There was a rumble from the men all round him. Broad almost smiled. The suggestion was preposterous, crazy, but they would seize it, sure. Matthews tried to stamp it out.
‘You are mad!’ he roared. ‘Do you imagine I would rendezvous with my own death? That vessel’s come to kill us, every one, by steel, or ball, or hanging. Stop your madness and get down to tacks.’
Joyce almost spat with rage.
‘Bad luck! Bad luck! Do you believe him, lads? Between the Horn and Africa there’s a million miles of sea-room. And we meet a British frigate! These men are traitors! Kill them!’
It might have happened. The men, even the most sensible, were sick with fear. They looked at Broad and Matthews, glanced at each other. Joyce and his company had pistols in their fists, were whipping up a general rage. It was contagious.
‘Half an hour either way, and we would have missed them,’ shouted Joyce. ‘Half an hour into darkness, or a mile or two more room, and we would have passed! And this is accident?!’
Matthews used his voice of cutting power. It was chill, like ice.
He started with a laugh, devoid of humour.
‘Half an hour either way. But here we are. Thank you, Henry, for your congratulations. I must indeed be the finest navigator of all history. And I could not even take a noon sight yesterday for the cloud-wrack. As all on deck will tell you.’
There was a moment’s silence. Broad stepped in. ‘Half an hour,’ he said. ‘We now have less. Look, damn you, look. There is a frigate beating up to us. Forget damned Henry Joyce, my friends, forget him. What are we to do? That is the question.’
It swung the matter. Joyce shouted more, but others cried him down. They stood before the mizzen, looking to their leaders, and Broad was filled with sudden sadness.
These poor lost fellows with their eager, hopeful faces. Expecting him and Matthews to find a way of escape.
Not so Madesly. He only leered. He was a noted seaman, who had probably commanded coasting traders in his time. He touched the pistol he had stuck back in his belt, and stepped out of the ruck.
‘Just what do you suggest then, Broad? That we down helm and try to claw off upwind? That we set everything she’ll take and show that bastard our heels? It is true, lads,’ he added with a laugh, ‘that we’re the bigger, faster ship. So let’s get to it! Let’s break the canvas out!
‘You there!’ he shouted to the helmsman, who was a bare few feet from him. ‘Down helm and quick about it! Bring her on the wind! We’re going to make a run for it!’
The helmsman kept his eyes ahead, watching the sails, sensing the rolling seas that piled up astern of him. The men were confused, not knowing, most of them, if it were good advice or no.
‘Well?’ shouted Madesly. ‘Come on, Mr Matthews. Do we make a run or not?’
‘You know we cannot,’ Matthews replied. ‘Our mizzenmast is sprung, our gear is ruined. We have not enough men to get the extra canvas on her, and if we come on to the wind that mast is overside, for certain. As well you know it.’
Madesly laughed still more. The men said nothing, digesting the information. So – they could not run.
A voice said from the back: ‘But if we cannot run, sir? Then what can we do?’
‘Surrender,’ said Matthews brutally. ‘We cannot run, there is no point. Our gear is wrecked, we are a sinking hulk. We must surrender.’
Jesse, looking at the faces, knew the men would have taken this in silence. They would have thought it out, followed all the paths until they reached the deadlock. Not so Joyce and Madesly. The idea maddened them. Clearly, he guessed, they had drawn the same conclusion. But without acceptance. Why indeed should they, anyway? Mad dogs they may be, mad dogs they were, but why lie down and die without a fight? He was almost on their side.
‘Surrender?’ Joyce forced out at last. It was a hoot, a shriek, filled with derision. Then he shouted: ‘And what then, you pair of turncoat fuckers! Will your precious little arsehole-boy see that you go free? Was it all arranged between the captain’s blankets?’
Matthews’s stony face did not flicker. When Joyce had finished, he spoke as evenly as ever.
‘If we surrender I suppose that we shall hang. You shall, certainly, Henry Joyce; and I, and Broad and your friend Madesly. But there are many men who will not. Those who did not join, and others, too. They will not hang the lot of us I doubt; there is too many. An example must be made but that is easy, with all the villains that we have on board us here.’
He ranged his eyes sombrely over the assembled men. ‘My friends, I beg you to listen carefully, and think. If we should not surrender it can only make things worse. If we do, there will be retribution, sure, and not a few of us will hang in Portsmouth or Spithead. But I tell you truly, we cannot get away. The Welfare is not able, despite her greater size.’
The ship to leeward was very clear by now. She was smallish, probably a twenty-four. She was yellow-painted and trim, what sail she carried very white. There were not many minutes left before they would be on each other.
The matter was decided by Henry Joyce. He was no longer wild with rage, but he had clearly made his decision. He jerked out his pistol and levelled it at Broad. Madesly followed suit, covering Matthews. The others of their party cocked their pieces.
‘There is another way,’ said Joyce, thickly. ‘And it is the way we take. We stand and fight, and blast them to the bottom of the sea. It is a sloop almost, she cannot match our weight of metal. One good broadside and she’s on her way to hell. I say we stand and fight!’
‘Good Christ!’ cried Jesse – and jumped in shock as a ball buzzed past his ear. His hand half reached towards his belt but stopped; a half a dozen muzzles stared him in the face. One of Joyce’s guns was pouring smoke; he changed it for a fresh one with a grin.
‘Just shut your mouth up, friend, and get the keys out to the musket room,’ he said. Then he turned to face the people.
‘Lads,’ he cried. ‘What do you say? We either give in or we turn and run, but there’s not much luck in any of those plans, eh? If we surrender like a little flock of puling lambs we end up dangling. If we turn and run it’s even worse.
For according to Mr Matthews here, our mizzenmast will just give up the ghost and totter overside. Well listen, God damn it. We have nothing to lose by making a fight of it, for Matthews is a coward and a liar, and if you think they will not hang us all you’re living in a paradise for fools.
You know the England Navy, you know the worth they put on poor Jack Tar. They’ll hang the lot of us, from the highest to the lowest, including you poor innocents that us filthy rebels kept on board that luckless day! There’s only one man-jack on here that will not be stretched, and he’s that little bastard boy. And I say this: when we’ve sunk that tin-pot sloop down yonder, let’s hang him first! Let’s hang Billy Bentley, then his chums! Let’s string up Matthews and Jesse Broad to keep him company! But first – let’s fight! Or are we dirty, frightened animals!’
Broad was detached from it all, somehow. How many more orations was he to endure on this ship? How many more times see the heads go up, the mouths fly open wide? He turned his eyes to the leeward ship, tried to count her ports. He could see men, in the rigging and about the decks. He wondered if they could hear the ragged cheer that tore downwind from the Welfare.
It was a ragged cheer, but not so ragged that the issue was in doubt. Joyce had been convincing, no question.
Broad tried to size it up. Would they arm the men, take the keys from him and Matthews? Or would that strike them as too dangerous? If all the men were armed, what would break out? For the idea of firing on another Navy ship was a wild idea, a desperate idea. His mind reeled from under it. To open fire on a Navy ship! It was sheerly mad! It was lunacy!