Mr Adamson spoke drily to the captain.
‘I beg permission to inform you, sir, that this soldier is desperate ill. I think he is dying.’
There was a ripple of excitement from the ship’s company. Bentley jumped as his uncle rushed past him, screaming in rage.
‘Silence! Silence! Silence!’ he shouted. Then he seized the upraised arm of the boatswain’s mate, and stopped his backward swing. A gout of thick blood ran off the man’s hand onto the captain’s face and silken collar.
‘Cease this punishment!’ he shrieked. ‘Cease this instant, I say! This man is drunk, drunk as a lord, drunk as a buggering bitch! Allgood, dismiss these scoundrels and rig the pumps. I want this bastard soused until he’s stone sober, do you hear! Then we’ll start again! And this time your men will do the job properly! And there will be no dinner and no grog for anyone on board until this swine is flogged insensible.’
Watching the closed, angry, faces of the people as they obeyed their new orders with a sullenness bordering on insubordination, Bentley had an uncomfortable feeling arise within him. He could not quite pin it down, but it was unfamiliar and exceedingly disturbing. It was the first vague stirrings of fear.
Two and a half hours later Henry Joyce passed out, although with the awful possibility that he was merely shamming, even after the appalling punishment he had received. Forty minutes after that, the marine, who had resumed his monotonous high screaming, vomited blood and expired.
Eighteen
At dinner that evening, Captain Swift was the very picture of gentlemanly urbanity. He had invited all his lieutenants, and the four young gentlemen. The captain of marines, brilliant in wig and dress coat, graced the opulent cabin, and behind Swift’s chair there stood his servants, domestics from his home estate, stiff, silent, and unseeing, except when passing a decanter or serving from the covered silver bowls. The stern windows were open wide, allowing the musical bubbling of the wake to be heard. It was quiet and soothing, becoming occasionally louder as the rudder was turned to a sharper angle to keep the Welfare on her course. Above their heads the tread of Mr Robinson could sometimes be heard, the ever-watchful master.
The food was excellent, although by now the only fresh vegetables left on board were turnips. But there was no shortage of these for captain and officers, and they were cooked in butter. The first course had been fish, caught half an hour before it went in the pan, and accompanied by a good white wine. Captain Swift sailed always with his own cook, who had both his legs and both his arms, unlike the pensioners who usually served that office in His Majesty’s ships. This man had been with Swift’s father on his lands ashore, and did office as cellarer also. He had nothing to do with the people’s cook, a consumptive old man with a crippled back.
As the red wine went round before the second course was served, Swift turned the conversation from the pointless politenesses they had been mouthing to the matter that was in all their minds.
‘I should have hanged that fellow Joyce after all, I think. If he recovers he might still be a fine enough seaman, but I smell trouble. What say you, gentlemen?’
William glanced about. It was not his place to speak, nor the other boys’. By custom, Mr Hagan should have first say. Custom prevailed. ‘A stubborn dog for a certainty,’ said the tall, red-haired man. He paused, twiddling the stem of his glass. ‘But after all, Captain Swift, if he proves troublesome, we can surely hang him next time!’
Everyone laughed at this. Hagan licked his lips, pleased with his witticism.
Plumduff added: ‘If he recovers. Mr Adamson says…’ His voice trailed off. At the mention of the surgeon, Swift’s face had darkened. The fat second lieutenant gulped. ‘Beg pardon, sir,’ he said miserably.
‘That damned surgeon has overstepped his duty, in my opinion,’ the third lieutenant said ingratiatingly. William sneered inwardly. Trust Higgins to try the smarmy line. His uncle would soon see through that!
But Swift turned to the man with a faint smile. ‘Aye, Mr Higgins,’ he said. ‘You are damned right.’
Over the mutton, well-seasoned as it was the last edible meat of a sheep killed days before, the conversation dwelt on the way Joyce had withstood the lash. It was generously allowed that villain or not, drunk or not, he had shown almost incredible fortitude.
‘Like a great beast of burden,’ young Jack Evans squeaked.
‘Why, on my father’s farmlands we have bulls that are smaller than Henry Joyce. Aye, and weaker.’
‘I would rather speak of him as a wild beast,’ put in William. ‘A beast of burden may be strong, but it is also tractable. I consider Joyce to be more a…lion. Or…a wolf?’ He brightened. ‘No, a bear, a great wild bear. For did you not remark his eyes as he was being flogged? They glowed, yes glowed. They were small and red.’ He looked at the attentive faces around him. ‘Yes indeed,’ he finished. ‘He is a wild animal, no beast of burden.’
Later on, over good Cheshire cheese and a dark powerful wine that made William’s head sing, the captain dropped a bombshell.
The conversation had drifted from Joyce, and others of the people who reminded the assembled company more of animals than men, skated over the conduct of the warrant officers and the peculiar obscenity of the purser’s revolting form, and returned by a roundabout route to the surgeon and the dead marine. Swift, more genial now, was prepared to joke about him.
‘Darting here and there with his little black brandy bottle,’ he said. ‘I should not be surprised if he had not poisoned that malingerer just to score a point.’
‘Like we poisoned poor old Mr Marner,’ said James Finch breathlessly. It was the first time he had dared open his mouth in such great company, and he was flushed and excited, as drunk as fun. He was ignored.
‘It was an unfortunate episode, however,’ put in Captain Craig, the marine officer. ‘My men were deeply disturbed by it. It is not a good thing, to have a comrade drop before your eyes like that.’
‘Indeed,’ replied Swift. ‘The lengths to which some people will go are amazing.’
This remark caused an uncomfortable pause. William, whose mind had admittedly grown fuzzy, could not quite make out what it meant. Apparently he was not the only one.
‘Well,’ continued Craig, clearing his throat. ‘Perhaps the funeral will improve their morale. A little drum-beating and the popping of their muskets into the air. That should perk them up.’
‘No,’ said Captain Swift. His voice was quiet, but it cut like a knife. Everyone was stilled.
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ Craig asked at last.
‘I said “no”, Captain Craig. No, sir. No drums. No muskets. No damned funeral at all if I have my way.’
The air in the cabin had become tense. Hagan licked his lips with a small wet sound.
Captain Swift went on: ‘That man was a shirker. He had lain in that sick-bay since we left England and refused to move a muscle.’ He jerked his head up, the big nose suddenly reminding William of a shark’s fin. ‘And God knows, Captain Craig, there is little enough for a marine to do in any case.’
The tone was deliberate, the insult unequivocal. William flicked his eyes about, intensely embarrassed. Everyone’s hands were resting on the table, unmoving. Jimmy Finch had turned a delicate pale shade of green.