By the Mast Divided (12 page)

Emily tried to take in everything her husband said about the danger of gunpowder and explosions, of hanging magazines, fear nought screens that were wetted before a battle, men having to enter the magazine in felt slippers and no light to see by excepting that which came from a lantern shielded by glass, but it was all delivered at such a pace she was sure she only got the half of it.

‘It is one of the most important keys I hold, my dear, and one of the most precious resources on the ship, for if the gunner does not properly carry out his duties, we would be helpless in a sea fight.’ Another screen was pulled back, to reveal a plump middle-aged lady, sewing a piece of canvas by lantern-light. ‘Ah, Mrs Railton, allow me to name my wife to
you. My dear, this is the gunner’s wife, the only other lady aboard the ship, who amongst other things, looks after the younger mids at night.’

The woman was up quickly, surprisingly so given her bulk, for on her feet she was as broad as she was high: that wasn’t much; her head missed the beams by several inches.

‘And I have duties to perform, my dear, which cannot wait,’ Barclay added, clearly eager to be off. Emily, having found a woman to talk to, was less keen.

‘Am I at liberty to find my own way back to your cabin?’

Barclay, head already bent, came lower to kiss her hand. ‘It is now our cabin, my dear, and of course you are at liberty to go anywhere you choose’. He added, as he departed, ‘Though I would caution against going anywhere near the holds.’

‘Mrs Railton,’ said Emily, turning back to the gunner’s wife, round red face, lowered so that she did not meet Emily’s eye.

A curtsy, then a soft, ‘Ma’am.’

Looking around the confined space, which could be no more than ten feet by four, Emily tried to imagine how this lady slept in it, never mind her husband and God knew how many others. Lost for a compliment, she said, ‘Snug, very snug.’

‘Ma’am.’

‘How many boys do you care for?’

Finally their eyes met. ‘Only one, ma’am. Mr Burns.’

Emily was about to say, ‘Who is my nephew,’ but Mrs Railton’s guarded look stopped her. At ease herself in conversation with strangers, Emily was acutely aware when others were not, and what followed was an embarrassed silence.

‘I daresay you have many duties awaiting your attention.’

‘Ma’am.’ Was the only reply she got, but the slight hunch of the shoulders spoke more of, ‘leave me in peace’.

‘Well, when I have found my feet we shall talk Mrs Railton, for all of this is very new to me, and I am sure I can trust a fellow member of my sex to advise me of the
dos
and
don’t
s of life aboard ship.’

‘Ma’am.’

‘Captain Barclay’s cabin is right back that way?’ Emily said, pointing towards the stern. A sharp nod was the response.

Sauntering up to the deck, Charlie Taverner was cursed for being slow, then instructed to join his fellow Pelicans, employed to take on water. This was being pumped on board through a canvas hose from a
square-shaped
vessel alongside into barrels knocked up by the ship’s coopers, the fluid acting to seal the wood as it expanded. Topped, they were hauled up high on a derrick then swung over a hatchway, to be lowered down at the command of the seaman overseeing the operation.

Down in the hold those barrels had to be stacked and wedged. Given the spillage of water from barrels as yet imperfectly sealed, as well as what leaked from the filling, they were allotted a spell at the pumps, then taken on to a windlass, hauling on bars to lift out of the bowels of the ship everything from sails to spars, nets full of shot, powder for the gunner and a barrel of salted pork for the cook. Ordered to the quarterdeck they were cursed for not having any notion of where that lay. But during that endless morning they learnt not only that station, but also the name of the other decks as well as the parts of the ship: the foredeck at the bows, the maindeck below which ran the length of the ship. The orlop deck lay below the main-deck, a dim place of small cabins, and further down yet were the dark, damp and smelly holds, where spells of work were curtailed due to the foulness of the air, and where the squeak of a rat was never far away, nor the scurrying run of a cockroach over bare feet. Sometimes a glint of a rodent eye would be reflected in the guttering lantern light by which they worked.

There was livestock to haul aboard; some more sheep and a pair of snorting pigs to add to the cattle, goat and chickens already on the ship. Soon their hands, with the exception of those who had laboured before, began to blister, for almost everything they were engaged in involved hauling work on a rope, the rough tarred strands of which worked on untried skin that went from red raw to a white swelling that eventually burst to reveal a running fluid and a tender pink layer that would eventually bleed. Those ordering them about were numerous, and as confusing in their titles as they were in their speech.

There were Carpenter’s mates, Gunner’s mates, Yeomen of this, that and the other, Midshipmen the likes of little Mr Burns who, short and
young as he was, had the power to lord it over them. One or two termed midshipmen looked older than Rufus Dommet, while another, with a barking voice and a manner modelled on that of the captain, seemed of quite advanced years. There was a marine officer, his sergeant and corporal, and that was before they got to the purser, the master and his mates, the commissioned officers and the captain himself. As Michael O’Hagan observed, there were ‘many around to issue instruction’, and ‘precious few to undertake the toil’, which was ‘much the same as digging a ship canal or a sewer’.

