‘You saw the purser, of course,’ said Swift, flatly. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘He told me a peculiar tale, Mr Bentley. A most peculiar tale. Is it true?’
William swallowed, but decided not to throw himself to the lions before he saw the actual shape of their fangs.
‘What tale, sir? The purser is…’
‘Yes?’
‘The purser is a man I have not found to be entirely trust… Entirely without faults of his own, sir.’
Swift smiled. It was a broad smile, disconcerting in its friendliness.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Mr Butterbum is a vile, fawning rogue.’ The smile disappeared. ‘The last sort of scum, William, that I expect to learn things from.’
The boy gave in to the inevitable. He swallowed once more, then spoke out.
‘Sir, I promise you I was trying to keep nothing hidden. The incident was so uncertain. I do not know to this moment if I was being made a dupe or no. Mr Allgood assured me the beast was killed by him.’
‘Allgood? You believe my boatswain would butcher a sheep? It is impossible!’
‘Must I then believe he lied, sir? For he told me so· himself. He told me so.’
The man and the boy stared at each other in the swaying lamplight. Outside, the cold wind moaned. Swift’s fingers resumed their drumming.
‘The shepherd boy again. He was there.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘And the purser says he had a dead or dying sheep. That he gave me – me! – the flesh to eat of a sheep already dead.’
‘Yes sir. As I understand it, sir. Although…although Mr Allgood says the beast was not yet dead.’
There was another long silence. William wanted to burst out; wanted to convey his fears. Not only Fox, he wished to say, but Mr Allgood. They were in it together. He sensed danger, deadly danger. Again he was filled with hatred for the lanky boy. But he said nothing.
‘Between you and me, my boy,’ Swift said, ‘this damned shepherd lad has got the better of you. You seem to have made a great muff of things. Eh? As a plotter, he has left you standing. In stays, sir! Eh?’
It was not fair, and it was awful. He closed his eyes momentarily, made a movement with his hands. It was unfair, it was dreadful, and… was it true? Inwardly, he groaned.
Captain Swift went on, thoughtfully: ‘I’ll tell you what though, he is a damned lot of trouble for a boy, that much is all too certain. And whatever the ins and outs of the matter, he is making me mad. Bentley, you have let me down, sir. But as for that accursed boy…’
It was then that the knock came. The captain gave the command to enter – and there was Butterbum once more, his eyes alight with triumph. He stood in front of Swift, his hat in his hand, trembling.
‘Well,’ said the captain. ‘A quick return, Mr Purser. Your findings?’
The purser was so anxious to get it out that the words tumbled forth in a spray of dribble. He was beside himself.
‘Dead sir! Aye sir! Dead sir! Three or four of them! By God sir! It is true! The villains!’
Swift said coldly: ‘Pray control yourself.’ But the strange light flickered in his own eye, quite plainly.
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said Butterbum. He gulped, two or three times, got his breath. ‘They tried to prevent me, sir. That smuggler lout, what’s his name, Broad? And then the blind man, putting the damned evil eye on, I swear it. But I got in for an instant, sir, and it was enough. Dead sheep, dead sheep! They manhandled me, sir! It is a hanging matter!’
William jumped as his uncle stood up. The captain strode to a curtained-off compartment, and returned a few seconds later with a wooden box and a great blue cloak. He struggled impatiently into the cloak, opened the box, and took out one of the long pistols that lay there. Not a word was spoken as he checked and primed it. He thrust it into a deep narrow pocket in the cloak, flashing William a preoccupied smile. The purser was standing gasping, a fish out of water, his pasty face pastier yet.
‘Thank you, Mr Purser,’ said Swift. ‘Now sir, get to your cubbyhole and shut your mouth. If a word of this leaks, you will be flogged. Understand?’
He ushered the fat man out past the marine sentry, who saluted as the captain hurried by. Butterbum disappeared, and William strode along beside his uncle, his heart leaping with excitement. He could hardly believe this was happening, it was unprecedented, amazing. That the captain should go about his own business like this, that no one on the ship should know he was abroad and with what purpose. They sped along the alleyway like lightning. Hagan, meeting them, gave them a startled look then stepped back as the owner swept by. Seconds later they were picking their way forward in the gloom.
Along the length of the deck, the captain’s passing caused a groundswell of astonishment and unease. The men were at their dinner, wolfing the food from their platters ravenously. But all sounds ceased when any given mess recognised him. Ahead and behind him was a babble, but as he passed each point a silence fell. It was unprecedented.
