BY DARTMOOR’S STANDARDS, the overnight snow had been thin and watery, settling no deeper than a few inches. The strong southwesterly carried the freezing air across the moor and deep into the prison blocks; the shutters had kept the flakes out, but little else. By dawn, the temperature inside was barely different to that outside.
Two slight, shivering boys flittered around King Dick’s bed, then settled, one on each side of his mattress. They nodded to each other then folded the bedding back. In a single fluid movement, the King rolled over once, opened his eyes and sat bolt upright. He wiped his face with his hands.
‘All quiet, Mr Daniels?’ he said, his voice thick with sleep and rum.
‘All quiet, King Dick,’ said the boy.
‘All well, Mr Singer?’
‘All well, King Dick.’
‘Very well, then.’ The King stood, the blankets falling from him. He had slept in stockings, vest, jacket and trousers, worn for warmth but in truth barely fitting his huge frame. He loosened the trousers and held out his hand; Jonathan Singer handed him a favoured black woollen pair. He tugged each leg on then threw his yellow prison jacket to the ground. Alex Daniels handed him two white muslin shirts, one inside the other, and he pulled both on together. Alex stepped on to the mattress to button both up to their high collars.
‘Sleep well, Mr Daniels?’ said the King.
‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir,’ he replied, pressing home the last button. The King pushed both shirts into his trousers and Jonathan handed him a wide grey stitched leather belt with battered pewter buckle and he strapped it to his waist.
‘Sash next,’ he said, and Alex handed him a silver band with four gold stars sewn into the fabric. ‘Made where, boys?’
‘Haiti,’ they parroted together.
‘Which is?’
The boys glanced at each other to coordinate their words.
‘An independent nation of free peoples,’ they said, their words memorized but said with emphasis and vigour. King Dick nodded solemnly then adjusted the sash across his chest. He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, untroubled by the malodorous air. ‘I was born a slave,’ he intoned, ‘but nature gave me the soul of a free man.’
‘Toussaint L’Ouverture, 1743 to 1803,’ chanted Alex and Jonathan.
‘Of course,’ said the King. ‘Good, good.’ He opened his eyes. The lesson was over.
‘So. Are we the first, Mr Singer?’
‘Yes, King Dick. And Mr Snow, Mr Snow and Mr Penny are waiting for the keys.’
The King grunted appreciatively, his eyes quickly surveying the rows of hammocks and mattresses; if anyone else was stirring, they knew to keep their distance and their silence. He stepped off the mattress. Alex passed him a pair of black leather boots with brown leather trim at the top and front; square-headed nails on the bottom formed an ornate pattern around the edges. King Dick grunted again.
‘Everyone admires my boots, don’t they?’
‘Yes, King Dick.’
‘I admire them myself. And they fit only me. So …’ He eased each foot past the bootstraps. ‘Amazin’ what that cobbler could manage, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, King Dick,’ said Alex and Jonathan together. Their snatched glance and brief smile at each other anticipated the King’s next comment. ‘Though I seem to remember he needed a little … encouragement.’
‘That he did, sir,’ said Alex, smiling openly now. Next came a heavy brown leather jacket and a military greatcoat, but the King waved the coat away. ‘Just some blankets for now, Alex. I can hear the turnkeys at the door. My hat ’n’ bat, and we can go.’
One floor down, opposite Four’s heavy double doors, Ned, Sam and Habs, dressed in as many layers of clothing as they could muster, sat shivering together on the cold stairs. Sam’s first pipe of the day was freshly lit, enveloping them in a cloud of yellow smoke.
‘That gotta be the piss of a fox you’re smoking, cuz,’ coughed Habs. ‘Some swindlin’ sailor sold you some bad flakes there and that’s the truth.’
Sam looked aggrieved. ‘Threepence for four ounces,’ he said. ‘I like it. Man in Two said it’s called Virginian River.’
‘Where foxes go to piss,’ said Ned.
‘Guaranteed,’ said Habs, standing up. ‘I swear my ass’ll be ice before they open these goddamn doors.’
Across the yard, the turnkeys were about their work, two to each block. Habs could hear their handiwork. The cries of ‘Tumble up and turn out! Tumble up and turn out!’ were met always by the anger of woken men, as vicious as they were predictable.
‘Son of a bitch!’
‘Go back to yer English whore!’
‘Kiss my arse, duck-fucker!’
In Blocks One, Two, Three, Five, Six and Seven, the turnkeys would bark their morning greeting around the floors, occasionally loosening the hammock yarns of the most virulent and most drunk. The louder the crash of bodies, the more the English laughed. But they didn’t enter Four. It was always different in Four.
