By the Mast Divided (15 page)

The Irishman was looking at Pearce as if he expected an answer. It was curious to Pearce, the different reactions the group had to him and Gherson, so different that he almost felt sorry for the other man – almost, because if Gherson had failed to win any friends it was his own idle and arrogant behaviour that was the cause. Pearce seemed to be accepted, as if merely having been taken from the Pelican conferred on him a sort of brotherhood, the same kinship that made the man who asked the question one of that select group.

Again it surfaced, that thought about a collective act of escape, and Pearce realised that if he decided a lone attempt, he might have to do as much to avoid these enforced messmates of his as he would to avoid any member of the crew.

‘What makes you think, Michael, that I have a plan?’

O’Hagan responded with a grin. ‘Sure, the look in your eye, which has not been still all this morning, and has been the same since we sat to eat. I swear if asked you could tell me the something about every soul on this deck, just as you could relate the number and size of every boat that came alongside. I would hazard also that you have a fair idea
of the distance between ship and shore.’

O’Hagan’s words had caught the attention of the rest, who were all now looking at Pearce with an uncomfortable air of expectation. ‘I have, Michael. It is too dangerous to swim at night and too crowded with ships to attempt by day.’

‘Swim?’ asked Ben Walker, a word that produced a distinctive shudder from Gherson. Ben leant back and rubbed his belly, adding a burp to let all know he was satisfied. ‘Can you swim, John?’

Pearce nodded, looking keenly at the others. No one met his eye or wanted to tell him they shared that rare skill, one he had acquired almost at the same time as he had learnt to walk. ‘I take it none of you can swim?’

‘Why would anyone want to swim away from such plenty as this?’ Ben asked, his West Country drawl even more pronounced because he was filling his belly.

‘Best meal we’ve had in a month past,’ added Rufus Dommet.

Cornelius Gherson managed to snort and sneer simultaneously. ‘Then I do not envy you your table.’

The ginger-haired youth who had been, with Ben Walker, designated to collect their dinner was all enthusiasm. ‘Do you know what we get?’

‘Prison food,’ said Scrivens, jabbing at a piece of bone, an act that made him wince as he jarred his bruised shoulder blades. ‘That’s what it is, prison food.’

‘Not even Newgate Gaol would serve you this,’ Gherson scoffed.

‘How would you know?’ asked Charlie Taverner, quickly.

‘A guess,’ Gherson spluttered, his face reddening to give lie to the words.

Pearce looked closely at Gherson then, to see if there was any trace of the effect of prison on his face. But, of course, there was none; his skin was flawless, and even streaked with the grime from his morning’s work, absurdly handsome. If he had been in Newgate, by reputation even worse than the Bridewell, any marks would have faded, just like it had on his own. The scars of such confinement were in the mind.

‘Chancy thing guessing,’ Charlie added, ‘might get us making up all kind of tales. Might be best if you was to tell us all about yourself. Confess like.’

‘What makes you think I have something to confess to?’ Gherson demanded.

That got a hoot from Charlie. ‘If you ain’t, mate, you’re the only one at this board.’

‘Leave him be, Charlie,’ said Abel.

Charlie’s bandage had not been very successfully applied. It had come loose and, dropping over one eye, made him appear piratical. But when he swept it back it was clear he had lost any trace of good humour, and he was not about to be put off. ‘Happen there’s more to you than you’re letting on.’ Gherson declined to answer, as Charlie looked hard at Ben and Rufus. ‘You two may be content with this, but I am not, any more than Pearce.’

The use of his name again earned Charlie Taverner a glare, while those not sure of it looked happy to have it confirmed.

‘Content?’ They all lifted their heads to the voice, and saw a knobbly faced fellow with black eyes and a swarthy, scratched complexion, pigtailed under a shiny black-tarred hat. ‘That be a lot to ask for in this life, to be content.’

No one replied, but that did not stop him from pushing on to the end of the bench.

‘Take a seat,’ said Michael, sarcastically.

‘Hale.’

‘Would that be a name or a salute?’ asked Michael.

The look with which Hale responded to Michael’s jest, and Pearce’s added chuckle, was humourless – more an expression of tolerance for an old joke than any ire at the affront. If he reacted at all it was only to chew slightly harder on the quid of tobacco in his mouth. Pearce hardly noticed; he was looking over Hale’s shoulder, aware that their mess table was now under observation and that the level of babble had eased just a fraction. This fellow joining them had drawn attention. Why?

