THE GATES HAD been blasted open and pushed flat against the market square walls. King Dick had climbed to the top of one and was staring into the throng.
‘What’s he doing?’ asked Joe.
As they approached the gate, the King suddenly stabbed his club at someone below.
‘Hail, Mr Boyce from Indiana!’ he yelled, ‘And hail, Mr Gilmour from Illinois. Turn back now! Turn away from the guns!’ The men from Four, startled to be addressed by the King from atop the market square gates, looked all around. They indicated the thousands of inmates pressing in behind them and shrugged.
‘Can’t move neither way!’ they shouted back.
Habs put one hand to his mouth.
‘Hey, King Dick! Down here!’
The King twisted back and forth until he found them in the crowd. ‘You!’ he bellowed. ‘You, Mr Snow, and you, Mr Hill!’ The King was now standing on top of the gate, balancing precariously, one foot either side of the bar. ‘Have you seen’ – he hesitated just briefly – ‘have you seen our friend John? He’s missin’, y’see.’
In spite of the shooting, or maybe because of it, the King obviously still felt the need to speak obliquely. Habs followed his lead.
‘Not in his hole, then?’ he called.
The King shook his head. ‘Spoke to Mr Cole in attendance there. Like I said, he’s missin’.’
‘Sorry, King Dick, we’ll look out for him,’ Habs said. He and Joe wedged themselves into a breathing space behind the gates.
‘You got to go back.’ The King had started pointing the club again, down to the prisons. ‘Everyone got to go back! Away from here. Away from the guns. You need to tell all our men.’
Habs was unsure what to say. King Dick astride the gates was a magnificent sight: his bearskin, club, rings, earrings, sloped shoulders, the extraordinary height, the unrivalled strength. Even from the ground, Habs could follow those fierce eyes, like black opals, scanning the crowd for his men: watchful, protective, possessive. This was the King as the prison knew him, as Habs knew him, and yet all around, men continued their pressing, their singing, their confrontation. King Dick was being ignored. The men of Four who had made it this far couldn’t turn back if they wanted to, but Habs could see they didn’t want to and they wouldn’t anyway.
A great hollowness fell on him. ‘They told me I was everythin’,’ muttered Habs. ‘’Tis a lie.’ He tugged at Joe’s jacket. ‘And where in all the world will I find another Joe Hill?’
‘You don’t need to,’ said Joe. ‘I’m coming with you.’
Habs shook his head. ‘No, sir, Mr Hill, you are not. You have not killed a man, you will not swing. You stay here for the peace. You live a good life. Visit your grandmother, go home to Boston, sing for money, write books.’ He spoke softly, with a quiet melancholy. He looked at Joe and managed an exhausted smile. ‘Stay beautiful.’
‘Shut up, Habs,’ said Joe. ‘You’re being dramatic. I’ll do all those things, and I’ll do them with you. If you escape, I can escape with you. Anyway, you probably need me to get you out.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Probably, yes.’
‘And how do we do that?’
‘Bribery,’ said Joe. ‘It’s the only way.’
‘With what?’ said Habs. ‘If you’d kept your dress on, maybe …’
‘Where’s the gun?’
‘Back in Four.’
Joe reconsidered. ‘Are your earrings precious? They look tradeable.’
Habs fingered the black-and-ivory hoops. ‘A few dollars, maybe, a few shillings …’
A cry from above them: the King was on his feet, the club pointing again. ‘Mr Jackson!’ he shouted. ‘No, sir! Turn back!’
Joe and Habs turned to catch sight of the crier, carried on shoulders, moving through the gates and up towards the front line.
‘Tommy!’ they shouted together. He swivelled around the neck that supported him, his worried face searching eagerly for the King, for Joe and Habs, for voices he would recognize anywhere. ‘Turn back, Tommy!’ yelled Joe. ‘It’s just the army that way!’ Tommy shook his head, pointing to the head of the man who was carrying him, drawing a finger across his throat. Habs noticed two white hands tighten their grip around his thighs and then the crier swivelled back.
‘Whose shoulders are they?’ said Joe. ‘Who’s got him?’
‘Can’t see,’ said Habs, ‘but someone who don’t mean him no good.’ Tommy Jackson’s head continued to bob as he was carried further into the square. They could see the top gates open again and more troops rushing to take up position. There were now four lines of soldiers, each fifty men strong, and Tommy was being taken closer to them by the second.
‘A Rough Ally, then,’ said Joe. They didn’t need to say anything else. Joe and Habs both stepped out from behind the gates and launched themselves back into the crowd.
The market square, enclosed by four walls, had produced an even tighter squeeze.
‘Side wall,’ said Habs. ‘Safer that way.’
They threw themselves against the brickwork, then, using the wall as a backstop, began their fight to get Tommy. More fists, more scratches, more cursing, but they just about kept track with the crier’s head. They saw him twist again, urgently, frantically, looking for his friends. The crowd seemed to be parting for him. Despite the abuse they were hurling at the British, the men stepped aside if they could.
‘Do you see that, Joe?’ said Habs, pushing away an incensed inmate they recognized from One. ‘When they see who’s comin’, who’s doin’ the carryin’, everyone tries to move. Jus’ like that.’
‘Which means it has to be Cobb.’