Captain Swift arrived with a great amount of pomp. He was wearing a splendid blue coat, a brilliant white ruffled shirt, and a pair of cream breeches. He was smiling the while, and sniffing the air appreciatively. No surcoat or cloak; he did not acknowledge the coldness of the weather.
He regarded the ship’s company sunnily, as though this was the merest routine, as if nothing at all had happened. Behind him the man at the helm stolidly worked on, handing the spokes, meeting the seas. His eyes never left his task; flicked from binnacle, to sails, to approaching rollers, to binnacle again.
‘Mr Allgood,’ said Swift, in a ringing, cheerful, voice. ‘Are the people all assembled?’
The boatswain stepped forward.
‘Aye aye sir,’ he said. ‘Every man-jack, sir. Save the sick, the lame, and the surgeon.’
The captain uttered a sort of laugh. ‘And the shepherd boy?’ he asked gaily.
Bentley was nauseated. Sickness rose in his stomach.
The scene blurred in front of his eyes. He almost staggered.
The boatswain’s face was unchanging.
‘Aye aye sir,’ he said. ‘He is ready with the surgeon.’
From below, a screaming started. A movement went through the ranks of men, a low rumble. Heads turned to look forward, towards the sick-bay, then aft again, in some confusion. For the screaming was coming from aft. It was not Thomas Fox, it was Plumduff.
Bentley, who was behind Swift, stepped slightly backwards as the first lieutenant spoke.
‘It is the second, sir. His leg must give him pain.’
Without asking permission, William moved back yet farther, paused for a few moments, then almost crept to the hatchway. As he descended the ladder, a pain lifted from his heart. He would suffer for this afterwards, no doubt of it. But whatever the strength of Swift’s rage might be, he could not stand this any more; he had to get below, he could not watch when the boy was brought to book. He went to Plumduff almost gratefully, fussed over the agonised man, mixed and administered his draught, and tried hard not to think.
His uncle, on the quarterdeck, had not lost his air of gaiety.
Before the screams had died away, he spoke again to the boatswain, pitching his voice a shade more harshly to carry to all the men.
‘Ready, is he? Good. Then in a few minutes, Mr Allgood, we will have him brought here to face his punishment.’
He regarded the ship’s company with a half-smile; ran his eyes over them as if challenging them to show a sign of rebellion. Few men returned the gaze. They looked aft at him, true, but with the blank unseeing stare that said nothing. Jesse Broad allowed his eyes to flick at the captain’s for an instant. They were odd, like statue’s eyes, so pale, so very pale. Broad tightened his grip on the arm of little Peter, who he was half supporting. The boy gave a low groan of pain.
‘Aye, my lads,’ Swift went on. His voice had taken on its punishment note, but the mocking smile was still upon his lips. ‘Punishment is what that boy deserves, and this time I intend the punishment to be a fitting one. Any fool here who thinks a night on a topmast yard is punishment enough, must think I do not know what is going on on board this ship. Must think I do not know the smell of mutiny when it stinks in my nostrils. Mr Allgood?’
‘Aye aye sir.’
‘Send two of your mates, if you please. Now we will have the boy.’
When they were gone, Captain Swift continued.
‘Aye, mutiny,’ he said. ‘Oh yes, brave lads, I know the smell of mutiny. That puling shepherd boy, so mock meek, so mock afraid. I know, as well as any man among you, what goes on in that black heart, behind that knock-kneed milk-and-water whining-pining face. I know.’
The Welfare butted her bow into an extra large sea.
A solid sheet of spray rose high, then drove back over her deck. The front edge of the curtain drummed full into Swift’s face, which disappeared from view for a second. As the water ran off him he emerged, hook nose first, the iron smile unchanged. He did not even shake his head.
‘And I know, too,’ he continued, ‘that Thomas Fox was not alone in this. No ringleader he, although a black plotter enough. When young Thomas deigns to join me aft today, I shall ask him who his fellows were. And he will tell me.’
The water from the drenching was dripping down Broad’s back, but his shiver had little to do with the creeping chill. The captain’s behaviour spoke madness to him, as did his eyes, and smile, and crazy, vibrant words. Before God, thought Jesse, he’ll get nothing to satisfy him from Thomas, from poor innocent Thomas. And how will he act then?
‘Those men before you,’ said Swift, with a gesture at the marines. ‘You know them, with their leader, Captain Craig. They are part of my grand scheme today, you will see, my jolly boys, you will see. Thomas Fox has spent a night on the chill yardarm; he will tell us things to make some ears ring, eh? Captain Craig, please to draw your sword. I wish it to be held aloft. To serve, in some small way, as a reminder.’
The marine officer, standing to one side of his men impassively as ever, drew his sword. He held it rigidly in front of him, almost touching his face.
‘Yes,’ said Swift. ‘Good, then.’
At a noise from forward, Jesse Broad, along with many other men, turned his head. But the captain, his face contorted, barked an incoherent order and the rattans and rope’s ends flew. So the first view the people got of Thomas was a back one.
He walked, or rather stumbled, between two burly boatswain’s mates. Beside them, almost hovering, his shoulders bent anxiously, came the surgeon. He was clearly nervous, upset, his feet never still. He performed a sort of dance on the outskirts, as the frail boy was brought along, hanging, almost, between the men. Fox’s head was down, and he seemed shorter, his body bent and curled in on itself. When the mates halted, half turning towards the captain, his face was still hidden from Broad. Slumped low on his chest, and lost behind the bulk of his helpers.
Adamson went up to the captain, in a helpless, nervous way.
‘Sir,’ he said. ‘I think I have to say… This boy, sir—’
‘Shut your mouth, Mr Adamson, or I will have you put in irons.’ The tiny surgeon shrugged, and took one or two faltering, dance-like steps.
‘But sir, I think—’
‘Mr Allgood, have that scoundrel silenced!’
‘All right, sir,’ gasped Adamson. ‘All right. Let me but stay on deck in case of… I will say nothing, sir. Forgive me.’
A mate looked enquiringly at Allgood, who shook his head. The surgeon stepped back into the ranks of the people, near the ship’s side. Swift took a pace or two away from Fox, looked straight at him.
‘Can you not look up, my boy?’ he asked, gently. ‘Can you not raise your tired head to listen to your captain? Can you not stand upon your own two feet?’
Thomas Fox did not respond. Not a man in the ship’s company or the detachment of marines moved a muscle. Not an officer stirred. Only the helmsman, easing a couple of spokes to meet a sea. From binnacle to luff, from luff to waves, from waves to binnacle. His eyes were never still.
‘I wonder if you are even listening, Thomas?’ Captain Swift went on. ‘I wonder if you can hear me? Or are you just ashamed? Is that it, eh? Shame has made you dumb? Shame has made you hang your head? Oh Thomas, try to look at me.’
Somewhere deep inside his head, Thomas made out the captain’s voice. It came from afar, through a cold, soft, woolly void. He tried to open his eyes, but nothing happened. He tried to make out the words, but could not. He made a superhuman effort to take his weight upon his legs, but the pain was sudden and intense.