By the Mast Divided (42 page)

‘Mr Lutyens,’ he asked, when the surgeon had finished, ‘I must ask you what the chances are for Lieutenant Roscoe?’

Lutyens looked up, his face as tired as Emily’s, his eyes seeming out of focus as though the question was strange to him. His fine, normally curly, ginger hair was flat now, and wet from perspiration, making him appear even more odd, an impression not aided by the lantern light by which he was working.

‘The ball has been extracted, and I am informed he took the precaution of donning fresh linen before leaving the ship, so it may be possible to avoid corruption in the wound.’ He looked down at the man
he had been working on, who had finally passed out from the pain, the leather strap marked by the bite of his teeth now lolling out of his open mouth. ‘In the end, Captain, like this fellow here, it is his vital spirit that will decide his fate.’

‘I will send a party to remove the dead,’ Barclay said.

‘Thank you.’

‘Emily, I think you have done enough here.’

‘Your husband is right, Mrs Barclay,’ said Lutyens. ‘We all need some rest.’

‘And I am here, ma’am,’ added Mrs Railton, with a kindly look, ‘to aid Mr Lutyens.’

Emily nodded, and put out a hand to gently touch that of the squat gunner’s wife. She then preceded her husband out of an area that looked very like a charnel house. Ralph Barclay waited until they were on deck, and the breeze had begun to refresh her, before he told her that Burns was missing.

‘I have no idea what became of them. No word has come from any of Thrale’s party.’ He saw the tears begin to course down her face, tears that she had not shed over bleeding, screaming bodies, but that could be brought forth by the contemplation of the unknown fate of a boy like Burns. That made him add hastily. ‘Which leads me to suspect, my dear, that they must have landed, but in the wrong place, and, trying to catch up with the others, may have fallen captive to the men defending the port.’

‘Or killed.’

‘No,’ Ralph Barclay replied, thinking that if he had kept Burns with him at least he would know. Why had he entrusted the boy to that old fool Thrale, who could barely navigate his way around the wardroom let alone the Brittany shore? Had it just been a notion to demonstrate no favouritism, or had the thought of Burns along with him, quite possibly freezing in action, determined him to send the boy with another? ‘There are no reports of any shots after the boats left the beach, no sight nor sound of a fight.’

‘So he will be a captive?’ There was no joy in the question, and she would not look at him.

‘I cannot say I hope so, my dear, for that is not the case. But if he is, then that is a better fate than the lot of those we will bury today. He wears his blue coat, the French will know him for what he is, a young gentleman, and will treat him accordingly.’

Ralph Barclay put as much emphasis into the words as he could, well
aware that he was talking of a France that had died in 1789. What it was like now for prisoners of war would be anyone’s guess.

‘The rules of warfare oblige the enemy to inform us of any officers they are holding; we do the same, and that includes midshipmen. In the previous wars with France there has always been a cartel that runs between Dover and Calais for the exchange of prisoners. If he has been taken, he could be back in England within the year. I will not say that his life will be snug till then, but he will not be ill treated.’

‘I should tell Mrs Railton of this, since he sleeps…slept…in her quarters. I cannot think but that she was fond of him.’

Emily shivered, as though the contemplation of that was fearful. Ralph Barclay took her arm and led her off the deck to the door of his own cabin. There was still a marine to open it, but something told him not to follow her through.

‘Mr Digby.’

‘Sir.’

‘We will commence the burials once everyone has breakfasted. Please detail the necessary hands to sew the dead into their shrouds.’

He followed that with a long, sad look towards the Brittany shoreline, wondering if burials were taking place there as well.

Pearce had to take a long detour through the trees to avoid that bastion; it looked deserted but he could not be sure. His route took him uphill, then brought him back down a slope into the waterside part of Lézardrieux. From here he had a good view of the hill on the other side that rose towards a church – complete with bell tower – which dominated the anchorage. There were hills behind the town too, so that the whole area was well protected from the elements.

