by Jan Needle
‘On whose instruction have you left your post?’
He jumped. His uncle’s eyes were cold and savage. His voice had a cutting edge that was almost palpable.
‘I…I am sorry, sir, I—’
‘Sorry you will be, damn it, and sooner than you think, Mr Bentley. And your friend, too. Why sir, did you abandon your position?’
Swift’s face was white. The muscles in his cheeks worked. He was consumed with rage.
‘I…am sorry, sir,’ said William. ‘I shall return immediately. I…misunderstood.’
The captain turned away. There was silence for several seconds. William wondered if he should go aloft. He dared not ask.
‘Take that fool Evans with you and keep an eye on the Frenchman. I want to know everything about him. Every move he makes. Is that understood?’
‘Aye aye sir.’
‘Then jump, boy, jump!’
William leapt smartly away. He motioned to Jack, and they raced along the deck to the main shrouds. The decks were clear of heavy water now, with wind and sea almost astern. When they reached the topgallant yard Jack panted: ‘What did he say?’
‘To shut up and watch,’ returned William. ‘So get to it, instant, or I think we may be flogged like common sailors. In Uncle Daniel’s eyes we have done wrong. So use yours now, Jack. Use them.’
And almost immediately Jack Evans picked out men scrambling aloft in the Frenchman. Within minutes her fore topsail began to blossom as the reefs were shaken out. There was going to be a chase.
*
Mr Robinson was master of the Welfare, and a master seaman he showed himself to be. Jesse Broad, who above all men wanted the frigate to stand and fight, nevertheless had an eye for a chase, and an inbuilt feeling for the one who was running. He had spent more hours than he could guess escaping from ships – both revenue cutters and the small men-of-war which sometimes thought it would be fine sport to run down a smuggling lugger. He had honed his seamanship on the gentle art of getting clear away, so he could appreciate the finest points of sail-handling and steering.
Mr Robinson, quiet and practically motionless, yet had the Welfare in the palm of his hand. He could sense her every response. He kept the sailors busy at tack, sheet and brace, repositioning there, easing or hauling here. The best helmsman on board was handling the wheel, with the second best alongside him to lend weight. Broad felt an urge to have a go himself after they shipped a lump of sea over the quarter; he would have avoided that one.
A stern chase, they say, is a long chase, and he was interested despite himself to see what would be the outcome. They were heading fairly towards the coast of England, unless he was much mistaken. If they had to come about for fear of getting too close on to the lee shore, nothing could save them from an action. He could not see that they would be able to outstrip the Frenchman, who was pretty much of a size, so perhaps the captain was counting on dark to save them. In this weather they would escape in the darkness as easy as winking. Or maybe Swift was putting his money on Robinson’s seamanship.
That bold man decided at that moment that Welfare could carry a shade more canvas. Broad did not entirely agree, but that was of little moment. And he granted the master’s greater experience of his own ship ungrudgingly. A sudden thought of Mary, and his home, surprised him; but there was nothing he could do but admit to himself that he would do his level best to get the frigate clear. He dearly loved a chase.
After several hours, it became clear that Robinson’s skill was winning the day. The two frozen boys aloft could see a definite widening of the gap. Shortly after they had reported this to the quarterdeck (after ten minutes’ conference on the wisdom of expressing such a dangerously dogmatic opinion) it was confirmed by the Frenchman. She opened up with her bow chasers, which at that range could be little other than a gesture of frustration. The balls fell so far short that their splashes were lost in the creamy caps of the waves. Not long after that, the eagle eyes of Evans saw her fore topsail split. Within seconds his diagnosis was proved to a doubting William, when the sail blew to tatters then scattered over the waves and disappeared. A short time later, night began to close in.
Below, after another hour of violent work, shortening sail, bringing the frigate back on the wind, starting the process of clawing off the lee shore that was somewhere in the darkness to the north, Jesse Broad came to realise the furious resentment that most of his shipmates felt. Unlike him, to whom the chase had been absorbing, exciting, the others were filled with outraged shame almost to a man.
