‘You are aware of what will happen when you are caught, I hope,’ he told Matthews loudly, after a wrangle about the stores they were to be allowed. ‘And you will be caught, I promise you. This is one of the vilest acts that ever I have heard of. You may be sure that His Majesty’s Navy will avenge this bloody day, if it takes an hundred years.’
He stared around at some of the mutineers. A large number of them were still shifty; restless and unhappy.
‘Why do you fall in with it, you fools?’ he demanded. ‘Why do you listen to this villain? You have guns, rise up and use them. Take over this ship again, and I will make sure you do not hang. I can guarantee it as my word of honour.’
‘Shut your mouth,’ Matthews snarled. He turned to the men who hung about. ‘He talks of honour and you do not laugh? Good God, he is a monster!’
Later, Swift tried another tack. The three boats Broad and Matthews had agreed to let go were laden with provisions. Nearly fifty men were due to be embarked in them.
‘You murderers, you bloody murderers,’ suddenly yelled the captain. ‘Will you put us to drown in this freezing ocean? Is not your deed already black enough? Will you go against the laws of God as well as those of man? We cannot live in those three boats!’
The guards and helpers, ever more jumpy as the long slow time wore on, glanced about at each other. The sea was high and lumpy, the wind cold and ominous. Even Broad was fearful for the safety of the loyal men. He knew small boats, and these would be overloaded and in frightful waters. Matthews, however, was unmoved.
‘You are a villain, Daniel Swift,’ he said, coldly. ‘You know as well as I do that you have a chance. This wind will blow you to Good Hope, even southerly as it is. And as you know, it is a freak in any case. It will turn westerly soon. The gale is almost gone, and there is west in it already. It will blow you to Cape Town in a jiffy.’
‘A chance? A chance? That is all you allow to fifty souls, is it? A chance, you murderer!’
‘Ach, shut your mouth,’ said Matthews in disgust. ‘You are the murderer, Captain, and we shall not forget it.’ He spoke to Mr Robinson, who stood close by Swift. ‘You sir, you are a trusty man. You are not afraid, I suppose, to sail to Cape Town?’
The ugly little master stared for such a long time without a word, that Broad thought he would not speak. But he did.
‘I have no fear of anything my God may send,’ he said. ‘Except some men. To sail to Cape Town? No, I am not afraid. We might even make the port. And if we do, sir – then may the Lord have mercy on you.’
A burst of drunken cheering drifted from the after hatchway. Broad said sombrely: ‘One thing that must be said. In those boats you have a chance, at least. On board here…’ The drunken noise rose once more. He did not finish the thought.
The task got more urgent. It was getting late, and there was thuggery in the air. The injured were wrapped up as well as they could be, Swift was allowed navigational equipment, charts and all his secret papers, and the first boat was made ready for hoisting outboard. It was the jolly boat, the smallest one to go. Allgood and Broad got together what hands they could, while Matthews took a position beside the helmsman, to heave the Welfare to.
Simon Allen, the midshipman, was to take command of the jolly boat. He got his men on board, cleared away the oars, and they waited. They waited some little time, for the Welfare was proving unwieldy, and her hands lubberly. A fair amount of liquor had found its way down many throats, and the atmosphere was tense. Broad was fully armed with pistols now, for although most of the men on guard duty were sober, the situation could get out of hand. The nightmare was not over by a long way.
At last the ship was hove-to. Her motion became uncomfortable, lumpish. Big seas broke high up her sides, solid water sometimes pouring across the waist. As Allgood gave the command to haul, a strange thing happened.
From a hatchway forward, Padraig Doyle appeared. His face was gaunt and awful, his hand clutched his bagpipe. As he staggered aft, one arm outstretched, mouth gaping, the jolly boat rose off the deck and dangled from the mainyard tackle that had been rigged to lift her. The Welfare gave a plunge, and the top of a wave raced across the deck. It struck the blind man heavily behind the knees, almost knocking him down. He recovered his balance, taking a pace or two forward. The deck lurched more heavily, and another wave-top beat at him. Suddenly he was in danger, staggering towards the side. The swinging jolly boat plunged towards him, cracked him up and under in the back, lifted him – and he was overboard. Jesse Broad gave a great shout, racing to the bulwarks, as the falls dropped from a dozen hands, and the jolly boat crashed to the deck amid howls and the splintering of wood.
Over the side the blind man’s head appeared high on a grey roller, the bagpipe stretched above him at arm’s length. Broad saw the blazing sockets turn towards the ship. The mouth was open in a silent scream. Then head and arm went under. Followed on the instant by the pipes. The grey sea rolled on.
A frenzy of rage gripped the men on deck, and Broad was part of it. The jolly boat, smashed beyond repair, was cleared from the falls and hurled over the side. The loyal men, white and panicky, made no complaint as they were forced into the two remaining boats. Swift was to command the launch, with Mr Robinson, and Simon Allen joined Hagan in the cutter. The cutter was filled first, overfilled, and swung briskly out. This time there was no mistake. She rose, swooped overside, landed neatly on a rising wave, and was free. She rode dangerously low, but well. Her reefed lugsail was set, and kept her steady as they waited for the captain.
When the launch was far fuller than common sense allowed, there were several fit men and three unconscious ones still on the Welfare’s deck. Swift, from the sternsheets where he sat, shouted to Broad.
‘You there! Are you mad, man? We need another boat. We cannot live in this already, and there are more to come! Give us another boat!’
‘To hell with you,’ yelled Broad. ‘You’ll get no more of our boats, you villain! Stand by to sway her up, you men there!’
Swift stood up in the launch, his face working.
‘You cannot do this, damn you! I demand that you give us another boat!’
‘Sit down, Captain Swift,’ replied Broad thickly, ‘or I will have you shot. You have done enough now, you have done enough. We have lost our patience, all of us. Sit down before you catch a ball.’
One of the abandoned loyalists burst into tears. Swift sat down, but he did not stop.
‘My nephew, at least,’ he said. ‘Good God, could you be so cruel as to deny me that? What chance will Bentley have if you make him stay?’
But Broad looked at the prone form of the midshipman with something like hatred.
‘None, I doubt!’ he screamed. ‘None, you bastard, none! And what chance…and what chance did…’
He stopped, choking. Swift said no more. After a moment’s pause the men on the falls started hauling. The launch rose easily, hovered at the rail, dropped prettily into a sea. Ten minutes later the two boats had disappeared into the bleak and lowering gloom. Their last view of Daniel Swift was a characteristic one. He was wrenched round in the stern of the launch, shouting imprecations at them. His fist was clenched and shaking.
Twenty-Nine
By the time William Bentley recovered consciousness, forty-eight hours later, Jesse Broad had saved his life more than once. When he opened his eyes, he immediately closed them again, because the light increased the pain sharply.