by Jan Needle
‘If he screams,’ he said, ‘he will pull through. Mark me, friend Jesse, I have seen men frozen many times. If he screams, he’ll live.’
The screams went on for a long time, as Mr Adamson applied more and more heat to Fox’s body. At times they filled the forepart of the ship, drowned out even the roaring of wind and sea. At last the surgeon had him carried to the galley, to heat in front of the fire, and for a time the shrieks became unbearable. It was a nerve-jangling sound, that made the nervous people yet more nervous. The atmosphere below decks was tense, passionate. Even aft, in the midshipmen’s quarters, some of the noise filtered through, and with it the tension. The boys looked at each other from time to time, all their high spirits quelled. James Finch was very white.
Towards the end of the morning, when the screams had died away, Captain Swift ordered that all hands were to be assembled aft to witness punishment.
During the night the wind had moderated, but it was still blowing quite strong. The Welfare was butting against the north-rolling swell, throwing heavy sheets of spray the length of her deck every now and then. She was under reduced sail, making a fair speed in no great discomfort. But the bleakness of the scene, coupled with the bleakness of feeling reflected in the faces of so many of her people, affected Bentley. He watched with a sensation approaching panic as the marine detachment were mustered on the quarterdeck. They had bayonets fixed, and their pieces were charged and ready. Their faces appeared grim to him, filled with anticipation of some action. And the people, too, were frightening. Something wolfish in their eyes and jaws. Something hard and cold as they assembled in the cutting wind. At last they faced each other, these two bodies of men; the marines in their glaring red, the seamen in a nondescript variety of slop clothing. Gouts of spray occasionally drenched them. It flew at the necks of the seamen, into the faces of the marines. Neither body flinched at the icy assaults. Eyeball to eyeball they confronted each other, dripping and expectant.
Captain Swift arrived with a great amount of pomp. He was wearing a splendid blue coat, a brilliant white ruffled shirt, and a pair of cream breeches. He was smiling the while, and sniffing the air appreciatively. No surcoat or cloak; he did not acknowledge the coldness of the weather.
He regarded the ship’s company sunnily, as though this was the merest routine, as if nothing at all had happened. Behind him the man at the helm stolidly worked on, handing the spokes, meeting the seas. His eyes never left his task; flicked from binnacle, to sails, to approaching rollers, to binnacle again.
‘Mr Allgood,’ said Swift, in a ringing, cheerful, voice. ‘Are the people all assembled?’
The boatswain stepped forward.
‘Aye aye sir,’ he said. ‘Every man-jack, sir. Save the sick, the lame, and the surgeon.’
The captain uttered a sort of laugh. ‘And the shepherd boy?’ he asked gaily.
Bentley was nauseated. Sickness rose in his stomach.
The scene blurred in front of his eyes. He almost staggered.
The boatswain’s face was unchanging.
‘Aye aye sir,’ he said. ‘He is ready with the surgeon.’
From below, a screaming started. A movement went through the ranks of men, a low rumble. Heads turned to look forward, towards the sick-bay, then aft again, in some confusion. For the screaming was coming from aft. It was not Thomas Fox, it was Plumduff.
Bentley, who was behind Swift, stepped slightly backwards as the first lieutenant spoke.
‘It is the second, sir. His leg must give him pain.’
Without asking permission, William moved back yet farther, paused for a few moments, then almost crept to the hatchway. As he descended the ladder, a pain lifted from his heart. He would suffer for this afterwards, no doubt of it. But whatever the strength of Swift’s rage might be, he could not stand this any more; he had to get below, he could not watch when the boy was brought to book. He went to Plumduff almost gratefully, fussed over the agonised man, mixed and administered his draught, and tried hard not to think.
His uncle, on the quarterdeck, had not lost his air of gaiety.
Before the screams had died away, he spoke again to the boatswain, pitching his voice a shade more harshly to carry to all the men.
‘Ready, is he? Good. Then in a few minutes, Mr Allgood, we will have him brought here to face his punishment.’
