by Jan Needle
‘To hell with you,’ yelled Broad. ‘You’ll get no more of our boats, you villain! Stand by to sway her up, you men there!’
Swift stood up in the launch, his face working.
‘You cannot do this, damn you! I demand that you give us another boat!’
‘Sit down, Captain Swift,’ replied Broad thickly, ‘or I will have you shot. You have done enough now, you have done enough. We have lost our patience, all of us. Sit down before you catch a ball.’
One of the abandoned loyalists burst into tears. Swift sat down, but he did not stop.
‘My nephew, at least,’ he said. ‘Good God, could you be so cruel as to deny me that? What chance will Bentley have if you make him stay?’
But Broad looked at the prone form of the midshipman with something like hatred.
‘None, I doubt!’ he screamed. ‘None, you bastard, none! And what chance…and what chance did…’
He stopped, choking. Swift said no more. After a moment’s pause the men on the falls started hauling. The launch rose easily, hovered at the rail, dropped prettily into a sea. Ten minutes later the two boats had disappeared into the bleak and lowering gloom. Their last view of Daniel Swift was a characteristic one. He was wrenched round in the stern of the launch, shouting imprecations at them. His fist was clenched and shaking.
Twenty-Nine
By the time William Bentley recovered consciousness, forty-eight hours later, Jesse Broad had saved his life more than once. When he opened his eyes, he immediately closed them again, because the light increased the pain sharply.
The nausea was seated deep in his stomach; the whole of the left side of his head was singing in agony; his wrist, which he moved as he woke, sent a stab of fire up his arm.
William lay for a long while with closed eyes, trying to piece together what had happened. It came back slowly, and not in sequence. He could not remember why he was in this state. His last memory was of horror at his uncle’s wild verbal attack on the last handful of men with muskets. His thirst made it difficult to think.
His mouth was dreadful, bone-dry and foul-tasting. He needed to drink.
With an effort, he opened his eyes. The light struck harshly into them, but he persevered. Soon it became bearable. In fact there was not much light at all. A gleam of sunshine from the windows of the cabin. He gave a start.
The cabin! What was he doing here? Had the mutiny failed then? He tried to call out, but managed only a croak. It was enough. Broad swam into his vision, smiling. He had pistols and a sword at his belt, and his face was clean and relaxed. So. Obviously not. The mutineers were in command.
Although the sickness in his stomach came and went with violent pulses of pain, Bentley listened to Broad’s tale. But first he had a glass of wine, his uncle’s best. As he sipped it, he had a great longing for a drink of fresh water. The days of fresh water were long, long past. Would they ever return, he wondered?
After the launch and the cutter had gone, Broad told him, he had been carried to the crowded sick-bay, where Mr Adamson had done his best by him. Mr Adamson, who had taken no active part in the uprising, had yet refused to go with the loyal party, whatever the consequence of that action. He had claimed that he would rather take his chance in the Welfare than in one of the ‘damned cockleshells’, but no one was fooled. The strange fellow thought he could save lives on board, and was determined to try it.
‘My uncle hated him, I think,’ William whispered.
Broad laughed.
‘Aye, no doubt. Who did Captain Swift not hate? But Mr Adamson saved your life, nevertheless.’
‘Oh.’
‘Aye, and not by medical means, neither. You had not been below many hours before some of the less-forgiving fellows among us decided they’d like to see you strung up.’
Nauseous as he already was, Bentley had a deeper sense of sickness in his stomach.
‘Oh,’ he muttered.
‘Mr Adamson is a little too small to fight such drunkards with his fists, or even with his brandy bottle. But he managed to send a boy aft, while he kept them at bay with his sharp tongue and his wit. He convinced them you’d look better at the end of a rope when you had life enough to kick a little.’
He watched the boy’s bruised, drawn face with pity. It had gone very close with him, even when he and Matthews had arrived. After a similar incident a couple of hours later, Broad had carried him to the cabin.
‘What of the others?’ Bentley asked.
