‘Good ale, young fellow?’ one of them said.
Thomas stood up clumsily and pulled the brim of his bonnet. His bread fell to the ground. He felt his face getting hot. He looked downwards.
‘Never mind the bread,’ the officer said. ‘Have you a fancy for a hot mutton pie?’
‘They’re very good. Highly recommend ’em,’ the other chipped in. His voice was high, almost squeaky. Thomas flushed redder. He looked after his sheep, but they were in their corner, unmoving. He mumbled something, not even he could hear what.
‘Hey! Boy! Pot-boy!’
The smiling imp appeared, and bobbed like a bird in the doorway.
‘Your honour?’
‘A hot mutton pie for my friend here. And another jug of your best. And two gins.’
‘Aye aye sir, your honour!’ The boy went in giggling. ‘Sit down, sir,’ the first officer said. ‘Sit down and drink. We won’t bite you, won’t Jack and me. We’re here in friendship. We need your help.’
Thomas could not sit down in such a pair of presences. He gripped his pot tightly. His mouth was dry. He raised it shyly to his chin, very slowly, almost as if he thought they would not notice him drinking if he moved gently enough. He slowly, slowly tipped the big black mug until his face was covered. He stared dimly at the two officers from under his eye-lids.
He saw two young men in blue. The one who had spoken first was small, and golden-haired, smiling an easy, amused smile. He was smooth, in control. Thomas Fox was afraid of him, although he did not know why. The officer – only a boy, younger, almost certainly, than he – had an air of command, and something else. He seemed happy, exultant. He had bought Thomas beer for a reason. Thomas was afraid.
The one who had spoken next was taller than Thomas, much taller than the fair-haired officer. He had a high voice, and was clearly not the leader. Alone he would have worried Thomas; to have been in the presence of such a grandly dressed personage would have unsettled him. But alongside the small one, he was nothing to fear. He looked a jolly type, just young. He drank slowly on, aware of the gulping noise, the movement of his Adam’s apple. He wished they would go away.
When the hot mutton pie arrived Thomas stood like a criminal.
His eyes were stuck on the fair one’s face. He tried to speak, but could say nothing. His bread lay in the dirt at the pot-boy’s feet. His dirty toes wriggled, as though they were hungry and could smell it.
William Bentley, master of all, watched the scene with relish. Before him stood a great booby, this country simpleton. Older than he, bigger, and trembling quite noticeably, in terror and confusion. A boy, a man almost, with pale cheeks, long black hair. What was he afraid of? The lower orders were truly strange. Just the presence of himself, younger and smaller, and that great bore Jack Evans, and he was like jelly. But the booby had nothing to fear, of course. In law. Nothing.
In law, Thomas also knew, he was safe. He was too young for the press, even without allowing for the other reasons that he could not be taken. He lowered his pot helplessly.
‘Well,’ said the pot-boy impatiently. ‘Ain’t anyone a-going to eat this ’ere pie or drink this drink, eh?’
‘Begging your honours’ pardons, but I’ve got work to be a-doing of.’
‘Take it, dear fellow,’ William told the shepherd boy, indicating the ale. ‘Take it, and spare me a moment of your time if you please. I have business with you.’
The pot-boy took the mug from Thomas’s hand. He pushed the full one into its place. He put the hot pie, dripping grease, into his free hand. Bentley gave the pot-boy a coin, while Evans attended to their gins. The pot-boy bobbed and left.
‘Beg pardon, your honour,’ Thomas mumbled. The grease from the pie ran down his smock. He licked it off his thumb, miserably.
‘Come now, sir,’ said William heartily. ‘Business. Drink your ale, eat your pie and listen. But first, sit you down. Jack! Get those barrels over, eh?’
Evans rolled over three small casks, which he upended.
William took Thomas by the shoulder and pushed him down. Thomas sat and gulped his ale. He felt dizzy, for he drank little in the normal way. He wished himself at home, or at market. At market. He had to sell his sheep. There they were, all twelve. They were eating the clumps of grass between the flags, quite content. He gulped more ale.
‘Now,’ said the fair-haired officer. ‘Let me introduce myself. I am William Bentley, of His Majesty’s frigate Welfare, at present anchored in St Helen’s Roads. This is my friend and colleague Mr Jack Evans. Midshipmen, by the grace of God and His Majesty, sworn to save old England from her enemies. And your name, sir?’
Thomas Fox blinked. The grease from the pie had filled the palm of his hand, congealing as it cooled.
‘And your name?’ squeaked Jack Evans.
‘No matter,’ said William. ‘Listen, Mr No-Name, the King needs your help.’
Thomas’s eyes opened wide. The King? He took another pull of ale. It tasted odd. Then the mug was empty. Needed his help?
William laughed.
‘It is true, young man. The King needs your aid. Urgently. Are you a loyal subject?’
Thomas shook his head to clear it.
‘I cannot go to sea!’ he said. He was surprised at his own sharpness. He spoke again, more gently, like an apology. ‘I cannot be impressed, your honour,’ he muttered. ‘I am too young, and vital to my family’s needs. We have a farm…’
The two officers laughed. He wondered why, then thought of his sheep and his besmocked, country look. He smiled. And the pot-boy appeared, unbidden. More gin. More ale.
He would have refused, but had he not heard the fair one say he would not be pressed? He blinked. He heard it now, in any case.
‘You have us wrong, young sir. Who talks of pressing? No no, for the moment your King needs only your services as a farmer. In short, we want to buy your sheep. All twelve of ’em.’
Jack Evans piped up: ‘Our men need sheep, our officers need sheep, our ship needs sheep. Therefore, our King needs sheep. You have sheep, therefore our King needs you. What is your name, you helper of Royalty?’
Bentley watched with satisfaction as the black pot of ale was raised once more to the now rosy face. Judging from the effect it was having, it was more gin than ale – which was, after all, what he had paid the smiling pot-boy to provide. When the Adam’s apple stopped moving, the shepherd boy wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
‘Thomas Fox,’ he said thickly. ‘Begging your honour’s pardon.’
‘Good man!’ said William. ‘’Tis a pity you will not come yourself, young Thomas, for you are a fine figure and would take to water like a duck. But no matter. Will you sell your sheep? To help the King?’
The noise outside the inn-yard had become blurred in Fox’s ears. Inside the high wall a mist seemed to have gathered. He stared at his sheep. They wobbled in his eyes. Twelve sheep. To serve the King. Well, he had never heard of such a thing, to sell the sheep and not at the market, but he could not see the harm in it. Why not sell to these fine young officers, when all was said – and serve the King to boot?
‘I shall serve my lord the King,’ he mumbled.
‘Speak up, speak up, sir!’ cried William Bentley. He turned to Jack and beamed. Jack winked heartily.
‘I shall serve!’ said Thomas. ‘How much do you offer though? I must have my price, or the family will suffer. My family shall not suffer, sir, not even for his honour the King!’
‘Fine words!’ squeaked Jack, beside himself with excitement. ‘Fine words, young Fox, well spoken!’
‘Well, well,’ said the fair-haired one. ‘If you were able, I should offer you a full five pounds.’