JOHN HAYWOOD DIDN’T like visitors. He peered at Joe and Habs from under a sheet, his sickly eyes shot wide with fear. The news from King Dick that two men from Six had been named as his attackers had pushed him further under it. There was a guard present at all times, but that seemed to give him little comfort.
‘They don’t notice nothin’. They’re playin’ cards most o’ the time,’ he whispered. ‘Wouldn’t notice if the King of England walked in to stab me. If I hear anythin’ bad, I jus’ head down the tunnel the King built for me.’ He gestured through the precarious wooden slats at the back of the cupboard.
‘You hide in the tunnel?’ asked Habs, astonished. ‘Is it safe?’
‘No, it’s dangerous,’ whispered Haywood, then added, ‘obviously.’
‘Why are we whisperin’?’ whispered Habs.
Haywood looked contemptuous. ‘You know as well as I do,’ he said, and disappeared under the sheet once more. Joe and Habs glanced at each other.
‘Don’t think we do, Mr Haywood,’ said Joe.
‘Well then, you’re as foolish as you look,’ said Haywood.
‘Is it ’cos of Matthews and Drake in Six?’ asked Habs.
Even though Habs was still whispering, the mere mention of the Allies’ names sent a spasm through Haywood. He curled up into a ball, pulling the old sheet tightly around his thin frame.
‘They can’t get you here, John, and they can’t hear us either.’ Joe nodded to Habs to continue.
‘Was it them, John? Was it them that attacked you and Ned? Did Edwin Lane have anythin’ to do with it? You said you dreamed of three shadows …’
A yellow stain had appeared on the sheet, the pungent smell of urine filling Haywood’s makeshift bedroom.
Joe flicked his head to the door. ‘We should leave,’ he mouthed.
Habs nodded and they stood.
‘We’ll be home soon, John,’ said Habs. ‘Don’t you worry – the ships’ll come.’
They walked outside, squinting in the misty haze of the morning.
‘That’s one scared sailor,’ said Joe. ‘Maybe we should’ve changed the sheets?’
‘He wanted us to leave,’ said Habs.
‘Maybe the guards’ll do it.’
‘Once they’ve finished their game of Twenty-one, maybe.’ Habs peered around the courtyard and to the market square beyond. ‘What day is it?’
‘Monday.’
Habs shook his head. ‘So they actually gone an’ done it. They really have shut it down.’
Joe followed his stare. The market square was empty, the gates to the courtyard locked. Hundreds of men had gathered to take turns to rattle the padlocks and jeer any soldier who came into view. The steps of Four, perfectly aligned with the entrance to the square, gave Joe and Habs all the information they required.
They stared at where the traders should have been. ‘No more loaves, no more grog,’ said Habs.
‘And no more people. No more normal people. Now everyone we see is either a sailor or a soldier, a Yankee or a Brit. That’s all.’
‘It was jus’ possible,’ said Habs, ‘when you were hagglin’ and buyin’ and jostlin’ in there, it was jus’ possible to imagine for a second that we were free. Free and in some mad market at home, tradin’ food for earrings. Or earrings for food, dependin’ on what week it was. Outside of our cockloft, that was the liveliest place in the whole goddamn prison.’
In the courtyard, only the craft-sellers and the coffee-brewers were trying their luck, but, with money running out, trade was slow.
‘If anyone did have a spare shilling, does old Jonah there think anyone would spend it on a ship in a bottle?’ asked Joe.
‘Maybe it’d make a fine weapon,’ suggested Habs. ‘Fill it with oil. The miniature sails would balance it jus’ right. And imagine the enemy’s surprise when they’re brought down by a tiny USS Constitution.’
‘Might as well stick to the courtyard coffee,’ said Joe. ‘Half a pint of grey, warm water?’
‘I swear it’s turning me grey.’
Joe almost smiled. ‘Somehow, Mr Snow, you have retained your colour, while mine is draining away. That’s the rumour, anyway.’
