by Jan Needle
While bumpers were filled and emptied, while wagers were paid or collected, the boatswain’s mates supervised the carrying up of a sea chest, and the carrying below of the four victims of Henry Joyce. The festive air had reached its peak when Bentley, resplendent in silk shirt and blue breeches, stepped into the ring. Thomas Fox came at a shamble, led by Jesse Broad. He had spent the last half-hour below, communing with Doyle and the beasts, and he made a pitiful sight. He was wearing a torn and dirty blouse with old duck trousers. His face was filthy, with the clear evidence of tears on each cheek. With his head bowed and his rounded shoulders, he was not much taller than Bentley. An odd mood fell on the ship’s people. The excitement, the elation, the bloodlust aroused by the last event, became modified. The arrogant smile of the young gentleman somehow incensed them. There was a wave of pity and anger, almost palpable. For Broad’s part, he would gladly have killed the blond midshipman, child though he was.
A passage was cleared from the rope ring to the quarterdeck, so that the officers might see the sport uninterrupted. Captain Swift made the announcement, with characteristic grandeur.
‘My brave lads,’ he said. ‘Here is the event you have been waiting for. Here is the match of the afternoon. In all my years at sea I have seen no such thing. And I dare not reveal how long that is, eh?’
He paused for the laughter, but there was none. Allgood, the boatswain, looked particularly sour. Daniel Swift smiled full at Bentley. A smile which seemed to say: It is you against the people, my boy.
‘Well, lads,’ he continued. ‘Here it is. This young gentleman – and the tender of beasts. They will sit astride that sea chest and slug it out in the good old way. I will say no more but this: May the best man win. Now: Set to!’
As William sat astride the box, pity stirred in him for the first time. The shepherd boy was so hopeless, such a booby, that perhaps it was, after all, not quite manly in him to teach him such a lesson. The boy looked incapable of raising his head, let alone his fists. If he did not respond, it would be a hard thing to make a match. How could you strike a man who would not strike back?
At first, that is what happened. Thomas Fox was sat astride, with whispered words of encouragement. In fact, what Jesse Broad had told him was to fall. Put up a pretence for a few minutes, then fall. There would be no shame in it, said Broad, nor would the men think badly of him. He had done nothing to deserve this, and need fear no retribution.
He was being used as a dupe, a sop to the other boy’s vanity. Let him think he was the victor; let him think he was a fine young blade. But do not let him hurt you, Thomas, for he is not worth it, truly.
So in pity and confusion, the fight began. Thomas at last managed to put up his fists to shield his face, so William, with some misgiving, let fly an almost gentle blow. It caught Thomas’s hand, which in turn caught his eye. It hurt, and the tears sprang to his eyes once more. He thought of God, and his mother, and the quiet farm on Portsea Island.
He thought of Padraig Doyle, below among the warm and reeking sheep.
William Bentley jabbed again, in the silence that surrounded him from the men. He felt uncomfortable, bad. The shepherd lad was not responding. But good God! He deserved this match! He had broken the whistle. He had disobeyed an order. This was madness, this was softness. The whole damned people would be in a rabble if such filthy laxness were not punished!
In a fervour of disgust, mostly at himself although he did not know it, Bentley lashed out with his hard right fist. It was him against the people!
Again the blow hit Fox’s hand, again the hand went back into his eye. There was a sharp edge of pain as his nail scratched his eyeball, and he grunted. The captain’s voice, echoed as if on a cue by the officers’, gave a ragged cheer. From the people followed a lower noise, a noise remarkably like a boo.
William got angry. How dare they? How dare they insult him so? He snarled and lashed out harder. The head in front of him jerked back, then forward again. He threw another punch, drove it home hard, as hard as he could. Another rumble went through the crowd of men, a low, unhappy noise.
Somewhere deep inside Thomas Fox’s misery, somewhere in the cave he had built himself to hide in in the last few weeks, a flame flickered and stirred. Another blow banged into his arm, then one broke through and squashed his lip against his teeth. For the first time he lifted his eyes from the knotty surface of the sea chest lid. He saw first another fist race towards him, bang into his face. When he opened his eyes again he looked at William.
