By the Mast Divided (24 page)

The chance came suddenly, as Pearce had always suspected it would, an open gunport, no one in authority close by to intervene, with nearly all of the crew titivating themselves, shaving close, changing into clean clothes, greasing and re-doing pigtails, talking excitedly about the women they anticipated would soon be coming aboard and planning how to thwart the authority that would seek to stop them. Ducking down for a look showed him a clear run to the shore and a sea with waves of a height that would not hamper swimming. There was no time to think of money, coats, shoes or anyone else, only of the one person who was close to him.

‘I need your back again, Michael.’

The Irishman asked nothing, even although he must have guessed what Pearce meant, for there was a look of longing on that broad ruddy face as he turned away. ‘Then you have it, and may the blessing of Jesus and the saints be upon you.’

Pearce was halfway through the gunport, and had one leg over the lip before he spoke. ‘I will do my best for you all.’

‘For which I thank you.’

Those parting words registered as Pearce’s head dipped below the level of the gunport. He hung there for a second, bent arms holding his weight, very aware of the rough planking through his shirt, looking up, relieved to see no head popping over the side, very aware of what he was risking. The drop to the water was the point at which he would be in the 
greatest danger – the noise of the splash would give him away. At that moment a gun boomed, and as its effect echoed around the anchorage Pearce straightened his arms and dropped, going under immediately then resurfacing to spit what felt like half a gallon of seawater out of his mouth.

It could be fatal to wait and see if the cannon boom had covered his departure; registering only the heart stopping cold that stung his skin and the horrible taste of salt in his mouth, he struck out, shaking his dripping head to try and catch a glimpse of the shore, for in the lee of the ship there were no waves to tell him which direction in which to swim. Sure at any second that he would hear a shout behind him; that the water would zip by his ears with musket balls trying to kill him, he fixed his gaze on the top of one of the onshore houses, noting as he moved so it did, across his vision – the tide was carrying him not only inshore but to a point up the beach to his right. It mattered not – the shore was the thing.

The feeling of intense cold eased as he stroked rhythmically through the water, lifted slightly every few seconds by a wave that helped propel him forward. Close enough to the shore to hear the swish of the waves rushing up the shingle beach he did not catch the sound of the oars behind him, nor the command to raise them as the jolly boat shot alongside and into his vision. The hand that grabbed his collar stopped him swimming – the oars dipped again were in front of him blocking his path, and the voice in his ear was as rough as the grip.

‘Damn you!’

It was the bosun, Sykes, and Pearce tried to spin his body and use an arm to break the grip. A fist caught on his ear, stunning him slightly, as Sykes yelled at him.

‘Belay that you fool, you can’t get away now.’

Treading water, his body lifted out of the water by those muscular arms, Pearce could see very clearly just how close he was to the water breaking over the shore. He tried, by raising his arms, to drop out of his shirt, but a second hand caught his hair, and even wet managed to hang on to it, while at the same time, Sykes who grabbed the tail of his shirt and hauled it tight in a way that rendered his arms useless.

‘Stop struggling you swab or I’ll fetch you a clout with a spike.’

Pearce did not obey that command, he did not have to for he was done for, constrained by the material of his shirt as well as the hand holding his hair.

‘Now,’ Sykes growled, ‘we’s going to drag you inboard, and you’d best 
come easy. Ridley, give us a lift here. Costello, keep an eye on the ship and make sure nobody in a blue coat spots what we’re about.’

‘Still only that useless little bugger Burns on deck. There’s a party at the foc’stle, but I reckon them to be Truculence’s mates.’

‘Which be lucky for you,’ Sykes said, right in Pearce’s ear, as he hauled him over the gunwale, the wood of the boat’s side digging sharply into his stomach. It must have been Ridley who caught his legs and threw them over, for Pearce found himself in heap at the bottom of the boat, with a heavy foot firmly placed on his back, and Sykes saying, ‘Now bloody well stay there.’

‘Anyone paying notice, Costello?’

‘Not a blind bit Mr Sykes, not a blind bit.’

‘Well, our friend here is lucky as well as stupid. Row us back to the ship.’ The voice became a growl as Sykes leant over to talk into Pearce’s ear. ‘’Cause if they wasn’t so busy aboard the barky, officers as well as hands, thinking of whores on their backs, you would have been spotted for certain.’

‘I must get ashore,’ Pearce said, his voice croaked as much through despair as the seawater he had swallowed.

