By the Mast Divided (27 page)

‘Where you are going, Paddy,’ said Devenow, ‘you will see more pictures than this.’

‘Step up,’ said Costello.

With his dark complexion, flashing Latin eyes and good looks, Costello had the air about him of a showman. Obviously he had selected himself as the adjudicator, and no one seemed to want to challenge him for that role, which Pearce surmised meant that the crew, who were split in their support, trusted him. Very well, if they did, so could he, and any doubts that Michael would get a fair fight – his last worry – were eased.

Both men obliged. Costello stood, hand raised between them, checking the position of their feet. Then, standing well back, for he had no desire to be caught between the first blows, Costello counted, ‘One, two three,’ then dropped his arm.

There was no rush of blows – more parrying, easing back, ducking 
and weaving as each man felt the other out. Pearce had got himself a good spot, in the front row, from where he could look, by moving left and right, at the fighter’s eyes. Neither man’s gaze left the other’s face. Whatever body movements they made they stayed locked on, looking for the first real attempt at a punch, which would come soon. The whole thing was carried out in silence – there was not even whispered encouragement, and Pearce was forced to admire the self-discipline of these sailors, who knew that even quiet goading would make too much noise.

It was Michael who threw the first punch, making to move back from a jab then suddenly coming forward to parry the blow with one hand while he thumped Devenow on his flaming cannon tattoo with the other. The man didn’t move, even though it was a well-delivered knock, and Pearce looked at Michael to see what effect this would have on him. All he saw was a grin, which had nothing to do with being pleased, more to do with riling his opponent.

Devenow was too long in the tooth to fall for that, but the punch had changed his expression from one of watchfulness to one of determination, his brows closing down over his eyes as he settled himself for what must come, a trading of blows, for there was little science in this, it was pugilism of the most basic kind. When it developed it was almost rhythmic, made more so by the soft encouragement from a crew who were fighting themselves – to contain their excitement – the sound of landing fists was louder.

Michael cut first, above the cheekbone, and that brought a satisfied grunt from Devenow, who made the mistake of trying to follow it up as the Irishman did a rapid change of feet which left the sailor exposed on his own left side. The shock, as Michael hit him left-handed, with a blow that was every bit as telling as his right, registered on Devenow’s face, as did the blood that spurted from his gashed eyebrow. Michael hit him with his right before he had time to recover and forced his opponent to step back for a count of one.

Devenow was toe to the line again in a second, his shoulders now more hunched as he sought to get all his weight behind his punches. With not much chance for guile, Michael’s next attempt at a foot change worked more against than for him, proof that Devenow had, when it came to fighting, natural cunning, for he caught Michael on the upper jaw with a punch that sent him reeling away, then scrabbling back into position with his head shaking.

Pearce knew that his friend was on the defensive, parrying blows 
and ducking away rather than delivering, and he had an eye on the one-legged cook with a view to snatching that cleaver and going after Devenow, for he was well aware that if Michael were beaten he would be next. The notion that it was not fair did not enter into his head – growing up he had learnt the absolute necessity of winning, and sometimes when the odds were too heavy the wisdom of running. To lose a fight was to suffer not only ignominy but pain, and to risk much worse. If he used whatever came to hand to gain a victory, a length of wood, a heavy stone, John Pearce could always reassure himself with the knowledge that all he required was enough submission for his own safety; that, just as he had never abandoned a friend in distress, he had never continued to beat a man who was down.

The steady thud of exchanged blows continued for a long time. Michael was weakening; the blows he was giving seemed to have less weight than those he was receiving. Those sailors who had bet on Devenow were trying to increase their stakes; those few who had backed Michael were attempting to cover what looked certain to be a loss. Devenow seemed confident now, his punches reaching further, nearly overbalancing him as he sought to beat Michael back off the line. That was when Michael did another two-step move, and caught the off-balance Devenow with a haymaker to the left of his head. He got in a second one before changing feet again, this time catching his opponent out because Devenow had changed his own feet to parry the danger from Michael’s left hand.

‘Come on, Michael.’

Charlie Taverner got many a sharp look that said shut up. It wasn’t much of one because they were enthralled by the contest, now much more even as a recovered O’Hagan put as many blows into Devenow as he received. The tattooed sailor was now forced to take a two-count break, and several deep breaths before coming back to the line. Michael gave him no respite but hit him on arrival with a straight jab that caught Devenow right under the heart. Aimed to go through his body and come out the back, it was a huge punch that stopped the other man’s breath, most of which came hissing out of his lungs, forcing Devenow off the line for another second.