Pearce was more concerned by the constant presence of authority than anything he was ordered to do, which allowed him no time to probe – the slightest attempt to detach himself, to find a place to hide prior to a search for a way off the ship was thwarted by whoever had charge of them. He had to content himself with a study of the various personalities, given that knowledge of them might have a bearing on any future opportunity.

Sykes, the barrel-chested bosun, was one who stood out as a man respected and competent, for he had a voice to match his build and what seemed a need to be everywhere at once, chiding, goading, pointing, barking and occasionally cursing not just the newcomers, but the sluggishness of men who were clearly bred to the sea. But his strictures were taken without much in the way of resentment, so Pearce reckoned Sykes was a man for whom the crew had a degree of respect. Was he the type to turn a blind eye to a pressed man trying to run?

With Kemp, the rat-faced sod who had brought them downriver, there existed no doubt – nothing could be attempted while he was close, which was too often. Either by command or choice, Pearce knew not which, Kemp had decided that it was his task to cajole and discipline those he had helped take out of the Pelican, and his grating voice was a near-constant, as was the way he swung the rattan cane that seemed grafted to his right hand.

There was not much in the way of conversation, and not just because it was discouraged. Most of the twenty souls were as much strangers to each other as they were to the men who had been aboard when they arrived. Charlie Taverner made the odd joke, some disparaging aside on the men who ordered them about, but he was not the cheerful scallywag of the previous night – he was as watchful as Pearce, absorbing what lay around him with a view to exploiting what he learnt.

As the tide slackened Pearce noticed the exposed mud banks left behind on that low marshy island. Was that helpful, shortening the
distance he would need to swim, or would cloying mud of an unknown depth be worse than water? There were those numerous supply boats that came towards the ship from all different directions. If he could get aboard one, and always assuming the assistance of those manning it – a very big leap of faith – it mattered what route they took back to their landing place. Directly and over water to the point where they picked up their stores was no good – what point was there setting foot ashore on a busy quay – he needed something that shaved a quiet strip of land close enough for him to wade ashore.

Two other things caught his eye; first, the little fish-faced surgeon was a nuisance. He seemed to be forever close to where he and his fellow Pelicans were working, trying to pretend indifference while surreptitiously jotting in his notebook when something took his interest. The other was the captain’s wife, allowed for a brief period to walk on the deck just in front of the cabin, wrapped in the same cloak, the wind ruffling those strands of her auburn hair not contained by pins and bows. There was a hunger in the look Pearce gave her, not because she represented a means of escape, but more that she was a sign of normality, a symbol that there was a world beyond the confines of these wooden walls, one that he was certain he would return to. He longed to make contact with her, aware that it was as much her unavailability as her beauty that created so powerful a desire. What was her voice like: would she smile or frown to be approached and subjected to a show of gallantry? That she was another man’s wife mattered not at all – in the world John Pearce had left behind in Paris that was a spur to dalliance, not a hindrance. That she was wife to the captain who had pressed him made her irresistible.

Michael O’Hagan spoke softly in his ear. ‘I would look elsewhere, John-boy, if I were you, for you have had one clout on that account already. And if I can see the direction of your gaze so can others.’

It was good advice, so Pearce dragged his thinking from consideration of Barclay’s wife to contemplation of those with whom he was working. Would escape be easier as a group than as an individual? It was a repeat of the situation that had faced them all in the Pelican. Could a situation arise where the same tactic could be employed, enough numbers to overwhelm those trying to stop them? Looking at them toiling, sizing up each one, he felt he had to disregard those he had not met, and concentrate on the men in whose company he had been taken up.

Rufus Dommet was a disappointment. As an apprentice, a letter to his old employer would release him from the ship, and he had the right to demand that contact be made. But the skinny ginger-haired youth
had no wish to go back to either the tyrant or the trade to which he was bonded, and claimed to have always had, ‘a half-sort of hankering for the sea’. His attitude was one of outright curiosity combined with a natural cack-handedness that made Pearce wonder how he had ever held down his apprenticeship, or been tolerated by those with whom he had made his living on the riverbank.

Ben Walker was actually whistling while he worked, which got him, in a brief moment when no one was in earshot to command silence, a barbed comment from Charlie Taverner.

‘What the hell ’ave you got to be so cheerful about?’

‘Happen you don’t remember what I said about Chelsea Barracks, Charlie, even though I got scoffed at for my pains. Now I might prefer to be a soldier than a tar, but either is better than what we had, and ten steps ahead of what we might have looked forward to in those damned Liberties.’

Abel Scrivens was scathing in reply to that. ‘Those damned Liberties served you well enough when you needed them. They kept the law off your back, an’ since you ain’t inclined to say what for I take leave to opine it were serious, so they might have saved your neck.’

‘Well, as sure as hell is hot,’ Ben growled, for once riled out of his habitual stoical composure, ‘the law ain’t coming to look for any of us here. ’Sides, it were never my intention to spend the rest of my days in the Liberties. This way, I might just get a chance to see something of the world.’

