The system of watches and helmsmen, along with seamen who could be trusted to stand their turn on the quarterdeck and sing out for Broad or Matthews in case of any violent change in weather or failure of gear, had meant the two of them had not had to do alternate deck duty, four hours on, four off, except in the worst of conditions off the Horn. But throughout this night one of them was always on the quarterdeck, armed with pistols and cutlass, looking for any move or hint of action that might presage a coup.
In the cabin, too, the vigilance did not cease. William Bentley was armed with a long pistol of the type his uncle favoured, and the elder man who happened to be with him at any moment dozed in a chair, with a musket cradled handy. The idea was that they should not sleep, but William had not the heart to waken them. In any case, he himself was totally sleepless; they were unlikely to be surprised.
He pondered the situation during the long dragging hours, with a sentiment that was at times amazed. Here he was, a midshipman in His Majesty’s Navy, well connected, with impeccable ‘interest’, not yet fifteen years old.
Detained against his will by mutineers, in deadly danger from a gang of cut-throats spoiling for a new uprising, and sharing a cabin with two men, rebels both, whom he was prepared to swear would defend him with… He arrested the thought, examined it minutely. With their lives? Why should they? His mind drifted back over the events of the voyage. Good God, he thought, and it really did amaze him, this: I’m not yet fifteen, I am a midshipman, a gentleman.
All this is mad, impossible. How could it all have come about?
He looked at Broad, short, powerful and exhausted, slumped in his uncle’s chair, snoring with his grey face hanging on his shoulder. A seaman. A smuggler. Taken by the press, and not illegally. During the preceding months he had reviled this man, humiliated him, scorned him. Worse, had hardly noticed he was doing it. Had scarcely thought of him as human. Jesse Broad not human? It was ghastly. Jesse Broad had done more for him than any other human he had known.
With a sudden flash, like a picture in his mind, he remembered the scene on the quarterdeck before he had been clubbed down. I made a pledge, he thought. I was drenched with terror. I made a pledge. The words half came back to him. ‘There have been faults…there have been faults here. And I will tell.’ Yes, that was it, he had pledged himself to tell. And sworn that they would be fairly tried. In his little alcove, damp with condensation as it was, he felt a different dampness on his face, warm at first but quickly chill. He let the tears roll down, tears of utter desolation, that blurred Broad’s face in the swaying lamplight. Well, would it ever come to that? Another picture formed, of Broad and Matthews hanging from a yardarm by their necks while he looked on. He tried to make it go away, he shook his head and tightly closed his eyes. He cried in desolation.
The attack never came. In the cold grey light of morning the Welfare was just the same, battering eastward and a trifle north under topsails only, plus jibs and mizzen. Broad and Matthews stood upon the quarterdeck, tired but relieved, to decide if they should issue arms or let it ride. Their feeling was, without a lot of deliberation, that if Joyce meant to take the ship he would have done so fast. He needed them, of course; that much was well known.
‘I doubt the scum would even have a ship without us,’ muttered Matthews. ‘Look at that mizzen, Jesse. I must go up and check the break; it seems a little worse from here. I wish to God we did not need that canvas on the cranky bitch.’
He swung himself into the weather shrouds, and climbed as heartily as if he’d had a good night’s sleep in bed. From forty feet above the deck his words struck ice into Jesse’s heart.
‘Good God,’ he said, and a quirk of wind made it as loud as if he’d shouted in his ear. ‘Jesse, dead ahead. A sail. Ah Christ, a sail.’
The Welfare carried no lookouts, had not done for ages.
But the vessel beating up towards them surely did. Dawn had broken half an hour before. They must have been seen. Broad leapt into the rigging to join his friend, and they stared in silence across the miles of ocean. The ship approaching was quite small, reefed down, and making heavy weather of it.
‘I do not believe in providence,’ said Matthews, at last. ‘Nor yet in fairies. She is a British frigate for a thousand pound. Or a sloop maybe, she’s not the size that we are.’
They were mesmerised, dazed with shock. For long moments nothing more was said. No plan presented itself. They merely watched.
‘Well,’ said Broad. ‘Is it possible? Could Swift have made his landfall and set out in pursuit? It is so short a time.’
‘They were picked up, more like,’ Matthews replied. ‘My guess is that a cruiser spotted them, or some other vessel doing escort round the Cape. And Swift persuaded them, or ordered maybe, that they come after us.’
‘Must it be like that?’ said Jesse. ‘Are we so very sure the ship is British, and a warship, and in search of us?’
The questions were rhetorical, the answers obvious.
Matthews voiced them almost absently.
‘I cannot see her too well yet, but I’ll swear she’s British. And where would she be going if not after us? There is no call to head towards Cape Horn in winter, Jesse, only desperate men would do it, or determined. Dan Swift would sail a sieve against a hurricane to come up with us, you know it. She is heading for the Horn. She is heading after us.’
They hung in the bitter wind for minutes longer. The Welfare rushed on, closing the miles between them. Broad shook his head, still dazed, unable to react.
‘Can we escape?’ There was a pause.
‘Do we want to?’ said Matthews sombrely. Jesse stared at him.
‘Can we escape?’ he said again, his mind shying away from all the other implications. ‘We have the wind gage. They may not have seen us, even.’
Matthews laughed.
‘Our mizzen’s sprung, our gear is ruined, we are leaking like a basket. If we tried to run they’d intercept us, whatever way we jumped. As to not seeing us…well I’m right glad, my friend, you have it in your heart to joke.’
‘How long? Half an hour? Shall we call all hands?’ The thought occurred to both of them at the same time.
Even the helmsman, low down on the deck, had not seen the frigate yet, and if they kept their mouths shut it might save bloodshed. For what would the people do? How would they face their fate if it was laughing in their faces?
But before they had climbed even halfway down, the cry was out. A seaman had come up, seen them in the rigging, and looked ahead. The other ship was clearly visible, gunports too. She was British, a light frigate, and clearing for action.
Within minutes, all hands who were able were on deck. They ran around like headless chickens, most of them, not knowing what to do for the best. One man whinnied, time and time again, a demented horse, while others shouted orders, supplications. The panic lasted several minutes.
While the two ships inexorably closed.
After a short time the general movement became a surge towards the quarterdeck, with only the most panic-stricken staying forward, staring ahead, mewing with fear and misery. Matthews and Broad stood abaft the mizzen, their hands on pistol-butts, waiting for a silence, a rationality, to come about.
Joyce, Madesly and four or five assorted thugs shouldered forward, armed with pistols, cutlasses and dirks.
Joyce’s face was pale under the shining dome. He seemed mad with anger.
‘You have planned this, Matthews!’ he yelled when the noise died down. ‘This is no accident! This is not luck! It is impossible in such a waste of ocean!’