by Jan Needle
He slowly sank, as his elbow strength gave way. He was old, and stinking, and unsavoury. William Bentley regarded him through tears. He pulled a sleeve roughly across his blinded eyes, and dashed aft through the captain’s cabin.
*
On deck, a very strange situation had come about. After the explosion of energy and hatred, an odd, dislocated calm had settled on the ship. Captain Swift, with all the loyal men, had been gathered on the quarterdeck, penned in at musket-point by the marines who had joined the mutiny. They were disarmed, and ragged, and bloody, some lying on the planks still bleeding while their fellows made rough tourniquets and bandages. There was an air of dull expectation, of awaiting their fate. Which could only be putting over the side, in boats, to sink or swim.
The mutineers, if anything, were even more upset. It appeared that Matthews was in command, with Broad his right-hand man. Henry Joyce, a cutlass through his belt and two pistols in a band across his chest, hovered near them, with a dangerous, arrogant air. His cronies, now half drunk, stayed close by, also heavily armed. Mr Allgood, with the ship under way and safe again, had gone to the waist, where he stood grasping the main lee shrouds and gazing morosely across the grey waste of water. He had taken no part in the proceedings, and refused to answer when Matthews had tried to make him speak. Around the mainmast was the largest group; the seamen who were definitely ‘in’ but were desperately unhappy. They sought work to occupy their minds – had started off by hurling overboard the many corpses of their shipmates – but had a hopeless air of anxiety and distress. Their injured were in front of them, and Mr Adamson was moving around with brandy and bandages.
He had not yet attended to the captain’s party.
It was this silent, grim scene that met Bentley’s eyes as he looked cautiously over the taffrail, after climbing from one of the stern windows of the cabin. He took in the great pools of blood that lay around, and the awful wounds that many carried. He saw the tired greyness of all their faces, the stooped, exhausted look of mutineers and captives. No one was looking aft.
Almost without thinking, he hauled himself over the rail and walked to within point-blank range of Matthews, Broad and Joyce. His pistols were cocked, primed, and rock-steady.
‘In the name of the King,’ he shouted, and his voice nearly broke on it. ‘And the powers vested in me by the Articles of War. I place you under arrest. Drop your weapons.’
Twenty-Eight
The voice cut into Broad’s brain like a knife. He recognised it, high and unsteady though it was, and it flashed through his mind that he had not seen the boy since he slipped away before Thomas Fox was murdered. He turned slowly and faced Bentley. The midshipman was still dressed in blue, still unbloodied and unhurt, still unsweaty; unique among the men on board. His face under his blond hair was quivering with strain. His eyes flickered from the three of them, to the captain’s party, to the waist of the ship. But the pistols were steady, and close. Broad, who had only a knife in his belt, dropped it to the deck with a clatter.
He watched the faces of Matthews and Joyce. Matthews’ gave away nothing. The lantern jaw, the secret eyes, the tight mouth. But he dropped his musket and a pistol, gazing at the boy. Henry Joyce was different. His eyes rolled in his wild, hairy, filthy face. His lips twisted with rage and hatred. A thick growling came from his throat. It seemed for a moment as if he would make a lunge.
Bentley made a vivid gesture with the horse-pistol in his right hand. Its muzzle was only three feet from the bulging stomach.
‘I count to two,’ he said. His voice was transformed, steady. There was a note almost of menace in it. ‘One…’
In all this time, and it seemed an age to Broad, no one else on the quarterdeck had moved. The marines still trained their muskets on Swift and his men, the captain stared with the rest at the form of Bentley. Breathing was suspended as he confronted the bull of a man who defied him.
It did not take Joyce long to make his decision. He pulled out the pistols between finger and thumb and dropped them. The cutlass followed.
‘Stand by the rail,’ said Bentley. The three men moved across.
Still there was quiet. The men in the waist had worked out what was happening. The air of fear and uncertainty grew.