‘Staying in the Liberties would have suited me,’ whispered Charlie, indicating with a jerk of the head that they needed to be careful, for Kemp, briefly absent, was returning to hound them.

‘And me,’ added Scrivens, in a soft, wistful hiss.

Pearce, bent over to lift a bale of canvas, half-turning, saw Kemp closing on them, seeming to compose his face into a look that indicated a deep loathing, odd since as far as he could ascertain they had done nothing to rile him; nothing that is, except be forced to serve aboard this ship. Glancing askance at the screwed-up eyes, his sharp pointed nose with its permanent dewdrop of clear snot and the slash of a mouth, a face which would never have been comely even in repose, he reckoned he was looking at a fellow who took no pleasure from his own life, and was determined that no other should enjoy theirs – a man for whom the small amount of authority he enjoyed, not really much in the scheme of things, was everything. He had met too many of that type in the last year or so, given that the Revolution had allowed turds like Kemp to surface in abundance.

Although little was said when Kemp was close, it was possible to discern by observation and the odd spoken aside how the quartet he had met in the Pelican related to each other, easy to see that when it came to opinion a degree of deference was granted to Abel Scrivens, though he could be in no way counted as their leader, especially in their present circumstances. Would sounding out Scrivens act as a shortcut to anything approaching a collective attitude?

In the nature of their work it was not long before they found themselves together, hauling on a rope, behind the others, far enough from Kemp for an exchange.

‘How do you fare?’

Scrivens half-turned and gave Pearce a look bordering on despair. It was obvious by his appearance that he was wilting more than his companions; lank thin hair in disarray, his face was lined with exhaustion as well as grime and when he spoke his voice sounded just as weary. ‘I do not think I fare very well, friend, but I thank you for enquiring.’

Pearce was touched by the open admission of distress, as well as a civility that appeared to be innate, and whispered, ‘Ease off. Let the others apply the effort.’

Half of a smile was all the older man could manage. ‘Would that be right?’

‘It would be wise.’

‘I doubt that sod behind you would see it so.’

‘With enough dumb show he will not see it at all.’

‘Belay that gabbin’,’ snapped Kemp, who must have spotted moving lips. ‘Save your puff to heave on that there fall.’

The oldest of the Pelican quartet would certainly do anything to be off this ship, but Pearce, looking at him, reckoned he would be a liability. Natural sympathy was quickly overborne by practicality, and his mind went back to Paris, to the way he had left his father, for the reasoning – uncomfortable as it was to recall – was not dissimilar. Scrivens would struggle to merely escape and in the event of a pursuit would as like as not end up having to be carried.

Michael O’Hagan, ahead of the old man and pulling with a will, would be game for anything Pearce suggested, as well as being strong enough to do the carrying should that become necessary. Should he sound him out – would a talk to Charlie Taverner help, perhaps even a notion of how to get away? Taverner was a fly sort, able quickly to spot and exploit an opening – had he seen something that Pearce had missed? Whatever, he knew it would have to wait – there were too many ears on deck to discuss anything now.

A gun boomed from the built-up shore, and everyone stopped pulling as all eyes turned towards the puff of smoke it created. To Pearce, looking aft, those on deck, officers and seamen alike, seemed for a second to be frozen in tableau. That did not last; Barclay appeared, hatless and looking to be in a foul mood, so the officers began to yell even louder at their various parties, as did Kemp. Abel Scrivens was slow to respond, and stood looking at the shore, which earned him a stinging blow across his shoulders.

‘Will you get your back into it, they’ve made our number,’ spat Kemp, his face furious. Having no idea what the bosun’s mate was talking about, Scrivens failed to move at the required speed, and was forced to cower as he received another swipe, which had Pearce interposing his own frame between the bosun’s mate and that of the older man to prevent a third.

Face to face with Kemp, he could see nothing but venom in his eyes, and total contempt in his expression, while at his back he heard the whimper of an old man who had been hurt, perhaps as much in his
self-esteem
as in the flesh. ‘I think you have harmed him enough.’

‘It’ll be you that’ll feel the pain if you don’t step aside.’

‘I can take pain,’ Pearce hissed, sick to death of being on the receiving end of other people’s malice, ‘and be assured that there will come a time when I can also mete it out.’

The flicker of doubt that flashed through Kemp’s eyes was enough to tell Pearce he had succeeded, planting in the man’s mind some notion of future retribution. For a bully, that was enough to induce caution.

‘Get back to work.’

‘Mister Roscoe,’ Pearce heard Barclay call, ‘my cabin if you please.’

Ralph Barclay could not sort out the watch bills by himself. He might know the warrant and petty officers, but when it came to knowledge of the crew Roscoe, with his constant contact, knew more than he. The task was to balance the two elements that made up each watch so that they matched each other in skill and numbers – the right quantity of topmen per watch, including the older ship’s boys who would deal with the highest yards; men to man the wheel and haul on the falls that controlled the sails, each group working four on four off while the others slept or idled below, with the caveat that should they go into battle over eighty percent of the crew must be able to work the guns or take station to fire from the tops.