Strange then, Jesse Broad considered, that it was at this time that the breath of mutiny that stalked the Welfare like a spectre, should have found a voice.
Even odder, and it shook him to the core, was mutiny’s mouthpiece. It was not Henry Joyce or any of his tearaway companions, although they remained a brooding presence in the ship, a mute threat. It was not any of the more reasonable men who had been brutally flogged and humiliated in the punishments that had gone monotonously on, week after week. It was not any of the hysterical, almost insane element, of which the ship had not a few. It was his former messmate, Matthews.
He had buttonholed Broad on the lower deck and asked if they might speak in private. This in itself was odd, especially in the cramped and noisy accommodation area. There was some privacy in a crowd, certainly; at least one could be seen talking without it arousing suspicion. But Matthews wanted a different sort of privacy. Broad hesitated. He was on watch and had been sent below to re-stow some cordage. But the chances of his being missed for a while were not high, he decided. In any case, Matthews had an air of urgency, of tension, which was most unlooked for in the man. Broad nodded. Matthews gave a tight, strained smile and led him forward. They went down a ladder into a pitch-black place that had obviously been noted beforehand. It stank vilely, the bilge water slopping audibly beneath them.
For a few moments, Broad listened to the groaning timbers and the mysterious gurglings. He tried to accustom himself to the darkness, but the darkness was impenetrable. A dim light filtered down through the hatch opening some yards away, but where they sat he could not even see Matthews’ outline. When he spoke it was in a whisper. The note of strain was definite. The words came as a violent shock.
‘I can trust you, Jesse. We are ready to bring down the captain.’
Broad heard his own breath quicken. In the stinking blackness the two men sat and panted. He was filled with excitement and terror. Also surprise. Was this Matthews talking? Matthews?
‘You are mad, Mr Matthews. This is most unlooked for. You are surely mad.’
A pause. Two panting men.
‘Not mad, Jesse, but merely sickened. The captain is inhuman. A tyrant. A villain. If any man is mad on board this ship it is Daniel Swift, not I. It is Daniel Swift.’
Each time one or the other of them stopped speaking there was a long pause. The whispered words faded away into the darkness, as if slowly sinking into the bilge. Broad was getting his breathing back to normal. He agreed with his friend, totally. But even alone as they were, he dared not voice it.
Instead he said: ‘We? You say “we”. Who is this “we”? And who is sickened? It would appear to me, in fact, that since we got this wind the people are more content than for many weeks. Now that the dreadful sun and the fluky calms have been blown away.’
Matthews blew through his nose, a whispered laugh. ‘That is true in part. But only in part. Are you fooled, Broad? Did your heart leap in gratitude when the villain offered us sports and dancing? Did you not take it as a mere ploy, another way of keeping us too busy to be hatching trouble?’
‘I did. Of course. And no, I was not fooled. But good God, man, most men were, and you cannot deny it! They fell into his hand like rotting medlars. And then the weather. A clincher, a clincher!’
In the silence that followed, he detected a change in Matthews’ breathing. It was faster, harder, forced through tense nostrils, brokenly. There was a sound that could only be grinding teeth. Suddenly Matthews spoke. His voice came loud, harsh and strangled.
‘Like rotting medlars! Aye! They fell!’ Jesse felt panic rising.
‘Hush man! Hush for Christ’s sake! You’ll have us hanged!’
Matthews did hush. Something like a sob came from his throat.
Then he hushed. Jesse had a vision, a flash of insight. He saw the shape of a seaman, in neckerchief and slops, flying through the air, screaming mutely.
He said gently: ‘You lost a messmate.’ Matthews gave a long, shuddering sigh.
‘It is no matter,’ he said. ‘It is not the reason.’ He repeated the whispered laugh. ‘But it is true; you are astute. My friend was lost.’
Broad sat silent, considering. Good God, one could not blame the squall on Captain Swift. To lose a friend was hard, but then…
He thought briefly of Hardman, his dear friend Hardman. Then of Mary and his home. A deep sadness sank slowly into him. He shuddered.
‘I am sorry,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ Matthews replied.
‘But no matter,’ he went on. ‘Listen, Jesse Broad, you are astute. I was smashed by that loss, I will own it. But it was not the only reason. And you are not entirely right about the rest of the people, neither. There are many more than you ever dream who will rise up at the word. I promise you.’
‘The scum?’ asked Broad, brutally. ‘Henry bloody Joyce and his henchmen? I would rather stay penned by a beast like Daniel Swift than a beast like Henry Joyce. At least his tyranny is certain, not an untouched powder keg.’
Another sigh.
‘You are too astute. Yes, many of this crew are scum. To rise up would perhaps be to unleash a monster. But believe me, there are others. Good men, true men. Men who have been whipped, men who have been scorned. Good God alive, what of yourself? That scummy boy who spat in your face! Other men will not stand such humiliation with equal fortitude. Did you not want to rise and smite him? Did you not want to break his back across your knee?’
‘All right. So if I did,’ Jesse replied. ‘But Matthews, what are you saying? That boy Bentley has a right, if he so desires, to play the beast. There is no one to stop him, no law to touch him. But if we rise up, we die. If we overcome the captain, if we overcome the officers, if we overcome the hell-rotten marines who would shoot us like dogs, still we die. The Navy does not forget. The Navy does not forgive. They would track us down across the oceans. They would follow us to hell. Or heaven.’
Somehow the tension had eased between them. They breathed gently. The silence was long and thoughtful.
Matthews’ answer, when it came, was a roundabout one. ‘Jesse,’ he said. ‘I am a navigator. I was an officer, as you know, and I have much experience. We are heading for Cape Horn, there is no doubt of that. And by the time we reach it, the season will be far, far advanced. It is, indeed, much later than wisdom dictates to attempt to double the Cape. Swift was presumably held up, whether by lack of crew or lack of Admiralty orders, God only knows. And then the doldrums. We flogged about the Line for longer than has ever been my experience. It will be very late when we reach Cape Horn.’
‘And?’
‘And, friend Jesse? And this. When we double the Horn – if we double the Horn – no one will be able to follow. For months. In the winter season there, the wind blows westerly and it blows like the cannons of hell. Once we are round the Horn no ship will be able to follow. For months. Months.’
Jesse Broad considered. He believed Matthews. Despite the unaccustomed wildness that the loss of his friend had wrought in him, he knew that he would not be wrong in such details. For a moment he was tempted. To crush that terrible man. To save the poor boy Thomas from that childish ogre. To avenge himself for the spittle that had revolted his lips and seared his mind. But it was only a moment.
‘Mr Matthews,’ he said gently. ‘I said you were mad, for which I am sorry. But it is madness, and you must know it. Both you and I have a legitimate sorrow for being on this ghastly ship. You more than myself. However, there is no redress. Our country is at war, the law is the law, the custom is the custom. If we mutiny we are traitors – no more of that. More pertinent still, if we mutiny, we die. Horn or no Horn, winter or no winter, we will be sought out. Is it not so?’