Still there was quiet. The men in the waist had worked out what was happening. The air of fear and uncertainty grew.
Broad was in a turmoil. The nightmare was becoming too much to bear. The death of the poor boy, the dreadful bloodbath, what they had done and what they’d suffer for it if they were ever brought to justice. But at least it had been over; the bloodshed had been ended. Now here was chaos again. One boy with two pistols, the marines and mutineers with muskets guarding the captain, and in the waist, frightened, sickened men, some armed. It would need very little, practically nothing, to make them attempt a counter-mutiny, to change sides in the hope of being pardoned in the courts for their part in the first revolt.
Bentley was well aware that the time he had was brief. Every nerve in his body was screaming with tension. He looked at the group around his uncle, and he knew he could not disarm them. So he began to speak.
‘Men,’ he said. ‘You must end this desperate lunacy. A frightful thing has happened, and we must all be blasted in the sight of God. But it is not too late.’
A roar of rage came from Joyce’s throat, but Bentley turned on him in a kind of frenzy.
‘Shut up!’ he shouted. ‘You shall not take these men to death!’
A low moan of wind swept over the decks, followed by an icy sheet of spray. But no man made a sound any more. All eyes were on the small, determined figure. All eyes, except those of the new man to the helm, for the ceaseless task of keeping the Welfare alive in the sea had resumed.
He stood straddle-legged at the wheel, handing spokes. It struck Broad as desolate and fateful; nightmarish, messy and unreal. All this hell, and still she battered south, still a man handed spokes and met the seas, impervious.
Bentley spoke again.
‘You men guarding Captain Swift, there. You must put up your muskets. You must cease this madness. It is hopeless, you can see that it is hopeless.’ He paused. ‘Men, there has been a mutiny. I can offer no hope for those who took part, saving this: When you are brought to justice, you will get a fair trial. And if you cease your folly now, it will be taken into account. It will be noted. It will not be overlooked.’
He could feel sweat running down his back and sides. He blinked as sweat poured into his eye-corners from his forehead. It was taking too long. He must make them drop their muskets. It was taking too long.
‘There have been faults,’ he said. His voice had gone shrill, like Jack Evans’. Good God, where was Evans? He could not see him in the group. ‘Yes, faults,’ he stumbled on, crushing the thought.
‘On this ship, the Welfare, things have happened that should not. Yes.’ He was panting suddenly, the sweat coursing down his body.
‘Well listen, men, I make my pledge. Put up your arms, this instant, and I will hide nothing at your trial. No, nothing, not the least small thing. Everything shall be told.’
Many of the men in the waist had moved aft. They were in a ragged line, reminiscent of how they had stood each day, before the holocaust, to witness punishment.
Their weapons had been abandoned. There was a weird look on their faces, a look of bemused hope. Broad noticed Allgood among their number. On his face there was another expression; of supplication. Shame and supplication. The boatswain looked like a whipped dog. Broad had a huge sadness in him, for himself and all of them. He too wanted to believe the boy; indeed he did believe that he would tell the Welfare’s dreadful story. But he knew it would not stop them hanging. Anyway, Bentley could not bring it off even now; the odds were impossible.
Before Bentley said another word, however, one of the marines guarding Captain Swift threw down his musket. A half-minute passed. Then a comrade followed suit. A silent minute, then down went another. Then a fourth, a fifth. A jumble of excited noise rose from the deck.
Hope flooded Bentley. He licked his lips and swallowed.
If only, if only. The heavy pistols were making his arms ache badly, the grips were slippery in his sweating palms. Another musket went down, and another. The marines and seamen with guns still trained were looking shifty, uncomfortable, even terrified.
He said triumphantly: ‘You men, do not be left behind! Do not be left alone beyond the Pale! Quickly, quickly, put up your arms!’
In a few short seconds, it looked as though he would bring it off. More muskets were discarded, until only three or four were levelled at the group. Then Daniel Swift spoke, his voice shaking with exultation. He faced the last muskets boldly, his eyes flaying the unhappy mutineers. He was almost bursting with contempt.
‘Put up, you scum!’ he cried. ‘That’s right, you dirty sons of filthy fuckhole whores, put up those muskets! Oh Christ I’m not afraid of you, you buggering shitholes! Now put them up!’
Bentley almost closed his eyes in horror. Oh uncle, uncle, he shouted silently, leave it be, leave it be!
‘Shoot me in cold blood would you, scum,’ yelled Swift. ‘Ah no, I know you will not, for you are cowards all! All of you, all! Scum, and shit, and cowards!’
The men with the muskets wavered. A low rumble rose from the waist and rolled aft. Swift had his head back, his pale eyes glaring, his hawk nose raking the air. You fool, thought Bentley passionately. Oh God damn you, uncle, for a fool!
Jesse Broad watched almost mesmerised. The captain’s arrogance, his idiocy, amazed him. It was somehow as though the battle were between them now, the boy and his uncle. A movement aft caught his eye. Ah dear God, then that was it. The boy had lost.
The man who had climbed the taffrail from the cabin was one of Joyce’s clique. A tall, raw-boned fellow called Madesly. He had a half-drunk leer on his slack lips, but trod the deck as delicately as a dancer; he was a seaman. In his hand he carried a capstan bar. In his belt he wore a cutlass. As he slipped across the deck Swift’s voice changed. A note of alarm. A warning shout.
Bentley half turned. He had only time to see a form, to throw up his arm in protection. The heavy bar hit his wrist, breaking it. The gun rose into the air, discharging itself harmlessly into the rigging. The wood crashed into his head, and he sprawled unconscious.
Joyce gave a roar, and sprang for the other horse-pistol. He held it close to Bentley’s bleeding head and pulled the trigger. The gun misfired.
Before anything else could happen, before more violence could break out, Matthews and Broad had armed themselves. Broad, cold with anger, covered Joyce and Madesly.
‘Daniel Swift,’ said Matthews. ‘One move, one word, and you are a dead man. Your hopes are at an end.’
The sense of dislocation and unreality that had followed the first revolt had been dispelled, in large measure, by Swift’s unbending hatred. There was a sense of fury following his latest action, a furious urgency to get him overboard.
The men who had dropped their guns rearmed, and at orders from Matthews and Broad began to prepare some boats. Joyce curbed his instinct to seize power after Matthews pointed out, in a brief confrontation, that he was the only man who could navigate. But it was not in Matthews’ control, nor Broad’s, to prevent Joyce and company making off in the direction of the spirits room. It would not be long before drunkenness would be the order of the day.
At first, Jack Allgood took no part in what went on. He still seemed stunned, disgusted, by the whole affair and his part in it. But in the end he organised the work on the boats, if only out of habit. Broad, watching the great sad face, guessed something of what the boatswain must be thinking. A life in the Navy and a life of pride all gone, blown away for ever. He prepared the boats like a labour of love; but all it represented was lost to him.
When Swift and his men were lined up and counted, the problems for the self-appointed leaders of the mutineers became more difficult. There were hardly enough boats to take all the loyals if the Welfare was to be left with sufficient. In the cold greyness of the afternoon, the desires of some of the guilty to be counted among the innocent also grew. The captain, ever hopeful, tried to work on it.