by Jan Needle
Looking into the piper’s face gave Thomas a strange and lonely feeling. The Irishman was thin, as thin a grown man as he had ever seen. His cheeks were sunken and pale, with ridges on them where his teeth showed from inside. His chin was scarred, not carrying the trace of a hair although he must have been thirty at least. His tiny neck disappeared into the loose collar of a crazy old coat, green with age. And the coat still had tails, that eternal mark of the denizen of land. Padraig Doyle was a long-toggy; yet no skylarking seaman had cut them off. That was the strangest thing of all, perhaps.
As the men and boys of the mess watched, the piper smiled. It was a heart-rending thing. Thomas would have looked away, but he could not. The empty sockets of his eyes had a strange movement to them. They seemed to see. They were red and scarry, as though once his eyes had lived in them and since had been ripped out. The dark musician opened his mouth, as if to speak. Then it closed again and the lips curved into the smile. He was mute.
‘Well,’ said Grandfather Fulman gruffly, with a sort of warm and hopeless look at Matthews, who was watching them closely, ‘I have no objection, shipmates. What say you others?’
There was a low murmur. Nobody minded, or nobody cared to say. Peter started to pipe up something, but thought better of it, turned scarlet, subsided.
‘Good,’ said Matthews. ‘Thank you, my friends. Mr Doyle,’ he said to the Irishman. ‘I leave you in good hands. You will not find better men on board this ship.’
He pushed him forward gently, turned on his heel, and strode off. Broad stood up to take him by the hand.
‘Find a place for Padraig Doyle,’ he said to Thomas. ‘And take care of him for us, my friend. A musician on board ship is a fine and lucky thing.’
Peter said his piece at last, and the tension left the air. ‘One of the great things about the Welfare to my mind, friends,’ he said, ‘is the fine talking we do enjoy. Lose one messmate who’d chatter the leg off a donkey, and he’s immediately taken place of by a man who’d win prizes at it!’
The smile had left Doyle’s face, but it showed no hurt at such banter, and Thomas took his hand and led him to a place. He arranged some shreds of canvas and some wool for him to rest on, he gently took the bagpipe and stilled Doyle’s anxiety by describing in detail where it was placed, in a dry spot, well within reach. The Irishman squeezed his hand gently when he was settled, and turned the glaring sockets upon Thomas’s eyes. And Thomas could look deep into them, deep into the folds of ruined flesh, and smile.
In the days that followed he became friends with the blind man, in a way that he had never been friends with another human being. It was, in fact, vaguely reminiscent of his feelings for beasts, and the two of them often crawled in among the sheep and sat there for the warmth, the smell, the companionship. He knew that Doyle must have once been a countryman from the manner in which he handled the animals. He helped Thomas with his tasks of husbandry, his hands skilful with the livestock, his fingers deft and sure despite his blindness.
Despite his blindness, despite his being mute, they communicated. For Doyle could talk with his bagpipe in a language that Thomas Fox could understand. Alone, they would sit back-to-back, or half buried in a nest of sheep, and he would play, so quietly that the noise hardly got beyond the pens. Thomas would talk, almost as if to himself, tangled, incoherent sentences about feelings too deep for connected words. And Doyle would answer, in low sighs and throbbing bass notes.
It was well for Thomas, for his life on the ship was a great and increasing terror to him. Every night he cleaned the filthy heads and undertook other dirty, menial tasks.
The sight of the stern beneath him, the rushing green waters foaming and gurgling hungrily a few short feet away, made his guts clench. As he scrubbed and picked, he babbled incessant prayers, his eyes often closed, blind to the stares of men who came to lounge or to jeer at him. The sea filled him with a deep and ever-growing dread, although it had been almost gentle for many days. The Welfare, as it happened, had not shipped a green sea since the last night of the storm. But he neither knew nor cared for that. He could not bring himself to look outboard. More and more his eyes remained within the ship, more and more they tended to seek some fixed point on the deck and stick on it.
