Bentley raised his arms in front of him and waved them like a kitten.
Once more Thomas lashed out, first right fist, then left.
He felt like screaming, so great was the release. He felt he would smash and smash until the face before him was gone; until the head before him was like a bloody pulp.
The tension flowed through his arms, through his fists, in a cataract. The crushing band of iron round his heart melted as he came out of his cave. As Bentley rocked towards him, he screeched, a high, terrifying sound. And aimed another blow like a hammer at the bleeding head.
Broad watched in fascination. All around him the seamen had gone mad with delight. They were roaring like bulls, stamping their feet, and punching each other’s backs and shoulders. The midshipman, small and crushed, dwarfed by the black-haired fury who seemed to tower over him, looked terrible. His silk shirt was drenched with blood, his fine breeches torn from dragging across the edges of the chest. He kept shaking his head, trying to get control so that he could at least defend himself. Wonder was, thought Broad, that he had kept his seat so long. The face of Thomas shocked him. It was bruised and smeared with blood, but transformed. His eyes were rolling, the features tense, the lips drawn back. Broad could not be glad, could not be sorry. Was this better than the expected beating, or worse? He was revolted by the cheering animals beside him, revolted by the bloody children on the box. Revolted by the captain and his henchmen, silent and discomfited on the quarterdeck.
Mr Allgood put an end to it, but not in any simple, straightforward way; as was his wont. He seized a bucket of salt water, and held it questioningly above his head, looking at the captain. Swift nodded, and Allgood walked forward to the sea chest, stepping nimbly over the ropes. The roaring died down. The two boys lowered their arms as the massive shape pressed between them.
William Bentley was panting, half bemused. Thomas Fox was still transformed, trembling with undischarged energy. He emitted strangled noises, animal-like grunts, and his fists clenched and unclenched themselves. He did not take his eyes off William; seemed, indeed, ready to leap on him and tear him to pieces. A growl of resentment rose from the crowd. Why had Allgood stuck his oar in?
The boatswain put the bucket down beside the boys. He stared round the spectators, alow and in the rigging.
‘With the owner’s permission, you scum,’ he said. ‘The lads will have a breather and refresh before they continue.’
Now a mighty roar went up. My God, thought Broad, this man is dreadful. He’ll have the midshipman made capable and the match prolonged. Ah Christ, poor child; but it is his own fault, it is his own fault.
William Bentley, washed, wetted and cooled, eased his aching thighs over the hard box and faced the shepherd boy. His face was smarting, his eyes bruised balls of agony. No hatred now, no contempt, no feeling at all. Just the hope that he would not fall too soon, and the determination to fight his best.
But the fight was over. Thomas Fox, washed, wetted and cooled, looked at the battered face of the midshipman and knew he could not hit it again. When the voice of the boatswain cried ‘Commence,’ he did not even raise a hand. He sat there, breathing slower now, looking at the battered face of the small, blond boy.
The people roared and hooted, hooted and roared. When the noise had died away William said, almost plaintively: ‘You must fight, Thomas Fox. You must hit me, you know.’
‘No,’ said Thomas. ‘Your poor face, sir. I have hurt you, child, and I am very sorry.’
A silence fell over the ship’s company that was appalling. Not a man stirred, hardly a breath was drawn. Bentley’s face, already pale, drained slowly of blood until it was glaring white. His mouth opened, his eyes glittered with rage.
But before he could speak, the spell was broken. A gale, a hurricane, of laughter and contempt exploded from the men. They shrieked themselves hoarse, they screamed and dropped to the deck. Even when he had stumbled below, even when he had buried himself in his blankets in the midshipmen’s berth, William could still hear it. The very timbers of the Welfare were alive with laughter. He buried his face and bit his lips and cursed and swore and raged.
And wept. William Bentley wept.
Twenty-Three
In the following days, the shocking result of the milling match had a profound effect on the Welfare, especially on the lower deck. When Bentley had disappeared below and the boatswain’s mates and ship’s corporals had tried to break up the party, something dangerously like chaos ensued. Captain Swift had watched from the quarterdeck after giving Mr Allgood and the master-at-arms the signal. His face was impassive and his eyes like knives. The men ran about in glee, laughing and shrieking. Spirits and wine passed from hand to hand, whole pannikins being tossed through the air and caught when a corporal or mate tried to grab them from a seaman. Very soon the deck was alive with swishing rope’s ends, then knots of fighting men, then a general roughhouse. Two boatswain’s mates were badly beaten, a corporal was chased into the rigging, and Mr Allgood broke both a sailor’s arms. The mob came under control only after the marines fired a volley into the air from the quarterdeck. In the sudden silence, Swift told the men in a low, vibrating voice, that the next shots would be into them unless the deck was cleared in five seconds.
The next day, as the ship drove towards the south at her best speed, beautiful in the warm sun and sparkling sea, man after man was flogged at the gangway. The punishment seemed never-ending, with Swift, an implacable and avenging fury, standing so close to the grating that he gradually became masked in a fine mist of blood. When he wiped his face with his grand and expensive coat sleeve, the effect was awe-inspiring. His eyes were white and glaring, in a hideous smear of brown and scarlet. Jesse Broad and Thomas stood side by side among the crew as the miscreants were triced up, flogged, cut down. They had fled below immediately after the milling, with Broad half carrying the boy. He had guessed what might happen on deck, and was damned sure that they would not be part of it. Little Peter, with no more sense than ever, had stayed on deck, had joined the jeers and shrieks and laughter. They watched in silence as he received his four dozen with the rest of them.
William Bentley stood not far from Swift and watched the scene in horror and anguish. But all his feelings were directed inwards. He felt naked before the ship’s company, felt as though every man-jack was laughing at him, felt that even Jimmy Finch despised him. The hatred and misery inside him churned and rumbled; he caught himself grinding his teeth. It was the only movement in an otherwise rigid face, and he checked it when he noticed it. But his face itself was sign enough, advertisement and plenty to his humiliation. His mouth was cut and puffy, his eyes blackened, one nostril split. He watched the men being flogged and knew, knew as a certainty, that Daniel Swift would dearly have loved to have had him triced to that grating; aye, and wielded the bloody cat himself into the bargain.
When it was all over, in the days and nights that followed, the subject of the match was the favourite one. The match, the punishments, the way the owner had turned back to iron cruelty to crush the memory and the elation. But all talk was difficult and dangerous. The corporals were everywhere, stalking silently about, their ears flapping as they tried to catch a whiff of rebellion. The daily punishment became an article of faith; the slightest infringement, real or suspected, was jumped on. Men hardly dared look at an officer or midshipman for fear the look was interpreted as insolence. And Swift’s officers, true to form, followed the lead of their superior. The shifty, rangy Hagan, who could look at you through the back of his head; the tub-shaped Plumduff; the slow and malevolent Higgins. All took a delight in following their master’s lead. Cane, rope’s-end, fist and cat were exercised with glee as the Welfare drove south westward, sun-drenched and beautiful.