The Sea Officer Bentley Thrillers

by Jan Needle

  Bentley held out his hand for the whistle, but Broad did not move. They stared at each other for a long time, deep into each other’s eyes.

  Then, quite suddenly, Bentley filled his mouth with spittle and jetted it into the seaman’s face. As it ran down beside his nose and dribbled over his lips, Broad’s face darkened. A muscle worked in his cheek and his face grew darker. It grew darker and darker until he was almost black. Nobody moved.

  Then Bentley spun round on his heel, and walked steadily back towards the quarterdeck.

  Twenty

  The breeze that had lifted the Welfare from her sluggish misery, blew gentle and steady for long enough to take her across the Line. The boats and the interminable pulling were forgotten, the insanely pointless sail-trimming was replaced by genuine work, which nobody objected to. The ship did not sail fast, particularly, but she was sailing. And even if the heat and mildew below decks were still almost unbearable, even if the bugs and cockroaches continued to drive men almost mad, at least on deck there was a cooling wind to dry the sweat and ease the sores and boils that nearly everyone had round mouth and eyes.

  The preparations for the ceremony of crossing the Line caused great excitement on board, not least because Henry Joyce was to be Neptune. When he had finally emerged from the sick-bay, he had been a fascinating sight to all hands. He had lost a great amount of bulk, lying near death as he had for days on end. He had practically lived on the surgeon’s brandy for one whole week, and for most of the rest of his time below he had been unable to hold down anything other than pease pudding. But emaciated and pale, Joyce retained some awful signs of power. His great shoulders were unbowed, despite the piled scars that swelled onto his neck under his pigtail, and his shambling walk, though less steady, still had an indefinable air of the beast in it. The eyes were usually cast down. But Bentley, stalking in the waist on the morning he reappeared, had caught Joyce looking at him, and it caused him a shock of something he did not care to contemplate.

  It amused the: men that Joyce was to play Neptune, the cruel lord, but it gave no pleasure to the young gentlemen.

  In this one ceremony they were very much at the mercy of tradition. Tradition had it that they must pay tribute to Neptune, after being prepared for the honour by his barbers. And Neptune could do with them what he would. The other boys on board faced the perils too, as did every ‘pollywog’ who had never crossed the Line, but the mids guessed that they would receive the roughest treatment of all.

  They did. After being stripped, half shaved and thoroughly beaten and ducked, all four young gentlemen were a sorry sight. Finch, to his shame, was weeping, but he managed to do it quietly at least. William would have liked to have cried, he ached desperately and great patches of his skin were roughened and sore, but it was something that had to be borne. It was a golden opportunity for the men to try to break the boys. He scorned their clumsy physical attempts; he would have laughed aloud at them had not any opening of the mouth been an invitation for Neptune or one of his roughs to fill it with a stinking mess of pig’s lard and tar. They were pathetic in their desire to hurt and he despised them.

  Jesse Broad despised them too, as he awaited his turn to face the half-drunk ‘barbers’. He watched the men drooling with pleasure as they beat and pinched the boys. It was a chance, admittedly, their only chance. Had he retaliated when Bentley had spat at him, he could have hanged for it. He watched the small naked figure of Finch being hoisted high over the deck by his ankle and felt sorry for the child. This was not the way.

  One thing surprised him, though. Thomas Fox had got off almost scot free.

  Broad had been fearful of the ceremony on the shepherd boy’s account. After the incident over the whistle, Fox had collapsed in on himself like a pricked bladder. Broad, almost blinded with anger, had yet been aware that the real victim of the midshipman was the boy. The vile excuse that there was only one musician on the ship’s books was nonsense; any man could play, if he wanted, during the dog-watches; Thomas was transgressing no laws. But after the incident the life that had come back into his pale, dead face had gone. Broad could not see his eyes, no one could any more. Fox kept them turned always to the deck. But that brief spark that had been in him as he had walked to the piper with his whistle had gone again. Worse, he appeared to have given up all hope; his shoulders had stooped, his arms and hands were always limp. Broad had tried to tell him that he could play; that Bentley had been merely goading him. But Fox did not even seem to hear.

