Shocked, the quarterdeck could only look on silently as the lad got to his feet and, with a superhuman effort, thudded the musket down on his shoulder and started off, a nightmarish shamble with staring eyes.
‘Send for the doc,’ Bowden whispered to a messenger.
The surgeon came, a shrivelled individual. ‘That man’s not fit to continue,’ Bowden said in hard tones. ‘Do you not agree, sir?’
Looking about him fearfully, the surgeon went to Joyce who, in his Calvary, didn’t pause, slogging on endlessly, seemingly in a trance. ‘I, er, cannot see that—’
‘What in Hades are you doing there, Surgeon?’ thundered Tyrell, who had shot out on deck.
‘Why, um, this man’s—’
‘Do you think to interfere with my authority, sir?’
‘Er, not at all,’ quavered the man.
‘Then get about your business, sir.’
Bravely the sergeant came up and faced Tyrell. ‘He’s had enough, sir. Can’t you—’
‘I’ll not have my orders questioned!’ he roared, to the deck in general. ‘The next man who interferes will be arrested on the spot.’
The watch on deck lowered their eyes and returned to their motions while the pitiful figure staggered on.
It couldn’t last: near the fore-mast and without a sound the lad collapsed, the musket skittering across the deck. With a piteous effort he tried to rise, swaying on his feet, then dropped, this time moving no more.
Deadly looks were shot aft as seamen ran to him but Tyrell seemed not to notice, gazing up lazily to take in the set of the topgallants, at the seas creaming in to windward.
Bowden felt anger rising. It threatened to overwhelm him. He stared obstinately out to sea until it passed, leaving him shaken.
That night he came off watch at midnight, thankful for the sanctity of his little cot where he could fight down the images of the day. He eventually drifted off into a restless sleep.
At some time in the early hours he was jerked into consciousness by the sudden pandemonium of cries and running feet above.
Heart thumping, he dropped to the deck and, pulling on a coat, headed for the after hatchway as fast as he could.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked hurrying figures in the darkness.
‘Don’t know,’ one man said hoarsely. ‘I’m getting topside, whatever!’
As he fought his way up, Bowden’s mind tried to grapple with sensations. The ship was still under way, for a live deck was under his feet with none of the deadly stillness to betray a grounding on a reef. There were no shots or firing, no stentorian orders or thundering drums in urgent summons to action – just men spilling up on deck from below in a bewildered throng.
He hurried to the wheel. The quartermaster was standing stolidly next to the helmsman.
‘What’s the alarm, man?’ Bowden demanded.
‘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!’