Broad hesitated. He was unsure what he should say. ‘Come on, man,’ said Mr Adamson irritably. ‘I well know your trade. You are a smuggler and a villain unhung. No matter! Is it not a fine brandy?’
It was. Fine indeed. And Broad told the tiny surgeon so. For this reason, he supposed, he received another glass. Which unfortunately, working with his shocked stomach and torn back, made him feel ill. He made a pillow of his arms, burying his face in it.
‘Good,’ said the surgeon again, and went away. Broad wondered what it could all mean. Such un-looked-for kindness. He felt very tired, and hurt, and confused. And he slept.
Ten
For many hours, the wind and weather appeared to have the Welfare, and her Admiralty orders, and everyone on board of her, especially in mind. As William Bentley stood on the quarterdeck he marvelled at his luck, and the ship’s.
At first it had seemed as though she had been carrying too much canvas for the weight of the easterly. The master stood at the quarterdeck rail for almost an hour, once they had cleared into the Channel, studying the set of each sail, the tension of each part of the standing rigging. William, ever anxious to learn, had watched closely, listened to orders passed and to opinions shared, and asked for explanations of everything he could not understand. Mr Robinson, who did not seem to approve of the Welfare’s young gentlemen, was pleased to instruct if interest was shown. The boatswain appeared to share his eagerness to teach, but William was not so sure of this. The huge West Countryman with the hairy face and sometimes incomprehensible drawl often said things, and in such a way, that made him think a joke was being had at his expense.
‘Why is it necessary to keep setting up those backstays, Mr Robinson?’ he asked as a party of seamen was put to retensioning shroud lanyards for the third time in as many hours.
‘Wind, and newness, and lack of use, Mr Bentley,’ Robinson replied. ‘All the rigging, running and standing, has been overhauled while we stood at St Helen’s. Now, under test, it is stretching and making its way in.’
The boatswain added sardonically: ‘Hemp do stretch indeed, Mr Bentley sir. Even under the weight of a man.’ William ignored him.
‘Are we carrying too great a press of canvas do you think, Mr Robinson?’
‘No sir. For if we were you would feel the ship staggering, as it were, under its burden. You would know it at once.’
William was not at all sure that he would, and neither apparently was Allgood.
‘There is another way to tell when the ship is bearing too much, with the young gentleman’s permission?’ he said politely. He looked serious enough, but William was wary. Nevertheless, he nodded his permission.
The boatswain’s eyes twinkled.
‘As soon as the master have given the order for sail to be shortened,’ he said, his voice almost lost in his whiskers, ‘’tis a sure sign as the ship was labouring.’
Throughout the day, sails and rigging were adjusted as they worked themselves in. Captain Swift, when he came on deck, expressed his satisfaction. The weather was perfect. Enough wind to make sail trimming necessary and keep the people on their toes, enough to bowl the frigate along at about her best speed, not enough to do any damage.
Below in the sick-bay, as the hours wore on, Thomas Fox came fully to his senses and took stock of his situation. He was still far from able to let his mind wander to thoughts of home. For the present he dwelt on his immediate surroundings, and was surprised that they did not seem to be too bad.
For a start, the motion of the ship did not make him feel ill. He had been sure that as soon as they got out of the anchorage he would be sick. He had, after all, been sick on the boat trip from the Sallyport to St Helen’s Roads. And sick for hours afterwards. Now here they were at sea, he assumed, and he felt better than he had done for days. Days? He did not know for sure how long he had been away. Certainly he felt better than he had since drinking the first pint offered him by those two young officers. The thought of them made the good feeling seep away. But he had seen nothing of them since that terrible day. Perhaps they would not bother him again.
The sick-bay was unlike any part of the ship he had been in so far.
It did not stink, for a start, except for the comforting, friendly smell of the animals, which must be stalled close by. There was a steady breeze blowing in on them from somewhere ahead, but the dark, cramped room was not cold. Thomas put his hand, not for the first time, to the deck on which his straw palliasse was lying. It was warm. From this, and the fact that men could be heard all around at times when he was given food, he gathered that the kitchens were somewhere close.
Even the food was good, and served in large enough quantities to satisfy his appetite, grown enormous now he felt less like death. There had been salt meat which was tough and rank, but well boiled and vinegared. Not as good as they sometimes had at home, especially when a beast had been slain, but at least meat; and more at one sitting than he ever saw except at Christmastide. Fresh potatoes, which he was very fond of, and onions, and even some cabbage. Thomas lay on his back in the straw, staring at the deck beams not far above him. Well, he was in the Navy now, willy-nilly. If father could only see him! No, let’s not think of home. What then? The young officers? The surgeon.
What a strange man that one was. He must be an officer, but he was a fine, jolly, friendly little fellow, as unlike that small fair-haired villain and his squeaky friend as could be imagined. He had treated Thomas well, shown him every kindness, never once chid him for his sinful act in trying to jump overboard. Maybe it was the boys who were villains, then, and the men who were to be trusted?
Thomas recalled the scene in the cabin and shivered. That grand little man with the big nose and the frightful eyes was the captain. He was no friend to be relied on. And then, when Thomas had gone below to seek a mess, the people themselves, his fellow-sufferers, his countrymen – they had robbed him and abused him. It was a puzzle.
Jesse Broad, awakening with a groan, made Thomas turn his head. He smiled at the form in the darkness. There was the man he could trust. For Thomas was a simple soul. Although he had tried to end his life, he thanked this smuggler from the bottom of his heart for saving it. Remorse flooded him. In saving him, Broad had forfeited his liberty and been cruelly flogged.
‘Mr Broad,’ he whispered. ‘Are you awake?’
Broad lay face down on the deck and winced as the pain swiftly brought him to life. The bones of his back had a deep ache in them which he had never before imagined. Each rib had an individual outline, a bigness, that throbbed. And that after only two dozen!
‘Mr Broad. Are you sleeping?’
The whisper was clear enough, but he did not reply.
Broad was weary, weary to the very marrow. The white-faced boy with the glittering eyes of tragedy was too much for him at the moment. He felt no resentment at the part Fox had played in his downfall, none. But he could not stand the misery, the hopelessness, that welled from him like a tide.
The whisper was insistent.
‘Mr Broad! Are we at sea, Mr Broad? Do you feel better, Mr Broad?’ A pause. Then: ‘I am sorry for the trouble I have caused you, Mr Broad.’
There was something in the voice that made him answer. The shepherd boy no longer sounded hopeless. He lifted his head, placing his cheek onto the straw pillow so that he could see across the sick-bay.
‘Do not call me Mister Broad, boy,’ he said. ‘We are messmates, you and I. My name is Jesse.’
‘Oh. Then – I hope you are better, Mr Jesse.’
‘Jesse.’
‘Yes. Jesse. I am truly sorry, sir, for the pain I have been the cause of. I would not for the world have… I… Oh sir, your poor back, I have seen it.’