Henry Joyce’s face changed in front of Jesse’s eyes. He saw the look of shock, of horror, of incomprehension. The pig-like eyes flickered, dropped, moved sideways over his shoulder. A bubbling noise came from Joyce’s throat; he swallowed.
As he swallowed, as he turned to look at Daniel Swift, he lowered his cutlass. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his great, knotted, muscular throat. The bubbling noise came once more.
A veil of red fell over Jesse’s eyes. A black, horrific, nauseated violence burst in his stomach, deep inside his guts. His arm knotted, struck out with a force that almost made him lose his balance. As his cutlass bit deep, deep into Joyce’s neck, he raised his head and howled, a deep, throbbing, aching roar.
As he stood trembling over Joyce’s body, the cutlass dangling in his hand, Daniel Swift levelled the pistol and shot him in the chest. Broad fell, without another sound.
Thirty-Four
The last thing Bentley remembered of the scene, the last picture that lived on in his head, was of the few seconds after Broad had fallen. His uncle was framed in the doorway, his head emerging from a cloud of smoke. His face was sick but triumphant, the ulcerated features twisted in a smile.
Already William felt a numbness sweeping over him.
His uncle made a gesture with the gun, a meaningless movement of his arm, and stepped into the cabin, placing his feet carefully among the pools of blood.
‘Ah William,’ he said. ‘Thank God I’ve saved you, my boy. Thank God.’
He became unconscious then, or thought he did. Afterwards it occurred to William that perhaps he had not. But some sort of blackness came. He blotted out all thought, he closed his eyes to make his uncle disappear. Yes, in the event he must have lost consciousness, for it was many hours before he was aware again.
For days afterwards he stayed in this blissful state.
Whenever he awoke, and thoughts came flooding back to him, the curtain followed close upon their heels. Perhaps he was drugged, perhaps had had a relapse. But he lay in a well-appointed cabin in the frigate Wentworth, hardly eating, hardly drinking, acknowledging nobody in his periods awake. All he wanted to do was to remain unaware. The surgeon made a lot of him, did his very best, and William was grateful; for the Wentworth’s man was no Mr Adamson. Bleeding, not brandy, was his cure-all, so the boy got progressively weaker and nearer death. Arrived at Cape Town he was feverish, emaciated, and able to spend twenty hours a day or more in limbo. From the way they treated him on shore, he knew he was not expected to live. Which suited him exactly.
The turning point, ironically, came some weeks later, when a Navy ship homeward bound for England – the Wentworth having sailed on belatedly to India – embarked the prisoners and the remnants of the Welfare’s crew. It was not considered, at first, that William was fit enough to undertake the voyage. His uncle saw him in a lucid moment, and tested out the idea of his staying. The way he put it, of course, was that the boy should make his recovery in the pleasant climate here among the kindly Dutch, and travel later, when he was fit again. William listened without opening his eyes. He still had the memory burning on them. He could not bear to look on Daniel Swift.
‘In any case, my boy,’ the man said gently, ‘it will be an uncomfortable voyage enough. The ship is not so large, and we must run her as a prison in the main. I doubt you want to spend your sickness cooped up with such scum as Jesse Broad.’
The voice, made hearty for the jest, caused a great lurch inside his stomach. A dizziness descended in his head, coupled with a sick excitement. Bentley spoke a sentence for the first time in days.
‘Broad? Is Jesse Broad alive?’ Swift laughed with pleasure.
‘He speaks! Ah, that’s much better, my boy, much better! By God, you’ll pull through yet, I must inform the doctors.’ Bentley was panting, impatient.
‘Is he? Is Jesse Broad..?’
‘Bless your heart, yes,’ said Swift. ‘But never fear, boy, not for long.’ He spoke more soberly. ‘I hope he can survive the journey. It is in doubt, he is so very sick.’ He brightened. ‘Well, live in hope eh? God willing he’ll live to be strung up.’
‘There will…there will be a trial? In Portsmouth, I suppose?’
‘Aye, once we have sorted out the innocent from the guilty. You would be of great assistance there, of course, as you were forced to stay on board the Welfare. But there is no doubt in that man’s case, at all.’
William was too tired to talk on; knew, in any case, there was no point in trying to contradict. His uncle left him, and he lapsed into a musing dream. Jesse Broad alive. It had simply not occurred to him. He felt elation, felt new energy running in his blood. It was the turning point. There was no doubt any more; he must go back, he must recover. Not just to see Broad, but to save him. He day-dreamed, half delirious. He had made a pledge and he would keep it. He had a vision of Broad set free, a vindicated man. He saw them smile together.
It was three days before they were embarked, during which time he made enough progress to surprise the doctors. They still shook their heads at the idea of him going, but it was no longer in question. Everyone was going back, except for some few able-bodied mutineers who had escaped into the hinterland to risk their fates among the Hottentots, and he was not going to be left. During this time, too, he learnt a little of the background to the rescue.
He allowed his uncle to sit with him and talk, reluctant as he was to see the man. He always kept his eyes closed, and responded in grunts. But he wanted to hear.
The story was simple, and Swift did not embellish it.
The voyage in the boats was hellish, several men had died. When they had been picked up, the illness rate was getting serious, the weather worsening, the chances of survival slim. It had not taken him long to persuade the captain of the Wentworth what their course should be. A combination of bitter rage, invincible courage, and connections with the highest echelons of the service carried the matter. He had not expected to be so quickly lucky, but he had never had a doubt as to the final outcome; he would have followed the Welfare three times to hell and back. It had also been largely his battle when they came on her. Again his great connections alone would save him from the consequences of the decision to fire that point-blank broadside into one of His Majesty’s expensive and much-needed ships; for the Welfare had been so badly damaged that she had had to be beached. In Table Bay, in this season, whatever decision might be made in London as to her future, her fate in ultimate was likely sealed already.
Throughout the long voyage to Britain, Bentley maintained the status quo. He was recovering, but the rate was very slow. He found it hard to breathe, he ate and drank very little, he was never strong enough to stand for many minutes. Every time they hit cold weather his lungs reacted badly, things got worse. During the fine spells, when the sun was strong and hot, when the winds were soft and gentle, he would be carried to the quarterdeck and left to his devices. For he conveyed it pretty quickly to the quality on board that he was not to be approached. The young gentlemen tried to make friends, but not for long. He behaved rather like an old and ill-tempered cripple, snarling weakly at any who addressed him. Swift lost patience very early on; stopped talking heartily of how many villains they would hang. Bentley never contradicted him on this, never betrayed a hint as to what he thought. He just sat quietly, face hunched on sunken chest, and grunted with a total lack of interest. He observed the length of the decks morosely, thinking one day to see Jesse Broad. But the prisoners never came on deck, none of them. They were shackled far below, on the orlop deck, where for exercise they shook their manacles. The others of the Welfare’s people, the loyal men, were put to work. They would not have dared acknowledge him, in any case.