Bentley stared at it, fascinated. This man had never been flogged before, he knew. But still, his flesh had flayed far more readily than most. It was perhaps a good job that he was to receive only another half-dozen. For the real reason his punishment was so small, of course, was not because he had saved Fox, but because he was too useful a seaman to be laid up for long. At this rate, he would soon be crippled.
Broad saw Eastney beach only hazily now, through a mist of blood and pain. Somehow, without him knowing it, his lower lip had crept between his teeth and he had bitten it almost through. His eye was cut from the knocking it received against the grating as each lash struck home. It was a lot worse than he had expected. But he tried still to think of other things. Only six more strokes at any rate. He knew of men who had survived three hundred.
Yes, your protection, he thought, as though he was someone else, someone outside his battered, aching body. Well, it served you well enough for a long time. One cannot argue with Fate. And who knows, it might yet serve again. Broad’s protection, like that of so many of his fellows in the hamlets where they lived, was an ironic one. Not just that their skills and knowledge of the secret, dangerous waters more than matched the best endeavours of preventive men, but, in a subtler way, their very trade itself. The country needed—
But the nineteenth lash must have struck a nerve. He felt a pain so excruciating that he thought he could not stand it. His toes smashed into the grating, slippery with blood. His knees twitched and jerked, the flesh splitting against the thin twine that seized him in position. Through the roaring in his head he heard Swift’s voice, blurred but penetrating, a clogged saw-blade.
‘Good man, Jenkins! That, Mr Allgood, is an example to the lubberly swine you have so far chosen as mates.’
Before this new, sharper pain had died, another replaced it. His bones were being flayed. Tears washed the sweat from his eyes, the foam from his lips. Broad tried hard, so hard, to concentrate his mind once more.
But he could not think clearly. Vague images of brandy-barrels and nights at sea mingled with the next blows and surges of agony. Ah, that was it – the country needed brandy. Yes that was it. Strange as it may seem, when there was a war on, the country needed brandy. He and his fellows, he and his friends, were not expected to answer to anyone. They were the men of Langstone, wild and lawless. Lawless and tough. Protected by people in high places.
Because people in high places needed brandy.
Immediately after the twenty-third lash, while the brawny arm of the last boatswain’s mate was being drawn round and back, William Bentley saw the livid face of the tortured man move. He watched in fascination as the white lips drew back to reveal the red teeth, stained in blood.
There was no doubt of it. Jesse Broad was smiling.
Nine
A few minutes later, the punishment was over. As Broad was cast off from the grating, the surgeon stepped forward and gently laid a vinegar-soaked cloth across his back. He shrugged groggily, refusing the help offered to keep him on his feet. He stared for a moment straight into William Bentley’s face, but his eyes were not quite focused. Bentley’s mouth was dry once more as the bleeding body was ushered below. He looked at his uncle, and noted with horror that his face was flecked with blood. Bentley raised a hand to his own. He felt sick. Traces of red slime slid from his cheek to his fingers.
Captain Swift turned to the master.
‘Mister Robinson,’ he said crisply. ‘I want all plain sail, and away in the shortest time possible.’
‘Aye aye sir.’
To the boatswain, Swift said: ‘Let your mates set men to clear away this mess, and get the rest stood by.’
‘Aye aye sir.’
Within seconds, calls were shrilling, orders were being bellowed, men were running frantically about under whistling blows from rope’s end and rattan. Swift turned to Bentley.
‘A most satisfactory beginning, my boy,’ he said. ‘But my word, did not that blackguard’s skin peel easy? We must pray he is not too sorely hit, for he looks a seaman born. Nevertheless, it was a useful thing; discipline may well benefit from such a gory display.’
‘There is blood upon your cheek, sir,’ said Bentley.
His uncle laughed. ‘And on your own. Come boy, below for a stiffener while all is made ready.’
When word was brought from the master that the capstan was manned, Swift seemed strangely animated.
‘Aha,’ he said. ‘Now here will be a thing to shake the people, William. It is known we have a blind man? Yes. But not a man like this, I’ll warrant me.’
On deck, the ship had taken on a different air. The capstan bars had been shipped, and at each stood tense crews of bare-foot seamen. Some yards were manned, and gaggles of waisters waited in readiness. The master stood near the wheel like a lord, as lord he was over the sailing of the frigate, but Swift took his place of honour, barely acknowledging the salutes of the lieutenants and midshipmen awaiting him. The boatswain stood expectantly at the after hatchway, certainly in on some secret, William could see. Jack Evans made a face at him, as much as to ask ‘What goes on?’ But William, who did not know, pretended not to notice.
Swift turned from contemplating the sea at last, with a wintry smile.
‘My lads,’ he said, in the penetrating voice that carried so far, ‘when the anchor is weighed and secured, when we are under way, you’ll get a double go of grog. How does that strike you?’
It struck them well. This time they were prepared to cheer; the cheer was deafening. Swift raised his hand.
‘But before that, my brave boys, I have another thing to please you. I may be a hard man, indeed I am a hard man, and you will do well to not forget it. But I also know what gives pleasure to a tar, and will try to do all in my power to bring it about. Mr Allgood, if you please. Give the word.’
There was a low murmur of expectation. The boatswain growled, but the murmur went on. Seconds later it grew to a positive ripple of sound. Allgood let out a snarl of warning. The babble died away. All eyes were turned aft. At first William could not see what was happening. He noted his uncle’s smile, grim but satisfied. Then he saw the dark musician, one hand held in front of him, the other clutching the bagpipe to his left side, being guided gently forward. He was as thin as a bird, in a strange, long-tailed coat such as no seaman would wear. His shoulders were stooped, his hair long and lank. Beneath the ragged ends of his trousers protruded legs like stripped twigs, feet like pale bunches of bone.
When he reached the capstan he was placed between two of the bars, then turned by the boatswain’s mate to face aft. The mate then put his hands beneath the blind man’s arms and lifted him with no trace of effort. He sat on the drumhead confused for a moment, then drew his tiny limbs beneath him cross-legged and settled the bagpipes athwart his body.
No man moved. There was no human sound. The piper raised his head and looked aft with the empty sockets of his eyes, which seemed to fasten themselves on the face of William Bentley. He stared in horror at the folded holes.
The boatswain turned aft, noted Captain Swift’s signal, turned forward.
‘Strike up, piper,’ he cried. ‘And now, my boys – stamp and go!’ As the men drove their chests against the bars, the eerie noise of the pipes filled the air. First a drone, low and swelling, then a rhythm, slow but getting faster. The music of the pipes, as if by magic, matched the strain and movement of the seamen. It started as a formless growl, an insistent, grunting note to move the bodies as they tried to move the bars to move the capstan. Then a kind of beat, to match the tramping feet as they ground against the deck, scrabbling for a purchase. Then, almost imperceptible, a melody.