He regarded the ship’s company with a half-smile; ran his eyes over them as if challenging them to show a sign of rebellion. Few men returned the gaze. They looked aft at him, true, but with the blank unseeing stare that said nothing. Jesse Broad allowed his eyes to flick at the captain’s for an instant. They were odd, like statue’s eyes, so pale, so very pale. Broad tightened his grip on the arm of little Peter, who he was half supporting. The boy gave a low groan of pain.
‘Aye, my lads,’ Swift went on. His voice had taken on its punishment note, but the mocking smile was still upon his lips. ‘Punishment is what that boy deserves, and this time I intend the punishment to be a fitting one. Any fool here who thinks a night on a topmast yard is punishment enough, must think I do not know what is going on on board this ship. Must think I do not know the smell of mutiny when it stinks in my nostrils. Mr Allgood?’
‘Aye aye sir.’
‘Send two of your mates, if you please. Now we will have the boy.’
When they were gone, Captain Swift continued.
‘Aye, mutiny,’ he said. ‘Oh yes, brave lads, I know the smell of mutiny. That puling shepherd boy, so mock meek, so mock afraid. I know, as well as any man among you, what goes on in that black heart, behind that knock-kneed milk-and-water whining-pining face. I know.’
The Welfare butted her bow into an extra large sea.
A solid sheet of spray rose high, then drove back over her deck. The front edge of the curtain drummed full into Swift’s face, which disappeared from view for a second. As the water ran off him he emerged, hook nose first, the iron smile unchanged. He did not even shake his head.
‘And I know, too,’ he continued, ‘that Thomas Fox was not alone in this. No ringleader he, although a black plotter enough. When young Thomas deigns to join me aft today, I shall ask him who his fellows were. And he will tell me.’
The water from the drenching was dripping down Broad’s back, but his shiver had little to do with the creeping chill. The captain’s behaviour spoke madness to him, as did his eyes, and smile, and crazy, vibrant words. Before God, thought Jesse, he’ll get nothing to satisfy him from Thomas, from poor innocent Thomas. And how will he act then?
‘Those men before you,’ said Swift, with a gesture at the marines. ‘You know them, with their leader, Captain Craig. They are part of my grand scheme today, you will see, my jolly boys, you will see. Thomas Fox has spent a night on the chill yardarm; he will tell us things to make some ears ring, eh? Captain Craig, please to draw your sword. I wish it to be held aloft. To serve, in some small way, as a reminder.’
The marine officer, standing to one side of his men impassively as ever, drew his sword. He held it rigidly in front of him, almost touching his face.
‘Yes,’ said Swift. ‘Good, then.’
At a noise from forward, Jesse Broad, along with many other men, turned his head. But the captain, his face contorted, barked an incoherent order and the rattans and rope’s ends flew. So the first view the people got of Thomas was a back one.
He walked, or rather stumbled, between two burly boatswain’s mates. Beside them, almost hovering, his shoulders bent anxiously, came the surgeon. He was clearly nervous, upset, his feet never still. He performed a sort of dance on the outskirts, as the frail boy was brought along, hanging, almost, between the men. Fox’s head was down, and he seemed shorter, his body bent and curled in on itself. When the mates halted, half turning towards the captain, his face was still hidden from Broad. Slumped low on his chest, and lost behind the bulk of his helpers.
Adamson went up to the captain, in a helpless, nervous way.
‘Sir,’ he said. ‘I thin
k I have to say… This boy, sir—’
‘Shut your mouth, Mr Adamson, or I will have you put in irons.’ The tiny surgeon shrugged, and took one or two faltering, dance-like steps.
‘But sir, I think—’
‘Mr Allgood, have that scoundrel silenced!’
‘All right, sir,’ gasped Adamson. ‘All right. Let me but stay on deck in case of… I will say nothing, sir. Forgive me.’
A mate looked enquiringly at Allgood, who shook his head. The surgeon stepped back into the ranks of the people, near the ship’s side. Swift took a pace or two away from Fox, looked straight at him.
‘Can you not look up, my boy?’ he asked, gently. ‘Can you not raise your tired head to listen to your captain? Can you not stand upon your own two feet?’
