By the Mast Divided (10 page)

Pearce had a keen eye for a pretty woman, and the one he was looking at now was most certainly that, unblemished skin pink from the cold air, even features in a sweet oval face, clear green eyes, straight nose and a full-lipped mouth, slightly open, that was to him like an invitation to a kiss. For a moment it was as if the last twenty-four hours had not happened – he was free from pursuit or capture, back in a world where the sudden sight of a beautiful female brought forth the thrill of the chase. He was halfway to framing the words of an introduction when Barclay stepped forward.

‘How dare you, scum, stare at my wife!’ the captain cried, cuffing Pearce hard round the ear. The object of Barclay’s anger just had time to register the shock on that lovely face before the force of the blow turned his head away.

The sight of that piece of casual brutality, and the way that the victim took it without vocal complaint, made Emily look at all the men shuffling aboard, not murmuring now but silent and fearful. She knew that her knowledge of ships and the sea was limited, really no more than common gossip mingled with what she had seen at tented raree-shows when a fairground was set up on the nearby common. But she was aware, for the very first time in her life, she was looking at men who had been press-ganged into the Navy.

Raised to deplore a thing of which she had only heard in whispers, Emily fought to compose her features, knowing that what sympathy she might have for the plight of such creatures was not to be shown. She was the wife of a naval captain and must behave like one.

‘You are Mr Lutyens, the surgeon?’

The surgeon nodded, as Ralph Barclay tried to recall what little he knew of this fellow: short of stature, bright-eyed and pointy-nosed, with a startled expression, he was certainly singular. Very well connected apparently, of a sober disposition, and from a proper medical school, Lutyens was an unusual cove to find in a Navy more accustomed to men better at being barbers than mendicants – and quite often serious drunkards. So well qualified was this Lutyens that if he were to serve in the fleet at all, it should have been in some flagship with an admiral and a spacious sickbay. Apparently he had declined just such an offer,
asking instead for a frigate, which made Ralph Barclay suspect there was something not right about him. It mattered little; here was another person he was not at liberty to choose – the Sick and Hurt Board provided his warrant and attested to his competence.

‘Then let me welcome you aboard, sir, though I would appreciate more despatch when I ask that you attend the deck, especially in circumstances when we are obliged to weigh anchor with haste.’

‘I was asked to clean and bandage a wound, I believe from a sailor who was with you last night.’

‘It is customary, Mr Lutyens, to allow the captain of a King’s ship the courtesy of sir.’

‘Then, sir, far be it from me to contravene a custom.’

‘I have acquired some volunteers,’ Barclay added, ignoring a response that bordered on the facetious, though disconcerted by the way this fellow, with his protruding eyes, continued to stare at him, as if he was a needy patient. ‘Naturally they must be passed fit for service.’

Lutyens turned towards the men lined up on the fore part of the quarterdeck, backs to the rail that surrounded the waist, a group of sorry looking specimens in damp clothing made to look more depressed by the evidence of the blows they had received. Behind them stood members of the crew, faces set firm, clearly there to stamp on any temptation to talk or protest.

‘This fellow also needs his wound cleaned,’ Lutyens said, as he stood in front of Charlie Taverner, the only one of the men who had bled copiously enough to stain his clothing, though there were bruises, scratches, black eyes and split lips in abundance.

‘You may treat him as soon as he is entered on the ship’s muster, Mr Lutyens. The King’s Navy is not a charity foundation. What is vital is to ensure these fellows do not introduce any fevers to the ship. We will be at sea very shortly and who knows what ailments these creatures have been exposed to in the gutters from which they come.’

‘Then if I am to be sure they are free of ailments, sir, they must strip off their clothing.’

Ralph Barclay reacted with a weary sigh. ‘Mr Lutyens, be so good as to pass fit what men are fit. I have always observed others of your profession carried this out with a look at the eyes, an examination of the tongue and a quick check for venereals.’

That statement coincided with the moment Lutyens reached the end of the line of twenty souls, where he found himself looking into the eyes of one fellow who had a very defined spark of real defiance. Pearce was
seething – even unbound he felt like a prisoner, and to be stood here like some exhibit in a travelling show was worse. That arbitrary cuff from Barclay as he had come aboard, so casual, dragging him from reverie back to reality, accepted by everyone around as within the captain’s prerogative, just served to underline his situation, and he was not prepared to hide his mood to correspond to the benign look of the man before him.

