by Simon Mayo
‘You want some freco, mister?’ asked one of the boys from Five, appearing over Lane’s shoulder. ‘Cheapest in the yard.’
‘I doubt that,’ said Lane, and walked from the steps. He crossed the thirty yards to Four and, with only the briefest of hesitations, slipped inside. In the darkness of the hallway, Lane palmed the shank from his boot then slid it into his sleeve. He listened hard. Upstairs, the noise from the play was overwhelming but, in time, he caught other sounds: movement and conversation on the stairs and upper landing, singing in some hammocks above him, vomiting from the heads nearby. The sick man left, then re-entered the toilet, vomited some more, before walking unsteadily back up the stairs.
Lane edged his way into the dormitory. Its layout was the same as in Six. Four rows of hammocks tied as high as the stanchions and human nerves would permit. Great heaps of clothes, bottles, plates and cups lay in each of the aisles; playing cards and backgammon sets had been left deserted on the mess tables. It was the kitchens at the far end that Lane needed to reach. If any tunnel existed, that was where it would be disguised. The tunnels Shortland had discovered in Five and Six had both started in the store cupboards between the enormous stoves and sinks. It would be the work of seconds to determine if the Negroes had done the same.
Mess by deserted mess, Lane crept towards the kitchens. Not all the hammocks were empty: he saw – and heard – many sleeping sailors too intoxicated to get to the play; none of them stirred. Then, conversation. Two, maybe three, voices. Lane froze, stepping instinctively behind the nearest stanchion. He was close enough to know they were coming from the kitchen, but all the words were lost in the architecture and echo of the room. He tightened his grip on the shank; felt, too, for the pistol. Still there, still armed. He walked closer. It didn’t sound like the breathless, exhausted talk of diggers, of frantic men seizing their last opportunity to escape. On the contrary, the words – still unclear – were lazy, the to-and-fro more like the work of men reminiscing over a bottle of brandy. One voice was becoming clearer – he seemed to be the main conversationalist – another seemed as indistinct as ever. One more mess before the kitchen. He stepped behind what had once been the block’s end wall and strained to catch the exchanges.
‘It’d drive me crazy,’ said the clearer voice. ‘Seems like such a waste.’ This produced another smothered reply. Lane frowned. Maybe there were other men, deeper in the tunnel, and these were just the sentries.
Silence. Then footsteps moved towards him. A cough, a swig from a bottle and a belch. ‘I’ll get it, then,’ said the clear voice. The man sidled from the kitchen and walked straight into Lane. He was stocky, shorter than Lane and bald. When he recoiled from his collision he dropped a bottle, which smashed, spraying their feet with beer and broken glass. Lane reacted first, slamming him against the wall, one hand pressed firmly against his mouth, the other holding the shank to his neck.
‘You got a tunnel, nigger?’
5.16
Block Four, Cockloft
4.10 p.m.
KING DICK TAPPED his feet impatiently. He had, in rehearsal, urged Habs to slow down, to take more care with his lines, but now that very precision was driving him to distraction. On stage, Romeo was taking his leave of Juliet, banished after his killing of Tybalt.
‘Farewell! I will omit no opportunity that may convey my greetings, love, to thee.’
‘Yes, yes,’ muttered the King. ‘Now hurry up and get banished.’ He caught Habs’s eye and gestured that he should move things on.
‘Dry sorrow drinks our blood,’ said Romeo, conspicuously faster. ‘Adieu, adieu!’ he cried, and ran from the stage. ‘What is it, King Dick? What’s happened?’
‘Nothin’, probably,’ said the King, ‘but John Haywood ain’t here yet. He said he’d miss the beginnin’, not the whole show. You’re not on again in Act Three or the whole of Act Four, and he trusts you, Mr Snow. He likes you.’
Habs didn’t like where this was heading. With a head full of lines and stage directions, the only place he needed to be was precisely where he was. But the King hadn’t finished.
‘Mr Haywood talks to everyone, but he listens to you. I want you to run down to the kitchens and instruct him.’ Habs’s eyes betrayed him. He would never question a direct instruction, but the King saw his annoyance anyway. His large black eyes narrowed. ‘It is two minutes’ work, Mr Snow, and you are not on for twenty. Swiftly, please.’
