‘TOMMY JACKSON, CRIER, left the clerks’ house and sprinted past the weary militia (who barely saw him coming), took a hard left at the alarm gates and was in the market square within seconds. Soon, it would be full of troops on parade but for now it was empty, save for the sweepers finishing their work after the bread handout. One of them raised his broom in salute, but Tommy had already gone, under the military walk and away.
The seven prison blocks had already turned out, and everywhere the fires of the coffee-makers and meat-boilers filled the yards with smoke, steam and fumes. Some of the recently extinguished indoor stoves were in evidence, too, most of them adapted to fry the bread, beef and cabbage that made up the bulk of the rations. Trails of grey smoke drifted across the courtyard before disappearing into the granite.
Tommy fought his way left into the reopened Block One, stood at the bottom of its stairs and bellowed, ‘All hands! All hands! News this day! I have news!’
Instantly, a crowd had formed around him. The stairs filled with the half dressed and the barely dressed and those who had been outside now scrambled to get inside. All the men had livid, corroded, pockmarked faces and arms, the scars of their recent nightmare; some were now blind. They stared at Tommy, but he had trained himself not to stare back.
The men heaved forward and all but enveloped him. An old sailor with a model ship for a hat hauled him from the scrum and stood him on the first step. Tommy took a breath. The prison flooded with hope.
‘Is it the peace?’ ‘Have we ratified?’ were the first shouts. Then: ‘The English must have given up?’ ‘Has the King died?’ ‘Let the boy speak!’ Since they had heard of the American victory against the British in New Orleans, any news was greeted with wild enthusiasm. Tommy had to wait a full minute before reading out what he had to say. Clasping both sides of the paper, he read slowly, and with a furious concentration.
‘The Agent of the Depot for Prisoners of War at Dartmoor, Captain Thomas G. Shortland, wishes it to be known that at 08.30 hours, there will be a proclamation read to all prison blocks. An unarmed senior officer will attend in each case.’
When Tommy had finished, there was a brief silence as the men waited to see if he was going to say anything else. But when he folded the piece of paper and they realized he was finished, the bedlam was greater than ever.
Tommy pushed his way outside – half the prison seemed to be camped out in One’s courtyard. He had been ordered by the clerk to ‘make great haste’ in distributing this bulletin, but he couldn’t even see Block Two, never mind reach it. ‘Read it again!’ came the cry. Tommy looked at the wall of sailors facing him and understood that, even though it was most irregular, repeating the dispatch outside was the only way he was going to be allowed to leave. So, framed in Block One’s wide doorway, he read his script once more.
They were already waiting for him at Two, where he delivered his news, again. A swarm of men then followed him to his own in Three.
At Four, Tommy leapt inside to find King Dick reclining over three steps, Habs, Sam and Ned all sitting on the stairs beneath, waiting for him.
‘We saw you comin’!’ called Ned.
‘We heard you comin’!’ said Sam.
‘So now let the crier do his cryin’,’ declaimed King Dick.
Tommy read aloud from the piece of paper once more.
‘So you are preparin’ the way, Mr Jackson,’ said the King when he was finished. ‘Like John the Baptist, there is another comin’ after you. Well, we shall wait here till he comes but, first, whisper to me.’ From the folds of a purple blanket, he beckoned Tommy closer.
The boy edged forward in small, reluctant steps.
‘Come, come!’ urged the King impatiently, until Tommy stood at the foot of the stairs. King Dick inclined his massive head, the bearskin hat hovering inches above the crier’s head. A fog of sweat, tobacco and pine enveloped him as the King whispered, ‘Will it be the peace, boy? Do you know?’
Tommy stood rigidly to attention. All he could see was the side of the King’s head – the old scars, a pierced but empty lobe, the wisps of black hair protruding from under the bearskin’s brim.
‘I … I don’t know, sir. I haven’t heard, King Dick, sir. I’m sorry. And I got to go.’ He bowed, just to be on the safe side, then turned and ran.
The throng had moved to Five. Tommy ran through the men who lined the route and now packed in to the entrance. ‘It’s the same news! It hasn’t changed!’ he shouted in exasperation as he fought his way inside. He had to get to Seven before the Agent sent his men in, or he would lose his job, for certain. One reading of the papers did for Five, and then for Six. By the time he reached Seven, his cry was a breathless one.
‘All hands! I got news!’ They all knew what was coming but they listened anyway, and when Tommy was done he was relieved to see Joe beckoning him outside.
‘I don’t know any more, Mr Hill, honest I don’t,’ he called.
