Neither Broad nor Matthews was on deck when the fabric began to rend. Matthews was in the tiller flat checking on the damage caused to the steering gear by a sea that had almost pooped the ship, and Broad was in the cabin snatching a meal of cold pease pudding and biscuit. There had been no sound from outside to suggest abnormality, when the door burst open and Grandfather Fulman hurried in.
The old man, crippled with rheumatism, bent almost double, was gasping with effort.
‘Jesse!’ he panted. ‘Come out, for Christ’s sake. Bring pistols, quick. It’s Allgood, it’s Allgood.’
Broad dropped his knife, knocked over his platter, dragged the pistol from his belt. He checked the priming carefully, as constant damp played havoc with the powder. Fulman leaned against the door, his breath wheezing.
‘Quick, Jesse. It’s Joyce’s gang. They’ve got him cornered, oh quick!’
Broad reached the deck in seconds, but he was too late.
Allgood had been brought to bay near the fore shrouds, and the odds were overwhelming. It was like a bear-baiting, and the two principals were indeed as big as bears. Broad moved forward fast, the pistol cocked. But before he reached the foremast he was stopped. Three of Joyce’s men, armed with pistols, lounged against the fife-rail. They levelled the weapons at him, with odd, nervous smiles.
‘Go no further,’ said one of them. ‘We will not hurt you, man. Just go no further.’
Broad weighed up the chances. Thought of slipping aft and getting reinforcements, moving forward between decks and taking them unawares. All nonsense. Even if he turned, now, he would die. He uncocked the pistol, slid it into his belt, advanced. The men let him to within a few feet, still smiling nervously. One cackled; a high, unpleasant sound.
Allgood, his blue coat torn, his nose bleeding, stood with his back to the shrouds, crouched in a fighting stance. Facing him was Henry Joyce, similarly crouching, but with only shirt and breeches. Also, he carried a long, curved knife. Broad noticed the boatswain’s fists then. They were clenched, but blood was dribbling from between the fingers.
Joyce’s idea of fighting fair. Just to make sure there was no chance of a surprise ending, Madesly and two other big fellows stood in readiness on Allgood’s flanks. Madesly had a knife, the others iron bars.
The courage of Jack Allgood had never been in question. With a sudden ferocious roar he threw himself on Joyce with a force that was frightening. The two men were almost equally matched in size and weight, both enormous, strong, hard. Joyce’s sideways move to avoid the charge was lightning quick, stunning for so vast a bulk. But not fast enough. The plate-like hand of Allgood seized his arm in passing, and spun him like a top. The two men fell with a crash, and struggled on the deck. The three flankers moved in anxiously, looking for a way to protect and help their champion.
Then an arm rose above the struggling mass. The knife plunged, once, twice, three times. A heave, a roll, and they parted. Jack Allgood scrambled to his feet, stood swaying, blinded with blood. The flesh on one side of his face was stripped, the white of his cheekbone glaring through.
Henry Joyce took longer to get up. His face was congested as though he was half-strangled. His breath gasped and rattled. The flesh round one eye was torn, gouged by Allgood’s thumbnail.
The boatswain dragged an arm across his face, clearing his eyes momentarily. He made another spring, uttering only a grunt as he did so. This time Joyce did not clear himself. He went down under the charge, with a sharp hiss as the breath was knocked from his body. Worse, his knife went flying. It landed six feet away, then slid into the scuppers, with a corkscrew motion of the Welfare in the following sea.
If it had not been for the reinforcements, Allgood might have pulled it off, wounded as he was. For long moments the two men rolled and fought, silently, viciously, first one on top, then the other, too fast to be sorted out. But when he emerged clearly, straddled over Joyce’s chest, his lacerated hands clamped around the other man’s windpipe, the flankers moved in for the kill. At a word from Madesly, the two men swung at Allgood’s head with the bars. It took several blows before he released his grip. Joyce gave a heave, and the boatswain rolled to one side, blood pouring from him in streams.
When Joyce was upright, he stood gasping, fighting for his breath.
Jesse Broad, revolted, shouted at him.
‘You murdering bastard, Joyce! What is your game now? You cannot hope to bring it off, you know!’
The odd, bald-domed face turned towards him. The pig-eyes were congested. It was several seconds before he could speak.
‘Bring what off, then? It is Allgood who must fall, not no one else, just fucking traitor Allgood. You sail us on, friend Jesse.’ He forced a breathy laugh. ‘To hell. You sail us on to hell.’
With an intense effort, the boatswain was pushing himself upright.
He got to his knees, gasping, breathing blood. He got, at last, to his feet. He swayed, staggering as the Welfare staggered. Madesly turned a wicked smile on Joyce, a gay smile, an awful smile.
‘I think Mr Allgood wants a little stroll,’ he said.
Prodded with the knife, guided by the iron bars, the bleeding, dazed hulk of the boatswain went to the side of the ship as docile as a lamb. Broad did not wait to see him tipped overboard through the broken bulwark. He took his chance and hurried aft. Within seconds he had checked the weapons-room. It was still locked, with mighty locks, which meant Joyce’s gang had hidden their arms earlier, as he had guessed. Within minutes, in the cabin, he had checked the charges and priming of their store, with Bentley watching anxiously. Broad was in no mood for talking.
When Matthews returned, they had a swift discussion. Both agreed that a general rearmament would not work. Morale was low, fear and hatred rampant. To issue guns to all the men, or even those who were acting almost as officers in the running of the ship, would just accelerate the time when factional warfare would break out. Joyce and his band were not numerous, and they were well hated. If they had not many arms, they might not attempt a coup.
‘In any case,’ said Broad. ‘They may indeed have no great quarrel with us. They truly hated Allgood, and now the man is dead, God help him. They cannot run the ship themselves, that much is certain. And if they do rise up, they know that some of them will die.’
Matthews sucked his teeth.
‘I think we must gather a band and arm them, all the same. Men we can trust, even down to Fulman and old Samuel, although I doubt they can pull a trigger in this damned cold. A couple in my old mess still survive. I’d put my trust in them.’
‘And for this night?’
‘I think we hope to God. To make a sudden move would only spark them up. They have the smell of blood in their nostrils. Let’s stay quiet, keep good guard, let the steering watches run as normal. And hope to God.’
There was a small noise from the alcove. Bentley’s face looked out, pale and troubled.
‘There is one other soul on board they hate like Allgood,’ he said, slowly.
‘If it would help you, friends, I will go forward. And face them. On my own.’
The two men did not speak for long moments.
‘Even if there is a bloodbath, young fellow,’ said Jesse Broad.
‘You will not be the first to go, I promise you.’ He smiled. Let out a small explosive laugh without much humour.
‘But you will be third, I guess. When me and Mr Matthews are both dead.’
Thirty-Two
The end, when it came, had nothing to do with Henry Joyce, or the long night of aching vigilance. In fact men’s minds and gazes were directed so firmly inwards that it made the end almost inevitable, when it could probably have been avoided.