JOE KEPT HIS eyes on the frozen path round to Four. It helped him to avoid the assault course of prisoners-turned-hawkers who stood in his way but, if he was honest, he did it because it meant he could avert his gaze from the overwhelming presence of the prison blocks. Tommy had said he would get used to them. ‘I hope to God that’s not true,’ he murmured.
Habs met Joe on the steps of Four and ushered him inside. ‘In a hundred yards,’ Joe said, ‘I’ve been offered more coffee than I could ever drink, something looking like a stew made with mice, and a small model of the USS Constitution in a tiny bottle. Norfolk County boys like me are not used to this.’
‘Coffee made o’ peas ain’t coffee,’ said Habs, as they climbed the stairs. ‘There’s some brewers outside o’ Two make better. And the best stews just have molasses in the oats. Trust me.’
He pushed the doors open and Joe marvelled at the cockloft’s transformation. The stage where King Dick had performed his impromptu Othello was now a boxing ring; two bloodied men in prison-issue stockings and trousers were grappling with each other as scores of onlookers yelled encouragement. It took Joe a few seconds to recognize them as the boxers who had run from the square. Two men at ringside tables exchanged money and scribbled in ledgers.
‘They’re mighty impressive,’ called Joe. ‘They run fast and box hard.’
‘Pugilism is all the rage in these parts!’ shouted Habs. ‘And if you can bet on it, we like it all the more. They just started, but there’ll be more fights, till the money runs out.’
They stepped over four men propped up against a fifth, his eyes glazed and a bottle in each hand, then weaved their way between the card tables. ‘They’ll find me a mean contributor,’ said Joe.
‘Oh, you don’t need money. Your clothes’ll do just fine. You could trade that stylish hat of yours for many a round of Pitch and Toss. Over there.’ Habs pointed at a section of the wall where men were lined up, pitching coins. ‘Or you could trade provisions. Save your herring and potatoes, swap ’em for some games of Twenty-one.’
All round them, dealers and gamblers hedged and shuffled, triumphed and failed.
‘It’s the Palais Royale of Dartmoor,’ said Habs, his voice dropping to a murmur. ‘This man here with the beaded queues’ – he indicated a man with a hand full of cards and an elaborately tied ponytail – ‘he has debts o’ twenty pounds or more. There’s talk that anyone with debts won’t be let home. He’s gettin’ desperate.’
‘Cobb warned us it could turn dangerous,’ said Joe.
‘Ha! Well, if it does, he’ll be the instigator of most of it. C’mon.’
At the back wall, Ned and Sam sat at a table, clay pipes in hand. They took their time with the loading, lighting and kindling but, as Habs and Joe approached, great clouds of grey smoke billowed around them. Habs coughed theatrically.
‘I swear the cannons of the Bentham blasted less smoke than your goddamn pipes, Ned Penny. And you, too, Sam Snow. We ain’t gonna be able to read for the fumes.’
Ned blew more smoke. ‘It’s a pitiful pipe and rank tobacco, too, but it’s better’n Sam’s fox piss. Besides, you rather stink o’ Craven pipe tobacco or unwashed sailors? Filthy bastards, all of ’em.’ He drew deeply on the lip and the bowl glowed red, the strands of tobacco catching and crackling.
‘And when I’m home,’ said Sam, pointing the long stem of his pipe for emphasis, ‘I’m gonna find me my father’s wood and metal pipes, some sweet smoke from Mount Vernon, and lie in my bed till three. And there’ll be no turnkeys, no British and nobody to tell me I can’t.’
‘Well, till that sweet day,’ said Habs, ‘here’s some readin’.’
He placed the books on the table and Ned grabbed the one nearest him. ‘Are there enough?’
‘If we double up,’ said Sam, ‘we can perform most of it.’
Joe placed his tricorn on the floor. ‘So you know the roles you’re playing? Is it always the same?’
Ned laughed then coughed, small wisps of smoke shooting from his mouth. ‘Well, now, I read for Mercutio, Sam for Benvolio and Habs is Romeo, but kinda overdramatic.’
‘Enthusiastic and passionate’s what you mean, but I take your guidance, fair Mercutio.’ Habs bowed his head and Ned returned the gesture.
‘Have you read Juliet’s words before, Joe?’ asked Sam.
‘I read the whole play on my first ship.’
There was a sudden flurry of feet, shouting and movement; Tommy the crier had arrived at speed. ‘King Dick is on the way!’ he managed, before a huge cheer rolled down from the far end of the cockloft. ‘Or should I say,’ he corrected himself, ‘King Dick is already here.’
They all rose to watch.
Standing by the boxing ring, the King was distracting the fighters so much they stopped moving altogether. The applause rolled around the cockloft, eventually picking up even the most incapacitated sailor.
Joe, clapping heartily, leaned in close to Habs. ‘Looks like the men o’ Four liked what they saw this morning.’
As the rest of the block heard the tumult, many more came rushing through the doors to join the applause. King Dick pushed the bearskin hat off his forehead, held his hands wide and turned his face to the ceiling.
‘Is he praying?’ asked Joe.
‘No, he’s actin’,’ was Ned’s whispered answer. ‘But it’s the same kinda thing.’
After the ovation faded, it was the gamblers who picked up first, followed by the boxers. The King stayed to watch, calling out corrections and suggestions.
‘Will he want to join us?’ said Joe. ‘Was he a part of the Romeo and Juliet you were planning before?’
‘Was he a part of it?’ asked Sam, incredulous. ‘He’s a part of everythin’ round here. He’s a part of that boxin’ match, he’s a part of that card game. And the traders outside Four? He expects to be a part of their takin’s, too.’
‘He was playin’ the Count of Verona and Friar Lawrence and the Apothecary.’
‘All right.’ Joe nodded slowly.
‘Jus’ assume he’s the captain o’ every ship round here,’ said Ned. ‘New ship, ol’ ship, same captain.’
‘I get the picture.’
Habs sat back at the table. ‘So. Let us begin.’ He handed one book to Joe, who sat opposite, and opened his own. ‘King Dick, he can join in when he gets to us. Tommy, sit with me. You can be Paris again.’ The crier sat and grinned across at Joe.
‘I learned to read here, Mr Hill,’ he said. ‘In Block One, they had advertisements for classes. There was writin’. Readin’. Maths. Navigation. It cost a whole shillin’ a month, but King Dick paid. Said I should do all of ’em. Now I’m the crier and in a play.’ This speech produced a round of applause of its own.
‘And what would your folks at home make of that?’ asked Joe, still applauding.
Tommy’s face clouded in an instant.
Joe realized his mistake. ‘Tommy, I’m sorry …’ he began, but the boy shook his head, wiping his eyes.
‘It’s all right, Mr Hill, really it is. I got no folks back home no more. That’s that. Can we do the play?’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Habs. ‘Tommy, maybe you start?’
The crier leaned over Habs’s book and was smiling again.
‘The Most Excellent and Lamentable Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet,’ he read.