By the Mast Divided (48 page)

The lookout on HMS
Brilliant
called at dawn. ‘Sail ho! Ship bearing due west. I just picked up the masthead on the rise.’

‘Bugger’s run for St Malo,’ Barclay spat.

For the first time in forty-eight hours he felt able to look and act as he should, like a senior Post Captain, giving the eye to his deck officers
instead of avoiding contact. If he had not insisted on closing the Estuary de Trieux they would have missed the enemy.

The next call came fifteen minutes later. ‘Looks like the India ship, your honour.’

‘There might be two sail.’

It was a good five minutes before the lookout responded, a period in which Ralph Barclay swung between euphoria and despair, hope rising only to be killed off by pessimism, the feeling that all his hopes, dashed more than once, were about to be sunk again.

‘There’s only one ship to see and it is definitely the Indiaman, ’cause she is flying the company pennant.’

‘No tricolour above it?’

‘No.’

‘Mr Collins, more sail.’

It was Martin Dent who spotted the frigate, sitting as he was on the crosstrees, right at the top of the
Lady Harrington
’s masts. His gleeful identification of HMS
Brilliant
was not shared on deck by anyone other than Dysart, and the mood deepened when Twyman denied the possibility of outrunning a frigate.

‘You’re sure?’

‘As I stand here and breathe.’

Pearce looked towards the low line of land, just visible. ‘How far offshore would you put us?’

‘A good ten miles.’

‘Could we take to a boat?’ asked Charlie Taverner.

It was Dysart who replied, not Twyman, the Scot’s face angry at what he saw as stupidity. ‘You wouldna get two miles. Barclay’s got boats an ‘aw, and men who can row better than you daft buggers. Think what will happen if yer taken up as deserters. The first thing you’d face is the grating, and this time it will be a proper cat, no’ some damp and useless hemp.’

The deck fell into silence,
Harrington
s and
Brilliant
s alike struck into silence. John Pearce was aware that others were waiting for him to make a decision, and that annoyed him – had he not done enough? But even as he deliberated on the ineptitude of his fellow men, he could not help but filter through the alternatives they faced. And the conclusion was as unpleasant as it was unwelcome.

‘Twyman,’ he said eventually, his voice heavy as he glanced around to what was a totally empty seascape, ‘if we cannot outrun
Brilliant
then
we had best heave to.’ He answered the looks of disappointment with the words. ‘That way, at least, the wounded men will get quick attention.’

‘Let fly the sheets,’ Twyman shouted, his face a mask, giving nothing away regarding his own feelings.

‘John-boy,’ asked Michael, with an enquiring look. ‘You’re sure?’

‘No, Michael, I am as unsure as anyone on this deck.’

The Irishman pulled out the first belaying pin, releasing the mainsail to flap uselessly as the way came off the
Lady Harrington
.

The decision had been made and the emotions of those on board varied. Rufus put the best face on it, pointing out that they would be reunited with Ben Walker, which Charlie Taverner spoilt for him by mentioning Gherson. Charlie was looking glum, Pearce thought, like a man on his way to the guillotine or the gallows. Michael just looked angry.

‘Sorry, Michael.’

‘Sure, I have no idea what you are after saying that for.’

‘I thought to get us free,’ Pearce said, nagged once more by the thought of his true motives, and wondering why, having got clear of Lézardrieux, he hadn’t asked to be put ashore at once. Too late now!

‘Free. What is free, John-boy? The right to toil until your body fails, then to die in a gutter?’

Pearce gave him a tired smile. ‘You’re not recommending the Navy, are you?’

The Irishman shook his head. ‘Not for you, and not on that there ship, ’cause all I can see for you there is trouble, enough trouble to see you dangle, for one day I swear that you will take a swing at Barclay.’

‘The tree of liberty must from time to time be refreshed with the blood of tyrants.’

‘What?’

‘Thomas Jefferson, an American patriot, said something like that. I’m not sure I have the absolute right of it.’

Michael was not impressed by the quotation. ‘Me, I care not where I am, a hull is as good as a ditch.’ Pearce looked at him in disbelief, until he realised that the Irishman was speaking to reassure himself.

‘It’s not just you.’

‘Charlie will sulk but survive, and Rufus, though he will haul on ropes for eternity and learn little, is as well off at sea as he is ashore.’

‘Which leaves me as the problem.’

O’Hagan favoured Pearce with a huge grin, then put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Sure, you’re that all right, and one I am right glad I met.’

Brilliant
was within hailing distance within the hour, with a boat in the water seconds after she hove to. Pearce could see Barclay in the sternsheets, and observed that the frigate captain was not going to come aboard without a strong party of red-coated marines. Lifting a telescope that he had borrowed from Twyman, he ranged over the deck of the man-o’-war, picking out the cloaked figure of the captain’s wife, Lieutenant Digby and further forward, leaning over the rail, Ben Walker and Cornelius Gherson.

‘Man ropes,’ said Twyman. ‘We need to rig man ropes for your captain to come aboard.’

‘Those,’ Pearce replied, bitterly, ‘you can do yourself.’

A call brought one of the
Harrington
s to drop two lines over the side that looped through eyebolts and acted as the side of the ladder needed to get aboard at sea. Barclay climbed the wooden battens on the side of the ship with ease and came on deck with a look of deep curiosity. That he was not pleased to see Pearce was obvious by the glare aimed in his direction, nor was he about to favour anyone on the deck,
Brilliant
s or
Harrington
s, with a smile, though Dysart was worth a nod. But when he spotted Midshipman Burns by the wheel, a wave of relief swept over him.

