by Jan Needle
William took his meaning. As captain, Uncle Daniel must live in isolation. Splendid, true, but almost complete.
‘Therefore, my boy, hear this. I want you to be my eyes and ears. Among the people, among the young gentlemen, among the officers. You must be secret and you must trust no one. Except me. Do you understand me? Will you agree?’
William felt dizzy with pride. His voice trembled as he gave his assent. The honour was a dazzling one. My God, if only he could tell Jack Evans and the others! But he couldn’t, and in a way that made it even better. True trust, that – to be the captain’s eyes and ears, and never to be suspected.
Swift smiled at him, a queerly crooked smile.
‘Thank you, my boy,’ he said. ‘My sister’s child. I knew I could count on you.’
It was a rare moment of emotion. William left the cabin in a glow of happiness. A pity, he reflected, that the world could not see Swift as he had seen him. Surely a misunderstood man. Strict he might be. But for the common good, only for the common good.
On deck the pile of gear unloaded from the launch was rapidly dwindling as it was transferred and stowed. One last item was being hauled on board, and it must have been an unusual one, judging by the string of seamen who crowded the rail to watch.
He strained his eyes in the gathering gloom. Slowly a small, odd-shaped object appeared above the line of heads at the ship’s side. A ragged cheer went up, and the seamen leaned outwards, trying to catch at something that rose steadily on the tackle.
The odd-shaped object was a bagpipe. As he gaped, an arm came into view below it, holding it on high. Below the arm, as the men on the tackle swayed up again, a pale, thin face. Then an emaciated body, wrapped in a brown cloak or blanket, clinging to the falls with its other arm.
Another cheer, and the body was seized and hauled over the bulwarks. An order from the boatswain, and it dropped gently to the deck.
The blind piper put out his arms and took a step forward. The dark sockets of his eyes seemed to range over all; the deck, the masts, the men.
William Bentley shuddered.
Seven
Rumour travels fast on a ship, and in any case the visit by the launch, the arrival of fresh vegetables and the blind musician, left little room for doubt. The wind was in the east and blowing fresh and steady, Captain Swift had received his orders, the tension in the air could almost be smelt. On any other ship, as was the custom, they might even have been paid, to clinch the matter. With Swift, though, no man expected that.
As darkness fell many eyes were turned towards the glimmering lights of Portsmouth, that could be seen perhaps for the last time.
The last time for months at the very least. The last time for years more than likely. The last time – the very last time – quite possibly. A sombre, quiet mood gripped the ship. Not one man who did not well know the city or another seaport like it. A place of warmth and liquor and friendly doxies who would ease you of ills, miseries, and money.
Not many of them had been ashore in the time that they had lain at anchor within sight. Only a few trusted men, like Bentley’s recruiting party, and discreetly guarded by armed midshipmen or officers. But the very presence of the port and all it represented had a powerful effect on their mood now that they were to lose it. At least it could still be seen, its lights at any rate. Tomorrow it would be gone. It was a bleak time.
Captain Craig, the commanding officer of the marines, had been called in for a conference with Swift, and the guard on all means of escape was redoubled for the last night. Red-coated men shivered watchfully at every point, and the bulwarks were constantly patrolled. Even the heads – the lavatories right in the eyes of the ship – had their guard. Swift knew his men; he was determined that none should run.
In the mess shared by Jesse Broad and Thomas Fox, a mood of intense brooding prevailed. The gunports were battened down, and a lantern cast a flickering, stinking light. Peter, the boy, tried to strike up a conversation with Fox, but the wide, swimming eyes were sightless.
‘I do believe he be drunk!’ exclaimed Peter, after a while. ‘Why Thomas Fox, you be drunk!’ Grandfather Fulman tutted gently.
‘Leave him be, Peter lad. If he do be drunk it is surely better for him, but just try to mind the situation he finds himself in.’
