He trailed off. William Bentley looked into the boatswain’s eyes, spoke as coolly and as calmly as he knew how.
‘Mr Allgood,’ he said, ‘I am seriously displeased at your conduct in this affair. God only knows what is in your mind to do it. At the very least, to slaughter animals upon the upper deck. I shall express my feelings to the captain instantly. I am most displeased.’
The boatswain had cleared his face of all expression. ‘Aye aye sir,’ he said. ‘Thank you, sir.’
The news of this latest clash between Thomas and the midshipman went round the ship like wildfire. It was exhilarating news, that set the messes buzzing with amazement and delight. Fox himself, released by the boatswain when the butcher carried the carcass off forward to dress it, went below filled with nothing but horrified anticipation. He found the blind man draping the sheep that were left in any rags he had managed to gather. They checked each animal in turn, the boy’s despair mounting at the state of them. They were a half-starved, half-frozen bunch.
Although the men were excited by the incident, no one sought out Fox. A strange circumspection had become apparent over the past days. There was an air of expectation, a thrilling, heady sense of danger. Once more the shepherd lad had been at its centre, besting the dreadful boy; but only his messmates spoke to him.
Broad was the first. Little Peter would have been, but he had not recovered from the flogging which had racked his skinny form, and was more or less immovable, although not in the sickbay. Broad leaned over the side of the pens, and called softly into the gloom. After a few seconds Fox appeared, his face pale and worried.
‘Supper, Thomas,’ Broad said gently. ‘Did you not hear the call?’
‘Oh Jesse Broad,’ Fox whispered. ‘The beasts are dying. It is too cold. We cannot come.’
‘Nay, nay,’ said Broad. ‘Come you to supper, Thomas, you and Padraig. There is hot Scotch coffee, and we have rum still to lace it with. You need the warmth in this weather.’
‘How long will it last, friend Jesse? It is too cold, the beasts are in a frightful way. We can do nothing to help them. They have our blankets already. Oh Jesse, friend Jesse, this ship is hell!’
‘But Thomas, no,’ said Broad, urgently. ‘No no, ’tis fine now. Hold yourself together, man, do not despair. You are a hero, the people love you, come and eat. Then we will see to the animals, myself and all. They shall have my blankets, all our blankets if need be.’
Thomas laid his head on the pen railing, the wood distorting his thin cheeks.
‘My cousin Silas,’ he gasped. ‘Silas, Jesse, my cousin. He is a marine on board here, and God help me, soon he will be told to blow my brains out. Oh Jesse, this ship is hell.’
Broad watched the shuddering face in pity, although he did not fully understand the shepherd’s drift.
‘Your cousin? A marine?’
‘Aye Jesse; or maybe, no. It does not matter if he is or not. I can speak to no man, no man can speak to me. The beasts are sick and freezing, and I have cruelly hurt the boy once more. Everything is at an end, and soon the end will come. Oh Jesse, Jesse, the beasts are cold, so cold.’
The seaman spoke low, his voice urgent.
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘No, no, no, Thomas. Believe me, I am your friend. This weather is wrong, a freak. We should still be in the warmth and sun. It will return, it will. And as to the rest, you have done nothing, I swear it. Nobody hates you, you will come to no harm. You have never hurt that boy, neither; it is not your fault.’ He told him more. Of how Grandfather Fulman and other older hands were complaining about the ‘cold snap’. That it was an aberration. That soon, tomorrow even, they would be in the sun again. He further said that all in the mess would turn-to that night to keep the animals warm, with blankets and spare clothes if need be. At last the boy was comforted, and allowed himself to be led to supper, leading in turn his friend the blind man by the hand. True to the word, that night the messmates shivered under rags while the sheep rolled sickly in their blankets.
But the weather prophets were sadly out. Between seven o’clock the next morning and three in the afternoon, during which time the temperature was scarcely over freezing, four of the seven sheep died.
Twenty-Five
William Bentley, for all his threat to the boatswain, did not in fact tell Captain Swift about the incident on the foredeck for a long time, and there was no one else to speak to that august personage of such matters. Rumour ran a speedy course around the ship, but there were some ears too grand to be touched, and William himself simply did not know how to present it. He had been slighted yet again, the boatswain had been party to it, but his uncle had certain views that he knew were rigid and sacrosanct. There was no doubt in his own mind that the boatswain was an insolent dog, but he dreaded to imagine what would happen if he said so. So it was, that in the whole ship’s company, only Swift did not know immediately about the ‘sheep that died twice,’ as it was called.
When he did hear, it was, almost incredibly, through the purser; and it led William into a nightmare.
All that day, as the Welfare ploughed south under shortened canvas, Jesse Broad worked hard to keep the terrible secret that the other sheep had died. It was a hopeless, pointless exercise, but it was pursued with fanatical care.
Broad had seen a collapse in the shepherd boy that horrified him, and his fear as to what would happen when the deaths were discovered spurred him on. He had a vague, wild hope that if the weather worsened, if night fell, they could somehow manufacture a stampede, an accident. Perhaps the damned beasts could be washed overboard; anything. Once it was dark, in a storm, he was prepared to go to almost any lengths to get the dead sheep over the side, if it meant being flogged insensible.
He also had a half-formed plan to see Matthews and try to start a riot. To bribe some of the wilder element with rum, however dearly bought, and have them attack the pens and ‘slaughter’ the miserable corpses. His brain seethed.
Grandfather Fulman and his messmates knew that something had happened, but only that. Peter’s inability to move or poke his nose about was a true blessing at last, despite the poor lad’s own agony. They got their blankets back, and they kept their mouths shut. Fox and Doyle, as ever, kept to their darkened pen, with Broad watching from a short distance, casually keeping away men who would pass too close. Towards the end of the dog-watches, the cloud-filled sky was growing rapidly gloomy. Broad, seeing the light that filtered below decks dwindling, had a rush of hope. He went to the pen and spoke to Thomas.
‘Take heart, boy,’ he whispered to the huddled form. ‘It will soon be night. We will save the situation, do not doubt it. Only wait a little longer.’
At about the same moment, the word was passed to Bentley, who was lying musing unhappily in the berth, that the captain wanted to see him. The other young gentlemen looked at him with smiles he saw as sneers. William disliked them badly at the moment, waiting as they were, he guessed, for the latest step in his downfall. He smiled back awkwardly.
‘Oh damn,’ he said, in a voice he hoped was languid, ‘if I drink much more green tea with Uncle Daniel I will surely burst.’
As he approached the marine sentry outside the cabin, the door clicked open and Butterbum shuffled out backwards. He closed the door, turned, and flushed when he saw William. He gave him a queer, half-smirking look, put on his hat, and bustled off forward. William’s stomach dropped away from him as he knocked.
Captain Swift, sitting behind his mahogany table, did not move as his nephew slowly approached. He was still, quite still, apart from the fingers of his right hand. They drummed a soft tattoo on the polished surface. His eyes were steadily on his nephew’s face. They looked deadly. William stopped, waited, said nothing. But he was afraid.