‘You’ve been marked as the droll one, Paddy.’

Michael’s face closed up. ‘I am after being choosy who I allow to call me Paddy. Generally I grant the right to my friends, which is an estate you do not enjoy.’

Hale pulled the now-empty mess kid towards him, directed a stream of dark brown spittle into it, then replied calmly, clearly unfazed. ‘Happen I’ll tell them you’re windy as well, given to speechifying.’

‘You can tell them,’ Michael added, raising a clenched fist, ‘whoever them may be, that I dislike being practised upon, and that I am inclined to act upon such with this.’

Hale’s sparse-toothed smile was slow and infuriating, though as he spoke he took a care to lean back slightly, which would take him out of the range of that ham fist. ‘There’s one or two aboard who will not shy away from that, Paddy.’

‘You do.’

‘Now, mate, on an open deck for all to see, and a bosun’s cat and a disrating just waiting for the miscreants. Fighting begets punishment when it can be seen, but happen in a quiet corner you would find I would not shy off, for I am not one to measure a man by the size of himself or his fist.’

‘O’Hagan has nothing to lose,’ said Cornelius Gherson, with a snide air.

Hale grinned slowly. ‘He has, and I reckon before this commission is out he will find out what that is.’

‘What is it you want, Hale?’ asked Pearce, throwing a sharp look at Gherson to shut him up. He had a fair idea what Michael would lose: the skin off his back.

Hale executed a slow chew before replying. ‘Why would I want something from the likes of you?’

‘Mr Hale.’ The compliment earned Pearce a nod. ‘You were one of those who pressed us, were you not?’ Another nod, slower to come this time, to confirm what had been a guess, because though Pearce thought he had heard Barclay shout the name, and allude to a scratching female, who could well be responsible for the very obvious marks on the man’s face, he could not be sure.

One cheek appeared to swell as the tobacco was pushed sideways. ‘It would be of interest to hear what you think of the likes of me.’

‘It would not be pleasant to the ear,’ said Charlie Taverner, ‘but I am happy to try if you so wish it.’

‘Like as not,’ Hale replied, ‘but what we was doing comes under the heading of necessity.’ He could see half the table about to protest and held up a hand to stop them. ‘I came here to do you a favour.’

‘Like last night?’ demanded O’Hagan.

‘And to stop you from doing something daft, like trying to jump off the ship into a boat, or swim to Sheerness or the Isle of Grain. Thoughts like that be natural, but you has been told already under what laws you serve, and don’t have a doubt they would be applied. You won’t get clear of this ship so you’d best accept it. You’ll be hauled in with a quick round turn and had up at the grating without doubt. It would do no good to claim you were pressed ’cause you are on the ship’s muster as volunteers. Now I will grant that being had up like that is not agreeable, and I know ’cause it was my way into the Navy just like you.’

‘You were pressed?’ asked Rufus, with his habitual innocent air.

Pearce was not surprised at Rufus’s trusting response but he himself
did not believe a word the man was saying. If sailors had a reputation for anything – apart from over enthusiastic carousing and whoring – it was for tale-telling that extended to downright falsehood. Hale had an air about him of that sort; the slight cock of the head, a lop-sided smirk, the earnest look in the eyes to imply sincerity that achieved the exact opposite.

‘I was, lad, and younger than you, it being during the American War.’

‘The American Revolution,’ said Pearce, in a dogged tone of which his father would have approved.

‘Call it what you will, mate, it was war and the fleet was short, and bein’ a striplin’ under the legal age of seventeen made no odds. I was taken just like you and I can recall to this day what I felt on my first night aboard ship. Lost, sitting in a huddle like you was, plotting an’ a’plannin’, cursing those who did the deed.’ Hale’s voice changed then, becoming eager and intense. ‘But in time I came to see that I had fallen lucky. The work was hard, no error, but what toil ashore is any better? Life before the mast weren’t half bad. I had food, clothes and money being paid that I could scarce spend.’

The black eyes, heavy browed, ranged round the table. ‘Honest in your heart now, how many here have had more in their hand than would keep them sound for a week at most, eh?’

