Blown Off Course (22 page)

‘English?’

O’Hagan nodded. ‘Stay here, while I have a gander,’ responding to a quizzical look with a slightly terse comment: ‘Sure, one man looking will not cause a ripple, but two might.’

Pearce did not agree, because Michael was of a size to do that on his own, so he dogged his heels as the voices grew louder, enough now for the words to be
identifiable as a rude drinking song. The place they entered was packed, full of smoke and noise, with a fair number of men obviously drunk – there were women bearing jugs moving to and fro – but even more of their fellows engaged with females who were whores by their manner, some flirting, others occupying a knee, while there seemed to be a degree of traffic of both sexes to and from the upper floor.

‘Full of the damned heathens,’ Michael said, more in envy than anger, ‘and all very oiled. Makes me harken for the Pelican.’

Pearce peered through the fug in vain for a place to sit – all the tables and chairs were occupied – while he was also aware they were being examined by quite a few of the drinkers – and not kindly, which had him whispering to Michael, ‘Hard bargains by the look of them.’

‘Sure, I would say they ain’t much different from them lot that fetched us over last night.’

‘They’re certainly enjoying themselves.’

‘And spending freely.’

Pearce shrugged. ‘Nothing to do with us, Michael, and I am not minded to ask who they are.’

‘John-boy, think on this, if they are like those boatmen from last night, they would not be here in such numbers if they could not come and go as they please.’

‘Let us hope you have the right of it.’

‘Shall we try for a place to sit?’

‘No, time to be making our way back.’

A troubled Arthur Winston was awaiting them and
it was clear his annoyance was directed at John Pearce, an attitude that fell on stony ground. ‘I think you are too sanguine about things, my friend, but I am not.’

‘We heard fellows carousing in English,’ Michael added. ‘Lots of them.’

‘You heard it too?’

‘You did not say before this was a place much frequented by our countrymen.’

‘It is a trading port and always has been.’

‘Even with a war on?’

Winston threw his hands up in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘Such a thing is of no concern to me, I am here upon my own affairs.’

‘A fair point, Arthur. What about your ship?’

‘She’s berthed where I last saw her and still loaded.’

‘Rigged for sea?’

‘I would say so, yes, but I lack your knowledge.’

‘Do I now qualify for a name?’

Winston had the decency to look abashed. ‘She is called
Hemoine
. You must understand, John, that once a man has been cheated …’ That became an unfinished sentence. ‘After such a short acquaintance—’

This time he was interrupted, but gently so. ‘It matters not, we are here now and I need to see her so I can decide what must be done to get her out to sea.’

Winston was up quickly. ‘Then let us do that.’ As Charlie and Rufus rose too, he added, ‘I do not think it is wise that we go as a group. It will draw attention to us.’

‘Suits me,’ Charlie responded, sitting down again, ‘though I am not much taken with this Flemish ale.’

‘Good,’ Pearce said, detecting a very slight slur in the voice. ‘Then you won’t have too much of it, given you will need a clear head. You stay here too, Michael, and keep an eye on him.’

As they exited, Pearce had Winston wrap his comforter around his lower face again. ‘You dare not risk being seen, for it will not take much to deduce why you are here.’

They did not exit through the gates but instead went up on to the deep band of greensward, the
grass-covered
earth that backed up the fortress walls where the cold wind, light in its strength, seemed unusually biting. From this high elevation Winston pointed out a two-masted vessel, deep in the water, which testified to her being fully loaded, with the sails furled tight on their spars, a jolly boat hanging from her transom, berthed below the bridge they had crossed to enter the town, with Pearce asking what type she was.

‘A Bilander and it is a common vessel in these waters.’

The broad beam pointed to the kind of shallow draught that she would need to sail canals, but it also indicated to him that this was not a vessel for any type of heavy sea, for with a limited depth of keel she would be much affected by the current, while at this high elevation he could feel the increase in the strength of wind that would play on her upper canvas. They watched for a while but no one came on deck or approached the vessel, while from their vantage point they could see the ocean waters, strangely grey under such a clear blue sky.

‘Is there anyone here about whom we can get an opinion of the weather?’

‘John, it is so calm I doubt I would be troubled by it and I am a poor sailor, as you already know.’

‘I need to know if it is likely to hold.’

‘Does your own experience not tell you?’

