Mad Blood Stirring

by Simon Mayo

  Haywood closed his eyes. ‘I’ve tried to remember, I really have, ma’am. But all I see is shadows. A few lights, a few flames. But the rest is shadows.’

  Habs appeared over Elizabeth’s shoulder. ‘Are there men in the shadows, John?’

  A pause. ‘Yes, I think there are,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What else, John?’ said Habs, a twist of excitement in his voice. ‘Can you see anythin’ else? How many shadows?’

  Another, longer pause. ‘Maybe three. I don’t rightly know, to be truthful.’

  Magrath left a supply of dressings and more ointment. ‘Take more care, Mr Haywood,’ he said, ‘and keep yourself out of sight.’ He turned to King Dick. ‘There is a date for the play, I hear?’

  The King nodded. ‘Fixed by the Agent for when he returns. April sixth.’

  ‘He wants it to be quite something,’ said Magrath. ‘Bring the prison together. Invite men from the other blocks, and so on.’

  The King looked intently at Magrath, then at Elizabeth. He pushed the bearskin high on his head. ‘I don’t hate your husband the way some men in here do, Mrs Shortland,’ he said. ‘I want you to know that. We talk sometimes. But, and no offence, Mrs Shortland, sometimes, he got shit for brains. First, we always sell tickets to the plays. Anyone can come. Your husband, he should know that. But second, we ain’t gonna do that this time. This play requires two warrin’ families, so we got that quite easy – some men from Seven, friends of Mr Hill here – are playin’ the parts of the Capulets. But we ain’t invitin’ the other blocks, not this time. Not with Mr Haywood here to protect.’ He glanced between Magrath and Elizabeth; both looked too stunned to reply. The King pressed on. ‘The captain wants the blocks “brought together”, he says. Does he think this is some kinda church congregation? These are the men who asked for the Negroes to be put away. And he’s the man who agreed to it.’ The King folded his arms, managing to make it look like a threatening gesture. ‘The only way we bein’ brought together is on the ships outta here.’

  Elizabeth cleared her throat. ‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I will make sure my husband knows of this. And what of your Romeo and your Juliet?’

  The King pointed to Joe and Habs. ‘Well, they both here – why don’t you ask ’em?’

  Under scrutiny, Joe was suddenly awkward. ‘Why, yes, it’s happening just as King Dick says it is,’ he said. ‘And we have the men from Seven in the cast, too, so …’

  ‘And you are Juliet?’ asked Magrath. When Joe nodded, he said, ‘And the kiss?’

  ‘Obviously, there are some things that are intolerable,’ said Joe. ‘Not stopping our wages, not losing the market, not keeping us here when the war is over, no none of them. But Romeo kissing Juliet … well, we had to put a stop to that. Of course we did.’

  Magrath nodded, smiling. He turned to Elizabeth. ‘I think this play might be rather good, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, looking between Habs and Joe. ‘I’m sure you’ll negotiate the … challenges with style.’

  Just before they reached the steps, the King called after them. ‘You visitin’ all the blocks?’

  ‘We are,’ said Magrath. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘When you get to Seven, could you ask after a John Matthews and a Robert Drake? From Detroit. Ain’t seen ’em in a while. Tell ’em to watch out for themselves. Tha’s all.’

  As they were walking down the steps of Four, Elizabeth hesitated, tugging at Magrath’s arm.

  ‘What was that?’ she asked. ‘Who were those men he was asking after?’

  ‘John Matthews and Robert Drake. Maybe they killed Ned Penny,’ said Magrath, climbing the steps to Five. ‘I heard from the guard that Thomas had had a tip-off about the murder. That he’d sent some men to investigate but nothing had happened.’

  Enthusiastic singing was coming from deep within the block.

  ‘You know, King Dick is certainly right about one thing, George,’ said Elizabeth, peering through the doors. ‘They have to protect John Haywood. We have to persuade Thomas to accept that it wouldn’t be safe to invite the other blocks to the play.’

  ‘He’ll see that,’ said Magrath, ‘I’m sure of it. Now let’s get this done swiftly. They’re usually an orderly crew in Five.’

