‘To run from a damned Frog-eater!’ said Grandfather Fulman sadly, shaking his grizzled head. ‘I never do recall such a thing. What say you, Samuel?’
The other old fellow had not, either. Peter jumped up and down.
‘He’s a damned coward, and that’s the measure of the man,’ he said eagerly. ‘Why, such goings-on! I’d have stood and fought, aye, and to the death, too!’
There was a shared laugh, but it was not a happy one. Matthews said soberly, from his position nearest the port: ‘Keep that talk low, Peter. There is some sort of opinion that must not be voiced, no how. Keep it low.’
Peter spluttered into his grog.
‘But by the Lord, Mr Matthews,’ he said. ‘’Tis the unvarnished truth. That captain is a villain and a born—’
The carroty head disappeared under two big, horny hands. Fulman had carefully put down his drink and clapped one over the boy’s mouth and the other over his head to stop him moving. The boy struggled, then was still.
‘Listen, Peter,’ said Fulman. ‘Mr Matthews is right. To have run is…’ He looked around him into the gloom and pitched his voice still lower… ‘a shameful thing. But say so, and you may yet get a rope collar and a higher position in the world. Listen. We are not alone.’
He stopped speaking. From all around them in the darkness came a fearful noise. Babbling voices, drunken cries, retching men. There was an ugly note to it all, a feeling of anger. The lean, dark figure of Matthews let out a laugh.
‘See, Peter, you are not alone in your feelings, neither. There will be many a fool here tonight prepared to open his mouth too wide. But remember the master-at-arms. He’ll not be absent.’
In his cabin, Captain Swift rode the heaving deck easily and toyed with a wineglass. His eyes, to William, looked still unusual, filled with a dangerous pale fire, but he knew comfortably that the anger was no longer directed at him.
‘Damn, damn, damn, damn and double damn it all,’ Swift said. He drained his glass, refilled it with a swift movement. The deck bucked heavily and William staggered. But Swift absorbed the motion through bended knees, recommenced swearing quietly. William, dressed in dry clothes, warmer, said nothing. He did not know what to say.
‘You know what the people are thinking, no doubt?’ Swift snapped suddenly.
William reddened. A good question. Whatever answer he gave would reveal his own position. But apparently Uncle Daniel was not attempting to trap him; he did not wait for a reply.
‘They are thinking I am a coward and have turned the ship into a disgrace. Hell!’
William kept his mouth shut. Captain Swift aimed a kick at a cabinet bolted to the deck. It split down the front and his drink spilled.
‘Go forward, William, go forward,’ said Uncle Daniel. ‘If you find one man, if you find one filthy scummy lubber with that word upon his lips… Go forward, my boy, and find me a man.’ The boy stood still, uncertain.
‘I beg pardon, sir,’ he said. ‘I am a little… I mean, do you desire that…’
‘Yes, I do desire “that”,’ said Swift gratingly. ‘Are you not aware, nephew, that those filthy scum will now, even now, be thinking me a coward? Me, Daniel Swift! Good God, I—’ His face contorted and he lashed his boot out at the cabinet a second time. A piece of the rosewood door stove in, then dropped to the deck. He breathed deeply, his cheeks working.
‘Eyes and ears, boy, remember? I want you below, now, not with your messmates but among the people. Find me a man, boy, find me a mutinous dog who breathes that filthy word. Understood?’
‘Yes sir,’ said William, half bemused. ‘You think the people will interpret… You think that cowardice…’
The pale eyes transfixed him.
‘William. This ship is a disciplined ship. Those scum, most of whom were too lubberly to get their arses on deck let alone work the ship or fight her, will be forced to know it. Today they saw me run. They will have the infernal insolence to think I ran of my own volition. Me. Who have fought before until my ship was awash with blood, aye, and against odds that would have daunted Beelzebub.’ He ran out of breath, choked with rage. ‘Well. Well. Well. I shall show them. They cannot know my orders, no one can know my orders. But I will beat into them the respect that is due to me. I will flog the first man to call me coward, to within an inch of his life. Now! Forward, sir!’
William felt a flood of joy. He almost laughed with relief. So that was it! Orders. His Uncle Daniel had orders. My God, how could he have doubted? It was so ridiculously obvious. No one could know what those orders were. That was the lonely responsibility of command. But he could guess this much: they involved speed and they involved staying clear of engagements, certainly of the sort of engagement that might cripple them or divert them from the purpose decided by my Lords of the Admiralty. Uncle Daniel was not a coward.
‘Get forward, sir!’ repeated Swift. ‘Find me a man, my boy, and find him quickly.’ He drained his glass and refilled it. As William left the cabin he heard him swearing under his breath. And rightly so, thought William. How dare the filthy scum harbour such vile thoughts about his uncle?
In the close, sweet-sickly atmosphere of the main deck, all William’s nausea returned. The air was hot and foetid, reeking so strongly of vomit that his stomach tried instantly and violently to climb into his throat. He held on to a ladder, closed his eyes, bit his lip hard. It was more than a minute before he knew he was not going to retch. The deck under his feet was slippery with sick. He would be unable to stay below for long, otherwise he would succumb. He might even join the shadowy forms that lay all around, insensible, indifferent, in their own filth.
The noise was unbelievable. A babble of voices, screams, laughs, that merged into a sort of roar, more animal than human. It was deafening. Where would he pick out a man in all that? How could he hope to find a single voice preaching dissent?
It was, in the event, ridiculously easy. William ducked and slipped his way to an area of deep shadow, where he clung to a stanchion to get his bearings. As he listened, the babble of voices gradually sorted itself into those of individuals. There were high voices, low voices, gruff ones and shrill. But one thing struck him most forcibly; many of them were the voices of drunken men.
Even more forcibly, as his ears tuned in to each individual, came the refrain. His uncle had been right; there was a hell’s chorus of mutinous talk. Cowardice was the word, and it chimed round the stinking deck as a rhythmic echo.
At the mess directly in front of William, there was a lantern hanging from a beam. In its light a huge brute of a man rose unsteadily to his feet, lifted his pannikin to his mouth and drank deeply. William recognised him; a pressed man, and a good enough seaman, named Henry Joyce.
He knew the name because he was a dangerous one. An illiterate, violent, drunken dog who obeyed orders in a surly fashion and had an air of brooding menace.
Now, there was nothing at all brooding about him. His long pigtail hung down his back and his thick neck rippled as he threw his head back. His face was dirty, covered in black whiskers, but the whole of the front of his head was bald. His body was bare to the waist. Indeed, he wore only a pair of short canvas drawers. He was built like Mr Allgood, although perhaps a shade less mighty, and all the latent savagery that William sensed in the boatswain was nakedly on view in this drunken animal.
From out of the thrown-back head there came a howl of derision. His messmates banged their pannikins and laughed. The man howled once more, took another drink, coughed.