Habs snatched a glance at Joe and Goffe on stage, nodded at the King, then ran.
Habs moved without thought, ran without sight. His body might have been descending the stairs, but his head was already back on the stage. Act Five began with him and him alone. The words had already begun to run in his head when he heard a bottle smash. He stopped abruptly, pulled from his daydream. To begin with, he wasn’t sure why he had pulled up. It wasn’t the glass breaking – God knows, there had been plenty of that in the cockloft. It was another sound, one that had followed the dropped bottle – a sound that had alerted him to danger. After the smash there’d been an extra beat, Habs was sure of it now, and it had been enough to stop him in his tracks. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to recall the last few seconds. Gooseflesh crawled over his neck and arms. What sound, buried deep in a sailor’s soul, could trigger this? The slow unsheathing of a blade, the cocking of a rifle. At sea, the sudden, whipped tightening of the bolt rope usually meant trouble, but it couldn’t be that. Eager to be on his way but unwilling to ignore what his body was telling him, Habs hesitated. And then he had it.
Skull on brick. It was a sound he’d been familiar with all his life.
5.17
Block Four, Kitchens
JOHN HAYWOOD’S GUARD, a young seaman out of Concord, New Hampshire, named Cole, recognized Lane the instant he walked into him. The scarred skin, the high voice, the forked beard was some of it. The reputation for casual violence and hatred of blacks was the rest. Lane’s mouth tightened as he watched the fear bloom in the man under his knife.
He had dragged him around the wall, into the kitchen and away from any casual passers-by. ‘You know me, slave?’ he whispered.
Cole nodded. Lane held the shank in front of the man’s terrified eyes.
‘You know what I do with this? I kill people like you if they give me a reason. An excuse. So listen carefully. You gonna get a question once – I ain’t got much time. You make a mistake you end up like ol’ Ned Penny. Am I clear?’ The mention of Ned’s name made the guard whimper. Lane leered. ‘Oh, you knew him, then? Such a small world in here. So you’ll know the answer to my question. You ready?’ More nodding.
‘Is there a tunnel?’
The guard swallowed twice. ‘Yes.’
Lane was triumphant, his face contorting with pleasure. With difficulty, he controlled his excitement. ‘It’s bein’ used now, ain’t it? While the play is runnin’, you got men ’scapin’. Well, we gonna join your party, boy.’
But Cole was shaking his head. ‘No one ’scapin’,’ he said, his hands gripping the sides of his jacket. ‘There’s no one, really, in there now.’
Lane’s eyes closed as the tip of his shank cut into Cole’s neck. ‘Tell me that again, slave,’ he whispered. ‘I jus’ need to be clear. You’re sayin’ there ain’t no one in the tunnel? That right?’
Cole said nothing. He tried to pull his head away from the blade, but Lane kept it close to his flesh. ‘Y’see, I heard two voices,’ said Lane. ‘Two voices from right in here. So, unless it was the Devil Himself I heard you talking to, your nigger tunnel is in use.’ He placed one hand against Cole’s mouth and, with the other, pulled the shank sideways, opening a one-inch cut in Cole’s neck, blood running along the blade and on to the handle. The guard’s smothered howl delighted Lane. ‘For every lie you tell me, slave, I cut you. So. Is your tunnel in use, yes or no?’ Lane removed his hand from Cole’s mouth.
‘Yes, but not—’ began Cole, but then Lane’s hand slapped back again.
‘Spare me the detail,
’ he spat. ‘It’s in use – that’s it. How many men have escaped?’ The hand came away again and Cole swallowed hard.
‘None,’ he said.
‘How many are in there tryin’ to ’scape?’ Lane tried.
Cole looked conflicted. ‘Honest answer is none, Mr Lane. Truly there ain’t. No one’s ’scapin’ here.’ He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the knife. He felt its edge pressed hard against the cut.
‘Where is it? Where’s the tunnel?’
‘Store cupboard. Behind the boards, but like I was sayin’—’
‘Tell me what I’ll find there, slave. If you lie to me, I’ll slice you open like a pig. Tell me now.’
Cole fixed Lane with an impassioned stare. He spoke as clearly as his fear allowed. ‘You’ll find jus’ one man in fifteen feet o’ tunnel.’
Lane frowned. ‘One? One man?’
Cole nodded.