The sound of heavy, booted steps approaching brought Habs, Sam and Ned to their feet in an instant. Two keys inserted and turned, two opened doors, two swathed turnkeys. It was a tiny moment, but Habs found the unlocking a daily emboldening, an unintended encouragement; even when conditions outside were worse than inside, their night was through and their incarceration, for a moment at least, lifted.
‘Good mornin’, Mr Turnkey One and Mr Turnkey Two,’ said Habs. ‘Whoever you are under those mufflers.’
‘King Dick knows what time it is,’ said Ned. ‘He’s already hard at it. He don’t need …’
One of the turnkeys pulled down his scarf. ‘We know. He don’t need the English to tell him when the day starts. You tell us every day, but we’re tellin’ you, anyway. Please inform His Darkest Majesty that he needs to tumble up and turn out, along with the rest of his poor, unfortunate subjects.’ They turned and were gone, and so missed Ned’s dropped-trousers salute.
‘My naked weapon is out!’ he called.
‘And it’ll snap like a tiny icicle if you don’t get decent,’ said Sam, lighting some more Virginian River. ‘C’mon. We’ll find King Dick is this way.’
The ground floor was stirring and thick with tobacco smoke. Some had heard the exchange with the turnkeys, others needed the piss tub or their first pipe, but everyone awake knew King Dick was on his way. Men slid from their hammocks then lashed them away; they woke neighbours and called warnings. A man holding tightly to his wooden crutch hopped past them with a coffee pot in his free hand.
‘When your fire is lit, we’ll be your first customers,’ called Sam.
‘Penny each,’ came the reply, followed by a series of racking wet coughs and noisy hawking.
Ned, Sam and Habs looked at each other.
‘Maybe someone else can be his first customer,’ muttered Ned.
Behind them, they heard deliberate footsteps.
‘Good mornin’, Mr Penny and both Mr Snows,’ called King Dick, as he descended the stairs.
Habs felt the voice reverberate in his chest as he heard it with his ears, rich, full and deep. Once more, the King wore the bearskin hat high on his head; the rest of his torso was draped in blankets of contrasting colours. The diminutive forms of Alex Daniels and Jonathan Singer peered from behind him.
He returned the greeting. ‘Mornin’, King Dick,’ he said, and, glancing at the boys, touched the knuckle of his index finger to his forehead. The King swung his club absent-mindedly, its handle now tied to his wrist with a leather thong.
‘Show me,’ he said, and strode away, a ship’s captain inspecting the decks.
A few of the shutters had been flung open but, for the most part, they were still closed against the cold. A thin, milky light barely illuminated the King’s path but was just sufficient for him to follow the forest of upright wooden stanchions that lined the floor. Eighteen inches apart, they gave each man a space of nine inches for his hammock. As King Dick walked the aisles, some men nodded; others saluted as they squeezed past. He called to some by name, and embraced others.
‘Damn but you’re good at this,’ Habs muttered.
Not everyone was awake. The King stopped at a stanchion tied with three clearly occupied hammocks. In the lowest, a fully clothed sailor lay spreadeagled across the stretch of hemp, two empty bottles wedged under his neck. Above him, a blanket covered all but a sleeper’s booted foot, and on the top hammock, barely six inches above the King’s head, a single upturned hand protruded over the side. The King looked ominously from berth to berth, the club spinning loose on its thong as it dangled from his wrist.
‘Thoughts, Mr Snow?’ he said.
Habs stepped forward and considered the spreadeagled man. ‘That’s Mr Kale, so the others’ll be Dean and Boyce. I think a turnout might be quite somethin’, King Dick.’
The King flicked his wrist, caught the club. ‘I think so, too,’ he said, and, reaching up, pulled hard on the top hammock. The hemp cloth spun on its clews, depositing the still-sleeping sailor on top of the man below. They cracked heads, woke with a roar and toppled on to the splayed Kale beneath them. His hammock split in two and all three men lay stunned and groaning on the granite floor. From the wrecked beds, a collection of dice, cards and coins scattered around them.
‘Mr Penny,’ said the King, his voice barely more than a growl, ‘will you collect those, please? Mr Singer, Mr Daniels, perhaps you could assist?’ Ned and the boys scrabbled to retrieve the fallen evidence, then offered it to the King in fistfuls. He waved them away.
‘On your feet, sailors,’ King Dick ordered. Still stunned, the three fallen men struggled to stand. The King, slowly, meticulously, wrapped just enough of the thong around his wrist to place the club’s ribbed handle neatly in his palm. Running his fingers along its shaft, he appeared to find a blemish a few inches from its tip. He picked at it with his fingernails, fussing, then seemingly content, polished the club on his trousers. The three tottering prisoners urinated where they stood.
King Dick stepped forward.