‘I have,’ insisted Gherson, looking to the others as if determined to make a point, underlining once more that he was not like them. The rest of his mess did not know him enough to concur, or esteem him enough to care, so that the added words, ‘many times’, sounded weak and unconvincing.

At the same time Hale’s voice, and the look in his eager face, took on a fervent cast. ‘And that be before we has a chance to take a prize. Why, I could tell you tales of fortunes made at sea, Spanish treasure ships so laden with gold they can barely float have been taken by the King’s Navy, with money by the sack load for every man in the crew. Think of that! Look around this deck. Do you see heartbreak? Look at me. I ain’t nobody now. I put myself to it, and I have an honourable station in this here Navy.’

‘Mr Hale,’ said Pearce, electing to speak for them all, including Cornelius Gherson, whose eye had lit up at the talk of gold. ‘I thank you, even if your tales of prize money are romance.’

‘Ain’t romance, mate, it be the right sound truth.’

‘So true,’ Pearce replied, with cold precision, ‘that you are still in your honourable station.’

The pair locked eyes, as if Hale thought that by doing so he could make Pearce back down. His adversary was tempted to let him know just how wise he was to such deceit. There was hardly a tavern in the land that did not have its ex-tar trying to keep his throat lubricated by exaggeration; sea monsters, deadly storms, compliant women, some of them two-headed, and most of all wealth, gold and sparkling jewels which by the most devilish ill-fortune had slipped through their fingers. Pearce had met them, listened to them and long ago learnt to see such storytelling for what it was; just that.

Hale broke the stare first, nodded, stood and said, ‘Hark at what I said.’

‘Which part, the truth or the fiction?’

That was received with a grunt, and the man turned. All eyes watched as Hale made his way to another mess table, to another huddle of pressed men from the Pelican. They would be talking the same talk, and Hale would no doubt deliver the same lecture, and hold out the same prospect. Who knows, thought Pearce, he may well find willing ears, for, as well as hearing the tall-tales, he had observed many a gawping soul who plainly believed every word.

‘So, John boy, I ask again, what’s the plan?’ said Michael.

Faced with more looks of hope, and not wishing to say nothing, Pearce replied, ‘Pen and paper, Michael.’

‘Handy instruments if you can employ them,’ the Irishman replied, holding up his hand again, this time with thick fingers spread. ‘Jesus they’re not much use to me.’

‘And who would you be writing to?’ asked Charlie Taverner.

‘Anyone in authority that can get me off this ship.’

‘Just you?’

Pearce locked eyes with Charlie then, but said nothing.

‘I can write,’ Gherson said, with a surprised look.

The notion seemed to trigger something in his mind, for he rose quickly from the table and walked away, to pass slowly each of the other mess tables set out at intervals along the deck. Even though Pearce could only observe his back, he guessed Gherson was employing that infuriating smile, ingratiatingly aimed at every member of the crew, some of whom were responding. At one table it was enough to allow Gherson to sit down.

‘You must be able to write, Abel,’ said Pearce.

‘Happen I can,’ the old man replied, his face and voice full of melancholy. The others, who knew him well, just looked away. ‘But then
what’s the point when you ain’t got no one to pen a letter to, ’cepting some sod that wants to chuck you in gaol.’

‘Another visitor,’ hissed Charlie Taverner, which forced Pearce to forget Gherson, and look instead at Kemp, who was heading for their table.

‘They say,’ Michael expounded, ‘that the smell of corruption comes from what they term the bilges.’ Kemp got a direct look then. ‘But I take leave to doubt that’s the true cause.’

‘Your nose might be too close to your arse,’ Kemp replied.

‘While yours I would liken to a diseased prick, with the discharge you have hanging from its end.’

Kemp had been insulted too many times in his life to be fazed, but he did use his sleeve before he spoke again. ‘Clear up around you, and the mess table, lest you want to be mother to your own tribe of rats.’

‘We were promised clothes in which to work,’ said Rufus Dommet, very obviously thrilled at the idea of being given anything.

‘We have to weigh first,’ Kemp replied.

‘Would I be right to say that the purser advances goods against wages to come?’ asked Pearce, too busy with his own thoughts to register what Kemp was saying.

‘You would,’ Kemp replied, ignoring a curse from Abel Scrivens; he added, ‘an’ he’ll put it against your bounty if’n you ask him. So what is it you’re after?’