He had once reduced a young man of about twenty-three to tears in front of his sisters, which had been considered quite a feat for a boy of only nine. The older men in general had more dignity. One fellow, who must have been in his sixties, had packed his bags and disappeared into the night when he could bear the torment no longer. Had not even claimed his wages, so William’s father reported to the amazed family circle. A dignified act if a rather foolish one, coming on winter as it had been.
Mr Marner, they all agreed, was incapable of such dignity, and incapable of anything else either. At least some of the earnest young men had known the rudiments of arithmetic, and Evans claimed to have learned some interesting things from a young Frenchwoman once employed on his father’s estate. It was Simon Allen who at last suggested they should play a ‘stunt’ on the Welfare’s schoolmaster.
Before they went into the suggestion they made sure the berth was clear of the older midshipmen. Most of them were on deck working, and Dolby, who had been cleaning boots and mending a torn shirt of James Finch’s to earn a few pence, was soon sent on a fool’s errand. The schoolmaster himself might have been there, for he was officially a midshipman and received the same meagre pay as Finch, the youngest – although unlike James, of course, he did not have a hugely wealthy father back in England. Simon went into the corner where Marner slept and kicked at the pile of blankets, but there was nobody hidden among them.
‘What sort of stunt should we play?’ Finch asked Bentley. The others looked at him too, and William felt a glow of pleasure. Jack Evans was bigger and a fair bit older than he, and Simon Allen was older. But his bearing, as well as his position on board, had naturally marked him out as the smartest young gentleman.
He yawned behind his hand, affected boredom with the whole affair.
‘Are we really sure it’s such a good idea?’ he replied. ‘Is not the thing a little tedious?’
They were having none of it. Allen had brought out more wine and their faces were all flushed. They were enjoying themselves immensely.
‘No no!’ shouted little James. ‘Let us catch the old devil properly. Let’s tar and feather him!’
‘We could empty his ink bottles over the side,’ Evans suggested.
‘I have it – let us fill his brandy bottles with ink instead!’
‘And drink the brandy ourselves!’ said Simon. ‘I suppose he drinks reasonable spirit, as he spends all his money on it at least!’
In the end they agreed that a more open stunt was needed. Somehow they had to make Mr Marner look foolish in front of the ship’s officers, even the people if possible. William secretly felt it would be better if his uncle were not to get wind of it, but he did not say anything. However, he did try to tone down the idea.
‘We must not, of course, do anything that would really hurt the fellow,’ he said. ‘After all, he has done us no real harm.’
They howled him down. How could he say such a thing! The mere presence of the man was harm enough, let alone when he opened his futile damned books. William allowed himself to be persuaded. He doubted if Uncle Daniel would mind a little pranking, as long as it did not actually damage the schoolmaster beyond repair. He considered hard; there must be a suitable scheme somewhere. Drink would be the key to it; for Mr Marner was very old, and drink rendered him quite helpless. He considered hard.
At dinner that day in Broad and Fox’s mess, Matthews, as usual, ate in silence. But when he had finished, he announced that he was changing messes.
This came as something of a shock, for although he talked little and did not enter into the normal friendlinesses the others shared, he had seemed quite content. Grandfather Fulman, as the oldest hand, took his cue to ask the questions.
‘Have we not been good enough shipmates to you, Mr Matthews? Is it that we have offended in any way?’ he asked.
Matthews smiled his slow, long-faced smile.
‘My friends,’ he said. ‘Let me set your minds at ease. There is a man on board that I knew many years ago. An old shipmate. We sailed on the northern routes together many times, and yesterday I met him again by chance. Mr Allgood has obtained leave from the first lieutenant for me to shift, that is all. There is no tension between me and any one of you, and I am grateful to have been allowed to share here.’
This was a very handsome speech, especially from so silent a man.
Thomas felt quite proud. The others were pleased as well, he noted. Fulman blew down his unsmoked clay noisily, like another man would perhaps blow his nose, say, to cover a shyness. Jesse was more practical, however.
‘What sort of a messmate are we to get in your place, Mr Matthews?’ he said evenly. ‘Are you displacing any other man? Or are the numbers not made up?’
Matthews looked at him levelly for several seconds. ‘I will bring him,’ he said at last. ‘You can say yea or nay to his face.’
As he strode across the deck, they glanced at each other in silence. This was all a little strange. Thomas knew that men were permitted to change messes, but he was not sure whether they themselves had the right to refuse a ‘replacement’. He did not like to ask.
A gasp went up as Matthews returned. He was leading someone by the hand. The dark musician.
Matthews stood before them, his hand on the blind man’s shoulder. He smiled sardonically.
‘May I present Mr Padraig Doyle,’ he said. ‘Leastways, that is how the boatswain claims he is called. You will find him a quiet messmate, although more than willing to give you a tune should you desire it. Well, what do you say?’
Looking into the piper’s face gave Thomas a strange and lonely feeling. The Irishman was thin, as thin a grown man as he had ever seen. His cheeks were sunken and pale, with ridges on them where his teeth showed from inside. His chin was scarred, not carrying the trace of a hair although he must have been thirty at least. His tiny neck disappeared into the loose collar of a crazy old coat, green with age. And the coat still had tails, that eternal mark of the denizen of land. Padraig Doyle was a long-toggy; yet no skylarking seaman had cut them off. That was the strangest thing of all, perhaps.
As the men and boys of the mess watched, the piper smiled. It was a heart-rending thing. Thomas would have looked away, but he could not. The empty sockets of his eyes had a strange movement to them. They seemed to see. They were red and scarry, as though once his eyes had lived in them and since had been ripped out. The dark musician opened his mouth, as if to speak. Then it closed again and the lips curved into the smile. He was mute.
‘Well,’ said Grandfather Fulman gruffly, with a sort of warm and hopeless look at Matthews, who was watching them closely, ‘I have no objection, shipmates. What say you others?’
There was a low murmur. Nobody minded, or nobody cared to say. Peter started to pipe up something, but thought better of it, turned scarlet, subsided.
‘Good,’ said Matthews. ‘Thank you, my friends. Mr Doyle,’ he said to the Irishman. ‘I leave you in good hands. You will not find better men on board this ship.’
He pushed him forward gently, turned on his heel, and strode off. Broad stood up to take him by the hand.
‘Find a place for Padraig Doyle,’ he said to Thomas. ‘And take care of him for us, my friend. A musician on board ship is a fine and lucky thing.’