KING DICK STRODE around the square, club trailing from his hand. He chatted easily with stall-holders, took payments from some, gave advice to others. He handed coins to sailors for errands he needed and some that he didn’t. Everything appeared normal, but many sailors, well used to spotting the smallest of changes in weather, ship or crew, suspected otherwise. When the King was on his own, and especially when Alex and Jonathan weren’t with him, violence was usually never far away. They passed on the information to the stall-holders, who surreptitiously began to pack up their stalls.
When Horace Cobb and Edwin Lane appeared at the market square entrance, everyone else packed up, too. A few minutes away from the noon bell, staying open wasn’t worth the risk. Since Ned’s murder, tension in the prison was knife-edge sharp. Shortland’s men had snatched the first Rough Ally they’d found and thrown him in the cachot. Block Six had been told he would only be released if they surrendered the real culprit. Until that happened, they would assume they had the right man and hang him if they had to. Six and the other white blocks accused the British of bullying, but the Ally stayed, chained and howling, in the cachot.
Cobb had requested to see the King, and this was their chosen meeting place. It was a good venue, King Dick had conceded; it was neutral territory, a public space and one viewable, albeit from their distant platforms behind Blocks One and Seven, by the militia patrolling on the military walk.
Cobb and Lane waited, arms folded. Cobb relit his cigarillo, Lane smoked his clay pipe, the stall-holders rapidly put their goods away. A hundred yards away, the King stood in the middle of the square, next to a clothing stall, his free hand playing with a tartan blanket. The market trader, an emaciated retired Scottish sailor who had done a lot of business with the King, fidgeted nervously.
‘Might there be something you’d like, sir, King Dick, sir?’ said the man, his eyes darting from his stall to the Rough Allies at the gates.
‘There is somethin’,’ growled the King.
‘Happy to help, sir.’
The King was taking his time; he knew Cobb would prefer to wait until all the stalls had been taken down.
‘What can I do for you?’ urged the stall-holder, now the only one still trading.
The King pointed his club at Cobb and Lane. ‘Never grow a beard like them,’ he said.
‘Oh. Right you are, sir,’ he replied, trying not to sound too surprised.
‘Not unless you want to be seen as a criminal or a rogue or a murderin’ bully.’
‘No, I don’t want any of those things, sir. Will that be all?’
‘Yes,’ said the King, ‘and I’ll take this blanket.’ He handed over some coins and the stall-holder swapped them for the tartan. He was packed and gone within a minute.
King Dick looked up as the noon bell rang. Tommy Jackson appeared, glanced over at him, the Allies and the emptying market square and obviously concluded he wasn’t needed. The King wrapped his new blanket around himself and waited. As the blanket-seller left the square, Cobb and Lane sauntered over. They both wore long coats and had ensured that their beards were freshly decorated and on view.
Cobb and Lane stopped a dozen yards away. The King was used to this; any closer and they’d feel like dwarves, any further away and they’d all be shouting.
‘Mr Cobb, Mr Lane,’ said the King. ‘Good day to you both.’
‘Good day,’ said Cobb, adjusting his stovepipe hat, pushing it back from his forehead.
He inhaled deeply on his cigarillo, seemingly intent on finishing it before proceeding further. The King’s patience was draining fast, but still he waited. Faces now at the windows of the prisons were rapidly joined by others as the word spread.
Eventually, King Dick had seen enough. ‘If you gentlemen jus’ needed some smokin’ time, you shoulda said. I coulda brought you some new tobacco I found from Virginia, has a special flavour. You want me to fix you some?’
Cobb spat out the cigarillo and ground it into a paving slab. ‘You know we don’t trade with you, Crafus,’ he said, his voice tight, the words more clipped than ever. ‘You know what we think of your business activities.’
‘My “business activities”?’ said the King. ‘I was merely passin’ time till you gentlemen get to the point.’
‘The point’ – Cobb’s voice dropped – ‘is escape. We hear you’ve got your tunnel going. That true?’
‘Well, now,’ said the King, ‘the point as I see it is Rough Allies killin’ and attackin’ black men jus’ when they fancy.’ The King addressed everything to Cobb. Cobb was the power in Six, his control over their committees almost total.
‘That was … unfortunate.’
‘That ain’t quite the right word, now, is it, Mr Cobb?’ the King snapped back. ‘How ’bout “shameful”? Or maybe “disgustin”’? Maybe we could try “scandalizin”’ and “horrifyin”’. And how ’bout “murderous” while we’re at it? How do those words sound to you, Mr Cobb?’
Cobb ran his hands over his beard, separating the two strands, then looked up. ‘I grant you,’ he said, ‘Mr Penny’s death was shameful. The attack on Mr Haywood was shameful, too.’
