By the Mast Divided (11 page)

Taken from the Liberties there was a distinct possibility of some criminality in his background, greater than mere indebtedness. No matter, whatever he was in life, he had ideas above his new station. That they would be knocked out of him – either painfully or by persuasion
– was beyond doubt. If he had too sharp a tongue he could be gagged, too rebellious a personality, then he would find himself stapled to the deck for a day or more; and finally there was the lash, which would most certainly teach him his place. Nonetheless Ralph Barclay was reinforced in his opinion that he was perhaps one to keep a special eye on.

Barclay’s ruminations on Pearce had to be put aside as Gherson, the last to be sworn, demanded that he should be sent ashore immediately: he was a person of means who had powerful friends who would miss his presence. This, because of his unconvincing delivery, the lack of any kind of name when challenged, and his present state of dress, bedraggled and shoeless, was treated as a general joke around the ship, which had the surgeon scribbling furiously in his little book, so furiously that he attracted the attention of the captain, which led Lutyens to cough and blush, and put his notebook in his pocket.

Once they had all been listed, Ralph Barclay produced papers and began to read. ‘By the powers vested in me by the Lord Commissioners executing the office of Lord High Admiral of Great Britain, I hereby inform all who have volunteered to serve their King in this, his vessel, do so under the provisions of the Articles of War, which promulgated by said body, are as follows…’

The list was long, offence after offence, a worrying number ending with the admonition that the punishment for breaking that particular statute, cowardice in the face of the enemy, failure to obey an order, sleeping while on duty, striking a superior, sodomy, bestiality and mutiny, was death. All other punishments for gambling, drinking, insubordination, lese majesty, fighting, slacking, poor seamanship, sitting on the deck and ten dozen other offences were punishable at the captain’s discretion.

When he said those words, ‘the captain’s discretion’, Barclay looked up from his reading, giving them all a look in turn so that they would know what it meant; that he was the sole judge and jury in these matters; his word was law. Barclay met the look of irritation that the man entered as John Truculence threw him and held it for a moment before discounting it; he would learn soon enough that to display such obvious belligerence was unadvisable. Barclay finished with the words, ‘anyone disobeying the aforesaid does so at their peril’.

That ceremony concluded, the whole party was finally led below, with the voice of Barclay following them down the companionway. ‘We have had enough larking about for one day, Mr Roscoe, and enough of a show. Get the hands back to a proper rate of work. Then, when I am ready, you can join me in my cabin to sort out the watches.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘Some King’s bounty,’ Abel Scrivens complained, ‘given with one hand and damn well taken away with the other.’

‘Happen you should go back up and tell him, Abel,’ said Ben Walker.

‘I’ve a damn good mind to do just that, Ben,’ Scrivens grunted. ‘There’s no fair dealing when coin is offered and then taken back.’

The remark brought forth a chorus of agreement from the whole assembly, a steady growl that obviously emboldened Abel Scrivens because, in a piqued voice, he began a litany of complaints about being cold, being near naked, starving hungry and thirsty, that took the accompanying noise from a collective rumble to the beginnings of a collective wail. Pearce was paying little attention – he was looking along the deck, at the wooden tables in between the guns, each bearing a variety of objects, bits of clothing, quids of tobacco, knives, baulks of wood and the like – things that could be used as weapons. More enticing still, in front of those guns the ports were open, leaving a possible route of escape.

Escape to what – the river or the boats lying off the ship’s side? Either would do if he could get away, though the thought did nag him that the loss of his purse was, for obvious reasons, a real hindrance. Both to the front and rear men were working, paying the newly pressed men no heed, helping to lower articles through the hatches to some point further down in the ship, so Pearce began to ease himself forward, heading for the nearest gunport, unnoticed by the men listening to Scrivens. The beams on this deck were too low for him to walk upright, and here he had his first whiff of a smell that pervaded everything aboard ship, one he recalled from two crossings of the English Channel, the rotten egg stink of bilge water mixed with the odour of damp wood, topped by the reek of animals and unwashed humanity.

‘Belay that damned noise,’ barked a new voice, which shut up Scrivens and his audience as if they were a bunch of errant children. ‘And you,’ he demanded of Pearce, ‘where the hell do you think you’re goin’? Get back with the rest.’

