by Jan Needle
Jesse Broad considered. He believed Matthews. Despite the unaccustomed wildness that the loss of his friend had wrought in him, he knew that he would not be wrong in such details. For a moment he was tempted. To crush that terrible man. To save the poor boy Thomas from that childish ogre. To avenge himself for the spittle that had revolted his lips and seared his mind. But it was only a moment.
‘Mr Matthews,’ he said gently. ‘I said you were mad, for which I am sorry. But it is madness, and you must know it. Both you and I have a legitimate sorrow for being on this ghastly ship. You more than myself. However, there is no redress. Our country is at war, the law is the law, the custom is the custom. If we mutiny we are traitors – no more of that. More pertinent still, if we mutiny, we die. Horn or no Horn, winter or no winter, we will be sought out. Is it not so?’
‘Do you not believe me? About the Horn at winter?’
‘Indeed I do.’
Matthews let out his breath slowly.
‘Ah well. Maybe you are right. But I am not convinced, mind. We would have many months; and the whole of the Pacific Ocean to choose from.’
His voice was calmer. After a few seconds he added: ‘In any case, your guess as to the men who would carry the business is a shrewd one. Many there are who would join the act, and with a vengeance. But many more would not. I suppose in terms of all the ship’s people, officers, marines and all, it is only a handful. Perhaps I should thank you, man.’
His voice was old, tired. Broad hauled himself up, until his skull was brought to by the deckhead.
‘Thank me?’ he mused. ‘I do not know, Mr Matthews. I do not know. Certain it is, though,’ he added, ‘that if this company ever does rise, it will be a bloody business. Not least of which will be keeping the beast in check.’
‘Then God help us all,’ said Matthews, dully. ‘God help us all.’
Twenty-Two
They roared on under reduced canvas for nearly three days. But before a new boredom could set in, the boredom of wet, cold, and hard work in heavy weather, the wind began to moderate. Over a ten-hour period the reefs were shaken out, then more sail was set, progressively, until Welfare flogged along under the glory of a full suit. The bows bit deep into the still-heavy seas, white water was everywhere. For hours more she flew, with a great musical roaring from aloft. Until at last she settled down to a more sedate pace, and the sea gradually lost its wildness. The sun appeared, but tempered by the breeze. They were solidly in the south-east Trade.
Hatches were thrown open, portlids were triced up, washed clothes and hammocks flapped gaily from newly rigged lines. Captain Swift, seizing the moment, had it announced that the sports would now commence.
In his cabin, he spoke to William about the milling match that was to come. He looked at his nephew keenly, but made no open criticism.
‘Why did he break the whistle, my boy?’ he asked. ‘It seems a senseless act, and one that could only have brought him to some punishment.’
Bentley laughed.
‘I think, uncle, that he has some sense of grievance. It is a strange youth. Perhaps he still thinks he should not be on board here, and that I am to blame for that.’
‘Still, though,’ said Swift. ‘He is quite a sturdy lad. He is older than you, I think.’
This was distasteful. Was his uncle suggesting he might not be able to handle such a booby?
‘Well sir,’ he said stiffly. ‘That is true, I imagine. Older and certainly bigger. But…well sir, I hope you do not think I cannot give good account of myself? He is a country boy, a boy of the people. I am confident—’
Swift laughed. He lifted his head, the shark’s fin nose cutting the air. When he looked at William again his eyes were twinkling.
‘You are high-spirited, my boy, and I like it. I have every confidence in you, never fear. It is only…’ William kept a respectful silence.
‘It is only…Well, as a form of punishment it is unusual, to say the least. The boy deserves a flogging for such a piece of infernal insolence. I had set my heart on a dancing band. Make a change from that damned lugubrious Irishman and his hateful sockets staring at you, eh?’
William thought of Doyle’s face. It was indeed horrible.
But to his mind, Fox’s was not much better. The weird musicians. He felt hatred for the shepherd boy. He wanted to smash that face.
‘I suppose, sir,’ he said, half seriously, ‘you could flog him as well, if you feel so strongly. But I beg you – let me have my way with him first of all.’
