Mad Blood Stirring Read online

  1.3

  The Market Square

  IT WAS ALL Yankees now. The only redcoats visible were those patrolling the high walkway on the wall enclosing the blocks. A dozen guards paced along the perimeter, rifles held in readiness, bayonets fixed.

  ‘Where we headin’?’ asked Ned, as they inched past a row of accordion players. ‘We should be movin’ on. They gonna stop this party soon enough – I don’t know why they not shootin’ at us already.’

  ‘That what you prefer, Ned?’ said Habs, pushing him on.

  ‘Like I said, jus’ ’cos the singin’ white boy say it’s a peace, don’t mean it is one. Tha’sall.’

  Habs and Sam exchanged glances. ‘Fair enough,’ said Habs, ‘but Sam here has an idea.’

  ‘’Course he does – ain’t that always the way?’ said Ned. ‘Let’s hear it.’

  Sam nodded at the crowd that was pressing around the men of the Eagle.

  ‘Well, that singin’ white boy—’

  ‘What? We still talkin’ ’bout him?’ Ned protested.

  ‘… is takin’ a interest in that ol’ boxin’ ring. Has somethin’ under his arm, look.’

  Ned looked again at the new arrivals, gave Joe an appraising stare. ‘Maybe he jus’ needs some firewood or somethin’ so his lily-white bones don’t freeze. Tha’s what he wants that ring for. He don’t look too well neither, all that mud ’n’ shit all over him.’

  ‘Enough, Ned,’ said Habs. ‘Tha’s too many words. We looked like that back when we walked all the ways here from Plymouth Dock. You forget. And if you don’t believe in the peace, don’t believe what he’s sayin’, let’s jus’ ask him.’

  The crowd around the Eagle crew was growing ever larger and more boisterous. The redcoats patrolling the walkway were beginning to look nervous. Each one of the twelve was engaged in vigorous, sometimes shouted conversation. Many ended with handshakes and backslapping.

  ‘We’d be the first coloured folk tha’s spoken to ’em,’ said Sam.

  ‘I noticed,’ said Habs. ‘Well, best to start at the top.’

  He stared at the new arrivals, their haunted, half-starved faces briefly transformed by laughter and relief. At the end of the line, the boy in the tricorn hat stood slightly apart, the broken piece of the boxing ring acting as his prop.

  Habs walked up and stuck out his right hand, revealing the letters F.A.S.T. tattooed across four fingers.

  ‘Habakkuk Snow. Crew o’ the Bentham, outta New York.’

  Joe shook his hand, noticed the letters. ‘Joe Hill,’ he said. ‘We’re all from the Eagle, out o’ Boston. “Fast”?’ He glanced at Habs’s fingers, still wrapped around his.

  Habs laughed and held out his left hand. The letters H.O.L.D. were tattooed there, the O and the D partially obscured by rings. ‘Hold fast. It was a joke a few years back, after I fell from the riggin’ a couple times. Jus’ a reminder.’

  He withdrew his hands and stared again at the sunken-eyed, elfin-faced sailor in front of him. Joe had a delicate, almost emaciated appearance and there was mud plastered to his cheeks and forehead like warpaint.

  ‘You fall or somethin’? Out there?’ said Habs, pointing to the boy’s face.

  Joe stared blankly, then shrugged. ‘S’pose I might’ve,’ he said.

  When it was clear no more explanation was forthcoming, Habs waved Sam and Ned forward. ‘My friend Mr Penny here needs a word.’ He indicated to Ned to say his piece. Ned, arms folded, head to one side, just stared at Joe.

  ‘Doesn’t sound like he does,’ said Joe, staring back.

  The silence loomed loud in the noise of the crowd. Eventually, Ned spoke.

  ‘Where you from, sailor?’ The question sounded more like an accusation.

  ‘Like I said, the Eagle. Out o’ Boston.’ His tone was neutral, matter of fact, but everyone knew that Joe Hill understood Ned’s question perfectly well; he just hadn’t answered it. A number of black sailors sharing a hatful of cold stew stopped to listen to the exchange.

  ‘An’ before the Eagle?’ tried Ned, impatience etched into every word.

  Joe sighed. ‘Just so you know, I’ve had this conversation many times. What you mean is, I don’t sound like an American. Correct, Mr Penny?’

