THE TWELVE AMERICAN sailors, starving, filthy, exhausted, who had been stumbling across the frozen moorlands since first light, regarded their well-fed and well-armed British captors, dressed smartly in bright red tunics, and concluded it was time for revenge.
They started to sing.
Full-throated and tuneless, the surviving men of the Eagle drove the guards of the Derbyshire militia crazy.
No one sang here, not ever.
‘Will you ever shut up?’ snapped one soldier, his unshaven face purple with rage and cold. He swung his rifle towards the prisoners, its bayonet missing one man only by inches.
‘Let them sing!’ called out another. ‘When they see where they’re heading, they’ll be quiet soon enough.’
‘And by the time they see the sun again,’ called a third, ‘the bloody pox will have taken their voices, anyway!’
The four soldiers laughed.
The small squadron trudged further up the hill, the narrowing track forcing the prisoners into six shuffling rows of two. The wildly uneven path, at best nothing more than trampled-down gorse littered with rocks, picked its way across featureless hills, the occasional dilapidated farmstead the only sign of human habitation. Many of the Americans had difficulty walking; arms had been linked and shoulders grasped. They were poorly dressed for the march and the bone-chilling cold. A few had boots, but the rest slipped and fell in their canvas shoes. A variety of hats were on display, some barely more than a square of tarpaulin tied in place with rope, but one stood out. At the back of the parade, one prisoner sported a three-cornered felt hat, pulled low over his brow, a few inches of closely cropped blond hair showing beneath its brim. He looked no more than sixteen. A tattooed eagle, wings splayed, bill and talons slashing, was just visible above his collar, roughly inked at the base of his skull. He leaned towards his marching companion.
‘Woman back at the dosshouse said it was fifteen miles,’ he said. ‘And seeing as that feels like at least thirty miles back, it can’t be far now, Mr Roche.’ He used both hands to steer the older man around a vast, rain-filled pothole.
‘You sure that’s what she said, Mr Hill?’ said his companion. ‘I didn’t understand a goddamn word she said.’
Joe Hill snorted. ‘Maybe you weren’t listening, Mr Roche. It’s Devonshire talk, that’s all. Just Devonshire talk. She thought we were renegade English and that we’d lose the war for certain. That it was a right impertinence for America to fight England again. We deserved jail is what she said.’
Will Roche spat in the mud, strands of phlegm sticking in the whiskers of his straggly beard. ‘She knows nothin’ of our fine Yankee victories then,’ he said. ‘Renegade English? For shame.’
‘Well, I reckon she’ll find out soon enough,’ said Joe. ‘We have proper American news, Mr Roche. American news fit for Americans, and there’s plenty where we’re heading. Might even know some of ’em.’
Roche’s voice dropped a little, flickers of tiredness and doubt licking at his words. ‘And you’re sure about this, Joe? You’re sure ’bout what you heard? ’Cos if we’re stayin’ in Dartmoor, we might as well make a run for it now. I’d rather die in one of these frozen ditches than be tortured by some English ass-worm.’
Joe put both his hands on the older man’s shoulders, his grip firmer than his narrow shoulders suggested. He spoke with all the assurance he could muster.
‘I heard what I heard, Will,’ he said. ‘My ears might’ve taken a beating these last years, but those words I heard true and clear. So, yes, I’m sure. You’re the father of the ship now. You should be sure, too.’
He hummed a few more bars and Roche nodded, momentarily reassured. Joe knew that Roche had always enjoyed hearing him sing, his shanties and songs of home always a welcome part of their life at sea. Since their capture, however, there had been silence. Joe had seen no reason to sing, no reason to dress their despondency with music, but now the tunes came again. Now, there was a purpose and a plan.
‘We mustn’t let them English think they’ve got us beat,’ he said. ‘They think this is their triumph, their victory. Well, they’ve got a surprise coming.’
Joe didn’t smile – it wasn’t his way – but any shipmates listening heard his excitement, sensed his buoyant mood. They knew his secret, and it helped to keep the gloom at bay.
The fog rolled away, blown by some unfelt zephyr. They had been climbing since first light, but this was no vantage point, just an endless, rotting-brown wasteland, a panorama as bereft and cheerless as a desert. Joe fought against the chills.
‘If it wasn’t for the hallelujah in our hearts, Mr Roche,’ he observed, ‘we might conclude this is the arse-end of England.’
‘We might indeed,’ said Roche. ‘And looks like we’re ’bout to climb right into it.’
Up ahead, the redcoats conferred, then steered their prisoners from the track towards a steep escarpment. As Joe scrambled past, two of them smirked at him. ‘’Ope you’re not goin’ to stop singin’ now,’ said the purple-faced one. ‘Not now you’re so nearly ’ome.’ They laughed, then the purple one coughed and spat. The path they indicated was wider and less marshy, but the gradient was a tough one and the English knew it.