Pearce was disinclined to respond, mentally noting that Arthur Winston had become somewhat tetchy, behaviour he put down to the man’s nerves. He was not a man of action, he was a fellow at home in an office or a coffee house doing business. Instead, Pearce looked at the sky, bright blue with a few lines of high, wispy clouds streaming to the south-east, with the shape of a half-moon just visible, like a daub of faint chalk. There was no indication that the weather had altered, and if it did not he would have it, on the course he was set to take, coming in right over his stern but at no great strength, which was far from perfect.

Yet it was good weather and that was not a lasting thing; to wait for it to be perfect could be weeks. In his mind he plotted a variation on his course: he would head for the Goodwins, the wind coming in on his beam to up his rate of sailing, sure that the lanterns of berthed ships in the Downs, as well as the lights of Deal and its castles, would alert him to the danger of sailing too close to the sandbank if he arrived there in darkness. Those same lights would aid him in navigating the deep water at the tip of the southern end, where he could set up his signal lamps and head into the shallows of St Margaret’s Bay. Aware that Winston was
looking at him and in a slightly worried fashion, he finally responded.

‘My knowledge tells me that weather is a fickle mistress, Arthur, but with the tide making and high in the hours of darkness, if nothing changes in that sky above us we will attempt to take your
Hemoine
out at twilight. Now, I need to get close to her and see what numbers are aboard, and I would suggest that is something I should do alone, since even with that comforter over your face you might be recognised.’

Once out of the gates, Pearce wandered along the quays like a fellow out for an innocent stroll, hands behind his back, stopping occasionally to examine a barge or a ship long before he came to the
Hemoine
, noting, judging by how they lay in the water, that some of those he looked at were partially loaded, while others were showing copper and obviously empty, and on those the decks were all ahoo with coops and untidy ropes. Most striking was the lack of anyone present; they seemed a trusting lot in Gravelines.

Well short of
Hemoine
, her name was plain on the stern transom, he stopped to look, thinking she appeared to be in very good order, her black-painted sides shiny, and showing no signs of any of the kind of cracks caused by weather or sun. Moving closer, he could see the decks were clear, while the falls seemed to be of good rope and neatly arranged on their cleats in a way that would have pleased an inspecting king’s officer, the only problem being a growling dog, a large creature with her paws on the bulwarks, which barked
as he got to the edge of the gangplank.

As he was eying her, and no doubt alerted by the barking, an elderly, craggy-faced fellow, with bent shoulders, came up from below, his peg leg stomping first on the companionway steps and then the decking as he crossed to the gangway. Staring straight at him, Pearce was given to thinking he would have struggled to look benign, which he did not, even if he had smiled, while the way he cuffed the animal to silence was harsh. He had a hooked, many-times-broken nose, far from straight, beetle, near-white, overgrown eyebrows and untidy dewlaps of grey hair down his cheeks all topped by a greasy woollen cap. The gruff question he asked, more of a demand, was delivered in execrable French, which roughly translated enquired what he thought he was gawping at.

‘Un bon bateau, n’est-ce pas?’

About to ask if he was the owner, which might start a conversation and provide some information, his flattering description was met with a jerked thumb and two words spat out with real venom. ‘
Privé
’ and ‘
Marchez
!
’ There was no point in doing other in response than giving a shrug and moving on, which Pearce did with the same air of insouciance as he had used in approach. Aware he was being watched by the old misery, he stopped to look down into the next berthed vessel, a lugger, its deck being well below the level of the quay. He was hoping his adopted air of curiosity would send the irascible bugger back below, but it was not to be; the old fellow kept him under view, forcing him to walk on.

In truth, he had already gathered all the information he could reasonably hope to get and was, again, stuck with a series of unknowns. Were those furled sails of good canvas? Was there water in the well and how did it smell – of rot or just the usual odour of damp wood? What was the rigging like, though what he had seen looked to be sound and well maintained? More worrying was the fact that, if that old sod was keeping a sharp eye out, he could not get along this open quay without being seen. Against that he saw no evidence that he would have to deal with anything other than that one watch-keeper.

With a firmer step he retraced his walk, passing the
Hemoine
again, which was done under observation from those same beetle-browed eyes, though the fellow made a dumbshow of working on the binnacle brasswork. Pearce did not even look at him – he went by as though he had purpose, but the feeling of that basilisk look of deep suspicion boring into his back was palpable. Once back inside the walls, he made his way back up to the point at which Winston had first identified the ship. He lay down to avoid being spotted, then spent a whole hour watching the old fellow come and go from below, pleased there was no evidence of anyone else aboard, his back warmed by the sun, his front chilled by the damp grass. The whole quay remained relatively deserted, with only the odd person walking to and fro, which he put down to the low tide making it impossible to contemplate setting sail.

