by Simon Mayo
‘Her stings are all sharp and they’ll pierce without fail.
“Success to our Navy!” cried Old Granny Wale.’
The fifth chorus was the one that crashed against the gates, the sixth the one that burst the locks. With a triumphant roar, the sailors of Dartmoor swarmed into the market square. Joe and Habs were lifted off their feet. They had surrendered all control – it was the crowd which now determined where they went and how they got there. All they could see were the heads of the men around them; all they could feel was a terrifying, breath-crushing pressure against their ribs. They held on to each other with a fierce determination, knowing that to fall now was certain death. Sometimes their feet touched the ground, sometimes it felt like they touched flesh and bone, some poor wretch who had lost their footing and gone under.
‘I just trod on someone!’ gasped Habs, twisting to see more, but they had already been carried past the fallen man. He levered himself away from the man in front of him, to ease the pressure on his chest. He glanced at Joe, whose face was turning crimson. ‘Do it!’ he shouted to Joe. ‘Do it!’ Feet alighting briefly, they both fought for an inch of space that might relieve the pressure on their lungs. Joe scratched, Habs elbowed, and when the crowd surged again they could see more and breathe easier.
They were carried past the hole in the wall, the five removed blocks revealing the glow of many redcoats and muskets on the other side. Habs ran despairing hands through his hair.
‘Sweet Heaven, that was my best way out!’ he yelled, watching it go. ‘I was gonna join ’em, y’know,’ he said. ‘Came down here, just after I killed Lane. Thought it might work.’
‘You wanted to join the Allies?’ Joe was astonished.
‘Joe, I’m goin’ to hang. You got that?’ Habs’s eyes were wide. ‘This is the end for me. I either get out or I’m taken away. I can’t stay here no more.’
The crowd surge ebbed away, depositing them, breathless, at the gates. The last time they had been here was to trade with the stall-holders; now, as they looked beyond the hundreds of sailors in front of them, they faced line after line of British soldiers, muskets level and bayonets fixed.
‘Shit,’ said Habs. ‘We’re trapped.’
5.29
The Courtyard
TOMMY JACKSON’S ROUTE to the gates had been straightforward. Skinny, small and nimble, he had twisted and squeezed himself into any gap he found in the tightly packed wall of angry prisoners. If he pushed too hard, if anyone took offence, their anger lasted only until they recognized him. Running errands for seven prisons wins you friends and a prisoner’s patience. ‘Crier comin’ through!’ was the shout, and the sailors moved if they could.
Tacking right, he was twenty yards from the gates when he felt powerful hands around his mouth and waist, a full beard pushing against his neck. He knew who it was from the smell. Only one of the Rough Allies smoked cigarillos.
‘And you are just who I wanted to see,’ growled Cobb. ‘It was good of the crowd to point you out.’ He pushed him out towards Block Two, the nearest of the prisons, Cobb’s face the only weapon needed to clear the way.
Clear of the crowd, Cobb threw Tommy against the wall of Two. The scraping tool appeared in Cobb’s hand and he held it tightly to Tommy’s throat.
‘You saw. You knew. You told,’ he breathed. Tommy, panic in his eyes, knew exactly what Cobb was talking about. ‘You need me to explain?’ Tommy shook his head.
‘No, that’s ’cos you’re smart. Traitorous little bastard, but smart all the same. You saw Lane with the gun, didn’t you? You guessed what he had and then you told that cockroach Crafus.’
Tommy hadn’t seen Cobb in a rage like this before. He gave the smallest of nods, as if to move any more would enrage Cobb further. Cobb pushed the blade until its tip pierced Tommy’s skin. ‘’Cos the truth, Mr Jackson, is that you love it with the niggers, don’t you? If you had to choose between them and your own, you’d pick the niggers every time.’
Tommy shook his head now, eyes swimming with tears. ‘They been good to me is all,’ he managed, his mouth hardly moving.
‘I bet they have,’ spat Cobb. ‘You know our escape failed, yes? While you were in that damn fool play, brave Americans were being attacked.’ His spittle ran down Tommy’s face. ‘So now you’re comin’ to a show with me. You’re goin’ to climb on my shoulders and we’re goin’ to a show.’ Cobb held the bloody scraping tool blade in front of Tommy’s eyes. ‘And if you shout and scream like a girl, I’ll cut your cock off. I hope I’m makin’ it quite clear?’