His whole mess had been on deck throughout, even young Peter. Now, together between the guns that bounded their home, the conversation waxed furious over the tin pannikins of rum and water, that were the only hot thing they were likely to get in their bellies while the dirty weather lasted.
‘To run from a damned Frog-eater!’ said Grandfather Fulman sadly, shaking his grizzled head. ‘I never do recall such a thing. What say you, Samuel?’
The other old fellow had not, either. Peter jumped up and down.
‘He’s a damned coward, and that’s the measure of the man,’ he said eagerly. ‘Why, such goings-on! I’d have stood and fought, aye, and to the death, too!’
There was a shared laugh, but it was not a happy one. Matthews said soberly, from his position nearest the port: ‘Keep that talk low, Peter. There is some sort of opinion that must not be voiced, no how. Keep it low.’
Peter spluttered into his grog.
‘But by the Lord, Mr Matthews,’ he said. ‘’Tis the unvarnished truth. That captain is a villain and a born—’
The carroty head disappeared under two big, horny hands. Fulman had carefully put down his drink and clapped one over the boy’s mouth and the other over his head to stop him moving. The boy struggled, then was still.
‘Listen, Peter,’ said Fulman. ‘Mr Matthews is right. To have run is…’ He looked around him into the gloom and pitched his voice still lower… ‘a shameful thing. But say so, and you may yet get a rope collar and a higher position in the world. Listen. We are not alone.’
He stopped speaking. From all around them in the darkness came a fearful noise. Babbling voices, drunken cries, retching men. There was an ugly note to it all, a feeling of anger. The lean, dark figure of Matthews let out a laugh.
‘See, Peter, you are not alone in your feelings, neither. There will be many a fool here tonight prepared to open his mouth too wide. But remember the master-at-arms. He’ll not be absent.’
In his cabin, Captain Swift rode the heaving deck easily and toyed with a wineglass. His eyes, to William, looked still unusual, filled with a dangerous pale fire, but he knew comfortably that the anger was no longer directed at him.
‘Damn, damn, damn, damn and double damn it all,’ Swift said. He drained his glass, refilled it with a swift movement. The deck bucked heavily and William staggered. But Swift absorbed the motion through bended knees, recommenced swearing quietly. William, dressed in dry clothes, warmer, said nothing. He did not know what to say.
‘You know what the people are thinking, no doubt?’ Swift snapped suddenly.
William reddened. A good question. Whatever answer he gave would reveal his own position. But apparently Uncle Daniel was not attempting to trap him; he did not wait for a reply.
‘They are thinking I am a coward and have turned the ship into a disgrace. Hell!’
William kept his mouth shut. Captain Swift aimed a kick at a cabinet bolted to the deck. It split down the front and his drink spilled.
‘Go forward, William, go forward,’ said Uncle Daniel. ‘If you find one man, if you find one filthy scummy lubber with that word upon his lips… Go forward, my boy, and find me a man.’ The boy stood still, uncertain.
‘I beg pardon, sir,’ he said. ‘I am a little… I mean, do you desire that…’
‘Yes, I do desire “that”,’ said Swift gratingly. ‘Are you not aware, nephew, that those filthy scum will now, even now, be thinking me a coward? Me, Daniel Swift! Go
od God, I—’ His face contorted and he lashed his boot out at the cabinet a second time. A piece of the rosewood door stove in, then dropped to the deck. He breathed deeply, his cheeks working.
‘Eyes and ears, boy, remember? I want you below, now, not with your messmates but among the people. Find me a man, boy, find me a mutinous dog who breathes that filthy word. Understood?’
‘Yes sir,’ said William, half bemused. ‘You think the people will interpret… You think that cowardice…’
The pale eyes transfixed him.
‘William. This ship is a disciplined ship. Those scum, most of whom were too lubberly to get their arses on deck let alone work the ship or fight her, will be forced to know it. Today they saw me run. They will have the infernal insolence to think I ran of my own volition. Me. Who have fought before until my ship was awash with blood, aye, and against odds that would have daunted Beelzebub.’ He ran out of breath, choked with rage. ‘Well. Well. Well. I shall show them. They cannot know my orders, no one can know my orders. But I will beat into them the respect that is due to me. I will flog the first man to call me coward, to within an inch of his life. Now! Forward, sir!’
