The Sea Officer Bentley Thrillers

by Jan Needle

  James Finch blushed, and squirmed, but did not speak. The stupid eyes of the third lieutenant goggled. He cleared his throat noisily, and Swift pounced.

  ‘Yes, Mr Higgins? Mutiny, did you say? Is that the word? Do you smell mutiny?’

  Higgins was horrified. He almost choked himself. ‘Mutiny, sir? But—’

  ‘Yes sir, mutiny. Mutiny smells, Mr Higgins, it smells to high heaven. I take it rather bad that the children here can get the whiff, but my third lieutenant cannot.’

  Higgins, now lost completely, collapsed in shame.

  Captain Craig, the officer of marines, coughed. He was a kindly man.

  ‘With respect, sir,’ he said. ‘The sense of grievance among the people is very palpable, and the…ah…accident to Lieutenant Hagan could most easily have been fatal. But there is no evidence that—’

  Swift banged the table with his knife. The sea officers and boys were almost rigid.

  ‘Captain Craig,’ he said, ‘you are a soldier, sir, and cannot know. But evidence there is in plenty. An accident? A spike like that aloft! I assure you, sir, one does not use a fid to trim a topsail!’

  Craig shook his head.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ he replied. ‘But again – with respect – should one not perhaps employ a strategy? If one were to… well, where might it all end?’

  An awkward silence fell. Craig had a knack, it appeared, of asking questions that Swift’s officers would leave unasked. This time, though, the angry response they all expected was not forthcoming. Instead Swift beamed, his hatchet face transformed as if by sunshine.

  ‘Sir,’ he said approvingly, ‘you are a good man, and a sharp officer. A strategy, you say. Well listen, and I will tell you one, you will enjoy it. Do you play chess? Of course you do. Well, Captain Craig, the people I am cursed with on this ship are as vile a gaggle of scum as ever man was damned with. But I have played with them right from the very outset of this voyage, and they are my pawns. And now, sir – I have a move in mind for them. I have a gambit, sir. Not a fool’s mate, but a villain’s.’

  Craig smiled a small, tight smile.

  ‘I have always found pawns to be peculiarly important in a well-fought game of chess, Captain. They have to be moved with an extremity of care.’

  Bentley could hardly believe the impudence that could be read into Craig’s reply. But Swift laughed again, as if in deep enjoyment.

  ‘An extremity of care, yes; how very wise. But I know these pawns, I know them inside out and back again, and I know the time has come to sacrifice a few. I’ve been leaving them to their own devices, sir, like ill-bred dogs, and whipping them when they moved a muscle out of turn, and building up a heady store of hatred in their breasts. And now, I think, it’s time it must spill over. The carbuncle, let us say, is ripe to void its pus. Well, Captain Craig? What think you of my gambit?’

  Craig scratched his eye.

  ‘Spill over, sir? And the…ah…bloodshed is all part of it? This strategy?’

  William jumped. He had been listening carefully, but this he did not fully understand.

  ‘Craig,’ replied his uncle, ‘we must play some chess indeed, sir. You are very shrewd. These men, you understand, take me for a monster, although God knows I have done my very best by them. I have fed them, housed them, kept them as well as captain can. They have not gone short of food or drink, they have been punished only for crimes, and then purely for the good of their souls. But they take me for a monster. So be it. As I see it, there is but one method to bring them back to their senses. I will play the monster. I will drive them to distraction. Then when they break out – I shall break them.’

  The first lieutenant spoke at last.

  ‘You think the incident of the spike was merely a beginning, sir? Just the start?’

  ‘Mr Hagan, there is no doubt of it,’ replied the captain. ‘And cleverly done, although the scum missed you, when all’s said. But they are breaking out, yes. There will be other incidents.’

  A silence. Craig broke it.

  ‘The bloodshed? The sacrificing of the pawns?’

  ‘I know these men, captain. I grew up with them. I am a sailor born. The only way to keep them down is to crush them. What I want, why I welcome these “incidents”, is this: The next time, they will not be so smart. Or the next, who knows? And then, sir, I can kill a few of them. It’s an excuse I’m seeking, that is all. I want to hang a man or two, or shoot them, I care not. They have lost their respect, sir, they have got above themselves. We shall bring them down.’

