HE RAN SOUNDLESSLY around the back of Blocks Five and Six, a vast, dark figure suddenly right-turning into the channel between Six and Seven. The straight line it took to the courtyard meant that, by the time he hit the open ground, King Dick had reached maximum velocity. He burst into Cobb like a cannonball into ship’s timber: relentless, unstoppable, explosive. Elizabeth, the knife and six of Cobb’s teeth went flying into the dirt – mere splinters from the explosion. A dozen men were sent sprawling in his wake, crying out in fear and alarm at the speed and malevolence of the attack. Beneath the King, whether dead, unconscious or merely stunned, Cobb lay motionless.
Joe, Habs, Sam, Tommy and a hundred others from Four arrived in time to see Magrath and Elizabeth gather themselves and make for the protection of the militia, saw them hurried through the market square, a guard commander at their heels, saw the King pick up the still, seemingly lifeless form of Cobb then offer him to his men like some broken sacrifice.
But the Rough Allies were back on their feet and bristling with fury. Edwin Lane appeared, adjusting his belt and buttoning his jacket. He pushed through the crowd and the Allies jostled around him, a noisy phalanx pressing forward, edging closer to the King. This humiliation was not going to pass.
The men of Four instinctively fell in behind King Dick, but he waved them out again. ‘Man the yards!’ he called, and they hurried to form straight lines across the courtyard. The Allies, briefly bewildered, had little choice but to line up against them. High on the walk, the redcoats played their rifles over the prisoners, as if hoping for some target practice. They saw the arc of the seven prisons cut in half by two ribbons of men, one black, one white.
Habs and Sam blocked Joe from joining their line.
‘Not helpful,’ Habs muttered. ‘Not this time.’
For once, Joe was happy to hold back, unwilling to confront his old shipmates. He stood away from the line, pacing anxiously.
‘Mannin’ the yards s’posed to be peaceful, ain’t it?’ said Sam, linking arms with Habs.
‘Never done it before,’ said Habs, eyeballing the long beard in front of him. ‘But yeah, all men aloft. Shows the cannons ain’t ready. Somethin’ like that.’
‘Not feelin’ too peaceful this time, cuz,’ muttered Sam. ‘More like we’re topside, eyein’ each other from closin’ ships.’
Some of the men began pushing up against each other, locking heads. Where the line tailed to the steps of Block Six, Joe saw Will Roche getting in the face of one of King Dick’s old shipmates from the Requin. He was about to run over, warn him off, when the King himself interrupted.
‘The job is done!’ he called to his men. ‘Mrs Shortland is safe, the doctor, too. We should stand down.’
A voice from the end of their line: ‘Only when they do! We ain’t runnin’ from no one.’ Another small rebellion.
Joe hid his surprise and stepped behind Habs. ‘Who said that?’ he said in his ear.
‘Sounded like Abe Cook,’ said Habs. ‘Headin’ for a busted head later.’
From the distance came the low, sustained rumble of troops running. The alarm bell had triggered a full emergency, and now all available soldiers in the barracks were heading their way.
Habs eyed the two hostile lines, neither wanting to move first. ‘Looks like we’re waitin’ to board each other’s ships.’
‘Except it’s us about to be boarded,’ said Joe. ‘By the Brits.’
Tommy pushed his way between Joe and Habs, pulling at their jackets. ‘Watch Lane,’ he hissed, and was gone again. They looked across to see Edwin Lane standing behind the first row of Allies. Unusually silent, his right hand was constantly inside his coat, touching, feeling, adjusting. His left hand rested on his hip, occasionally feeling the fabric of his jacket, absent-mindedly tracing an outline.
‘Sweet Jesus and Mary,’ muttered Joe.
‘Could be a knife?’ suggested Habs, knowing otherwise.
‘It could be, but it isn’t. We’ve all seen that before, many times. If a man has a new pistol about him, he stands different. He stands awkward. He stands just the way Lane there is standing.’
Lane realized he was being watched and instinctively pulled his hand out of his jacket.
Without speaking, Habs peeled away from the line. He reached the King just as a squadron of redcoats arrived in the market square.
‘Lane has a gun,’ he breathed in his ear, staying just long enough to feel the King’s reaction, then striding away from the lines. Within seconds, he’d been joined by Joe, Sam and the handful of men they’d been able to scare. As the gates from the square were unlocked, the King called the retreat. With the line broken, most of the men of Four withdrew. By the time the redcoats were in the courtyard, the only sailors left to confront were from Six.
Those who knew nothing of Lane’s gun were the ones doing the talking; constant excited, nervous chatter accompanied the walk back to Four. Those who knew that the game had just changed were silent and sombre. King Dick’s only words were to Sam.
‘Get Tommy. Find the others.’
Sam peeled away to find the crier, and everyone else returned to their mess. Alex and Jonathan were waiting with the King’s club and bearskin; he took the club, spun and caught it, rammed his hat down hard.
‘Get them doors shut. Ten men on sentry. At all times. Mr Goffe and Mr Lord will soon be here with the crier. Then, no one comes in.’
One of the King’s messmates, a nervous-looking man with scar tissue where his hair had been, nodded, accepting the order. ‘Yes, sir, King Dick, sir.’ And he set about rounding up the first shift.
Like a ship readying itself for departure, Four was instantly full and clamorous, everyone wanting to shout their opinions. Joe and Habs remained with the King as he heaved his way towards the stairs. They began to climb. The King’s voice was heavy with exhaustion.