‘Must you now?’ Sykes replied, his voice become more normal as he sat up. ‘Well, it ain’t going to be on this day. You stay low till we get alongside and set you back through a gunport. Thank your lucky stars that the captain ain’t aboard, ’cause he can smell a man trying to run, an’ his remedy is the lash. Bring us alongside, you two.’

Pearce heard the slight bump of wood on wood as the ship and the boat met. Once more it was a strong grip on his collar, hauling him upright, and he found himself looking into the screwed-up face of Sykes. ‘Now me, I can see why a man might want to run, especial when he’s been had up in the wrong way. But that’s the way of things and it ain’t for alteration. You best pass that message on to all your mates.’

‘Please…’

‘Don’t even try to plead. Help him you two, while I hold the boat.’

Ridley and Costello took his lower legs and lifted him, and Pearce found himself handing his body off the ship’s side as he was raised to look through a gunport at the face of Michael O’Hagan.

‘Would this be in the order of a resurrection, John-boy?’

As the Irishman grabbed him, he heard Sykes call to the quarterdeck to say he was coming aboard. By the time that happened, Pearce was standing on the maindeck, dripping water on to the planking, looking into the disappointed faces of those with whom he shared a mess.

Are they disappointed in me, Pearce was thinking, or the fact that I failed? 

Ralph Barclay came back on board a hour later with a fair quantity of the admiral’s claret in his stomach, not drunk exactly, but certainly
light-headed
. Faithful Hale followed behind him as he made his way from his barge up the side of the ship, doing what a good coxswain should to ensure that if his captain missed his footing, or failed to clap on to the manropes, he would not get his shoes and stockings wet.

‘We weigh an hour after the men receive their pay, Mr Roscoe,’ said Barclay in a pleasant tone. ‘We will take up station to cruise off Dover and ensure that when our charges weigh at first light no rascal from the French shore is tempted out to attack them.’

‘The men will be paid when, sir?’

‘This very afternoon, of course,’ Barclay replied, ‘but be warned, before any clerks arrive with their money I want the anchor hove short, and we will weigh as soon as possible after they depart. The longer we stay the worse matters will become. I have no intention of turning this ship into Paddy’s Market for the benefit of the sharps and whores of Deal.’

Implementing what he wanted would not be easy – the very necessary act of paying the men before they sailed for the Mediterranean would bring out from the East Kent shore boats by the dozen selling everything from trinkets through sexual congress to spirituous liquor, even if, with the men new to the service, there was not much in the way of coin to be distributed.

‘I will want the gangway up as soon as the clerics go,’ Barclay continued, ‘and marines posted to make sure that neither whores nor drink get aboard.’

He knew Roscoe reckoned him too strict in the article of women on board. The Premier had already loudly declared at a wardroom dinner that he had served in ships where they were so prevalent as to almost count as part of the crew, and under captains who saw nothing wrong in taking a goodly number to sea, and to hell with regulations. Even if the harpies fought amongst themselves, at least if the crew’s animal passions were contained there was less fighting between the men. And they performed other useful tasks, even, if the ship was in extremis, hauling on ropes to get the vessel clear. What captain, he had demanded, granting
the hands that privilege, could deny some license in the article of women to his officers? Overheard by the wardroom servants, the conversation had been relayed to Shenton and Barclay’s steward took pleasure each morning as he shaved his master, in passing on such gossip.

‘Did you hear what I said, Mr Roscoe?’

‘I did, sir,’ Roscoe replied quickly. ‘No women.’

‘Quite. The men may trade through designated gun ports only, all on the shore side and all with a marine guard. Any traders between us and the Goodwin Sands, well, you have my permission to take out the bottom of their boat with a dropped round shot.’

Barclay looked at Roscoe then, wondering if he would protest, knowing he was asking for the impossible. No Navy ship ever left for a deep-sea voyage in anything other than Barbary order – the men got their outstanding pay, and did whatever it took to spend it. It was not uncommon for a ship of the line to be held up for days before the vessel could be cleared of unofficial visitors and even then it was never a clean sweep. Ralph Barclay fully expected he would find himself discharging more than a couple of whores when they were at sea – which might occasion the despatch of a boat to get them ashore again. And if the imbibing got out of hand, because too much drink had come aboard, he would have to rig the grating before
Brilliant
cleared the South Foreland.

He might know every trick in the canon, as would Roscoe – they had, as midshipmen, employed every tactic that would be in use this day – but that did not mean they would see the line dropped over the side with a purse on the way down and a flagon on the way back up. Nor would they see the bribe or threat to one of the red-coated lobsters guarding the gun ports that would have it open just long enough for a strumpet, with leggings under her skirts full of liquor, to slip through. The purser might prowl in the hope of stopping the purchase of tobacco, which, because he was the shipboard supplier would eat into his profits, but he would do so in vain.