Thomas Fox did not respond. Not a man in the ship’s company or the detachment of marines moved a muscle. Not an officer stirred. Only the helmsman, easing a couple of spokes to meet a sea. From binnacle to luff, from luff to waves, from waves to binnacle. His eyes were never still.
‘I wonder if you are even listening, Thomas?’ Captain Swift went on. ‘I wonder if you can hear me? Or are you just ashamed? Is that it, eh? Shame has made you dumb? Shame has made you hang your head? Oh Thomas, try to look at me.’
Somewhere deep inside his head, Thomas made out the captain’s voice. It came from afar, through a cold, soft, woolly void. He tried to open his eyes, but nothing happened. He tried to make out the words, but could not. He made a superhuman effort to take his weight upon his legs, but the pain was sudden and intense.
‘You are a fine example, friend Thomas, of a very vicious breed,’ Daniel Swift was saying. It was clear to Broad that he was hardly talking to the boy, but was talking to himself, and them all. His voice was gentle, contemplative. ‘You are a fine example of the breed that returns love with hatred and trust with treachery. You are a snake in the grass.’
There was still no response from the shepherd boy. But the people were listening intently, almost rapt. Good God, thought Broad, Swift believes it all. He thinks he’s been betrayed!
As if he had plucked the thought from his brain, the captain said:
‘You have betrayed me, Thomas, after the kindness I have shown you. And you are a picture of the blackness in the hearts of your fellows. All, all, would betray me, who has only done his best by them. Oh, it is vile.’
To Broad’s astonished eyes, Swift looked actually miserable. The fine arrogance of his hawkish profile was blurred somehow. He looked at the boy before him, then at all his men, with an air of sadness. He believes it, thought Jesse. Now God help us all, he believes he has done his best, and we have turned against him!
Suddenly, Swift’s face changed. It darkened. The muscles in his cheeks bunched. His pale eyes bulged. His breath hissed in his nostrils.
‘You there!’ he screeched, at the startled mates. ‘Let him go! He will stand alone, or before God, I will strike him dead!’
The mates let go immediately. Thomas, without a sigh, crumpled in a heap between them.
Swift looked as if he must explode. His face became almost black.
He rose up onto the points of his toes and remained there, fists clenched, breath grinding in his throat.
‘Pick him up.’ He was choked, could hardly speak. The mates picked the boy up, his head hanging limply. His face was blotched, with dead white patches where the ice had bitten deep. His eyes were closed.
Captain Swift took two quick paces forward, and slapped each side of his face.
‘Fox! Fox! Listen to me. Stand, boy! Stand! Or it will be the worse for you! Do you hear! Do you hear!’
Deep inside, Thomas heard. He put all the life inside him into the effort. He pressed upwards with his legs. The pain was dull but violent. He gasped.
Swift let out a shriek.
‘Haha! He understands! Now, let him go!’
This time the mates eased their grip less swiftly. For perhaps two seconds, the boy supported himself between them. As he crumpled they made to grab him, but the captain flew at them, screaming with rage.
At the bottom of the ladder, William Bentley heard the noise and his blood ran cold. He had been listening, his horror ever deepening. Now he rested his forehead against the rough wood, closing his eyes. He remembered the pistols in the alcove in his uncle’s cabin. He began to pray.
Captain Swift retired to a distance of several feet from Thomas while he was hauled to his feet again. This time, after some seconds, the boy opened his eyes. It was a great effort, and he geared himself to it with all the determination left in his :soul. He tried to focus, but there was nothing. A few hazy shapes, a vague roaring noise. That, and the captain’s voice; it was all he could make out.
‘Fox,’ came the voice, and this time, for the first time, he truly heard. ‘Fox, I want their names. Fox, look at me. I want their bastard names.’
He felt one of the boatswain’s mates let go of his arm, and braced himself to try and stand alone. A rattling came from his throat as his breathing quickened with the effort.
It was an all-consuming effort, and he could not understand the question, even when it was repeated.
‘Their names. What are their names?’
The words throbbed in his head. Names? Names? What names? The other boatswain’s mate slowly released his fingers, and Thomas took the strain. He swayed, was pushed upright again, swayed the other way. The breath groaned in his throat.