‘A proper examination requires the patient to strip.’

‘They are not patients, Mr Lutyens,’ Barclay sighed, ‘they are hands. However you may request that they remove any outer garments and their shirts. The unbuttoning of their breeches will suffice for the rest.’

Seeing Barclay in daylight, Pearce was struck by the man’s appearance. The uniform gave him a presence that commanded those around him – blue cutaway coat with twin gold epaulettes, the snow-white waistcoat and breeches and a face that perhaps had once been fetching. Now it had a puffy quality, and the veins on his cheeks were broken, either by exposure to the elements or a love of the bottle.

‘If that is what you wish,’ the surgeon replied testily, ‘but they risk suffering from cold.’

Pearce thought this Lutyens an odd fish, pale complexion, popping eyes, a prow of a nose even if it was small, a high forehead topped by fine ginger-curled hair. The voice was strange too – it had a rolling quality on the consonants that seemed to imply it was not the surgeon’s native tongue. And why was the bastard smiling at him, as though they shared a friendship?

‘The men will get used to the elements soon enough, Mr Lutyens,’ Barclay replied. ‘Best they find out now that what the Good Lord wills us in the way of weather has to be borne.’

‘Coats off, you swabs,’ barked Coyle, coming up on Pearce’s left ear, ‘as the good doctor wants, shirts an’ all.’ His voice dropped to a whisper as he spoke, for he, close to the ‘volunteers’, had seen the fury on the bruised face, which if anything had deepened at the command to strip. ‘Now we can do this hard, mate, if’n that what you desire. But it will be done, so it best be done with a will.’

Glancing along the line Pearce saw that half the men, nudged and goaded by the crew members, had already begun to obey the command, though not without some vocal complaint. Within seconds those who had hesitated were forced to follow, each man obeying an injunction to place what he discarded at his feet. For him to rebel would be to single himself out, and that would have only one consequence. He knew
enough about the Navy from hearsay and conversations with ex-sailors to be aware just how often the men who served were punished.

‘I promise my examination will be brief, fellow,’ said Lutyens, still with that smile which annoyed Pearce. ‘Then you can get dressed again.’

Barclay’s voice boomed out again. ‘Mr Farmiloe, take possession of the volunteers’ outer garments as they discard them, coats and the like, those they will no longer need. As they are sworn in I want them, as well as any possessions they may wish to place below, listed and then stored safely.’

That had Pearce doubly damning himself for his lack of foresight – he should have guessed that he and his money could be parted. Yet even as he cursed he knew that an opportunity to do anything about it was as lacking now as it had since he had been taken up and his hands bound – the last thing he needed to do was to draw public attention to what he possessed. Mind blank for a solution he unbuttoned the coat and slipped it off, followed by his waistcoat and his shirt. He felt the damp that had permeated his outer garments, and penetrated through to the linen, which made the wind doubly biting on his exposed skin.

‘Any chance of getting off?’ O’Hagan asked the ship’s surgeon. Leaning close to Pearce’s right ear, he added, ‘I have a craving for a drop of ale to ease the ache in my head.’

If Lutyens heard the Irishman he did not respond. He lifted Pearce’s arms, poked his chest, and prodded his belly, while Pearce looked along the line of semi-naked individuals shivering in the biting wind. Beyond that, the shoreline was visible, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, a row of low yellow-brick houses backing on to a flat featureless island, as well as, in between, a dozen anchored ships of war, some huge, with dozens of gunports, others tiny enough hardly to qualify for the title of ship. Looking over his shoulder he realised there was land even closer, a marsh by the look of, so flat as to be almost invisible, and between this ship and that shore, far fewer boats. In between was a river mouth leading to another clutch of huddled houses, wide, busy, and with a castle visible on the left hand shore.

Could he swim to the nearest land, and if so what would the men on those ships between him and the shore do? They would scarce let him float by, and even if they did, what would he find to aid him on land? Probably there was a whole raft of folk who would turn him in for a reward, and that after robbing him of anything he possessed. Turning back, he became aware that O’Hagan was looking at him hopefully, that the question he had posed was serious. Pearce slowly shook his head, at
the same time wondering why the Irishman was seeking his opinion.

