When he had been led out, Thomas Fox was prodded forward. He had listened in awe to the weird conversation. His admiration for the silent, powerful smuggler had kept his tears at bay. Now, alone in the lion’s den, his teeth chattered audibly.
‘Your name?’ said Captain Swift.
‘T-T-T-Thomas F-F-Fox, your honour,’ he whispered.
Captain Swift curled his lips back over prominent teeth in a smile.
‘Welcome aboard His Majesty’s frigate Welfare,’ he said. ‘I am sure you will be happy to serve your King here.’
Thomas fell to his knees and began to cry. Keep your counsel, the smuggler had said. But he could not.
He babbled and wept incoherently about the injustice that had been done. He cried for his family and pleaded to be sent home. No one stopped him, but the silence was profound. After a short time he stopped trying to speak. He stared through his tears over the polished edge of the table. He sniffed and staunched his eyes and nose with his sleeve. Captain Swift was smiling at him.
‘Boy,’ he said at last. ‘Are you telling me you were tricked on board this vessel?’
‘Yes, your honour.’
‘That you accepted thirty shillings not as the King’s bounty but in payment for your flock?’
‘Yes, your honour.’
‘That you have a mother and father, ailing no doubt, a farm that needs you, two little sisters to cry themselves to sleep?’
Thomas almost felt better. The captain understood! He breathed deeply, the sobs gone, his mouth hanging open. The captain understood!
‘Yes, your honour,’ he breathed.
The captain smiled. Everyone smiled. The officer on his right licked his red lips with a thick tongue, the rotund officer’s little eyes disappeared into rolls of fat. Only the marine did not smile; his eyes were blank.
‘Well well,’ said the captain. ‘Something must be done about this state of affairs. Do you agree?’
‘Yes, your honour,’ said Thomas.
This time they laughed. Even the clerk, a thin, dry man in a dusty coat and lawyer’s wig, uttered a noise like a small croak.
‘How about thirty shillings? Thirty shillings more? Thirty shillings on top of the thirty shillings bounty you accepted? Thirty shillings for your fine sheep? Eh?’
‘But, your honour. Begging your pardon. Not the bounty, your honour.’
‘Do you contradict me, boy? Do you dare kneel there and contradict an officer of the King! Good God boy, are you calling me a liar!’
Captain Swift’s voice, his face, his manner, all had changed. The deep red colour mounted in his face till it was dark and furious. His flanking officers sat more upright in their chairs. Fox raised his hands to his mouth, his eyes wide.
‘It is you, boy! You are the liar!’ shouted Swift. ‘You freely accepted the King’s bounty in front of witnesses and now you would be forsworn. Hell, boy! You will burn in hell! Do you understand!’
Thomas Fox was lost. He felt himself already in hell, burning in agony. He bit his lips, his gums. He wrung his hands and rolled his eyes as if already mad.
‘No, your honour,’ he moaned. ‘Yes, your honour! Oh please, your honour.’
Before his eyes, behind the table, the captain rose like a vengeful being. He reached his full height, a barrel-chested fury.
‘In future, boy, when you are addressed by an officer, you will say “aye aye sir”. Is that clear?’
‘Yes your hon—’
A rattan slash bit into his back. Thomas Fox sprawled forward and was pulled upright to his knees once more.
‘Aye aye sir,’ he mumbled.
Captain Swift sat down. His face was back to normal.
As if nothing had happened.
‘Good boy,’ he said, almost kindly. ‘You are prepared to learn, I see. Good boy. Well, Thomas, that is my proposal. I will offer you another thirty shillings, which is alarmingly generous of me. Will you accept?’
Thomas nodded.
‘Aye aye sir,’ he mumbled.
‘Stoutly done,’ said Swift. ‘Now, make your mark with Mr Scrivenor there. He will rate you as a landman and put thirty shillings down beside your name. And in addition, two months’ pay are due, two months’ payment in advance, you will be a prince among the people, a very prince! For all of which largesse, Thomas, I beg you will be so good as to consider your duties from this moment forward as tender of the ship’s beasts. We have two cows, some few pigs, a couple of dozen fowls, and some sheep. About twenty in all, I think, counting the flock you so kindly sold us. Too many for the manger in any case, so we have pens as well.’
Thomas was pulled upright and stood facing the captain.
He was bewildered by this quick-tempered, hot-cold man. He was dug in the ribs.
‘Aye aye sir,’ he said.
The captain gave him an almost dazzling smile. ‘Good,’ he said again. ‘But Fox, you must not lie on board one of His Majesty’s ships. It is a serious crime.’ He looked past Thomas.
‘Mr Allgood, as Fox has proved himself a liar, a liar let him be. And now dismiss.’
With this cryptic farewell puzzling him more than ever, Thomas was wheeled by the shoulder and prodded outside.
He had proved himself a liar, so a liar let him be. He shook his aching head, but the mists did not clear. All he knew for sure was that he had made his mark. He was a landman in the British Navy.
Five
When Jesse Broad was led out from the cabin, he took one last look around him before he went below to find himself a mess. The breeze was still backing easterly, blowing fresher and yet fresher. The deep green of the Hampshire coast, the dry brown of Portsdown, were sparkling and pristine, the softer green of the Solent and Spithead flecked with big white horses. There were many ships of war anchored in Spithead, many merchant vessels threading among them.
A bluff-bowed collier, close-hauled on a course that would bring her past the Welfare, was carrying reefed topsails and sending gouts of spray out from under, making heavy weather of it. He breathed the clean air deeply, speculating.
If their mission was to the westward, they would soon be off. The frigate had an unmistakeable air of readiness. As he watched, a large naval launch, cutter rigged, cleared a gaggle of men-of-war in Spithead and smashed into the rolling seas towards them. He guessed, for no real reason, that she was bringing their sailing orders.
He turned to the boatswain’s mate who had brought him out.
‘I don’t know these vessels, if you please. How do I find a berth?’ The boatswain’s mate, a friendly enough fellow when he was allowed to be, pointed to a hatchway.
‘Below there and follow your nose. The first lieutenant has you marked for a topman in the larboard watch. They are below now. Find a mess that wants you.’
Broad walked to the hatchway. All around him tars were working, at scrubbing, overhauling gear, a thousand other tasks. There may have been eighty men visible had he looked about, but there was no sound of voices. They worked in silence, under many watchful eyes. At the foremast, like sore thumbs in their scarlet and pipeclay, stood a detachment of marines, long muskets in hand. Further aft another small band stood. Broad felt like spitting, but stopped himself. He knew no naval laws as yet; but that was bound to be among them.
He let himself down the hatchway onto the gun deck. Once there he stood still, to grow accustomed to the differences above and below.
First, the darkness. Although the gunports were all lashed open, the deckspace was very dark. Ahead there was an area of light spilling through the boat-skids that slatted the main hatchway, but it spread only a few feet to either side. The rest was lost in gloom. It was an area of dim square shapes, low-beamed and hollow-sounding. There was the murmur of voices, and from farther forward a steady grinding, which he took to be the main cable as it led out through the hawse into the waters of St Helen’s Roads.