But he was back trading with Michael in a series of exchanges that seemed to last for an age. It was clear that both men were tiring, their labouring breath mixing with the steam rising off the sweat on their bodies; their faces a mass of cuts and swellings, their lips sliced open in more than one spot. Devenow could hardly see, so gross had those heavy brows become, and with so much blood running into his eyes. 

Michael was in no better state, but it seemed that his stamina was just that much greater. He might take an age to get his arm up but it came up all the way, while Devenow’s seemed only able to reach chest height, not the shoulder height he needed. All the tattoos on his body were smeared with blood now, and it glistened in his thick matted body hair, as Michael leant into his assault, throwing punches that were a tenth of the strength he had started with but had a relentless pressure that drove Devenow off the line half a dozen times. But he came back, until Michael, nearly over-reaching himself, summoned up the strength for a killer punch, that took the hunched Devenow right under the point of his chin. The cheekbone seemed to pop out to the side as the jawbone went, and Devenow staggered back. He was game, he tried to make the line, but his toe got there just as Costello called the count of three, and declared the contest over.

There was a pause of a few seconds, looks of disbelief on many a face, and Michael O’Hagan sunk to his knees, fists out before him.

‘Charlie, Rufus, hot water,’ said Pearce as he knelt beside his champion.

‘Now do me a favour, John-boy,’ said Michael, thickly, through heavily swollen lips. ‘Get hold of that little shite Dent, and throw him overboard.’

The howl of the wind in Pearce’s ears, which for hours had doubled the discomfort of his unquiet, empty stomach, died the instant he dropped down the companionway, replaced by the sound of timbers groaning so loud that it was easy to imagine the ship tearing itself apart. That he had heard it before every time his watch was called on deck, and that the frigate was still afloat, did little to reassure him that he was not about to drown. There was no respite from the motion either so that he had to clap on to the deck timbers with still-blistered hands, just to get to the bottom, his bare feet slipping on the dripping wooden steps. Soaked to the skin, he already knew that he had ahead of him four hours of deep discomfort in which sheer exhaustion would, if he were lucky, bring the sleep he craved.

It had been like this for four days now, the weather steadily worsening as the whole convoy struggled to make some headway down the English Channel in what was heard to be, ‘a right true bastard of a sou-westerly’. If the meaning of tacking and wearing had been obscure to Pearce at first it was not so now, as the bowsprit of HMS
Brilliant
drove left and right then left again into the teeth of the wind. Roused at four in the morning, still wet from the watch they had worked until midnight, Pearce and his messmates had gone on deck in the pitch darkness, the only visible light a reflected glow that lit the faces of the trio of heavily garbed sailors on the wheel. They had come up on to a heaving deck swept by stinging salt spray, and endless toil. Occasional relief came from equally hard graft on the capstan, lifting some heavy object into or out of the night sky, or a spell at the pumps to keep the water in the well from rising to a point where it would threaten the frigate’s stability.

Above their heads, in pitch darkness, the topmen of the larboard watch worked on the sails, jerked endlessly forward, back and sideways by the motions of the hull. On the deck, constantly screamed at by those who had charge of them, Pearce and his fellow landsmen, the lowest of the low, hauled on the ropes that controlled the angle of the yards. Beneath their feet the starboard watch had swung in their hammocks, with water dripping on them through the working of the deck planking, trying to get their four hours of allotted sleep. Now, roused out, they
came back on duty to continue their labours in the cold light of dawn.

The experienced hands on Pearce’s watch were nowhere to be seen. They had shot below with the speed of men who knew what they were about, to get out of their soaking outer garments and do what they had done the evening before; take up most of the space around the back of the galley fire, which had warmth enough to dry their ducks, heat their limbs and provide a light for pipes in the only space on the ship where they could smoke.

Behind Pearce, framed against the grey sky, Charlie Taverner had collapsed the moment they made the relative quiet of t’ween decks, only to be kicked by Kemp as he followed him down, each strike accompanied by a swearword, as well as a flick from his rattan. Cornelius Gherson had to be prised off the newel post at the base of the stairs so that Pearce could get by, while Rufus Dommet was leaning over at the other side, retching from a stomach that contained nothing with which to be sick, next to Ben Walker, who, head on his chest was also in some distress. Ahead, in the gloom, Pearce could just make out Michael O’Hagan, legs and hands spread, bent under a too-low deck head, as he tried to stay upright, and in front of the Irishman the easily swaying figure, in dripping oilskins and a foul weather hat, of Lieutenant Digby. Behind him, looking like a wet rag doll and less assured in his stance stood the diminutive figure of Midshipman Burns.

‘Belay that, Kemp,’ Digby shouted, bending a knee to ride the action of the frigate as it crested another wave. ‘There is little use in the beating of tired men.’

