5.9

Block Four

KING DICK PULLED deeply on his pipe and studied the guard commander standing nervously by the steps of Block Four. He looked barely older than the men he led, and his oversized shako cap sat awkwardly over his ears. The officer’s hands rested briefly on his sword grip, before anchoring themselves behind his back.

‘I demand entrance to your cockloft!’ he said, his pale eyes wandering along the lines of inmates that had clustered around the King.

‘You mighty early, the play ain’t for a few hours yet,’ said the King. Laughs from the inmates, more discomfort from the officer. ‘You got tickets?’ continued the King. ‘S’jus’, you got so many men with you, and it’s sixpence each.’

Four lines of redcoats had assembled briskly behind their commander, many of them wide-eyed at the King’s air of authority and command; he was actually making fun of them.

‘We might be able to let you in, Lieutenant …’

‘Lieutenant Aveline,’ said the commander, now even more irritated.

‘But not your friends, Lieutenant A-ve-line.’

Aveline stepped forward, provoking the inmates to close tightly around the King. Foot on the step to Four, Aveline’s face was flushed.

‘Captain Shortland and Mrs Shortland will be in attendance for your … performance this afternoon,’ he said. ‘He has ordered me to ensure his safety, and I am ordering you to step aside.’

The King swung the club from the ground to his shoulder, pushed the bearskin to his forehead. ‘Maybe you’re new here, Lieutenant. Maybe you missed the last few months. Maybe the Agent never told you. But King Dick has guaranteed the safety of the captain. When Mrs Shortland was taken by that savage Cobb, who rescued her, Lieutenant? Was it you? Was it anyone in a fine red jacket? No, it was King Dick. In this block, if the King says the captain will be safe, then you take it that it will be so.’

The lieutenant took a breath. ‘I have my orders.’

‘You have my reassurance.’

The tightness of the lieutenant’s voice betrayed his anxiety. ‘You will step aside and allow my men to enter.’

‘I will not.’ The King blew another cloud of tobacco smoke towards the soldiers. The lieutenant pursed his lips. Behind him, redcoats bristled at the insubordination. ‘But I can offer you coffee.’ The officer looked astonished, but the King continued. ‘It’s made from peas, y’know. Quite a flavour, really – maybe different to what you’re used to – but there’s some in the cockloft right now.’

‘You are really in no position …’ blustered Aveline.

‘Oh, but I am,’ said the King. ‘I really am. O’ course, you could shoot us, I realize that. You have the guns. Though’ – and here he gestured to the large and growing crowd of inmates watching their altercation – ‘you might need quite a few bullets for all of us. But if you wanna report back to Captain Shortland without causin’ a riot, I’m offerin’ the solution. And you get coffee.’

‘I don’t want your bloody coffee!’ snapped Aveline. ‘I am instructed to ensure the safety of the Agent. If I cannot do that, the Agent will not come.’

‘Very well,’ said the King. ‘He can stay away. He ain’t needed. We perform for our own pleasure, not yours. Or the Agent’s. D’you get that? We ain’t sittin’ here waitin’ for your blessin’, or even your attention. If the Shortlands come, there’ll be chairs so their plump and tender asses don’t touch the cold ground. And if they don’t, two lucky American sailors will rest their bony asses there instead. Romeo will still marry Juliet, he’ll still take poison, she’ll still stab herself, life an’ death will go on, like it always do.’

Applause from the men around the King.

‘Now, you sure ’bout that coffee?’

There was a nervous energy to the assembled players of the Dartmoor Amateur Dramatic Company as they stood on the stage and waited for the curtain to be completed. Joe and Habs had kept their costumes on. Lord wore a striped necktie and the pastor was sporting a crown made from parchment; ‘Montague’s,’ he said. ‘Gives him authority.’ The rest were yet to change, prison yellow mingling with old coats and dirty blankets. They could all hear the singing below and knew their shipmates would soon be on their way up. The King had posted some more of his Requin men on the door to keep the cockloft empty, but everyone wanted the curtain in place as soon as possible.

‘It is the start o’ things,’ the King had said. ‘Without it, this is just a room with a stage. But when the curtain is in, the magic begins its work.’ His voice softened, adopting the cadence of a priest uttering holy words. ‘It becomes a theatre.’

Surrounded by large pieces of cloth and rope, Sam, in his pale green Benvolio shirt, called, ‘Final stitches!’

Joe and Habs jumped from the stage and stood poised to help hoist his handiwork.

‘Done.’ Sam jumped to his feet, rolled the finished cloth into a long roll. With Joe at one end and Habs at the other, Sam directed the curtain’s placing between the two stage flats. The King, at full stretch, hooked the curtain’s two roughly cut eyelets over nails in each flat then let the fabric drop.

