JOE AND TOMMY climbed the steps to the cockloft of Block Four. In physical appearance, the block appeared to be identical to all the rest: the same wide doors, the same stone steps, the same air of pervading darkness.
‘You see much church, Mr Hill?’ said Tommy, as they climbed.
‘Sure,’ said Joe, surprised by the question. ‘I was baptized back in Suffolk, England. And when we came to America we attended the local chapel at least twice a week. Baptist, I think it was. At sea, there were services aplenty. Reckon I seen enough church.’ He realized his new companion was smiling again.
‘You say your prayers, Mr Hill?’
Joe, amused at all these questions, raised an eyebrow. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘All sailors do. I’ve been praying for a full stomach, for us to go home, for America to win this damned war, and for my sweet mother and sister to stay well. Maybe I’ll say them again today if …’ He broke off as a sound like a low rumble came from above them. He glanced upwards. ‘Church?’
Tommy nodded.
‘And you’re sure Mr Snow invited me?’
‘He did, sir, yes.’
They had reached the top landing, and Joe paused, listening at the door. He frowned at the stomping and shouting they could hear within. ‘Sounds more like fighting than praying.’
Tommy shrugged.
‘How many in Block Four?’
‘Nine hundred and ninety-five, sir.’
‘And are they all in here?’
‘King Dick likes everyone to be there, but ’bout twenty-three don’t come no more. Black Simon throws some folk out sometimes. He’s the pastor.’
‘And are you coming in?’ Joe couldn’t believe he was seeking the support of a thirteen-year-old boy to attend a church meeting.
‘Sure.’
‘Then lead the way.’ Joe removed his hat and stepped aside as Tommy pushed at the doors.
They opened just enough for the boy to squeeze through. He disappeared inside. For a moment, Joe thought he had been deserted, then the doors were wrenched wide and he, too, stepped in. He couldn’t see Tommy, but then, apart from the backs of heads, he couldn’t see much at all. At five feet nine, Joe was taller than most sailors he’d met, but he still couldn’t see what was causing such a clamour. He tried pushing in further, but the men were too tightly packed. From the looks cast in his direction, he wasn’t sure they would let him in, anyway.
Straining as high as he could on his tiptoes, Joe finally made out what he guessed was a choir, lined up in three rows. The men stood on a stage littered with instruments: tambourines, clarinets, violins and flageolets. On the back wall, painted battlements gave the room a theatrical flourish. ‘The Dartmoor Amateur Dramatic Society,’ he said. ‘Of course.’
Distracted, Joe hadn’t noticed that the room had gone quiet. Or that the best part of a thousand people had turned to look at him. Now, he did. And every face black, he thought. He suddenly felt profoundly alone. A trespasser, an intruder – an imposter.
‘My apologies,’ he mumbled, and had turned to leave when a massive voice filled the room.
‘I spy a stranger!’
Joe froze, then turned back slowly. Now, he could see the far end of the cockloft. Habs and Tommy Jackson stood next to a bear of a man who was sitting on a wooden chest. He beckoned Joe over with one huge hand and, miraculously, a path cleared through the multitude.
As he stepped over arms and legs, a distant memory of a Baptist sermon back home on the parting of the Red Sea came to him, but this new miracle was happening right now. I am being summoned, he thought. This must be King Dick.
The man wore a bearskin hat high on his head, and a battered club swung in one hand. An image from Sunday School came to Joe: the hat was a crown, the club a sceptre. Courtiers sat scattered at this giant’s feet. There was no doubt in Joe’s mind who this man thought he was and who his subjects considered him to be. He found himself staring into a solemn, serious face – monumental, a broad nose, a powerful forehead overshadowing intense, burning eyes. Deep scarring was clearly visible on both cheeks and ivory-and-pearl earrings hung from his ears. He was magnificent. Joe held his breath.
The King pulled the bearskin low on his head then rearranged the embroidered cape that was wrapped around him. Underneath, a sash with four gold stars. Joe wondered briefly whether he should bow.
Habs stepped forward. ‘King Dick, this is Joe Hill from the crew of the Eagle. Arrived last night. Put in Seven. He brought the news of the peace—’
‘I know who he is,’ said the King, his words rumbling deep like a storm on the horizon. Gathering his cape, he rose from the chest and Joe looked up, dumbstruck.
King Dick was, without doubt, the tallest, broadest man he had ever seen. Six feet seven, maybe six feet eight, he seemed to go on for ever. On his feet he wore polished military boots. His thick woollen trousers were held up with a wide belt, and an ornate silver clasp kept his cape in place.
‘Mr Hill.’ The King was looking at Joe, but his voice reached everyone. ‘Our stranger.’ He raised a steaming cup of something. ‘You look … un-com-for-tab-le.’
Joe dropped his head, twisted his cap. ‘I guess I am, sir.’
‘Welcome to Block Four,’ said the King, waving his club expansively in front of him. The weapon – for that is what it undoubtedly was – looked as though it might originally have been some sort of bat, but it was now painted black and the square edges had been rounded off. Its many dents and scratches revealed it to be a working cudgel.
