Mad Blood Stirring

by Simon Mayo

  ‘We swallowed him whole,’ hissed Habs to Sam in an attempt at reassurance.

  Sam said nothing, his eyes locked on Lane. The entrance to the ground-floor beds was filled four deep with bristling, hostile inmates who stared at Lane as he was pushed upstairs.

  Joe fought his way through the swarm. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said. ‘It just looks like we’re hiding something.’

  ‘We are hidin’ something,’ said Habs, ‘but mainly it looks like we’re takin’ care of ourselves. It looks like we’re in charge here, looks like our Rough Ally might have to show some respect.’

  ‘Or just like we’re hiding something,’ repeated Joe.

  In the din, no one heard him. Nor did they hear the turnkeys call: ‘Tumble down and turn in! Tumble down and turn in!’

  By the time the inmates of Four and the one inmate of Six realized what was happening, the huge block doors were crashing shut.

  ‘Hey, you’re early! That’s too early!’ shouted the nearest man, accompanying his protest with vigorous banging against the door’s heavy panels. ‘It ain’t dark yet!’

  ‘Orders of the Agent,’ came the reply. ‘Go fuck yourselves.’

  ‘They do that, anyways,’ said another voice, followed by laughter, which faded as the turnkeys moved away.

  The door-banger turned to the waiting crowd. ‘Shut for the night, he said. Orders of the Agent, he said.’

  All eyes turned to Edwin Lane. ‘But I got to get back. I’m in the wrong block.’

  ‘Ain’t no one gonna disagree with that one,’ said Sam.

  Lane, for the first time, looked unsure of himself. His eyes darted up and down the stairs. ‘This is a trick. Where’s Crafus? Where’s …’ In an instant, he was on the floor, knocked sideways by the three nearest inmates. The biggest of them grabbed his beard in both hands and pulled hard until Lane’s head lifted off the steps. Then he let it go. The thud echoed around the stairwell.

  ‘You called him what?’ spat the man. He put a tattered boot to Lane’s neck. ‘This is Block Four. Look round you. You a long way from home, mister. Now you try that again.’

  Lane tried to twist his neck away from the boot, straining to speak.

  ‘Let him go!’ King Dick was at the bottom of the stairs but moving fast. ‘Get him up!’ He pushed his way through, hauled Lane to his feet by his coat and didn’t stop. The King half marched, half carried him to the cockloft, kicking open the door and pushing Lane in front of him and on to the floor. The many hundreds still in the cockloft strained to see what the commotion was. ‘Ten seconds!’ bellowed the King. ‘Tha’s all it took. Ten seconds of me not watchin’ you.’

  Lane scrambled to what he thought might be a safe distance, coughing and spitting as he went. ‘Where were you?’ he said, wiping his mouth, crouching.

  ‘Oh, so you in charge here? You askin’ the questions? I have to give an account o’ my time to you? Well, well.’ He heard the sound of his ‘throne’ being placed behind him and, without taking his eyes from Lane, eased himself down.

  ‘Your men attacked me.’

  ‘Did they now?’

  ‘Turnkeys locked us in for the night.’

  ‘Did they now?’

  ‘Dammit to Hell, Craf—’ Lane checked himself, almost wincing as he glanced around. ‘Dammit to Hell, anyways. I don’t wanna spend the night here.’

  ‘Oh, trust me on this, Lane,’ said the King. ‘The feelin’ there is quite mutual.’

  He looked up and around the cockloft. On the stage, the choir still stood as though they were mid-song. Habs and Sam stood with crew and mess mates, Joe with Alex and Jonathan. Behind them, the rest of Four, on edge, were waiting to see how this was going to play out. Those watching the King saw him nod to himself, his mind seemingly made up on some matter.

  ‘So, Mr Lane,’ he said, removing his bearskin and folding it in his lap. ‘So. Seein’ as we none of us has any choice in the matter of who spends the night where, we might as well make the most of it.’

  Lane looked nonplussed, waiting for some clarification. ‘You gonna show me round, then?’

  The King ignored him and, with the smallest of gestures, summoned the pastor, then Habs, then a crippled card-dealer named Hopper and, finally, Alex and Jonathan. Each received their instructions; each set off with purpose. ‘Jus’ watch this, Lane,’ said the King, sitting back on his tea-chest throne.