Sam had taken six of the sailors’ banners and flags, stitching them together with old blankets. Tommy had begged one from his colleagues in Three; Goffe and Lord had found two in Seven. Together with three from their own, Sam had created a patchworked curtain of sailors’ protest. ‘Don’t Give up the Ship’, ‘Free Trade and Sailors’ Rights’ and ‘All of Canada or War Forever!’ were written or stitched on to the huge rectangles of cloth. Between them were American flags and images of large, aggressive eagles. The whole stretched across the stage, and Verona had all but disappeared.

‘Bravo!’ called Goffe. ‘You’re quite the artist.’

‘Wonder what Shortland will make of it, cuz?’ said Habs.

Sam shrugged. ‘He’s a Navy man, ain’t he? He can admire my stitchin’ if he don’t like anythin’ else.’

The King clapped his hands. ‘On stage, behind that curtain. Everyone in costume, now.’

Tommy Jackson, a fistful of shirts in one hand and his sword in the other, ran to the King’s side as they climbed back on the stage. ‘Which costume, King Dick?’

‘I’m Mercutio before I’m the apothecary,’ he replied, pushing past the curtain, ‘so something a kinsman to the Prince of Verona might wear. A military jacket, I reckon.’

‘Oh, right, sir,’ said Tommy, looking confused. ‘Sorry, but I meant which of these shirts for me, for Paris.’ He held up the shirts in his hand. ‘They’re all too big, but I can’t find anythin’ else in them baskets.’

The King sifted through the worn and torn shirts Tommy had been given and shook his head. ‘Paris is a young count, not a street urchin. None of these will do.’ He flung them back in one of the costume baskets. ‘Mr Daniels! Mr Singer!’ he bellowed, and the boys appeared in seconds. ‘Mr Jackson needs to look like a suitor of Juliet might look. Give him one o’ your shirts and see what he looks like. Dress ’im, boys, and be back in two minutes.’

The three boys sprinted from the stage, the cockloft doors crashing open like a musket shot. The Requin men playing soldiers, servants and torchbearers rummaged for anything to mask the yellow of their prison uniform.

‘Crowd’ll be in shortly!’ shouted the King. ‘If you need the heads, go now. If you think you might need the heads, go now. Even if you don’t need the heads, go now.’

‘And what’ll I do?’ asked Goffe, emerging from behind the scenery. Over his prison jacket and stockings he had pulled a grey, low-cut ballgown with a lace collar. An extra seam had been added, as promised, to accommodate his girth, a slice of stained, green blanket stitched in to take the strain. His weathered features were set, his hands held in tight fists.

‘You and Juliet had better piss in a bucket.’ The King laughed.

The sounds of raucous singing came more loudly now. Some messes had decided they’d had enough of waiting below and begun the climb to the cockloft. Shanties, hymns and patriot songs ran into each other in a cacophony of expectation.

Joe looked at Habs and grimaced. ‘When you’re sober, all these songs sound threatening.’

‘Same as happened for Othello,’ said Habs. ‘Wait till they’re out there.’ He pointed through the curtain. ‘Then it’s noisy. They’ll be drunk and bored till we start. Then they’ll be drunk but enchanted.’

‘Hopefully. What if they’re drunk, then fight?’

‘Then King Dick’s mighty club will swing,’ said the King, handing Habs his wooden sword. Quietly, he passed Joe a small, silver-coloured knife. ‘It’s one o’ mine. Everyone assumes it’s wood an’ paint, but it’s for real. I keep it for the big shows – it looks better’n the fake ones. Can’t have Juliet stabbin’ herself with a bit of blunt wood.’

The cockloft’s doors burst open and Alex and Jonathan ran in, followed by the smartest-looking crier anyone could remember. Tommy jumped to the stage with a white dress shirt tucked into his trousers. ‘Alex found it,’ he said, smiling at everyone. ‘He says I can keep it, too.’

‘That is a fine improvement,’ said the King. ‘Now you are Paris. Now you can rival Romeo for Juliet’s hand.’

‘Thank you, King Dick.’ Tommy glanced again at his finery. ‘Oh, and I got a message from John Haywood for you.’

‘You do?’ said the King. ‘Underneath that fancy linen, you’re still the crier?’

‘O’ course. Always. His guard called us over. Says he won’t be ready for the start of the show, but to start without him. He might be sleeping.’

‘He’s not ready?’ said the King, incredulous. ‘How long does he need to get ready? How much sleep can a man take?’ He shrugged. ‘Time is up. Come, gentlemen, we burn daylight.’