  A prison representative greeted them with a list of the sick who had asked for attention. To the accompaniment of non-stop patriotic singing, Magrath dispensed what he could, advised where he could. Everywhere, men were involved in crafts of some kind; on closer examination, it turned out to be flags and banners that were being stitched, most of them bearing slogans. An American Stars and Stripes bore the words ‘Death to King George’. Elizabeth looked on, mouth agape. Until now, she had only seen Yankee slogans. This felt like an escalation, a deliberate provocation. A strip of cloth proclaiming ‘We are slaves too’ was hung from a hammock, and a hangman’s noose had been added to a crude Union flag. She showed it to Magrath, but he’d seen enough.

  ‘I won’t be back until there’s a civil spirit in this place!’ he yelled at the block representative, slapping the list he’d been given back into his hand.

  Still angry, he stormed towards Six, Elizabeth close behind. Tommy, the crier, ran past, nodding a greeting to them both, but they missed it. They found Block Six deserted and pulled up short. While Magrath inspected the rows of empty hammocks, Elizabeth spotted Cobb’s obscene flags strung high on a stanchion.

  ‘Oh my!’ she said. She mouthed the rhyme, glanced again at the crude drawings. ‘Oh my!’ she repeated.

  Magrath followed her gaze then shouted his disgust. ‘Brutes! Brutes is what they are!’ He swiped his stick in the air, missing the flags by many feet. ‘If I could climb, Elizabeth …’

  ‘Come,’ she said. ‘Let’s not stay where we’re not wanted. Where are they all, anyway?’

  A huge cheer came from the courtyard, and they hurried outside.

  ‘How did we miss that?’ asked Magrath, staring at a particularly anarchic ball game being played hard against the market square wall.

  A man with a face full of scars sat on the steps of Seven watching the game and nursing a bloody nose. Magrath handed him a gauze and he took it gratefully.

  ‘Everyone playing?’ asked Magrath.

  ‘Pretty much,’ said the man.

  ‘Looks rough.’

  ‘Yup.’ The man noticed the Agent’s wife for the first time. He made a point of allowing his eyes to wander slowly over Elizabeth’s body, his hand slipping inside his breeches. ‘But not as rough as your Limey whore,’ he said.

  In an instant, Magrath had swiped at the man with his walking stick, its steel point catching him on the ear.

  The man’s howls managed what hadn’t seemed possible – it stopped the game. In seconds, they were surrounded by a crowd of angry, dusty men. Magrath brandished his stick like a sword to fend them off.

  ‘Stand back now!’ he cried.

  Elizabeth glanced up to the military walk. Everywhere, redcoats were readying their rifles. Horace Cobb pushed his way to the front of the scrum, his face streaked with sweat.

  ‘Mr Magrath,’ he said, spitting dirt. ‘You may be our respected physician. You also may be screwing the Agent’s wife here. But you have attacked one of my men.’ Shouts from the walkway, keys rattled in the market square gate. ‘And that we cannot accept.’

  ‘You cannot accept?’ echoed Elizabeth in a fury, letting go of Magrath’s arm and pushing forwards. ‘You, sir, are a prisoner-of-war. And we are tending the sick. We have no guns, no weapons. You will allow us free passage.’

  Bellowed commands from the walkway:

  ‘Back away!’

  ‘Stand down!’

  ‘Go back to your blocks!’

  Elizabeth saw the raised rifles and froze. Some of the inmates peeled away, running low and away from the firing line. The market square gates burst open, twelve militiamen running through, guns held high in readiness. As most of the inmates scrambled away, Elizabeth felt rough hands around her mo
uth, felt her head pulled back by the hair and a sharp serrated object pressing into her throat. She heard a shout from just behind her right ear. Cobb.

  ‘Drop your weapons, you redcoat bastards! Now!’ he yelled. And then, as an aside, ‘Get Lane. And his new toy.’

  Somewhere in the distance, Elizabeth heard the alarm bell being rung. She wondered what Thomas would do if he were there, and where his guard commanders might be. Magrath was pinioned by both arms, an Ally on either side of him, his stick broken in two on the ground. The militiamen had pulled up, uncertain how to continue. The rifles on the military walk had been lowered, the men unwilling to aim, however inadvertently, at the Agent’s wife.

  Cobb’s mouth was against her ear, his body pressed hard against hers. Her skin prickled with fear. She could feel his words as he spat them out.

  ‘I’m taking you to our prison, whore,’ he growled. ‘You’re gonna be our ticket out o’ here. And maybe a bit of entertainment while we’re waitin’.’