Joe offered him some coffee. ‘It’s cold and tastes of rotting wood, but I found I got used to it after the first pint.’
Tommy took a small sip then grimaced and spat. A sudden silence fell over the prisoners, and Joe and Tommy glanced towards the market square. A voice carried from one of the blocks: ‘Here we are, boys. Look alive there!’
Across the courtyard, a small platoon had appeared by the gate. Red coats, green epaulets. ‘The Derbyshire militia,’ said Roche. ‘Our favourite.’
To Tommy’s puzzled look, Joe replied, ‘They marched us here. We sang at them all the way. They hated us.’
‘And we hated ’em back,’ said Roche. ‘Ugly sons of bitches, ain’t they?’
From their ranks, seven men now marched, fanning out, one heading for each block. The clapping and the shouting started in Seven, but it quickly spread across the blocks. The sailors around Joe had no doubt what was coming.
‘Here we go, m’boys! America is calling!’
‘Lady Liberty wants us home!’
‘Send the ships, we’re ready!’
Approaching the crescent of prisons, the British officers for One and Seven arrived first, rapidly followed by those for Two and Six. The soldier who had stopped just a few yards from Joe stood rooted to attention, staring straight ahead, apparently seeing nothing of his audience. Many of them had dropped their trousers and were calling, ‘Here’s to your mad old King!’ As the officer waited for his colleagues to reach Three, Four and Five, he was subjected to the full range of insults that the sailors had perfected in the course of their incarceration. The recently gleaned news of America’s overwhelming victory in New Orleans was fresh in every sailor’s mind.
‘Hang your head, John Bull! England is routed!’
‘Our victory is certain!’
‘The Mississippi runs red with British blood!’
The officer glanced left. One colleague had just reached Four, and Joe thought he saw a flicker of a smile pass across the officer’s face.
‘This might not be what we think it is,’ he murmured, but no one was listening.
‘Here we go!’
‘Send us home!’
The officer produced a sheet of paper.
‘There it is! It’s from Uncle Sam!’
The officer in front of Four raised his hand then lowered it. All seven proclamations were read together, the voices overlapping with each other around the square.
‘From the Agent at Dartmoor to all prisoners. Following the signing of the Treaty of Ghent, which provided for peace between our nations, many among you hoped for a speedy release. His Majesty’s government was also desirous of a swift return of our soldiers and sailors held in American jails. I have to report to you that your Congress has still not ratified the peace. Until such time, there can be no prisoner release or exchange.’
There were other words, but they were lost in barrage of groans, catcalls and abuse. Despair turned to fury in a flash. Breakfasts suddenly became weapons; all seven officers were hit by a rain of fish, pastries and scalding coffee. In front of Seven, to huge cheers, a plate of hot plum gudgeon arced over the sailors’ heads then splashed on to the officer’s tunic.
‘Thank the Lord he’s unarmed,’ said Joe.
‘Sure, but them others ain’t,’ said Roche. ‘Look.’ Behind the officers, many of the platoon had instinctively raised their rifles, aiming straight at the prisoners. On the military walk, each of the patrolling soldiers had men in their sights. A swift, bellowed command from their sergeant and they were reluctantly lowered again. The humiliated, food-splattered officers performed a swift about-turn, then made a swift retreat.
‘Runnin’ away like your brothers in New Orleans!’ shouted Roche, joining some of the other sailors shaking their fists at the departing British. ‘Cowards! We want our freedom.’
A group of them advanced towards the militia, arms wide, taunting.
‘Will!’ Joe shouted. ‘You’ll get us all shot. Why fight them when we have nothing to fight with?’
‘’Cos this,’ said Roche, stabbing his finger where the troops had been, ‘ain’t about Congress. It’s ’bout the British gettin’ whipped in Louisiana. And losin’ two thousand men. And losin’ their general. That’s what this is ’bout, and this is their revenge. This is a provocation.’
Tommy, next to Joe, looked close to tears.
‘This is bad, Mr Hill, ain’t it?’ he said. ‘You should’ve seen all them faces. In all them prisons. They thought they was going home. Smokin’ their last pipes, you know? Things gonna be bitterer now, and no mistake.’
Joe knew the crier was right. And Will, too. The war was over, but they couldn’t go home.
‘Yes, Tommy. Just when we thought we might be gone. Then their silken thread plucks us back again.’
Tommy slid an arm through Joe’s.
‘That you speakin’ or Juliet?’ he asked.
‘Both of us, Tommy,’ said Joe. ‘That’s both of us speaking.’