It was not a known melody, not a tune any man among them could put a name to. It was slow, and sad, and achingly Irish. It merged into the wind, soared above the whining of the rigging, swallowed up the gasping grunts of the straining men.
As Bentley looked into the white, emaciated face, it slowly moved away. The empty sockets slid past his shoulder, then the side of the piper’s head came into view. This turned, until he saw the lank hair hanging free, unpigtailed, down the skinny back. Then the other side of the head, the line of the jaw, and at last the eyeless eyes. The boatswain’s mighty bellow broke the spell.
‘One turn, brave boys! Stamp and go!’
For what seemed an age, Bentley stood transfixed as the dark musician revolved in front of him. As the capstan turned faster, so the man on the drumhead turned faster.
As if taking his rhythm from this, and the tramping of the sailor’s feet, perhaps even their grunting, he piped faster. The mournful, unknown melody became gayer as the great cable began to groan on board fathom by fathom, dripping weed and water from the green depths.
At one stage William was sent below with the other midshipmen to get an idea of how the enormous length of rope was stowed. He returned to the quarterdeck almost reluctantly, distaste and fascination fighting in his breast. The clanking of the pawls had got quicker and quicker. The Welfare snubbed uneasily as she was hauled into wind and sea. And in front of him the strange figure turned on the drumhead.
At last he spoke to the captain.
‘Where did you get him, uncle?’ he asked. ‘He is the oddest musician I have ever seen.’
‘A fine one, for all that,’ replied Swift. ‘I was a little uncertain, he was so ragged and sickly. But he makes those lubbers on the bars act almost like seamen.’
It was true. ‘Stamp and go’ was the boatswain’s cry, and the men were at it with a vengeance. Already the cable was growing almost ‘a short stay’.
Daniel Swift still did not answer William’s question. He glanced at him queerly and said: ‘He is mute, you know. Strange, is it not?’ A cry from the foredeck: ‘Aft there! Aft there! Cable up and down!’
Within seconds the things had happened that Bentley still found too mysterious to fully grasp. In his year on board he had had little time at sea, and constant sail drill for the people had left him more confused than competent. But in those seconds the frigate was transformed from a ship at anchor, still and sulky in the passing waves, to a blossoming, vibrating, living thing. As the shouts came from the foredeck – first ‘Heaving away’, then ‘Heaving in sight’, at last ‘Clear anchor!’ – the Welfare grew wings. Teams of men hauled on ropes. Tacks and braces were manned. The headsails clapped like thunder, then quieted, aback, as the ship paid off. Another thunderous roar as they were sheeted to leeward, more orders. And suddenly, to William miraculously, they were under way. With helm up, the ship turned majestically on her heel, farther and farther round until the wind was on her larboard quarter. Not many minutes later all plain sail was set, and drawing to the master’s satisfaction. The piper had disappeared, the best bower was being stowed, the capstan unrigged by the carpenter and his crew. They were off!
On the deck below, in the small dark area that served as sick-bay when the Welfare was not at battle stations, Thomas Fox and Jesse Broad sensed, in their different ways, that the voyage had started. Thomas, who had been lying semi-conscious and half-delirious since he had tried to kill himself, was awoken by the many noises of the anchor being weighed. He did not know the noises, but he guessed what they meant. There was the grinding of the capstan spindle in its bearing, the rumbling of the great cable moving slowly along the deck, and vaguer sounds, like distant thunder, as the ship shook off her idleness and felt new strains of wind and sea. His senses were still too dull for him to care that the Welfare was finally moving; that in an hour’s time perhaps, the Hampshire coast would be behind the Isle of Wight, to be seen again by him God alone knew when.
Broad too knew the meaning of the activity by sense and feel, rather than by thought. He lay face downwards on the deck with his mind full of physical pain. Time would come later to accept the loss. For the moment his shattered back was enough.
The surgeon, Mr Adamson, swam in and out of his vision. He was a very small man, with bright, bird-like eyes. He knelt over Broad, speaking to him rather as Mary spoke to their child. The words had little meaning, were hardly audible. The voice was soft, cooing. It lulled him as he lay, took the sting out of the dabbing fingers that investigated his back, probing and gently swabbing with cotton and searing vinegar.
After a few minutes, Broad attempted a few words. ‘Always,’ he said. ‘From a boy, just a little boy. Soft skin, my mother said, like a maid.’
The surgeon ceased his cooing; dipped his head so that he could see Broad’s face. He put on a puzzled look. ‘What are you talking about, man?’ he said. ‘Are you mad? You look like no maid I have ever seen!’
Dab dab went the vinegary cloths. Broad’s back ached horribly. He felt apologetic, as if he were causing the surgeon trouble. He felt he ought to get the explanation finished, at whatever cost.
‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘The flesh. Always, even as a boy, sir I cut easy. A tap, a knock. Bled like a stuck pig, sir.’ Mr Adamson snorted.
‘Good God, man, no need to sound so damned humble about it. No shame attached. Why’ – he snorted again, with more of a laugh in it – ‘some of the fellows on board here will take the skin off the cat-of-nine-tails! Backs like hide, heads as dense as blue clay. No benefit to man or beast in not feeling pain!’
‘Not pain, sir,’ Broad grunted. ‘Pain no trouble. But cut easy. Cut and bruise. Since a boy.’
‘If the pain’s no trouble,’ Mr Adamson said testily, ‘I’m wasting my time, for I’m doing my best to ease it. If you do not feel pain, mister, then you are a damned fool and deserve to die.’
Dab dab dab. Broad said nothing. The vinegar hurt, but soothed too. He explored his bitten lip with his tongue. It stung. A good sign. His back must be recoverable if he could feel a little thing like that.
‘Good flesh to heal, sir,’ he said, with difficulty. ‘Always cut easy, but a quick healer.’
‘Oh shut up, man,’ said Mr Adamson. ‘There is no need to make conversation here.’
‘Aye aye sir. It is only—’
‘Listen, fellow,’ the surgeon said suddenly, as if on a new tack altogether. ‘I’ll strike a bargain with you. You’ll keep your mouth shut for the sake of my tired old brain – and I’ll get you a glass of brandy.’
Broad blinked. He could not have heard right. But what to say now? The problem solved itself. The little man with the bright eyes ducked quickly away. Broad lay on his front, listening. He heard seas slapping the ship’s sides rhythmically. He heard the groans of working timber. He heard the vaguely rasping breath of poor Thomas Fox.
The bird-like form of the surgeon bobbed back into view. A chink, a gurgle, then the impatient, acid, voice: ‘Here, man. I suppose you know a fine brandy when it seizes you by the nose? Drink this.’
It was almost too much effort to roll onto his side. The searing pain almost cancelled the surprise, the pleasure, of this completely unexpected act. Almost, but not quite. Jesse Broad propped himself on an elbow, took the glass, and tipped the spirit neatly over his torn lip and onto his tongue. The surgeon watched closely.
‘Why thank you, sir,’ said Broad, when he had tasted and swallowed. ‘Thank you indeed.’
‘Good,’ said Adamson. He drank from his own glass. ‘And what,’ he asked, ‘is your opinion? Your professional opinion?’