards. The total shock of it. He recalled an old sailor yarning once about how his ship had been hit by lightning and how the bolt had scorched down the mast and blown his cannon apart. He had claimed that his whole body had prickled and twitched for days afterwards. Joe hadn’t believed it possible at the time, but he believed it now.

  He still had his eyes closed when Habs found him.

  ‘Ha! So here you are. I saw you cross the yard an’ I tried to follow, but the crowd was too crazy. Looked like you were in some kinda stupor. What happened over there? You all right?’ Joe swung his legs round so Habs could sit on the hammock, too. The ropes creaked as they took the weight.

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘Hit by lightning, but all right.’ He looked at Habs, who, for once, was staring straight back, puzzled.

  ‘Not sure I follow …’ he said slowly.

  ‘It was my grandmother,’ he said.

  ‘’Scuse me? It was who?’

  Joe told him the whole story, wishing with every word that they were back in their hidden space in the cockloft.

  ‘When you were marched off,’ Habs said, his face serious, ‘King Dick said it would be fine, but I wasn’t so sure. Thought you’d be in the cachot or the Royal Navy by now.’

  ‘I thought so, too.’ Joe faltered briefly, then added, ‘I thought there was a chance I might not see you again.’ The ropes squeaked as Habs edged closer.

  ‘And you’d miss me?’

  Joe knew they were always watched, knew that from somewhere on the floor there’d be eyes on them. Waiting for them to do something wrong. So he just nodded.

  ‘I’d miss the play,’ he said, ‘so I turned them both down.’

  Habs smiled then. ‘Six o’clock tomorrow,’ he mused. ‘If we’re still here. Mightn’t they jus’ open the gates now the treaty is back? Some o’ the men got their things with them – they’re all ready to go.’

  ‘But go where, Habs? Till there are ships to take us home, all we’d do is wander around the lanes of Devon and end up pressed into the King’s Navy.’

  ‘You could go to your grandmother. Wait there for news of the ships.’

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s the wrong side of the country, Habs, that’s why. By the time I heard the ships were in, they’d have sailed, and no mistake.’

  Habs laughed. ‘Fair ’nough. So we jus’ wait here for the ships.’

  ‘Depending on their destination. What if the first few ships are all heading south?’

  ‘Then they sail without me. Better to stay in your Suffolk than travel to our Carolina. Ain’t nobody from Four gonna take a ride back to a slave state, even if that’s where their folks are.’

  Outside, there was a shift in the sounds coming from the yards. Habs and Joe noticed and reacted together, turning to the nearest window. A wind change.

  Urgent voices and running footsteps reached them from below; some ran to their ground-floor beds; others were heading up. Habs and Joe exchanged glances as a crew from the Boston flew past them and dived into their hammocks. ‘What’s happenin’ out there?’ demanded Habs, clambering to his feet.

  ‘Headin’ to bloodshed is what’s happenin’,’ came the reply.

  ‘What?’ cried Joe. ‘That was a party when I walked through it.’ He and Habs walked over to the Boston crew. One of them, a one-armed seaman name of Joshua, looked panic-stricken.

  ‘We was just teasin’ the redcoats – y’know, sayin’ things ’bout Bony escapin’ and how they was goin’ to be fightin’ long after we was safe at home with our women and family …’

  ‘I can imagine that went well,’ said Joe.

  ‘Well, you imagine wrong,’ said Joshua, missing the sarcasm. ‘This soldier then says how our money would stop, seein’ as the war was over. And that seem to be the truth of it. There’s no more money comin’ to us.’

  After a stunned silence, Habs said, ‘That ain’t true, jus’ can’t be.’

  ‘We checked it with another man, ol’ sailor outta Five, and he said the same. No war, no money.’

  By the time Joe and Habs had run from Four, all the men were out in the courtyard. Most had headed for the market square gates, and an angry crowd thirty or forty deep were yelling at the militia they could see through the bars. Those who couldn’t get close had peeled away and were running through the channels between the prison blocks. The prisoners targeted two or three redcoats high up on the military walk, then unleashed a volley of whatever projectiles were to hand. As the soldiers raise
d their guns, the attackers dispersed. Occasionally, a double or triple hit would cause a guard to stumble or fall; this would be greeted with huge cheers and more abuse.

  ‘This is bad, Joe,’ said Habs. ‘The English are itchin’ for a fight.’