Back at the tavern, as he entered, he was met by a quartet of enquiring looks, most earnestly from Arthur
Winston, that met with a nod and the information that his supposition looked to be correct: there was only an anchor watch and not one that could not be dealt with. That was followed by a question.

‘What are the signals you have arranged at the landing place?’

The look that crossed Winston’s face had, once more, that air of caution, which irritated Pearce: what in the name of creation was wrong with the man? His eyes dropped, as did his head, and Pearce suspected he was wondering if that, too, was information best kept to himself, so he added, for it was the case, ‘It matters not, but we must go to the market outside the citadel and buy some raw meat.’

Given a clear sky and that gentle north-east wind, twilight was going to be a long drawn-out affair, and still that half of a moon was faintly visible in the clear blue sky, which suited the way Pearce wanted to approach matters. It would be best to avoid violence: that would attract attention from any people on the vessels berthed close by. Also, overlooked by the outer walls of the town, there was no way of knowing who might see what they were about. Possibly a concerned citizen could alert the estuary forts, which would induce unwelcome curiosity;
Hemoine
had to be taken over quietly and sailed out calmly.

The pistols, that same pair which Michael had wrested from the crimps, were quietly loaded in the tavern while those serving were out of view. The notion was advanced by Charlie Taverner that more shot might be an idea – there was only enough for a couple of reloads, but Pearce was of the opinion that unless they
had in mind to put a ball in someone that would be unnecessary – as stated before by the Irishman, the advantage lay in the threat not the discharge. After a last look at his watch, Pearce announced it was time to go and, bill settled, they made their way out into the now deeply shaded street, heading for the city gate and bright, if low sunlight.

As they made their way towards the gangplank they could see smoke coming from the chimney; hopefully the miserable old sod was busy at his dinner. Pearce, as a precaution against being recognised, walked behind Michael O’Hagan, Winston, once more obeying the instruction to hide his face behind his comforter, bringing up the rear, while Rufus skipped along well in front tasked to play the fool.

How the dog would react was a factor, the hope being that the way the old fellow had cuffed it hard, argued against it being well cared for: folk who behaved in that manner tended not to overfeed their animals. Certainly it had its paws up on the bulwark again, but before it issued a growl, Rufus tossed the first piece of raw horse meat over the side, which, whizzing past its ear, took its eye before the smell – they had bought some high, well-hung produce – took its nostrils. The paws disappeared.

‘Move,’ Pearce hissed.

Michael broke into a run, Pearce following, both producing pistols at the bottom of the gangplank before gingerly making their way onto the deck. Rufus kept the dog busy with more meat, but two weighty bodies could not board a floating platform without the deck
dipping and alerting the man left to watch. Charlie went to work on the line, tied around the aft bollard, preparatory to casting it off, Rufus making for the bows to do likewise, while Arthur Winston stood transfixed on the quay.

An indistinct voice called from below, to which Pearce did not respond as he and Michael, hearing the first stomp of that peg leg, took up a position on either side of the hatchway. There was an angry growling sound, obviously complaint, as he climbed the steps, but that ceased as he saw two pistols aimed at his head, while the light, coming from the east over the vessel’s stern, shone on John Pearce’s recognisable face.

‘
Vous!
’

A finger went to Pearce’s lips. ‘
Silence, mon vieux, au
…’

The pistol was waved and the message was clear. Michael reached down and grabbed at his clothing, hauling him up to deck level, which produced a whimper of terror, this as Pearce said softly in French that he had nothing to fear if he did exactly as he was told. Passing his pistol to Pearce, Michael dragged him, it had to be said without much protest, to the gangplank, indicating to Winston to come aboard, before Pearce instructed the old fellow to untie the dog, which was still chewing on the horse meat, and take him on to the quay.

‘Cast off those lines,’ Pearce called, now with two pistols aimed at the old fellow, not in the least surprised when his speaking in English got a shocked response. ‘Everybody aboard and haul in the gangplank. Pole us out into the channel. Michael, the wheel.’