  Ned acknowledged the point. ‘Correct, Mr Hill.’ The smell of the glutinous mess of meat and potatoes hung between them.

  Joe nodded. ‘I’m from Norfolk County, Massachusetts. My parents were English, but I’m a naturalized American. I’ve been fighting the British, same as you. Catching tides, hauling sail and firing cannon, same as you.’ The onlookers nodded, and Ned seemed to deflate.

  Habs spoke for him. ‘An’ this news – the peace. How do we …’ He broke off, unable to complete the sentence. Up close, this suffering sailor, gaunt and malodorous, was, Habs decided, telling the truth. Even to suggest otherwise would be an insult. But the damage was already done.

  ‘How do you what?’ asked Joe, incredulous. ‘How do you know I’m telling the truth?’ He closed his eyes and ran his hands over his face. ‘I guess you don’t. I can’t prove anything. I might be lying – we all might be lying.’ He pointed at his Eagle crew mates. ‘We might be … British agents. And if that’s what you want to believe …’ He broke off, exhausted. Habs thought he detected tears in his eyes. He wondered if Sam saw them, too.

  ‘I believe you, Mr Hill,’ he said, and Joe nodded his appreciation.

  This wasn’t the conversation Habs had intended to have.

  ‘Joe Hill, this is my uglier cousin, Sam, and the bald, annoyin’ one with half an ear missin’ is lamplighter Ned Penny. He’s from the Bentham, too. Tha’s where the rest of his ear is.’ Habs took the meat hat, offering some to Joe, who waved it away. There was a fire now behind his pale blue eyes.

  ‘So, what do you think, Mr Snow, Mr Penny? Are we liars?’ There was grit in his voice. ‘’Cos when you see the newspapers and you read of the peace, as you surely will one day, you may have cause to remember this conversation.’ He stared pointedly at Habs first, then at Ned.

  ‘That sounds like a goddamn threat,’ said Ned.

  Joe stayed silent.

  ‘This here place is complicated, Mr Hill,’ said Ned. He glanced over at the prison blocks that loomed over the lower wall. Lights had appeared in the odd window but, for the main part, the buildings remained dark and forbidding. ‘Maybe less complicated for you than for us, but complicated all the same. You jus’ arrived, you don’t know nothin’. But you gonna find out soon enough. If you been cheated and lied to like we have, if you been treated lower than cockroach shit like we have, if you been winnin’ a boxin’ match then had it stole by a white man with timber in his hands, you might jus’ end up suspicious as us.’

  While Ned spoke, Habs tracked the movement of a number of white prisoners with long, straggly beards as they circled the square. Noticing Habs’s scrutiny, two of them mimed the swiping action that had ended the boxing contest. Habs turned away.

  ‘But I might warm to you, nevertheless,’ Ned went on. ‘So, tell me what you saw at the docks.’

  Joe shook his head. ‘It’s the same story – the one you didn’t believe,’ he said.

  ‘I wanna look you in the eye when you say it,’ said Ned.

  ‘Do you …’ muttered Joe.

  ‘I can judge a man—’

  ‘Can you …’

  ‘Try me.’

  The crowd around them had grown still further, some white sailors now leaning in to catch their words. Joe removed his tricorn and rubbed a hand over the roughly cut stubble on his head, carefully avoiding several bloodied cuts on his scalp. He took a deep breath, his eyes flicking constantly between Habs and Ned.

  ‘We were disembarking from the prison ship. Instead of counting us off like they should’ve, the crew were crowding round another man. Fattest man I ever saw. Amazes me they found a uniform wide enough. Must’ve been the captain’s commanding officer. I heard him say a peace treaty’s been signed between America and Britain. Word
s were clear enough. Then the prison boat captain shared his grog bottle with his crew. Right there.’ Joe replaced his hat, pulling it low over his eyes. ‘That’s it. Believe what you want.’ He pushed his way back to his shipmates and an old man offered him a bottle.

  Habs watched him go then turned to Ned. ‘Well, you said you wanted to look him in the eye,’ he said. ‘I saw a sailor with nothin’ left to give who was tellin’ the truth. What did you see?’

  ‘I saw what you saw,’ said Ned, his eyes still on Joe.

  ‘So you believe him?’ said Sam.

  ‘Maybe I do,’ said Ned. ‘Maybe I do.’