‘With respect, sir,’ Kemp shouted back, ‘the Premier wants that the new men should know their duty, an’ in that I am following his express orders to drive them hard.’

‘These men are in my division, Mr Kemp, and when they are off the deck, I will decide how they are to be driven. Now I suggest that you have other duties, and I would be much obliged if you would return to them.’

‘Mr Roscoe…’

‘I will speak with Mr Roscoe, Kemp, and unless he issues orders to the contrary mine will stand.’

Kemp had to obey, but the look on his crooked face and the forced ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ with which he acknowledged the order left no one in any doubt of his sentiments.

‘Don’t tell me we’re shot of the bastard, Michael,’ hissed Pearce.

‘Silence,’ said Digby. ‘Those of you who can, help your shipmates to 
a mess table. Two men who have the duty to fetch something hot to eat, the rest of you get out of your clothes, for they will not dry on your backs.’

‘Nor will there be space by the galley fire,’ said Pearce, ‘for there was none yesterday.’ He remembered just in time to add ‘sir.’

‘There will be, Pearce.’

The use of his real name, instead of Truculence, the first time anyone in authority had employed it, made Pearce look hard at Lieutenant Digby, who met his gaze with words that were soft, but firm. ‘You must not lock eyes with me so, man. It is insubordinate.’

Pearce continued to do so – a problem the lieutenant solved by issuing orders, for it seemed that the mess carriers were too far gone for the task. ‘You and O’Hagan are the least affected. Go to the cook, whom I have already had words with. He will provide you with a couple of kids of soup.’ As they departed Digby added. ‘The rest of you get your outer garments off. Use your blanket to keep out the chill. And for God’s sake don’t seat yourself under a leaking stretch of planking. Once you have something inside you, make your way to the galley, where Mr Burns here will ensure you get a fair share of the available warmth and a chance to dry your clothes.’

‘I need sleep,’ groaned Gherson, a remark that brought a growl of agreement from most of the others.

‘You need food,’ barked Digby. He then softened his voice. ‘Believe me, lads, you must do as I say. It’s better to have food and three hours sleep than four hours abed and a four hour watch with an empty belly. Taverner, help Dommet there, and make sure he takes in some victuals.’

Lieutenant Roscoe, as officer of the watch, had taken station by the wheel, behind the men conning the ship, using their bodies to shield himself from the worst of wind, though not from the spray, which came in as heartily over the ship’s windward quarter as it did the bows. Above his head grey clouds scudded along in the early morning sky, and indistinct in the blowing spume he could just make out a dozen of the convoy ships. Fifty more vessels were out there somewhere, including the second escort, which would become increasingly visible to the lookouts as the light increased. He ordered them to search the horizon astern for an East Indiaman, old, and much smaller than her more recently built consorts, that had hauled its wind at the last of the light the day before; his captain, mad at the time, forced to put the needs of the majority against the requirements of one ship, would want to know if she had rejoined. 

To one side he could see Collins, the master, shut up in his little day cabin, poring over his charts in the hope of finding some clue as to their position. Observation had been difficult with neither a clear sky in daylight nor any sign of a star at night, so all Collins had to go on was dead reckoning, taking the frigate’s last certain position when they had lost sight of land off the high Sussex promontory of Fairlight, hard by Hastings, and by calculating from the ship’s constantly changing course and speed where they were now. In the hands of a competent navigator the result of such a calculation was uncertain. In the hands of a man like Collins, it could be fatal.

The man should be here on deck with him, keeping an eye on the sails and making adjustments to ease the way on the ship, a task that Roscoe was performing because, if he did not, danger beckoned, as it always did at sea. Midshipman Farmiloe was huddled by the poop steps, looking and feeling miserable, while an oilskin-cloaked marine stood guard over the door to Captain Barclay’s quarters.

Around him the ship pitched, rolled and groaned, while the wind set up a constant whistle as it howled through the mass of rigging. Just faintly Roscoe could hear the clanking of the pumps as the men below laboured to rid the frigate of the water she was taking in, water that came through working seams in the scantlings and the decks, or poured in gallons down hatchways and between the boats boomed on the waist. Ahead of him on the quarterdeck, other parties were working on the rigging, it being too rough to clean the decks. Mentally he was checking off the mass of tasks with which he could occupy both them and the watch off duty, throughout the coming day, for bad weather or no, training had to continue.