Later on, in the berth, the other midshipmen took up the subject. They were all excited by the prospect, although Finch, who was inexperienced in the ways of the lower orders, was a little fearful of Fox’s size, weight and origins.
‘Well, William,’ he said, a shade breathlessly, ‘I must say it is rather you than me.’
‘Ah,’ shrilled Evans, ‘but that is because you are but a little worm, Jimmy!’
Finch shook his head vigorously.
‘No no, not at all, Jack,’ he said. ‘I mean, yes, indeed I am. But then, even compared with Will here the lout is quite a good size.’
‘Shambling monkey,’ growled Simon Allen.
‘No,’ insisted little James, ‘but he is a country lad, too. Skinny maybe, but bred to handling and working and lifting heavy bales, and all. Some of the countrymen I have known have been alarming strong. You would scarce believe it!’
‘You are insulting,’ said William. He spoke in a jocular manner, but he did feel it to be true. Sometimes Finch was a pest. Children ought not to be allowed to sea. The boy flushed and stammered.
‘I beg pardon, Will, indeed I do. I do not mean to imply… But you see – on my father’s farms… Well, it is only—’
‘You are insulting, Jimmy Finch,’ William went on, ‘because you overlook this: I am fourteen, which may not be a great age, but I have been at sea for long enough. I too work, I too have not been pampered. Are you suggesting that the boys of the lower deck are more manly than we? Can you seriously mean that? Good Lord, child, if you do not feel the equal of any one of them, and not the boys, mark, but the men too; if you do not recognise the superiority conferred on us by nature, then God help you.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Simon. ‘Why hell, James—’
‘Yes, hell,’ said William, not to be interrupted. ‘If anything, James, if you are intent upon insulting me, you might take the view which I am sure the people have hit upon. And that is this. They will say, I am sure, that the fight is unfair because of the very superiority I enjoy.’ James Finch looked ashamed and confused. Jack Evans tried to explain the point for his benefit.
‘They’ll think it not quite manly in Will, you see,’ he said.
‘The country boy is but a country boy; but William is a young gentleman. They will think it a trifle unfair.’
‘And you see,’ said William triumphantly, ‘that’s the point exactly. This youth is bigger than I. He is a great shambling lout, as Simon says. Good God, James, you do not think I would fight a poltroon smaller than myself, or even of my own size? This country lump is bigger and older. And so our superiority may be shown. It is necessary that we are respected and obeyed.’
The smallest mid nodded eagerly. His mouth opened and shut, as if he wanted to ask more. The others laughed at him. William leaned over to ruffle his hair.
‘I see you still do not understand, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘But you will, I promise you. This loutish boy is big and strong. That is why a beating from me is necessary. Is that clearer?’
James nodded vigorously, but they could all see he had not followed a word, and they roared with laughter when he answered: ‘Oh yes, Will, of course. Thank you for explaining.’
They laughed even louder when he followed this up, a few seconds later, with a diffident question.
‘You say then, Will, that I was right? He is a country man, like on father’s farms, and may in fact trounce you?’
‘Aye, aye,’ spluttered William, when they h
ad recovered their breath. ‘You have it exactly now, James. He may indeed trounce me. He may indeed.’
*
Among the people, the sports were greeted with varying degrees of interest and enthusiasm. Mostly they were seen as a welcome diversion, with the chance of some extra rum to be won, for it was assumed that the prizes would take the form of extra spirits; what else could they be? Each mess chose their ‘champion’ from the fittest, the strongest, the lithest, depending on the events they fancied entering for, and offered innumerable words of advice, encouragement and accumulated wisdom. Remarkable how many of the old shellbacks had been noted fighters, or runners, or leapers in their day; and what a pity they were now too old to do anything but talk about it, and criticise the youngsters who could not have held a candle to them in their heyday!