‘What was wrong with the other track?’ asked Joe.
‘View’s better this way,’ said the purple soldier.
‘Proper scenic it is,’ sneered his colleague. ‘Quite something, top of this ’ere hill. All the prisoners say so.’
The sailors’ exhaustion was now bone-deep. Painful, bloodied feet began to slip from underneath tired bodies as they climbed, weary hands reaching out for balance. Leaden legs cramped then gave up altogether. Joe put both hands on the sodden, muddy hips of the barrel-shaped man in front of him, and pushed.
‘Steady, Mr Goffe,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to stay here, you’ll miss the party. We’re nearly there.’
There was a pained grunt from the man ahead. ‘There’d better be a goddamn party,’ he growled.
Joe recalled those miraculous harbour-side words he’d overheard just a few hours ago. The smiles. The back-slapping. The toast. Surely there could be no mistake.
‘There’ll be a party all right,’ he muttered.
The summit was marked by a solitary, skeletal pine tree, and a militiaman sitting beneath it stood to greet them, his arms open wide. ‘Welcome to Dartmoor,’ he beamed. ‘Why don’t we rest your rotten Yankee bones here for two minutes, just so you can take it all in, like.’
Joe clambered his way over the top, pushing Goffe then pulling Roche as he went. Around him, the cursing told him everything he needed to know. This wasn’t the casual profanity that was part of a sailor’s life; this was fearful, terrified blasphemy.
‘Sweet baby Jesus, would you look at that!’
‘Christ alive!’
Across the fields – another half-mile of gorse and stones – a great prison city had been carved from the moor. A huge encampment of enormous grey hulks, vast granite buildings with pointed roofs shunted hard together, seemed to grow from the earth. There were turrets, chimneys, fences and, surrounding the whole, two formidable encircling walls. All of it was grey. A deathly, exhausted, pain-filled grey. An unearthly silence seemed to spread across the fields, reaching out from the prison to envelop the sailors.
‘What in God’s name?’ muttered Joe, dread settling deep in his stomach. ‘It’s a ghost town, a goddamn ghost town.’
‘And we’re the goddamn ghosts,’ said Roche.
Joe was aware of Roche’s hand gripping his arm.
‘There ain’t no windows,’ said Roche.
‘What?’
‘No windows. None.’ There was real fear in the old man’s voice. ‘Look at ’em, Joe, tell me I’m wrong.’ Joe stared at the largest buildings; he counted seven in all. At first glance, they did appear to be solid, relentless walls of brick. But then his eyes adjusted and he picked out some detail that had been lost in his first, shocked sweep of the prison: rows of tiny squares ran like gun ports across the length of each wall.
‘You’re wrong, Will. There’s windows, all right, just not so big as any light’ll get in.’ He felt Roche sag against him. ‘What was it you used to tell me?’ he continued. ‘“Tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope.” That’s what we need. Patience and hope, Will. Now more than ever.’
‘I said that?’ said Roche.
‘You said that.’
‘Must have been in my cups then. Sounds like a crock o’ shit to me.’
‘Really?’ said Joe, surprised. ‘Well, seeing as we’re not going to be staying long …’
He began to whistle. He forced it to begin with, his mouth dry and his heart heavy, but its effect was instantaneous. The melody of ‘Yankee Doodle’ worked a little magic of its own. Hunched backs straightened, shoulders squared, eyes lit up. It was musical insubordination. By the end of the first verse, twelve sailors were whistling in unison. By the end of the second, they had fallen into line and begun their own, voluntary march to the prison, the soldiers cursing and scrambling to keep up.
‘It’s hard to whistle and look unhappy at the same time, isn’t it, Mr Roche?’ said Joe.
‘It is when you ain’t got no teeth,’ said Roche.
They marched and whistled towards a village; small, barely lit houses peppered the sides of the road. A newly built church stood closed and dark, piles of unused slate still propped up against its walls. A few curious souls looked up as they passed, most frowning. Prisoners, they had seen before; cheerful prisoners, they most certainly had not.
The road curved right and the ghost town they had seen from across the fields disappeared behind twenty-foot-high walls. The whistling faltered and a sudden cry of ‘Sweet Christ!’ told Joe they had arrived. It was impossible to see where the granite ended and the clouded, darkening sky began.
‘What kind of an English Hell is this?’ muttered one of the sailors.
‘John Bull’s finest dungeons for Uncle Sam’s finest sailors, Mr Lord!’ called Joe.