  To many of the men, not just officers and warrants, Fox had been a target. He was considered simple, a fool, and fair game for any treatment, however atrocious. Broad had warned off some, as he knew Matthews had too, and the boatswain’s strange ambiguity kept Fox safe from many vile excesses. But among the lower of the people – and God knew, thought Broad, most of them were the scrapings of the sewer – he was an object of hatred and contempt.

  Red-headed Peter, who had crossed the Line before, had been gleefully ghoulish, in his childish unthinking way, about what the men would do to Thomas. Thomas had not listened, apparently; but Broad had felt deep pity for the boy.

  But it had not happened that way. Fox had awaited his turn, docile as a broken lamb, and almost as a lamb he had been treated. At first Broad thought it must be a deep and subtle plan by the men to show to Bentley what they felt of his behaviour; but that was surely quite beyond them.

  It slowly dawned on him that the pity he felt for Fox had somehow become general; the incident at the fore-bitts had brought about a change in the men, even the most beastly. It must be true, for Neptune and his assistants were certainly among the most beastly dregs of humanity on board. And they treated Thomas with an eerie gentleness. He was pushed around, of course, and one or two sly digs went in. But compared with the treatment everyone else received, he got off light indeed.

  *

  The day after the Welfare crossed the Line, she lost her breeze. William, invited to take tea with his uncle in the sultry cabin, expected to find him ready to eat fire. The captain, however, stalking moodily up and down by the stern windows, was more thoughtful than furious.

  ‘I had hoped, my boy, that we would have picked up the Trade after the Line. That damned breeze has played me false. Time is running on, William, time is running on. I have never been in the doldrums so long in all my time at sea.’

  William sipped his tea. He had learned enough in his lessons with Mr Robinson to know that the doldrums were unpredictable, but he had no intention of suggesting to his uncle that they might be becalmed almost indefinitely. He waited quietly.

  ‘Damned old Neptune!’ laughed Swift. ‘I would have thought he might have graced us with some good breezes in return for so many new acolytes presented with all due ceremony. Stubborn old lad.’ His smile lingered. ‘Bah! Damned superstitious nonsense!’

  ‘Shall we clear the boats for towing, sir?’ asked William. ‘It had the desired effect last time, that and all the sail-handling.’

  Swift sat astride a plush chair and sucked his lower lip. ‘I think not,’ he said. ‘I think we will try a new tack altogether. I think for the moment I will play the hearty fellow with the scum.’

  After a minute or so, he bounded up and flashed his wide, bright smile. He smacked the palm of his left hand with his right fist.

  ‘Surprise! That’s the thing, my boy! Surprise them, keep ’em guessing! That’s the way to have command! They think they know which way the dog will jump, but they do not! Not a jot!’

  William looked past the small, powerful form of his uncle at the sullen brazen sea outside. It was like a millpond, flat and unmoving. A glowing, violent heat rose from it. He smiled politely.

  ‘Surprise, sir?’

  ‘Surprise, Mr Bentley. They will be expecting work, work, yet more work. They will be expecting kicks and ha’pence, or kicks at least! They will look for rowing, handing sails, drudgery. Instead—’ He stopped. Again the dazzling smile.

  ‘Instead?’

&
nbsp; ‘Haha! You see, my boy! Keep ’em guessing! Tell me – what would be your guess?’

  No guess at all, thought William. His uncle was very excited. He found it somehow disturbing. No guess at all.

  ‘I am afraid, sir, you have me beaten,’ he said.

  ‘Right!’ said Swift gaily. ‘And so I shall the people. They’ll be expecting kicks – and I’ll give ’em ha’pence!’

  ‘May I be permitted to know what form the “ha’ pence” will take, sir?’ William asked.

  The captain laughed.

  ‘You may not! But you may invite Mr Allgood to pipe all hands aft when you’ve drunk your tea. Then you can hear the news with everybody else.’

  Bentley stood up and bowed. As he turned to go, Swift said: ‘Oh, by the by, have we any musicians on board? Excepting Doyle, naturally.’

  William half smiled, remembering.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘At least one. Rather a fine whistle-pipe player, I believe.’

  ‘Capital!’ said Swift. ‘Capital. I shall speak further to you of that after the people have had their dinners. Capital!’