‘I suppose you mean of your faction?’ said Broad. He said it not unkindly, for when his rage had gone, he had known he could not hate the boy despite his hateful ways. He was young, and born to it, and could not help himself. He was ill too, desperate ill, and doubtless terrified. Nevertheless, Broad was not prepared to make things too soft.
‘They got away all right,’ he said. ‘With Mr Bloody Swift still shouting oaths and threatening us with ropes and chains and torture. They may make out all right; nay, probably will, for the weather has moderated and the wind is fairer, and the Dutchmen at the Cape will look to them, I guess. But they will not catch us, never fear.’
He watched Bentley’s racked face.
‘They lost no others after you was hit,’ he went on. ‘Your pistol discharged, and that was the last shot fired. So Swift took away with him fifty or so loyal men, plus Hagan and Robinson. Oh aye, and Simon Allen.’
‘The others? The officers and… And… Was it true what they did to little James?’
Broad gave a laugh; more a grunt, without humour. ‘Oh aye, it’s true. A crime exceeding black. And the other one too, that shrill-voiced child, Evans. And Plumduff is butchered, and Higgins overside, and the purser… Good God, what did they not do to poor old Butterbum? Some think that he deserved it, but…’
‘And I am saved… Oh Christ, how they must want to kill me…’
‘Aye,’ said Broad. ‘Aye, I fear they do. He sighed.
‘On our side,’ he went on slowly, ‘we lost the piper after that. I saw him above the waves.’ He paused. ‘I wonder what he saw in Ireland that was worse than what he got with us, poor chap.’
William Bentley shuddered. His mind cringed. He remembered the moment he had first seen the piper, remembered his first irrational shock of horror. He had hated the blind man, loathed him, without reason, or shame. Fear.
Hatred and fear. His mind cringed.
‘Well,’ said Jesse. ‘I suppose he had lost his only friend. I do not know what he had been doing during the uprising. In the heat of the moment I lost sight of many; No time to wonder after Padraig Doyle. But he appeared at last, alone, and for all I know he’s better dead. I lost a lot of friends, young sir, in that day’s business.’ He stopped for a moment, then said in an acid tone: ‘Which is more than you did, I guess. Dolby died, you know, trying to save the lives and honour of Evans and James Finch. And he’ll be no loss to you neither, I suppose. If you even remember his name.’
Bentley turned his face away. Poor stolid Dolby, a wretch the younger mids had heaped with insults, and with menial tasks. He was ashamed. He screwed his eyes up, clenched his teeth. It was dreadful, all of it. Dreadful.
Broad lapsed into silence, and let his mind wander over the events of two days ago. It was easy to vent his spleen on this helpless boy, but he despised himself for having done it. The strain was great, the lack of sleep telling. At present the situation was calmer, it looked as though they might bring it off. But it had been a hard-won thing.
Soon after the two small boats had gone and the Welfare had been brought back to her course, a very dangerous situation had arisen. The men were clamouring for wine and rum, and the sweets of the captain’s table. Joyce, Madesly and contingent had already opened the spirits store and broached a cask of rum, although Joyce, by some quirk of fortunate selfishness, had locked it securely once again and pocketed the key. At least half the remaining people were incapable of work, and the other half were determined to celebrate their new-found freedom by becoming equally i
nebriated. No fights had broken out, but if they did they could be fatal. For arms were plentiful now, and they were not in the hands of responsible corporals or marines. Matthews and Broad were sitting on a powder keg, and it worried them sick. They had tried to rope Allgood into their discussions, but he was still sunk in deepest despair. Had he not been so aware, he would probably have asked to go with Swift and face his hanging like a man; but he had well known what that hard captain would have told him. Allgood was in his own juice at present; the darkest hell.
Matthews and Broad had met with Henry Joyce to put their proposition. Matthews would be in command, as being a navigator, deep-sea sailor, and used to government, and Broad would be his lieutenant. His qualifications were more nebulous, but easy for anyone to see, for all that. He was an experienced seaman, and had commanded coastal (and cross-Channel) vessels. He knew how to handle men above all, and was educated and well-liked. More important, the two of them firmly believed this: unless they took control, the whole affair would blow up in their faces. Disaster would follow, swift and inevitable. They did not intend to fall from the pan into the fire – even if they had to meet force with force to avoid it.