Tommy nodded. ‘Yes, sir, Mr Cobb, sir.’
5.30
The Market Square
THE GATES HAD been blasted open and pushed flat against the market square walls. King Dick had climbed to the top of one and was staring into the throng.
‘What’s he doing?’ asked Joe.
As they approached the gate, the King suddenly stabbed his club at someone below.
‘Hail, Mr Boyce from Indiana!’ he yelled, ‘And hail, Mr Gilmour from Illinois. Turn back now! Turn away from the guns!’ The men from Four, startled to be addressed by the King from atop the market square gates, looked all around. They indicated the thousands of inmates pressing in behind them and shrugged.
‘Can’t move neither way!’ they shouted back.
Habs put one hand to his mouth.
‘Hey, King Dick! Down here!’
The King twisted back and forth until he found them in the crowd. ‘You!’ he bellowed. ‘You, Mr Snow, and you, Mr Hill!’ The King was now standing on top of the gate, balancing precariously, one foot either side of the bar. ‘Have you seen’ – he hesitated just briefly – ‘have you seen our friend John? He’s missin’, y’see.’
In spite of the shooting, or maybe because of it, the King obviously still felt the need to speak obliquely. Habs followed his lead.
‘Not in his hole, then?’ he called.
The King shook his head. ‘Spoke to Mr Cole in attendance there. Like I said, he’s missin’.’
‘Sorry, King Dick, we’ll look out for him,’ Habs said. He and Joe wedged themselves into a breathing space behind the gates.
‘You got to go back.’ The King had started pointing the club again, down to the prisons. ‘Everyone got to go back! Away from here. Away from the guns. You need to tell all our men.’
Habs was unsure what to say. King Dick astride the gates was a magnificent sight: his bearskin, club, rings, earrings, sloped shoulders, the extraordinary height, the unrivalled strength. Even from the ground, Habs could follow those fierce eyes, like black opals, scanning the crowd for his men: watchful, protective, possessive. This was the King as the prison knew him, as Habs knew him, and yet all around, men continued their pressing, their singing, their confrontation. King Dick was being ignored. The men of Four who had made it this far couldn’t turn back if they wanted to, but Habs could see they didn’t want to and they wouldn’t anyway.
A great hollowness fell on him. ‘They told me I was everythin’,’ muttered Habs. ‘’Tis a lie.’ He tugged at Joe’s jacket. ‘And where in all the world will I find another Joe Hill?’
‘You don’t need to,’ said Joe. ‘I’m coming with you.’
Habs shook his head. ‘No, sir, Mr Hill, you are not. You have not killed a man, you will not swing. You stay here for the peace. You live a good life. Visit your grandmother, go home to Boston, sing for money, write books.’ He spoke softly, with a quiet melancholy. He looked at Joe and managed an exhausted smile. ‘Stay beautiful.’
‘Shut up, Habs,’ said Joe. ‘You’re being dramatic. I’ll do all those things, and I’ll do them with you. If you escape, I can escape with you. Anyway, you probably need me to get you out.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Probably, yes.’
‘And how do we do that?’
‘Bribery,’ said Joe. ‘It’s the only way.’
‘With what?’ said Habs. ‘If you’d kept your dress on, maybe …’
‘Back in Four.’
Joe reconsidered. ‘Are your earrings precious? They look tradeable.’
Habs fingered the black-and-ivory hoops. ‘A few dollars, maybe, a few shillings …’
A cry from above them: the King was on his feet, the club pointing again. ‘Mr Jackson!’ he shouted. ‘No, sir! Turn back!’
Joe and Habs turned to catch sight of the crier, carried on shoulders, moving through the gates and up towards the front line.
‘Tommy!’ they shouted together. He swivelled around the neck that supported him, his worried face searching eagerly for the King, for Joe and Habs, for voices he would recognize anywhere. ‘Turn back, Tommy!’ yelled Joe. ‘It’s just the army that way!’ Tommy shook his head, pointing to the head of the man who was carrying him, drawing a finger across his throat. Habs noticed two white hands tighten their grip around his thighs and then the crier swivelled back.