Having issued his orders, Barclay made his way none too steadily to his cabin. With his mouth beginning to taste like bilge his first request, after greeting his wife, was that Shenton break out some wine, which the steward was happy to do, seeing it as his duty to take a good taste before serving, to ensure that it was not corked.

‘Admiral Wood was most obliging, my dear, but, I fear, in a terrible rush to get us to sea, so my intention to have him dine aboard and perhaps take you ashore for a return of the compliment will not now be possible.’

Emily had seen him like this before, just as she had seen her own 
father. She reminded herself that she must be tolerant, for men were weak in the article of wine. ‘That is a great pity, husband.’

‘Only thing he would not do, damn him, begging your indulgence my dear, was loosen my orders a trifle, can’t think why.’

‘Did he not vouchsafe you his reasons?’

‘Oh yes. He’s not going to risk upsetting the Admiralty.’ It was clear on his wife’s face that she did not understand. ‘Convoy duty is a bloody swine!’

The reply was firm, and made without prior thought. ‘I fear your meeting with the admiral has rendered your language a trifle salty, Captain Barclay.’

That sent his eyebrows up, just as it sent her eyes down, for Emily had never, as far as he could recall, even come close to chastising him. But she had now, and in a circumstance that made it very difficult to object. Drink had caused him to blaspheme, and his wife had every right to remind him that it was unacceptable behaviour. That did not make it pleasant, so his admission, ‘You are perfectly right, my dear,’ was rather forced. ‘I shall explain,’ he grumbled.

‘Please do,’ Emily replied, giving him a look of deep interest that mollified him somewhat.

‘I am obliged, by standing Admiralty orders, to avoid losing sight of the convoy of which I have charge, so I am tied by apron strings to a bunch of lubberly sods.’ His hand was up quickly. ‘I apologise again, my dear, but if you have ever seen the behaviour of merchant captains you too would have cause to cuss.’

Ralph Barclay rambled on, moaning about merchant captains – that they were a contrary lot who could never keep their station, always sailed with the minimum of crew so that they were laggardly, especially at night when they would shorten sail in spite of any order he gave not to; that those apron strings would preclude him chasing any potential prize, and that his request to Wood, Port Admiral at Deal, to write some orders allowing him a touch of leeway had been denied.

‘Yes, Mr Burns,’ he said, as the midshipman knocked and entered, eyes fixed rigidly ahead, avoiding both Emily’s eyes and her welcoming smile.

‘Mr Roscoe’s compliments, and can he have the muster book back as the clerks from the Pay Office are about to come alongside.’

‘Some of your uniform, Mr Burns,’ said Emily, her eye on the coat and breeches, which were clearly too big for the boy, ‘could do with a touch of adjustment.’ 

‘Mama said I would grow into it,’ Burns replied, in a hesitant voice and with a bit of a blush, eyes moving between his cousin and his captain, fearing that he might get a rebuke.

Emily’s response was to stand up and place herself in front of him. ‘I’m sure you will cousin, just as I am sure, like me, she would have you as smart as you can be.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

It was virtually impossible not to sigh at the formality, but Emily smiled nevertheless. ‘If you have spare clothes, as I am sure you must have, bring them to me and I will do what I can to make them fit you a little better.’

Burns was about to say that if his cousin wanted his spare clothes, she had better ask his fellow midshipmen where they had gone, but Ralph Barclay’s impatient cough killed the notion, obliging Emily to stand aside so both he and Burns could leave.

‘That boy is not happy,’ she said, softly, to herself.

Barclay appeared on deck, book under his arm, and looked over the side, happy to see that his orders had been obeyed – that the bumboats full of the Deal contingent of whores, panders and gimcrack traders were standing off his ship. Once the men were paid he would allow an hour’s indulgence – not one second more – then he would weigh, and sling off the ship anyone who should not be aboard.

‘Mr Hale,’ he called to his coxswain, whispering an order in his ear as he came close. Then he spoke to Roscoe. ‘Line the men up.’

‘Down to the orlop with you lot,’ barked Hale. A dispirited Pearce, still damp, sat at the back and so excited no attention. ‘Captain Barclay’s express orders, an’ you are to stay there till we weigh.’

‘What about our pay?’ asked Rufus, pointing to the men making their way to the upper deck.

