Craig scratched his eye.
‘Spill over, sir? And the…ah…bloodshed is all part of it? This strategy?’
William jumped. He had been listening carefully, but this he did not fully understand.
‘Craig,’ replied his uncle, ‘we must play some chess indeed, sir. You are very shrewd. These men, you understand, take me for a monster, although God knows I have done my very best by them. I have fed them, housed them, kept them as well as captain can. They have not gone short of food or drink, they have been punished only for crimes, and then purely for the good of their souls. But they take me for a monster. So be it. As I see it, there is but one method to bring them back to their senses. I will play the monster. I will drive them to distraction. Then when they break out – I shall break them.’
The first lieutenant spoke at last.
‘You think the incident of the spike was merely a beginning, sir? Just the start?’
‘Mr Hagan, there is no doubt of it,’ replied the captain. ‘And cleverly done, although the scum missed you, when all’s said. But they are breaking out, yes. There will be other incidents.’
A silence. Craig broke it.
‘The bloodshed? The sacrificing of the pawns?’
‘I know these men, captain. I grew up with them. I am a sailor born. The only way to keep them down is to crush them. What I want, why I welcome these “incidents”, is this: The next time, they will not be so smart. Or the next, who knows? And then, sir, I can kill a few of them. It’s an excuse I’m seeking, that is all. I want to hang a man or two, or shoot them, I care not. They have lost their respect, sir, they have got above themselves. We shall bring them down.’
Hours later, as he walked the waist in the sighing coolness of the night, Bentley pondered his uncle’s strategy. He was right about the mutiny in the air, no doubt of that. It was almost tangible. But the strange thing about the captain was the way his moods changed on all these things. To Hagan, although he jested about it, the incident of the fid must have been a shaker. And Uncle Daniel spoke almost gaily about what would happen next. But he, Bentley, felt far differently. When he thought of the people his gall rose. How dare they be rebellious? How dare they be disrespectful? How dare they contemplate such action against their officers?
It was madness. The last stages of the milling rose into his mind’s eye, and he shivered with remembered shame. That was it, exactly! Lack of respect; contempt. The echoing laughter of the people came to him, and he shivered a little more. Curse that silent boy. He was filled with dreadful hatred, for Fox, for all of them. He shivered again. It was suddenly cold.
Suddenly, too, he saw a movement forward. In the dark shadows of the deck he saw shapes flitting about. Then there came a loud crash, and a rumbling, thunderous sound.
Then another, a third, a fourth. The thudding roar passed him, and he realised what it was. Shot was being rolled. The men were hurling cannonballs about.
Before he could move, there was a screaming from the quarterdeck. It was high and pain-filled, as if a pig were being slaughtered. The rumbles faded, but the screaming did not.
William did not know what to do. It was Plumduff who had been hit, for certain. Plumduff had the watch, and some of the rolled shot must have caught him. Shouts from aft cleared his mind. If there were people already there to look to Plumduff, he must look to the culprits. Motionless as he had been, thinking and watching the dark and friendly sea, the men up forward had obviously not seen him. Right!
He sprinted forward, with fury in his breast. The scum were rising, were they! It was shot-rolling now, to catch and break the legs of officers. Well by God, he would show them, that he would!
Bentley was unarmed, but that only occurred to him much later. In any case, he had no chance to catch them. The seamen who had rolled the heavy iron balls were still by the foremast, had more shot ready in their hands.
But when they heard him coming, they were away. As he reached the shrouds, noisy in his leather shoes, the barefoot seamen were already in the lower rigging. They laughed as they climbed, not loudly, but with feeling. The note of mockery brought a savage hatred to his breast that made him choke with rage.
He stood at the lee shrouds, staring upwards. The mast and cordage dwindled into blackness, the sails were paler blotches, whispering softly as they held the wind. A last faint sound of laughter came to him, but not even the ghost of a human form was visible.
The screaming on the quarterdeck had stopped. There were shouting men there now. The dim light of swaying lanterns threw weird shadows briefly. William Bentley stared about the dark, deserted deck. He shivered, more violently. It was getting cold.
Twenty-Four
The unfortunate Plumduff, probably because of his size and shape, came off far worse from the shot rolling than he might have done. In fact the first fracture, caused when the eighteen-pound ball hit his right calf, was perfectly simple and would have healed easily. But as he went down, his side caught a fife-rail, and he was twisted in the fall. His hip came out, which caused the screaming. Later, when Mr Adamson tried to put it back, he found the joint to be badly broken. For many hours the second lieutenant could be kept quiet only by the internal application of a large amount of spirits.
During the last hours of the night the Welfare was in a ferment.
The marine detachment was called to arms, and Swift issued pistols to his officers, the master, and the young gentlemen, even James Finch. Corporals and boatswain’s mates patrolled below decks to still the rumble of conversation in the accommodation, although each time they had passed a given point the whispers resumed. But although there was excitement in the air, both forward and aft, there was no further action.
Just before dawn Captain Swift called the young gentlemen to his cabin to give them a glass of grog and relieve them of their pistols. He said little while they drank, but kept William behind when he dismissed the others to snatch a half-hour of sleep before morning duty. He was calm, almost urbane, as he saw them off, thanking them for the trouble they had been put to. But when he was alone with his nephew, his eyes told a different story.
‘The chance to shoot a few of them,’ he spat. ‘The chance to hang a few of them. That is what I wanted, and what have I got? That damned pudding of a second lieutenant screaming like a woman in labour, and once more, not a soul to blame. You were there, William. You were in the waist. What happened?’
‘I am very sorry, sir, but I could catch nobody. They were away like wraiths. I ran, sir, but with shoes on…well. They flew aloft. Laughing.’
Swift expelled air noisily through his great beak. ‘Laughing. Laughing. Laughing.’ He threw his empty glass savagely against the bulkhead. It shattered across a polished chest and onto the deck. ‘First they laugh at you, then they laugh at me. I will not have it!’
William swallowed. Please God let Swift not bring the milling match up. In a way he had started all this, he felt. He said nothing.
‘I will not have it, Mr Bentley. My officers are lax, my young gentlemen are…’ He stopped, turned piercing eyes on Bentley. They were very pale, even paler than usual.