At last there were six. They ranged themselves around three sides of the rope square with Joyce in the fourth corner. The thought came to Broad once more. It was bull-baiting to the life. Despite himself, he felt a tug of excitement.
The first move was made by a shock-haired wildman from Wales.
He was short, but powerful and fast. He suddenly dashed across the ring and gave Joyce a great clout on the side of the head with his fist, dancing away before the bull had chance to raise a hand. Joyce shook his head as if to shake off a fly. Before he had finished shaking it the small man darted in once more. Another blow landed.
At this, two of the others rushed in. Blows rained down on Joyce’s head. He never had time to respond or even react. Each time he raised his great head the biting flies were away. He swung his arms about for a moment or two, but there was no one there. When he stopped, four rushed in, punching wildly.
All around the ring the press of seamen went wild, hollering with excitement and swigging at their drink. The lower rigging was black with men. Joyce glowered around him. A cut had been opened on his face, but otherwise he seemed untouched. But Broad, quite close, could hear a vague rumbling noise coming from the man. He was getting impatient.
The six men in the ring with him were enjoying themselves immensely now. There was an air of elation. They darted in in relays, prodding and smacking, with fist or open palm. Joyce’s pale and dirty face, bald-fronted and hairy, was reddening under the onslaught. The people were half-jeering at him. Was this the mighty Joyce?
It was the bulky Welshman who had started it who was caught first. As he bounced in with a smile, Joyce’s hand shot out like a striking snake. The man, who must have weighed twelve stone, rose from the deck two feet, his face a picture of shock. The blow had caught him in the throat, and as he fell he gave a rasping squawk, then lay in a heap, writhing. The others, made wary, were too late. Joyce leapt forward and grabbed two by their necks. The crunch as their heads came together was alarming. He chased the other three round the ring to the howls of the people; now this was real sport! Two of them got out, despite all the efforts of the ringsiders to prevent it, but the last was fairly trapped. Luckily for him, Joyce was apparently not much interested in the whole affair, coming as it had as an unwelcome interruption to his drinking. He snuffed out the fellow’s consciousness with a chop behind the ear, stepped over the rope, and pushed his way aft to collect his can of rum. He was not even panting.
While bumpers were filled and emptied, while wagers were paid or collected, the boatswain’s mates supervised the carrying up of a sea chest, and the carrying below of the four victims of Henry Joyce. The festive air had reached its peak when Bentley, resplendent in silk shirt and blue breeches, stepped into the ring. Thomas Fox came at a shamble, led by Jesse Broad. He had spent the last half-hour below, communing with Doyle and the beasts, and he made a pitiful sight. He was wearing a torn and dirty blouse with old duck trousers. His face was filthy, with the clear evidence of tears on each cheek. With his head bowed and his rounded shoulders, he was not much taller than Bentley. An odd mood fell on the ship’s people. The excitement, the elation, the bloodlust aroused by the last event, became modified. The arrogant smile of the young gentleman somehow incensed them. There was a wave of pity and anger, almost palpable. For Broad’s part, he would gladly have killed the blond midshipman, child though he was.
A passage was cleared from the rope ring to the quarterdeck, so that the officers might see the sport uninterrupted. Captain Swift made the announcement, with characteristic grandeur.
‘My brave lads,’ he said. ‘Here is the event you have been waiting for. Here is the match of the afternoon. In all my years at sea I have seen no such thing. And I dare not reveal how long that is, eh?’
He paused for the laughter, but there was none. Allgood, the boatswain, looked particularly sour. Daniel Swift smiled full at Bentley. A smile which seemed to say: It is you against the people, my boy.
‘Well, lads,’ he continued. ‘Here it is. This young gentleman – and the tender of beasts. They will sit astride that sea chest and slug it out in the good old way. I will say no more but this: May the best man win. Now: Set to!’
As William sat astride the box, pity stirred in him for the first time. The shepherd boy was so hopeless, such a booby, that perhaps it was, after all, not quite manly in him to teach him such a lesson. The boy looked incapable of raising his head, let alone his fists. If he did not respond, it would be a hard thing to make a match. How could you strike a man who would not strike back?
At first, that is what happened. Thomas Fox was sat astride, with whispered words of encouragement. In fact, what Jesse Broad had told him was to fall. Put up a pretence for a few minutes, then fall. There would be no shame in it, said Broad, nor would the men think badly of him. He had done nothing to deserve this, and need fear no retribution.
He was being used as a dupe, a sop to the other boy’s vanity. Let him think he was the victor; let him think he was a fine young blade. But do not let him hurt you, Thomas, for he is not worth it, truly.
So in pity and confusion, the fight began. Thomas at last managed to put up his fists to shield his face, so William, with some misgiving, let fly an almost gentle blow. It caught Thomas’s hand, which in turn caught his eye. It hurt, and the tears sprang to his eyes once more. He thought of God, and his mother, and the quiet farm on Portsea Island.
He thought of Padraig Doyle, below among the warm and reeking sheep.
William Bentley jabbed again, in the silence that surrounded him from the men. He felt uncomfortable, bad. The shepherd lad was not responding. But good God! He deserved this match! He had broken the whistle. He had disobeyed an order. This was madness, this was softness. The whole damned people would be in a rabble if such filthy laxness were not punished!
In a fervour of disgust, mostly at himself although he did not know it, Bentley lashed out with his hard right fist. It was him against the people!
Again the blow hit Fox’s hand, again the hand went back into his eye. There was a sharp edge of pain as his nail scratched his eyeball, and he grunted. The captain’s voice, echoed as if on a cue by the officers’, gave a ragged cheer. From the people followed a lower noise, a noise remarkably like a boo.
William got angry. How dare they? How dare they insult him so? He snarled and lashed out harder. The head in front of him jerked back, then forward again. He threw another punch, drove it home hard, as hard as he could. Another rumble went through the crowd of men, a low, unhappy noise.
Somewhere deep inside Thomas Fox’s misery, somewhere in the cave he had built himself to hide in in the last few weeks, a flame flickered and stirred. Another blow banged into his arm, then one broke through and squashed his lip against his teeth. For the first time he lifted his eyes from the knotty surface of the sea chest lid. He saw first another fist race towards him, bang into his face. When he opened his eyes again he looked at William.
Apart from the glaring, scarry sockets of Padraig Doyle’s ruined face, the midshipman’s were the first eyes he had looked into for a long time. He saw anger in them, and his own eyes slid away. He saw hatred in them, and again he averted his gaze. He saw triumph in them, as once again the fist broke through his upraised arm and crushed his lips against his teeth. Thomas spat blood, and the flame in his stomach flared so suddenly that he lurched with shock. He threw his head back, and he raised his fist. All at once the face before him grew blurred. But in it shone the eyes. And in them there was something new. It was fear.
As Fox’s first blow struck home, a roar like thunder rose from all around him. The midshipman rocked back on his buttocks and almost fell. As he rocked forward again, Thomas Fox drove two fists into his face, one after the other. The fire in his stomach was almost licking off his knuckles. Suddenly the face in front of him cleared in his sight. Fear was blazing in the eyes now, fear and pain.