Bentley stood on the quarterdeck, beside his uncle by special invitation, watching the operation with pride. Swift smiled, nodding his head in satisfaction.
‘By God, my boy,’ he said. ‘This will keep the scum on their toes. An excellent idea, excellent!’
So now, throughout the hours of daylight, the killing sail-work was supplemented by an even more killing task. At each catspaw, at every tiny zephyr, Swift or one of his officers gave the order to pull. The exhausted seamen, blind with sweat, bent to the great ash oars. Slowly they would turn the Welfare’s head, slowly they would drag her great, weedy, yellow-hulled bulk towards the area where a little wind played with the gleaming surface of the sea. By the time they got there, always, the breeze would have gambolled off elsewhere, or just disappeared. If the latter, they would rest wearily on their oars, watching the figures on the quarterdeck with slow-burning hatred. If the former, they would swing the great yellow bow once more, to pull stolidly towards the elusive catspaw. And they prayed, they prayed for wind.
Thomas Fox prayed during this time, but not for wind. He prayed for deliverance. At every moment that he was not occupied by his tasks, his mind was filled with the terror of the gantlope. He saw visions of himself in the barrel, with blood running from his ears and mouth as the cruel blows rained on him. He saw the master-at-arms’ sword pressed to his throat, felt the sharp pain as it broke the tender skin there. He saw the faces of his shipmates, filled with fear and hatred, as they beat and beat him with the knotted ropes.
The only person he told this to was Doyle, in their hours spent among the beasts. The blind man listened, his pipes answering the wild ramblings with an eerie sympathy. To the rest of the ship, even Broad, Thomas Fox said nothing. His question to Peter had been the last words he uttered for many days.
He spoke again because he was forced to. The boatswain, Mr Allgood, came prowling along the gun-deck, stooped under the heavy beams, poking about and asking after the shepherd boy. Thomas clutched Padraig Doyle in desperation, then tried to hide himself among the sheep. It was no good.
‘Fox,’ said the deep voice of the boatswain. ‘You there, Irishman, dig the fellow out of there. I won’t eat him.’
Thomas burrowed deeper into the soft dark warmth, but an iron hand gripped his shoulder.
‘Think I’ve come to punish you, eh boy?’ roared the boatswain. ‘Think I’ve come to have you flogged, eh, chicken-thief? Running the gantlope, that’s what the purser wants for you, do you know that?’
He pulled Thomas from among the sheep, then tried to lower him to the deck. But the boy’s feet were drawn up to his stomach. He hung peculiarly, curled under the giant arm.
‘Put your legs down, boy,’ he boomed. ‘You’re a fine one to be at sea, by Christ you are! Put your legs down, damn you!’
Thomas clenched his legs harder into his stomach.
Suddenly the boatswain changed his grip, cradled him in his arms as he might a child. Then he took Thomas’s chin in his hand, turned his head, tried to look into the downcast eyes. His voice softened, became curiously gentle.
‘Ah boy,’ he said. ‘You are a poor little bastard, and no mistake. Tell me, do you know who stole those hens? Eh? Tell me boy, and I’ll see he’s punished for it.’
Thomas lay in the great arms, cradled, silent. The boatswain’s breath was soft upon his cheek.
‘Come now, Thomas Fox,’ said Allgood gently. ‘I know you did not eat them. Was it friends, or was it enemies?’
The dark musician turned his naked sockets to Allgood’s face. He touched the pipes and a low, melodious sigh came from them. In Fox’s head the thoughts raced round, darkly muddled, rats in a trap. The pipes sighed again, a calming, soothing note.
‘Old Butterbum,’ said the boatswain, ‘wants your blood, my bonny lad. He wants you flogged, or chained, or chivvied, or beaten black and blue. But you did not eat them, did you boy?’
Slowly, desperately slowly, Thomas turned his face towards the giant cradling him. Slowly, with an immense effort, he lifted his eyes, made them travel up the broad shirt front, across the great black curly beard, the red full lips, the big flared nose. At last, and for the merest instant, he looked into Allgood’s eyes.
‘Please sir,’ he said. ‘They died, sir. They died in the storm, and I put them overboard. I was… I was…’
His eyes dropped, his voice died away.
‘You was afeard to say,’ said the boatswain, quietly. ‘Good. Then Butterbum can go to hell, and welcome Old Nick is to him, to be sure. All right, my bonny boy? All right? You’re safe, do you hear? Not a hair on your head will anyone touch, do you hear? Butterbum can go to hell!’
Thomas whispered: ‘Thank you, sir.’ A great relief grew in him, it washed him through. The boatswain ruffled his hair, laughed, and deposited him gently on the deck beside the Irishman, among the sheep. As he picked his way aft, he chuckled.
Although there were many on board who would have liked to have seen the shepherd boy running the gantlope, there was nothing to be done about it. The feud between the boatswain and the purser was well known, and there was no doubt that Captain Swift would support Allgood in any clash between them, despite the purser’s social superiority. To him, as to everyone on board, the purser was an evil they had to bear, a fat and ugly vulture who would be better off in a sailcloth shroud. The boatswain was a useful man, a vital man. If it pleased him to free Fox from a perfectly legitimate punishment, then so be it.
William Bentley was particularly sorry that the boy had escaped unscathed. Of late he had come to almost hate him, so violently did he dislike his way of moving silently and miserably about the ship like some tragic ghost. He railed to the other mids about it later the same afternoon, and they all agreed that it was just the sort of thing that would undermine the general discipline once more, after all their care to build up a tautness among the people.
‘I shall keep an eye out for Mr Fox,’ William promised. ‘We have been too namby-pamby with him of late.’
‘He is a damned disgrace to the name of seaman or King’s Navy anyway,’ Jack Evans added. ‘He never looks one in the eye, even if you cuff him about the ears to do so. And he never says a word.’
‘He’s a damned mute, like his eerie friend,’ said Finch. ‘Now he, the Irishman, gives me the creeps. Those awful eyes!’
Bentley saw his chance with Thomas a couple of afternoons later. And he took it with both hands.
There had been an unaccustomed air of jollity on board that day, because the Welfare had picked up a breeze in the middle of the morning which had blown steadily, if not strongly, for several hours. The boats were in, the sails were trimmed, the heat had been made almost pleasant by the wind.
On the foredeck Padraig Doyle had played many tunes, while Thomas had remained below putting the finishing touches to his whistle. He sat alone among the beasts, wielding a sharp knife with extreme care, and testing the whistle frequently for the exact pitch he wanted. At last, with a feeling almost of happiness, he blew steadily, played a couple of scales, then tried out, haltingly at first but with increasing confidence, a lilting tune. The pipe was perfect.
He climbed the ladder to the foredeck with a lightness in his tread that had been missing for as long as he could remember. His friend sat in the usual place, back resting against the fore-bitts, the bagpipe tucked under his arm, and Thomas went to him and sat at his feet. He did not speak, but when the tune finished he touched his hand with the whistle. The Irishman felt it, turned his blazing sockets, and smiled. They checked that they were in pitch, then without a stumble, took up an air together.