Apart from the glaring, scarry sockets of Padraig Doyle’s ruined face, the midshipman’s were the first eyes he had looked into for a long time. He saw anger in them, and his own eyes slid away. He saw hatred in them, and again he averted his gaze. He saw triumph in them, as once again the fist broke through his upraised arm and crushed his lips against his teeth. Thomas spat blood, and the flame in his stomach flared so suddenly that he lurched with shock. He threw his head back, and he raised his fist. All at once the face before him grew blurred. But in it shone the eyes. And in them there was something new. It was fear.
As Fox’s first blow struck home, a roar like thunder rose from all around him. The midshipman rocked back on his buttocks and almost fell. As he rocked forward again, Thomas Fox drove two fists into his face, one after the other. The fire in his stomach was almost licking off his knuckles. Suddenly the face in front of him cleared in his sight. Fear was blazing in the eyes now, fear and pain.
Bentley raised his arms in front of him and waved them like a kitten.
Once more Thomas lashed out, first right fist, then left.
He felt like screaming, so great was the release. He felt he would smash and smash until the face before him was gone; until the head before him was like a bloody pulp.
The tension flowed through his arms, through his fists, in a cataract. The crushing band of iron round his heart melted as he came out of his cave. As Bentley rocked towards him, he screeched, a high, terrifying sound. And aimed another blow like a hammer at the bleeding head.
Broad watched in fascination. All around him the seamen had gone mad with delight. They were roaring like bulls, stamping their feet, and punching each other’s backs and shoulders. The midshipman, small and crushed, dwarfed by the black-haired fury who seemed to tower over him, looked terrible. His silk shirt was drenched with blood, his fine breeches torn from dragging across the edges of the chest. He kept shaking his head, trying to get control so that he could at least defend himself. Wonder was, thought Broad, that he had kept his seat so long. The face of Thomas shocked him. It was bruised and smeared with blood, but transformed. His eyes were rolling, the features tense, the lips drawn back. Broad could not be glad, could not be sorry. Was this better than the expected beating, or worse? He was revolted by the cheering animals beside him, revolted by the bloody children on the box. Revolted by the captain and his henchmen, silent and discomfited on the quarterdeck.
Mr Allgood put an end to it, but not in any simple, straightforward way; as was his wont. He seized a bucket of salt water, and held it questioningly above his head, looking at the captain. Swift nodded, and Allgood walked forward to the sea chest, stepping nimbly over the ropes. The roaring died down. The two boys lowered their arms as the massive shape pressed between them.
William Bentley was panting, half bemused. Thomas Fox was still transformed, trembling with undischarged energy. He emitted strangled noises, animal-like grunts, and his fists clenched and unclenched themselves. He did not take his eyes off William; seemed, indeed, ready to leap on him and tear him to pieces. A growl of resentment rose from the crowd. Why had Allgood stuck his oar in?
The boatswain put the bucket down beside the boys. He stared round the spectators, alow and in the rigging.
‘With the owner’s permission, you scum,’ he said. ‘The lads will have a breather and refresh before they continue.’
Now a mighty roar went up. My God, thought Broad, this man is dreadful. He’ll have the midshipman m
ade capable and the match prolonged. Ah Christ, poor child; but it is his own fault, it is his own fault.
William Bentley, washed, wetted and cooled, eased his aching thighs over the hard box and faced the shepherd boy. His face was smarting, his eyes bruised balls of agony. No hatred now, no contempt, no feeling at all. Just the hope that he would not fall too soon, and the determination to fight his best.
But the fight was over. Thomas Fox, washed, wetted and cooled, looked at the battered face of the midshipman and knew he could not hit it again. When the voice of the boatswain cried ‘Commence,’ he did not even raise a hand. He sat there, breathing slower now, looking at the battered face of the small, blond boy.
The people roared and hooted, hooted and roared. When the noise had died away William said, almost plaintively: ‘You must fight, Thomas Fox. You must hit me, you know.’
‘No,’ said Thomas. ‘Your poor face, sir. I have hurt you, child, and I am very sorry.’