The King, surprised, sensed a sudden nervousness from Lane. Maybe he had been surprised, too. ‘The man in the cachot,’ he asked. ‘Is he the murderer?’
‘Might be.’
‘Are there others?’
‘Might be.’
‘And what will you do if there are others?’
But Cobb was done with the revelations. ‘I don’t answer to the likes of you, Crafus. None of us do.’
‘“The likes of me”? Now, what does that mean, I wonder?’
‘You know.’
‘Oh, you meanin’ slaves – you shoulda said. It would avoid any misunderstandin’. “Those who think themselves the master of others are indeed greater slaves than they.” D’you know who said that? Mr Cobb? Mr Lane?’
Lane looked annoyed. Cobb sighed. ‘These foolish games of yours, Crafus. It’s tiresome is what it is.’
‘Now, I might be wrong ’bout this,’ said the King, ‘but I think you might just be pretendin’ to be stupid. I’m sure you’ve read your Rousseau; I have some in my mess if you’d like a reminder. He has a lot to say on the matter.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You wanna talk tunnels, first you talk Ned Penny. You know exactly what happened and who was involved. If you want some kind o’ peace deal, some kind o’ ’scape plan, justice comes first.’
In the prison blocks, every window was occupied. Cobb made up his mind. ‘The man in the cachot wasn’t involved in killing your precious Ned Penny or sending John Haywood crying to Plymouth. It was two others.’
‘Who?’
‘I’ll tell the British.’ The briefest of glances from Lane at Cobb.
‘You might wanna tell your deputy, too,’ said the King. ‘He’s lookin’ … un-com-for-ta-ble there.’
‘We know there’s a tunnel in Four,’ said Cobb, ignoring the barb. ‘It’s the only one that was never found. We know that much.’
The King acknowledged both points. ‘Yeah, there was a tunnel. And yeah, it’s the only Dartmoor tunnel the Brits never found. That is true.’
‘And we think,’ said Cobb, ‘that your little play, your little Romeo and Juliet, is just a cover. No one needs another one of your Dick shows now, not when the only thing anyone is interested in is gettin’ home.’
The King covered his surprise with a rearrangement of his new blanket.
‘We need an escape plan, Crafus. The war is over, but we ain’t ever getting out. I do believe that. My men are desperate – they’ll fight their way out if they got to. We wanna use that tunnel.’
‘But it’s a nigger tunnel, Mr Cobb! You surely would prefer a separate one, a less con-ta-min-at-ed one? There were tunnels in the white blocks, y’know – surely a white tunnel’d suit you better? I’m sure with a little diggin’ you could get it all goin’ again.’
The challenge was plain, but it went unanswered. Cobb said nothing. Lane was twitching.
After a while the King shook his head. ‘There ain’t no ’scape plan, Cobb, the play’s a play. We’ve been waitin’ all this time for home – why get yourself shot when it’s this close?’
‘We don’t believe you,’ said Cobb, stepping closer.
The King pointed his club at Cobb’s chest. ‘No nearer,’ he growled.
‘I’ve told you ’bout your colleague’s murder,’ continued Cobb. ‘Now you tell me what you’re really doing with your Shakespeare.’
The King was disgusted. ‘You tradin’ with me now? You kill an innocent man, try to kill another – my men, Mr Cobb – then think you can fix some kinda deal?’
They stared at each other.
‘You do deals,’ said Cobb. ‘I do deals. It’s what we do.’
The King took a deep breath and turned to Edwin Lane. ‘I seen you come to our shows, Mr Lane. Ain’t that right? Saw you at Othello, at some of our musical evenings and at the pantomime, too. I am correct in that, I think? We don’t have too many of the Allies watchin’, so you kinda stand out.’
Lane nodded. ‘You are correct in that,’ he said, his tone wary.
‘Well, then, may I invite you to join us in rehearsals? Come ’n’ watch. Look for yourself. Then you see all you need to see.’
Cobb and Lane appeared caught off guard. ‘We’ll consider that,’ said Cobb, ‘but hear me now. We reckon you do have your ’scape plan and we reckon your play ain’t nothin’ but a fake. If we’re wrong and you’re jus’ dressing up for another sixpence, you’re a bigger fool than everyone says. We are free-born Americans, Crafus, and, as God is my witness, the British won’t hold us much longer.’
‘So, let me be clear as the sun in this sky,’ said the King. ‘You plan all you want. I’ll not be a part of nothin’ that puts more Americans in that graveyard.’
‘Ain’t none of us going anywhere near that graveyard,’ said Cobb.
‘The redcoats’ll probably be disappointed we ain’t started beatin’ and stabbin’ each other,’ said the King.
Cobb turned to walk away. ‘Oh, there’ll be time enough for that.’