  *

  Hours later, as he walked the waist in the sighing coolness of the night, Bentley pondered his uncle’s strategy. He was right about the mutiny in the air, no doubt of that. It was almost tangible. But the strange thing about the captain was the way his moods changed on all these things. To Hagan, although he jested about it, the incident of the fid must have been a shaker. And Uncle Daniel spoke almost gaily about what would happen next. But he, Bentley, felt far differently. When he thought of the people his gall rose. How dare they be rebellious? How dare they be disrespectful? How dare they contemplate such action against their officers?

  It was madness. The last stages of the milling rose into his mind’s eye, and he shivered with remembered shame. That was it, exactly! Lack of respect; contempt. The echoing laughter of the people came to him, and he shivered a little more. Curse that silent boy. He was filled with dreadful hatred, for Fox, for all of them. He shivered again. It was suddenly cold.

  Suddenly, too, he saw a movement forward. In the dark shadows of the deck he saw shapes flitting about. Then there came a loud crash, and a rumbling, thunderous sound.

  Then another, a third, a fourth. The thudding roar passed him, and he realised what it was. Shot was being rolled. The men were hurling cannonballs about.

  Before he could move, there was a screaming from the quarterdeck. It was high and pain-filled, as if a pig were being slaughtered. The rumbles faded, but the screaming did not.

  William did not know what to do. It was Plumduff who had been hit, for certain. Plumduff had the watch, and some of the rolled shot must have caught him. Shouts from aft cleared his mind. If there were people already there to look to Plumduff, he must look to the culprits. Motionless as he had been, thinking and watching the dark and friendly sea, the men up forward had obviously not seen him. Right!

  He sprinted forward, with fury in his breast. The scum were rising, were they! It was shot-rolling now, to catch and break the legs of officers. Well by God, he would show them, that he would!

  Bentley was unarmed, but that only occurred to him much later. In any case, he had no chance to catch them. The seamen who had rolled the heavy iron balls were still by the foremast, had more shot ready in their hands.

  But when they heard him coming, they were away. As he reached the shrouds, noisy in his leather shoes, the barefoot seamen were already in the lower rigging. They laughed as they climbed, not loudly, but with feeling. The note of mockery brought a savage hatred to his breast that made him choke with rage.

  He stood at the lee shrouds, staring upwards. The mast and cordage dwindled into blackness, the sails were paler blotches, whispering softly as they held the wind. A last faint sound of laughter came to him, but not even the ghost of a human form was visible.

  The screaming on the quarterdeck had stopped. There were shouting men there now. The dim light of swaying lanterns threw weird shadows briefly. William Bentley stared about the dark, deserted deck. He shivered, more violently. It was getting cold.

  Twenty-Four

  The unfortunate Plumduff, probably because of his size and shape, came off far worse from the shot rolling than he might have done. In fact the first fracture, caused when the eighteen-pound ball hit his right calf, was perfectly simple and would have healed easily. But as he went down, his side caught a fife-rail, and he was twisted in the fall. His hip came out, which caused the screaming. Later, when Mr Adamson tried to put it back, he found the joint to be badly br
oken. For many hours the second lieutenant could be kept quiet only by the internal application of a large amount of spirits.

  During the last hours of the night the Welfare was in a ferment.

  The marine detachment was called to arms, and Swift issued pistols to his officers, the master, and the young gentlemen, even James Finch. Corporals and boatswain’s mates patrolled below decks to still the rumble of conversation in the accommodation, although each time they had passed a given point the whispers resumed. But although there was excitement in the air, both forward and aft, there was no further action.

  Just before dawn Captain Swift called the young gentlemen to his cabin to give them a glass of grog and relieve them of their pistols. He said little while they drank, but kept William behind when he dismissed the others to snatch a half-hour of sleep before morning duty. He was calm, almost urbane, as he saw them off, thanking them for the trouble they had been put to. But when he was alone with his nephew, his eyes told a different story.