At first Joyce and his men had been prepared to argue. They wanted freedom, and no damned jumped-up substitutes for Swift and his toadies. The situation had been tense, his followers armed and numerous. How the bulk of the people would align themselves was a very open question.
As so often had happened to Broad since he had come on board of her, the Welfare and the weather solved the immediate question by making everything save violent action impossible. The wind had been veering westerly for some time, and with full darkness came a local squall. It was short-lived but fierce, and Welfare lost some gear. Those of the crew who were capable went aloft or worked on deck, and somehow it gave a purpose to many of the men. Those who were not drunkards and wasters by nature sobered up and worked like demons, while those who were, disappeared below and drank themselves into oblivion. Next morning the pattern continued as the squall damage was made good. The weather had improved rapidly overnight, with a return to warmth and sunshine. All sail was made, and by mid-morning they were thundering along at their best speed. And even those with the worst headaches could share the feeling of elation that lay light upon the ship.
Towards the end of the morning, Matthews had mustered all hands aft. Already several of them were worse for drink, and there was much banter about it being just like the old days, and when was the cat to be produced? The big question, thought Broad, was who would wield it now? He had an uncomfortable feeling that there would be no shortage of volunteers, if the matter were put to the test.
Matthews had a manner completely unlike that of Swift, save for this: he spoke quietly, but with great and penetrating authority.
Many men were surprised, not excluding Jesse Broad. He realised for the first time a little of the frustration that must have burned behind the sombre, taciturn exterior of this merchant officer, so cruelly – and illegally – torn from his lawful occasions. Soon the jeering and catcalling had died down. They listened intently as he painted a fair but sobering picture of the situation they were in, and weighed up the chances of their survival or success.
He started with the likely fate of the two boats. Given that they had survived the squall last night – and they may well not even have experienced it – he put their chances high. That, he said, was good; for there had been bloodshed and savagery enough, and even if they did make Cape Town, it would not mean disaster for the mutineers. He had been making calculations, working with the charts. With reasonable luck they would get clear away, whatever happened.
There was a stir of excitement. They clove to the words like drowning men to straws. Matthews had them in his palm.
‘Because of the bumbling of the Admiralty, or because of the weather we met, because of that interminable lollop around the doldrums, because of all this put together maybe, we were approaching the Horn late,’ he continued. ‘Why we were to double him, God only knows – I doubt we ever shall. But make no mistake, we were heading for the Horn, and late. The season will be so well on when we reach him, that the job of doubling will be a labour of Hercules. A damned hard job. The westerlies will have set in with a vengeance, and they will be blowing like the hounds of hell. It will be gale after gale, gale after gale, with a hurricane in between each, for a breather! And it will be so cold the rum will freeze. Do you follow?’
They were bemused. First he says they were to get clear away, now this. Joyce began to shout something, but he was hushed. Matthews was going on.
‘What I mean to tell you is this: this late in the season, the Horn is a terror. He is a vile, living, hateful thing. But we can double him. And when we have…and when we have, my boys…then what? For three months, maybe four, we are safe. No one, not any man in his proper mind, would try to follow us. For the demon winds we shall meet, the cold, hard, ferocious westerlies, are as little breezes to the ones that come in later months. Once we’re round, we’re safe!’
Jesse Broad remembered the cheering well. As well as he remembered what Matthews had told him later.
Unless the better weather they had picked up blew well for them, they would be hard put to reach the Horn in time themselves. And mad as any man would be to try to follow them in later weeks, if Swift made it to Cape Town and the British Navy had a presence there, they would be followed. All the same, the fact he had told the people remained still true; if they doubled the Cape soon, they would be in a great position to get clean away.
And then? With their clear start and round the Cape?
Matthews had let the question hang in the air.