They approached the outer wall, its centrepiece a monstrous, angular arch. Huge slabs supported two heavy wooden gates, both reinforced with bolted metal bands. Sentries, oil lamps already lit, stood by them, watching their approach. Joe squinted at the two words that had been chiselled into the keystone at the arch’s apex.
‘Parcere subjectis,’ he read.
‘What’s that, then?’ asked Roche.
‘It means “Spare the vanquished,” I think.’
‘Spare the vanquished,’ repeated Roche. ‘And how would you know that?’
‘Oh, just more Devonshire talk, Mr Roche, that’s all.’
‘Is that right?’ said Roche, persisting. ‘An’ how might they be sparin’ us, then?’
‘Who knows?’ said Joe. ‘Maybe it just means they ain’t gonna kill us all. Not yet, anyway.’
The older man shrugged. ‘If you say so. I don’t find much comfort in them words myself,’ he said.
‘Maybe that’s the point,’ said Joe.
Two large houses had been built into the wall, one either side of the gateway. Faces flitted briefly in the window of one before rapidly disappearing again.
Will Roche cleared his throat, then called to his shipmates.
‘Gentlemen of the Eagle, we have come a long way together. We are, as you see, about to take new, fashionable lodgings. And when we see the poor, miserable English faces of our captors, we might need to sing again. If anyone needs some good ol’ American cheer, it’s these poor wretches. If we can’t put a sword through their chests, we should try to put a song in their hearts.’
The gates swung open and the Americans struck up their song again, the few hesitant, faltering voices drowned out by the wilfully defiant.
A wide courtyard sloped away before them. Plain slate buildings lined the far wall, larger ones standing hostile behind them. Once more, twitching curtains caught Joe’s attention. A face at the window – a woman, Joe thought, this time – but she was gone in an instant. From somewhere within the echoing walls – it was impossible to judge where – wild yelling, cheers, howls: the unmistakeable sound of a brawl. The sailors exchanged nervous glances.
‘Sounds more like a madhouse,’ muttered Roche.
Six guards stood waiting for them. Their sergeant saluted the nearest militiaman and they exchanged a few hasty words before cheerfully peeling away, clearly delighted to be free of their crazed American prisoners.
Now the sergeant took over the shouting.
‘Enough! Enough!’ he barked, a livid scar pulsing on his forehead. ‘Can’t you see where you are? Most Yankees shit in their breeches when they see where they’re heading.’ He rocked on his heels. ‘And the French would have burst into tears, but they’re gone now, thank Christ. It’s just you Americans, all the way from Block One to Block Seven. This is Dartmoor. You might have heard of it. Word spreads. And it’s all true.’ He widened his stance, as if expecting a challenge. ‘I’m Sergeant Cox. Most times, I’m called Ol’ Fat Bastard, but you will call me Sergeant Cox or sir. In fact, you call anyone in a red coat sir and it’ll go better for you. Treat us all as officers. Especially as all of yours are miles away, in their fancy billets. You, on the other hand, are all in Block Seven. It’s full, of course, but if we keep capturing you Yankee buggers, we got to squeeze you in somewhere. So bloody move along there! You can howl your American songs at each other all night if you wish.’
A scrawny, leather-faced man, a gunner from Indianapolis called Jon Lord, raised a timid hand. ‘What’s goin’ on, Sergeant Cox? Is that some kind o’ fight you’re takin’ us to? ’Cos it sure sounds like one.’
The sergeant looked as though he might be thinking of smiling. ‘Welcome to Dartmoor,’ he said.
The prisoners were herded through another arch, this one topped with an alarm bell, towards more high walls and another pair of huge wooden, closed gates, these slotted shut with a thick iron bar. This was the inner wall they had glimpsed from across the fields.
‘Well,’ muttered Roche. ‘Let’s see what games they play here, then.’
Four sentries raised the bar and swung the gates open. The square beyond was playing host to a fight, but not of the kind they had been expecting.
‘Well, I’ll be goddamned!’ said Joe. ‘It’s a boxing match.’
The high-walled square rolled away downhill to more iron gates, this time open and draped with prisoners clamouring for a view. Behind them towered seven enormous, ghost-grey prison blocks. And in their shadow, a feverish crowd, many hundred strong, was watching two men spar.
The crew of the Eagle were marched unnoticed into the square, their guards halting to watch the fight. The boxers, one black, one white, were already exhausted, bruised and bloodied. They stalked or staggered in a makeshift ring as the crowd swarmed around the affray, ebbing and flowing, yelling encouragement, waving their pipes, exchanging money.
‘The blackjacks have their man then,’ said Roche, nodding at the far corner of the square. The crowd there was more tightly packed, black sailors shouting out their support, shaking their fists. Around them, white sailors jumped and hollered with equal fervour.