Thomas did not know if he were drunk or sober. Truly the amount of beer he had consumed during the afternoon was amazing, much more than he ever drank on shore. But his mind was racing so fast, his thoughts were so like a rat in a trap, circling, circling, searching hopelessly for a way out, that he had noticed no effect from the liquor. The biscuit he had eaten for supper, with an end of rindy cheese, had likewise gone down his throat unnoticed, despite Peter’s attempts to amuse him with the small animals that could be made to ‘come out and beg’.
He knew the ship was to sail tomorrow, and his world had grown inwards into his head, smaller and smaller. It was one day only since he had been pressed, but he could not grasp that. The whole of his life was crushed into the tiny, reeking space that he filled on earth. He had been born into the Welfare, born into this misery. Every time his mind stumbled accidentally onto the cottage where he lived, it gave him a sharp physical pain. Occasionally a gasp or a small shriek would escape from his lips when this happened. Father, Mother, Maggie and Sue. He could not think about them. He sat beside the wheel of a gun, his shoulders hunched so far forward that he found it hard to breathe, staring at the deck in front of him without seeing it. It was an agony of missing that he could not explain, could hardly endure.
The others in the mess must have recognised the signs, for apart from Peter no one tried to offer comfort or give advice. Very few words were spoken, in fact. Grandfather Fulman sucked at his empty pipe, another old shellback called Samuel whittled away at the deformed skin on the end of his thumb with a knife. Matthews, the lantern-jawed merchant sailorman, kept his usual place nearest the port. His eyes were closed, his lips were sealed, his thoughts were secret.
Jesse Broad looked at Thomas Fox a lot. He felt desperately sorry for the shepherd boy, and toyed with the idea of taking him with him. But he knew it was crazy. The boy could not swim, for a certainty, despite having been born and raised on the coast. In fact, Broad knew, it was unlikely that half a dozen of the whole ship’s company could stay afloat unaided for more than five seconds. Strange fellows, seamen. Maybe they thought it better to drown quickly if they had to, than kick about in hope and anguish for hours before sinking just the same.
But Jesse Broad could swim. Ever since a lad he had treated the green waters as his second home. Even Mary could swim, rare indeed for a woman. In years gone by they had swum together, secretly, in the wooded creeks round Langstone. The pleasure of the sport made a thousandfold better by the fear of being caught.
He had a grinding pain of loss run through his belly then. He thought of the christening day. Today, only today! To Broad, too, it was as though he had been years in the Navy. He shook the pain away with a grunt. Why the feeling of loss, when tonight Mary would be in his arms again? And Jem, his tiny boy.
Well, not tonight, but soon. Tonight, with the easterly driving the waves straight onto the Isle of Wight, he would make Priory Bay. An hour or less to walk round the coast to Bembridge, and James Sweet would hide him readily enough. The Welfare would make sail tomorrow – no single deserter would hold her up – he would lie low for a day or two in case Swift got word ashore to the preventive men or the Navy to try and flush him out – then heigh ho back to Portsmouth.
He thought about Swift for a while. What had he said about desertions? Two men had tried and two men had died. That was clearly why he had anchored at St Helen’s. There were many ships much farther in towards Portsmouth, in Spithead, but out here the chances of getting ashore were far remoter. The rocks off St Helen’s were very dangerous and the tidal currents powerful and treacherous. Broad, thanks to the contraband trade, knew those currents and tidal movements like the back of his hand. With the breeze
to help and the set of the waves, he was pretty sure he could make it.
There was a muffled sob and a grey movement as Thomas Fox stood up. He stumbled away from his messmates towards the pens where the beasts were kept. Broad shook his head. The desperate thin boy; he had never seen so much misery in a human being. And only a child.
What if he found a spar? A barrel, or a plank, to hold them both afloat? Madness. Out of the question. If he was to see Mary again, and his child, he must think of no one but himself. In any case… He remembered Hardman, his dear friend Hardman. He would have liked to have revenged him, for the sake of old times and dear times. Dull anger stirred. Where was his body? Where was the wherry? Oh God, he must get to Portsmouth and home before the wherry was found to terrify Mary.
Jesse Broad stood slowly until his head pressed against the rough underside of a deck beam. The pale round of a face followed him. It was Grandfather Fulman.
‘Where are you going to, friend Jesse?’