  Sam punched him on the arm. ‘Well, maybe your war is over, too. And maybe you’re findin’ me a drink.’ He pulled Ned away then called back to his cousin. ‘Try again,’ he said. ‘You might do better without us.’

  Habs watched them go, Sam leaning on Ned as they found some mess mates with alcohol. ‘Goddammit.’ He watched as Joe settled into conversation with the toothless old-timer he’d arrived with, the plank of wood clutched protectively under his arm. ‘Goddammit,’ he said again, and walked over to them. Hovering over Joe’s shoulder, the old man reacted first.

  ‘There appears to be a Frenchman here, after all.’ Roche scowled at Joe. ‘And a Negro one, too. I didn’t know they had any.’

  Joe turned briefly. ‘He’s American,’ said Joe. ‘Just dresses like a French.’

  ‘Why would he do that? Is that some kinda blackjack fashion?’

  ‘No, it ain’t.’ Habs stepped forward. ‘Won it fair and square,’ he said, indicating his blue jacket. ‘He was goin’ home, like they all were, but still playin’ Twenty-one. This was all he had left.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘I’m Habakkuk Snow.’

  Roche declined to shake. ‘You’re the boy who don’t believe us to be truthful.’ He drank from a bottle then wiped his mouth and beard in one sweep. ‘I known this one all his sixteen years, through peace and war. Now, apparently, peace again. And there ain’t a more honest man on any ship in America. So ’scuse me if I find better company.’ He turned rather unsteadily and was gone. Joe was about to follow when Habs held him back.

  ‘I’m sorry ’bout that,’ he said. ‘Ned didn’t mean nothin’ bad or nothin’. Truth is, this prison …’ Habs struggled for the words. ‘This prison is a dark place. Everyone’s dancin’ and smilin’ now, but we been here one year six months, and that’s a lotta darkness to fight off. Ned, he said his piece. Sam an’ I, we got other things to say. So I’m startin’ again here. I’m Habs.’ He held out his hand once more.

  ‘Don’t people have time for Habakkuk?’ asked Joe, reaching out to shake the man’s hand.

  ‘Not on a ship they don’t,’ said Habs. ‘You know how it is. You got to shout everyone’s name like a cannonball is headin’ straight for ’em. By the time anyone shout that at Habakkuk, he gonna be dead and blown to eternity. But Habs? He gonna be safe. Joe gonna be safe, too.’ A throng of brawling inmates rolled their way towards them and they stepped aside, watching them pass.

  ‘And are there lots of cannonballs flying round here?’ said Joe.

  ‘Uh-huh. English like to take potshots at us when they feelin’ bad, which is pretty much all o’ the time, or when the war ain’t goin’ great, which is only most o’ the time.’ Habs thought he detected the beginnings of a smile at the corners of Joe’s mouth. ‘I should apologize to your crew,’ he continued. ‘Who’s the old-timer?’

  ‘Will Roche,’ said Joe, tracking him in the crowd. ‘Father of the Eagle, on account of him not dying for longer than anyone else. Stole the gunpowder in Nassau back in ’76. Fought the English back then, and every day since by my reckoning. He’s a body full of injuries to show for it, too. Reckon if he finishes that bottle, he’ll tell you it all and sing you some more for good measure.’

  ‘He said he known you sixteen years?’

  The single crease in Joe’s forehead deepened. ‘That’s a lot of questions, Mr Snow.’

  Habs couldn’t see much beneath the brim of Joe’s hat. ‘There’s a reason for that.’

  ‘Why don’t you get straight to it? You said you had other things to say.’

  ‘I do. I was askin’ about Mr Roche.’

  Clouds of tobacco smoke drifted between them. There was a lengthy silence before Joe replied. ‘He’s a friend of my parents, from when we moved to Massachusetts. I was a cabin boy at twelve, then he got me a berth on the Eagle. He took it on himself to be my ship’s counsel. Ship’s parent. Ship’s pastor. He might be just about everything I’ve got.’

  ‘He don’t strike me much as a pastor.’ Habs was smiling, but Joe missed it.

  ‘Not like he’d pray or sing hymns or anything,’ he said, ‘but when we lost men, if they got sick or killed, he would always say some words, you know? He always had words. Anyhow, why d’you want to know about him?’

  Habs kept his tone neutral. ‘He like theatre, too?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not sure I follow …’

  ‘Was it Mr Roche that got you into theatre?’