  Habs grabbed Joe as he ran past. ‘King Dick wants the play. He wants some Romeo and Juliet. Now.’

  ‘He wants what?’ Joe was flabbergasted.

  ‘A rehearsal,’ said Habs. ‘Or some of it, anyways. What scenes can we do with you, me, Pastor Simon, Sam and Tommy?’

  Joe thought fast. ‘And King Dick? Is he in? Or is he busy with that bastard Lane?’

  Habs shook his head. ‘This gotta work. King Dick wants Lane to understand that this is a real play. Not some dumb-ass foolin’ around. Not a “nigger play” – that means no play at all. That means poor quality. That means grinnin’ like you got no brain in your head. It means embarrassin’.’

  ‘But you said he came to Othello …’

  ‘So he knows what we can do already, then,’ said Habs. ‘Maybe he jus’ needs it knockin’ into him. It ain’t ’bout who plays what or which scene we do. It’s ’bout convincin’ Lane we ain’t plannin’ on ’scapin’.’

  ‘We should get the scripts,’ said Joe, and they ran for their mess as the choir started.

  The notes began low, a drone that was, to begin with, swallowed by the noise of the room. As it rose in volume, the hubbub fell away and heads turned. This was ‘Balm in Gilead’, and Pastor Simon, in the middle of a circle, started the clapping. Most of his services and the rehearsals included at least a few of its verses. But this was different; everyone felt it. They had a new audience. They didn’t know much about Edwin Lane, but they knew enough. They knew his gang, knew his friends, knew his type. Every ship had them, every farm, every town hall. They sang it for him, they sang it at him.

  ‘There is a balm in Gilead,

  To make the wounded whole;

  There is a balm in Gilead,

  To heal the sin-sick soul.

  Sometimes I feel discouraged,

  And think my work’s in vain,

  But then the Holy Spirit

  Revives my hope again.’

  ‘You ever feel discouraged, Mr Lane?’ King Dick sat in the middle of the cockloft, Lane as close to him as he could manage. The Rough Ally shot glances around the room, seeing threats in every face. There was no reply, just a shrug of the shoulders. Now, half the cockloft was singing, Pastor Simon beaming as he conducted.

  ‘Don’t ever feel discouraged,

  ’Cos Jesus is your friend,

  And if you lack for knowledge,

  He’ll never fail to lend.’

  The King leaned over again. ‘Do you ever lack for knowledge, Mr Lane?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘You see, I think you do. I believe there’re maybe just a few things you don’t quite understand. You might not get a whole lotta sleep tonight, but you might jus’ get yourself an education.’

  ‘I have an education,’ said Lane. ‘Sure don’t need another damn one. Not from here, anyways.’

  ‘What sorta education you get, Mr Lane?’

  ‘The Bible and the Declaration of Independence,’ said Lane. ‘That’s enough truth for anyone right there. It’s what we’re fightin’ for.’

  ‘Indeed it is.’ The King nodded earnestly. ‘Indeed it is. But I’ll be charitable with you and assume that you maybe cannot read with any distinction. And that your memory got blown away with your face. Would I be right?’

  Lane bridled. ‘I can read, and I can remember jus’ fine,’ he muttered.

  The King kept all his attention on Lane as the players gathered. ‘That’s good. So you’ll remember at least, say, the first few lines of the Declaration?’

  Lane stared at the King, realizing the trap that had been sprung. ‘Maybe I do,’ he said, t
hen shrugged.

  King Dick stifled a laugh. ‘O’ course. I understand. Let me help you. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” Did your “ed-u-ca-tion” get to that part? You fightin’ for that line, eh, Mr Lane?’

  Lane retied his beard. ‘I’ll not argue with you,’ he said.

  ‘’Course you won’t,’ said the King. ‘When you don’t understand your own language, that’d be mighty difficult.’

  Alex and Jonathan brought meat, bread and ale, and the King passed them to Lane. A wave of annoyance suffused the room. Lane, expecting a projectile at any second, bent low as he bit into the pork. The choir made way for the band. A heavily bearded, crouched man in a battered top hat thrust his violin under his chin and produced a bow from inside his jacket. He stepped forward, and everyone in the room stood. Shouts of expectation and excitement came from all sides. He played a single note, adjusted his stance, and the music began, a selection of reels and shanties that sent the cockloft into a frenzy. When his bow broke, the hairs all worn through, he swapped it with another from his jacket. The inmates of Four danced as though it might be their last, danced for either death or freedom.