  *

  Broad found himself alongside Matthews as the men moved slowly aft. Everyone was sweating heavily again, and the mood was not good. Another dose of towing to zephyrs was in everyone’s mind, and they did not like it.

  ‘No punishment today,’ said Matthews drily. ‘And this, I suppose, is the reason for it. He will amuse himself with a different form of torture for once. He plays us like a fiddle, damn him, and cares less for us.’

  ‘Why, I wonder,’ replied Broad, ‘does he bother to call us aft? Why not just have the orders issued? I think you are right, friend Matthews. He wants to play with us a while.’

  A boatswain’s mate made a threatening movement with his rattan. They joined the thronged, sullen, company in silence.

  Captain Swift stood in all his glory. He had on a blue coat, a wig, a broad smile. He surveyed the assembled crew with a gaze that was almost affectionate. Broad found him fascinating. So relaxed, so untroubled, so vicious.

  ‘My jolly lads,’ Swift said at last, ‘I have called you here today to put the fear of God in you. You know I am a stern man, you know I am a tight one. But until this moment you have seen but nothing. Today I will make you quake. Today I will make you quail. Today I will make you damn your mothers’ eyes for bringing you into the world.’ His voice was jolly, full of fun, but the words chilled Jesse.

  He glanced at Matthews, whose face was set and grim. What in the name of hell could Swift be planning now?

  The captain’s eyes were twinkling. He surveyed the stolid people, his famous smile wide on his face.

  ‘My boys,’ he went on. ‘You will note the weather. In vain we shaved and lathered yesterday. In vain we paid old Neptune’s tribute, aye twice and thrice over. What wind we had, and it was feeble enough God knows, has been taken away from us. Here we wallow in this bloody calm, like a basket of fish in Portsmouth harbour. What’s to be done, aye, that’s the question.’

  Not a man who didn’t know Swift’s answer to that one, or so they thought. The heat was like a hammer. It would be dreadful in those boats.

  ‘Your shipmates are falling sick like flies,’ said Captain Swift. ‘Mr Adamson reports the sick-bay overflowing. He is the surgeon, and exercise is his cure. Well lads, we all know about exercise on this ship, eh?’

  A groan went among the seamen, low but tangible.

  Swift gave a brief laugh, his head thrown back. ‘Rowing to the breeze, eh men, is that what you are groaning over? Or perhaps it’s the thought of trimming, trimming, trimming! Every hour of every day! Aye aye, I’ve made you sweat I will allow. But no…’

  His face lost its smile. He gazed about him with his piercing gaze.

  Broad waited for the stroke.

  ‘But no,’ repeated Swift. ‘Today I have a new diversion for you. And you’ll curse me for it, oh you’ll curse me for it!’

  Broad darted glances at faces nearby. I wonder if he knows, he thought, how great the heap of curses is that these men lay upon his head already.

  ‘It’s dancing!’ cried Swift, at last. ‘It’s dancing, and music, and sport! Oh boys, I’ll have you crying out for mercy, so I will!’

  There was a rumble of confusion as this sank in. What was the man talking about? Had he gone mad? Or was it an odd sort of joke he was trying to make? Matthews shrugged his shoulders, and Broad spread his hands in front of him. Little Peter, who was nearby, squeaked excitedly, taking everything at face value, and got a swish for his pains. But it was not a hard one; the boatswain’s mates were equally confused.

  Swift was delighted at the ripple he had spread. He laughed aloud. The men quietened gradually. There was a certain tenseness in the air, as if they expected the news to be false, or to somehow turn out nasty. Broad, in fact, was certain it would. He was wrong.

  ‘Lads,’ said the captain. ‘This weather is vile, but we must make the best of it. Exercise we must have, but no more towing, no more killing work aloft, eh? You’ve done stout service for me and I’ll ask no more until we get that south-east Trade that must be just around the corner. So it’s dance that’ll do it, dance and sport. We’ll have a band, and we’ll have races up and down the rigging, and we’ll have a little milling. What say you, men?’

  A cheer went up, a genuine cheer. Broad, taking the cue, joined in, although his was not so much a cheer as a loud noise to take the place of silence. Matthews hardly had his heart in it, either. But for most, apparently, it was a cheering matter, and in truth, thought Jesse, anything was better than what had gone before. But what a strange man, what a very strange man the captain was.