  ‘The chance to shoot a few of them,’ he spat. ‘The chance to hang a few of them. That is what I wanted, and what have I got? That damned pudding of a second lieutenant screaming like a woman in labour, and once more, not a soul to blame. You were there, William. You were in the waist. What happened?’

  ‘I am very sorry, sir, but I could catch nobody. They were away like wraiths. I ran, sir, but with shoes on…well. They flew aloft. Laughing.’

  Swift expelled air noisily through his great beak. ‘Laughing. Laughing. Laughing.’ He threw his empty glass savagely against the bulkhead. It shattered across a polished chest and onto the deck. ‘First they laugh at you, then they laugh at me. I will not have it!’

  William swallowed. Please God let Swift not bring the milling match up. In a way he had started all this, he felt. He said nothing.

  ‘I will not have it, Mr Bentley. My officers are lax, my young gentlemen are…’ He stopped, turned piercing eyes on Bentley. They were very pale, even paler than usual.

  He was breathing unsteadily. Bentley felt his face begin to burn.

  ‘Nephew,’ said the captain, ‘I think that I was wrong. I no longer think this is a normal outburst, I think there is a plot afoot. It is too organised. Too successful. They miss Hagan, good; but they get the second. Thank God it was not the other way about, but it is a pattern; there is a will behind it. Agreed?’

  William swallowed again. He made a vague gesture, opened his mouth to reply; although he had nothing to utter, if the truth were known. Swift, however, carried on.

  ‘That shepherd lad, that bugger Fox. Well boy, were you not surprised? And the breaking of the whistle-pipe. An act of provocation. Insane, yes? He could have been flogged. He could have been locked in irons and left to rot. And yet, what happens? There is a will, I tell you, the people have a will.’

  William could not quite follow. It was somehow incoherent. He fixed his gaze on a knothole in a deckhead beam. ‘You are tongue-tied, my boy,’ said Swift. ‘Do not be. I know what is troubling you. The beating that that scum handed out. Yes, yes, that is it, no shame, no shame. It was not what it seemed, I am certain; I am certain it was not what it seemed!’

  Maybe, just maybe, Swift’s explanation was not so very far-fetched, Bentley thought. At any rate, he dearly wanted to believe it. The boy’s behaviour had been odd in the extreme, true. The silence, the refusal to respond in any way, even to the wildest taunts that Simon Allen and little James threw at him. And God, true it was that his fists had been like bombshells. He had certainly been shamming on that score. He had been playing meek. So why not on the others, too?

  His uncle spoke again: ‘We have set ourselves up, William, and you are lucky not to have got a knife between your ribs today. Has it occurred to you, yet, that the shot may have been meant for your legs? Or that when you went forward you were to be bludgeoned or knifed?’

  It had not. But somehow the idea was not far-fetched.

  That shepherd boy. Since the fight, what had been the villain’s manner? He had been seen abroad. Had he not dropped this pretence, this humble, eyes-glued-down pretence? William was not sure. But by hell, he’d find out soon enough.

  He looked at his uncle’s face and was startled by the paleness of his eyes. They were almost white, and he was breathing rapidly. All the fury that had not been apparent the night before at dinner was there, although still deeply suppressed.

  ‘Be my eyes, boy!’ he said, and his voice was strangled. ‘Be my eyes as I commanded you. But take care! Take care! We are in control of these scum and we will defeat them. But take care!’

  William wanted to ask his uncle whether he thought the boatswain was to be trusted. He had wondered at the way the giant warrant officer hung round the shepherd boy. But for the moment, better to say nothing. His uncle’s face was working; he appeared deeply moved.

  ‘We will make an example, my boy,’ Swift choked out. ‘Be my eyes and find me someone. We will make an example. Find me someone.’

  It was a weird interview, it had a strange quality, it was disturbing; and how, he wondered almost idly, could they make an example in a crew that had been whipped practically to a man? But over all, he had a wonderful, growing, sense of lightness, of relief. That damned, dissembling snake of a boy. The laughter of the people rang in his ears again. That damned dissembling snake. His uncle was right.