Charlie and Rufus grabbed the long poles, hooked at one end, which were sat on the bulwarks, these placed against the quay and their backs bent. As the gap widened between ship and shore they were transferred to either side to get it moving downstream. Pearce called to the old fellow, reverting to French, telling him to stay where he was and not to seek to raise the alarm, an admonition that only lasted until he thought himself out of range. At that point he began to stomp back up the quay towards the town gate, dragging a very cowed dog behind him, while Pearce jammed the now uncocked pistol into his waistband.

‘Thank the Lord he cannot run,’ Winston said, pulling the comforter off his mouth.

‘We’re not clear yet, Arthur, put it back on.’

‘Would it anger you if I went to assess the state of my cargo? I need to see it has not perished.’

Pearce shook his head: there was nothing Winston could do on deck, and even if he had urged caution he knew the river current and poling was taking them downstream with relative ease. At some point he would have to get aloft and release some sail and it would be damned hard work with so few hands to employ at the task, but once they had dropped the canvas and sheeted it home it should be plain sailing, with little to do aloft until they were out in deep water. Then there would be ample time, safe from interference, to get set a proper suit of sails.

They edged into the long, straight canal now, the bowsprit pointing right out to sea and dissecting the two forts, both of which had the tide now lapping against
their walls. That incoming sea would slow them down, which was the critical point. Pearce could only guess how long Peg Leg would take to alert his employer and also what that man would do to react. If there was a beacon within Gravelines that could be lit to alert the forts, it was something of which he was unaware and could do nothing about – yet another unknown.

Winston came back on deck and it was clear by his smile he was satisfied. ‘I cannot fault him for his care, John, he has kept the ’tween decks dry and properly aired. No doubt the cook’s fire has helped.’

‘That we will have to extinguish for now.’

‘The copper has a sack of peas coming to the boil.’

‘Michael,’ Pearce called, ‘get below and douse that fire, but have a look to see what we have in the way of stores of food.’

‘Will we need any?’ Winston enquired.

‘That fellow who has come to the edge of that jetty?’ Pearce said, ignoring the question and pointing forward to a small wooden landing stage poking out from the southern fort. Winston turned to observe a white-uniformed fellow, a soldier and by the braid on his hat, an officer, standing overlooking the canal with a red flag in his hand. ‘Do you think he is there for a purpose?’

The flag, which had been idle in his hands, was now lowered. To Pearce it was like a signal to heave-to, an indication to say he required to check their papers. Winston was on his way to the foredeck as he replied, obeying a shouted suggestion he pull his muffler up again while Pearce, as precaution, steered to get as close
to the end of the jetty as was safe, calling for the poling to ease off so that they could pass by at a snail’s pace.

He eased the pistol out of his waistband and held it hidden by his thigh. ‘Be ready to get them going again, and hard.’

Winston was leaning over the bulwark, and what followed was a silent exchange, a wave as the flag dipped even more, and Winston calling something out that carried away on the breeze, this before he stretched out a hand to shake that of the man on the landing stage. As soon as contact was broken the red flag was dropped behind the parapet, to be immediately replaced by a blue equivalent, which was aimed and waved downstream, an indication to proceed, which had Charlie and Rufus poling again.

At the same time Michael came back on deck to report that there were a pair of food barrels, probably pork and beef, as well as a sack of peas, also the usual things carried by a sailing ship, but not much, given the holds were packed full of cargo, the conclusion of that exchange coinciding with the ship’s wheel coming abreast of the flag waver, who lifted off his
braid-edged
hat in salute, Pearce replying with a touch to his forehead. In short order they were beyond the forts and into the tidal flow, so the poles were abandoned and the three Pelicans, now barefoot, were sent aloft to let go of the foremast mainsail. It took time, and the canvas flapped loose until they could get back on deck and loop the sheet lines on to the cleats.

‘What was that all about?’ Pearce shouted to Winston as the bows lifted on the incoming waves, forcing the
man to grab a handhold and, grimacing, to put his other mitt to his stomach.

‘He was demanding evidence we had paid our port dues, John. You will not have seen it, but in that handshake I slipped him a few guineas. At least the propensity to take a bribe has not changed since the French abandoned the place.’

