by Simon Mayo
‘Won’t take long now and we’ll be through the wall, and the weather looks set fair, so …’ began Toker Johnson.
Cobb pushed himself up on the hammock. ‘No, it doesn’t help. We go on Thursday.’
‘But we can go sooner,’ said Toker Johnson. ‘Why wait and risk bein’ found out? We got boys in Seven want to push through now.’
Cobb lit his cigarillo from the nearest candle, and Lane pocketed the cartridges for safety.
‘’Cos the nigger play runs on Thursday, that’s why. The Agent has said he is going to see it. Everyone will be worrying about whether he’ll be safe in that den of depravity. They won’t be worrying about the little game we’re playing against the wall now, will they?’ He put the cigarillo between his lips and inhaled deeply. No one said a word, everyone waiting for the exhale, knowing he would answer his own question. Cobb blew the cloud lazily. ‘If we stand a chance of makin’ it to the armoury, we got to wait till their curtain goes up. Or down. Or however they do it in blackjack land. We leave just enough wall to break through, and then …’ He held both arms out wide and smiled his pinched-lipped cigarillo smile. ‘Then, gentlemen, the stage will be ours.’
5.6
Wednesday, 5 April
The Agent’s House
ELIZABETH HEARD HIS carriage arrive, gathered her wits and her shawl, then descended the stairs to greet him. She had much to report. In her husband’s absence, she had been attacked and Block Four had shut its doors; this much she would explain. She had also slept at the doctor’s house every night since he had been gone; this, she hoped to keep secret a while longer.
But she knew there was gossip. Inevitably, the prison talked. As the only woman within its walls, she was endlessly studied, observed, noticed. She was the entertainment.
And even under such scrutiny, she knew how Magrath looked at her. Even with his resolute discipline, she often felt his gaze: loving, curious, hungry. And knew that others saw it, too. Elizabeth knew that if Thomas hadn’t yet been told of their affair, it was only a matter of time.
She had barely arrived in the hallway when he bustled through the door, followed by one of the guard commanders. ‘Thomas. Welcome home,’ she said, smiling.
‘Thank you, Elizabeth,’ he replied, his tone brisk.
‘Lieutenant Fortyne, good morning.’ She nodded at his extravagantly moustachioed second-in-command and he bowed.
‘Mrs Shortland.’
‘Fortyne has a report of everything that has happened in my absence,’ said Shortland and, with a pointed look, he handed her his hat and cape and walked into his study. Fortyne followed, managing to look both embarrassed and censorious at the same time. The study door clicked shut.
‘He knows,’ she said to the empty hallway.
Their evening meal would arrive from the guards’ mess in half an hour, at precisely seven o’clock; by her calculation, neatly coinciding with the end of their marriage. She waited for her husband at the kitchen table, her heart racing, her stomach heaving. Somehow, she had resisted the urge to tell Magrath what was about to happen. Instead, she reached for her snuffbox. Two small, pinched mounds. Two sniffs. She blinked and dabbed with her handkerchief.
‘Ready when you are, Captain,’ she muttered.
There were voices in the hallway, then the sound of the front door opening and closing. She sensed a pause, a momentary hesitation followed by a gathering of nerve. Five strides, and he stood in the kitchen doorway. The blue frock coat was still on, the white waistcoat unbuttoned.
‘Elizabeth.’
‘Thomas.’
He took a few paces towards her. ‘Lieutenant Fortyne tells me you were assaulted by one of the prisoners.’ His voice was tight, controlled.
‘I’d have told you myself if you had let me.’
He frowned at the rebuke. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘I was shaken, of course, but no, I am not hurt.’ She spun the box around her left hand, then her right.
‘How did it happen? How is it possible that my wife, the Agent’s wife, had a knife held at her throat?’
‘There was an altercation.’
‘But you were tending to the sick?’
She fumbled the box and it spun away across the table. She watched it until it stopped rolling and tipped over. ‘An inmate from Six called me a whore.’
‘I see.’ Thomas Shortland folded his arms. ‘And are you?’
She gave a short, stabbing laugh. ‘Am I a whore? Really? That is what you want to say to me?’
He pulled up a chair, whisky fumes enveloping her from across the table. As he spoke, one hand tapped the table.
