‘IT’S A TRICK.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a trick. A goddamn trick.’
‘I know what you said, Ned, jus’ not why you said it.’ The two black sailors had to shout above the wild celebrations.
‘’Cos it’s the truth, and you know it, Habs.’ The taller of the two men – round-faced, bald-headed, liberally spattered with boxer’s blood – spoke.
‘What we just saw, that was a trick. The white boy appearin’ from nowhere, jus’ when we was winnin’. Them Rough Allies are at it again.’
‘Winnin’?’ said Habakkuk Snow, his hazel eyes wide with incredulity. ‘Our boy jus’ been hit by piece o’ wood the size of a damn frigate. Smashed his face in. That’s mostly his blood on you, in case you ain’t noticed.’
‘I’da had him patched up, Habs. I got my tricks. John’s a tough boxer. He’d’ve come back stronger …’ Ned Penny pushed himself away from the huge retaining wall at the bottom of the square and stooped to pick up a large brass oil lamp.
‘He was out cold, Ned!’ Habs was speaking loudly now. ‘He wasn’t comin’ back from nothin’.’
Four men danced between them, and Ned tried to swat them away with the lamp.
‘And I say that if that white boy hadn’t arrived from who knows where, there’da been a riot here. The shame of it! We lost respect is what we did.’
‘You lost money is what you mean.’
‘That, too,’ said Ned. ‘The King got it all wrong.’
‘The King got it right,’ countered Habs, shaking his head in wonder, his black-and-ivory hoop earrings swaying as he did so. ‘Probably saved that boy’s life.’
The older man coughed doubtfully. ‘S’all very convenient, if you ask me,’ he said.
Habs shook his head and laughed, his corkscrew hair as animated as he was. ‘But Ned, that ain’t even the main news no more. It’s true they stole the fight. ’Course they did – they steal everything. But look aroun’ you. The war is over – we’re goin’ home!’
Around the square and the remains of the boxing ring, dancing and singing had taken hold. Fiddles, whistles and alcohol had appeared in an instant; even the soldiers were smiling. Ned shook his head, tugged at Habs’s blue military-style jacket.
‘Ain’t you learned nothin’?’ he said. ‘You just gonna trust that white boy who you ain’t never seen before, from a ship we ain’t never heard of? Who don’t even sound like no American neither? He tells us tales of peace ’n’ joy, and you swallow it jus’ like that? Man, everyone done lost their head today.’
Habs’s shoulders drooped – he knew there might be something in what Ned was saying. Eighteen months in this godforsaken hole had taught him that betrayal was cheap and as common as bed lice. Instinctively, he looked for his old shipmates from the Bentham, but amid the mass of men in the square found only one. He saw his cousin approaching, a pipe clenched between his teeth and a bottle in his hand.
‘Let’s ask Sam,’ he said. ‘He was farther up the square. He mighta heard more …’
Ned laughed scornfully. ‘O’ course. Let’s ask the cook. He’ll know what’s goin’ on.’ Lighter skinned and slighter than Habs but with the same electric hair, Sam Snow eased past a final line of singing prisoners, his arms spread wide.
‘Hey, cuz! We goin’ home!’ he said. They embraced and Habs felt his cousin sag against him. ‘Feels good to say them words and believe ’em.’
Habs wiped a tear from Sam’s face. ‘You goin’ soft, old man?’ he said.
‘Uh-huh. Been here too long, Habs,’ said Sam. He wiped the other tears away himself. ‘Too many sick, too many dead.’
‘Too many English,’ added Ned. ‘Always watchin’, always aimin’ their guns.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Habs. ‘And you believe it, Sam? You believe that skinny white boy?’
Sam looked taken aback. ‘Believe what? That the war is over?’
‘Ned thinks it’s a trick,’ said Habs.
‘Ned thinks everythin’s a trick,’ said Sam. ‘When that cannonball took his ear, it took most part of his sense, too.’ He nodded at Ned, who was pretending not to listen but rubbed what remained of his right ear anyway. ‘For a lamplighter, Ned, you don’t see too much.’
Ned shrugged.
‘Who would you believe?’ asked Habs. ‘Who needs to tell you, Ned? President Madison? Their mad ol’ king?’ He picked some candle wax from his jacket, then checked all eight buttons were secure. ‘If all this’ – he swept his arms around the square – ‘if all this is for nothin’, this place would riot. Even the English ain’t that stupid.’
‘So you always say,’ said Ned, examining the lamp’s wick, ‘but the English they send here are. We get the dumbest they have. It’s insultin’.’
Habs laughed. ‘You think everythin’s an insult, Ned. Every day you survive without a brawl is a goddamn miracle.’
Ned shrugged. ‘Uh-huh. Sometimes you jus’ have to fight. You ’scape from the Red River plantations, ’sjus’ what you do. You run north from Louisiana, ’sjus’ what you do. Lord knows it. King Dick knows it.’
‘And our boxer?’ said Sam. ‘Is the King sortin’ him? ’Cos, war or no war, lot of us still mighty vexed ’bout the way that fight finished.’
Habs, realizing Ned was about to make another speech, cut across him. ‘King Dick is sortin’ John, and then he’ll sort the bastards in Six. You know he will. He knows their fighter got that wood handed to ’im by one of the Allies, he saw ’em do it. We all saw it. Took it from the ring.’
‘Tha’s what I seen, too,’ said Sam. ‘And that blond white boy that made the speech? Him with the shaved head, tricorn hat?’
Habs nodded. ‘What about him?’
‘You seen what he’s doin’?’
Habs hadn’t seen, so he peered into the throng. The boxing crowd of several hundred had become an end-of-the-war, end-of-the-year party; the singing and cheering had summoned the entire prison population.
‘Can’t see nothin’. It’s gettin’ dark, Sam! Need your lamps, Ned!’ he shouted back. He waited for the crowd to move, but there was no sign of the boy in the tricorn hat. He had disappeared. Habs thought he recognized some of his crew, but the tricorn was nowhere to be seen.
‘Get closer!’ called Sam. ‘He’s in there somewhere.’
‘Why?’
‘Just do it, cuz, you’ll see.’ Sam waved him away and Habs began to squeeze his way further into the square. As the last of the watery daylight faded, the lamplighters appeared, earning their extra sixpence. Their oil lamps swung high in the corners of the market square.
‘Come and dance with us, Habs!’ shouted a young black sailor wrapped in a roughly painted Stars and Stripes flag.
‘You can’t dance, Tommy!’ Habs called back. ‘And you’re a lousy fiddle player, too.’ He saluted the boy and pushed on. Close to where the boxing ring had been, Habs caught a glimpse of the tricorn boy. He’d drifted to the edge of his crew, crouched low on the ground, pulling bits of extravagantly painted wood from the smashed boxing ring. Oblivious to the scrum around him, he was examining the rough joints of a snapped timber. Habs watched his brow furrow, a single line appearing beneath the hat’s brim, and he realized what had caught Sam’s attention. Very slowly, Habs’s face broke into the broadest of smiles.