  Joe, Habs, Sam and Pastor Simon watched the mayhem from the side of the room.

  ‘We’re goin’ on after this?’ asked Joe.

  ‘We always go on after the band,’ Sam replied, bewildered.

  ‘We got the wrong scenes, Habs,’ Joe carried on. ‘They not going to sit and watch some clever words after this. We need something more … vigorous.’

  Habs looked around. ‘We had somethin’ vigorous,’ he said. ‘We was told to take it out, remember?’

  Joe winced. ‘Not that kind of vigorous.’

  The band finished a tune and the fiddler looked across at the King. A sideways shake of the head from the throne and, bow back in his jacket, he took the band off the stage. The crowd jeered.

  ‘We’re on,’ Habs said. ‘And remember, the only crowd that matters is that duck-fucker Lane. Act Two, Scene Six for Joe, me and the pastor. Then run on to Act Three, Scene One for Sam. I’ll read Mercutio, too.’

  There was no time for discussion. Habs, Joe, Sam and Pastor Simon climbed up on to the stage and the noise gradually abated. Habs stood downstage, his arms wide.

  ‘My friends. My friends. And also Mr Lane there, visitin’ from Six.’ Habs nodded to Lane as the inmates laughed. ‘We had hoped to be performin’ Romeo and Juliet for you this very night, but what with the peace an’ all we ain’t quite got to it … so here’s a couple of scenes anyways. I’m Romeo …’ He bowed low.

  ‘Joe here is Juliet …’

  The room rang with catcalls and whistles, Joe took a little bow.

  ‘Pastor Simon is Friar Lawrence, Sam is Benvolio. This is Act Two, Scene Six, where—’ He was interrupted by three slow, declaratory bangs of the King’s club on the floor.

  ‘Look alive there!’ called the King. ‘Get on with it, Mr Snow.’

  Habs bowed slightly and waved the pastor on. Pastor Simon, script in hand, started to read carefully.

  ‘So smile the heavens upon this holy act. That after-hours with sorrow chide us not.’ It was not the encore the cockloft was looking for. The crowd began to stir almost immediately. King Dick intervened before the situation deteriorated further.

  ‘Mr Lane, you familiar with Romeo and Juliet?’ he asked, leaning in close. ‘Was that in your ed-u-ca-tion?’

  Lane sat up, cleared his throat. ‘I have a … loose understandin’ of some of its … aspects.’

  The King nodded, then rose and banged his club on the floor once more. ‘Come,’ he said.

  Lane looked horrified. ‘Come where?’

  ‘You wanna know if there’s a play, Mr Lane? Well, here’s the best way to find out,’ said the King. ‘Come.’

  A path opened for the King as he walked through the cockloft, but there was no disputing the looks of puzzlement and, in some cases, anger on the faces of the sailors of Four.

  ‘We don’t want him here, King Dick!’

  ‘Don’t need no Allies on our stage. Not now, not never.’

  The boisterousness of the dancing had turned quickly to a jostling, truculent fury. No one questioned the King publicly, never – until now. But here he was, in front of the men of Four, taking noisy and sustained insubordination. Hat high and club held in readiness, he pushed his way through, Lane following swiftly in his wake.

  ‘Stay here,’ said the King, and climbed on to the stage. Joe, Habs, Sam and Pastor Simon watched him carefully, waiting for a cue. King Dick faced the crowd. Club over his shoulder, his eyes worked the room. In a matter of seconds, he seemed to have glanced at everyone, acknowledging a select few with a nod or a brief wave. Unhurried. Assured. In charge. He measured his words carefully. ‘Men of Four,’ he said, ‘the turnkeys came early. The Agent has locked us away again. But even he now senses somethin’ we all known for a while – that his time is over.’

  Nodding heads already.

  ‘Agent Shortland knows that we will be home with our sweethearts and children soon.’

  A few shouts of ‘Yes!’ Alongside Joe, the pastor uttered an unusually hesitant ‘Hallelujah!’

  ‘But still the cursed gates are closed,’ said the King, ‘and we gotta live here for a few hours more. Maybe a few days. Maybe a week. But back home, our marsh marigolds are in bloom. Back in Maryland, the Dutchman’s breeches are bustin’ their white-and-yellow pantaloon flowers all over, and I intend to see ’em. This season, this spring.’ Each ‘this’ was accompanied by a thump of the club; there was matching applause. King Dick pressed on.