  5.4

  Block Four

  HE RAN SOUNDLESSLY around the back of Blocks Five and Six, a vast, dark figure suddenly right-turning into the channel between Six and Seven. The straight line it took to the courtyard meant that, by the time he hit the open ground, King Dick had reached maximum velocity. He burst into Cobb like a cannonball into ship’s timber: relentless, unstoppable, explosive. Elizabeth, the knife and six of Cobb’s teeth went flying into the dirt – mere splinters from the explosion. A dozen men were sent sprawling in his wake, crying out in fear and alarm at the speed and malevolence of the attack. Beneath the King, whether dead, unconscious or merely stunned, Cobb lay motionless.

  Joe, Habs, Sam, Tommy and a hundred others from Four arrived in time to see Magrath and Elizabeth gather themselves and make for the protection of the militia, saw them hurried through the market square, a guard commander at their heels, saw the King pick up the still, seemingly lifeless form of Cobb then offer him to his men like some broken sacrifice.

  But the Rough Allies were back on their feet and bristling with fury. Edwin Lane appeared, adjusting his belt and buttoning his jacket. He pushed through the crowd and the Allies jostled around him, a noisy phalanx pressing forward, edging closer to the King. This humiliation was not going to pass.

  The men of Four instinctively fell in behind King Dick, but he waved them out again. ‘Man the yards!’ he called, and they hurried to form straight lines across the courtyard. The Allies, briefly bewildered, had little choice but to line up against them. High on the walk, the redcoats played their rifles over the prisoners, as if hoping for some target practice. They saw the arc of the seven prisons cut in half by two ribbons of men, one black, one white.

  Habs and Sam blocked Joe from joining their line.

  ‘Not helpful,’ Habs muttered. ‘Not this time.’

  For once, Joe was happy to hold back, unwilling to confront his old shipmates. He stood away from the line, pacing anxiously.

  ‘Mannin’ the yards s’posed to be peaceful, ain’t it?’ said Sam, linking arms with Habs.

  ‘Never done it before,’ said Habs, eyeballing the long beard in front of him. ‘But yeah, all men aloft. Shows the cannons ain’t ready. Somethin’ like that.’

  ‘Not feelin’ too peaceful this time, cuz,’ muttered Sam. ‘More like we’re topside, eyein’ each other from closin’ ships.’

  Some of the men began pushing up against each other, locking heads. Where the line tailed to the steps of Block Six, Joe saw Will Roche getting in the face of one of King Dick’s old shipmates from the Requin. He was about to run over, warn him off, when the King himself interrupted.

  ‘The job is done!’ he called to his men. ‘Mrs Shortland is safe, the doctor, too. We should stand down.’

  A voice from the end of their line: ‘Only when they do! We ain’t runnin’ from no one.’ Another small rebellion.

  Joe hid his surprise and stepped behind Habs. ‘Who said that?’ he said in his ear.

  ‘Sounded like Abe Cook,’ said Habs. ‘Headin’ for a busted head later.’

  From the distance came the low, sustained rumble of troops running. The alarm bell had triggered a full emergency, and now all available soldiers in the barracks were heading their way.

  Habs eyed the two hostile lines, neither wanting to move first. ‘Looks like we’re waitin’ to board each other’s ships.’

  ‘Except it’s us about to be boarded,’ said Joe. ‘By the Brits.’

  Tommy pushed his way between Joe and Habs, pulling at their jackets. ‘Watch Lane,’ he hissed, and was gone again. They looked across to see Edwin Lane standing behind the first row of Allies. Unusually silent, his right hand was constantly inside his coat, touching, feeling, adjusting. His left hand rested on his hip, occasionally feeling the fabric of his jacket, absent-mindedly tracing an outline.

  ‘Sweet Jesus and Mary,’ muttered Joe.

  ‘Could be a knife?’ suggested Habs, knowing otherwise.

  ‘It could be, but it isn’t. We’ve all seen that before, many times. If a man has a new pistol about him, he stands different. He stands awkward. He stands just the way Lane there is standing.’

  Lane realized he was being watched and instinctively pulled his hand out of his jacket.

  Without speaking, Habs peeled away from the line. He reached the King just as a squadron of redcoats arrived in the market square.