With no choice but to oblige, Pearce did so, glaring at the speaker, a bear of a fellow with a barrel chest, huge shoulders, little neck and a round, large, crop-haired head which rendered small what were
decentsized
features. ‘I am Robert Sykes, Bosun of His Majesty’s twenty-eight gun frigate, HMS
Brilliant
. Just to prove we ain’t true bastards, the captain has agreed to feed you, even though the hour for breakfast is long passed.’

Charlie Taverner responded with a slight jab at Pearce’s shoulder, one that implied a friendship they truly did not share. ‘Thank Christ for that, I ain’t had a bite since I nicked a bit of your cheese last night, John Pearce.’

The fierce look that earned him was enough to make Taverner flush, for he had been close enough to hear Pearce refuse to volunteer his name to the officer swearing them in. He must have indeed overheard him when he gave it to O’Hagan. There was no doubt that the bosun had noted it now, because he gave a slight nod.

Kemp, who had come down as well, tapped off four of the group, Rufus among them, and ordered them to follow him, while Sykes told the rest to sit at some of the mess tables. As they did so the surgeon walked by, stopped, then stood several feet away, his eyes ranging over the whole group. He was followed by another officer, who stood before them with the air of a man about to make a speech, which he promptly did when Kemp and his quartet returned with lumps of bread and cheese.

‘I am Lieutenant Digby, third of this ship, HMS
Brilliant
.’ Digby paused to let that sink in, before adding, ‘The method by which you have come to serve aboard this vessel is to none of you pleasant, but serve you must, for after taking the oath on deck you are subject to the Articles of War, and those articles do not allow for any insubordination. Do not, whatever you do, seek to fight the system of discipline aboard this ship, for I warn you that retribution will be swift and unpleasant. You will all be given a number and be assigned to a watch, of which there will be two once we weigh anchor, and you will be allotted duties to perform by Mr Sykes here, who as the bosun is responsible for training you up to your work. Without doubt this world you have entered will be strange, as will the tasks you will be asked to carry out, but in time you will learn enough to make you proper members of the crew.’

‘Orders from Mr Roscoe, sir,’ piped Burns, coming down the stairwell. ‘He requires the new hands to be put to work immediately on the forward derrick.’

A deep frown creased the lieutenant’s face – it was clearly an order he did not welcome.

‘Wait here,’ Digby said, making to go up past the little midshipman, before he was halted by the surgeon’s voice.

‘Lieutenant Digby,’ said Lutyens. ‘I do believe the Captain said I could attend to the man with the blood wound.’

‘Of course.’ Digby looked at Charlie Taverner, demanding his name. ‘Go with Mr Lutyens.’

Roscoe was on the quarterdeck, in an old working coat, his lopsided
face a picture of the kind of frustration that seemed to be the hallmark of a First Lieutenant. Though it was an office he coveted, Henry Digby was well aware that it was, in naval terms, and given the wrong type of commanding officer, the proverbial poisoned chalice. As Premier to a taut captain like Ralph Barclay you got scant praise and all the blame that was going if things went wrong. So the lack of a smiling countenance was hardly surprising.

‘Sir,’ Digby said, lifting his hat to a look of indifference. ‘These new fellows have not even been shown the layout of the ship, I…’

Roscoe cut across him. ‘Perhaps Mr Digby, with my permission, you can go to the captain and explain why the holds are not yet stowed. We are under orders to weigh, we still have stores coming aboard, and that does not allow for indulgence. Be so good as to obey the instruction you have been given. And might I suggest that someone who knows how to drive them, Kemp perhaps, be detailed to that duty, for they will not work with a will unless they are made to.’

‘Sir,’ Digby replied, because there was no other option.

Backside on a wooden chest, being attended to by the surgeon, Charlie Taverner was left to wonder how Lutyens had come by the title, for he had not received it for tenderness.

‘This particular herbal curative is called Melissengeist, and is of German provenance, made by the nuns of a particular Rhineland abbey. The ingredients are secret, unlike the effect, which can be remarkable when used on a wound.’

