Peter said his piece at last, and the tension left the air. ‘One of the great things about the Welfare to my mind, friends,’ he said, ‘is the fine talking we do enjoy. Lose one messmate who’d chatter the leg off a donkey, and he’s immediately taken place of by a man who’d win prizes at it!’
The smile had left Doyle’s face, but it showed no hurt at such banter, and Thomas took his hand and led him to a place. He arranged some shreds of canvas and some wool for him to rest on, he gently took the bagpipe and stilled Doyle’s anxiety by describing in detail where it was placed, in a dry spot, well within reach. The Irishman squeezed his hand gently when he was settled, and turned the glaring sockets upon Thomas’s eyes. And Thomas could look deep into them, deep into the folds of ruined flesh, and smile.
In the days that followed he became friends with the blind man, in a way that he had never been friends with another human being. It was, in fact, vaguely reminiscent of his feelings for beasts, and the two of them often crawled in among the sheep and sat there for the warmth, the smell, the companionship. He knew that Doyle must have once been a countryman from the manner in which he handled the animals. He helped Thomas with his tasks of husbandry, his hands skilful with the livestock, his fingers deft and sure despite his blindness.
Despite his blindness, despite his being mute, they communicated. For Doyle could talk with his bagpipe in a language that Thomas Fox could understand. Alone, they would sit back-to-back, or half buried in a nest of sheep, and he would play, so quietly that the noise hardly got beyond the pens. Thomas would talk, almost as if to himself, tangled, incoherent sentences about feelings too deep for connected words. And Doyle would answer, in low sighs and throbbing bass notes.
It was well for Thomas, for his life on the ship was a great and increasing terror to him. Every night he cleaned the filthy heads and undertook other dirty, menial tasks.
The sight of the stern beneath him, the rushing green waters foaming and gurgling hungrily a few short feet away, made his guts clench. As he scrubbed and picked, he babbled incessant prayers, his eyes often closed, blind to the stares of men who came to lounge or to jeer at him. The sea filled him with a deep and ever-growing dread, although it had been almost gentle for many days. The Welfare, as it happened, had not shipped a green sea since the last night of the storm. But he neither knew nor cared for that. He could not bring himself to look outboard. More and more his eyes remained within the ship, more and more they tended to seek some fixed point on the deck and stick on it.
He could do nothing right. Somehow his very presence seemed to make men mad. Seamen he did not know, whom he had never seen, would appear before him and mock him. Remarks had been made about his new clothes. One boatswain’s mate had made some pleasant joke about him being dressed like a gentleman; but when Thomas had smiled, the man had knocked him down. His pleasure in his beasts made him the butt of savage sexual humour and he was often pinched and poked at as he passed the darker corners of the lower decks. His simplicity seemed to infuriate the midshipmen too. At William Bentley’s instigation they had got him emptying slops for them. They had simply asked if he would like to slave for them, and he knew no answer but yes. What else could he be expected to reply? They found no pleasure in tormenting him, it was too easy; and that infuriated them worse. He blamed none of these people, nor even tried to find an explanation. The boys were only boys, and high-spirited; he supposed that accounted for them.
Why the men misused him, he knew not.
The boatswain, most of all, filled Thomas with nameless fear. He was like a giant in some story, who blew hot and cold. When he saw him coming, Thomas tried to hide. But Allgood had eyes like a hawk, and apparently kept a lookout for him. Time and again he would turn a corner and blunder into the great man. Then anything could happen.
If he blundered into any other of the mighty superiors on the ship, or even some of the sailors, the result was simply a blow, from fist, cane or rope. But with the boatswain he never knew. It could be a cuff round the head with that huge, terrifying hand; or it could be a smile and a word.
More and more Thomas looked to the deck, hunched himself inside himself. Almost pretended to be invisible, and hoped he was.
The midshipmen’s prank on Mr Marner came about several days later, and it was a great success.
The lessons were held in the afternoon, after dinner and grog, and after the young gentlemen had completed their morning’s duties and their midday seamanship instruction under the master. So Mr Marner, full of food and liquor, was hardly at his most wide awake. The boys had saved a quantity of brandy in a bottle, mixed with a slightly greater quantity of rum, and topped up with some white wine bought from the wardroom servant. This mixture was being held by William, who clenched it between his knees while they sorted out slates and schoolbooks.
Mr Marner was slightly the worse for wear after his ration of rum and water. He was old and tottery, with a ridiculous scruffy wig, wire spectacles that sagged over one cheek, and a dirty, unkempt air. Every man-jack on board was beginning to look a little unclean these days, but the old man managed to appear slightly repulsive rather than merely badly washed. The boys regarded him with loathing, exchanging excited glances as they anticipated his downfall.
‘Today, young sirs,’ he quavered, ‘I hope to give you the rudiments of one of the oldest branches from the tree of knowledge. Would one of you care to hazard a guess at what it is? I did prepare you yesterday.’
‘Please sir,’ piped little James boldly, ‘is it the property and motion of heavenly bodies? Or am I barking up the wrong tree of knowledge?’
The young gentlemen laughed, but Marner did not quite catch the joke. He blinked at James Finch, called him Simon Allen, and tried to go on. It was hopeless, as it always was, and William once more wondered why his uncle set store by such odd things. After they had ragged him for a time, he decided to put the prank into operation.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, interrupting in mid-sentence. ‘Do you mind if I take a small drink? It is largely medicinal, and prescribed by Mr Adamson the surgeon.’
The schoolmaster was flummoxed.
‘This is highly irregular, Mr Bentley,’ he replied. ‘Your uncle, I fear…’ He tailed off, eyeing the bottle hungrily.
The pale tip of his tongue ran nervously under his upper lip. William uncorked. The other mids nudged each other in delight.
‘May I though, sir?’
‘Well… if Mr Adamson has recommended… What, might I ask, are your symptoms?’
William said calmly: ‘I have been having difficulty keeping my feet about the deck of late. A touch of the staggers. Mr Adamson considers that living as we midshipmen must in the… ah… bowels of the ship is the probable cause.’
He took what appeared to be a large mouthful, although only a trickle went down his throat. Jack Evans stood up, his voice shrill with excitement.
‘And I too, sir,’ he said, reaching for the bottle. ‘A very bad attack of the staggers. It might be called the affliction of the midshipman.’
The schoolmaster became more desperate as the bottle went its rounds. It was left to James Finch to spring the trap.
‘I am surprised, Mr Marner,’ he remarked, ‘that you have not manifested such symptoms. Living as you do with the rest of us in the same berth. Well,’ he added, jovially, ‘here’s to medicine!’
Ten minutes later the schoolmaster was well down the bottle, and unsteady on his feet. It was then that part two of the prank began, this time with Simon Allen as leader.