Broad watched the struggle like the other men. They were fascinated. By the display of willpower by the youth, of fanatical single-mindedness by the man. The two were six feet apart, Fox swaying like a drunk, his eyes swimming in his blotched and horrible face, the captain crouched like a fighter waiting to spring, with tongue protruding slightly from his lips. When he spoke his voice was high and piercing.
‘Thomas Fox, I want their names. All their names. I will have your fellow mutineers from you, my boy, if it is the last thing I ever do. Their names, scum! Their names!’
Fox heard all this. It went into his head and lodged there. But it was incomprehensible. It was meaningless. He took a step forward, and he tried to speak. He tried to say something quite simple, to form a simple question, to convey his lack of understanding. But only a strange and ugly sound came out; a liquid, growling, sob-like noise. It was loud, quite loud. And very horrible.
As Thomas took his stumbling step, the Welfare lifted to a big sea which threw her weather-side high. The step became a stumble, the stumble a shambling run. Fox put out his hands, and skittered down the sloping deck. His mouth was wide, the sobbing groan an inarticulate roar. His eyes were open, white and rolling, as he bore down on Captain Swift.
The whole ship’s company swayed in unison as the big sea rolled under her. Caught on the point of balance, Thomas swayed once more, and would have run backwards as the deck sloped the other way. He was a foot from Captain Swift now, his eyes open, his stare wild.
But Swift’s face was wilder. As the boy had run towards him, he had retreated down the deck as if in terror. His face was riveted on Fox’s, as though he were looking at something frightful, something black and unknown. The slobbering boy stood before him, the gurgle rattling in his throat. Swift’s mouth was open, his eyes were wild; his face was terribly pale.
She rolled heavily. The clutching hands of the boy reached for the throat, the coat, the shoulders of the man. Swift gave his own cry now, loud and strange. He jumped backwards to the bulwarks. He seized an iron belaying pin from the rail. As the boy staggered open-armed towards him he swung the pin from behind his back with all the strength in his body.
He held the belaying pin by its lighter end, and the swing was enormous. The shaped metal of the heavy end landed square across Thomas Fox’s face, on the bridge of his nose. The crunching of bone as his forehead and eye-sockets caved in was clearly audible. It was his only sound. He folded to the deck instantly, a vivid gush of blood rising into the air then splashing onto the planks.
Swift stood without sound or movement, his face drained, staring downwards. All the men were silent, as bright blood pulsed across the deck. The wind moaned in the rigging, the steep seas slapped and gurgled along the Welfare’s sides.
At the helm, nothing had changed. Hand a few spokes, down helm to meet it, up helm to sail her. Close-hauled, and watch the luff. Luff, water, binnacle; binnacle, water, luff.
The Welfare sighed as a stronger gust took her. The helmsman eased a spoke or two through his hands as she tried to head it. She dipped her bow and battered onwards.
Twenty-Seven
The silence went on and on. To Broad, it seemed endless. His eyes were stretched and his mouth was open. He was gripped by a sense of total strangeness, incapable of movement. The spray-washed deck, the red-coated marines in line before him, the cold wind moaning in the sails and cordage. And there by the lee rail, the white-faced captain, still holding the bloody pin. Broad could not see Thomas through the press of men in front of him, but he could see Swift, and he could see the marines, and he could see the marine officer, whose face was tense and horrified.
Broad could also see Mr Allgood, and it was Allgood who broke the spell. After the timeless, awful, pause he lifted his great head to heaven and opened his mouth.
From it came not a shout, not a cry, but a deep, throbbing groan. Then the boatswain raised his huge hand slowly to his face and pressed it to his eyes.
As if in answer to the groan, a groundswell of noise came from the ship’s people. It came from many, many throats, not loud in each, but building up to a sighing, pulsing sound. Still nobody moved, but the noise got louder and louder. Beside Jesse, red-haired Peter added a new note of his own, a shrill, piping, monotonous scream. The thin noise was taken up by other boys, and then by men. A sense of hysteria grew. Broad felt himself grow light, and mad, and hollow. The body of men began to sway. The noise took on a baying tone, a lonely howling.