He could do nothing right. Somehow his very presence seemed to make men mad. Seamen he did not know, whom he had never seen, would appear before him and mock him. Remarks had been made about his new clothes. One boatswain’s mate had made some pleasant joke about him being dressed like a gentleman; but when Thomas had smiled, the man had knocked him down. His pleasure in his beasts made him the butt of savage sexual humour and he was often pinched and poked at as he passed the darker corners of the lower decks. His simplicity seemed to infuriate the midshipmen too. At William Bentley’s instigation they had got him emptying slops for them. They had simply asked if he would like to slave for them, and he knew no answer but yes. What else could he be expected to reply? They found no pleasure in tormenting him, it was too easy; and that infuriated them worse. He blamed none of these people, nor even tried to find an explanation. The boys were only boys, and high-spirited; he supposed that accounted for them.
Why the men misused him, he knew not.
The boatswain, most of all, filled Thomas with nameless fear. He was like a giant in some story, who blew hot and cold. When he saw him coming, Thomas tried to hide. But Allgood had eyes like a hawk, and apparently kept a lookout for him. Time and again he would turn a corner and blunder into the great man. Then anything could happen.
If he blundered into any other of the mighty superiors on the ship, or even some of the sailors, the result was simply a blow, from fist, cane or rope. But with the boatswain he never knew. It could be a cuff round the head with that huge, terrifying hand; or it could be a smile and a word.
More and more Thomas looked to the deck, hunched himself inside himself. Almost pretended to be invisible, and hoped he was.
*
The midshipmen’s prank on Mr Marner came about several days later, and it was a great success.
The lessons were held in the afternoon, after dinner and grog, and after the young gentlemen had completed their morning’s duties and their midday seamanship instruction under the master. So Mr Marner, full of food and liquor, was hardly at his most wide awake. The boys had saved a quantity of brandy in a bottle, mixed with a slightly greater quantity of rum, and topped up with some white wine bought from the wardroom servant. This mixture was being held by William, who clenched it between his knees while they sorted out slates and schoolbooks.
Mr Marner was slightly the worse for wear after his ration of rum and water. He was old and tottery, with a ridiculous scruffy wig, wire spectacles that sagged over one cheek, and a dirty, unkempt air. Every man-jack on board was beginning to look a little unclean these days, but the old man managed to appear slightly repulsive rather than merely badly washed. The boys regarded him with loathing, exchanging excited glances as they anticipated his downfall.
‘Today, young sirs,’ he quavered, ‘I hope to give you the rudiments of one of the oldest branches from the tree of knowledge. Would one of you care to hazard a guess at what it is? I did prepare you yesterday.’
‘Please sir,’ piped little James boldly, ‘is it the property and motion of heavenly bodies? Or am I barking up the wrong tree of knowledge?’
The young gentlemen laughed, but Marner did not quite catch the joke. He blinked at James Finch, called him Simon Allen, and tried to go on. It was hopeless, as it always was, and William once more wondered why his uncle set store by such odd things. After they had ragged him for a time, he decided to put the prank into operation.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, interrupting in mid-sentence. ‘Do you mind if I take a small drink? It is largely medicinal, and prescribed by Mr Adamson the surgeon.’
The schoolmaster was flummoxed.
‘This is highly irregular, Mr Bentley,’ he replied. ‘Your uncle, I fear…’ He tailed off, eyeing
the bottle hungrily.
The pale tip of his tongue ran nervously under his upper lip. William uncorked. The other mids nudged each other in delight.
‘May I though, sir?’
‘Well… if Mr Adamson has recommended… What, might I ask, are your symptoms?’
William said calmly: ‘I have been having difficulty keeping my feet about the deck of late. A touch of the staggers. Mr Adamson considers that living as we midshipmen must in the… ah… bowels of the ship is the probable cause.’
He took what appeared to be a large mouthful, although only a trickle went down his throat. Jack Evans stood up, his voice shrill with excitement.
‘And I too, sir,’ he said, reaching for the bottle. ‘A very bad attack of the staggers. It might be called the affliction of the midshipman.’
The schoolmaster became more desperate as the bottle went its rounds. It was left to James Finch to spring the trap.
‘I am surprised, Mr Marner,’ he remarked, ‘that you have not manifested such symptoms. Living as you do with the rest of us in the same berth. Well,’ he added, jovially, ‘here’s to medicine!’