‘Gonna try to talk to everyone. Mr Hill, you downstairs. Mr Snow, you upstairs. See if you can get some silence in this bellowin’ chamber. Meantime, I’ll stay here.’ The King walked to a step midway between the floors, then sat, spent from his exertions outside. Like small, administering birds, Alex and Jonathan brought him bread and coffee and then hovered, unsure what he would want next.
While Joe pushed his way back towards the hammocks, Habs sprinted away upstairs. The first-floor messes were in the same tumult. There was no way he could shout above the men. Instead, he went from hammock to hammock, waiting for breaths to be taken, for brief lulls in the storm.
‘King Dick has news,’ he said, as each opportunity arrived, his urgent delivery compelling the end of each argument. ‘King Dick has news’ was repeated across the floor and triggered a drift to the stairs.
A flurry of activity at the doors turned heads. ‘Doors open! Visitors!’ called the sentry, as Sam and the crier, now with Goffe and Lord in tow, were hurriedly ushered inside.
‘Doors shut!’
Not knowing where else to take them, Sam headed towards his mess.
‘Thank God you’re here!’ Joe couldn’t keep the relief from his voice. He nodded at the stairs, flustered. ‘King Dick wants to speak, but I can’t get anyone’s attention. Habs is upstairs. They’ll listen to him and they’ll listen to you.’
Sam understood. ‘You too pale, Joe,’ he said, almost smiling. ‘Maybe they can’t see you – you like some kinda ghost.’
‘Something like that,’ said Joe.
He watched as Sam flitted from mess to mess, speaking a few words to each, arguing with a few. As the noise dropped, the message spread faster. Within minutes, most of Four had gathered to where they could see, or at least hear, the King, pressing in on each other as they waited for him to speak. The staircase was nothing but a solid mass of men.
King Dick pushed himself up with his club. It swung from his wrist as he placed his hands on his hips. For the first time since Joe had known him, he looked weary. Gathering himself, the King looked up and down the stairs, to the landing and then to the hall. Every man whose eye he caught would swear he was talking straight to him.
‘Men of Four. Today we saw Mr Cobb try to kidnap the Agent’s wife, and we took the necessary steps to prevent that happenin’.’
‘Shame!’ called a voice. It came from somewhere above the King, somewhere in the gloom of the first-floor hammocks. The King’s voice had been controlled but powerful, his words filling the prison. Now, he flooded it.
‘A shame? Really, a shame? You have prison madness, too?’
The men closest to the King – the ones who could smell his boot polish and the sweat on his body – began to edge away from him, shuffling to the next step. When the King needed a platform, half a step just wasn’t enough. He swung the club, pointing it high.
‘I’m surprised I got to be sayin’ this, but let me make it clear.’ This was loud now, even for the King. ‘Takin’ the Agent’s wife as a hostage is in-tol-er-ab-le. Doin’ it, and believin’ for one minute that the redcoats wouldn’t come in shootin’, is the thinkin’ of a lunatic.’
His gaze scoured the crowd, looking for and receiving approval. ‘Today is April first, the fools’ holy day. Horace Cobb, if he still thinkin’ at all, will remember it. It was the day King Dick took his senses. And some of his teeth.’ Some of the men laughed, but he cut them off. ‘Hear this now. The British guns are loaded. They are primed. And they are pointin’ at us. If we shout, “Fire!”, they will fire. They will fire, I tell you. And now, a new danger.’
King Dick folded his arms, the club resting over his shoulder. Each man leaned in closer to hear this unexpected news. His voice dropped only slightly. ‘Y’all need to know that the Rough Allies have gotten themselves a gun.’
The whole prison took a breath, then, on the exhale, started to shout.
He held up his hands to calm the uproar. ‘Hear me now! Hear me now!’ he bellowed. ‘You ask what should we do? I say this. We stay in here. We wait. We take courage. This is our stickin’ place. We know it. We close the doors. In here, we understand how it is. And so we will watch. We will listen. We will be ready. Ready for the Allies if they come, ready for the ships when they come.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Who is our head cook now?’
There was a moment of surprised silence at the unexpected question, before a chorus of voices called back.
‘Portland Byrne, King Dick!’
A small, round-shouldered man was pushed to the front of the first-floor railings. He raised a shaking hand. ‘That’s me,’ he said, though most missed it; his voice didn’t carry beyond the railings.
‘Mr Byrne,’ said the King, pointing his club at him. ‘What supplies do you have in store? And speak truly. And as loud as you ever have.’
Byrne shrugged. ‘Not much, King Dick.’ Now, at least the landing and stairs could hear him. ‘Two days’ worth, maybe. With the market closed an’ all, everyone’s eatin’ more. I’m havin’ to watch my store cupboards, if I’m honest with you.’
‘Thievin’?’
‘Thievin’.’
The King cracked his club on the stairs. ‘Goddammit, this will stop! There will be no thievin’ here. Am I clear?’
This, Habs thought, is his battle voice, the voice that could cut right through enemy fire.
‘Anyone caught stealin’ in this place will find himself cast out. And with a broken face for their sins. We need all those who have been cooks, all those who have money spare, all those who have food spare, to work together.’ He produced two pockets’ worth of coins and notes, thrusting them at the nearest men. ‘Buy what you can from any sailors’ stalls still standin’, then bring it to Mr Byrne there in the kitchens.’
Byrne raised a hand in acknowledgement.
‘The Agent returns on Wednesday. I will talk to him before we perform Romeo and Juliet on Thursday. Until then, we choose to be separate. Back in ’13, we had it forced on us, but now, with them Rough Allies roamin’ round, armed, this is our decision. We choose to be in control, choose to close the door. We choose to be apart.’