‘There is much I want to say, Elizabeth. I could talk about the embarrassment of realizing that naval colleagues and brother officers have been laughing at me. I could mention the barely suppressed sniggering from the ranks in the barracks. And yes, an old friend did eventually take me to one side to tell me that you were fucking Magrath!’ He shouted his obscenity, its violence filling the room. ‘But do you know the words that have really stayed with me? That shout from an inmate. When we were having our vaccinations. Do you remember, Elizabeth?’
She held his gaze, determined not to look away. Of course she remembered.
‘“Prickin’ ’er, like most nights, then,” I believe was the phrase employed. And it’s true, isn’t it? That is precisely what has been going on. And now I realize that that American prisoner-of-war knew more about what you are up to than I.’
Shocked by his vulgarity and the brutality of his assault, Elizabeth could not find the words to answer.
‘Thomas,’ she said eventually. ‘There was a time …’ But she got no further.
‘And my shame will be as nothing to Willoughby’s,’ he said. The tapping hand was tapping harder now. ‘At sea, fighting for his country, while his mother has taken to fornication.’ He smacked the table hard. ‘For shame, Elizabeth!’ His cheeks were flushed and his eyes glassy. ‘For shame.’
‘I am sorry, Thomas, for the embarrassment, truly I am.’ Elizabeth’s hands were trembling but her mind was clear. ‘Much as I am sure, in time, you will be sorry for your neglect of me. It is the men here that are your family, not me. You speak to them, understand them, spend time with them. It is they that satisfy you, not me. And as for Willoughby, I believe he will be fine. He understands more than you know. And hates this place as much as I do.’
‘That is as may be,’ said Shortland, his chin raised. ‘But this war with America is finished, and the men will return home soon. There will be no need of a physician here. Your’ – he searched for the word – ‘your paramour will be disgraced. We have the play tomorrow in Four. You and I will attend, applaud politely, and after that we will address the issue of your adultery. But be clear on this. When the Americans leave, so do the Irish.’
He stood to leave, wobbled slightly, then marched out. Elizabeth recovered her snuffbox and measured out two generous piles of tobacco. She sniffed them both, then dabbed her eyes.
‘Then so do I,’ she said.
5.7
Thursday, 6 April
Block Four, Cockloft
4.40 a.m.
BEFORE THE TURNKEYS, before the sunrise, before the nerves, it was the gulls that woke Joe. Lying in his hammock, he listened, transfixed. In the still-shuttered and locked prison block, it was hard to judge direction and distance, but he imagined he saw six birds, maybe more, as they screeched and wheeled. He remembered red bills, pale grey upper wings and black-tipped feathers. Always hungry, always scavenging, always fierce. He lay still, not wanting to miss a single call.
For Joe, it was the sound of home, of America, and of sitting astride the Eagle’s bowsprit, of hauling in and repairing the mainsail. Gulls were the soundtrack to everything he could remember, everything he had ever done.
Except here. He hadn’t heard them in Dartmoor, not once, he was sure of it. Now, their calling moved him deeply.
‘Can you hear that?’ he whispered, his voice thick
with sleep.
Habs’s upside-down head appeared in an instant, his corkscrew hair swinging as he spoke. ‘I been awake for hours, speakin’ my lines into this dead air. But you never said nothin’ back. If I say, “That I might touch that cheek!” and you don’t say …’
‘Ay me!’ said Joe eventually, finding his place in the new conversation.
‘Correct,’ said Habs. ‘And if you don’t say that, me sayin’, “She speaks. O, speak again” just sounds plain dumb.’
‘Did you hear the gulls?’ said Joe, reluctant to leave his reverie.
‘I been tryin’ not to but o’ course I heard ’em,’ said Habs, with a frown. ‘Wind must be blowin’ from the Atlantic. But I’d rather listen to Sam snorin’.’
‘Really?’
‘I hate them birds, Joe. They’re mockin’ us, can’t you hear it?’
Joe swung his legs out and pushed his stockinged feet into his boots. ‘No, can’t say I can, Habs.’
‘It’s that haw-haw-haw sound. They look down at us in this pitiful place, and they laugh. They work with the sea, so should we; they move with the wind, so should we. They’re free, and we ain’t. I always think that.’