  As they watched from the steps of Four, raiding parties, arms full of newly acquired weapons, ran between Two and Three, let loose a fusillade then looped round to attack again between Three and Four. The military walk hadn’t been built with any kind of assault in mind. There was no protection, nothing for the British to hide behind. They had their fifteen feet of distance from the ground, but that was it, and right now it didn’t amount to much more than a long way to fall. ‘Shortland gotta do something!’ shouted Habs.

  ‘And King Dick,’ said Joe. ‘Where is he? Someone needs to calm this down.’ A band of men – twenty or so – ran past, a familiar figure jogging behind the leaders.

  ‘Hey, Will!’ called Joe.

  Will Roche turned and acknowledged the greeting but carried on running.

  ‘Will!’ Joe tried again, then ran after him.

  Roche was heading down to the back of Four and straight for the largest platform on the walk, a wide, triangular construction of wood and iron that now held a dozen soldiers. Two of them raised their guns, but their sergeant ordered them lowered again.

  Joe pushed his way through the throng, keeping low as he grabbed hold of his old friend. ‘Will, are you crazy? You want to be shot?’

  Around them, the sailors hopped and jumped, taunting the militia. In front of Joe, a ginger-haired man with half an ear missing had started yelling, ‘English bastards!’ In his hand, three small lumps of coal. Will Roche was wired. He pointed at the guards, now arranged in a ‘V’ that followed the lines of the platform; six could see down one side of Four, six stared at the other.

  ‘We fought these cocksuckers at sea!’ he shouted. ‘We sank their ships! Our armies smashed theirs. We kicked ’em out of our country, Joe – are we just gonna let ’em keep us here? Sailors’ rights, remember? Or are you too busy with your show? Too busy with your new friends?’ The briefest of glances towards Habs, then he let fly with what looked like a ceramic mug, which smashed against the iron palisades. More missiles were thrown, and the guns were raised again.

  A shout of ‘Cover!’ and all the sailors ran for the partial protection provided by the wall of Four, flattening themselves against its slabs.

  ‘And when you’re done fighting them with mugs and plates,’ cried Joe, ‘then taken a fine English bullet in the face, how will your rights be looking then?’

  Two shots in quick succession. With seven prisons and many walls, their source wasn’t obvious, the sounds bouncing and rattling around the courtyard. Joe, Roche, Habs and the rest of the sailors by Four threw themselves to the ground, grit scraping their hands and faces, then scrambled round to the front.

  ‘Where were the shots? Where were the shots?’

  ‘Out by Six and Seven, I think!’

  ‘One was from Three, I’m sure of it!’

  Habs beckoned the sailors inside Four, only a few hesitating before entering the coloured block. ‘Two separate shots!’ he called, arms pointing left and right. They watched thousands of prisoners run into the block nearest them, large scrums forming at each entrance. Within seconds, hundreds of inmates flew through the door of Four, the whites choosing to stay in the hallway rather than go any deeper into the block. When there was no more firing, some chanced a sprint back to their own. Joe and Habs stood together; Will, with his raiding party, near by.

  ‘Welcome to Four!’ Joe called.

  Again, an acknowledgement; nothing further.

  ‘He really don’t like me,’ said Habs.

  ‘Seems it worked out that way.’

  Each new arrival brought a different story. Two men killed outside Block Two, one man injured by the back of Five, three men killed near Six.

  ‘With two bullets?’ asked Habs. ‘That don’t seem right.’

  King Dick finally appeared, striding from the ground-floor hammocks, his club, hat and blankets all in order. But still Habs frowned. ‘He’s got dirt on his face,’ he said. ‘The King don’t ever have dirt on his face.’

  ‘He must’ve been in the kitchens,’ said Joe. ‘Near where Haywood is. There’s nowhere else.’

  ‘Well, thinkin’ ’bout it, yes, there is.’

  4.3

  Block Four

  AFTER AN HOUR of chaos, word reached Four that no one had been shot. The injuries had been caused not by English bullets, which had been aimed skywards, but by American boots, which had trampled on fellow inmates. However, the mood was still grim as much of the block waited to hear from King Dick.

  ‘All our people back inside?’ The King’s voice was barely more than a growl.

  ‘Ain’t taken a count,’ said Habs, ‘but no one’s reported missin’.’

  The King nodded but said nothing. He was sitting on his mattress, back against the wall, unlit pipe in one hand, club in the other. Alex and Jonathan sat together, perched, silent, watching.

  ‘Only reason the riot stopped,’ said Sam, who had appeared with a deep cut to his forehead, ‘is the firin’. But next time, that won’t stop nothin’. If we don’t get no wages, we won’t get no market.’

