As the marine reached the forward side of the bitts on deck, Jesse Broad, with a daring born of naked desperation, left the after side. He stooped and tried to move silently, but this was merely done by reflex. If the marine had been looking, he must have seen him. A split-second later Broad was fulllength among the rough logs and half-shaped spars stowed on the deck. His breath was rasping, sweat blinded him, his limbs were shaking. But he had not been spotted.
There was no time, no purpose anyway, in drawing out each move. The quicker he got over the side the better. Any shadow on the whole length and breadth of the ship could be a man, every move he made, however cautious, might be seen. The marine had failed to spot him by good luck; so let him trust in his star and move.
Broad abandoned the idea of trying to free a log or spar to act as a float. His every nerve screamed to be in the water, to be off the ship. Fast, but still with deadly care, he wormed under the jolly boat, cleared the other side, and gathered his courage for the last few feet of exposed deck.
In a moment when the night’s blackness grew magically even blacker, when the noise of the wind and the waves slapping at the frigate’s sides reached a sudden crescendo, Jesse Broad rose to his feet, paced evenly across the deck, climbed nimbly over the bulwarks, and dropped neatly into the dark waters of St Helen’s Roads.
It was cold, but he had expected that. It was bone-achingly cold, but he had been ready for that. He fought and fought the chest-crushing cold, until he could fill his lungs and think. No shout, no alarm. Filled with an elation, a sense of crazy disbelief, Broad began to pull himself along the side of the frigate, grabbing at the fronds of weed. The waves picked him up and bounced him down, the barnacles and limpets sticking to her belly threatened to tear his flesh. But he wanted to stay in close, to get the shadow, the protection of that dense blackness, as the waves pushed him rapidly towards the stern. Beyond which, in the freezing dark, lay the Isle of Wight.
His exultation was short-lived. Even in the crashing water he heard the banshee wail. As he stared up the ship’s steep side, he saw a grey flash, like a dark comet, fly over his head. It was a screaming comet, and it was screaming his name.
When the scream was extinguished in a mighty splash, Jesse Broad did not hesitate.
It was fifteen minutes before the quarter boat picked them up, and by that time Thomas Fox was almost dead.
Eight
Next morning the wind had hauled round so that it blew almost due east. It had strengthened considerably, with tearing low cloud and biting cold. Flurries of rain occasionally tore into the ship. Below decks the fug was already being replaced by a damp chill, mainly from the solid blasts of air that howled through the hawse pipes, sometimes accompanied with gushes of icy water when a bigger sea smashed against the frigate’s snubby bow.
William Bentley, taking breakfast tea with his uncle as had become their custom, was exultant. The weather could not be better, nor from a better quarter. They would fly down-Channel like a charging army. Swift appeared to share his high good humour.
‘This wind is excellent, my boy. We shall bear all plain sail and go south-about round the island. By this evening we shall have shaken off the sloth that grips the people, for good and all.’
‘Will you address them now or when we are cleared away?’ asked William. It would be a pity, he thought, to waste even half an hour of this perfect wind. Captain Swift regarded him with his pale, bleak eyes.
‘We will sail after punishment,’ he said shortly.
William was surprised. Punishment usually took place just before noon.
‘But uncle. In four hours with this breeze…’ Swift waved his hand to silence the midshipman.
‘Punishment will, of course, be brought forward. It is irregular – good. I wish to instil in this rabble a decent sense of the uncertainty of their lives and deaths under my command. They must learn to obey and they must learn that retribution will follow with lightning inevitability. They are used to punishment in the late forenoon. Today they will finish their breakfasts to it.’
Half an hour later all hands were assembled to witness the flogging of Jesse Broad. The red-coated marines stood grim-faced and ready. The master-at-arms had a naked sword in his hand, dripping a mournful dew of cold rain from its ornamental guard. Captain Swift, his officers and young gentlemen, with Captain Craig of the marines, were wrapped in great cloaks, like so many damp vultures. Over all was the sound of the wind, raw and lean, with a deeper musical hum from the rigging.
Broad stood facing forward while the preparations were made. He wore the clothes he had lain in all night, still wet when he was brought on deck, now soaked. Among the sea of faces in front of him he read many things. Mostly they wore a sort of closed, unmoving look, which was always the safest to assume. Some flashes of pity; many downcast eyes. Some, he knew, were prepared to enjoy his ordeal. He made a strange figure, short and powerful, with dark, secret face and badly cropped and shaven head. He saw smirks of pleasure on a few faces, and these faces he stared at, unblinking. There were many shaved heads there, though none so recent as his own. Men from the receiving hulks moored up-harbour, towards Fareham and Portchester. He studied the company and drew little comfort from them. Old age, degradation, imbecility; all were represented.
The flogging was to take place at the gangway, and a high grating had been lashed there. To this, at an order, Jesse Broad was triced by the wrists and knees. But first his gaily striped shirt was pulled from off his back. It was bitterly cold. His nose began to run. The wind cut deep, he thought sombrely; how would the lash compare?
Captain Swift was in no great hurry. As he had explained to William, a punishment is very little more than wasted effort if it does not achieve a greater purpose than merely crippling a seaman. This one had fallen at an opportune moment. Its timing was almost theatrical. It would give the people a taste of the man and his method, and the lesson would be etched in blood. William had listened and learned. It would never have occurred to him that Broad’s attempt at running and the need to flog him for it were anything other than an inconvenience. When his uncle started addressing the people he cleared his mind of all else, determined to go on learning.
‘My lads,’ said Swift, in an easy, effortless voice that managed, however, to cut through all the many noises and be heard by every man on deck. ‘This is a solemn and glorious moment. For me, your captain, for your officers, and for each and every one of you, from the highest warrant to the humblest boy.’
William watched the seamen’s faces. They looked confused, shifty. As well they might, for his uncle’s words were peculiar enough, truly.
‘Yesterday, brave boys, we received our orders. And today we sail. We sail for a far country and for hot work. For each and every man, I say, it is a glorious time.’
The pale eyes glared out over the silent company. William wondered vaguely if he ought to lead a cheer. But those dripping, frozen wretches appeared incapable of taking it up.
‘For aeons,’ Swift went on, ‘we have lain in these damned uncomfortable roads, and you have had no opportunity for that exercise which is so necessary to all loyal British tars – seeking, finding and destroying Johnny Crapeau. Now my lads, the hunting will commence.’
This time a ragged noise did go up. But not a cheer, by no means a cheer. William sensed the tips of his ears grow pink. Swift went on regardless, in his vibrant, penetrating voice.
‘Prize-money too, my lads, prize-money in plenty. You know my luck, you know my reputation. Remember the Bonaventure, remember the Dona Maria, remember the Maitre. Prizes, boys, prizes for the picking.’