If Lutyens had bothered to look into the face of Charlie Taverner, he might have had some notion of how ham-fisted he was being. Every time he jabbed at the wound on his patient’s head, Charlie winced, though he kept himself from emitting any sound. On deck, the man Lutyens had already treated in a like manner, who also had broken skin on his crown, a quarter gunner by the name of Dysart, was warning his fellow crew members that their new surgeon, ‘was as close to a sorcerer as he had ever seen, with his strange reeking foreign potions, as well as bein’ a heavy handed bugger’.

‘Charlie Taverner,’ Lutyens said.

Though it was not a question, Taverner answered in the positive.

‘You’re not a seaman?’ the surgeon asked.

‘My you are the quick one, your honour,’ Charlie responded, eyebrows raised, eyes twinkling, thinking that it was a daft question. ‘You’ve gone and seen me for what I really am, a proper gent.’ Lutyens just looked at
Charlie, as he added, ‘Hard as I tried to hide it.’

‘You choose to be jocose?’

‘I might if’n I knew what it meant.’

‘What was your occupation?’

‘How does grave robber sound? Bet you, being a medical cove, has bought a few corpses in your time.’

‘I have, and I doubt they came from you, for robbing graves is hardly necessary when so many cadavers can be had from the streets or the river. So what was your true employment?’

‘Let’s just say this and that, your honour. Obliging Charlie Taverner they called me. You wanted something done, I was there to do it.’

‘No trade then?’

‘None that warrants the name.’

The surgeon was looking at him in an odd way, unblinkingly, like a cat would look at a caged bird, which served to remind Charlie of what he had temporarily forgotten – where he was and why.

‘Are any of the others come aboard your friends?’

‘One or two,’ Charlie replied, more guardedly.

‘Anyone in particular – that fellow who refused to give his true name perhaps?’

Charlie positively spat, ‘No.’

Lutyens sighed, as if frustrated, seemed set to pose another question – then thought better of it. ‘You are done. You may join your fellows on the upper deck.’

‘Where would that be?’

It was pleasing to see the man hesitate for just a second – evidence that he was not himself certain. ‘Just keep ascending the stepways, until you are in daylight.’

Charlie Taverner walked out, barging into a slip of a boy with two black eyes and a very swollen nose, waiting to be attended to. He recognised him as one of the party who had come first into the Pelican, and who, slipping out, had no doubt been the messenger to those outside to say that it was safe to raid. Clearly he had taken part in what followed and got clobbered for his trouble – now he had come to see the surgeon to have his nose repaired. Charlie, with a deft yet sharp use of the elbow, made sure it was bleeding again before the boy entered the sick bay, and he proceeded jauntily away from the stream of muffled curses that followed the blow.

The sight of the captain, with a woman clearly his lady on his arm, was enough to make him produce a show of haste.

Ralph Barclay had no time for this, showing his wife the layout of the ship – but it was a necessary courtesy. Heads bent under the low beams, he pointed out the various cabins, really tiny screened-off cubicles, occupied by the various petty officers, pleased as he pulled back each piece of canvas which served as a door to find them empty; that meant the occupant was busy, going about his duties.

‘This is the home of the ship’s surgeon, Mr Lutyens.’

That screen, pulled back, showed a boy sat on a chest with his head held back, while the surgeon sought to stem the copious flow of blood emanating from his nose.

‘My dear,’ said Barclay, seeking to shield his wife from the sight.

‘I have seen blood before, husband. My brothers seem to be able to get into all sorts of scrapes. I would be blessed indeed if I had a guinea for every nosebleed or scraped knee I have attended to.’

‘Mr Lutyens, allow me to introduce you to my wife.’

Lutyens shoved a piece of tow under Martin Dent’s nose, then looked at his blood-covered mitts. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Barclay, if I do not shake your hand.’

Emily smiled and nodded. ‘I understand, sir, and acknowledge your consideration.’ Then she looked at the boy on the chest. ‘And you are?’ Martin Dent responded with his name, but indistinctly, through blood and tow. ‘And how did you come by this?’

‘Won o’ ’em biggers we took up lass night.’

Ralph Barclay cut in quickly. ‘A blow taken in the line of duty, my dear, which I suggest would benefit from our leaving Mr Lutyens to attend to it.’

Lutyens gave a slight bow, but thanks to Barclay’s hustling, it was to the female back. ‘And now we come to the domain of the gunner, my dear.’