Long before he reached the animal pens, Broad knew he was coming. The wave of shocked excitement gathered speed and raced forward mess by mess. When the captain arrived, short and magnificent with his great strong face above the massive cloak, Grandfather Fulman’s mess was ranged before the pens in a ragged line. It was an odd formation, vaguely reminiscent of the last tattered remnants of an army defending a fort. There was something defiant in it, something pathetically defiant.
Behind Swift and his nephew, all men had abandoned food and drink. William, glancing over his shoulder, made out a hundred faces, pressing ever closer. In the excitement of the moment he felt no fear, although if ever there was a time ripe for mutiny this was surely it. But the captain was truly awe-inspiring now; truly, he inspired awe.
Even Thomas felt it. As the owner stood before the ragged line the boy, so near collapse before, took a small step forward. He raised his dark eyes to the pale ones that glared at him, and spoke.
‘I am sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘Your beasts are dead.’
Silence fell, spreading outwards from the group of men. The creaking of the Welfare’s timbers, the sad howling of the wind, the fainter crashing of the sea; at last these were the only sounds.
When Swift spoke, his voice had the effect of a saw. It was unmusical, harsh, vibrating slightly as if it were being forced out under pressure from great depths.
‘Who are your fellows, Thomas Fox? Who are your fellows in this hellish business?’
The silence got deeper. Thomas stood swaying slightly.
His face was blank. He did not speak.
Swift repeated: ‘Who? Tell me, damn you, or it will be the worse for you. Who?’
The boy’s pale, worn face looked weary. He moved his head from side to side, slowly, as if trying to understand. He was lost, uncomprehending. And still said nothing.
Before the captain spoke again, there was a commotion from aft.
The close-pressed men were jostled, and broke apart. Mr Allgood, a lantern in his hand, pushed forward at the head of a gaggle of mates and corporals. He stopped when he saw the strange group by the beast pens. Captain Swift half turned. He regarded him.
‘Ah, Mr Allgood. Just the man. In the matter of some sheep, Mr Allgood. In the matter of some dead sheep.’
The monstrous bulk of the boatswain, crouched from the shoulders under the low deckhead, gave a sort of shrug.
‘Aye, sir?’ he said. His tone was neutral.
‘In the matter of some dead sheep I say, sir. This young man here. This…Thomas Fox. I want him punished.’
Still the deadly silence from the ship’s people. Again a sort of shrug.
‘Aye, sir?’
The captain’s voice became more penetrating. It rose. The muscles in his cheeks worked, as if the pressure were becoming intolerable.
‘Aye sir! Aye sir! Aye sir!’
William Bentley saw the shepherd boy give a long shudder. His own mouth was dry. There was fear in the air, it was almost visible.
Swift was breathing fast, the air hissing through his bony nostrils. It was an irregular, disturbing sound. It was some time before he spoke.
When he did, it was in a brisk, business-like way, as if he had suddenly relaxed. But the words were in direct contrast. Any tendency in the people to relax with him was swamped. He turned abruptly to the boy again.
‘Fox, get you to the main topmast yard if you please. And stay there. Mr Allgood will have you conducted.’
There were two sounds then. A low, strangled noise from the throat of Padraig Doyle, like a choke, and a harsh note from the throat of Allgood. A grunt; a fierce, angry sound. The captain turned his cold eyes on him.
‘You have a comment, sir?’
The stooped giant’s eyes glittered. Bentley saw his big red lips part momentarily. Then shut. Then:
‘No sir.’
The amazing, dazzling smile. But Swift’s voice was broken ice.
‘Good, then. Fox shall go to that yard, and stay there.’ He passed a quick glance among the company within his sight. ‘Until I decide upon the form his punishment shall take.’
He turned on his heel with a swirl of heavy cloak and strode aft, scarcely giving men time to bundle out of his way. William had almost to run to keep up.
When they reached the cabin, the captain called for wine and two glasses. When they were alone he raised a brimming glass and proposed a toast.
‘To mutiny!’ he said. ‘Much good may it do them, eh?’
William had to drink. But his thoughts were outside, in the cold, howling night. He watched his uncle’s handsome, smiling face, but his thoughts were jumbled. In his mind’s eye, the yard where the boy must be. My God, the cold!
And was the punishment still to come! The wine went down the wrong way and set him coughing. His uncle laughed.
‘Come boy, put your mind to it!’ he cried. ‘It is you who should be proposing a toast, William, for it is a fine thing to see an enemy destroyed.’ He clapped a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. ‘Come, I will be magnanimous,’ he added. ‘Credit give where credit is deserved. It is you who have brought the shepherd down, my boy, with a little outside aid. You found him out, and brought him down. Well done!’