Broad was in a turmoil. The nightmare was becoming too much to bear. The death of the poor boy, the dreadful bloodbath, what they had done and what they’d suffer for it if they were ever brought to justice. But at least it had been over; the bloodshed had been ended. Now here was chaos again. One boy with two pistols, the marines and mutineers with muskets guarding the captain, and in the waist, frightened, sickened men, some armed. It would need very little, practically nothing, to make them attempt a counter-mutiny, to change sides in the hope of being pardoned in the courts for their part in the first revolt.
Bentley was well aware that the time he had was brief. Every nerve in his body was screaming with tension. He looked at the group around his uncle, and he knew he could not disarm them. So he began to speak.
‘Men,’ he said. ‘You must end this desperate lunacy. A frightful thing has happened, and we must all be blasted in the sight of God. But it is not too late.’
A roar of rage came from Joyce’s throat, but Bentley turned on him in a kind of frenzy.
‘Shut up!’ he shouted. ‘You shall not take these men to death!’
A low moan of wind swept over the decks, followed by an icy sheet of spray. But no man made a sound any more. All eyes were on the small, determined figure. All eyes, except those of the new man to the helm, for the ceaseless task of keeping the Welfare alive in the sea had resumed.
He stood straddle-legged at the wheel, handing spokes. It struck Broad as desolate and fateful; nightmarish, messy and unreal. All this hell, and still she battered south, still a man handed spokes and met the seas, impervious.
Bentley spoke again.
‘You men guarding Captain Swift, there. You must put up your muskets. You must cease this madness. It is hopeless, you can see that it is hopeless.’ He paused. ‘Men, there has been a mutiny. I can offer no hope for those who took part, saving this: When you are brought to justice, you will get a fair trial. And if you cease your folly now, it will be taken into account. It will be noted. It will not be overlooked.’
He could feel sweat running down his back and sides. He blinked as sweat poured into his eye-corners from his forehead. It was taking too long. He must make them drop their muskets. It was taking too long.
‘There have been faults,’ he said. His voice had gone shrill, like Jack Evans’. Good God, where was Evans? He could not see him in the group. ‘Yes, faults,’ he stumbled on, crushing the thought.
‘On this ship, the Welfare, things have happened that should not. Yes.’ He was panting suddenly, the sweat coursing down his body.
‘Well listen, men, I make my pledge. Put up your arms, this instant, and I will hide nothing at your trial. No, nothing, not the least small thing. Everything shall be told.’
Many of the men in the waist had moved aft. They were in a ragged line, reminiscent of how they had stood each day, before the holocaust, to witness punishment.
Their weapons had been abandoned. There was a weird look on their faces, a look of bemused hope. Broad noticed Allgood among their number. On his face there was another expression; of supplication. Shame and supplication. The boatswain looked like a whipped dog. Broad had a huge sadness in him, for himself and all of them. He too wanted to believe the boy; indeed he did believe that he would tell the Welfare’s dreadful story. But he knew it would not stop them hanging. Anyway, Bentley could not bring it off even now; the odds were impossible.
Before Bentley said another word, however, one of the marines guarding Captain Swift threw down his musket. A half-minute passed. Then a comrade followed suit. A silent minute, then down went another. Then a fourth, a fifth. A jumble of excited noise rose from the deck.
Hope flooded Bentley. He licked his lips and swallowed.
&nbs
p; If only, if only. The heavy pistols were making his arms ache badly, the grips were slippery in his sweating palms. Another musket went down, and another. The marines and seamen with guns still trained were looking shifty, uncomfortable, even terrified.
He said triumphantly: ‘You men, do not be left behind! Do not be left alone beyond the Pale! Quickly, quickly, put up your arms!’
In a few short seconds, it looked as though he would bring it off. More muskets were discarded, until only three or four were levelled at the group. Then Daniel Swift spoke, his voice shaking with exultation. He faced the last muskets boldly, his eyes flaying the unhappy mutineers. He was almost bursting with contempt.
‘Put up, you scum!’ he cried. ‘That’s right, you dirty sons of filthy fuckhole whores, put up those muskets! Oh Christ I’m not afraid of you, you buggering shitholes! Now put them up!’
Bentley almost closed his eyes in horror. Oh uncle, uncle, he shouted silently, leave it be, leave it be!
‘Shoot me in cold blood would you, scum,’ yelled Swift. ‘Ah no, I know you will not, for you are cowards all! All of you, all! Scum, and shit, and cowards!’
