There were no more sports, of course, and no more distractions.
They were solidly in the Trades, so there was no more sail drill, no more mindless, pointless seamanship exercises. The only break in the drabness of routine repair, upkeep and overhaul was on the odd occasion when a night-time cloud formation gave the cautious Mr Robinson a mind that it might lead to a night-time squall; or in fact, when they even more rarely actually encountered one.
Captain Swift, it was plain to Broad at least, had chosen a new line. Coupled with the instant punishment and cruel discipline, was to be the greater cruelty of driving the people to boredom. Jesse said nothing of it to anybody, indeed he rarely spoke to anyone now, and spent a lot of time longing for his home and family, but he was sure it was a deliberate tactic. In the days of good weather in the North Atlantic, before the violent heat and lethargy of the doldrums, there had been gun drill once a week and musketry drill twice; hard work but useful, although it was obvious that Swift’s orders must be to engage no one, and make for his destination at all speed. Though the men had grumbled at the heavy work, it had been merely grumbling, for anything that broke the day and drove away the monotony was welcome in reality, and, God knew, their gunnery was slack enough. But now, in ideal conditions, the carriage guns remained still. Not once since well before they reached the Line had they been run out, neither had a musket been handled by a sailor. He plans to drive us mad with boredom, thought Jesse; and his mind would wander off and roam the creeks and woods of Langstone with Mary and Jem. He thought of his wife, and his heart bled. He looked at his filthy, calloused hands, and was unmanned. Nothing to do, nothing to do. It was driving him crazy.
There was no more talk of mutiny. In the climate on board the Welfare it would have been too dangerous, impossibly dangerous, for two or more men to meet and breathe any slightest hint of disaffection. Broad saw Matthews occasionally, glanced at the long, lean, secret face. But they never spoke.
Nevertheless, as she roared south and west like a lovely bird, things began to happen. It was more of an atmosphere than anything concrete, more a shared air that all men breathed. No one got together, no one laid dark plans. But things began to happen.
The first incident was in broad daylight, and almost cost Mr Hagan his life. All the morning the master had had an eye cocked on a black ridge of cloud that was climbing threateningly from the horizon, and when the wind began to fluke, with stronger, unexpected gusts and a darkening sky, he had a word with the captain. Perhaps because it was during their dinner, Swift did not hesitate to call all hands.
The men went aloft grumbling, because any fool could see, they muttered, that the squall would hold off until after dinner, if it ever came at all. And when the yards were fully manned, when the chances of anyone being singled out were infinitesimal, the incident occurred. As the first lieutenant walked towards a knot of men in the waist, a heavy wooden spike came hurtling down from aloft, whether from fore or mainmast was impossible to tell, and embedded its point deep into a deck seam some two inches from his right shoe. He jumped like a frightened horse, then snapped his eyes aloft. The spike quivered in the deck, anonymous, mocking. Even Captain Swift could not flog every man on two masts. The squall came to nothing.
That night, at dinner in the captain’s cabin, the officers, invited for the purpose, discussed what had happened. The midshipmen were there, for Swift had made it plain that the time had come for a new marking of divisions, a retrenchment. He was clearly stimulated by the mood in the ship. He ate the meal – less sumptuous this one, with fresh vegetables a vague and misty memory – with great relish.
‘Well, Mr Hagan,’ he said at one point, ‘that was a close shave, eh? What would Mrs Hagan have said if we’d brought you home with ten inches of lignum vitae buried in your skull?’
Everyone laughed, including the first lieutenant.
‘I doubt, sir, that the fid would have penetrated, even had it struck me,’ he replied. ‘I was bred to the Navy, and my skull, like everything else about me, is of seamanlike toughness.’
‘And what of your nostrils?’ asked the captain. ‘What is it that you smell on board of here? Eh? What is that reek?’
William knew what his uncle meant immediately, even if Hagan did not. He glanced at Swift, seeking permission. The two were somewhat back on terms now, although no word of the milling match had ever been uttered between them. He caught the eyes imploringly – but permission was denied.
‘You,’ said the captain, nodding at the smallest midshipman, who was crouched in terror opposite. ‘Aye, you, Finch. You are a man of the world, so tell me what you smell. And be not so damned mealy-mouthed about it!’
James Finch blushed, and squirmed, but did not speak. The stupid eyes of the third lieutenant goggled. He cleared his throat noisily, and Swift pounced.
‘Yes, Mr Higgins? Mutiny, did you say? Is that the word? Do you smell mutiny?’
Higgins was horrified. He almost choked himself. ‘Mutiny, sir? But—’
‘Yes sir, mutiny. Mutiny smells, Mr Higgins, it smells to high heaven. I take it rather bad that the children here can get the whiff, but my third lieutenant cannot.’
Higgins, now lost completely, collapsed in shame.
Captain Craig, the officer of marines, coughed. He was a kindly man.
‘With respect, sir,’ he said. ‘The sense of grievance among the people is very palpable, and the…ah…accident to Lieutenant Hagan could most easily have been fatal. But there is no evidence that—’
Swift banged the table with his knife. The sea officers and boys were almost rigid.
‘Captain Craig,’ he said, ‘you are a soldier, sir, and cannot know. But evidence there is in plenty. An accident? A spike like that aloft! I assure you, sir, one does not use a fid to trim a topsail!’
Craig shook his head.
‘Of course, sir,’ he replied. ‘But again – with respect – should one not perhaps employ a strategy? If one were to… well, where might it all end?’
An awkward silence fell. Craig had a knack, it appeared, of asking questions that Swift’s officers would leave unasked. This time, though, the angry response they all expected was not forthcoming. Instead Swift beamed, his hatchet face transformed as if by sunshine.
‘Sir,’ he said approvingly, ‘you are a good man, and a sharp officer. A strategy, you say. Well listen, and I will tell you one, you will enjoy it. Do you play chess? Of course you do. Well, Captain Craig, the people I am cursed with on this ship are as vile a gaggle of scum as ever man was damned with. But I have played with them right from the very outset of this voyage, and they are my pawns. And now, sir – I have a move in mind for them. I have a gambit, sir. Not a fool’s mate, but a villain’s.’
Craig smiled a small, tight smile.
‘I have always found pawns to be peculiarly important in a well-fought game of chess, Captain. They have to be moved with an extremity of care.’
Bentley could hardly believe the impudence that could be read into Craig’s reply. But Swift laughed again, as if in deep enjoyment.
‘An extremity of care, yes; how very wise. But I know these pawns, I know them inside out and back again, and I know the time has come to sacrifice a few. I’ve been leaving them to their own devices, sir, like ill-bred dogs, and whipping them when they moved a muscle out of turn, and building up a heady store of hatred in their breasts. And now, I think, it’s time it must spill over. The carbuncle, let us say, is ripe to void its pus. Well, Captain Craig? What think you of my gambit?’