A silence fell over the ship’s company that was appalling. Not a man stirred, hardly a breath was drawn. Bentley’s face, already pale, drained slowly of blood until it was glaring white. His mouth opened, his eyes glittered with rage.
But before he could speak, the spell was broken. A gale, a hurricane, of laughter and contempt exploded from the men. They shrieked themselves hoarse, they screamed and dropped to the deck. Even when he had stumbled below, even when he had buried himself in his blankets in the midshipmen’s berth, William could still hear it. The very timbers of the Welfare were alive with laughter. He buried his face and bit his lips and cursed and swore and raged.
And wept. William Bentley wept.
Twenty-Three
In the following days, the shocking result of the milling match had a profound effect on the Welfare, especially on the lower deck. When Bentley had disappeared below and the boatswain’s mates and ship’s corporals had tried to break up the party, something dangerously like chaos ensued. Captain Swift had watched from the quarterdeck after giving Mr Allgood and the master-at-arms the signal. His face was impassive and his eyes like knives. The men ran about in glee, laughing and shrieking. Spirits and wine passed from hand to hand, whole pannikins being tossed through the air and caught when a corporal or mate tried to grab them from a seaman. Very soon the deck was alive with swishing rope’s ends, then knots of fighting men, then a general roughhouse. Two boatswain’s mates were badly beaten, a corporal was chased into the rigging, and Mr Allgood broke both a sailor’s arms. The mob came under control only after the marines fired a volley into the air from the quarterdeck. In the sudden silence, Swift told the men in a low, vibrating voice, that the next shots would be into them unless the deck was cleared in five seconds.
The next day, as the ship drove towards the south at her best speed, beautiful in the warm sun and sparkling sea, man after man was flogged at the gangway. The punishment seemed never-ending, with Swift, an implacable and avenging fury, standing so close to the grating that he gradually became masked in a fine mist of blood. When he wiped his face with his grand and expensive coat sleeve, the effect was awe-inspiring. His eyes were white and glaring, in a hideous smear of brown and scarlet. Jesse Broad and Thomas stood side by side among the crew as the miscreants were triced up, flogged, cut down. They had fled below immediately after the milling, with Broad half carrying the boy. He had guessed what might happen on deck, and was damned sure that they would not be part of it. Little Peter, with no more sense than ever, had stayed on deck, had joined the jeers and shrieks and laughter. They watched in silence as he received his four dozen with the rest of them.
William Bentley stood not far from Swift and watched the scene in horror and anguish. But all his feelings were directed inwards. He felt naked before the ship’s company, felt as though every man-jack was laughing at him, felt that even Jimmy Finch despised him. The hatred and misery inside him churned and rumbled; he caught himself grinding his teeth. It was the only movement in an otherwise rigid face, and he checked it when he noticed it. But his face itself was sign enough, advertisement and plenty to his humiliation. His mouth was cut and puffy, his eyes blackened, one nostril split. He watched the men being flogged and knew, knew as a certainty, that Daniel Swift would dearly have loved to have had him triced to that grating; aye, and wielded the bloody cat himself into the bargain.
When it was all over, in the days and nights that followed, the subject of the match was the favourite one. The match, the punishments, the way the owner had turned back to iron cruelty to crush the memory and the elation. But all talk was difficult and dangerous. The corporals were everywhere, stalking silently about, their ears flapping as they tried to catch a whiff of rebellion. The daily punishment became an article of faith; the slightest infringement, real or suspected, was jumped on. Men hardly dared look at an officer or midshipman for fear the look was interpreted as insolence. And Swift’s officers, true to form, followed the lead of their superior. The shifty, rangy Hagan, who could look at you through the back of his head; the tub-shaped Plumduff; the slow and malevolent Higgins. All took a delight in following their master’s lead. Cane, rope’s-end, fist and cat were exercised with glee as the Welfare drove south westward, sun-drenched and beautiful.
There were no more sports, of course, and no more distractions.