‘Asleep past turnout; too much grog and gamin’.’ The King prowled around them. ‘You know the rules, and you know that gamin’ happens upstairs or outside. If it happens inside, in the dark, under blankets … well, then, what am I to conclude?’ Kale, Dean and Boyce were now very awake and very scared. They inched closer together, trembling. Dean and Boyce both had blood in their hair. Kale wrapped his arms around his ribs.
‘Sorry, King Dick,’ began Dean, his head bowed, his speech slow. ‘We ain’t tryin’ to take your money or nothin’, really we ain’t. It was the peace, we forgot …’
Not good enough, thought Habs.
‘Oh!’ the King breathed, as he walked behind the men. ‘After your celebration, you was goin’ to declare your winnings?’ His words had slowed to a drawl; everyone knew what was coming next.
Habs held his breath. Two small hands found their way into his and he held them fast.
The King paused. One of the men, Kale, frantically turned his head to see where he had gone. He found the club six inches from his eyes.
‘You wanna watch?’ said King Dick, and pushed the tip hard against Kale’s forehead. The King twisted his wrist one way, then the other, grinding the club into Kale’s skin.
‘N–no, King Dick,’ he whimpered. The King held him there, as he squirmed like a worm on a fishhook. Habs counted the seconds. He got to eleven.
‘Too late,’ said the King. Kale didn’t see his wrist snap, just felt the club momentarily lift from his forehead then slam into him with the force of a battering ram. As he staggered then collapsed, the King, both hands to the handle, swung the club into Dean’s ribs, then, reversing the action, into Boyce’s. Both men dropped to the floor and Boyce took an extra blow to the head. King Dick knelt by the fallen men, gently touching each one with his club. ‘I want two shillings by tomorrow. Each. Now, go see the physician.’
Rising to his feet, he strode off, Habs and the rest of the entourage running to catch up.
‘I seen worse,’ breathed Habs, relieved.
‘Don’t they know nothin’?’ whispered Ned, glancing back at the injured men. ‘You can wake up here with most anything you might fancy, but dice? Why, tha’s terrible. Cards? An abomination!’
Sam shook his head. ‘They say gamblin’ the French disease. Well, before they left, we all got infected.’
Ahead of King Dick, the room had emptied. Now, the ground floor had its shutters open, its hammocks stowed and its mess tables put out for breakfast. The stench of sweat, smoke and urine was slowly being blown away by the winds from the moor and replaced by the smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchens. As they reached the final stanchions, Habs noticed two men still in their hammocks, one curled into a tight ball, the other sat hugging his knees. He steered the King in their direction.
‘And what is this?’ called King Dick. Both men looked up. Their movements were slow and painful. ‘What ails you, then? Are you sick?’
Sam went closer. ‘They’re bruised, King Dick. And cut, too.’
The King stepped closer. They both sported deep burgundy bruises around the eyes, and the knee-hugging man had a deep cut on his arm running from shoulder to elbow. Torn sheets had formed impromptu bandages; they were all soaked in blood.
‘Speak,’ said the King. ‘Explain.’
Behind him, the sound of hundreds of sailors clattering down the stairs filled the room. The two injured men glanced quickly at each other but said nothing.
The King nodded. ‘Very well. I seen that look before. I seen the fear. I’ll make some guesses. You were last to bed. Found yourselves outnumbered.’
An almost imperceptible nod from the knee-hugger.
‘Rough Allies.’
Another nod and then, finally, some words. King Dick leaned in close to hear.
‘Didn’t have no chance,’ the man whispered through swollen lips. ‘Now, me and Daniel there can’t get up soon of a mornin’ no more.’
‘You shoulda come to me,’ said the King. ‘Why didn’t you come to me straight ’way?’ The two men looked down, unwilling to meet King Dick’s eye.
He sighed. ‘If you won’t speak, we’ll do the list. You were buggerin’ each other?’
Both men shook their heads.
‘Tradin’ bad liquor?’
More denials.
‘So gamblin’, then. Gamblin’ without the King’s approval.’
Neither man moved, both frozen in fear.
The King turned to Habs, exasperated. ‘Is every man here trying to swindle the King? Do they not know we spend all that money on the shows?’
‘I’m sure they do, King Dick,’ said Habs. ‘And these seem to have been punished already.’
This time, the King’s club cracked a stanchion. ‘If there’s punishment to be had, by God Almighty, King Dick will do it, not some cocksuckers from Six!’ His explosion of rage terrified everyone who heard it. ‘Goddamn those Allies to Hell, I will not have this. Get some breakfast for these men.’ He handed coins to Alex and Jonathan, and they scampered for the door. ‘We’ll send for the physician. We’ll not let this stand.’