The hot, breezy afternoon was alive with cheering, excitement, music and drinking. Captain Swift, who knew how to do things properly, had had a new awning rigged, and under it were placed a large cask of sweet white wine and a smaller puncheon of black rum. The victor of each event was invited on to the quarterdeck to take his pannikin of spirit – unwatered and damn near explosive – and every so often a defeated man or team, depending on luck and the captain’s whim, would be given wine as consolation. Very few men or boys who did not drink deep of the cup at some time or other.
The first events were running races, just to get the people warmed up and cheering. Teams of brawny men and slight boys, stripped to the waist and sweating, set off from the mainmast in relays, tagging others at the fore, the extreme bow, the fore again, the main again, and the mizzenmast, which was the finishing point. These were followed by leaping relays, in which all the upper deck twelve-pounders had to be vaulted or jumped over; a dangerous enough sport in which several heads were badly banged and one or two teeth knocked out. The spectators perched mostly in the lower rigging, cheering themselves hoarse and enjoying the best of the breeze.
Little Peter was the only one in Grandfather Fulman’s mess who had any enthusiasm for the games, but his was such that it made up for the others’ lack of it. He shrieked encouragement or abuse until he was black in the face, and jumped up and down so much that he was in danger of
wasting all his energy before the rigging races, for which he had put down his mark. The messmates were all together, on the shaded side of the foredeck, and no one resented his excitement. He, for his part, occasionally tried to temper his maniac whoops of delight when he spotted Broad’s sombre looks, or the hunched and silent form of Thomas Fox. When it came his turn to race, he lived up to his own expectations and more. He beat the fastest topman on board to the main truck, and came down a backstay so fast it looked as though he must hurtle straight through the deck, if not the bottom of the ship. But Peter bounced to his feet, carried back a pannikin of rum in triumph, then joined in and won the stem-to-stern race. Within the space of twenty-five minutes he had amassed nearly a quart of rum – riches beyond his wildest dreams.
As the races drew towards their end, Broad and the other older hands in the mess grew more gloomy. Fox was unapproachable on the subject, showed no sign of being aware of his impending match, but the weight of foreboding was heavy on the rest of them. Before it could come about, though, Captain Swift ordered Padraig Doyle to provide music for the dance.
The blind man was led to the capstan – not by Thomas Fox – and helped to his official position on the drumhead. He seemed thinner and more bowed than ever. Obviously, thought Broad, in no mood to play at all, and perhaps the captain knew it too. All part of the jollifications to him, no doubt. It would not have surprised Jesse if Thomas had been called upon to give a solo dance, to make up for having broken his instrument.
In the mood or not, Doyle soon coaxed tunes lively and gay from his bagpipes. The tipsy company fell to the dancing with a great will and not a little dexterity. As well as solo dances there were formations made, and country dances galore. Even those like red-haired Peter, who in his life ashore had never had the chance to learn the simplest step, footed it gaily on the edges of the throng. Under the captain’s awning aft, the officers stood at a respectful distance from their lord, smiling indulgently as he smiled. Bentley stood there too, but the gaily swirling people, ridiculous to his eyes in their rolled trousers and dirty, sweaty torsos, did not engage his attention much. He was excited, tense. The time for milling was drawing near.
Captain Swift, that manipulator of his men, chose every moment with great care. For this reason he had overruled William’s decision that he and Fox should fight first. He had also somewhat amended the programme to provide a kind of build-up to the main event. Instead of many freeform punching matches, followed by several fights over the chest, he had laid down that the programme should go thus: Half a dozen single-sticks combats, half a dozen wrestling bouts, a melee fight, then the contest between Bentley and the shepherd boy. His justification (not that he need ever voice one, but he knew that an announcement from the quarterdeck would enhance the excitement) was that the midshipman was the only gentleman taking part in the sports. It was unusual, to say the least, so should end the day’s amusement. A great cheer of approval showed he had been right.
As only twelve men could fight at single-sticks, in a knock-out to choose a champion, the crew lounged on the deck or hung in the rigging and got down to the serious business of festive drinking. As match followed match the excitement grew. The final bout was one of skill and duration, the participants ducking and striking with almost unbelievable dexterity. Rumour had it that the man who finally won had been a fencing master in happier times ashore, and his handling of the stave was certainly a joy to watch. One spectator, full of wine and hopes that the money he had put on his choice would make him a wealthy man, fell twenty feet from the ratlines onto the deck shrieking ‘Foul stroke’ when his man got a hard blow to the temple – and scuttled up the rigging again as if nothing had happened.