They were solidly in the Trades, so there was no more sail drill, no more mindless, pointless seamanship exercises. The only break in the drabness of routine repair, upkeep and overhaul was on the odd occasion when a night-time cloud formation gave the cautious Mr Robinson a mind that it might lead to a night-time squall; or in fact, when they even more rarely actually encountered one.
Captain Swift, it was plain to Broad at least, had chosen a new line. Coupled with the instant punishment and cruel discipline, was to be the greater cruelty of driving the people to boredom. Jesse said nothing of it to anybody, indeed he rarely spoke to anyone now, and spent a lot of time longing for his home and family, but he was sure it was a deliberate tactic. In the days of good weather in the North Atlantic, before the violent heat and lethargy of the doldrums, there had been gun drill once a week and musketry drill twice; hard work but useful, although it was obvious that Swift’s orders must be to engage no one, and make for his destination at all speed. Though the men had grumbled at the heavy work, it had been merely grumbling, for anything that broke the day and drove away the monotony was welcome in reality, and, God knew, their gunnery was slack enough. But now, in ideal conditions, the carriage guns remained still. Not once since well before they reached the Line had they been run out, neither had a musket been handled by a sailor. He plans to drive us mad with boredom, thought Jesse; and his mind would wander off and roam the creeks and woods of Langstone with Mary and Jem. He thought of his wife, and his heart bled. He looked at his filthy, calloused hands, and was unmanned. Nothing to do, nothing to do. It was driving him crazy.
There was no more talk of mutiny. In the climate on board the Welfare it would have been too dangerous, impossibly dangerous, for two or more men to meet and breathe any slightest hint of disaffection. Broad saw Matthews occasionally, glanced at the long, lean, secret face. But they never spoke.
Nevertheless, as she roared south and west like a lovely bird, things began to happen. It was more of an atmosphere than anything concrete, more a shared air that all men breathed. No one got together, no one laid dark plans. But things began to happen.
The first incident was in broad daylight, and almost cost Mr Hagan his life. All the morning the master had had an eye cocked on a black ridge of cloud that was climbing threateningly from the horizon, and when the wind began to fluke, with stronger, unexpected gusts and a darkening sky, he had a word with the captain. Perhaps because it was during their dinner, Swift did not hesitate to call all hands.
The men went aloft grumbling, because any fool could see, they muttered, that the squall would hold off until after dinner, if it ever came at all. And when the yards were fully manned, when the chances of anyon
e being singled out were infinitesimal, the incident occurred. As the first lieutenant walked towards a knot of men in the waist, a heavy wooden spike came hurtling down from aloft, whether from fore or mainmast was impossible to tell, and embedded its point deep into a deck seam some two inches from his right shoe. He jumped like a frightened horse, then snapped his eyes aloft. The spike quivered in the deck, anonymous, mocking. Even Captain Swift could not flog every man on two masts. The squall came to nothing.
That night, at dinner in the captain’s cabin, the officers, invited for the purpose, discussed what had happened. The midshipmen were there, for Swift had made it plain that the time had come for a new marking of divisions, a retrenchment. He was clearly stimulated by the mood in the ship. He ate the meal – less sumptuous this one, with fresh vegetables a vague and misty memory – with great relish.
‘Well, Mr Hagan,’ he said at one point, ‘that was a close shave, eh? What would Mrs Hagan have said if we’d brought you home with ten inches of lignum vitae buried in your skull?’
Everyone laughed, including the first lieutenant.
‘I doubt, sir, that the fid would have penetrated, even had it struck me,’ he replied. ‘I was bred to the Navy, and my skull, like everything else about me, is of seamanlike toughness.’
‘And what of your nostrils?’ asked the captain. ‘What is it that you smell on board of here? Eh? What is that reek?’
William knew what his uncle meant immediately, even if Hagan did not. He glanced at Swift, seeking permission. The two were somewhat back on terms now, although no word of the milling match had ever been uttered between them. He caught the eyes imploringly – but permission was denied.
‘You,’ said the captain, nodding at the smallest midshipman, who was crouched in terror opposite. ‘Aye, you, Finch. You are a man of the world, so tell me what you smell. And be not so damned mealy-mouthed about it!’