The Sea Officer Bentley Thrillers

by Jan Needle

  ‘And yes, of course, to you sir, so they are. Henry Joyce is scarcely human, nor Madesly neither. But for Christ’s sake man, how are we treated? Not just him, them, but everyone? We are all scum in the officers’ eyes, all scum. Degraded, humiliated, starved, beaten, made drunken animals. I wonder they bother to pay us off when war is over. We could be salted down to feed the next generation.’

  Matthews laughed loudly. William smiled a small, sly smile.

  ‘But you are officers now, friend. You and Mr Matthews. Do you still feel so much for them? Truly?’

  ‘I feel nothing for them,’ Broad said, ‘but pity. They are more sinned against than sinning, and that is truth.’

  ‘One does not have to do anything very wrong,’ added Matthews, sombrely, ‘to find oneself in the Navy. Here is Jesse Broad. And here am I. Our lives, young man, are finished.’

  Bentley had nothing more to say. They seemed more sad than angry with their fate. But also to accept it. As they accepted the dirt, and lice, and cold, and sores.

  *

  Neither Broad nor Matthews was on deck when the fabric began to rend. Matthews was in the tiller flat checking on the damage caused to the steering gear by a sea that had almost pooped the ship, and Broad was in the cabin snatching a meal of cold pease pudding and biscuit. There had been no sound from outside to suggest abnormality, when the door burst open and Grandfather Fulman hurried in.

  The old man, crippled with rheumatism, bent almost double, was gasping with effort.

  ‘Jesse!’ he panted. ‘Come out, for Christ’s sake. Bring pistols, quick. It’s Allgood, it’s Allgood.’

  Broad dropped his knife, knocked over his platter, dragged the pistol from his belt. He checked the priming carefully, as constant damp played havoc with the powder. Fulman leaned against the door, his breath wheezing.

  ‘Quick, Jesse. It’s Joyce’s gang. They’ve got him cornered, oh quick!’

  Broad reached the deck in seconds, but he was too late.

  Allgood had been brought to bay near the fore shrouds, and the odds were overwhelming. It was like a bear-baiting, and the two principals were indeed as big as bears. Broad moved forward fast, the pistol cocked. But before he reached the foremast he was stopped. Three of Joyce’s men, armed with pistols, lounged against the fife-rail. They levelled the weapons at him, with odd, nervous smiles.

  ‘Go no further,’ said one of them. ‘We will not hurt you, man. Just go no further.’

  Broad weighed up the chances. Thought of slipping aft and getting reinforcements, moving forward between decks and taking them unawares. All nonsense. Even if he turned, now, he would die. He uncocked the pistol, slid it into his belt, advanced. The men let him to within a few feet, still smiling nervously. One cackled; a high, unpleasant sound.

  Allgood, his blue coat torn, his nose bleeding, stood with his back to the shrouds, crouched in a fighting stance. Facing him was Henry Joyce, similarly crouching, but with only shirt and breeches. Also, he carried a long, curved knife. Broad noticed the boatswain’s fists then. They were clenched, but blood was dribbling from between the fingers.

  Joyce’s idea of fighting fair. Just to make sure there was no chance of a surprise ending, Madesly and two other big fellows stood in readiness on Allgood’s flanks. Madesly had a knife, the others iron bars.

  The courage of Jack Allgood had never been in question. With a sudden ferocious roar he threw himself on Joyce with a force that was frightening. The two men were almost equally matched in size and weight, both enormous, strong, hard. Joyce’s sideways move to avoid the charge was lightning quick, stunning for so vast a bulk. But not fast enough. The plate-like hand of Allgood seized his arm in passing, and spun him like a top. The two men fell with a crash, and struggled on the deck. The three flankers moved in anxiously, looking for a way to protect and help their champion.

  Then an arm rose above the struggling mass. The knife plunged, once, twice, three times. A heave, a roll, and they parted. Jack Allgood scrambled to his feet, stood swaying, blinded with blood. The flesh on one side of his face was stripped, the white of his cheekbone glaring through.

  Henry Joyce took longer to get up. His face was congested as though he was half-strangled. His breath gasped and rattled. The flesh round one eye was torn, gouged by Allgood’s thumbnail.