The men with the muskets wavered. A low rumble rose from the waist and rolled aft. Swift had his head back, his pale eyes glaring, his hawk nose raking the air. You fool, thought Bentley passionately. Oh God damn you, uncle, for a fool!
Jesse Broad watched almost mesmerised. The captain’s arrogance, his idiocy, amazed him. It was somehow as though the battle were between them now, the boy and his uncle. A movement aft caught his eye. Ah dear God, then that was it. The boy had lost.
The man who had climbed the taffrail from the cabin was one of Joyce’s clique. A tall, raw-boned fellow called Madesly. He had a half-drunk leer on his slack lips, but trod the deck as delicately as a dancer; he was a seaman. In his hand he carried a capstan bar. In his belt he wore a cutlass. As he slipped across the deck Swift’s voice changed. A note of alarm. A warning shout.
Bentley half turned. He had only time to see a form, to throw up his arm in protection. The heavy bar hit his wrist, breaking it. The gun rose into the air, discharging itself harmlessly into the rigging. The wood crashed into his head, and he sprawled unconscious.
Joyce gave a roar, and sprang for the other horse-pistol. He held it close to Bentley’s bleeding head and pulled the trigger. The gun misfired.
Before anything else could happen, before more violence could break out, Matthews and Broad had armed themselves. Broad, cold with anger, covered Joyce and Madesly.
‘Daniel Swift,’ said Matthews. ‘One move, one word, and you are a dead man. Your hopes are at an end.’
The sense of dislocation and unreality that had followed the first revolt had been dispelled, in large measure, by Swift’s unbending hatred. There was a sense of fury following his latest action, a furious urgency to get him overboard.
The men who had dropped their guns rearmed, and at orders from Matthews and Broad began to prepare some boats. Joyce curbed his instinct to seize power after Matthews pointed out, in a brief confrontation, that he was the only man who could navigate. But it was not in Matthews’ control, nor Broad’s, to prevent Joyce and company making off in the direction of the spirits room. It would not be long before drunkenness would be the order of the day.
At first, Jack Allgood took no part in what went on. He still seemed stunned, disgusted, by the whole affair and his part in it. But in the end he organised the work on the boats, if only out of habit. Broad, watching the great sad face, guessed something of what the boatswain must be thinking. A life in the Navy and a life of pride all gone, blown away for ever. He prepared the boats like a labour of love; but all it represented was lost to him.
When Swift and his men were lined up and counted, the problems for the self-appointed leaders of the mutineers became more difficult. There were hardly enough boats to take all the loyals if the Welfare was to be left with sufficient. In the cold greyness of the afternoon, the desires of some of the guilty to be counted among the innocent also grew. The captain, ever hopeful, tried to work on it.
‘You are aware of what will happen when you are caught, I hope,’ he told Matthews loudly, after a wrangle about the stores they were to be allowed. ‘And you will be caught, I promise you. This is one of the vilest acts that ever I have heard of. You may be sure that His Majesty’s Navy will avenge this bloody day, if it takes an hundred years.’
He stared around at some of the mutineers. A large number of them were still shifty; restless and unhappy.
‘Why do you fall in with it, you fools?’ he demanded. ‘Why do you listen to this villain? You have guns, rise up and use them. Take over this ship again, and I will make sure you do not hang. I can guarantee it as my word of honour.’
‘Shut your mouth,’ Matthews snarled. He turned to the men who hung about. ‘He talks of honour and you do not laugh? Good God, he is a monster!’
Later, Swift tried another tack. The three boats Broad and Matthews had agreed to let go were laden with provisions. Nearly fifty men were due to be embarked in them.
‘You murderers, you bloody murderers,’ suddenly yelled the captain. ‘Will you put us to drown in this freezing ocean? Is not your deed already black enough? Will you go against the laws of God as well as those of man? We cannot live in those three boats!’
The guards and helpers, ever more jumpy as the long slow time wore on, glanced about at each other. The sea was high and lumpy, the wind cold and ominous. Even Broad was fearful for the safety of the loyal men. He knew small boats, and these would be overloaded and in frightful waters. Matthews, however, was unmoved.