William felt a flood of joy. He almost laughed with relief. So that was it! Orders. His Uncle Daniel had orders. My God, how could he have doubted? It was so ridiculously obvious. No one could know what those orders were. That was the lonely responsibility of command. But he could guess this much: they involved speed and they involved staying clear of engagements, certainly of the sort of engagement that might cripple them or divert them from the purpose decided by my Lords of the Admiralty. Uncle Daniel was not a coward.
‘Get forward, sir!’ repeated Swift. ‘Find me a man, my boy, and find him quickly.’ He drained his glass and refilled it. As William left the cabin he heard him swearing under his breath. And rightly so, thought William. How dare the filthy scum harbour such vile thoughts about his uncle?
In the close, sweet-sickly atmosphere of the main deck, all William’s nausea returned. The air was hot and foetid, reeking so strongly of vomit that his stomach tried instantly and violently to climb into his throat. He held on to a ladder, closed his eyes, bit his lip hard. It was more than a minute before he knew he was not going to retch. The deck under his feet was slippery with sick. He would be unable to stay below for long, otherwise he would succumb. He might even join the shadowy forms that lay all around, insensible, indifferent, in their own filth.
The noise was unbelievable. A babble of voices, screams, laughs, that merged into a sort of roar, more animal than human. It was deafening. Where would he pick out a man in all that? How could he hope to find a single voice preaching dissent?
It was, in the event, ridiculously easy. William ducked and slipped his way to an area of deep shadow, where he clung to a stanchion to get his bearings. As he listened, the babble of voices gradually sorted itself into those of individuals. There were high voices, low voices, gruff ones and shrill. But one thing struck him most forcibly; many of them were the voices of drunken men.
Even more forcibly, as his ears tuned in to each individual, came the refrain. His uncle had been right; there was a hell’s chorus of mutinous talk. Cowardice was the word, and it chimed round the stinking deck as a rhythmic echo.
At the mess directly in front of William, there was a lantern hanging from a beam. In its light a huge brute of a man rose unsteadily to his feet, lifted his pannikin to his mouth and drank deeply. William recognised him; a pressed man, and a good enough seaman, named Henry Joyce.
He knew the name because he was a dangerous one. An illiterate, violent, drunken dog who obeyed orders in a surly fashion and had an air of brooding menace.
Now, there was nothing at all brooding about him. His long pigtail hung down his back and his thick neck rippled as he threw his head back. His face was dirty, covered in black whiskers, but the whole of the front of his head was bald. His body was bare to the waist. Indeed, he wore only a pair of short canvas drawers. He was built like Mr Allgood, although perhaps a shade less mighty, and all the latent savagery that William sensed in the boatswain was nakedly on view in this drunken animal.
From out of the thrown-back head there came a howl of derision. His messmates banged their pannikins and laughed. The man howled once more, took another drink, coughed.
‘Messmates!’ he cried. ‘The man is a coward, not a doubt in the world of it. A coward!’
He roared the word till it reverberated through the deck, although it did not silence the row from the other messes. His comrades cheered.
‘A coward!’ he roared again. ‘And a craven! And a poltroon! And the son of a dirty whore!’
Each epithet was cheered to the echo. William could hardly believe his ears. Where was the master-at-arms to quell this din? And did these men not realise they could be hanged! He did not move, however. The man had, after all, still not named a name.
‘“My brave boys”, he says, the poltroon, “My brave boys, soon we’ll be at sea. And God help the enemy then!” he says.’ Joyce laughed until he choked, his messmates banging away with their pots. ‘“My brave boys”, he says, “when we get to sea there’ll be prizes galore. Prize-money enough to rot you! Prize-money to have you rolling in gold. Or my name’s not Daniel Swift!” he says. Well lads! What the hell is it, eh?’
And as his messmates roared, he answered his own question: ‘Captain Lily-liver! That’s his name! Captain fucking Coward!’
