BACK IN THE darkness and quiet of his own block, Lane forced himself to be still. Reckless speed now would be catastrophic. He placed the pistol and the cartridges on his hammock. He’d kept everything as dry as he could, folding the cartridges into a small piece of cloth and placing them in a metal tin. He’d kept the gun with him, kept it warm, kept it shielded from the prison damp. The cartridges felt dry, the gun felt dry, but there was no proof without firing. With a quick glance around, he picked up the pistol, unclipped its ramrod from under the barrel and pulled the cock to the half-cock position. The loading mechanism was sound. He ran his finger over the flint, the frizzen and the flash pan, then pulled the trigger. It snapped into action, the cock hitting the frizzen and then the pan. There would be two puffs of smoke – one from the pan, one from the barrel – then the deafening crack of the gunpowder igniting and the sharp recoil from the blast.
The cartridges looked the same. Maybe one was slightly discoloured, the paper surrounding the bullet and powder beginning to yellow, but it was nothing serious. He had six good shots. He reached for the nearest and, placing it in his teeth, tore off the top. With the gun again at half-cock, he poured some of the cartridge’s powder into the pan then closed it. Holding the pistol vertically, he poured the rest of the powder down the barrel, spilling a few grains on his trousers in the process. Cursing quietly, he shoved the cartridge into the barrel, then used the ramrod to force it and the powder all the way down to the breech. His gun was loaded. He felt the weight of the loaded pistol in his hand and unwound a slow smile. There was a smell to a loaded pistol, and he breathed it deeply. Charcoal from the powder, oils, wood and steamy sulphur from the gun; gooseflesh ran over his arms and neck. He was ready to play.
The English were still encamped by the gates, so he resumed studying the entrance of Four. Both doors appeared closed, but a deep shadow running down the middle suggested a partial opening. Though hundreds walked around and between the blocks, Lane saw no one arrive or leave Block Four. Many turned their heads as another wave of applause or shouting leaked from the cockloft, but still no one tried to enter.
‘You want some freco, mister?’ asked one of the boys from Five, appearing over Lane’s shoulder. ‘Cheapest in the yard.’
‘I doubt that,’ said Lane, and walked from the steps. He crossed the thirty yards to Four and, with only the briefest of hesitations, slipped inside. In the darkness of the hallway, Lane palmed the shank from his boot then slid it into his sleeve. He listened hard. Upstairs, the noise from the play was overwhelming but, in time, he caught other sounds: movement and conversation on the stairs and upper landing, singing in some hammocks above him, vomiting from the heads nearby. The sick man left, then re-entered the toilet, vomited some more, before walking unsteadily back up the stairs.
Lane edged his way into the dormitory. Its layout was the same as in Six. Four rows of hammocks tied as high as the stanchions and human nerves would permit. Great heaps of clothes, bottles, plates and cups lay in each of the aisles; playing cards and backgammon sets had been left deserted on the mess tables. It was the kitchens at the far end that Lane needed to reach. If any tunnel existed, that was where it would be disguised. The tunnels Shortland had discovered in Five and Six had both started in the store cupboards between the enormous stoves and sinks. It would be the work of seconds to determine if the Negroes had done the same.
Mess by deserted mess, Lane crept towards the kitchens. Not all the hammocks were empty: he saw – and heard – many sleeping sailors too intoxicated to get to the play; none of them stirred. Then, conversation. Two, maybe three, voices. Lane froze, stepping instinctively behind the nearest stanchion. He was close enough to know they were coming from the kitchen, but all the words were lost in the architecture and echo of the room. He tightened his grip on the shank; felt, too, for the pistol. Still there, still armed. He walked closer. It didn’t sound like the breathless, exhausted talk of diggers, of frantic men seizing their last opportunity to escape. On the contrary, the words – still unclear – were lazy, the to-and-fro more like the work of men reminiscing over a bottle of brandy. One voice was becoming clearer – he seemed to be the main conversationalist – another seemed as indistinct as ever. One more mess before the kitchen. He stepped behind what had once been the block’s end wall and strained to catch the exchanges.
‘It’d drive me crazy,’ said the clearer voice. ‘Seems like such a waste.’ This produced another smothered reply. Lane frowned. Maybe there were other men, deeper in the tunnel, and these were just the sentries.
Silence. Then footsteps moved towards him. A cough, a swig from a bottle and a belch. ‘I’ll get it, then,’ said the clear voice. The man sidled from the kitchen and walked straight into Lane. He was stocky, shorter than Lane and bald. When he recoiled from his collision he dropped a bottle, which smashed, spraying their feet with beer and broken glass. Lane reacted first, slamming him against the wall, one hand pressed firmly against his mouth, the other holding the shank to his neck.
‘You got a tunnel, nigger?’