‘You are a villain, Daniel Swift,’ he said, coldly. ‘You know as well as I do that you have a chance. This wind will blow you to Good Hope, even southerly as it is. And as you know, it is a freak in any case. It will turn westerly soon. The gale is almost gone, and there is west in it already. It will blow you to Cape Town in a jiffy.’
‘A chance? A chance? That is all you allow to fifty souls, is it? A chance, you murderer!’
‘Ach, shut your mouth,’ said Matthews in disgust. ‘You are the murderer, Captain, and we shall not forget it.’ He spoke to Mr Robinson, who stood close by Swift. ‘You sir, you are a trusty man. You are not afraid, I suppose, to sail to Cape Town?’
The ugly little master stared for such a long time without a word, that Broad thought he would not speak. But he did.
‘I have no fear of anything my God may send,’ he said. ‘Except some men. To sail to Cape Town? No, I am not afraid. We might even make the port. And if we do, sir – then may the Lord have mercy on you.’
A burst of drunken cheering drifted from the after hatchway. Broad said sombrely: ‘One thing that must be said. In those boats you have a chance, at least. On board here…’ The drunken noise rose once more. He did not finish the thought.
The task got more urgent. It was getting late, and there was thuggery in the air. The injured were wrapped up as well as they could be, Swift was allowed navigational equipment, charts and all his secret papers, and the first boat was made ready for hoisting outboard. It was the jolly boat, the smallest one to go. Allgood and Broad got together what hands they could, while Matthews took a position beside the helmsman, to heave the Welfare to.
Simon Allen, the midshipman, was to take command of the jolly boat. He got his men on board, cleared away the oars, and they waited. They waited some little time, for the Welfare was proving unwieldy, and her hands lubberly. A fair amount of liquor had found its way down many throats, and the atmosphere was tense. Broad was fully armed with pistols now, for although most of the men on guard duty were sober, the situation could get out of hand. The nightmare was not over by a long way.
At last the ship was hove-to. Her motion became uncomfortable, lumpish. Big seas broke high up her sides, solid water sometimes pouring across the waist. As Allgood gave the command to haul, a strange thing happened.
From a hatchway forward, Padraig Doyle appeared. Hi
s face was gaunt and awful, his hand clutched his bagpipe. As he staggered aft, one arm outstretched, mouth gaping, the jolly boat rose off the deck and dangled from the mainyard tackle that had been rigged to lift her. The Welfare gave a plunge, and the top of a wave raced across the deck. It struck the blind man heavily behind the knees, almost knocking him down. He recovered his balance, taking a pace or two forward. The deck lurched more heavily, and another wave-top beat at him. Suddenly he was in danger, staggering towards the side. The swinging jolly boat plunged towards him, cracked him up and under in the back, lifted him – and he was overboard. Jesse Broad gave a great shout, racing to the bulwarks, as the falls dropped from a dozen hands, and the jolly boat crashed to the deck amid howls and the splintering of wood.
Over the side the blind man’s head appeared high on a grey roller, the bagpipe stretched above him at arm’s length. Broad saw the blazing sockets turn towards the ship. The mouth was open in a silent scream. Then head and arm went under. Followed on the instant by the pipes. The grey sea rolled on.
A frenzy of rage gripped the men on deck, and Broad was part of it. The jolly boat, smashed beyond repair, was cleared from the falls and hurled over the side. The loyal men, white and panicky, made no complaint as they were forced into the two remaining boats. Swift was to command the launch, with Mr Robinson, and Simon Allen joined Hagan in the cutter. The cutter was filled first, overfilled, and swung briskly out. This time there was no mistake. She rose, swooped overside, landed neatly on a rising wave, and was free. She rode dangerously low, but well. Her reefed lugsail was set, and kept her steady as they waited for the captain.
When the launch was far fuller than common sense allowed, there were several fit men and three unconscious ones still on the Welfare’s deck. Swift, from the sternsheets where he sat, shouted to Broad.
‘You there! Are you mad, man? We need another boat. We cannot live in this already, and there are more to come! Give us another boat!’