It was nearly imperceptible, but Roscoe sensed by a changed note in the rigging that the wind had eased just a fraction. The possibility presented itself to spread more canvas, which would, in speeding the frigate through the water, ease her passage. Perhaps he would be able to holystone the decks after all, even if it was pointless, because he was sure if he did not do so Barclay would not only comment on his failure of duty, but would enter the fact in his log. Moving out from the scant protection of the poop, he was in the process of lifting his speaking trumpet to issue orders when a voice called from the tops.

‘Deck there.
Firefly
signalling.’

‘Mr Farmiloe!’ snapped Roscoe. ‘The signal book and a glass.’

Lanky Farmiloe uncoiled himself too slowly for an impatient Premier, and had to scurry when Roscoe barked at him to ‘double up’. 
The light was poor, grey skies full of scudding dark clouds and the spume set up a fine, all-encompassing mist which, with a group of merchant ships pitching and rolling in the waters between the two warships, made reading Davidge Gould’s message difficult.

‘Get aloft, Mr Farmiloe,’ shouted Roscoe, telescope to his eye, straining to see the triangular flags that stood out stiff from
Firefly
’s mainmast, ‘and take the book with you.’ Then he shouted too for someone to man the frigate’s halyards and acknowledge Gould’s signals as they were deciphered.

Stuffing the book under his foul weather hat, that being the only place from which it would not disappear, and with telescope slung by a strap over his shoulder, Farmiloe headed for the rigging on the weather side, fighting to cross a deck pitched at an angle of fifteen degrees. Being tall and gangly made it easy for him to get up on the bulwark and as he began to climb the rigging he felt the security of that wind on his back, pressing him into the ropes. Nevertheless the climb was laborious and clearly too laggardly for the officer of the watch. He could hear Roscoe belabouring him with the epithets of ‘damned lubber’ and ‘useless bugger’, this because he had chosen, with the foul conditions, to get to the safety of the mainmast cap through the lubber’s hole.

From that secure platform Farmiloe had a better view, and with the bulk of the mast to kill the wind he could risk taking out the signal book from under his dripping hat. Telescope pressed to his eye, he read the still indistinct flags on Davidge Gould’s sloop. Flicking through the book he hesitated to call out what he thought they said, and because he was fresh to the task of signal midshipman, took another look to make sure, which earned him another shouted rebuke from Roscoe.

Finally, Farmiloe called down to the deck. ‘
Firefly
signalling, sir, enemy in sight.’

‘Acknowledge,’ shouted Roscoe, before turning to the marine sentry. ‘Rouse out the captain.’

By the base of the mainmast two sailors struggled with the signal halyards, to get aloft the flags that would tell Gould his message had been read and understood. This would allow him to send the second part of the signal, the bearing on which this enemy lay as well as some indication of the size of the threat. By the time that had been done, Ralph Barclay was on deck aware that the enemy was a single ship bearing south-south-east and that Davidge Gould was asking for permission to engage. Assessing the situation, Barclay stood, silently, for a full two minutes before he issued his orders. 

‘All hands, Mr Roscoe and a signal to Captain Gould to hold his position.’ There was no immediate threat; if there had been Gould would have engaged without waiting for orders. ‘Mr Collins, I need to know our position.’

The reply was hesitant. ‘I would put us at – about – let us say – Latitude forty-nine degrees North, Longitude some three and a half degrees East.’

Ralph Barclay conjured up a mental picture of the long neck of the English Channel as it trended west between the south coast and France to that point where he could turn southwards once he had weathered the great Atlantic headland of Ushant. Collins’ calculations placed the convoy past the Channel Islands and somewhere between the Brittany shore and Devon to the north, closer to the French side than England, not much distance covered for four days sailing. That was, of course, only true if Collins had the right of it, which looking into the man’s worried countenance was far from certain. Right at this moment it mattered little, as long as he had plenty of water under his keel.

‘I need you to shape me a course to get to the south-east of our convoy.’

Pearce and Michael O’Hagan approached the galley from the rear. The small space was crowded with a shuffling mass of half-clad sailors standing in a cloud of blue pipe smoke and steam, none of whom showed the slightest inclination to move. Behind the pair, a high-pitched voice, without the least trace of authority or confidence, piped, ‘Stand aside there.’

‘By Christ, there’s a future admiral come among us,’ said a jester from the throng, a remark that was greeted with general laughter. ‘Hard horse ain’t in it.’

But they did move enough to let little Burns through, which was nowhere near enough space for the pair following. O’Hagan bunched his fists, but John’s voice in his ear stopped him throwing a punch that, given the bruising those hands bore, was like to hurt him more than any victim. Michael’s face was less swollen than it had been after the fight, each bruise now black with a yellow surround. The stitching above his badly cut eye was a mess, evidence that Surgeon Lutyens was no master of that particular art.