When he first heard the locals speak he realised that while he might know Paris, he did not know France. He had heard plenty of regional accents in the capital, and he knew from visits to the Jacobin Club that there were Bretons in the mix, for it was they who had founded that radical institution. But they had been educated men; they had not spoken the common argot of the citizens of this place, which, when he heard it, seemed so accented as to bear little resemblance to the national tongue. Indeed many spoke a language that was wholly different, making him fear to engage in conversation. His appearance proved less of a worry. His torn topcoat and scuffed boots blended in with the locals who were, in many cases, as badly dressed as he, and seemingly living in a community to which a razor had never been introduced, so numerous were the beards.

The open sea was just visible at the end of the long inlet and the fishing port was built on the flat littoral, facing a high wooded bank on the other. There was deep water in the middle, with great baulks of timbers sunk as pylons, but, with the tide out deep, mud banks lay between ship and shore. The buildings were huddled together, just back from the shoreline, lacking any pattern – a couple of high structures, warehouses with joists above the lofts, houses in the main, but with a pair of taverns identifiable by their swinging signs. Some form of market was in progress on the hard-packed earth that passed for a quayside, and soon Pearce was in amongst the bustle of a living community.

The smells were those of a fishing port – the strong odours of recent catches being dried, one great container, flat and round, full of tiny dead silver fish, creating a stench so powerful as to make Pearce gag. The clean sea tang of still live crabs and crayfish crawling over each other in great tubs was a welcome relief. Harder to bear, to a man who had not eaten, were the smells of the bubbling marmites of fisherman’s food, the heads and tails of gutted fish slung into a constantly cooking pot. The odour of fresh baking, as he passed an open window, exercised an even greater pull on Pearce’s empty gut, as well as his emotions. What was it about the smell of bread that conjured up an image of hearth, home and sound prosperity?

He reckoned they would be breakfasting aboard
Brilliant
about now, and that thought made him hanker – for the briefest moment – to be back aboard ship, for there was something to be said for regular meals even if the fare was monotonous and lacking in taste. The thought of the money that had gone missing made him curse, but he was well aware that even if he had it, to proffer English copper and silver to satisfy his craving would hardly aid anonymity, testing enough when he felt that everyone must be looking at him, a stranger in what had to be a
close-knit
community.

Eventually curiosity overtook trepidation as Pearce realised he was not an object of suspicion – quite possibly they thought him one of the privateers. If anyone looked at him it was a passing glance rather than any form of deep enquiry, and his obligatory
bonjour citoyen
seemed good enough to allay any mistrust. It was a greeting he calculated would be safe given the prevalence of tricolours in windows and on the hats of the citizenry. Clearly Lézardrieux – unlike many parts of western France – was loyal to the Revolution.

The two vessels lay at anchor in the midstream, confirming what he had suspected: that Barclay had failed in his attempt to capture the
privateer. Indeed so unscathed did that ship look that Pearce wondered if the captain had even got near enough to make his planned assault. Close to, he could read the lettering on the counter –
Mercedes
and St Malo. The
Lady Harrington
was in the same state in which the crew of HMS
Brilliant
had last seen her, with damaged bulwarks and shattered stern decoration. Neither ship was of much use to him, his examination being mere curiosity. His instructions were to look out for something big enough to take the stranded party, but not so big that they could not manage her.

The rest of the boats in the river, or lying in the exposed mud of the low tide were inshore fishing smacks, with single masts, in no way big enough to hold a party of seven nor to survive any sea that took them far from the shore. Small rowboats either tied up to a riverside bollard or scuttling about in the water were of no use at all. The bigger boats, those belonging to the Indiaman and the
Mercedes
, of the same size as those he had hauled on and off HMS
Brilliant
and perfect for the task, were tied up by their sides, out of reach beyond the broad band of brown mud.

A small knot of people had formed by one of the cables that attached the French ship to the shore, and though it was risky to get too close and chance a conversation, Pearce went to look, because between their legs he was sure he had seen a dash of red.