  Loudly, on deck above them, the ship’s bell rang the half. Daniel Swift gave a great sigh, and relaxed. The wide, bright smile flooded across his drawn face, changing it with striking completeness.

  ‘Off with you then, boy,’ he said jovially. ‘And William – mind how you go. We are targets now, but we will show the scum. Find me a swine, William, find me a swine. And we will lead him to the slaughter house!’ He threw back his head and laughed.

  Bentley, as he went about his duties, was not certain, to be honest with himself, if he quite believed in all his uncle had said about the affair. He was tired, and tense, and the night had been long, and very strange. But this much he could hang on to – he could expunge his shame; he could hold up his head in pride once more. There was something afoot in the ship, and he had been trusted anew to root it out. As he came onto the deck he was checked by the sudden chill. The air was keen and icy. He filled his lungs with pleasure, surveying the clean decks and the foam-flecked sea. The cold he had felt in the night had come in with a vengeance. Good. It was appropriate; it suited the new mood. He would find a victim, sure enough. He would not let his uncle down this time. He breathed again, then shivered. Jesu, it was cold.

  *

  As always, the worsening of the weather, and the accompanying absorption of the people, pushed at least the outward signs of bad feeling out of sight. The wind veered southerly in a steady arc, until the Welfare was close-hauled and battering into seas that became ever steeper, and ever colder. The wind got stronger, and to Jesse Broad, handing the main topgallants in the late afternoon, the air felt like razors through his jacket and trousers. After an hour aloft his feet were bone-white and clumsy, his fingers numb. In the mess, Grandfather Fulman grumbled as he tried to get some feeling back into his old shanks.

  ‘’Tis too early for this weather, to be sure,’ he said. ‘We should not be getting it cold like this yet, I reckon. This damned ship is cursed and that’s a fact.’

  The gunports were all lashed and weather-proofed, and by nightfall the hatches had had to be battened. But the main and lower decks were as cold as charity, and getting colder. A brisk trade in woollen clothes and waterproof coats began, and some of the more pathetic drunkards, left by now with practically nothing to cover themselves, caused merriment or pity, depending on whom they tried to touch for an old or unwanted garment. The purser began to tout for customers at greatly inflated prices – that even the worst-off had to agree to, if they did not want to freeze to death when sent on deck or aloft.

  Butterbum chose this moment, also, to make a further inventory check of the beasts in Thomas Fox’s care. He coul
d hardly have chosen a worse one.

  Throughout the hot and foetid weather of the doldrums, Thomas had been fighting a battle to keep the animals healthy. Most of the chickens had finally gone to the captain’s table by then, which was a blessing, and Allgood had one day released him from his heads-cleaning duties, which gave him more time. But the bigger beasts, especially the sheep, were in deadly trouble. The constant heat, the lack of proper feedstuffs, the filthy, insect-infested water from the deep casks in the hold, all combined to make them a weak and sickly flock.

  Many and many a time Thomas had wished to tell the purser that the sheep must be killed and eaten. He knew it was his duty to do so, for the husbandman had also to make the decision when the chances of survival got so slim as to outweigh the advantages of fresh meat on the hoof. But how could he do it? He could no more talk to Butterbum than he could fly. So he had worked and worked at saving them. Had coddled and hand-fed. With a pair of shears and Doyle’s help had taken most of their wool off to save them from the awful humid heat below, where they had always to be kept, whatever the weather, by captain’s edict. And had watched them grow scrawnier, and weaker, and more and more like walking corpses.

  Now there before him stood the repulsive fatness of the purser, his face a carefully arranged mixture of shock and pleasure. Thomas knelt among the shivering sheep, their wool only a little regrown. The air between the decks was damp, with great runnels of condensation pouring down the outer walls, and drips from the deckhead constantly wetting everything.

  ‘I have come to check the sheep, boy,’ he said. ‘But before God, I think I am too late. What do you call this, then? Good husbandry? Why sir, I have seen nothing like it in twenty years at sea!’

  Thomas had at that very moment been trying to massage the shaking rib-cage of a ewe. The heart beneath his hand was rattling, and he was filled with dread. She could not live the day, she could not. Doyle was on the other side of the animal, trying to warm her with his body.