‘Whose shoulders are they?’ said Joe. ‘Who’s got him?’
‘Can’t see,’ said Habs, ‘but someone who don’t mean him no good.’ Tommy Jackson’s head continued to bob as he was carried further into the square. They could see the top gates open again and more troops rushing to take up position. There were now four lines of soldiers, each fifty men strong, and Tommy was being taken closer to them by the second.
‘A Rough Ally, then,’ said Joe. They didn’t need to say anything else. Joe and Habs both stepped out from behind the gates and launched themselves back into the crowd.
The market square, enclosed by four walls, had produced an even tighter squeeze.
‘Side wall,’ said Habs. ‘Safer that way.’
They threw themselves against the brickwork, then, using the wall as a backstop, began their fight to get Tommy. More fists, more scratches, more cursing, but they just about kept track with the crier’s head. They saw him twist again, urgently, frantically, looking for his friends. The crowd seemed to be parting for him. Despite the abuse they were hurling at the British, the men stepped aside if they could.
‘Do you see that, Joe?’ said Habs, pushing away an incensed inmate they recognized from One. ‘When they see who’s comin’, who’s doin’ the carryin’, everyone tries to move. Jus’ like that.’
‘Which means it has to be Cobb.’
5.31
Magrath’s Office
ELIZABETH SHORTLAND BUSTLED in ahead of Magrath. He slammed the door, then, from drawers and shelves, began to restock their medical bags. ‘Splints, gauzes, bandages, ligatures, tongs, a knife. That’s it,’ he said. ‘That’s all we take. And hurry.’ He handed her an armful of supplies.
‘George.’
‘Elizabeth, there’ll be time for this later. I know what I saw. I have to be a reliable witness.’
‘You know what Lane was like,’ she said. ‘He was an animal. Snow did what anyone would have done.’ She realized it sounded as though she was pleading. Maybe she was. ‘You’d have done the same, George,’ she said. ‘I’d have done the same.’
‘I can’t say I’m not conflicted, Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘I had hoped he might join the escape, but he did not. So there is still a man in Four with his stomach blown away by a pistol fired by Mr Snow, and I am a witness to that fact. However …’ He looked across to Elizabeth and swallowed hard. She knew his words would be forbidding, recognized his grim, businesslike countenance. ‘Elizabeth, I know an eve of battle when it comes along. I recognize it, I’ve seen so many. It was the same on the ships. The grievances, the posturing, the manoeuvres. Both sides want to fight. Shots have been fired already, and they are a harbinger, I believe, of what’s to come. We need to be ready for the whirlwind that is surely coming our way.’
‘I must talk to Thomas,’ she said, snapping her bag shut. ‘He won’t want a fight.’
‘Elizabeth, you are the last person he’ll talk to. Closely followed by me. You say he knows about us – very well, then. We’ll do what we can here, then there’ll be a reckoning for certain. But, for now, we have work to do.’
She stood against the door and closed her eyes. She saw Habakkuk Snow kissing Joe Hill then drinking the poison. She saw Aveline firing his pistol then running from the cockloft with her husband. She saw Willoughby, dressed in his Royal Navy finery, waving her farewell.
‘I must write to Willoughby, tell him what has happened.’
‘In due course …’
‘But before Thomas does.’
‘Elizabeth …’
A roar from the market square. Elizabeth pulled the door open. ‘I know, George. First, we survive today.’
‘And you go nowhere without an armed troop. Cobb has made his intentions clear. He’ll snatch you again if he can.’ Magrath made a last-minute check of his supplies. Satisfied, he took his new stick in one hand and his bag in the other. When he reached the door, he kicked it shut again. He leaned his forehead against hers.
‘The first time I saw battle injuries I vomited for two days,’ he said. ‘In the end, I sang to drown the frenzy and pain. Clean what you can, dress what you can. It’s all you can do.’
She kissed him, both hands cradling his face. ‘Then may God grant us strength,’ she said.
5.32
The Market Square
JOE AND HABS had fought their way to the mid-point of the square, and, eyes on the crier, hadn’t registered how close they were to the loaded muskets.
