THE COCKLOFT WAS rammed, each of its traditional functions of sanctuary, town hall, bar, casino and church now fully engaged. The belief that their tuppence ha’penny daily wage had been stopped triggered wild, reckless gambling in some and panicked, immediate thrift in others. Pastor Simon had tried to call for prayer but, without support from King Dick, had got nowhere. Now, he queued for his attention. The King was besieged by questions. He answered as best he could.
‘No, it ain’t the last times. No, no one died today. Yes, I believe the ships are on their way. Yes, I would like coffee. I agree we need to be on our guard. No, I don’t think the British King is Satan Himself.’ He looked up. ‘Ah, Pastor Simon, you are, after all, a blessin’. Our very own Pontifex Maximus. Come, let us climb the stage. Let us see what Church and state can manage together. I’m sure Thomas Jefferson won’t be concernin’ himself with us anytime soon.’ The King and the pastor pushed their way through the melee.
‘I’m hopin’ you gotta spiritual song for us, Pastor? Some succour for our ravaged souls? We got some work to do right now. Anythin’ ’bout peace an’ patience would be fine.’
Pastor Simon turned as they stepped on to the stage. ‘We sing ’em sperichills all day, King Dick, and half the choir are right there.’ He pointed to the first few rows.
‘Get ’em up here,’ said the King. ‘Put ’em to work.’
Pastor Simon waved his men up, and eight of them clambered on to the stage. Straight away, two of them began clapping and stamping, the rhythm quickly taken up by the others. Simon bowed his head then, resting a hand on the man next to him, and began to sing.
‘I ain’t gonna tarry here,
I ain’t gonna tarry here.’
The choristers responded, they, too, resting an arm on the sailor next to them.
‘I ain’t gonna tarry here,
I ain’t gonna tarry here.’
Pastor Simon led them on, his querulous baritone finding its range and passion.
‘But my Lord, He knows the time,
My Lord, He knows the time.
And when He calls me home,
And when He calls me home,
Gonna ring that freedom chime,
Gonna let that freedom chime.’
Many in the crowd began to sing, too, but the moment was short-lived. Cries and shouts cut across the singing. The whole cockloft could hear ‘Sweet Mary, Mother of God!’, then ‘Get King Dick!’ and a sharp, forceful slamming.
The King jumped from the stage. ‘Everyone stay here!’ he yelled, and was about to open the door when he was met by an anxious trio of lookouts falling over themselves to get to him. ‘You have left your posts?’ called the King.
‘It’s Cobb and Lane. Horace Cobb and Edwin Lane.’ The look-outs’ words were tumbling fast. ‘The Rough Allies. The leaders, from Six, they’re outside, and they’re just standin’ there. Right by the steps!’
‘You gotta do somethin’, King Dick,’ panted one of them. ‘They could be invadin’ or somethin’.’ The crowd in the cockloft stirred.
The King turned back. ‘Y’all stay and watch!’ he shouted. ‘Y’all stay and listen! I’ll take the first thirty men here with me; the rest of you, stay and watch. But steady now. Two men in beards ain’t even a boardin’ party, never mind an invasion. So, before you go off makin’ war, let’s see what they want.’
The King crashed down the two floors, and a posse followed, Habs, Joe and Sam riding the wave. He stopped by the doors, held up four fingers then pointed them at the kitchens. Four men silently peeled off, doubling the protection for John Haywood.
King Dick stepped outside, bearskin strapped high, his men packed tightly around him. The sun was slipping away, the vast shadows thrown by the blocks overlapping each other in the darkening courtyard. No more than ten feet from the steps, Cobb and Lane stood waiting. No cigarillos, no pipes, arms folded and beards partially hidden by their tunics – every man present knew this was as unthreatening as the Allies could be.
‘With a hatchet in one hand and a Bible in the other,’ said the King. ‘Gentlemen, are you sure?’
‘Sure of what?’ asked Cobb, taken aback.
‘Comin’ so close. What’ll people say?’
Cobb ignored him. ‘You made an offer. Extended an invitation to Mr Lane here to watch your rehearsals. If it still stands, we would like to accept.’
Lane fidgeted nervously beside him, his balance shifting from leg to leg, his thumbs running endlessly over his clenched fists. Cobb, like King Dick, was motionless. The few men remaining in the courtyard had stopped what they were doing to watch the stand-off.
Eventually, King Dick said, ‘We’ve put the play back. Today ain’t the day. Like you say, it’s gotten even more serious. Reckon you think so, too, or you wouldn’t be standin’ there. The offer to Mr Lane still holds; watchin’ a rehearsal won’t hurt no one. But my question to you, Mr Cobb, holds, too.’
‘And what question might that be?’
The King continued to look unblinkingly at him. ‘The question is, who killed Ned Penny?’ he said quietly. ‘And you can tell it to his family here.’ He nodded to Habs and Sam standing behind him.
It was, as Cobb had forecast, the entrance fee that needed paying. Without it, no one was going anywhere. Cobb glanced at all three men.
‘Matthews and Drake,’ he said. The King waited for more. When nothing came, he spread his arms, the club swinging casually from his fingers.
‘Go on, Mr Cobb. I am not the keeper of your register.’
‘John Matthews and Robert Drake. From Detroit.’
The King was waiting for more.
Cobb folded his arms. After a while, he said, ‘I’m dealin’ with it.’
The sun had gone now, the courtyard in twilight.
‘Well, Mr Cobb,’ said the King with the beginnings of a laugh in his throat. ‘You’ll forgive my stupidity. I know there are other matters to address but, jus’ for now, what does you “dealin’ with it” actually mean?’
‘It means, if I have to, I’ll hang ’em myself.’
‘You told the British that?’
‘I don’t talk to the British.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Not all of us talk to the Brits.’
‘Well, not blessed with the moral purity that comes with bein’ white, maybe you wouldn’t mind if I tell the British,’ said the King. ‘In your place, you understand. Save you the effort. Keep you special.’
‘Like I said, Crafus,’ said Cobb, ‘I’ll deal with it.’
The King indicated Habs and Sam next to him. ‘These here is Mr Penny’s closest,’ he said. ‘They’re also in the play. They get the final say. They say you can watch, you can watch.’
Habs knew what Sam was thinking. He ducked behind the King, put his arm round his cousin and pulled his head close.
‘Hey, cuz,’ he said, before Sam could say a word in a half-whisper. ‘It’s jus’ upstairs. Jus’ the cockloft.’
Sam could barely speak, his eyes wide with incredulity. ‘Are … you … crazy?’ he spluttered. He flicked his eyes towards the open door of Four and beyond. To the hidden, protected, damaged John Haywood.
Habs understood. ‘’S’jus the second floor, Sam. He ain’t goin’ nowhere but the second. He got us with him, always. A thousand of us against one o’ him. Reckon the King thinks there’s some sport to be had.’
Sam looked utterly unconvinced, his eyes darting from Cobb to Lane and back again. At last, he shook his head and shrugged, surrendering to Habs, deferring to him, as ever. Habs and Sam sprang back to their positions either side of the King.
‘We’re all right,’ Habs said to the King. ‘Let him in.’