  Even stranger was Swift’s next announcement.

  ‘To start it all off with a fizz, brave boys, I’ve just one more thing to say. Every one of you, man and boy, will get a double go of grog today. Now, how is that, eh?’

  His last words were drowned in a tumult of delight. Layers of hatred, weeks of anger and misery, dissolved before Broad’s eyes. The men around him had gone wild.

  He found himself looking into the calm, implacable face of Matthews. Again they gestured their bewilderment. Swift played his people like a fiddle. And cared less for them…

  *

  By the time dinner was out, the first details of the events were all round the ship. Bentley, who had thrilled to the brilliance of his uncle’s tactics, was put in charge of organization, and rose to the challenge superbly. He drew up lists of those who wanted to wrestle, those who wanted free fist-fights, those who wanted to punch across the sea chest. His uncle had insisted over a glass of wine after his speech that fighting should be the main part of the sports. There was violence in the air, he said, and he would have it out. He would have it out under strict control. The men could beat each other bloody, and even win prizes for it, but it would be under control, and once out would soon evaporate. Dancing there would be too, and races. Running races on the decks, cannon leaping, and rigging races. Nothing too strenuous, nothing that smacked of work. Dancing in the intervals, to the piper, the whistler and anyone else who could be found to play.

  Old Fulman’s mess, like all the others, was full of the announcement. Peter was so excited he could hardly eat. He reckoned to take many a prize in the rigging, because although he was not so strong as the men he was as nimble as a monkey. They talked merrily, full of rum and water, not really noticing the crushing, airless heat any more.

  ‘What will you enter for, Jesse?’ Fulman said in one of the pauses while Peter stuffed his mouth with rotting beef and biscuit.

  ‘Nothing, I doubt. Events were never of much interest to me. And I certainly do not fancy being beaten by Henry or his ilk just to provide Mr Swift with some pleasure.’

  ‘Coward! Coward!’ shrieked Peter. ‘Why Jesse, if I was not so busy with running, I would enter for a milling with the big booby myself!’

  They all laughed at the thought of Peter slugging it out with that giant. Allgood t
he boatswain was the only man on board who could have given him a contest.

  ‘What is this sea chest fighting, though?’ asked Broad. ‘It is not something I have heard of.’

  ‘Oh, it is marvellous sport!’ said Peter. ‘Very bloody in the extreme, Jesse!’

  ‘The rules are simple,’ said Grandfather Fulman. ‘You sit astride a sea chest, one at each end, and punch each other’s heads. It is a game for strong men only.’

  ‘And brave ones,’ said Peter. ‘Or fools,’ said old Samuel. ‘Who wins?’

  ‘Again simple,’ Fulman went on. ‘The man who stays seated when the other is lying in a pool of gore on the deck. An extremely bloody game, as little Peter told you.’

  Later they carried on the conversation on the foredeck, mingling with the other off-duty messes. Many men were tipsy, a few very drunk, but there was an air of jollity, almost of happiness. The fights would come later; and this time there would be prizes!

  When he had finished sorting out the details, with the help of the other midshipmen, Bentley went forward to see about the music. A hush fell over the lounging men as he walked among them, but it was a good-natured one. He picked his way across the deck to where Fulman and his friends sat by the fore-bitts. They stood up as he approached.

  ‘Be easy, men,’ he said heartily. He could feel the tension in the air. A dampness broke out on his brow. The man he had spat at looked levelly at him, face closed. The two greybeards employed the old sailor’s trick of looking at the sea, the sails, anything but his face. Bentley felt his eyes drawn to the empty sockets of the Irishman.

  ‘Be easy, men,’ he repeated. ‘You may sit if you please.’ Nobody moved.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Bentley. ‘You, Irishman, we will require your services a good deal. Between each race, between each set of matches, there will be dancing. Shake your head if you understand.’

  Padraig Doyle shook his thin grey head briefly. William wetted his lips.

  ‘And you, boy,’ he said to Thomas. ‘Where is your whistle?’ Thomas Fox was standing beside the dark musician, his head bowed. He started when the midshipman addressed him. He did not reply. There was silence all around them.