As the boat headed into the wind and sea, and the big seamen moved with uncanny agility to stifle the flapping sails, he forgot his uncle’s evil reputation. In five minutes they would be in Portsmouth. It was his job to complete the ship’s complement. A job that was still unfinished after nearly four months.
Just before he entered the first scattering of houses on the edge of the city, Thomas Fox stopped for a spell. The sheep, stupid as they were, were good at stopping and nibbling. He climbed onto a hummock, pulled a long stem of dry grass, and sucked happily.
It was well into the forenoon now, and the roads to Portsmouth were fairly busy. There were big ox-wagons, lighter carts, and innumerable foot-passengers, some coming, some going. Most of the traffic was for the hamlets on the island, but some of the vehicles made purposefully northwards, towards Portsbridge, the causeway, and the lonely turnpike that hauled steeply over Portsdown and on towards London. The sun was shining, and the crowds were noisy and generally good-humoured. Thomas was hailed several times, and lifted his bonnet in greeting, not because he knew the hailers, but because he was hailed.
In fact he had little interest in the roads or the edge of the town.
He was still far enough to the eastward to see the ocean (as he thought it) stretching from beyond the great common over to the Isle of Wight. On its white-capped surface lay the ships that were Britain’s defence. Mostly yellow, they were, and almost unbelievably big and noble. The humble merchant craft that threaded among them, lying to the steady breeze, seemed dingy and contemptible by comparison.
Thomas sometimes thought he would like to go to sea, and in fact his family had connections with it. His cousin Silas, whom Thomas vaguely remembered as a tall, thin, fair man twice his age, was a marine. Probably in one of those ships he could see at anchor, if the truth were known. He hadn’t been seen by the family for a long age; there was a war on. It was, after all, he thought, perhaps not the life for him. They barely scratched a living as it was, even with his strong arms to help. And when did seamen ever get their pay? According to his aunt, no money had come to them on Silas’s account in memory; and he was a marine.
He pulled his eyes away from the sea and spat out the straw. The wind chilled him through his old, threadbare coat. He watched a thin dog creeping on its belly towards one of his flock. Waited until it was near, then lifted a flint and hurled it. It hit the dog’s bared teeth with a bang. The dog screeched in pain and limped hurriedly away. Thomas took up his whistling again. Now. Let’s get to market.
Although the city sprawled rottenly well outside its walls, he followed the road that led through one of the great turreted gates. Now he was in the main stream of traffic the job got rapidly harder. He tied the lead sheep with string, and hobbled a couple of the others. But it took all his skill, plus a lot of cursing, barking and shouting, to keep them half together. He wielded the stick ferociously, as well as his bare feet and the pocketful of stones he’d collected. But progress was slow. Every time a wagon passed, the sheep went blind with panic. Every time they spotted a patch of green they stopped and ate. As often as possible he took to the fields, but as he penetrated farther into the busy town the fields got fewer and the job harder.
The progress made by Bentley and his crew was even slower. Not that driving fourteen seamen was harder than driving twelve sheep, it was rather that he was looking for something but was not sure what. As they wandered off Broad Street into the squalid teeming alleys of Spice Island, the people melted away as if by magic. All the men seemed to vanish as the sailors turned the corners, while dirty-faced women, spitting streams of filth past their hands, watched them with open hostility. William felt furious, with these people and with himself. He muttered to Dolby: ‘My God, what scum these people are. What filth. To think we need such gutter rats to man the nation’s ships!’
But Dolby looked away, and said nothing. Dolby was of these people. Evans, the other midshipman, who was nearer William in age and station, seemed embarrassed. His shrill voice filled the gap.
‘I agree, Mr Bentley. What scum indeed! Things are at a pretty pass.’
And the fourteen seamen stumped stolidly on in silence.
It came to William after some time that, press gang or no, that is what they were being taken for. He had quartered Spice Island several times and drawn a total blank. Of seamen there were none, or even merely able-bodied men, or youths, or cripples. He was beginning to feel foolish – and knew his Uncle Daniel wanted much of him. Halting the shore party, he gestured Evans to one side.
‘Listen, Jack,’ he said, ‘we’ve been rumbled in this place. I’m going to shed Dolby and the men and go recruiting on my own account.’
Evans looked aghast. ‘But our orders?’
‘Orders you need not worry about,’ William replied. ‘I will take all responsibility. I have a free hand with Captain Swift on this expedition.’
He did not have to spell it out. Evans knew well enough what it was like to be a favourite nephew.
‘I’m with you then, Will,’ he said. ‘Have you a plan?’ William grinned.
‘Less than half a plan. We’ll head for the Cambridge and have a bite and some gin. First’ – he did not drop his voice – ‘let’s get rid of that old fool Dolby.’
Twenty minutes later, while Dolby and the boat’s crew waited cold and disconsolate on the windy side of Sallyport, Bentley and Jack Evans drank gin and ate hot mutton pies at the Cambridge. They talked gaily enough of the problems to be met with in dealing with the lower orders, but William was feeling less than gay. A coolish, even cold, sensation was growing in the pit of his stomach. He’d found no one or nothing so far. It had been a fool’s errand, a wild-goose chase. Could he face his Uncle Daniel Swift if he returned bare-handed? No. Could he think of an alternative? So far, certainly not. He half listened in irritation as Evans told some interminable tale of hanging a poacher he and his brothers had caught setting traps, and stared out of the upstairs window across High Street. The city was all a-bustle. The shipyards, the crowded mean houses, the clattering traffic moving towards the sea. And the market.
Down towards the market, Thomas Fox drove his ragged band of twelve sheep. But at the entrance to the coach yard of the Cambridge he halted. The sheep halted too.
They began to nibble the thin grass beside the gateposts. Thomas patted his pouch. It contained bread and a few pence. Bread and beer. He lifted his stick and beat the sheep into the yard. William Bentley finished his glass of gin.
His laugh interrupted Evans.
‘Well well,’ he said. ‘Lambs to the slaughter.’
Two
‘How much is that then?’ Thomas asked the pot-boy.
‘Nothing. Your friends inside’ve given.’
Thomas lifted his mouth from the pot, and ale trickled down his chin. He looked at the grimy-faced little boy, who was grinning like a monkey.
‘What you laughing for then, boy?’ he said. ‘And what you talking about?’
‘Fine friends for a country lad to ’ave, I must say though,’ said the pot-boy. Before Thomas could reply, he bobbed back into the taproom.
Thomas took another pull at the pot and worried for a moment. He took a deeper pull. If the ale was going to mysteriously vanish, or something of that nature, he planned to get a good fill first. He looked uneasily round the yard. The sheep were standing in a corner, quiet. After a few seconds he gave up worrying. He reached into his deep pouch for the hunk of bread his sister had given him. When he looked up again there were two young Navy officers in front of him. He jumped.