by Jan Needle
Because people in high places needed brandy.
Immediately after the twenty-third lash, while the brawny arm of the last boatswain’s mate was being drawn round and back, William Bentley saw the livid face of the tortured man move. He watched in fascination as the white lips drew back to reveal the red teeth, stained in blood.
There was no doubt of it. Jesse Broad was smiling.
Nine
A few minutes later, the punishment was over. As Broad was cast off from the grating, the surgeon stepped forward and gently laid a vinegar-soaked cloth across his back. He shrugged groggily, refusing the help offered to keep him on his feet. He stared for a moment straight into William Bentley’s face, but his eyes were not quite focused. Bentley’s mouth was dry once more as the bleeding body was ushered below. He looked at his uncle, and noted with horror that his face was flecked with blood. Bentley raised a hand to his own. He felt sick. Traces of red slime slid from his cheek to his fingers.
Captain Swift turned to the master.
‘Mister Robinson,’ he said crisply. ‘I want all plain sail, and away in the shortest time possible.’
‘Aye aye sir.’
To the boatswain, Swift said: ‘Let your mates set men to clear away this mess, and get the rest stood by.’
‘Aye aye sir.’
Within seconds, calls were shrilling, orders were being bellowed, men were running frantically about under whistling blows from rope’s end and rattan. Swift turned to Bentley.
‘A most satisfactory beginning, my boy,’ he said. ‘But my word, did not that blackguard’s skin peel easy? We must pray he is not too sorely hit, for he looks a seaman born. Nevertheless, it was a useful thing; discipline may well benefit from such a gory display.’
‘There is blood upon your cheek, sir,’ said Bentley.
His uncle laughed. ‘And on your own. Come boy, below for a stiffener while all is made ready.’
When word was brought from the master that the capstan was manned, Swift seemed strangely animated.
‘Aha,’ he said. ‘Now here will be a thing to shake the people, William. It is known we have a blind man? Yes. But not a man like this, I’ll warrant me.’
On deck, the ship had taken on a different air. The capstan bars had been shipped, and at each stood tense crews of bare-foot seamen. Some yards were manned, and gaggles of waisters waited in readiness. The master stood near the wheel like a lord, as lord he was over the sailing of the frigate, but Swift took his place of honour, barely acknowledging the salutes of the lieutenants and midshipmen awaiting him. The boatswain stood expectantly at the after hatchway, certainly in on some secret, William could see. Jack Evans made a face at him, as much as to ask ‘What goes on?’ But William, who did not know, pretended not to notice.
Swift turned from contemplating the sea at last, with a wintry smile.
‘My lads,’ he said, in the penetrating voice that carried so far, ‘when the anchor is weighed and secured, when we are under way, you’ll get a double go of grog. How does that strike you?’
It struck them well. This time they were prepared to cheer; the cheer was deafening. Swift raised his hand.
‘But before that, my brave boys, I have another thing to please you. I may be a hard man, indeed I am a hard man, and you will do well to not forget it. But I also know what gives pleasure to a tar, and will try to do all in my power to bring it about. Mr Allgood, if you please. Give the word.’
There was a low murmur of expectation. The boatswain growled, but the murmur went on. Seconds later it grew to a positive ripple of sound. Allgood let out a snarl of warning. The babble died away. All eyes were turned aft. At first William could not see what was happening. He noted his uncle’s smile, grim but satisfied. Then he saw the dark musician, one hand held in front of him, the other clutching the bagpipe to his left side, being guided gently forward. He was as thin as a bird, in a strange, long-tailed coat such as no seaman would wear. His shoulders were stooped, his hair long and lank. Beneath the ragged ends of his trousers protruded legs like stripped twigs, feet like pale bunches of bone.
When he reached the capstan he was placed between two of the bars, then turned by the boatswain’s mate to face aft. The mate then put his hands beneath the blind man’s arms and lifted him with no trace of effort. He sat on the drumhead confused for a moment, then drew his tiny limbs beneath him cross-legged and settled the bagpipes athwart his body.
No man moved. There was no human sound. The piper raised his head and looked aft with the empty sockets of his eyes, which seemed to fasten themselves on the face of William Bentley. He stared in horror at the folded holes.
