For minutes he stood below a hatchway, tense as a bowstring. It was night, but the blackness of the sky, starless and thick with low cloud, was as light compared with the blackness between decks. Strain as he might, he could make out no figures. Were there marine guards waiting in the darkness? If there were, they were immobile as statues. He could not wait for ever, either. If he stayed too long he might lose his resolve, or be spotted, or even, God forbid, be called to duty; he had little idea of the system on the ship. Perhaps boatswain’s mates or the master-at-arms would be along checking on those below, or dowsing glims. He must go.
Broad raised his head through the hatchway in trembling degrees. He blessed his dark skin, and kept his eyes hooded as far as possible so as not to reflect any light they might catch. It was almost two minutes before his eyes were fully on a level with the deck. The wind, which was a low moan below, swept briskly now, blustering and gusty. Loud creaks of spar and cordage. When his eyes had grown used to the different light, he cautiously looked all round.
At first he could see no one – marine, officer or seaman.
But as he stared at objects they sometimes moved, startlingly, and became people. Mostly they were downwind of fixed points, getting what warmth they could from the shelter. The decks looked terribly bare. Great open spaces stretched ahead and astern, and to both sides of him. If he attempted to reach the bulwarks, discovery would be inevitable. Strange that earlier the space had seemed so cluttered, so jammed with gear.
But as he watched and racked his brains, the problem became slightly less daunting. His heart slowed as he considered, the fear crowded out of his mind.
About six feet from him was a set of bitts, surrounded by a fair mass of coiled rope. It was bulky and dark, with angular shapes that could easily conceal a man. And perhaps did? Broad bit his lip. Then, a little beyond the bitts, was a jumble of long blacknesses which he guessed must be spare spars. There were thick things, almost tree-trunks, that could be made into new masts if need be. A lot of smaller wood for yards and booms. Sitting just beyond this pile, the ship’s boats on their skids. The jolly boat, judging by her length, was on the outer side.
If he could once make the curved bilge of the jolly boat, Broad figured, he could lie in its shade not six feet from the ship’s side. What had Fulman said? It was dark at the chains. Well, true; but maybe the marines would have thought of that too, and posted a sentry there. At any rate, the jolly boat was stowed very near the middle of the ship, where the side was not desperately high, and there were the spare spars and other wood. Perhaps he could get a piece overboard with him, to act as a raft or float. It would be a great help, that; it might save him. Broad reckoned he could be in the sea for up to two hours. The cold autumn sea. It would be a help if he could keep his woollen jacket on, but that would be heavy. A spar would make it possible.
As he stared at the bitts, part of them suddenly moved, broke away and turned into a marine. He very nearly plunged back down the hatchway in surprise. He had to struggle to keep his breath quiet. He had been within an ace of crawling straight into the soldier’s arms. As he hung there, a feeling of hopelessness swept over him. What if every shadow…?
The dark figure stretched upright, and walked round the bitts and away. Without being aware of making a decision, Broad moved. He might be observed but that was that. The marine had been at the bitts, and would no doubt return. But for the moment he was not there. With a low grunt Broad hauled himself onto the white deck, incredibly exposed, then made a stooping run to the shadow of the bitts. It was the work of perhaps a second, but when he arrived the blood was hammering in his ears and eyes and he was sweating. He tried to control his lungs, which were forcing his breath in and out in juddering gasps. In one of the silences between breaths, he heard the measured tread of booted feet. The marine was returning.
Down below, in the foetid darkness of the animal pen, Thomas Fox lay like one dead. He had wedged himself between three of the sheep he had brought onto the ship the day before. He knew them somehow, by smell, or feel, or familiarity, and they behaved towards him as if they knew him too. He buried his face in the warm, reeking wool, bathing it with his tears, smothering his sobs in the soft pulsing flanks. Although he still could not let his mind dwell on his lost home, it was oddly as if he was back there. The warmth of the sheep-pen by the cottage. The years with these and other animals. His mind wandered, drifted, as though he was dying, or was perhaps already dead.
He allowed a hazy picture of the north-eastern part of Portsea Island to swim in his mind. It was flat, and marshy, and misty, and very blurred. There was a long line of trees in view, that were about a mile from where he lived. His mind’s eye moved towards the line of trees, the natural windbreak. But he did not part them, did not go beyond.
Thomas was making a noise, a thin, keening noise, but he did not know it. He was making a high-pitched humming that served to drive certain thoughts from his head. It was so high he could not think. Except vague thoughts; of flat green marshy lands, a line of trees. And death.
He was thinking of death when Peter found him.
The red-haired boy reached the edge of the pens, drawn by the steady, monotonous, high-pitched whine. He pushed and burrowed his way through the animals, looking for the source. When he found Thomas he lay down beside him and put his hand on his cheek. Thomas kept his eyes closed. His mouth was also closed. The high whine came from in his throat.
After stroking his cheek for a while, Peter began to talk. He talked a lot, and fast, but Thomas did not listen. It flowed over him in a tide, gentle, insistent, meaningless. Peter stroked, Thomas whined, the animals moaned and slept. At last Peter moved his hand to Thomas Fox’s eyes. He gently took an eyelid and pulled it open.
‘Jesse Broad has run,’ he said.
He said it simply, not loud, but it cut into Thomas’s brain like a knife. His mouth fell open, the strange noise stopped. His eyes, pale and tear-drowned, cleared and focused.
‘Jesse Broad?’
‘Has run. Has flown. He’s gone over the side, has swum to glory or beyond.’
Peter smiled his simple smile. Thomas Fox sat up, gazing into the round, happy face.
‘Jesse Broad?’ he said again.
‘The bird has flown,’ said Peter gaily. ‘He’ll drown, of course!’
‘He must take me too,’ said Thomas. He stood up. He knocked his head against a deck beam, hard, and staggered. ‘He must take me with him.’
‘No, no!’ laughed Peter softly. ‘How can that be? You must stay with me, Thomas Fox, and be my friend! This is a nice ship this is.’
He put out his hand and touched Thomas. But Thomas was bemused.
‘I must go,’ he said.
Peter looked frightened now.
‘No, no, Thomas,’ he said imploringly. ‘Do not you go too! This is a nice ship. Do not you go. You’m drunk is all!’
Indeed, as Thomas ran, he might well have been. He banged his head on deck beams, he ran into the yielding shapes of hammocked men, he bruised his toes and barked his shins on ringbolts, stanchions, gun-trucks. He was making a new noise now, a hoarse grunting moan. He was crying aloud his longing to be free.