  ‘And then the peace will be worse than the war,’ said Habs. His words were considered in silence until Sam said what many were thinking.

  ‘Well, ain’t nothin’ for it. We gotta ’scape.’

  Now the King spoke again. ‘I been in the tunnel.’

  He waited for the gasps and exclamations to die away.

  ‘That’s where I was when the shootin’ started. No one’s been down there for a year or more, so I figured someone would want to see for themselves soon enough. Thought that person should be me.’ He paused, found a bottle from the folds of a blanket and drank deeply. There was a breathless silence as everyone waited for the King’s verdict.

  ‘It weren’t ever discovered ’cos Four is the worst point in the prison to start a tunnel. Why try? Block Four in the middle, farthest away from the walls – it never made no sense. But someone did try. Tunnel goes from the kitchen storeroom, jus’ behind where Mr Haywood stayin’, down maybe six feet, then out north-northeast for maybe fifteen feet. Still short o’ the palisades.’

  There were some groans at that.

  ‘Nowhere near the military walk, and weeks o’ diggin’ from the outer wall. And the walls are crumblin’, fallen in in places …’

  ‘But it’s somethin’,’ said Sam. ‘And right now, if you asked for volunteers to get diggin’ again, you’d have a long line. You know that, King Dick.’

  There were murmurs of approval around the mess and Habs shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘Where are the ships, King Dick?’ he asked. ‘’Cos if they’re close, most of us’ll wait, I reckon.’

  The King hit his club against the wall with an angry backhand strike. Everyone jumped.

  ‘They are stalled, Mr Snow, they are stalled! Agent says our government and the British are arguin’ over who should pay for the ships and, until that is settled, we ain’t movin’. No one movin’. Now the war is over, no one wants to pay for nothin’.’

  ‘And what if they can’t stop with the arguin’?’ asked Sam. ‘What then?’

  ‘Then this place will burn,’ answered the King. ‘So we ain’t got that long.’

  Joe caught his eye and the King shook his head, understanding instantly.

  ‘Today ain’t the day to put on a show, Mr Hill. I ain’t filling that cockloft with men in this state.’

  ‘Postpone the play?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Postpone the play,’ the King replied.

  4.4

  Block Seven

  EVERY MESS WAS standing room only, every speaker seethed with anger. The Eagle crew were pressed in against those from Boston and Newport, ginger Joseph Toker Johnson leading the attack.

  ‘We got to forget the way it’s been her
e,’ he said, glancing around him, checking faces, looking for and receiving confirmation that he was speaking for them. ‘Forget the order, forget the rules. S’all changed. We don’t get paid, they don’t sleep. We make their lives hell. Every chance we get. Shout somethin’, throw somethin’, curse, spit – whatever.’

  Roche pushed his way through to the front.

  ‘And we tell the English that when we’ll be goin’ home – though the good Lord knows when that’ll be – they’ll still be fightin’. Fightin’ without end. That Napoleon will battle ’em for years. And when they’re gettin’ shot at by the Frenchies, their wives and daughters’ll be spreadin’ their legs for every Tom and Dick that passes their English hovel.’

  Ribald cheers greeted this, and Toker Johnson pushed himself back in, unwilling to relinquish the mess. ‘If we push ’em enough, they’ll break. Today was proof o’ that.’

  Robert Goffe and Jon Lord exchanged nervous glances.

  ‘And then what?’ called Goffe, and all heads turned to him. ‘Once they’ve broken – then what? Are you volunteerin’ to stand in front o’ the English guns? ’Cos when they’ve shot you, how’s that get the rest of us out o’ here?’

  ‘Damn right about that!’ came a voice. ‘These English are bastards, but I’ll be damned if they kill me just as the war is finished.’

  Lord wiped his face with his hands then raised his hand to speak. ‘How much money’ve we got?’ He cleared his throat and spoke louder. ‘If we all put all our wages and prize money together, what’d it make?’

  Rose, the ex-president of Seven, still in his long brown coat, laughed. ‘You proposin’ we bribe our way out? All eight hundred of us? Your brain has rotted, man …’

  Roche wasn’t impressed either. ‘You’re a good man, Lord, and we’ve survived a lot together, you an’ I. But I’ll be damned if any o’ these red-coated sons of bitches take my money. I’m not payin’ no toll to walk through them gates.’

  ‘You wanna fight instead?’ asked Goffe.