  The boatswain dragged an arm across his face, clearing his eyes momentarily. He made another spring, uttering only a grunt as he did so. This time Joyce did not clear himself. He went down under the charge, with a sharp hiss as the breath was knocked from his body. Worse, his knife went flying. It landed six feet away, then slid into the scuppers, with a corkscrew motion of the Welfare in the following sea.

  If it had not been for the reinforcements, Allgood might have pulled it off, wounded as he was. For long moments the two men rolled and fought, silently, viciously, first one on top, then the other, too fast to be sorted out. But when he emerged clearly, straddled over Joyce’s chest, his lacerated hands clamped around the other man’s windpipe, the flankers moved in for the kill. At a word from Madesly, the two men swung at Allgood’s head with the bars. It took several blows before he released his grip. Joyce gave a heave, and the boatswain rolled to one side, blood pouring from him in streams.

  When Joyce was upright, he stood gasping, fighting for his breath.

  Jesse Broad, revolted, shouted at him.

  ‘You murdering bastard, Joyce! What is your game now? You cannot hope to bring it off, you know!’

  The odd, bald-domed face turned towards him. The pig-eyes were congested. It was several seconds before he could speak.

  ‘Bring what off, then? It is Allgood who must fall, not no one else, just fucking traitor Allgood. You sail us on, friend Jesse.’ He forced a breathy laugh. ‘To hell. You sail us on to hell.’

  With an intense effort, the boatswain was pushing himself upright.

  He got to his knees, gasping, breathing blood. He got, at last, to his feet. He swayed, staggering as the Welfare staggered. Madesly turned a wicked smile on Joyce, a gay smile, an awful smile.

  ‘I think Mr Allgood wants a little stroll,’ he said.

  Prodded with the knife, guided by the iron bars, the bleeding, dazed hulk of the boatswain went to the side of the ship as docile as a lamb. Broad did not wait to see him tipped overboard through the broken bulwark. He took his chance and hurried aft. Within seconds he had checked the weapons-room. It was still locked, with mighty locks, which meant Joyce’s gang had hidden their arms earlier, as he had guessed. Within minutes, in the cabin, he had checked the charges and priming of their store, with Bentley watching anxiously. Broad was in no mood for talking.

  When Matthews returned, they had a swift discussion. Both agreed that a general rearmament would not work. Morale was low, fear and hatred rampant. To issue guns to all the men, or even those who were acting almost as officers in the running of the ship, would just accelerate the time when factional warfare would break out. Joyce and his band were not numerous, and they were well hated. If they had not many arms, they might not attempt a coup.

  ‘In any case,’ said Broad. ‘They may indeed have no great quarrel with us. They truly hated Allgood, and now the man is dead, God help him. They cannot run the ship themselves, that much is certain. And if they do rise up, they know that some of them will die.’

  Matthews sucked his teeth.

  ‘I think we must gather a band and arm them, all the same. Men we can trust, even down to Fulman and old Samuel, although I doubt they can pull a trigger in this damned cold. A couple in my old mess still survive. I’d put my trust in them.’

  ‘And for this night?’

  ‘I think we hope to God. To make a sudden move would only spark them up. They have the smell of blood in their nostrils. Let’s stay quiet, keep good guard, let the steering watches run as normal. And hope to God.’

  There was a small noise from the alcove. Bentley’s face looked out, pale and troubled.

  ‘There is one other soul on b
oard they hate like Allgood,’ he said, slowly.

  ‘If it would help you, friends, I will go forward. And face them. On my own.’

  The two men did not speak for long moments.

  ‘Even if there is a bloodbath, young fellow,’ said Jesse Broad.

  ‘You will not be the first to go, I promise you.’ He smiled. Let out a small explosive laugh without much humour.

  ‘But you will be third, I guess. When me and Mr Matthews are both dead.’

  Thirty-Two

  The end, when it came, had nothing to do with Henry Joyce, or the long night of aching vigilance. In fact men’s minds and gazes were directed so firmly inwards that it made the end almost inevitable, when it could probably have been avoided.