The dead marine officer had lost half his head and the other side was so damaged that it was unrecognisable. He lay, flat on his back, legs splayed, the belt and breeches that had once been pipe clayed so white now streaked dark brown with dried mud. The red coat was covered with dark stains, too, which made Pearce wonder until one of the group looking at the cadaver sent a long streak of tobacco spit on to the corpse. That was followed by a casual kick, a grunt of ‘cochon’, before the man moved off to be replaced by another citizen ready to abuse a lifeless enemy. Pearce moved swiftly away himself lest he be obliged to do likewise. The English voice, exclaiming, ‘Poor bastard’, almost stopped him in his tracks.

The temptation to spin round and look was overwhelming but had to be resisted, and Pearce waited until he was yards away before he risked a backward glance. Which of the men round the body had spoken? There was nothing to distinguish a Frenchman from a Briton. The solution lay in the lack of abuse, as a pair, nudged by a fellow wearing a tricolour cockade and carrying a pistol, moved away without delivering either spittle or a kick, looking sad rather than satisfied. Pearce, falling in behind, noticed the taller one of the pair had a pronounced limp, while the other had an empty sleeve. Wounded men? But not from
Brilliant
, because their faces
were unfamiliar, which could mean they were from the
Lady Harrington
, part of the Indiaman’s crew. Yet they passed the merchant ship without making any move to signal for a boat to go aboard, turning instead into an alley that led off the quay, then into several others until Pearce was unsure in which direction they were finally headed.

The sight of another armed guard holding a musket and sporting the obligatory tricolour, slouched by a doorway, made Pearce slip out of view, hiding in an angle where one building protruded further than another. He heard indistinct words exchanged and the rattle of keys, the sound of a lock being eased, the creaking of an opening door followed by slamming and relocking. Peering out he saw the two Frenchmen exchange a few words, before the one who had escorted the prisoners to this place moved off, with no sign of the men he had been guarding, leaving what was clearly a sentinel still in place.

He was gone while the stationary Frenchman was still looking at his colleague’s back, turning right and right again in the hope of coming to a point of contact at the rear. All he encountered was high unbroken walls, under some kind of enclosed bridge, and another right turn brought him to the far end of the original alleyway where he could look back on the sentry, who was now leaning on the wall, head down as if half asleep.

If this was a place of confinement they had chosen it well, a house with only one door at ground level, though Pearce decided to check on that by walking past the sentry, who lifted a sleepy head to acknowledge his approach, but made no comment. There was a window, impossible to see from a few feet away, barred and shuttered, which meant little since, if it was a way to talk to those inside, it was so close to the man guarding the door that no communication could take place without him hearing the exchange. The act of talking to the sentry was completely spontaneous, seemingly unbidden, and one that later would make John Pearce wonder if he was tainted with a touch of madness.

‘Good day, citizen.’

The head lifted and the eyes were on him, but there was no unease in them, more the light of a bored man happy to engage in conversation. The reply was equable, without being overly friendly, though the fellow did straighten and take a firmer grip on his musket. ‘Good day to you, citizen.’

There was a fraction of a second when Pearce thought to just walk on, but he had created an opening and if he did not exploit it, it might never happen again. And his mind was racing on another level; behind that shutter were British sailors. Dysart was no doubt right when he insisted
that all they could manage was a single-masted boat; that even a large enough fishing smack, with him a one winged bird, might prove beyond their competence. But that did not apply to the men from the
Lady Harrington
. They could handle anything, for even he, a lubber, knew that the East India Company, the richest trading cartel in Britain, was fussy in its crews and with the wages it paid, it could afford to be. Wages, food, the two words seemed to clash in his head.

‘Is this where they are confining the English prisoners, citizen?’

‘It is, citizen.’

Pearce took two paces back, peering at the shuttered and barred window, suddenly assailed by less sanguine thoughts. These men were locked up and guarded – not very well guarded – but by an armed man none the less. He and the other survivors of Thrale’s party would not only have to get them out of their confinement, but get them aboard a boat big enough to accommodate them all, something like the cutter he had come ashore in. Such a boat lay alongside the
Lady Harrington
, one that could get them back to England, and the men to sail it were feet away.