‘Steady,’ said Joe, pulling Habs back to the wall. ‘Tommy might be fine. You, on the other hand, are not. We’re twenty yards away from the British Army, and British guns. A couple of hundred British guns. Then there are gates, then more gates, then that foul arch we all arrived under.’
‘Parcere subjectis,’ said Habs. ‘“Spare the vanquished,” you said.’ Habs ran his eyes along the four lines of troops, muskets held in readiness, the late sunshine catching on buttons and bayonets. ‘It don’t look like they’re ’bout to do much sparin’, if you ask me.’
‘Agreed.’ Joe could see some of the soldiers lining their guns up, taking aim, fingers already curled around the trigger. ‘They can’t wait,’ he muttered. Many were the same age as him, younger maybe. He recognized Ol’ Fat Bastard and his skinny farmhand friends, hopping from foot to foot with nervous excitement. As stones and more abuse rained down on them, Joe could see they’d had enough. He could almost smell their rage.
The top gates opened again and in marched three men they knew. Captain Shortland and his lieutenant, Fortyne, marched towards their soldiers, behind them Dr Magrath, keeping pace as best he could. The Americans sensed a slight lowering of tension – and guns – as the Agent took control. He saluted his troops, then walked straight towards the inmates, hands held high.
‘You must retreat!’ he shouted, waving them back. ‘This is a forbidden area. Retreat, I say! Go back to your blocks!’ The inmates in front of him laughed. Retreat was impossible.
‘There’s too many men pushin’ to get in,’ said Habs. ‘Can he not see that?’ Magrath was now in earnest conversation with some inmates, pleading with them to push back. He wasn’t laughed at – he had gained too much respect for that – but he wasn’t listened to either. Foot by foot, the inmates advanced. A few tried to double back into the crowd, but there was no room for them now and they turned, out of options, to face the bayonets. Behind them, Rough Allies taunted the soldiers, inviting them to open fire.
‘C’mon! Shoot! See what happens!’
Joe and Habs pressed themselves against the wall, shrinking behind the inmates in front of them. ‘What madness this is,’ said Habs, his breath coming in short bursts. ‘The Brits are desperate for a fight, an’ we’re askin’ them to go ahead?’
‘Where’s Tommy gone?’ asked Joe. The mop of red hair had disappeared from the crowd, the crier nowhere to be seen. They both stood tall again, straining to catch sight of the boy.
‘Well, he won’t have gone far,’ said Habs. ‘Not even Tommy could thread himself through this cro
wd.’
‘Can’t see that bastard Cobb either.’
Shortland and Magrath fell back behind the first line of militia, the Agent snapping a command to his lieutenant. Fortyne called it for his men and, so there was no mistaking their intention, for the benefit of the inmates, too.
‘To the charge!’ he yelled, and two hundred members of the Somerset and Derbyshire militias levelled their guns and advanced. Within three steps, the first bayonets were pressed against sailors’ chests. The inmates pleaded, incredulous. ‘We can’t go back! We can’t move!’ was shouted over and over, as men with tears rolling down their faces pleaded with individual soldiers for mercy. More bottles and stones crashed over the soldiers’ heads, followed by American cheers. A half-dozen sailors grabbed the guns in front of them, wrestling the soldiers for control.
‘Steady, men!’ called Fortyne. The bayonets were biting. Some men screamed.
‘We’re outta time,’ said Habs. He cupped his hands to his mouth.
‘Tommy! By the wall!’ he yelled.
‘Get to the wall!’ yelled Joe.
There was a brief moment when Joe thought he heard a reply, a cry of ‘Joe! Habs!’ before his stomach lurched and the blood drained from his face. It could have been Fortyne, it could have been Shortland, it could even have been Ol’ Fat Bastard who gave the command. In the cauldron of the market square, it wasn’t clear and it didn’t matter.
The word was clear, the order given.
‘Fire!’
5.33
The Market Square
6.25 p.m.
THE FRONT LINE of the militia disengaged their bayonets and tried to aim their guns, but the crowd surged forward and the guns all went high. An erratic volley of musket fire rang out, the bullets whistling over the heads of the inmates. If they had room to cower or duck, they did so, some falling in the process. The British advanced a few steps, reloading as they went. As men at the rear fled the market square, the pressure at the front eased and the sailors were able to retreat at last, the bayonets following them all the way.