Broad stared at the old man. The face was open, and kind, and strangely sad. It occurred to the younger man that this old salt probably had had a Mary once. A wife, sons, daughters. Was probably wrenched away, to never see them again. He almost spoke his mind. But stopped.
‘Heads,’ he muttered.
Grandfather Fulman gazed for a long time.
‘If you are seen you’ll be shot, or flogged, or put in irons,’ he said softly.
‘For going to the heads?’ Broad whispered stubbornly.
‘You are an animal now, friend Jesse,’ answered Fulman. ‘You have no right to even breathe, if someone decides you should not.’
There was a pause. The others in the mess seemed to be unaware of the conversation.
The old man went on: ‘Go very gentle, friend. There’s marines on this ship would kill for sport. The boatswain’s mates are murderers to a man, and Captain Swift, they say, is first cousin to the devil. Avoid all lighted parts, remember that there’s darkness round the main chains, and if you gets in the water, think on this…’
Broad listened, tense, unsmiling.
‘Keep your feet, what’s white, under the waves, and keep your face, what shines, covered in your jacket, what’s dark. That is, don’t leave your jacket, although heavy, on account it’ll keep you secret. Drop him when you’re clear. If they puts a boat out for you, swim across wind and waves for a while. You’ll be safe.’
Broad said nothing still.
‘By the by, friend Jesse,’ said old Fulman. ‘Can you swim?’
‘Don’t need to swim, grandfather. For I am only going to the heads. Amn’t I?’
The whispering was over. Broad set off across the dark and silent deck like a cat, straining every nerve and muscle to see and hear. It was a strange world, of curved hammocks, snores, odd points of flickering light and crouched men. There was a ghostly silence over all, which was in fact no silence at all, more a threatening calm. There was a constant low groaning from the ship, a desolate sighing of wind, a mournful grinding of the main cable. Every so often there was a splashing slap as a sea broke against the side and rose up for a moment before subsiding. Then the shuffling of beasts from the pen, and from among them a thin piping wail, mysterious and horrible, which he knew to be the suffering boy.
For minutes he stood below a hatchway, tense as a bowstring. It was night, but the blackness of the sky, starless and thick with low cloud, was as light compared with the blackness between decks. Strain as he might, he could make out no figures. Were there marine guards waiting in the darkness? If there were, they were immobile as statues. He could not wait for ever, either. If he stayed too long he might lose his resolve, or be spotted, or even, God forbid, be called to duty; he had little idea of the system on the ship. Perhaps boatswain’s mates or the master-at-arms would be along checking on those below, or dowsing glims. He must go.
Broad raised his head through the hatchway in trembling degrees. He blessed his dark skin, and kept his eyes hooded as far as possible so as not to reflect any light they might catch. It was almost two minutes before his eyes were fully on a level with the deck. The wind, which was a low moan below, swept briskly now, blustering and gusty. Loud creaks of spar and cordage. When his eyes had grown used to the different light, he cautiously looked all round.
At first he could see no one – marine, officer or seaman.
But as he stared at objects they sometimes moved, startlingly, and became people. Mostly they were downwind of fixed points, getting what warmth they could from the shelter. The decks looked terribly bare. Great open spaces stretched ahead and astern, and to both sides of him. If he attempted to reach the bulwarks, discovery would be inevitable. Strange that earlier the space had seemed so cluttered, so jammed with gear.
But as he watched and racked his brains, the problem became slightly less daunting. His heart slowed as he considered, the fear crowded out of his mind.
About six feet from him was a set of bitts, surrounded by a fair mass of coiled rope. It was bulky and dark, with angular shapes that could easily conceal a man. And perhaps did? Broad bit his lip. Then, a little beyond the bitts, was a jumble of long blacknesses which he guessed must be spare spars. There were thick things, almost tree-trunks, that could be made into new masts if need be. A lot of smaller wood for yards and booms. Sitting just beyond this pile, the ship’s boats on their skids. The jolly boat, judging by her length, was on the outer side.