The boatswain turned aft, noted Captain Swift’s signal, turned forward.
‘Strike up, piper,’ he cried. ‘And now, my boys – stamp and go!’ As the men drove their chests against the bars, the eerie noise of the pipes filled the air. First a drone, low and swelling, then a rhythm, slow but getting faster. The music of the pipes, as if by magic, matched the strain and movement of the seamen. It started as a formless growl, an insistent, grunting note to move the bodies as they tried to move the bars to move the capstan. Then a kind of beat, to match the tramping feet as they ground against the deck, scrabbling for a purchase. Then, almost imperceptible, a melody.
It was not a known melody, not a tune any man among them could put a name to. It was slow, and sad, and achingly Irish. It merged into the wind, soared above the whining of the rigging, swallowed up the gasping grunts of the straining men.
As Bentley looked into the white, emaciated face, it slowly moved away. The empty sockets slid past his shoulder, then the side of the piper’s head came into view. This turned, until he saw the lank hair hanging free, unpigtailed, down the skinny back. Then the other side of the head, the line of the jaw, and at last the eyeless eyes. The boatswain’s mighty bellow broke the spell.
‘One turn, brave boys! Stamp and go!’
For what seemed an age, Bentley stood transfixed as the dark musician revolved in front of him. As the capstan turned faster, so the man on the drumhead turned faster.
As if taking his rhythm from this, and the tramping of the sailor’s feet, perhaps even their grunting, he piped faster. The mournful, unknown melody became gayer as the great cable began to groan on board fathom by fathom, dripping weed and water from the green depths.
At one stage William was sent below with the other midshipmen to get an idea of how the enormous length of rope was stowed. He returned to the quarterdeck almost reluctantly, distaste and fascination fighting in his breast. The clanking of the pawls had got quicker and quicker. The Welfare snubbed uneasily as she was hauled into wind and sea. And in front of him the strange figure turned on the drumhead.
At last he spoke to the captain.
‘Where did you get him, uncle?’ he asked. ‘He is the oddest musician I have ever seen.’
‘A fine one, for all that,’ replied Swift. ‘I was a little uncertain, he was so ragged and sickly. But he makes those lubbers on the bars act almost like seamen.’
It was true. ‘Stamp and go’ was the boatswain’s cry, and the men were at it with a vengeance. Already the cable was growing almost ‘a short stay’.
Daniel Swift still did not answer William’s question. He glanced at him queerly and said: ‘He is mute, you know. Strange, is it not?’ A cry from the foredeck: ‘Aft there! Aft there! Cable up and down!’
Within seconds the things had happened that Bentley still found too mysterious to fully grasp. In his year on board he had had little time at sea, and constant sail drill for the people had left him more confused than competent. But in those seconds the frigate was transformed from a ship at anchor, still and sulky in the passing waves, to a blossoming, vibrating, living thing. As the shouts came from the foredeck – first ‘Heaving away’, then ‘Heaving in sight’, at last ‘Clear anchor!’ – the Welfare grew wings. Teams of men hauled on ropes. Tacks and braces were manned. The headsails clapped like thunder, then quieted, a
back, as the ship paid off. Another thunderous roar as they were sheeted to leeward, more orders. And suddenly, to William miraculously, they were under way. With helm up, the ship turned majestically on her heel, farther and farther round until the wind was on her larboard quarter. Not many minutes later all plain sail was set, and drawing to the master’s satisfaction. The piper had disappeared, the best bower was being stowed, the capstan unrigged by the carpenter and his crew. They were off!
*
On the deck below, in the small dark area that served as sick-bay when the Welfare was not at battle stations, Thomas Fox and Jesse Broad sensed, in their different ways, that the voyage had started. Thomas, who had been lying semi-conscious and half-delirious since he had tried to kill himself, was awoken by the many noises of the anchor being weighed. He did not know the noises, but he guessed what they meant. There was the grinding of the capstan spindle in its bearing, the rumbling of the great cable moving slowly along the deck, and vaguer sounds, like distant thunder, as the ship shook off her idleness and felt new strains of wind and sea. His senses were still too dull for him to care that the Welfare was finally moving; that in an hour’s time perhaps, the Hampshire coast would be behind the Isle of Wight, to be seen again by him God alone knew when.