  The system of watches and helmsmen, along with seamen who could be trusted to stand their turn on the quarterdeck and sing out for Broad or Matthews in case of any violent change in weather or failure of gear, had meant the two of them had not had to do alternate deck duty, four hours on, four off, except in the worst of conditions off the Horn. But throughout this night one of them was always on the quarterdeck, armed with pistols and cutlass, looking for any move or hint of action that might presage a coup.

  In the cabin, too, the vigilance did not cease. William Bentley was armed with a long pistol of the type his uncle favoured, and the elder man who happened to be with him at any moment dozed in a chair, with a musket cradled handy. The idea was that they should not sleep, but William had not the heart to waken them. In any case, he himself was totally sleepless; they were unlikely to be surprised.

  He pondered the situation during the long dragging hours, with a sentiment that was at times amazed. Here he was, a midshipman in His Majesty’s Navy, well connected, with impeccable ‘interest’, not yet fifteen years old.

  Detained against his will by mutineers, in deadly danger from a gang of cut-throats spoiling for a new uprising, and sharing a cabin with two men, rebels both, whom he was prepared to swear would defend him with… He arrested the thought, examined it minutely. With their lives? Why should they? His mind drifted back over the events of the voyage. Good God, he thought, and it really did amaze him, this: I’m not yet fifteen, I am a midshipman, a gentleman.

  All this is mad, impossible. How could it all have come about?

  He looked at Broad, short, powerful and exhausted, slumped in his uncle’s chair, snoring with his grey face hanging on his shoulder. A seaman. A smuggler. Taken by the press, and not illegally. During the preceding months he had reviled this man, humiliated him, scorned him. Worse, had hardly noticed he was doing it. Had scarcely thought of him as human. Jesse Broad not human? It was ghastly. Jesse Broad had done more for him than any other human he had known.

  With a sudden flash, like a picture in his mind, he remembered the scene on the quarterdeck before he had been clubbed down. I made a pledge, he thought. I was drenched with terror. I made a pledge. The words half came back to him. ‘There have been faults…there have been faults here. And I will tell.’ Yes, that was it, he had pledged himself to tell. And sworn that they would be fairly tried. In his little alcove, damp with condensation as it was, he felt a different dampness on his face, warm at first but quickly chill. He let the tears roll down, tears of utter desolation, that blurred Broad’s face in the swaying lamplight. Well, would it ever come to that? Another picture formed, of Broad and Matthews hanging from a yardarm by their necks while he looked on. He tried to make it go away, he shook his head and tightly closed his eyes. He cried in desolation.

  *

  The attack never came. In the cold grey light of morning the Welfare was just the same, battering eastward and a trifle north under topsails only, plus jibs and mizzen. Broad and Matthews stood upon the quarterdeck, tired but relieved, to decide if they should issue arms or let it ride. Their feeling was, without a lot of deliberation, that if Joyce meant to take the ship he would have done so fast. He needed them, of course; that much was well known.

  ‘I doubt the scum would even have a ship without us,’ muttered Matthews. ‘Look at that mizzen, Jesse. I must go up and check the break; it seems a little worse from here. I wish to God we did not need that canvas on the cranky bitch.’

  He swung himself into the weather shrouds, and climbed as heartily as if he’d had a good night’s sleep in bed. From forty feet above the deck his words struck ice into Jesse’s heart.

  ‘Good God,’ he said, and a quirk of wind made it as loud as if he’d shouted in his ear. ‘Jesse, dead ahead. A sail. Ah Christ, a sail.’

  The Welfare carried no lookouts, had not done for ages.

  But the vessel beating up towards them surely did. Dawn had broken half an hour before. They must have been seen. Broad leapt into the rigging to join his friend, and they stared in silence across the miles of ocean. The ship approaching was quite small, reefed down, and making heavy weather of it.

  ‘I do not believe in providence,’ said Matthews, at last. ‘Nor yet in fairies. She is a British frigate for a thousand pound. Or a sloop maybe, she’s not the size that we are.’

  They were mesmerised, dazed with shock. For long moments nothing more was said. No plan presented itself. They merely watched.

  ‘Well,’ said Broad. ‘Is it possible? Could Swift have made his landfall and set out in pursuit? It is so short a time.’

  ‘They were picked up, more like,’ Matthews replied. ‘My guess is that a cruiser spotted them, or some other vessel doing escort round the Cape. And Swift persuaded them, or ordered maybe, that they come after us.’

