No, Uncle Daniel knew his men, knew them totally. Uncle Daniel was right. No need for extra precautions, if he said not. The sending of the boy to the yard was enough. It would stop them in their tracks, petrify them. Good God, the lad would never— He was biting his lips again, uttering, to his astonishment, a thin, small cry. He looked around in horror, in case someone may have heard. But no, no one near. He felt a sob begin, deep inside him, and his horror grew. What was happening, what was happening? He cursed the wine he had drunk, viciously, under his breath, cursed and swore and ranted. The boy too: Ah damn him, damn him, why had he brought this on himself?
Just before the watch was changed, Allgood sought, and gained, permission to check the boy’s condition, and have him lashed to the spar if need be. William could not bear to hear the report. He went below and buried himself in blankets. While the watch was changing over, Broad and Matthews exchanged a few quick words, during which fear, anger and regret were expressed; also a garbled tale of Fox’s cousin, who might or might not be a marine. Then the men were separated. But not a boatswain’s mate who used his rattan that night. There was a brooding in the air.
Thomas did not really know it, when he was securely lashed to the yard. He was dimly aware that something was going on, but that was all. He was warm again now, after a long period of mortal agony. During that whole time he had known the strange sensation of feeling sensation die.
It did not die fast, all at once, it died slowly, and could always be localised. Extremities first, his nose, and lips and eyebrow-flesh. Then he had felt his fingers go; numb to begin with, then racked with wrenching agony, then numb at last once more. His feet had taken longer, and cost more pain. His jawbones hurt the most of all, as if someone were squeezing them in a vice. Gradually the warmth was sucked and drained out of him, until he could actually chart the creeping advance of the cold, closer and closer to the centre of the ball that was his thickly covered, clenched body.
Now he was warm again.
Now he was warm, and his thoughts drifted sunnily over his father’s farm. He wandered along the pebbled shores of Portsea Island, watching the green and shining sea as it crashed merrily onto the beach. He played with his sisters endlessly, he filled his gut with cakes and ale. He got great prices at the market for his flocks, and watched with pleasure the happy antics of the sailors on Spice Island, enjoying their liberty. He stared at the men-of-war, lordly and majestic as they swung round their cables in Spithead, against the dark luxurious green of the Isle of Wight. Something tried to encroach upon his mind from time to time, but it faded always after a few seconds’ thought. Sometimes he opened his eyes and it was dark, which was surprising. But most of the time, the sun shone. How lovely was the sea, how merry were its waves. And how he envied those who had the chance to sail upon it.
Twenty-Six
It was shortly before the grey daylight broke that Captain Swift had the word sent for Thomas Fox to be brought down. By accident or design, Mr Allgood told off Jesse Broad as one of the men to go aloft – for there was no response of any kind to hails to Thomas from below. Broad shot up the rigging like a monkey, and reached the boy seconds before the other seaman did. His heart sank at what he saw, his eyes momentarily closed. His friend was surely dead.
But he was not. As Broad leaned close he saw a steamy wisp of breath from the bone-white nose. He gasped, and whispered ‘Thomas’. No response.
It took the two of them several minutes to free the rigid body of the boy. Despite the fat cocoon of clothing, he had seized up almost solid. They had, after unlashing him, to move his limbs like those of a wooden doll. The trunk, clenched and doubled, they could not move; Thomas had to be taken down closed like a knife. His face was a frightening sight, glaring white with dull red and blue patches, hair, eyebrows and lips rimed with ice.
At deck level, many gentle hands reached out to take the boy, but Jesse would let him go to no one. The boatswain stood nearby, his face sombre. When Broad said he was alive, a disbelieving smile lit his face. It did not stay for long.
‘Get him to the surgeon, quick.’
Mr Adamson was waiting, inevitably with his brandy bottle at the ready. He had hot stones, too, and dried blankets that had been roasted before the galley fire. He worked quickly, nimbly, his usually jolly face grim. He slapped away with warm rags, got some of the outer clothing off, tried to force spirit between the rigidly clenched lips. As long as Jesse could afford to stay, he hung there on the outskirts, not daring to ask the question he wanted to ask. He felt helpless, foolish. The surgeon, dipping like a bird, worked furiously.
After ten minutes from his duty, Broad knew he could stay no longer. He stood on one foot, then the other. He coughed.
Adamson looked up, gave him a brief, humourless smile.
‘Hello, Mr Smuggler,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’
He did not wait for a reply, knowing full well. The frozen face under his hands remained rigid. The eyes had not so much as flickered.
‘I’m sorry, friend,’ he went on. ‘I do not know. He is not dead, that is one thing. And it is a start, eh?’
‘Oh, to hell with you!’ he cried irritably. ‘I’m a surgeon, not a wizard. If heat and brandy can pull him round, he’ll pull round. If not, he’s dead. Now go!’
Later on, Jesse and the others of the crew who wanted to know, who gravitated to the nearest points they could reach to the sickbay, heard the screams begin. They were terrible, heart-rending. Little Peter, still sick and weak, was in despair at the pain his friend was suffering. But Grandfather Fulman smiled full and gratefully.
‘If he screams,’ he said, ‘he will pull through. Mark me, friend Jesse, I have seen men frozen many times. If he screams, he’ll live.’
The screams went on for a long time, as Mr Adamson applied more and more heat to Fox’s body. At times they filled the forepart of the ship, drowned out even the roaring of wind and sea. At last the surgeon had him carried to the galley, to heat in front of the fire, and for a time the shrieks became unbearable. It was a nerve-jangling sound, that made the nervous people yet more nervous. The atmosphere below decks was tense, passionate. Even aft, in the midshipmen’s quarters, some of the noise filtered through, and with it the tension. The boys looked at each other from time to time, all their high spirits quelled. James Finch was very white.
Towards the end of the morning, when the screams had died away, Captain Swift ordered that all hands were to be assembled aft to witness punishment.
During the night the wind had moderated, but it was still blowing quite strong. The Welfare was butting against the north-rolling swell, throwing heavy sheets of spray the length of her deck every now and then. She was under reduced sail, making a fair speed in no great discomfort. But the bleakness of the scene, coupled with the bleakness of feeling reflected in the faces of so many of her people, affected Bentley. He watched with a sensation approaching panic as the marine detachment were mustered on the quarterdeck. They had bayonets fixed, and their pieces were charged and ready. Their faces appeared grim to him, filled with anticipation of some action. And the people, too, were frightening. Something wolfish in their eyes and jaws. Something hard and cold as they assembled in the cutting wind. At last they faced each other, these two bodies of men; the marines in their glaring red, the seamen in a nondescript variety of slop clothing. Gouts of spray occasionally drenched them. It flew at the necks of the seamen, into the faces of the marines. Neither body flinched at the icy assaults. Eyeball to eyeball they confronted each other, dripping and expectant.