Broad too knew the meaning of the activity by sense and feel, rather than by thought. He lay face downwards on the deck with his mind full of physical pain. Time would come later to accept the loss. For the moment his shattered back was enough.
The surgeon, Mr Adamson, swam in and out of his vision. He was a very small man, with bright, bird-like eyes. He knelt over Broad, speaking to him rather as Mary spoke to their child. The words had little meaning, were hardly audible. The voice was soft, cooing. It lulled him as he lay, took the sting out of the dabbing fingers that investigated his back, probing and gently swabbing with cotton and searing vinegar.
After a few minutes, Broad attempted a few words. ‘Always,’ he said. ‘From a boy, just a little boy. Soft skin, my mother said, like a maid.’
The surgeon ceased his cooing; dipped his head so that he could see Broad’s face. He put on a puzzled look. ‘What are you talking about, man?’ he said. ‘Are you mad? You look like no maid I have ever seen!’
Dab dab went the vinegary cloths. Broad’s back ached horribly. He felt apologetic, as if he were causing the surgeon trouble. He felt he ought to get the explanation finished, at whatever cost.
‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘The flesh. Always, even as a boy, sir I cut easy. A tap, a knock. Bled like a stuck pig, sir.’ Mr Adamson snorted.
‘Good God, man, no need to sound so damned humble about it. No shame attached. Why’ – he snorted again, with more of a laugh in it – ‘some of the fellows on board here will take the skin off the cat-of-nine-tails! Backs like hide, heads as dense as blue clay. No benefit to man or beast in not feeling pain!’
‘Not pain, sir,’ Broad grunted. ‘Pain no trouble. But cut easy. Cut and bruise. Since a boy.’
‘If the pain’s no trouble,’ Mr Adamson said testily, ‘I’m wasting my time, for I’m doing my best to ease it. If you do not feel pain, mister, then you are a damned fool and deserve to die.’
Dab dab dab. Broad said nothing. The vinegar hurt, but soothed too. He explored his bitten lip with his tongue. It stung. A good sign. His back must be recoverable if he could feel a little thing like that.
‘Good flesh to heal, sir,’ he said, with difficulty. ‘Always cut easy, but a quick healer.’
‘Oh shut up, man,’ said Mr Adamson. ‘There is no need to make conversation here.’
‘Aye aye sir. It is only—’
‘Listen, fellow,’ the surgeon said suddenly, as if on a new tack altogether. ‘I’ll strike a bargain with you. You’ll keep your mouth shut for the sake of my tired old brain – and I’ll get you a glass of brandy.’
Broad blinked. He could not have heard right. But what to say now? The problem solved itself. The little man with the bright eyes ducked quickly away. Broad lay on his front, listening. He heard seas slapping the ship’s sides rhythmically. He heard the groans of working timber. He heard the vaguely rasping breath of poor Thomas Fox.
The bird-like form of the surgeon bobbed back into view. A chink, a gurgle, then the impatient, acid, voice: ‘Here, man. I suppose you know a fine brandy when it seizes you by the nose? Drink this.’
It was almost too much effort to roll onto his side. The searing pain almost cancelled the surprise, the pleasure, of this completely unexpected act. Almost, but not quite. Jesse Broad propped himself on an elbow, took the glass, and tipped the spirit neatly over his torn lip and onto his tongue. The surgeon watched closely.
‘Why thank you, sir,’ said Broad, when he had tasted and swallowed. ‘Thank you indeed.’
‘Good,’ said Adamson. He drank from his own glass. ‘And what,’ he asked, ‘is your opinion? Your professional opinion?’
Broad hesitated. He was unsure what he should say. ‘Come on, man,’ said Mr Adamson irritably. ‘I well know your trade. You are a smuggler and a villain unhung. No matter! Is it not a fine brandy?’
It was. Fine indeed. And Broad told the tiny surgeon so. For this reason, he supposed, he received another glass. Which unfortunately, working with his shocked stomach and torn back, made him feel ill. He made a pillow of his arms, burying his face in it.