‘And fifteen feet? Just fifteen feet o’ tunnel?’
Cole nodded again.
‘Well, that ain’t goin’ nowhere,’ said Lane, considering Cole’s words. ‘So what in God’s name are you doin’ here?’
‘He’s sick.’
‘Sick and in a tunnel? Why’s he not at the hospital?’
Cole stared at the floor, and Lane suddenly knew the answer.
‘’Cos he’s hidin’,’ he said softly. Cole stared at his feet. ‘And if you got someone hidin’ …’ Lane grabbed him by the collar, the knife still hard against Cole’s neck. ‘Show me!’ he ordered.
Cole peeled himself from the wall and staggered the few steps to the second storage cupboard.
‘Open it.’
Cole pulled at the double doors and they swung towards him. Shelves and produce lay discarded on the floor. Six of the wooden back panels had been removed, the dark opening of a tunnel dug into its centre. The smell of damp earth seeped into the kitchen. Lane whistled. Crouching down, he picked up a handful of potatoes. ‘I’m imaginin’,’ he said, ‘that I’m at the fair, and all I have to do to win the prize is get one of these into that hole there.’ He turned to Cole. ‘Whaddya think, slave, reckon I’ll win a prize?’
‘Mr Lane—’ began Cole.
‘Shut up, I’m tryin’ to listen.’
‘Mr Lane,’ persisted Cole, and Lane slashed out, catching the guard across the stomach. The shank cut through his prison jacket and vest, slicing into his stomach. Cole gasped as he fell against the doors, hands held over his wound.
‘I told you I was listenin’.’ Lane spoke as though nothing had happened. ‘You hear that? Maybe you got mice and rats down there. You need to do somethin’ ’bout that. We don’t have this problem back in Six, y’see. This seems to be jus’ a Negro problem. Listen.’
From below ground there was a cough, then the sound of hawking and spitting. Slowly, a figure appeared in the tunnel. A high forehead, receding black hair, hollow, terrified eyes.
‘Now,’ said Lane, pointing with his shank, ‘I reckon I seen this vermin before.’ His voice grew softer, his lips now barely moving. ‘I was told you’d gone to hospital, but it seems you been right here all along. Now you stay right there.’ Lane reached for his jacket pocket. ‘I always known there’s only one way to deal with vermin.’
5.18
Block Four, Ground-floor Hallway
HABS STOOD MOTIONLESS, his Act Five lines slipping fast from his mind. He heard the sounds from the cockloft, but he was straining for sounds from the kitchen. He knew it was John – it could only be John. He ran into the dormitory, then made himself check and pull back. A four-high stack of hammocks by the door provided him with immediate cover, and he peered between the hemp and canvas. There was nothing to see, but there was plenty to hear. The voices were quiet, but one was carrying just fine – Habs would recognize Edwin Lane’s shrill, girl-high voice anywhere.
He had no time to run for help. Skin crawling, heart thumping, he walked with as much speed as he dared towards the kitchen. He bent to pick up a discarded grog bottle, holding it tight in his fist. Every step clarified Lane’s voice. The game was up. John Haywood had been found, recognized and was now in grave danger.
Twenty yards away, partially obscured by the cupboard doors, Lane was crouching on the ground, looking into the tunnel. Habs glanced around the kitchen, knowing there would be better weapons than his bottle not far away. But any detour could well bring discovery, and there wasn’t the time to risk failure. He stepped closer, then froze as the guard, hands against his stomach, collapsed against the open doors. Blood seeped between his fingers. ‘Sweet Christ alive,’ muttered Habs. He recognized the man now – John Cole was in the mess across the way from him – and he fought back the urge to charge at Lane. He has a gun, I got an empty bottle, he thought. Habs wiped the sweat from his palms, adjusted his grip on the bottle and resumed his approach.
He could still hear Lane talking, but his voice had gone much quieter now and all the words were lost. So when Lane’s right hand pulled the pistol from his pocket, Habs knew that the battle had started.
