The nausea was seated deep in his stomach; the whole of the left side of his head was singing in agony; his wrist, which he moved as he woke, sent a stab of fire up his arm.
William lay for a long while with closed eyes, trying to piece together what had happened. It came back slowly, and not in sequence. He could not remember why he was in this state. His last memory was of horror at his uncle’s wild verbal attack on the last handful of men with muskets. His thirst made it difficult to think.
His mouth was dreadful, bone-dry and foul-tasting. He needed to drink.
With an effort, he opened his eyes. The light struck harshly into them, but he persevered. Soon it became bearable. In fact there was not much light at all. A gleam of sunshine from the windows of the cabin. He gave a start.
The cabin! What was he doing here? Had the mutiny failed then? He tried to call out, but managed only a croak. It was enough. Broad swam into his vision, smiling. He had pistols and a sword at his belt, and his face was clean and relaxed. So. Obviously not. The mutineers were in command.
Although the sickness in his stomach came and went with violent pulses of pain, Bentley listened to Broad’s tale. But first he had a glass of wine, his uncle’s best. As he sipped it, he had a great longing for a drink of fresh water. The days of fresh water were long, long past. Would they ever return, he wondered?
After the launch and the cutter had gone, Broad told him, he had been carried to the crowded sick-bay, where Mr Adamson had done his best by him. Mr Adamson, who had taken no active part in the uprising, had yet refused to go with the loyal party, whatever the consequence of that action. He had claimed that he would rather take his chance in the Welfare than in one of the ‘damned cockleshells’, but no one was fooled. The strange fellow thought he could save lives on board, and was determined to try it.
‘My uncle hated him, I think,’ William whispered.
Broad laughed.
‘Aye, no doubt. Who did Captain Swift not hate? But Mr Adamson saved your life, nevertheless.’
‘Oh.’
‘Aye, and not by medical means, neither. You had not been below many hours before some of the less-forgiving fellows among us decided they’d like to see you strung up.’
Nauseous as he already was, Bentley had a deeper sense of sickness in his stomach.
‘Oh,’ he muttered.
‘Mr Adamson is a little too small to fight such drunkards with his fists, or even with his brandy bottle. But he managed to send a boy aft, while he kept them at bay with his sharp tongue and his wit. He convinced them you’d look better at the end of a rope when you had life enough to kick a little.’
He watched the boy’s bruised, drawn face with pity. It had gone very close with him, even when he and Matthews had arrived. After a similar incident a couple of hours later, Broad had carried him to the cabin.
‘What of the others?’ Bentley asked.
‘I suppose you mean of your faction?’ said Broad. He said it not unkindly, for when his rage had gone, he had known he could not hate the boy despite his hateful ways. He was young, and born to it, and could not help himself. He was ill too, desperate ill, and doubtless terrified. Nevertheless, Broad was not prepared to make things too soft.
‘They got away all right,’ he said. ‘With Mr Bloody Swift still shouting oaths and threatening us with ropes and chains and torture. They may make out all right; nay, probably will, for the weather has moderated and the wind is fairer, and the Dutchmen at the Cape will look to them, I guess. But they will not catch us, never fear.’
He watched Bentley’s racked face.
‘They lost no others after you was hit,’ he went on. ‘Your pistol discharged, and that was the last shot fired. So Swift took away with him fifty or so loyal men, plus Hagan and Robinson. Oh aye, and Simon Allen.’
‘The others? The officers and… And… Was it true what they did to little James?’
Broad gave a laugh; more a grunt, without humour. ‘Oh aye, it’s true. A crime exceeding black. And the other one too, that shrill-voiced child, Evans. And Plumduff is butchered, and Higgins overside, and the purser… Good God, what did they not do to poor old Butterbum? Some think that he deserved it, but…’
‘And I am saved… Oh Christ, how they must want to kill me…’
‘Aye,’ said Broad. ‘Aye, I fear they do. He sighed.
‘On our side,’ he went on slowly, ‘we lost the piper after that. I saw him above the waves.’ He paused. ‘I wonder what he saw in Ireland that was worse than what he got with us, poor chap.’
William Bentley shuddered. His mind cringed. He remembered the moment he had first seen the piper, remembered his first irrational shock of horror. He had hated the blind man, loathed him, without reason, or shame. Fear.
Hatred and fear. His mind cringed.
‘Well,’ said Jesse. ‘I suppose he had lost his only friend. I do not know what he had been doing during the uprising. In the heat of the moment I lost sight of many; No time to wonder after Padraig Doyle. But he appeared at last, alone, and for all I know he’s better dead. I lost a lot of friends, young sir, in that day’s business.’ He stopped for a moment, then said in an acid tone: ‘Which is more than you did, I guess. Dolby died, you know, trying to save the lives and honour of Evans and James Finch. And he’ll be no loss to you neither, I suppose. If you even remember his name.’
Bentley turned his face away. Poor stolid Dolby, a wretch the younger mids had heaped with insults, and with menial tasks. He was ashamed. He screwed his eyes up, clenched his teeth. It was dreadful, all of it. Dreadful.
Broad lapsed into silence, and let his mind wander over the events of two days ago. It was easy to vent his spleen on this helpless boy, but he despised himself for having done it. The strain was great, the lack of sleep telling. At present the situation was calmer, it looked as though they might bring it off. But it had been a hard-won thing.
Soon after the two small boats had gone and the Welfare had been brought back to her course, a very dangerous situation had arisen. The men were clamouring for wine and rum, and the sweets of the captain’s table. Joyce, Madesly and contingent had already opened the spirits store and broached a cask of rum, although Joyce, by some quirk of fortunate selfishness, had locked it securely once again and pocketed the key. At least half the remaining people were incapable of work, and the other half were determined to celebrate their new-found freedom by becoming equally inebriated. No fights had broken out, but if they did they could be fatal. For arms were plentiful now, and they were not in the hands of responsible corporals or marines. Matthews and Broad were sitting on a powder keg, and it worried them sick. They had tried to rope Allgood into their discussions, but he was still sunk in deepest despair. Had he not been so aware, he would probably have asked to go with Swift and face his hanging like a man; but he had well known what that hard captain would have told him. Allgood was in his own juice at present; the darkest hell.
Matthews and Broad had met with Henry Joyce to put their proposition. Matthews would be in command, as being a navigator, deep-sea sailor, and used to government, and Broad would be his lieutenant. His qualifications were more nebulous, but easy for anyone to see, for all that. He was an experienced seaman, and had commanded coastal (and cross-Channel) vessels. He knew how to handle men above all, and was educated and well-liked. More important, the two of them firmly believed this: unless they took control, the whole affair would blow up in their faces. Disaster would follow, swift and inevitable. They did not intend to fall from the pan into the fire – even if they had to meet force with force to avoid it.