‘So, Mr Hill, have you read Thomas Hobbes? He was English, like you.’
Joe’s brow creased. Was this some kind of test, a trap he’d walked into?
‘No, I have not. And I am a naturalized American. My family moved from England when I was a small child.’
‘But you read, Mr Hill?’
‘Yes, whenever I can.’
‘Where is your home, Mr Hill? Please tell us.’ The King sat back down, being careful not to spill his drink. In sharp contrast to everyone else Joe had seen in Dartmoor, King Dick’s hands were clean, his nails neatly trimmed.
Joe cleared his throat. ‘Boston, sir. Dedham, Norfolk County, to be precise.’
‘And who do you have waitin’ for you?’
‘My mother and sister, God willing. Not seen them these two years past.’
The King nodded. ‘We don’t have no Fours from Norfolk County, I don’t believe. Though we come from all over.’ He turned his head to Habs. ‘Where’s home for you, Mr Habakkuk Snow? Remind me.’
‘Philadelphia, sir!’
‘Uh-huh. You, too, Mr Samuel Snow?’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Where else is home?’ The King picked up his club again, pointing it at random.
‘New York!’ shouted one man.
Many others nodded and called out, ‘That’s where I’m goin’!’
Then came a flurry of shouts from around the room.
‘Massachusetts!’
‘Virginia!’
‘I’m goin’ back to Delaware!’
‘Rhode Island.’
‘Mississippi, King Dick! Come an’ visit!’
‘Connecticut!’
‘South Carolina.’
After each had spoken, the King said, ‘Going home, going home …’
And other voices sounded out.
A thin-faced, white-haired man raised a hand. ‘I am going home. I am from the Tupi people. My home is Brazil. I am the last one here.’
Another stood, then another. ‘We are Bakongo. From Kongo. That is our home,’ one of the men said, before wrapping himself in what appeared to be a tarpaulin and sitting down again.
Hundreds were calling out to name their state or city, as if, by saying it publicly, reaching their destination became more real. Joe assumed this show was for him, though perhaps they performed this roll call every week.
‘Goin’ back to Georgia!’
‘Washington, DC.’
‘Vermont.’
‘I am a Jivaroan from Peru.’
‘New Hampshire.’
‘My home is in Bengal.’
‘North Carolina.’
King Dick pointed, acknowledged, moved on. Then it was his turn.
‘And from Maryland?’ he asked. The loudest shout so far. The King beamed. They had all waited, knowing he would give them pride of place. He called out the towns in Maryland and they hollered them back.
‘From Annapolis!’
‘From Baltimore!’
‘From Frederick!’
Eventually, the names fell away, and the King stood again, an elaborate unfurling.
‘King Dick is from many places,’ he announced. ‘The seas and oceans first, o’ course, then Salem, Boston and Baltimore. Also Haiti. And also Guinea. Before it all, was Guinea. My grandfather, he was taken.’ He paused. ‘Snatched!’ A longer pause. ‘Stolen from Africa!’
A few voices echoed: ‘Stolen from Africa!’
The King nodded. ‘He was always told, his brothers and him, never trust the men with the mahogany skin. The men who move like ghosts, who smile like beasts. That if you let them, they swallow you whole, they take you, take your soul, they take your ev-er-y-thin’.’
The King emphasized each syllable of this last word, the shiver in his voice triggering shivers in his audience. Joe assumed everyone in the room had heard this story before, maybe many times, but they were as captivated as he was; it wasn’t just the story’s rhythm, cadence and tragedy that gave it power, it was its familiarity. The King was pacing now.
‘But they came for him. They came from the coast, they came when he was playin’ by the river, he and his brother. Twenty of the ghosts, with fearsome knives, stabbin’ an’ pokin’ till my grandpa and his poor brother were in sacks a hundred miles away, ’fore they knew what was happenin’. One day he wakes from a beatin’ and he find he been sold to the Europeans. His brother gone – never to see him again. When he gets out of that sack, he thinks he will truly be eaten by these men with red skin, their women’s hair an’ disgustin’ faces.’
‘An’ they no prettier now!’ Ned called out.
Joe shuffled his feet uncomfortably, eyes to the floor. The King waited for the laughter to die away, then refocused on Joe.
‘You feel like I’m pickin’ on you, Mr Hill?’ Joe nodded before he realized what he was doing. ‘You want to look at me, Mr Hill?’
Joe whipped his head up. The black eyes were waiting for him.
‘We are jus’ tellin’ you things you need to hear. Tellin’ you things maybe you missed back in Norfolk County.’
Joe nodded again. ‘Thank you, King Dick.’
Satisfied, the King waved his club in front of him to clear some space. ‘Leave room for Mr Daniels and Mr Singer,’ he said. ‘They will come soon, bringin’ sustenance.’
Some of his entourage shuffled away from the throne.
‘We need sustenance ’cos Pastor Simon likes his words and, when he runs out, he tries out some new words. Things get … exhaustin’.’ When he smiled, the King’s enormous eyes glittered; they were glittering now. ‘And when he asks, we will pretend we understand them.’ He turned again to Joe. ‘Why did you come here?’ he said.