Ten minutes later the schoolmaster was well down the bottle, and unsteady on his feet. It was then that part two of the prank began, this time with Simon Allen as leader.
He stood up abruptly, as Marner tried valiantly to struggle through some simple explanation. The old man reeled backwards as Allen let out a loud, strangled gurgle. Then the boy staggered forward clutching his throat, dropped first to his knees then onto his face, twitched violently and lay still.
The other young gentlemen sat rigid, stifling their laughter at this perfect piece of pantomime. But Mr Marner was horrified. His mouth dropped open. He went white. His hands shook.
‘My God,’ he said. ‘Allen!’ He turned blindly to the class.
‘Bentley,’ he croaked. ‘Fetch the surgeon. I think…’
William leapt to his feet, took three paces towards the schoolmaster, let out a shriek, and dropped like a stone. Little James Finch ran after him, whooping and twitching, sticking his tongue out the while. Then Jack, not to be outdone, whirled like a top until he was dizzy, staggered about a bit, clutched at the old man’s jacket, and collapsed at his feet. As he stared upwards, he croaked: ‘Poison. Oh Mr Marner! We’re all poisoned by that bottle!’
As the drunk old man stumbled towards the deck, clutching at his own throat and pale with shock, the boys clambered up and followed him. They were almost bursting with joy, and kept hugging themselves and each other. The prank was superb!
Marner burst onto the upper deck like a thunderbolt.
Blinded by the sun and the mixture in the bottle, he barged into startled sailors and ran heavily up against the ship’s gear. He was uttering a sort of squawking moan as he reached the quarterdeck. Higgins, the third lieutenant, stood blinking at the apparition. Captain Swift, William noted with satisfaction, was not in evidence.
‘Poisoned!’ croaked Marner. ‘Poisoned. All the young gentlemen, sir, all four of ’em! Poisoned! Stark dead!’
Everyone on deck was watching him. Every activity alow and aloft had ceased. The old man fell to his knees.
‘I’ve drunk it too,’ he groaned. ‘Oh sir, call the surgeon to save the poor young gentlemen!’
Higgins, round-faced and slow-witted, stared from the school-master to the hatchway forward, where the four young gentlemen stood, as clear as daylight, as large as life. They were rolling in silent mirth, holding their bellies and shaking with glee. Everyone was transfixed. Only the helmsman, silent and impassive, watched nothing but the sails and compass as he handed the spokes.
‘Are you mad, sir!’ suddenly roared Higgins. His face blackened.
‘Dead, sir,’ said Marner pathetically. ‘Oh, call the surgeon.’
‘Dead drunk! That is it!’ shouted the third lieutenant. His eye licked round the deck, spotted a seaman holding a bucket, a nearby boatswain’s mate.
‘You there!’ he cried. ‘Boatswain’s mate. Fetch that bucket over here. Smartly, man, smartly there!’
The mate seized the bucket, which was full of sea water.
He loped across the deck with a smile. The boys were laughing aloud, there was nothing else for it. All around, men paused in their work, pleased at the diversion, amused if mystified by what was going on.
The boatswain’s mate stood four-square in front of the kneeling schoolmaster, who was crying now, and had luckily removed his spectacles. The stream of water knocked him bodily over backwards and he let out a shriek. Laughter rose from the deck in a gale. Even Mr Higgins permitted himself a perfunctory smile before marching off aft. William and his friends were breathless with triumph. What a stunt that had been! That would perhaps teach old Marner in the future, the drunken sot.
Later, William faced his uncle over the incident, and promised that no such thing would happen again. The captain was not much amused by it, nor even interested, but he made it clear to William that their schooling should not be interrupted. William listened politely, keeping his opinions to himself. He agreed, however, although he made no comment, when Captain Swift suggested they might expend their zeal to better purpose on more recalcitrant cases. A man as old as Marner was, if nothing else, easy meat.
Finally he relented a shade, admitting that it had been something of a wheeze. Young gentlemen had to work, true, but all work makes Jack a dull boy.