  ‘Lane has a gun,’ he breathed in his ear, staying just long enough to feel the King’s reaction, then striding away from the lines. Within seconds, he’d been joined by Joe, Sam and the handful of men they’d been able to scare. As the gates from the square were unlocked, the King called the retreat. With the line broken, most of the men of Four withdrew. By the time the redcoats were in the courtyard, the only sailors left to confront were from Six.

  Those who knew nothing of Lane’s gun were the ones doing the talking; constant excited, nervous chatter accompanied the walk back to Four. Those who knew that the game had just changed were silent and sombre. King Dick’s only words were to Sam.

  ‘Get Tommy. Find the others.’

  Sam peeled away to find the crier, and everyone else returned to their mess. Alex and Jonathan were waiting with the King’s club and bearskin; he took the club, spun and caught it, rammed his hat down hard.

  ‘Get them doors shut. Ten men on sentry. At all times. Mr Goffe and Mr Lord will soon be here with the crier. Then, no one comes in.’

  One of the King’s messmates, a nervous-looking man with scar tissue where his hair had been, nodded, accepting the order. ‘Yes, sir, King Dick, sir.’ And he set about rounding up the first shift.

  Like a ship readying itself for departure, Four was instantly full and clamorous, everyone wanting to shout their opinions. Joe and Habs remained with the King as he heaved his way towards the stairs. They began to climb. The King’s voice was heavy with exhaustion.

  ‘Gonna try to talk to everyone. Mr Hill, you downstairs. Mr Snow, you upstairs. See if you can get some silence in this bellowin’ chamber. Meantime, I’ll stay here.’ The King walked to a step midway between the floors, then sat, spent from his exertions outside. Like small, administering birds, Alex and Jonathan brought him bread and coffee and then hovered, unsure what he would want next.

  While Joe pushed his way back towards the hammocks, Habs sprinted away upstairs. The first-floor messes were in the same tumult. There was no way he could shout above the men. Instead, he went from hammock to hammock, waiting for breaths to be taken, for brief lulls in the storm.

  ‘King Dick has news,’ he said, as each opportunity arrived, his urgent delivery compelling the end of each argument. ‘King Dick has news’ was repeated across the floor and triggered a drift to the stairs.

  A flurry of activity at the doors turned heads. ‘Doors open! Visitors!’ called the sentry, as Sam and the crier, now with Goffe and Lord in tow, were hurriedly ushered inside.

  ‘Doors shut!’

  Not knowing where else to take them, Sam
headed towards his mess.

  ‘Thank God you’re here!’ Joe couldn’t keep the relief from his voice. He nodded at the stairs, flustered. ‘King Dick wants to speak, but I can’t get anyone’s attention. Habs is upstairs. They’ll listen to him and they’ll listen to you.’

  Sam understood. ‘You too pale, Joe,’ he said, almost smiling. ‘Maybe they can’t see you – you like some kinda ghost.’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Joe.

  He watched as Sam flitted from mess to mess, speaking a few words to each, arguing with a few. As the noise dropped, the message spread faster. Within minutes, most of Four had gathered to where they could see, or at least hear, the King, pressing in on each other as they waited for him to speak. The staircase was nothing but a solid mass of men.

  King Dick pushed himself up with his club. It swung from his wrist as he placed his hands on his hips. For the first time since Joe had known him, he looked weary. Gathering himself, the King looked up and down the stairs, to the landing and then to the hall. Every man whose eye he caught would swear he was talking straight to him.

  ‘Men of Four. Today we saw Mr Cobb try to kidnap the Agent’s wife, and we took the necessary steps to prevent that happenin’.’

  ‘Shame!’ called a voice. It came from somewhere above the King, somewhere in the gloom of the first-floor hammocks. The King’s voice had been controlled but powerful, his words filling the prison. Now, he flooded it.

  ‘A shame? Really, a shame? You have prison madness, too?’

  The men closest to the King – the ones who could smell his boot polish and the sweat on his body – began to edge away from him, shuffling to the next step. When the King needed a platform, half a step just wasn’t enough. He swung the club, pointing it high.

  ‘I’m surprised I got to be sayin’ this, but let me make it clear.’ This was loud now, even for the King. ‘Takin’ the Agent’s wife as a hostage is in-tol-er-ab-le. Doin’ it, and believin’ for one minute that the redcoats wouldn’t come in shootin’, is the thinkin’ of a lunatic.’