HABS STOOD MOTIONLESS, his Act Five lines slipping fast from his mind. He heard the sounds from the cockloft, but he was straining for sounds from the kitchen. He knew it was John – it could only be John. He ran into the dormitory, then made himself check and pull back. A four-high stack of hammocks by the door provided him with immediate cover, and he peered between the hemp and canvas. There was nothing to see, but there was plenty to hear. The voices were quiet, but one was carrying just fine – Habs would recognize Edwin Lane’s shrill, girl-high voice anywhere.
He had no time to run for help. Skin crawling, heart thumping, he walked with as much speed as he dared towards the kitchen. He bent to pick up a discarded grog bottle, holding it tight in his fist. Every step clarified Lane’s voice. The game was up. John Haywood had been found, recognized and was now in grave danger.
Twenty yards away, partially obscured by the cupboard doors, Lane was crouching on the ground, looking into the tunnel. Habs glanced around the kitchen, knowing there would be better weapons than his bottle not far away. But any detour could well bring discovery, and there wasn’t the time to risk failure. He stepped closer, then froze as the guard, hands against his stomach, collapsed against the open doors. Blood seeped between his fingers. ‘Sweet Christ alive,’ muttered Habs. He recognized the man now – John Cole was in the mess across the way from him – and he fought back the urge to charge at Lane. He has a gun, I got an empty bottle, he thought. Habs wiped the sweat from his palms, adjusted his grip on the bottle and resumed his approach.
He could still hear Lane talking, but his voice had gone much quieter now and all the words were lost. So when Lane’s right hand pulled the pistol from his pocket, Habs knew that the battle had started.
He covered the remaining ground in four arcing steps. As Lane raised his gun, Habs brought the bottle down on to his head with every ounce of force he possessed. He felt the glass shatter and its hilt catch on Lane’s skull. Before Lane fell, Habs hit him with the jagged shards again, this time slashing a deep groove into his scarred cheek. Lane howled with pain, surprise and pure fury. His blood ran fast. By the time Lane realized he had dropped the gun, he could barely see. Frantically wiping his eyes with his sleeve, he could just make out John Haywood reaching from the tunnel and grabbing the barrel. Lane launched himself at Haywood, landing on top of him. He struck out wildly, landing blow after blow on the lamplighter. It was only the click of the pistol going to full cock that made him stop.
Haywood had managed to throw the gun free before Lane descended; by a miracle, Habs had caught it. He knew the rules, knew you didn’t throw pistols around without serious risk of killing yourself. He had almost fumbled it, trying to avoid the firing mechanism, but his two hands gave the gun a gentle landing. Now it was aimed at Lane’s head. Habs’s eyes flicked between the gun in his hands and the man in his sights and Lane saw his uncertainty.
‘Nothin’ in it,’ he said. ‘Ain’t even loaded.’
‘I’ll take that chance,’ said Habs, feeling the weight of the gun in his hands. ‘I’ll take the chance that, when you got hold o’ this gun in the market, you traded for cartridges also. And that when you came huntin’ for coloured men, you came armed and ready to fight.’ He raised the gun, and Lane fell back. ‘My point exactly.’
He had fired a pistol in the action that saw the Bentham taken two years ago, but that had been into the melee of battle. He wasn’t even sure he’d hit anyone. He had never fired one at close quarters, and Lane seemed very close indeed.
He glanced at Cole, who had his eyes closed, bloodied hands still held against his stomach. ‘You bad?’ he asked.
‘I’ll be fine,’ he whispered. ‘I’m jus’ sorry I didn’t see—’
‘Hush,’ said Habs. ‘We’ll get you bandaged up. Jus’ hold on.’ He focused on Lane, holding the gun steady. ‘You won’t make it to the hospital. The cachot, then the hangman’s noose, will suit you fine.’
He called into the tunnel. ‘You recognize this man, John?’ Haywood had ducked back into the tunnel but now he slowly emerged, hands over his face. He opened his fingers enough to stare at Lane and nodded. ‘That the third shadow?’ asked Habs. Haywood nodded again. ‘Guilty,’ said Habs. ‘Murderer.’
Lane wiped more blood from his face. ‘You ain’t the judge. And your friend here is sick and ranting like a madman. Wretched boy, can you not hear that? No one’ll listen to him.’
Habs swallowed hard. He wanted to run for help, to get the doctor for Cole and to have Lane arrested, but all that would have to wait. He felt a cold fury take him.
‘You call me boy?’ he said, his hands tightening around the pistol.
Lane shrugged.
‘Did you call me boy?’
‘Wretched boy,’ corrected Lane. ‘It’s in the play you made me read. And that is what you are. ’S’jus’ a statement of fact.’
‘Your facts, Lane, not mine.’
‘God’s facts, Mr Snow. God’s natural order. No judge will hang me. It’s niggers that swing. My story will out.’
Habs lined Lane up in the gun’s sights.
Then footsteps. A tapping stick. They all heard it, all knew who was coming.
‘In here, Dr Magrath!’ Habs turned his head to angle his voice better, and Lane’s fingers found the knife again, wrapping themselves around the hilt. Habs called a second time, but his sentence was hardly formed before Lane, shank high, flew at him.