‘As we split the fore course, sir,’ he said calmly. ‘Captain wants we should shift to a new ’un and won’t wait for day.’
Bowden couldn’t believe his ears.
‘So he clears lower deck o’ both watches an’ we do it now.’
It took his breath away. The fore course was the main sail on the fore-mast. To replace it with another was a major task: not only had it to be handed, secured and sent down, but the replacement had to be roused out from decks below, lashed together in a long sausage and sent up, tons’ weight of canvas on bending strops into the tops, the work of hours.
In the darkness it was unthinkable – but it was happening. Bowden went forward in the gloom: sullen men were being mustered for the job. He peered up at the sail. It was indeed split, from top to bottom along a seam but apart from spilling its wind it did not seem a danger to the ship.
It could have waited until morning, but by his action Tyrell was condemning the entire ship to loss of precious sleep to which they were entitled. The watch below would have had barely an hour of rest since their last duty, and while seamen would willingly go aloft to save the ship this was no man’s idea of a life-or-death situation.
There were growls and snarls under cover of darkness, but the work went on. Lines stretched along for hoisting, buntlines overhauled and above, almost invisible in the darkness, topmen manning the yards and fisting the canvas as the sail was brought in.
It was madness. Tyrell stood to one side, watching, his arms folded truculently as the sail was made up for unbending. Then, out in the night, there was a despairing shriek, cut short by a sickening thud as a man out on the yard scrabbled, lost his hold in the blackness and plummeted to his death.
All work ceased. A venomous muttering began but Tyrell stalked immediately to the centre of the deck. ‘Get those men back to work, damn your blood!’ he roared up to the tops. ‘Now!’
It was a turning moment. Bowden sensed the resentment turn to a visceral hatred, the sullen obedience now a feral wariness.
Hannibal was headed into the unknown.
It was an hour after dawn when the last line was belayed and the sail trimmed to the wind. The men went below without a word but the glances flashed aft could not be mistaken in their meaning.
As the day went on there was a rising feeling of menace, as if a fuse had been lit. Bowden had the last dogwatch and watched apprehensively as the bright day changed by degrees into a creeping darkness. At three bells a figure detached from the cabin spaces and shuffled towards him. It was Joyce.
‘Sir, I’d be obliged for a piece of your time,’ he said, in a low voice.
‘Of course,’ Bowden said, and moved up the deck out of hearing of the group at the conn.
Joyce seemed to have difficulty bringing out the words, then blurted, ‘I was asked by the men where I stood an’ all.’
Bowden went cold. There was no doubting the meaning. The ship was a powder keg.
‘In the event of …’
‘Aye, sir.’
There was only one answer. ‘On your honour, you must stand true to the ship.’
‘I knew you’d say that, sir.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘An’ I thank you for it, Mr Bowden.’ He moved painfully away.
Bowden paced forward. His duty now was clear and there was no putting it aside. He must formally tell the captain what he had heard.
Or should he stand back and let the man take what was coming to him for his inhuman treatment of his men?
The moral case for allowing things to take their course was strong, especially as by disclosing what Joyce had told him he was condemning the boy to a court-martial at the least for breach of the Articles of War in not having immediately informed the captain himself.
On the other hand if he didn’t and it turned into a bloody mutiny there would be lives lost and a vengeful Admiralty would be pitiless. By forewarning it could be prevented – and his oath to the Crown would remain untarnished.
By the end of the watch he had decided.
‘Come!’ Tyrell sounded irritable.
Bowden entered the great cabin, its spare and bleak appearance so different from that in any other ship-of-the-line he had seen.
Tyrell was standing by the stern windows, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Yes?’ he said, without looking round.
‘Sir, I wish to report-’
‘Ah, Bowden,’ Tyrell said, swinging round to face him. ‘Always pleased to see a loyal and upright officer. What is it I can do for you?’
Taken aback by his welcome, Bowden hesitated.
‘You want to report …?’
‘Ah, sir. A grave matter.’ Whatever it took, he would not involve Joyce by name.
‘Oh?’ The amiable expression remained unaffected.
‘Sir, I was approached by a member of the ship’s company who saw fit to inform me that certain unnamed individuals were disaffected and no longer reliable. Sir, in my opinion the people are in a state of incipient mutiny.’
It was said.
‘Why, you came down to tell me this? God bless you, Mr Bowden, for your concern on my behalf. Is there anything else?’
‘Er, this is to say, I’ve no reason to doubt that the men could rise at any time, sir, and-’
‘Calm yourself, Mr Bowden, it’s not as you fear. When you’ve been in the Service as long as I, you’ll realise that the scum are always in a state of mutiny, the dogs. Only hard discipline keeps ’em tranquil.’
‘Sir, I-’
‘For you, for the sake of your fears, I’ll take steps. You’ll learn that swift and decisive measures are an infallible remedy for these vile creatures.’
‘Er, thank you, sir.’
‘Captain of Marines this instant!’ he called loudly, to the sentry outside his door, who hurried to obey.
The officer arrived, breathless and confused.
‘Ah, Captain. I’ll have every marine sentry throughout the ship on duty with their bayonets ready fixed. Fixed, you understand?’
‘Um, yes, I’ll do it now.’ His eyes darted from Bowden to Tyrell with incomprehension but he left quickly.
‘There. The sight of naked steel will always steady the wayward, don’t you think?’ Tyrell said pleasantly.
Bowden could think of nothing to say. For any marine between decks the bayonet would be an intolerable impediment and impossible to wield, and what the seamen would think of this passed belief.
‘If you suffer any further disquiet, please feel you can approach me at any time. This is the duty any captain must owe his officers.’
‘Er, thank you, sir, I will.’
The wardroom at supper was tense. There was little conversation and each officer avoided any other’s eye.
The table was cleared and the president called for port. With deliberate emphasis he invited Mr Vice to make the loyal toast, which was given in guarded tones.
Afterwards, when normally the wardroom would relax into comfortable reminiscence, there was only an awkward silence. There were wary looks about the table, one or two comments on the dishes and then nothing.
‘Damn it!’ Griffith burst out. ‘Is no one going to speak?’
Eyes turned to him.
‘Clear the cabin o’ the serving staff!’ he snapped. ‘And send away the sentry.’
This was unprecedented. In effect the first lieutenant was reducing those present to the wardroom officers of Hannibal only.
‘No one to leave! Who’s the officer-of-the-watch?’
‘Mason,’ someone said nervously.
‘Right, we’ll do without him. So we’re all in this together – agreed?’ he snapped.
‘What can you mean by that, sir?’ gasped Jowett, the second lieutenant.
‘What I say, sir,’ Griffith ground out, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial quiet, ‘is this. It can’t go on and, whether we like it or no, we’re the ones to suffer in the end.’
The third, Briggs, had no qualms about an opinion. ‘He’s mad, of course. Anyone who’s passed by the Bedlam hospital knows what to look for.’
‘And what’s that?’ growled Maitland, the sailing master.