Hale shifted his quid of baccy, tipped back his tarred hat, snorted like a hungry pig and pointed to the scantlings. ‘You could turn and ask the plank of wood at your back and it’d have the answer, but plainly you are thicker than that in the article of brains. The Navy don’t pay out on a day an’ a bit, an’ any bounty you had is now held on the purser’s books. Now move. Or do I have to get a file of marines down here to force you?’

Pearce felt a wave of despair sweep over him. Barclay had made a shrewd move, alert, as Sykes had said he was, to any attempt that his pressed men might make to slip ashore in one of the boats being 
fended off the frigate’s side. The Pelicans were shepherded down the companionway, to sit in the gloom of the orlop under the supervision of a less than pleased marine, their spirits of the same order, watching sights that in normal times would have amused, for the three hours between the crew being paid and weighing the anchor were pure mayhem, officers shouting, marines being sent hither and thither, sailors, clearly drunk on illicit rum being chased, while others searched for a corner, not necessarily a quiet one, in which to rut with some whore they had smuggled through a gunport.

Barclay could be heard all over the ship, cursing, swearing and damning individuals including his own inferior officers for their laxity, threatening the midshipmen, who, instead of impeding the crew, seemed more inclined to aid, abet and emulate them. They would, he promised, ‘kiss the gunner’s daughter before they saw the French coast’. That was when he was not ordering that some woman or trinket-trader be chucked over the side.

Put to the capstan to finally haul HMS
Brilliant
over her anchor, it seemed that the Pelicans were the only sober group on the ship. Aloft, top-men too inebriated to properly perform their duties made a poor fist of setting the topsails, so that the frigate departed the Downs in the fading daylight like a lubberly merchant vessel with a crew of
cack-
handed
scrape jacks aboard. There was some consolation that Davidge Gould was having the same difficulties in HMS
Firefly
, but none at all from the jeering hoots which came from the deck of every other naval ship in the anchorage.

There was a tense moment as they shaved the shingle off Walmer Castle, watched by a whole regiment of redcoats who filled the beach with their fires, behind them a tented encampment that filled the surrounding fields, quite enough in numbers to render futile another attempt to swim ashore. A bleary-eyed Barclay was to be heard screaming a change of course to a helmsman who was, like the others, well under the influence. With the Pelicans now on deck hauling on ropes, under instructions from petty officers made extra crabbed by the effects of drink wearing off, they finally cleared the southern end of the Goodwin Sands. HMS
Brilliant
made deep water, where, cruising back and forth in the choppy Channel water, with a strengthening wind, a full half of the people aboard were sick.

The convoy emerged at first light; a long string of some fifty vessels stretched out over several miles that took hours to get into any form of order. The air was full of endless banging guns, as both frigate and sloop 
were obliged to sail hither and thither in steadily deteriorating conditions to deliver verbal instructions and threats to merchant skippers, each one of whom saw it as his bounden duty to annoy the captain of HMS
Brilliant
– not difficult as the mere presence of several hundred sailors he was absolutely forbidden to press, manning those ships, was enough to make him exceedingly irascible. That they took as long as they liked to comply with his orders, only added grist to that mill. An angry captain on the deck, and officers who took the brunt of his strictures with barely disguised hostility, combined with hangovers and endless orders, naturally meant little contentment t’ween decks, as the misery worked its way down to the lowest on the ship.

Martin Dent brought matters to a head, for like a thief who has stolen a couple of times and got away with his crime, he would not leave John Pearce in peace. The Pelicans were working in the holds, fetching out more supplies for the cook – water and casks of meat – in a sea that was far from calm. They were grateful to be below for there was now a wind blowing that was strong enough to sting the eyes. HMS
Brilliant
was pitching and rolling quite markedly, and although this might be less obvious below than on deck, they had to take extra care.

At the very bottom of the hold, the casks rested in the shingle ballast used to weight and keep steady the hull. Those on top nestled in the space between the two below and the entire weight pressed down to ensure no movement, with wedges malleted into any point where a barrel could come loose. Being at the beginning of a commission, the holds were full, and the confined space was difficult to work in, especially given the foul miasma created by bilge water, rotting wood, the gases given off by imperfectly sealed meat casks, and the general corruption of a dark airless compartment that never saw daylight and where rodents ruled rather than men.

There were seamen leading the party, who knew how to cradle each numbered cask in the sling, how to use pulleys to lift and move it without damage to a point where the main lifting tackle could hoist it right up through the hatch. Careful as they were, however, they were also forced to work at some pace, because to stay in the hold too long, with lanterns guttering and flickering from too little oxygen to burn, was to risk passing out from the lack of anything to breathe.