If he could once make the curved bilge of the jolly boat, Broad figured, he could lie in its shade not six feet from the ship’s side. What had Fulman said? It was dark at the chains. Well, true; but maybe the marines would have thought of that too, and posted a sentry there. At any rate, the jolly boat was stowed very near the middle of the ship, where the side was not desperately high, and there were the spare spars and other wood. Perhaps he could get a piece overboard with him, to act as a raft or float. It would be a great help, that; it might save him. Broad reckoned he could be in the sea for up to two hours. The cold autumn sea. It would be a help if he could keep his woollen jacket on, but that would be heavy. A spar would make it possible.
As he stared at the bitts, part of them suddenly moved, broke away and turned into a marine. He very nearly plunged back down the hatchway in surprise. He had to struggle to keep his breath quiet. He had been within an ace of crawling straight into the soldier’s arms. As he hung there, a feeling of hopelessness swept over him. What if every shadow…?
The dark figure stretched upright, and walked round the bitts and away. Without being aware of making a decision, Broad moved. He might be observed but that was that. The marine had been at the bitts, and would no doubt return. But for the moment he was not there. With a low grunt Broad hauled himself onto the white deck, incredibly exposed, then made a stooping run to the shadow of the bitts. It was the work of perhaps a second, but when he arrived the blood was hammering in his ears and eyes and he was sweating. He tried to control his lungs, which were forcing his breath in and out in juddering gasps. In one of the silences between breaths, he heard the measured tread of booted feet. The marine was returning.
*
Down below, in the foetid darkness of the animal pen, Thomas Fox lay like one dead. He had wedged himself between three of the sheep he had brought onto the ship the day before. He knew them somehow, by smell, or feel, or familiarity, and they behaved towards him as if they knew him too. He buried his face in the warm, reeking wool, bathing it with his tears, smothering his sobs in the soft pulsing flanks. Although he still could not let his mind dwell on his lost home, it was oddly as if he was back there. The warmth of the sheep-pen by the cottage. The years with these and other animals. His mind wandered, drifted, as though he was dying, or was perhaps already dead.
He allowed a hazy picture of the north-eastern part of Portsea Island to swim in his mind. It was flat, and marshy, and misty, and very blurred. There was a long line of trees in view, that were about a mile from where he lived. His mind’s eye moved towards the line of tr
ees, the natural windbreak. But he did not part them, did not go beyond.
Thomas was making a noise, a thin, keening noise, but he did not know it. He was making a high-pitched humming that served to drive certain thoughts from his head. It was so high he could not think. Except vague thoughts; of flat green marshy lands, a line of trees. And death.
He was thinking of death when Peter found him.
The red-haired boy reached the edge of the pens, drawn by the steady, monotonous, high-pitched whine. He pushed and burrowed his way through the animals, looking for the source. When he found Thomas he lay down beside him and put his hand on his cheek. Thomas kept his eyes closed. His mouth was also closed. The high whine came from in his throat.
After stroking his cheek for a while, Peter began to talk. He talked a lot, and fast, but Thomas did not listen. It flowed over him in a tide, gentle, insistent, meaningless. Peter stroked, Thomas whined, the animals moaned and slept. At last Peter moved his hand to Thomas Fox’s eyes. He gently took an eyelid and pulled it open.
‘Jesse Broad has run,’ he said.
He said it simply, not loud, but it cut into Thomas’s brain like a knife. His mouth fell open, the strange noise stopped. His eyes, pale and tear-drowned, cleared and focused.
‘Jesse Broad?’
‘Has run. Has flown. He’s gone over the side, has swum to glory or beyond.’
Peter smiled his simple smile. Thomas Fox sat up, gazing into the round, happy face.
‘Jesse Broad?’ he said again.
‘The bird has flown,’ said Peter gaily. ‘He’ll drown, of course!’
‘He must take me too,’ said Thomas. He stood up. He knocked his head against a deck beam, hard, and staggered. ‘He must take me with him.’
‘No, no!’ laughed Peter softly. ‘How can that be? You must stay with me, Thomas Fox, and be my friend! This is a nice ship this is.’
He put out his hand and touched Thomas. But Thomas was bemused.