In a blind fury William took a step towards the mess. That these scum could sink so low! That such talk could be heard on a ship of His Majesty. In his rage, he almost walked up to the gang of drunken seamen. But in the last instant, some sense deep within him told him to move no further. Breathing rapidly through his nose he blundered back to the ladder, then worked his way aft to find the master-at-arms.
When Joyce was safe below in irons, after a struggle that had cost dear in corporals’ teeth, William went to report to his captain. Who expelled air through his lips in mighty satisfaction.
‘Well done, my boy,’ he said. ‘Well done and quickly done. That is the way of it, you see. We must strike hard and we must strike quickly. That way we shall keep the dogs under.’
Thirteen
Next morning Thomas Fox was hauled out of the sick-bay and set to work.
He was lying on his side when the order came. He was very weak, and when he retched nothing came up except a thin dribble of brown, bitter fluid. From time to time in the long hours, surgeon’s mates and Peter had tried to ‘tempt’ him with food – dry biscuit, cheese and beer – which he had refused even to look at. He had drunk some water, but it had made him sicker, having turned brown and muddy because of the violent motion of the water casks.
Not long before, Mr Adamson had come to check his charges. There were four others in the sick-bay besides Thomas now – the corporal with the broken arm, a seaman who had broken his leg when a sea threw him into the scuppers, another seaman with a knife wound under his arm from a drunken fight the night before, and a marine who seemed to have a disease of the stomach. The fracture cases had given over screaming long before, but uttered sharp, squeaking noises when the ship lurched more violently than usual. The cut sailor lay on his back snoring like a pig, while the marine let out long hollow groans of agony every ten minutes or so. He was doubled up so completely that his chin was below his knees. He still had his scarlet coat on, sadly stained with all manner of stains; he was too contorted for it to be removed.
Mr Adamson had recovered his good humour during the long night, although he can have had very little sleep. He hopped around the sick-bay with a bag in one hand and the inevitable brandy bottle in the other, whistling to himself and tutting occasionally as he looked at his patients. The drunk sailor he did not even waken – merely looked at the knife-wound, dabbed at it with a cloth, and retied the bandage. He caught the sick, bright eyes of Thomas as he pulled the man’s shirt back across his chest.
‘He’ll damn my eyes when he wakes, e
h boy?’ he chirruped.
‘Done up his wound and never offered him a drop!’ he winked.
‘Only the roughest though,’ he confided. ‘Not the sort of brandy I’d give to granny!’
Thomas would have smiled had he been able to. The surgeon was so kind. He had treated him like a friend, trying everything he knew to make him comfortable. A long swell of nausea racked him and he puked feebly. Not that the treatment had brought comfort, but how Mr Adamson had tried.
‘Still as bad is it, young fellow? Never mind, it’s only the seasickness. You’ll be over it soon, then we’ll have you skipping about like a lamb.’ He knelt before Thomas and wiped the vomit from his face. ‘It’ll moderate soon, the weather, you see if it don’t. Then we’ll have you skipping.’
The surgeon passed on, to ease bandages, check splints, administer brandy. He obviously used it as a cure-all, thought Thomas, and indeed he looked forward to the moment when he could hold some down. His mother placed her reliance on herb teas and other country infusions. He suspected that brandy would do as much good as such medicine, while its other properties were far preferable to some of the things that had been forced down his throat.
When the boatswain’s mate swam into his view and told him to get up and follow him, Thomas could make no sense of it. Mr Adamson had said nothing of his being better, or fit to leave the sick-bay, or anything. He tried to focus on the face, which was pressed strangely against the deckhead way above him. His eyes ached and he did not take much in. A shambly sort of fellow, with his yellow teeth sticking out of his lips. Thomas closed his eyes again, hoping the vision would go away.
Instead a searing pain dragged deep into his stomach.
The boatswain’s mate had kicked him. Thomas retched, but nothing came. He opened panic-stricken eyes to see the big bony foot drawn back once more. He struggled to get to his knees, but fell forward into the kick. He started to cry.