That was praiseworthy, but there was no time to say it as his friends, having been ordered to lash off the single sail, were now busy on the bowsprit, freeing the rolled-up canvas preparatory to hauling that aloft also, and more would be necessary, since against an incoming tide the ship was making little headway. Pearce called to Winston again, made sure his belly was stable – that acknowledged with a wan smile – and got him aft to hold the wheel, admonishing him to hold the head steady, this while he kicked off his own shoes and went to the aid of his fellow Pelicans.

What followed was a period of hard toil on the yards, shrouds and the deck, it being doubtful that without the strength of Michael O’Hagan they would have got aloft all Pearce knew they needed – the whole interspersed with endless instructions to Winston so that he could make slight adjustments to their heading. There was shallow water to either side of their keel and if the vessel was taken aback and the head let fall they could end up running aground on unknown sandbanks.

In time, their combined efforts saw enough canvas aloft. There was now enough way on the
Hemoine
to show a wake, so Pearce retook the wheel and, now that
he thought them out in deep water, he began to adjust the rudder and the sails to find the best point of sailing commensurate with the course he needed to follow, this as the last of the sunlight faded in the east, leaving a long orange-to-blue line along the horizon. Above, stars were beginning to show, as well as the crescent of a moon, which left the man on the wheel feeling very satisfied indeed – things had gone well.

‘Astern, John-boy,’ called Michael and in a tone that had Pearce spinning round.

Emerging from the mouth of the canal was a crowded, low-sided lugger, its great blood-red lanteen sail aloft, taut and lit by flaming torches in the hands of the men on deck. Grabbing the telescope in the rack by the binnacle, from the light they threw out Pearce could see the pointing arms all aimed in his direction.

‘Pursuit?’ demanded Winston, his voice strained on a face now devoid of blood: he was feeling badly the motion of the ship.

‘It would be foolish to suspect otherwise, Arthur.’

‘Can we outrun it?’

‘As yet I do not know.’

His original intention had been to leave the sail plan as it was – they had way and time had not been of the essence, but, if that was a band of Flemish traders come to the aid of their confrère, that was no longer the case: it would be best to seek an increase in speed. He had two choices, but in such light airs, and given his course and the direction of the wind, he had to favour the spanker over dropping the course on the mainmast, for that larger sail would only take
away wind from the forward canvas.

With sharp commands he had his friends on the lines to loosen the boom, so that it could be shifted to larboard. Raising such an amount of canvas was a doubly hard task with so few hands to work it, but eventually they got it up, lashed off and drawing, the increase in speed evidenced by the heel of the deck and the increase in white water running down the side.

‘I think they have gained on us, John,’ Winston said, his voice again unsteady, having kept an eye on what was, they were now in no doubt, a chase.

‘Let us see what effect our spanker has.’

‘Will we not need more?’

‘If we do, it will have to wait till daylight. I cannot send my friends aloft in the dark, they are too few.’

Both looked astern, to what was now no more than a red distant glow of numerous lanterns: someone had seen the folly of flaring torches so close to wood, tarred rope and dry canvas and had them extinguished.

‘If these fellows catch us, I doubt they will be gentle.’

‘If they catch us,’ Pearce snapped, ‘they will find out what the opposite of gentle means. Now, search the ship and see what weapons you can find.’ Pearce sighed then as a staggering Winston went below. ‘What I would not give for a long nine, a barrel of powder and a garland of iron shot.’

That would have seen them off in no time, while in his heart Pearce knew his chances of outrunning a fore-and-aft-rigged vessel, given the minimal strength of the wind, were limited in a lumbering and fully
loaded square-rigger. The Bilander had not been designed for speed; indeed, with its shallow draught it was not a creature for deep water either, and if the swell was slight, it, as well as the current, was playing on the lack of depth in the keel, this obvious by the way it kept seeking to fall off the course he needed to hold to.

Against that it was unlikely the lugger had any cannon either, so he was safe from that hazard, which would mean his masts and canvas would remain intact, and as long as that prevailed he could damn them to a continued pursuit of such length they might just desist, for if they were gaining, it was not swift. To board him from that much lower deck and get on the
Hemoine
’s while she was under way would be damned difficult, so the only thing he had to fear was to be becalmed, an almost unheard of event in these waters.

At first light he would get more canvas set, topsails and maybe even an upper topsail on the foremast, though he did recall being told more than once that more sail did not always translate into more speed. For all he had got them out to sea, he was aware again of a lack of that deep knowledge which came from a lifetime of naval service. That would hamper him in making decisions, especially given he had no time for experimentation.