‘There is a place, my lad, for high spirits in a youth,’ he said. ‘But remember our harsher purpose, William. Do not relax too much.’
Seventeen
The Welfare was in the tail end of the trade winds before Captain Swift decided it was time to punish Henry Joyce. And although the timing of the event was meant to be a deadly secret, somehow or other the ship’s company knew. Which meant that Joyce was so full of rum that had been saved and smuggled to him, that it was hoped the ordeal might be bearable.
For Thomas Fox, the anticipation of the event, which would generally have filled him with dread, was overshadowed by a far more terrible possibility – that he himself was shortly to be punished. Whether by accident or the deep design of Swift, there had been a punishment every day since the weather had turned fine. Every forenoon the calls had shrilled, the mates had shouted, and all hands had assembled aft to witness a flogging. Every day the event had been preceded by a speech from the captain, after he had read out the details of the offence and punishment, reviling the lowness of the ship’s people and promising that he would flog some common human decency into them.
Now Thomas had transgressed.
Usually the cause of punishment was drunkenness, or arose from drunkenness. This upset Thomas terribly, for the men were flogged for an offence it was almost impossible not to commit. Every sailor was given eight pints of beer a day, as well as his rum ration. Although by now the beer was worse than vinegar it was still beer, still capable of making you drunk. Even he, who treated it with care and often poured away his rum ration – a fact known only to Doyle, who did the same – often felt muzzy and unsteady.
Most of the sailors, if for some reason they did not want all their portion, used it as currency. So it was always possible to get not just drunk, but blind, roaring, fighting drunk. Any man on board who could not live without liquor could always buy it, whether with money, services – sometimes of the vilest and most secret sort – and even notes of credit. There was one fellow in a nearby mess, a shaking, greyfaced man who looked as if he had not long to live, who had no clothes left other than a long wool shirt. He needed up to four pints of grog in a day to make him insensible, and he would go to any lengths, however degrading, to get it. He was regularly beaten up by seamen who gave him drink for services he could not render (as they well knew) and who obtained their satisfaction from the thrashing that followed.
So every day the master-at-arms and his corporals had no difficulty in finding tomorrow’s victim. Sometimes a man was arrested for being merely drunk, which was a grave enough offence unde
r the Articles of War, but more usually they waited until a fight broke out, when they could take two, or even more, at one swoop. And every day the captain would venomously harangue the people on the evils of drunkenness, and every day the pannikins of fiery spirit and the jugs of sour beer would circulate in a way that many a land-bound drunkard would have found next thing to Paradise itself.
The sin that Thomas had committed, and the way retribution had leapt upon him, had nothing to do with drink. It had nothing to do with sinfulness either, but he was well aware that in terms of shipboard life he had committed a crime, and that punishment was inevitable. He had once seen a peddler hanged on land, pack and all, for allegedly taking a coney, so he did not rail at the injustice of the retribution that would come; that was the way of the world. But it was the form. It could not be flogging though; no, it could not he flogging. Thomas found the spectacle of a man being whipped appalling; the thought that those cruel thongs could tear into his own naked back was unbearable. When his mind touched on it, unbidden, he whimpered; but did not believe.
It was the purser, Butterbum, who had discovered Fox’s crime.
The afternoon before, during the first dog-watch, Thomas had led Padraig Doyle to the foredeck with his pipes. The wind was blowing less steadily than of late, and the sun was beginning to turn some men’s faces almost black. Some of them had taken off their shirts and were lying about the deck talking, playing at cards, or snoozing. Thomas enjoyed the dog-watches, when there were no duties to speak of, and music could be played. It was good to be the friend of Doyle, because the piper was in great demand. Some of the friendliness for him rubbed off onto his companion. As he played, his back against the fore-bitts, Thomas sat close and sang. But all the while he was carving away at the pipe he was making. It had taken him a long time to find a suitable piece of wood, but he thought the whistle would be a good one.
Most of the sailors liked singing, and one or two of them made their own songs. They liked songs best that told a sad or heart-rending story, but the tunes had to have a bounce. That bounce, Doyle excelled at giving. The normally mournful note of his pipes could turn wonderfully light. It set the feet a-jigging.