On the few occasions that the hubbub dropped, a single resonant voice could be heard issuing a steady stream of coaching advice.
‘Push forward, push forward. Lean with your head, right foot first. Tie ’im up, push ’im back, push forward.’ Joe and Roche exchanged glances; who was talking and who the words were intended for was impossible to tell.
‘Who’s the coach?’ Joe chanced asking the nearest guard, but he just shrugged and continued watching.
‘Careful,’ warned Roche in a low voice, but Joe tried again.
‘This happen much?’ he asked, as casually as he dared.
‘He might answer,’ whispered Roche, ‘or he might run you through …’
The guard peered at Joe, sizing him up, perhaps considering Roche’s options. He shrugged again.
‘Sailors like to fight,’ he said. ‘It’s what they do.’
Joe persisted. ‘Big crowd,’ he said, but the soldier was done talking. Through the multitude, Joe could see that the black boxer had his opponent in a headlock, his free fist smashing relentlessly into the white man’s face. And then the man went limp. Sensing imminent victory, the black man released his grip.
But the white boxer wasn’t finished. From somewhere, he found a shaft of wood. To huge cheers from the white sailors, he flourished it like a rapier and the black boxer backed away. Joe couldn’t see what happened next. The men of the Eagle heard the uproar, they saw the crowd surge, then they witnessed a black giant of a man climb into the ring, grab the black boxer with one hand and flatten the white boxer with the other. The snapping of bone and cartilage – presumably the white man’s – crackled around the walls. Around the ring, scuffles broke out and the guards readied their rifles.
‘By me!’ called Roche, and the Eagle men inched closer. Joe noticed for the first time that there were guards stationed on top of the far wall – they, too, had their guns aimed at the melee.
‘This is bedlam!’ called Goffe. ‘No one’s goin’ to listen to us here. No one will hear our news. How are we gonna tell ’em anythin’? They ain’t listenin’ to nobody or nothin’.’
Joe took a deep breath. ‘We sing.’
‘What?’
‘We sing.’
‘They’ll crucify us.’
‘Just do it.’
It was just Joe and Goffe to start with, but the crew caught on soon enough. Within moments, all the Eagle men were belting out ‘Yankee Doodle’. By the second verse, heads were turning and, by the third, the fights in the crowd were breaking up.
‘We must look ridiculous!’ shouted Roche, mid-chorus.
‘Yup,’ agreed Joe. ‘Keep going.’
‘Do you think they can tell we’re from out o’ town?’ Roche grimaced.
Joe glanced at the men in the crowd; their various shades of uniform-yellow were a big contrast to the bedraggled, sodden tatters worn by the Eagle crew.
‘I guess they can,’ he said. ‘I guess they can.’
By verse six, they had everyone’s attention. The crowd drew forward. Puzzled, curious faces mixed with the angry and the combative.
‘What’s with the noise?’ called one man.
‘Where you fellas from anyways?’ called another.
Joe got the nudge. ‘Go on, then,’ said Roche, ‘and pray God you got it all right.’
‘But I don’t speak for the ship,’ hissed Joe.
‘You do now,’ insisted Roche. ‘Tell ’em – before they fight us.’
A group of pale men, each with a long, forked beard, had forced its way to the front. They squinted hard at Joe.
‘What in sweet Jesus’s name is going on?’ said one, his eyes perusing the members of the Eagle crew.
His bafflement, Joe realized, was only temporary. He’d want to hit someone soon enough. The man tugged at his beard as he spoke.
‘We gotta fight on here, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ said one. ‘You boys wanna join in, or you got somethin’ to say?’ He squirted tobacco juice from the corner of his mouth, then waited, arms folded. The challenge was clear.
‘Sure,’ said Joe, swallowing hard. He glanced briefly back at his crew, then to the sea of faces in front of him. High on the far walls, even the redcoats were watching. ‘My name is Joe Hill, and these are my shipmates.’
‘Can’t hear!’ floated a voice from the crowd. ‘Louder!’
Joe swallowed again, and imagined he was shouting into a gale. ‘We are what remains of the crew of the Eagle, out of New York. We were captured off Halifax, then held on a prison ship off Plymouth.’
He could hear his voice bouncing off the walls: everyone could hear him. On the never-ending march from the docks, it was the promise of this moment that had kept his feet moving.
‘I’ve got some news you might appreciate. The captain of the prison ship was this morning being informed by his commander that a peace treaty has been signed between America and Britain and that, even now, ships are taking the papers to Congress.’
He stared out at his astonished, disbelieving audience. Even the bearded man in front of him had stopped chewing to process the information. Behind him, Roche muttered, ‘Cannons all loaded, Joe. Fire at will.’
Joe nodded. ‘Gentlemen, the war is over!’