  ‘No,’ began Joe, ‘but …’

  Habs nodded down to Joe’s arm, leaning heavily on the board he’d pulled from the boxing ring. ‘From here, you look to be restin’ on some clouds and sky,’ said Habs.

  Joe took the painted wood from under his arm. ‘Oh, yes, I rescued it,’ he said. He knocked his tricorn back and held up the wood to examine it more closely, trying to catch whatever light he could. ‘It’s a piece of scenery, isn’t it? And quite a useful crutch, as it turns out.’

  ‘Why the interest?’ said Habs.

  Joe seemed to have forgotten his reserve. ‘My father made things like this back home. He took me to the Federal Street Theater, when he could.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Anything. Everything. Magic, ventriloquism, The Beggar’s Opera, The Taming of the Shrew. Never seen anything so beautiful.’

  Habs waited for the question he knew was coming. He watched Joe look back over to the hastily assembled boxing ring, watched him taking off his hat, rubbing his scalp. Then, finally, he said it. ‘How did this get here, anyway? What are some flats, finely painted like that, doing in this shitty prison courtyard?’

  ‘’Cos you, sailor,’ said Habs, ‘done ended up in the only British jail with a theatre company.’ Habs enjoyed the moment, laughing at Joe’s astonishment.

  ‘A theatre company?’ he spluttered. ‘Here? But Dartmoor’s the most notorious English torture chamber in the world!’

  ‘True,’ said Habs. ‘But it’s a torture chamber with a theatre company. The Dartmoor Amateur Dramatic Company, we call it.’

  Joe looked again at the scenery, as if he needed physical proof of this unlikely claim. ‘The Dartmoor …’

  ‘… Amateur Dramatic Company.’

  ‘And you do shows?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Are you in it?’ asked Joe.

  ‘’Course,’ said Habs. ‘We just did a pantomime.’

  Joe leaned on his prop again, shaking his head. ‘This has to be some kind of madness,’ he said.

  ‘Now you disbelievin’ me,’ said Habs.

  Joe missed the sting. ‘Who runs it?’ he said.

  ‘That’ll be King Dick,’ said Habs.

  Joe almost smiled. ‘You’ve got a King Dick?’

  Habs kept a straight face until Joe realized what he’d said. ‘Yes, but I’d advise you to get those lines right out of your head. Damn fast.’

  ‘Can anyone join? Does this King Dick decide?’

  Habs nodded slowly. ‘He does. But you’re Block Seven, Joe, and I’m Block Four.’

  He offered no further explanation and, before Joe could ask for one, the redcoats returned.

  1.4

  The Physician’s House

  SHE HAD SLEPT only briefly, she was sure – a few minutes, maybe. How lazy, how feeble, how dangerous. She scrambled from the bed, hauling a blanket from the covers to wrap around herself. It came to just above her knees
, and she decided she was just decent enough. From the sheets, Dartmoor physician Dr George Magrath was stirring, too.

  ‘Is that singing I can hear now?’ he said, his eyes still closed, his mouth sticky with sleep. In a prison where routine meant order, anything unusual meant trouble.

  ‘What is it, Elizabeth?’

  ‘New arrivals,’ she said, looking out.

  ‘And they’re singing?’ He sounded incredulous.

  ‘They are.’

  ‘That’s unusual. How many?’

  ‘About a dozen. In a bad way, too.’

  ‘But still singing.’

  ‘“Yankee Doodle”, I think.’

  ‘You’re wearing a blanket, Mrs Shortland.’

  ‘You didn’t appear to need it, Dr Magrath,’ she replied, ‘and you wouldn’t want me standing by the window naked, now, would you?’

  ‘Well, there’s a thought to be considering,’ he said, smiling. ‘Are you quite sure you should be at those curtains at all?’ Elizabeth didn’t reply. Beyond the heavy velvet, her attention had been drawn to one of the new prisoners. Like many who arrived from the prison ships, there wasn’t much to him; he was stooped with exhaustion and leaning on a comrade for support. But there was something about the way he held his head with that tricorn hat perched high, something about the way he conducted with one hand as he sang, that tugged at her heart. She found she was holding her breath as the new prisoners were marched away.

  ‘At least the poor buggers won’t be staying long,’ said Magrath. ‘They may be our last. Thomas is certain of the peace?’