JOHN HAYWOOD’S GUARD, a young seaman out of Concord, New Hampshire, named Cole, recognized Lane the instant he walked into him. The scarred skin, the high voice, the forked beard was some of it. The reputation for casual violence and hatred of blacks was the rest. Lane’s mouth tightened as he watched the fear bloom in the man under his knife.
He had dragged him around the wall, into the kitchen and away from any casual passers-by. ‘You know me, slave?’ he whispered.
Cole nodded. Lane held the shank in front of the man’s terrified eyes.
‘You know what I do with this? I kill people like you if they give me a reason. An excuse. So listen carefully. You gonna get a question once – I ain’t got much time. You make a mistake you end up like ol’ Ned Penny. Am I clear?’ The mention of Ned’s name made the guard whimper. Lane leered. ‘Oh, you knew him, then? Such a small world in here. So you’ll know the answer to my question. You ready?’ More nodding.
‘Is there a tunnel?’
The guard swallowed twice. ‘Yes.’
Lane was triumphant, his face contorting with pleasure. With difficulty, he controlled his excitement. ‘It’s bein’ used now, ain’t it? While the play is runnin’, you got men ’scapin’. Well, we gonna join your party, boy.’
But Cole was shaking his head. ‘No one ’scapin’,’ he said, his hands gripping the sides of his jacket. ‘There’s no one, really, in there now.’
Lane’s eyes closed as the tip of his shank cut into Cole’s neck. ‘Tell me that again, slave,’ he whispered. ‘I jus’ need to be clear. You’re sayin’ there ain’t no one in the tunnel? That right?’
Cole said nothing. He tried to pull his head away from the blade, but Lane kept it close to his flesh. ‘Y’see, I heard two voices,’ said Lane. ‘Two voices from right in here. So, unless it was the Devil Himself I heard you talking to, your nigger tunnel is in use.’ He placed one hand against Cole’s mouth and, with the other, pulled the shank sideways, opening a one-inch cut in Cole’s neck, blood running along the blade and on to the handle. The guard’s smothered howl delighted Lane. ‘For every lie you tell me, slave, I cut you. So. Is your tunnel in use, yes or no?’ Lane removed his hand from Cole’s mouth.
‘Yes, but not—’ began Cole, but then Lane’s hand slapped back again.
‘Spare me the detail,’ he spat. ‘It’s in use – that’s it. How many men have escaped?’ The hand came away again and Cole swallowed hard.
‘None,’ he said.
‘How many are in there tryin’ to ’scape?’ Lane tried.
Cole looked conflicted. ‘Honest answer is none, Mr Lane. Truly there ain’t. No one’s ’scapin’ here.’ He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the knife. He felt its edge pressed hard against the cut.
‘Where is it? Where’s the tunnel?’
‘Store cupboard. Behind the boards, but like I was sayin’—’
‘Tell me what I’ll find there, slave. If you lie to me, I’ll slice you open like a pig. Tell me now.’
Cole fixed Lane with an impassioned stare. He spoke as clearly as his fear allowed. ‘You’ll find jus’ one man in fifteen feet o’ tunnel.’
Lane frowned. ‘One? One man?’
Cole nodded.
‘And fifteen feet? Just fifteen feet o’ tunnel?’
Cole nodded again.
‘Well, that ain’t goin’ nowhere,’ said Lane, considering Cole’s words. ‘So what in God’s name are you doin’ here?’
‘He’s sick.’
‘Sick and in a tunnel? Why’s he not at the hospital?’
Cole stared at the floor, and Lane suddenly knew the answer.
‘’Cos he’s hidin’,’ he said softly. Cole stared at his feet. ‘And if you got someone hidin’ …’ Lane grabbed him by the collar, the knife still hard against Cole’s neck. ‘Show me!’ he ordered.
Cole peeled himself from the wall and staggered the few steps to the second storage cupboard.
‘Open it.’
Cole pulled at the double doors and they swung towards him. Shelves and produce lay discarded on the floor. Six of the wooden back panels had been removed, the dark opening of a tunnel dug into its centre. The smell of damp earth seeped into the kitchen. Lane whistled. Crouching down, he picked up a handful of potatoes. ‘I’m imaginin’,’ he said, ‘that I’m at the fair, and all I have to do to win the prize is get one of these into that hole there.’ He turned to Cole. ‘Whaddya think, slave, reckon I’ll win a prize?’
‘Mr Lane—’ began Cole.
‘Shut up, I’m tryin’ to listen.’
‘Mr Lane,’ persisted Cole, and Lane slashed out, catching the guard across the stomach. The shank cut through his prison jacket and vest, slicing into his stomach. Cole gasped as he fell against the doors, hands held over his wound.
‘I told you I was listenin’.’ Lane spoke as though nothing had happened. ‘You hear that? Maybe you got mice and rats down there. You need to do somethin’ ’bout that. We don’t have this problem back in Six, y’see. This seems to be jus’ a Negro problem. Listen.’
From below ground there was a cough, then the sound of hawking and spitting. Slowly, a figure appeared in the tunnel. A high forehead, receding black hair, hollow, terrified eyes.
‘Now,’ said Lane, pointing with his shank, ‘I reckon I seen this vermin before.’ His voice grew softer, his lips now barely moving. ‘I was told you’d gone to hospital, but it seems you been right here all along. Now you stay right there.’ Lane reached for his jacket pocket. ‘I always known there’s only one way to deal with vermin.’