Among the people, the sports were greeted with varying degrees of interest and enthusiasm. Mostly they were seen as a welcome diversion, with the chance of some extra rum to be won, for it was assumed that the prizes would take the form of extra spirits; what else could they be? Each mess chose their ‘champion’ from the fittest, the strongest, the lithest, depending on the events they fancied entering for, and offered innumerable words of advice, encouragement and accumulated wisdom. Remarkable how many of the old shellbacks had been noted fighters, or runners, or leapers in their day; and what a pity they were now too old to do anything but talk about it, and criticise the youngsters who could not have held a candle to them in their heyday!
The hot, breezy afternoon was alive with cheering, excitement, music and drinking. Captain Swift, who knew how to do things properly, had had a new awning rigged, and under it were placed a large cask of sweet white wine and a smaller puncheon of black rum. The victor of each event was invited on to the quarterdeck to take his pannikin of spirit – unwatered and damn near explosive – and every so often a defeated man or team, depending on luck and the captain’s whim, would be given wine as consolation. Very few men or boys who did not drink deep of the cup at some time or other.
The first events were running races, just to get the people warmed up and cheering. Teams of brawny men and slight boys, stripped to the waist and sweating, set off from the mainmast in relays, tagging others at the fore, the extreme bow, the fore again, the main again, and the mizzenmast, which was the finishing point. These were followed by leaping relays, in which all the upper deck twelve-pounders had to be vaulted or jumped over; a dangerous enough sport in which several heads were badly banged and one or two teeth knocked out. The spectators perched mostly in the lower rigging, cheering themselves hoarse and enjoying the best of the breeze.
Little Peter was the only one in Grandfather Fulman’s mess who had any enthusiasm for the games, but his was such that it made up for the others’ lack of it. He shrieked encouragement or abuse until he was black in the face, and jumped up and down so much that he was in danger of
wasting all his energy before the rigging races, for which he had put down his mark. The messmates were all together, on the shaded side of the foredeck, and no one resented his excitement. He, for his part, occasionally tried to temper his maniac whoops of delight when he spotted Broad’s sombre looks, or the hunched and silent form of Thomas Fox. When it came his turn to race, he lived up to his own expectations and more. He beat the fastest topman on board to the main truck, and came down a backstay so fast it looked as though he must hurtle straight through the deck, if not the bottom of the ship. But Peter bounced to his feet, carried back a pannikin of rum in triumph, then joined in and won the stem-to-stern race. Within the space of twenty-five minutes he had amassed nearly a quart of rum – riches beyond his wildest dreams.
As the races drew towards their end, Broad and the other older hands in the mess grew more gloomy. Fox was unapproachable on the subject, showed no sign of being aware of his impending match, but the weight of foreboding was heavy on the rest of them. Before it could come about, though, Captain Swift ordered Padraig Doyle to provide music for the dance.
The blind man was led to the capstan – not by Thomas Fox – and helped to his official position on the drumhead. He seemed thinner and more bowed than ever. Obviously, thought Broad, in no mood to play at all, and perhaps the captain knew it too. All part of the jollifications to him, no doubt. It would not have surprised Jesse if Thomas had been called upon to give a solo dance, to make up for having broken his instrument.
In the mood or not, Doyle soon coaxed tunes lively and gay from his bagpipes. The tipsy company fell to the dancing with a great will and not a little dexterity. As well as solo dances there were formations made, and country dances galore. Even those like red-haired Peter, who in his life ashore had never had the chance to learn the simplest step, footed it gaily on the edges of the throng. Under the captain’s awning aft, the officers stood at a respectful distance from their lord, smiling indulgently as he smiled. Bentley stood there too, but the gaily swirling people, ridiculous to his eyes in their rolled trousers and dirty, sweaty torsos, did not engage his attention much. He was excited, tense. The time for milling was drawing near.
Captain Swift, that manipulator of his men, chose every moment with great care. For this reason he had overruled William’s decision that he and Fox should fight first. He had also somewhat amended the programme to provide a kind of build-up to the main event. Instead of many freeform punching matches, followed by several fights over the chest, he had laid down that the programme should go thus: Half a dozen single-sticks combats, half a dozen wrestling bouts, a melee fight, then the contest between Bentley and the shepherd boy. His justification (not that he need ever voice one, but he knew that an announcement from the quarterdeck would enhance the excitement) was that the midshipman was the only gentleman taking part in the sports. It was unusual, to say the least, so should end the day’s amusement. A great cheer of approval showed he had been right.
As only twelve men could fight at single-sticks, in a knock-out to choose a champion, the crew lounged on the deck or hung in the rigging and got down to the serious business of festive drinking. As match followed match the excitement grew. The final bout was one of skill and duration, the participants ducking and striking with almost unbelievable dexterity. Rumour had it that the man who finally won had been a fencing master in happier times ashore, and his handling of the stave was certainly a joy to watch. One spectator, full of wine and hopes that the money he had put on his choice would make him a wealthy man, fell twenty feet from the ratlines onto the deck shrieking ‘Foul stroke’ when his man got a hard blow to the temple – and scuttled up the rigging again as if nothing had happened.
There were a surprising number of wrestlers in the company, as it turned out. Some of the Welfare’s impress men had come from far far inland and the North. One bout between two former Cumbrian farmhands, one reputedly a convicted murderer, amazed the generality. They wrestled in the style called Cumberland and Westmorland, hugging each other like desperate lovers, and grunting and hopping about the deck. The winner of the bout was matched with a giant of a man who had never wrestled in his life to any rules, but whose great bulk and quickness made him a formidable opponent. It quickly turned into a comedy turn, with the Cumbrian seeking to smother the flailing arms of the other, who in his turn appeared to be attempting to pull off any limb he could get a grip on. In the end it was called off amid gales of laughter, and both received an equal share of the spirit prize.
The melee bout was a far less friendly affair, as Swift had clearly intended. Henry Joyce, who had entered for nothing else, but had nevertheless been fed his fair share of alcohol, was led into the corner of a ring that had been rigged in the waist, between the main and fore masts. He reminded Broad of nothing so much as a bull being led by his keeper. The lowered shoulders, the red, dangerous eyes, the shambling walk. It would not have been out of place had he been fitted with a nose-ring and lanyard. He shook his head in wonder, and said to Fulman: ‘There is madness in this, Grandfather. There stands the heart of violence, and the terriers will rush to bait it.’
In fact he was not entirely right. At first there were not many in the entire ship’s company ready to enter the ring with Joyce. Big men she had in abundance; violent men she had by the score; brave men too, there was no shortage of courage in the Welfare’s crew. But Swift had to up the ante to half a pint of rum per man, just to go in the ring, win or lose, before he got any takers.