There were a surprising number of wrestlers in the company, as it turned out. Some of the Welfare’s impress men had come from far far inland and the North. One bout between two former Cumbrian farmhands, one reputedly a convicted murderer, amazed the generality. They wrestled in the style called Cumberland and Westmorland, hugging each other like desperate lovers, and grunting and hopping about the deck. The winner of the bout was matched with a giant of a man who had never wrestled in his life to any rules, but whose great bulk and quickness made him a formidable opponent. It quickly turned into a comedy turn, with the Cumbrian seeking to smother the flailing arms of the other, who in his turn appeared to be attempting to pull off any limb he could get a grip on. In the end it was called off amid gales of laughter, and both received an equal share of the spirit prize.
The melee bout was a far less friendly affair, as Swift had clearly intended. Henry Joyce, who had entered for nothing else, but had nevertheless been fed his fair share of alcohol, was led into the corner of a ring that had been rigged in the waist, between the main and fore masts. He reminded Broad of nothing so much as a bull being led by his keeper. The lowered shoulders, the red, dangerous eyes, the shambling walk. It would not have been out of place had he been fitted with a nose-ring and lanyard. He shook his head in wonder, and said to Fulman: ‘There is madness in this, Grandfather. There stands the heart of violence, and the terriers will rush to bait it.’
In fact he was not entirely right. At first there were not many in the entire ship’s company ready to enter the ring with Joyce. Big men she had in abundance; violent men she had by the score; brave men too, there was no shortage of courage in the Welfare’s crew. But Swift had to up the ante to half a pint of rum per man, just to go in the ring, win or lose, before he got any takers.
At last there were six. They ranged themselves around three sides of the rope square with Joyce in the fourth corner. The thought came to Broad once more. It was bull-baiting to the life. Despite himself, he felt a tug of excitement.
The first move was made by a shock-haired wildman fro
m Wales.
He was short, but powerful and fast. He suddenly dashed across the ring and gave Joyce a great clout on the side of the head with his fist, dancing away before the bull had chance to raise a hand. Joyce shook his head as if to shake off a fly. Before he had finished shaking it the small man darted in once more. Another blow landed.
At this, two of the others rushed in. Blows rained down on Joyce’s head. He never had time to respond or even react. Each time he raised his great head the biting flies were away. He swung his arms about for a moment or two, but there was no one there. When he stopped, four rushed in, punching wildly.
All around the ring the press of seamen went wild, hollering with excitement and swigging at their drink. The lower rigging was black with men. Joyce glowered around him. A cut had been opened on his face, but otherwise he seemed untouched. But Broad, quite close, could hear a vague rumbling noise coming from the man. He was getting impatient.
The six men in the ring with him were enjoying themselves immensely now. There was an air of elation. They darted in in relays, prodding and smacking, with fist or open palm. Joyce’s pale and dirty face, bald-fronted and hairy, was reddening under the onslaught. The people were half-jeering at him. Was this the mighty Joyce?
It was the bulky Welshman who had started it who was caught first. As he bounced in with a smile, Joyce’s hand shot out like a striking snake. The man, who must have weighed twelve stone, rose from the deck two feet, his face a picture of shock. The blow had caught him in the throat, and as he fell he gave a rasping squawk, then lay in a heap, writhing. The others, made wary, were too late. Joyce leapt forward and grabbed two by their necks. The crunch as their heads came together was alarming. He chased the other three round the ring to the howls of the people; now this was real sport! Two of them got out, despite all the efforts of the ringsiders to prevent it, but the last was fairly trapped. Luckily for him, Joyce was apparently not much interested in the whole affair, coming as it had as an unwelcome interruption to his drinking. He snuffed out the fellow’s consciousness with a chop behind the ear, stepped over the rope, and pushed his way aft to collect his can of rum. He was not even panting.