Joe was caught off guard, unsure. ‘Well, I …’ He glanced at the crier. ‘Master Jackson there said I’d been invited. Me and the Eagle crew.’
‘Uh-huh,’ said the King. ‘But why d’you come and the others stay behind?’
Joe was again unsure how to respond, not wishing to incriminate his shipmates.
‘Maybe,’ the King prodded, ‘they weren’t feelin’ too spiritual, havin’ jus’ woken up in this particular Hell?’
‘Yes. Maybe,’ mumbled Joe.
The cockloft door swung open and two white boys, maybe twelve years old, appeared, walking slowly, concentrating hard on balancing the cups and plates they carried.
‘Ah. At last!’ boomed the King, his basso profundo cutting through the chatter. ‘With speed now, m’boys. Let’s see what you have.’
They tried a faster step but succeeded only in spilling hot, steaming liquid on the ground.
‘Steady, then!’ called the King. ‘Make way for the bearers of coffee and plum gudgeons.’
The crowd parted to allow the diminutive figures to pass, their faces a study in concentration. King Dick took a cup from one and a plate from the other, swapping it for his club. He slurped coffee, then spooned fish and potatoes until both were gone. The smells, sharp and familiar, reminded Joe how hungry he was and he wondered how long it would be before he ate.
The King thanked the boys, then from his cape produced two coins and gave one to each. ‘Mr Daniels, you did well. Mr Singer, thank you. I declare I have forgotten what real coffee tastes like. When we go home – how sweet that sounds, when we go home! – I declare I will brew my own coffee like this, made only from English peas.’
The King swallowed the rest of his coffee. ‘I’ll keep the next one for when the pastor here tells us about Hell. I can see he’s itchin’ to start his service.’ He pointed his empty cup at Pastor Simon, who had edged himself into King Dick’s eyeline. ‘He will talk about “good news”, I expect. Am I right, Reverend?’
Joe swivelled to see the pastor, dressed in yellow prison clothes but with a voluminous black cloak pulled over the top, raise a hand in acknowledgement.
‘You’re right, King Dick. Praise God!’
‘You see?’ said the King. ‘But it is you that brought us the good news, Mr Hill. And today is Sunday. It is the first day of the new year. Some of our people were not in the market square last night. So, as you have come to us, please, let us hear it from you. You spoke well in the square, a fine performance, but we demand an encore.’ He beckoned Joe forward. He took a few hesitant steps, but the King waved him closer. ‘A word …’ he said, and Joe lowered his head. He smelled soap and fish. ‘You can put the hat on,’ the King went on, his words slow and hushed. ‘This ain’t church. Not yet.’
Joe stepped back, sliding the tricorn gratefully into position. He stared at the King. He knew. Somehow, he knew.
With a flick of King Dick’s fingers, Joe was waved back into position.
‘And speak loud!’ called the King. ‘There are many who are still cannon-deaf.’
Joe turned to face the sailors of Block Four. When Tommy Jackson had invited him to church, Joe had, to the extent that he had thought about it at all, assumed it would be familiar. Maybe even comforting. But familiarity and comfort seemed remote right now. A wall of black faces stared back at him; he didn’t see individuals, he saw merely colour. He saw the dirty yellow of the Transport Office uniforms, he saw cream tarpaulin, grey blankets, the greens and browns of the theatre scenery, but mainly he saw his two pink hands in front of a thousand black faces. His throat felt tight and dry.
‘Are you all right, Mr Hill?’ asked the King.
‘Yes,’ said Joe, ‘just feeling a bit …’
‘A bit white?’ suggested the King, and a wave of laughter rippled out across the room.
Joe nodded. ‘Just a bit,’ he said.
‘Well, you feel a bit white to us, too.’ More laughter. ‘And we not used to be bein’ addressed by white folk on our own deck. But today is different, don’t you think?’
Many cries of ‘Yes, King Dick!’
Joe felt a tug at his sleeve. One of the King’s boys was handing him a cup.
‘Have a little Dartmoor coffee to start you off,’ said the King. Joe took the cup and sipped tentatively. It was thin and bitter, but better than the stickiness in his mouth. ‘It’s just a speech,’ said the King, ‘and this is your cue.’ Joe handed back the empty cup, nodded his thanks.
He tried again. ‘Good morning. My name is Joe Hill. I’m from Boston.’ Better. He could see a few hands raised and heads nodding. ‘I was part of the crew of the Eagle, but we were taken off Halifax. We lost plenty of good men to the Yankee cause, many more in the ship bringing us here.’ He saw movement: the men were nodding in understanding. ‘We arrived in Plymouth Dock three days ago, held there for reasons we couldn’t fathom. But we heard the captain tell his crew that there was peace. That America and Britain had signed a treaty.’ The nods had become smiles. Joe added, ‘That no one else need fight, and that no one else need die.’
The smiles became shouts and the shouts became singing. King Dick shouted, ‘Pastor Simon? Now it’s your turn!’ and within seconds the choir was in full voice.