  ‘Must it be like that?’ said Jesse. ‘Are we so very sure the ship is British, and a warship, and in search of us?’

  The questions were rhetorical, the answers obvious.

  Matthews voiced them almost absently.

  ‘I cannot see her too well yet, but I’ll swear she’s British. And where would she be going if not after us? There is no call to head towards Cape Horn in winter, Jesse, only desperate men would do it, or determined. Dan Swift would sail a sieve against a hurricane to come up with us, you know it. She is heading for the Horn. She is heading after us.’

  They hung in the bitter wind for minutes longer. The Welfare rushed on, closing the miles between them. Broad shook his head, still dazed, unable to react.

  ‘Can we escape?’ There was a pause.

  ‘Do we want to?’ said Matthews sombrely. Jesse stared at him.

  ‘Can we escape?’ he said again, his mind shying away from all the other implications. ‘We have the wind gage. They may not have seen us, even.’

  Matthews laughed.

  ‘Our mizzen’s sprung, our gear is ruined, we are leaking like a basket. If we tried to run they’d intercept us, whatever way we jumped. As to not seeing us…well I’m right glad, my friend, you have it in your heart to joke.’

  ‘How long? Half an hour? Shall we call all hands?’ The thought occurred to both of them at the same time.

  Even the helmsman, low down on the deck, had not seen the frigate yet, and if they kept their mouths shut it might save bloodshed. For what would the people do? How would they face their fate if it was laughing in their faces?

  But before they had climbed even halfway down, the cry was out. A seaman had come up, seen them in the rigging, and looked ahead. The other ship was clearly visible, gunports too. She was British, a light frigate, and clearing for action.

  Within minutes, all hands who were able were on deck. They ran around like headless chickens, most of them, not knowing what to do for the best. One man whinnied, time and time again, a demented horse, while others shouted orders, supplications. The panic lasted several minutes.

  While the two ships inexorably closed.

  After a short time the general movement became a surge towards the quarterdeck, with only the most panic-stricken staying forward, staring ahead, mewing with fear and misery. Matthews and Broad stood abaft the mizzen, their hands on pistol-butts, waiting for a silence, a rationality, to come about.

  J
oyce, Madesly and four or five assorted thugs shouldered forward, armed with pistols, cutlasses and dirks.

  Joyce’s face was pale under the shining dome. He seemed mad with anger.

  ‘You have planned this, Matthews!’ he yelled when the noise died down. ‘This is no accident! This is not luck! It is impossible in such a waste of ocean!’

  There was a rumble from the men all round him. Broad almost smiled. The suggestion was preposterous, crazy, but they would seize it, sure. Matthews tried to stamp it out.

  ‘You are mad!’ he roared. ‘Do you imagine I would rendezvous with my own death? That vessel’s come to kill us, every one, by steel, or ball, or hanging. Stop your madness and get down to tacks.’

  Joyce almost spat with rage.

  ‘Bad luck! Bad luck! Do you believe him, lads? Between the Horn and Africa there’s a million miles of sea-room. And we meet a British frigate! These men are traitors! Kill them!’

  It might have happened. The men, even the most sensible, were sick with fear. They looked at Broad and Matthews, glanced at each other. Joyce and his company had pistols in their fists, were whipping up a general rage. It was contagious.

  ‘Half an hour either way, and we would have missed them,’ shouted Joyce. ‘Half an hour into darkness, or a mile or two more room, and we would have passed! And this is accident?!’

  Matthews used his voice of cutting power. It was chill, like ice.

  He started with a laugh, devoid of humour.

  ‘Half an hour either way. But here we are. Thank you, Henry, for your congratulations. I must indeed be the finest navigator of all history. And I could not even take a noon sight yesterday for the cloud-wrack. As all on deck will tell you.’

  There was a moment’s silence. Broad stepped in. ‘Half an hour,’ he said. ‘We now have less. Look, damn you, look. There is a frigate beating up to us. Forget damned Henry Joyce, my friends, forget him. What are we to do? That is the question.’

  It swung the matter. Joyce shouted more, but others cried him down. They stood before the mizzen, looking to their leaders, and Broad was filled with sudden sadness.