They sat on the ground, their backs against the block, faces once more to the sky. The air held a fragrance which Joe hadn’t noticed before. ‘Somewhere out there,’ he said, ‘there are flowers blooming. What grows on this godforsaken moor, Habs?’
Habs shrugged. ‘I never noticed, Joe, and tha’s the truth. All I smell in here is sweat, tobacco and sickness.’
The doors of Six opened and a group of Allies sauntered out. Joe and Habs watched as they stopped by Seven and another, similar-sized group of inmates joined them, Will Roche the last to appear. One of the sailors from Seven produced a rough leather ball and threw it against the courtyard wall. It bounced high, then dropped to the ground, whereupon everyone in the vicinity fell on it. Up against the wall, they tussled, fighting each other and yelling at the tops of their voices. The scrummage was never-ending, with men tumbling out of the brawl then piling back in again.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said Joe. ‘I never saw Will play any sport before.’
More men arrived, and the wrestling for the ball spilled further out along the wall.
‘Ever seen anything like this?’ asked Joe.
‘No.’ Habs leaned forward, watching intently. ‘I reckon we should take a closer look.’
They walked with as much indifference as they could muster, arcing right to take them closer to Blocks One, Two and Three. Each prison had spilled hundreds of its sailors on to the courtyard, the men gathering in groups to argue, protest, sing, smoke and – around Pastor Simon – to pray. Outside One, an inmate was reading a newspaper article to a row of the newly blind.
‘We was lucky,’ muttered Habs as they passed. ‘So goddamn lucky.’
The wall that separated the prisons from the market square captured the afternoon sun and, even in late March, it carried enough heat to draw a crowd. Joe and Habs had to squeeze their way to a better view of whatever game the men of Six and Seven were playing. A ball appeared only occasionally; the rest of the time everyone just wrestled everyone else.
‘They seem to be making the rules up as they go along!’ shouted Joe over the yelling.
From deep in the melee, a flash of metal caught the sunshine. ‘Sweet Mother of God!’ exclaimed Habs. ‘That’s why we ain’t seen nothin’ like this before. They ain’t playin’ no sport.’
Joe turned to look at Habs. ‘What are they doing, then?’
‘Watch carefully, Joe, an’ you’ll see. One of ’em has a knife or somethin’ like it. Or some metal, anyways. I jus’ saw it flash.’
Smaller skirmishes were breaking out, but the main group stayed stuck to the wall. Joe stared at the broiling ruckus.
‘They’re not attackin’ one another,’ observed Habs, ‘they’re attackin’ the wall.’
‘They’re escaping?’
‘The start of it, maybe. They must be tryin’ to make a hole in the wall. Must be shieldin’ a man doin’ the scrapin’, loosenin’ the rocks.’
‘Won’t that be obvious?’ said Joe. ‘Wouldn’t even the most stupid English soldier notice a hole in the wall leading to the armoury?’
‘It won’t be a hole,’ said Habs. ‘Not if they’re just scrapin’ the cement away. But yes, if the Brits have hard-workin’ troopers, nimble of mind and quick of thought, it might get spotted.’
Joe and Habs exchanged glances.
‘The hole is safe, then,’ said Joe.
Habs tugged at his sleeve. ‘C’mon, we need to find King Dick. He’ll want to know what’s happenin’.’
As they climbed the stairs of Four, the unmistakeable sounds of construction drew them to the cockloft. Through the doors, and thirty men were across the stage. Painting, sawing and hammering, there was no disputing what the King had set them to do.
‘So Verona comes to Dartmoor,’ said Habs.
Large sections of the old French scenery were being cut up and repainted, with the King directing proceedings from the floor. Bearskin high on his head, he jabbed his club in all directions: ‘Mr Johnson! A darker brown, please. Mr Cook, more to the left. And again. Thank you.’
He broke away and came to meet them. ‘My favourite part,’ he said. ‘Watchin’ a new world bein’ formed. Take a brush – these are your new streets. And they’re a goddamn sight safer than the ones we walk here.’ He registered their expressions at last. ‘You got news?’