‘Good,’ said the surgeon again, and went away. Broad wondered what it could all mean. Such un-looked-for kindness. He felt very tired, and hurt, and confused. And he slept.
Ten
For many hours, the wind and weather appeared to have the Welfare, and her Admiralty orders, and everyone on board of her, especially in mind. As William Bentley stood on the quarterdeck he marvelled at his luck, and the ship’s.
At first it had seemed as though she had been carrying too much canvas for the weight of the easterly. The master stood at the quarterdeck rail for almost an hour, once they had cleared into the Channel, studying the set of each sail, the tension of each part of the standing rigging. William, ever anxious to learn, had watched closely, listened to orders passed and to opinions shared, and asked for explanations of everything he could not understand. Mr Robinson, who did not seem to approve of the Welfare’s young gentlemen, was pleased to instruct if interest was shown. The boatswain appeared to share his eagerness to teach, but William was not so sure of this. The huge West Countryman with the hairy face and sometimes incomprehensible drawl often said things, and in such a way, that made him think a joke was being had at his expense.
‘Why is it necessary to keep setting up those backstays, Mr Robinson?’ he asked as a party of seamen was put to retensioning shroud lanyards for the third time in as many hours.
‘Wind, and newness, and lack of use, Mr Bentley,’ Robinson replied. ‘All the rigging, running and standing, has been overhauled while we stood at St Helen’s. Now, under test, it is stretching and making its way in.’
The boatswain added sardonically: ‘Hemp do stretch indeed, Mr Bentley sir. Even under the weight of a man.’ William ignored him.
‘Are we carrying too great a press of canvas do you think, Mr Robinson?’
‘No sir. For if we were you would feel the ship staggering, as it were, under its burden. You would know it at once.’
William was not at all sure that he would, and neither apparently was Allgood.
‘There is another way to tell when the ship is bearing too much, with the young gentleman’s permission?’ he said politely. He looked serious enough, but William was wary. Nevertheless, he nodded his permission.
The boatswain’s eyes twinkled.
‘As soon as the master have given the order for sail to be shortened,’ he said, his voice almost lost in his whiskers, ‘’tis a sure sign as the ship was labouring.’
*
Throughout the day, sails and rigging were adjusted as they worked themselves in. Captain Swift, when he came on deck, expressed his satisfaction. The weather was perfect. Enough wind t
o make sail trimming necessary and keep the people on their toes, enough to bowl the frigate along at about her best speed, not enough to do any damage.
Below in the sick-bay, as the hours wore on, Thomas Fox came fully to his senses and took stock of his situation. He was still far from able to let his mind wander to thoughts of home. For the present he dwelt on his immediate surroundings, and was surprised that they did not seem to be too bad.
For a start, the motion of the ship did not make him feel ill. He had been sure that as soon as they got out of the anchorage he would be sick. He had, after all, been sick on the boat trip from the Sallyport to St Helen’s Roads. And sick for hours afterwards. Now here they were at sea, he assumed, and he felt better than he had done for days. Days? He did not know for sure how long he had been away. Certainly he felt better than he had since drinking the first pint offered him by those two young officers. The thought of them made the good feeling seep away. But he had seen nothing of them since that terrible day. Perhaps they would not bother him again.
The sick-bay was unlike any part of the ship he had been in so far.
It did not stink, for a start, except for the comforting, friendly smell of the animals, which must be stalled close by. There was a steady breeze blowing in on them from somewhere ahead, but the dark, cramped room was not cold. Thomas put his hand, not for the first time, to the deck on which his straw palliasse was lying. It was warm. From this, and the fact that men could be heard all around at times when he was given food, he gathered that the kitchens were somewhere close.
Even the food was good, and served in large enough quantities to satisfy his appetite, grown enormous now he felt less like death. There had been salt meat which was tough and rank, but well boiled and vinegared. Not as good as they sometimes had at home, especially when a beast had been slain, but at least meat; and more at one sitting than he ever saw except at Christmastide. Fresh potatoes, which he was very fond of, and onions, and even some cabbage. Thomas lay on his back in the straw, staring at the deck beams not far above him. Well, he was in the Navy now, willy-nilly. If father could only see him! No, let’s not think of home. What then? The young officers? The surgeon.