  ‘Back home, the winds are light and the winter storms are gone. Might always be winter in this forgotten part of England but, back home, the Potomac and the Rappahannock are peaceful now, flowin’ strong, and them oysters are sweeter than ever.’

  The King was pacing the stage now, using his club to point to sailors who caught his eye. ‘John Ridge, you wanna sail into Chesapeake Bay again? Mr Jennings there, you always talk o’ the Blue Ridge, the bears and the coyote. Well, let’s go back there. Let’s not die by a redcoat’s musket. No one else is dyin’, when there’s peace in America. To get home, we gotta have peace in the blocks. Mr Lane here did not intend to stay with us. We did not intend to invite him. But here he is, anyways. Step this way, Mr Lane.’

  Edwin Lane climbed reluctantly on to the stage. The King directed his club at him. ‘Mr Lane here ain’t so sure we really practisin’ for a play. He thinks maybe we jus’ … pretendin’.’

  There was laughter then and a shout of ‘I’ll pretend to cut him, then!’ More laughter.

  Joe whispered to Habs, ‘He thinks he’s going to die – look at him.’

  Lane’s eyes were flicking around the room and his mouth was working silently. ‘That sure looks like a man prayin’, all right,’ said Habs.

  ‘So, bein’ the peaceable type, we gonna give a copy of the play to Mr Lane here. Act Three, Scene One is lively enough. Romeo, Benvolio and Tybalt are needed, and you, Mr Lane, will read Tybalt’s line, your skin bein’ a perfect match. Mercutio is dead.’ He waited until Lane was looking at him. ‘That was Ned Penny’s part …’

  The words hung between them. The room held its breath.

  The King walked to the centre of the stage, and hit the club into the floor. ‘Sam,’ he said, ‘do we have a play?’

  ‘Yes, King Dick,’ he replied, handing over one of the scripts to Lane.

  ‘Uh-huh. So let us begin.’

  Habs took a few steps to the front of the stage as Sam began his speech.

  ‘O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio is dead!

  That gallant spirit hath aspired the clouds,

  Which too untimely here did scorn the earth.’

  Joe glanced at Lane, waiting for his reaction. The man appeared stunned, transfixed, afraid.

  ‘Here comes the furious Tybalt back again!’ Sam’s voice rose in anger.

  Habs matched him in
volume and fury: ‘Alive in triumph – and Mercutio slain!’

  Joe watched Habs approach Lane. There was a new passion in his words. With Lane in his sights, an urgency and threat infused his speech that hadn’t been there before. Habs filled the stage. He pointed both hands at Lane.

  ‘Fire-eyed fury be my conduct now!’ he roared, then advanced until their faces were inches apart. Habs lowered his voice a little: ‘For Mercutio’s soul is but a little way above our heads.’

  There was a sudden and profound moment of understanding between the two men. This wasn’t a rehearsal, it was a trial. A white man on trial for the death of a black man. He had buried his friend from the Bentham, the murderers were still at large, and this man, this preening Rough Ally was, Habs was sure, at the heart of it all.

  ‘Tybalt, you ratcatcher …’

  The crowd sensed it, too. There was a silence, a dangerous stillness, over the room. Habs felt the King’s stare; in a glance saw him nodding his approval. His blessing. Habs swallowed hard, then said Romeo’s line again, forcing himself slower.

  ‘For Mercutio’s soul is but a little way above our heads.’ Slower still. ‘Staying for you to keep him company.’ He emphasized the ‘you’ and Lane’s eyes popped. Habs knew that if he had a sword in his hand now, he would use it. He looked around for a weapon, and the fiddler in the wrecked hat understood, threw him his bow. Habs jabbed it into Lane’s chest. ‘Either you or I, or both, must go with him.’

  Lane may have been unprepared, unrehearsed and surrounded by his enemies, but there was no mistaking the malevolence he put into his words as he read from his script, his reedy voice managing to sound contemptuous and fearful at the same time. ‘You, wretched boy,’ he spat, ‘that didst consort him here. Shalt with him hence.’

  Habs scraped the bow up Lane’s jacket until the tip was pushing into his neck.

  If the audience were expecting – hoping – for an execution, they were disappointed. Lane broke the spell. He pointed at the pages.