‘You’ve heard them here before?’
‘Sure. But not since before the winter set in. Not since before you came.’
‘Well, if they’re blowing in from the Atlantic, maybe our ships will be blowing in just behind them. Maybe today’s the day.’
‘You want them to come today?’
Joe sighed, ran his hands through his hair. ‘The gulls have got me thinking of home, Habs, is all. But sure, I can wait one more day. We have a show to do.’ He tied his hair back with a strip of cloth.
Habs disappeared for a moment before slithering from his hammock and easing himself alongside Joe. In the near-dark of the predawn, the ground floor of Block Four hummed with a cacophony of rattly, phlegmy breathing. As far as they could see – and hear – they were the first awake, the first to rise.
‘Nervous?’ asked Habs.
‘I need a piss, then I’ll be nervous,’ said Joe.
‘Why don’t we go up and rehearse before the others get there?’ said Habs. ‘Before they even up.’
Joe nodded his agreement and placed a finger to his lips. ‘Before the turnkeys, too,’ he whispered.
The cockloft’s height gave it the day’s earliest light, and their first view of the finished streets of Verona took their breath away. Two of the upper room’s four windows had been left open, their shutters unfastened, and two beams of dusty, weak sunshine were cutting the air. They hit the stage high on the backdrop, where hundreds of brown and grey bricks had been painted to form the city walls. The effect was magical.
Joe and Habs climbed on to the stage. Two wooden crates had been placed at the centre, costumes and fabrics spilling out of both.
‘What does Romeo wear?’ asked Joe, lifting a torn and moulding cotton sheet from one.
‘Not that,’ said Habs, sifting through a selection of shoes, capes and hats.
‘Well, when you wear a French officer’s jacket all the time, I guess you don’t need no fancy costume anyway. You can just dress like you always do.’ A velvet cap hit him in the face.
‘A son of Montague does not wear French,’ said Habs. ‘He wears somethin’ like this.’ Habs held up a deep red satin shirt with oversized buttons and a high collar. ‘What d’you think? I wore it for Iago, so these sweat stains are all mine.’
‘Well, you don’t need me to tell you, Mr Snow. Can we think of it as your lucky shirt?’
‘We can, Mr Hill.’ Habs removed his blue jacket, placing it over the side of the crate. ‘Unless I got too skinny in here. Don’t want it billowin’ like a topsail that’s lost its wind.’ He pulled the two shirts he was wearing over his head and placed them on top of his jacket. ‘Still like you to like it, though. You’ll be marrying me in this, after all.’
‘Yes, but then killing myself, so my opinions don’t count for too much here.’ He watched Habs as he pulled on the satin shirt, arm and stomach muscles tightening and relaxing in turn. Each of his ribs was visible and his trousers had slipped below protruding hip bones. Joe hooked his fingers into the tops of Habs’s trousers and hoisted them higher.
‘I don’t know how you looked for Othello,’ he said, ‘but my guess is I wouldn’t’ve needed to do this. Wouldn’t’ve needed to hold your trousers up. But you still look good to me, Habs, and once you get some New York food inside you, all this will fill up fine.’ Joe patted Habs’s stomach and, suddenly, his hand was covered, held fast by Habs’s own. Heart racing, Joe tried, weakly, to pull his hand away, but Habs held him firm. There was a smile coming, but it wasn’t quite there yet.
‘We’re on stage!’ Joe whispered, glancing to the four corners. Their close proximity alone would have been cause for comment and rebuke; this new, public intimacy an outrage.
‘That is true,’ said Habs. ‘An empty stage with no audience. And we’ll hear if the stairs creak.’ Still Habs held Joe’s hand tight to his abdomen. Joe tried to speak, but nothing would come. He felt his hand being pushed lower. He let it slide briefly but, as his fingers dipped under the waistline of Habs’s breeches, he pulled it back, horror, shock and a thrilling arousal coursing through him.
Habs’s face was a mirror, a steadier reflection of the pyrotechnics going on inside his own head.