He covered the remaining ground in four arcing steps. As Lane raised his gun, Habs brought the bottle down on to his head with every ounce of force he possessed. He felt the glass shatter and its hilt catch on Lane’s skull. Before Lane fell, Habs hit him with the jagged shards again, this time slashing a deep groove into his scarred cheek. Lane howled with pain, surprise and pure fury. His blood ran fast. By the time Lane realized he had dropped the gun, he could barely see. Frantically wiping his eyes with his sleeve, he could just make out John Haywood reaching from the tunnel and grabbing the barrel. Lane launched himself at Haywood, landing on top of him. He struck out wildly, landing blow after blow on the lamplighter. It was only the click of the pistol going to full cock that made him stop.
Haywood had managed to throw the gun free before Lane descended; by a miracle, Habs had caught it. He knew the rules, knew you didn’t throw pistols around without serious risk of killing yourself. He had almost fumbled it, trying to avoid the firing mechanism, but his two hands gave the gun a gentle landing. Now it was aimed at Lane’s head. Habs’s eyes flicked between the gun in his hands and the man in his sights and Lane saw his uncertainty.
‘Nothin’ in it,’ he said. ‘Ain’t even loaded.’
‘I’ll take that chance,’ said Habs, feeling the weight of the gun in his hands. ‘I’ll take the chance that, when you got hold o’ this gun in the market, you traded for cartridges also. And that when you came huntin’ for coloured men, you came armed and ready to fight.’ He raised the gun, and Lane fell back. ‘My point exactly.’
He had fired a pistol in the action that saw the Bentham taken two years ago, but that had been into the melee of battle. He wasn’t even sure he’d hit anyone. He had never fired one at close quarters, and Lane seemed very close indeed.
He glanced at Cole, who had his eyes closed, bloodied hands still held against his stomach. ‘You bad?’ he asked.
‘I’ll be fine,’ he whispered. ‘I’m jus’ sorry I didn’t see—’
‘Hush,’ said Habs. ‘We’ll get you bandaged up. Jus’ hold on.’ He focused on Lane, holding the gun steady. ‘You won’t make it to the hospital. The cachot, then the hangman’s noose, will suit you fine.’
He called into the tunnel. ‘You recognize this man, John?’ Haywood had ducked back into the tunnel but now he slowly emerged, hands over his face. He opened his fingers enough to stare at Lane and nodded. ‘That the third shadow?’ asked Habs. Haywood nodded again. ‘Guilty,’ said Habs. ‘Murderer.’
Lane wiped more blood from his face. ‘You ain’t the judge. And your friend here is sick and ranting like a madman. Wretched boy, can you not hear that? No one’ll listen to him.’
Habs swallowed hard. He wanted to run for help, to get the doctor for Cole and to have Lane arrested, but all that would have to wait. He felt a cold fury take him.
‘You call me boy?’ he said, his hands tightening around the pistol.
Lane shrugged.
/> ‘Did you call me boy?’
‘Wretched boy,’ corrected Lane. ‘It’s in the play you made me read. And that is what you are. ’S’jus’ a statement of fact.’
‘Your facts, Lane, not mine.’
‘God’s facts, Mr Snow. God’s natural order. No judge will hang me. It’s niggers that swing. My story will out.’
Habs lined Lane up in the gun’s sights.
Then footsteps. A tapping stick. They all heard it, all knew who was coming.
‘In here, Dr Magrath!’ Habs turned his head to angle his voice better, and Lane’s fingers found the knife again, wrapping themselves around the hilt. Habs called a second time, but his sentence was hardly formed before Lane, shank high, flew at him.
5.19
Outside Block Seven
4.35 p.m.
THE REDCOATS HAD finally moved from the gates. Under a barrage of further insults, they had retired to the safety of the market square. With the gates locked and the Allies out of view, some propped their guns against the wall, kicking the lost balls between them. Stifling their cheers, the would-be escapers had at last been able to resume their game against the wall. But without Lane, and without Lane’s gun, they were just going through the motions. It was the gun that redressed the odds, only the gun that gave them any chance of reaching the armoury.
Pent up since dawn, the men of Six and Seven took to the wall – and each other – with ferocity. Two deputations of Allies had approached Cobb, wanting to begin their excavation. Both had been sent away.
‘Come on, Lane, where are you?’ he muttered, staring at the doors of Four. ‘The Brits are gone, we want to be going.’ Running feet behind him, another delegation. He turned briskly.
Joseph Toker Johnson from Seven, and four Allies this time, all new recruits. Toker Johnson was agitated but held eye contact.