Joe and Habs explained what they had seen.
‘So they’re really doin’ it,’ he said, once they were clear of the stage party. He swiped the bearskin from his head. ‘They gonna run the English guns one more time.’
Habs thought the King sounded bewildered. He’d never heard him sound like that before.
‘But they’re doin’ somethin’,’ he said. ‘They ain’t got no tunnel. They ain’t got no play. They ain’t got nothin’. If you think the ships ain’t comin’, why wouldn’t you try to bust out?’
‘’Cos you’ll get killed?’ suggested Joe.
‘But if the fates are against you and you think you gonna die anyways,’ said Habs, ‘better to go runnin’ at a British gun than die wastin’ to a skeleton in here.’
‘You wanna escape now, Mr Snow?’ The King seemed puzzled.
‘No, I wanna act!’ said Habs, struggling to keep his voice quiet. He pointed to the stage and the men working on it. ‘This is our escape. This play, this show. Everythin’ out there is madness. To me, this makes sense. It’s a love story …’
‘It’s a tragedy,’ said the King.
‘It’s both,’ said Habs. ‘It’s ink and paper. It’s a book. It’s solid. It’s a chart – you can set your compass by it. It counts for somethin’. But for everyone else? If you’re in Six or Seven, scrapin’ a hole in a wall probably makes more sense than doin’ nothin’.’
King Dick nodded. ‘Well spoken, Mr Snow. Let’s find Mr Goffe and Mr Lord, get ourselves informed.’
Tommy the crier found Goffe and Lord, then Pastor Simon and Sam. Within minutes, they had most of their principal cast and, with the stage still hectic, they gathered at the far corner of the cockloft.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the King. ‘Some of you may have seen what Mr Snow and Mr Hill saw this mornin’ in the courtyard. That “game” up against the wall ain’t no such thing. Mr Jackson, you jus’ ran past there—’
‘Yes, sir, King Dick, sir!’ said Tommy, his face still glowing from the exertion. ‘They been scrapin’ away all right, and clearin’ up, too. You’d only see if you walked close by. But up close, that’s a dig happenin’.’
‘In full view of everybody and everythin’,’ said the King. ‘So it’s jus’ the masonry they chippin’ at, leavin’ the rocks in place, Mr Jackson?’
‘Yes, King Dick.’
The King nodded. ‘And the Brits are thinkin’ more ’bout fightin’ Napoleon again than the upkeep o’ this place,’ he mused. ‘It’s bold, I’ll give ’em that. Mr Goffe? Mr Lord?’
Jon Lord’s battered face was a study in anxiety. ‘We’re in the wrong mess to know for sure. Ol’ Will Roche has taken himself and half the Eagle crew to the mess with some Newport men. He’s fired them all up with revolutionary talk. And them’s the ones that’s fightin’ against the wall. Roche said it’s the armoury they’re after.’
‘Lord have mercy on us,’ muttered the pastor.
‘The armoury over at the barracks?’ Sam was incredulous. ‘They all got jail fever or somethin’?’
Robert Goffe stepped forward, almost bowing to the King, then, embarrassed, changed his mind. He pulled nervously at his prison jacket instead. ‘Yes, I do believe they have.’ He stepped back again.
‘You’re quiet, Mr Hill,’ said the King.
Joe collected his thoughts. He’d listened to the exchanges with a particular despondency. ‘Will feels lost to me,’ he said. ‘We did everything together, but it seems the prison has taken him. I feel as though I should talk to him, but I’m not sure what good it would do. If he’s taken to sport, well, his head is turned and no mistake.’
‘How long till they break through?’ asked Sam. ‘Assumin’ no Brits put their head near that hole first?’
‘Tommy? You been up close,’ said the King.
‘Oh, they’re jus’ gettin’ started. That’s a big, thick wall. From what I saw, they’ve done about half an inch today, so … ten more days?’
‘Which takes us to … when, exactly?’ asked Sam.
‘April sixth,’ said Joe.