Joe cleared his throat as quietly as he could manage. ‘Rehearsal, you said, Mr Snow?’ His words were calm but his head was on fire. He avoided Habs’s gaze by fastening the buttons of the red shirt. The lower four were wooden discs – replacements, Joe guessed – and the top two were shell. Joe’s fingers twisted and pushed until they were all home. He brushed the shirt down with the back of his hands, straightening the fabric over the top of Habs’s trousers. Now he looked in his eyes. ‘There’s too much at stake today. You know that. We can’t afford to make this place any crazier.’
‘It don’t make it crazier, it make everything simpler.’
‘What does?’ asked Joe, but Habs was back at the costume crate.
‘I made you this.’ From the crate, Habs pulled a black dress. ‘It isn’t much – more of a nightshirt, I s’pose – but I figured you might prefer it that way. Nothin’ too fancy.’ He handed it to Joe.
‘You made this?’
‘I had a bit of help, but mostly … It was part of the drapes but I figured there was jus’ enough cotton to fashion somethin’ for Juliet. My stitchin’ is better suited to a foresail, as you’ll see, but at least you won’t look like a Regency madam or a whore.’
Joe held the dress up. It was long and round-necked, and some high-waisted stitching had indeed given it enough shape to pass as a dress rather than a curtain.
‘I wondered what this moment would be like,’ he said, still in a half-whisper. ‘Hoping folk wouldn’t laugh for too long.’ He handed it back to Habs, unbuttoned the thick jerkin he had traded for in his first, freezing month, then his regulation prison jacket and shirts. He shivered. ‘Half-naked on stage is not a good place to be. So let’s try it.’
Habs gathered the dress in his hands and eased it over Joe’s upstretched arms. The sleeves were wide and he wriggled his arms through easily. Habs dropped the remaining folds – it fell to just below Joe’s knees – and he stepped back to inspect.
‘Well?’ said Joe, feeling his colour rise again. ‘It feels as rough as timber, but please tell me it looks all right.’ He picked at it a few times, moved around to see how it felt, grateful it was just Habs at the first viewing.
‘It’s all right,’ said Habs. ‘You’re all right. With more work, it could look like less of a drape. Some embroidery, maybe, but I don’t think anyone’ll notice after their first ale.’ He walked around Joe. ‘And your hair is grown. You must feel safer.’
Joe nodded. ‘Of course. Dartmoor is bad, but it’s not the worst.’ The words ‘not yet’ formed in his head, but he bit them back.
‘I have one mor
e suggestion,’ said Habs. He put his hands on Joe’s hips and walked him backwards until they were behind one of the flats. Habs began to gather the dress fabric in his fingers. Joe closed his eyes. He knew what the suggestion was going to be, knew from the moment the dress had come out of the crate. He felt Habs’s fingers at the fly front of his breeches. Two buttons on the waistline, thirteen on the fly, but Habs worked swiftly. As they came loose, he felt his breeches fall to the floor, and Joe forced himself to step out of them. On the edge of a precipice, he reached for Habs, but held him at arm’s length. One hand held Habs’s shoulder, the other reached for a curl of his hair then twisted it around his fingers.
‘No,’ said Joe, the tightness in his voice giving it a rasp. ‘Maybe. You can’t …’
Habs put two fingers on Joe’s lips. ‘I know,’ he whispered. ‘I know all that, know they’d hang us for certain.’
Joe removed his fingers, held Habs’s gaze. ‘If they do see thee they will murder thee. I would not for the world they saw thee here.’
Habs dropped his head on to Joe’s shoulder and started to laugh.
‘Juliet speaks! So we are rehearsin’ after all.’ He closed his eyes. ‘So, let me think.’ He slapped his own face, agitated. ‘Right, same scene.’ He put his arms round Joe’s waist and pulled him close. ‘Wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?’
Joe’s eyes crinkled. ‘What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?’ he said, and felt Habs’s cheek move against his. There was a pause, a hesitation, and for a moment Joe thought Habs had forgotten the words. Then he felt Habs inhale and a rapid pounding against his chest.
‘The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine,’ muttered Habs.
There was movement in the stairwell: the turnkeys were at the door below. In a matter of moments, the block would be alive again. Joe wrapped his arms tightly around Habs. He knew he should break apart, knew they would have company soon, but knew also what he had to say.
‘I gave thee mine before thou didst request it.’
The applause made them start, then spring apart. Just one pair of hands, but they made a big noise.