The surgeon barely looked at Pearce as he obliged with an outstretched tongue, nor when he undid he breeches, and as soon as he had satisfied himself regarding whatever it was he was looking for he simply said, ‘Get dressed’, and moved on to the next victim.

‘Breeches, shirt and waistcoat, mate,’ said Coyle, grabbing Pearce’s coat from his hand as he tried to reclaim it. ‘That’s all you’ll need. An’ we’ll be having your shoes and stockings as well.’

‘There’s something of value in that coat,’ Pearce growled, not willing to say it was a purse or what it contained.

Coyle lifted the garment and felt the very obvious weight, nodding his head in recognition. ‘Which be safe as houses, mate, you heard the captain, whatever it be. There ain’t a man Jack aboard who don’t have something of worth stowed in the holds, so you can rest easy, you ain’t fallen among a bunch of thieves.’

‘So taking a man’s liberty is not thieving?’ Pearce demanded, far from reassured.

Coyle came close again, his red face only an inch from Pearce’s, his voice soft, almost supplicant. ‘Take my advice, mate, an’ accept what can’t be altered. And don’t go being the smart tongue ’board ship either, ’cause that will only get you trouble.’

‘Cough.’

Lutyens command to O’Hagan cut off Pearce’s response; besides Coyle had turned away. The Irishman cleared his throat of phlegm, as if he was going to spit. Coyle was ahead of him.

‘Let fly with that in view of the captain, and you’ll be the first to the grating on this commission.’

They all ended up much the same by the time the surgeon had finished his examination, shivering with cold, eager to end their semi-nakedness, aware that comments were being made about them by the crew working close by without being actually able to hear what was being said, only that it was belittling. By the time he reached the last man the surgeon had identified one case of the pox and pronounced one fellow as unfit for duty due to some ailment to do with his groin, but that was no recipe for release, since Barclay merely pointed out that in doing so Mr Lutyens had found himself a loblolly boy to assist in the sick bay. As to the pox Barclay reckoned there would be more than one fellow aboard who had that ailment, and since the surgeon earned a fee for treating the disease, he should be pleased.

‘Right, Mr Roscoe,’ called the captain, ‘let’s get them sworn in.’

That was a true farce, as, forced into a shuffling line, the required oath of allegiance to King George, his heirs and successors was read out to each man, any attempt to protest age or occupation as an excuse for release so quickly silenced that those bringing up the rear, the party who shared a boat with Pearce, declined to even try. Each man was told by Barclay, in a piece of hypocrisy even more staggering, that, in volunteering, he was entitled to a bounty of five pounds sterling, a sum which would be entered against his name to help pay for those things he would need throughout the voyage.

‘I’d prefer any money owing to be given out to me,’ said Abel Scrivens, when his turn came.

‘Mark this man’s name, Mr Roscoe,’ said Barclay, disdaining to even look at Scrivens. ‘Should he fail to show the respect due to an officer again I will see him gagged for a week.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

Scrivens was grabbed and hustled to the back of the line.

Watching these proceedings gave Pearce plenty of time to think and observe. He noticed that the surgeon had taken up a position close by and was jotting in a small notebook as each man gave his name, which was worrying. What was the purpose of such scribbling? Whatever, it made him decide not to gift anyone his own. But he was damned if he was going to lie and refused to give any: this the Navy was clearly quite used to and was taken care of by the making up of a name to be entered into a ledger, in his case John Truculence, and the entering by that name of a cross.

Ralph Barclay stared hard at Pearce as he read him the oath. His look was returned in full measure, which made him wonder at the nature of the man. That cuff he had meted out for staring at his wife should have seen the fellow cowed, but he was far from that. He was well set, tall, with good broad shoulders and no fat at the waist. The legs were strong too, and the look in the eye denoted intelligence, in every sense the kind of physical specimen Ralph Barclay had set out to find. Yet he was possibly more – the fear of having inadvertently taken up someone well connected resurfaced, but this fellow, for all the glare of defiance, gave no name, made no protest nor demanded to be set on shore or taken before a Justice of the Peace.