‘Then we have a choice,’ he told the waiting men. ‘Or rather, many choices. Some are merely good. Some are almost wonderful. And some are too magnificent for words!’
First of all, they would sail northwards into warmer waters. On their way, he pointed out, they would find many places. There was Fernandez, where Robinson Crusoe had lived and waxed fat, as in the old book, or where Anson, indeed, had laid up and recovered his strength before he took the Spanish treasure ships. They would have time to stop there, even if it was perhaps not far enough up-coast for total safety: they would see. Or farther north there were the fabled lands where Dons grew fat on wine and oranges; or even better, in the end maybe, would be to seek the islands, a million there were said to be, flowing with gold, and milk, and honey. And women.
It was a heady speech, and mention of the islands clinched it. The million islands, yes, the islands and the friendly, dusky maidens. In the warm sun and steady wind, Broad could see the sailors gently dreaming. He tried to clear his mind of the other things: the cannibals Anson had spoke about, the diseases and the reefs, the violent tropical storms and tempests. Matthews was not fooled by his own flights of fancy, Broad could see. The lantern-jaw was tense, the eyes watchful.
‘Well, men,’ he said. ‘Are you with us? Will you follow me and Jesse out of hell to paradise?’
There was a tumult of cheering. Henry Joyce and some of his men tried to shout against it, but were simply drowned. Broad watched them with foreboding.
When it had died away, Matthews went on. His propositions were sombre, his voice ringing. They responded eagerly, again and again. First, he said, the Horn; agreed? Yes, yes; they all agreed. It will be hard, like hell, the westerlies. All right, all right, we will meet them, we will beat them! We will need discipline, tough discipline, Navy discipline. Yes yes, it is true; if you say so. I will be captain and Jesse Broad lieutenant; we are the men to lead. Aye, aye! Ye are the men! True watches kept and normal liquor? Food rations as before? Agreed, agreed! Just lead us, Mr Matthews!
‘And then, my brave boys.’ (Ah God, thought Jesse, shades of Daniel Swift!) ‘And then it’s freedom! The islands, the women, the liquor! And then the rampaging can start!’
The men were beside themselves with excitement.
When it had died down a little, Joyce had his s
ay. But he was not sober, and his ideas of total freedom were repugnant. The men realised the danger they were in. A full-sized ship, with a depleted crew. They would have to work, to work like hell, and their lives were all at stake. Matthews cleverly brought it to a vote, a show of hands. And when Joyce was defeated he asked for another vote, to see if the liquor store key should he returned. The huge, pig-eyed man was voted down again, and looked at first as if he might fight to keep it. But in the end he did not. He brought it out from deep inside his pocket, and flung it on the deck. Matthews, with no loss of dignity, stooped and picked it up. Then, when Broad thought he had surely tried too much at once, he asked for yet another show of hands, on the question of weapons. Again a great majority. All muskets, cutlasses, and hand-arms were collected from seamen and marines, and locked away right aft, in a store within pistol-shot of the cabin. Joyce’s party gave in quietly, which Broad thought ominous. It could only mean that they had others, already hidden.
Watches were appointed then, and petty officers chosen. Matthews made no approach to Allgood, but he and Broad had decided to do so later, when he had recovered his spirits more. For without Allgood’s skill and authority, their task would be a hundredfold harder.
It was during this work that Henry Joyce voiced a thought that all considered legitimate. What of the non-mutineers, he asked? Should they not be made to act as servants? This, Matthews would not have. Each man must act the part he was trained to, he said. No able seaman was to wash out quarters, or scour pots. His service was too valuable.
‘And the snotty boy?’ roared Joyce. ‘Is he to walk the quarterdeck, damn it?’
*
Now, in the sick berth, Broad brought this back to mind. Bentley, who had been asleep maybe, was now awake again, lying before him pale and racked with pain. Jesse smiled a rueful smile, not unmixed with pity.
‘Your name was mentioned after the event,’ he said, quietly. ‘Yes, Mr Bentley, yours. From now on you must tend the few surviving beasts again. And clean the heads.’