‘Mr Burns, an explanation if you please.’

‘Sir,’ the mid replied, stepping forward and lifting his hat.

‘Who commands here?’

‘Well, I do,’ said Twyman.

Barclay looked him up and down, then called to Burns, ‘Would I be right in assuming, young sir, that this ship was taken from under the noses of that dammed privateer?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘By men from my ship?’

‘Partly.’

Barclay glared at the boy. ‘Partly?’

‘We took it back with the help of the ship’s own crew, sir.’

‘Only right and proper, Mr Burns, but that does not alter the fact that this ship was in enemy hands for a full thirty-six hours.’

‘She were not,’ protested Twyman, ‘not more’n twenty four.’

Barclay reacted as though Twyman had not spoken, his remarks still aimed at Burns. ‘Which means, young sir, that this vessel became property of our enemies, and, retaken, is now a lawful prize of His Britannic Majesty, King George. And that means, Mr Burns, that until I myself set foot on this deck, you had the command here.’ Then Barclay
lifted his hat. ‘And it behoves me, before superseding you, to give you your due salute.’

Burns had not the wit to reply, but he did, once more, lift his own hat.

‘Thank you, Mr Burns. Now be so good as to escort me to your cabin.’

‘I protest,’ said Twyman.

‘Noted,’ Barclay replied, without giving the man a glance.

There was not a jaw that did not drop as Burns complied with his captain’s request – taking Barclay to his cabin, and two marines, who took station at the cabin door, made sure no one, not even Twyman, could follow.

When Barclay emerged he had the truth of the tale. Burns had not admitted how little he had personally achieved, nor did he over-praise the man who had actually led them. But then he didn’t have to, for as Captain Barclay informed him he was the senior in the party, and even if he was only a slip of a mid, he was, by the very nature of his coat and rank, in command, so all the glory accrued to him.

‘And I shall have pleasure in saying so in my despatch. I don’t doubt it will be well received by higher authority. I would say, Mr Burns, that such a feat will make your name in the service. Now, oblige me by sending my barge back to
Brilliant
so we can get a proper prize crew aboard this vessel. And once that has been achieved it would give me great pleasure, nay pride, to invite you to dine with myself and Mrs Barclay.’

Then he looked to where Pearce stood, giving him that same baleful stare as he had the day he had first come aboard. ‘Naturally, that will mean the return of the men you led to our own ship.’

‘Mr Burns,’ Pearce said, ignoring Barclay. ‘We need the surgeon.’

Barclay said nothing till the midshipman repeated the request, and nodded once he did.

The whole ship knew the truth within ten minutes of their own men corning back aboard. Dysart and Martin Dent were quizzed rather than the Pelicans, which set up a buzz that had Hale calling on his captain, though unhappily, for his account did not make pleasant hearing. What he reported was not the truth, for it had grown in the telling, making gods out of mere mortals. What was galling was the frequency with which Pearce’s name came up, especially since Emily Barclay could hear every word his coxswain was saying, having sat in uninvited to listen to the conversation. That forced the coxswain to filter what had been said about the behaviour of Midshipman Burns.

‘Surely that is good news, husband,’ said Emily, once Hale had departed. ‘That a member of your crew should show such ability.’

Ralph Barclay waited for her to say ‘volunteer’, dreading that she might do so. He was seething inwardly, for the last two days with his wife had been hard indeed, and these were almost the first civil words she
had spoken to him since he had flogged this man she seemed to want to hail as a hero. Emily was not unaware of the effect of her words; it had never occurred to her that she might have power inside her marriage, but the argument over that flogging, and the way her husband had acted since then, half blustering, half timid, was enough to show her that she had a substantial amount. The trouble was knowing how to use it; for certain it would be fatal to overplay her hand. Meekly applied pressure was forceful enough.

‘You feel I should reward him?’

‘Only, Captain Barclay, if you think that it is merited. It is, after all, beyond my competence to judge.’

It was difficult to reply in an even tone. ‘Let me think on it.’

He scarce got time for that, for Twyman came aboard demanding to see him, insisting that he remove his prize crew forthwith, ‘For at best, Captain Barclay, the
Lady Harrington
is salvage.’

‘Salvage?’ Barclay exploded. ‘You are taken by that French dog, rescued from confinement by a party led by one of my midshipmen…’ He had to stop then, for the look on this merchant seaman’s face was too startled to continue.

‘Midshipman. The little lily-livered bastard hid away the whole time.’

‘Language, sir,’ Barclay barked, glad that Emily had gone to the sickbay to assist Lutyens, and so would not hear these words. ‘This interview is at an end now. You have just seen fit to insult a cousin of my own wife, a boy she holds dear to her breast.’

‘It matters not who did what,’ Twyman insisted. ‘The ship was not in enemy hands for the required time.’

‘I think, sir, that an Admiralty court will be the judge of that.’

Barclay did not really resent Twyman’s anger or his insults. Nor did he mind the fact that he was lying about the time spent in captivity. After all, as a prize taken by a King’s ship he would get not a penny; as salvage Twyman and his crew would do well, though they might be obliged in extreme circumstances to share their good fortune with the crew of
Brilliant
. No one, least of all Barclay, could resent a fellow trying to fight his corner when there was money involved. Against that he had a degree of confidence. Ommaney and Druce would present his case to the Admiralty Prize Court at Lincoln’s Inn with the kind of zeal occasioned by the notion of profit. The ship’s insurers, coffee house vandals, would no doubt put up a good legal team as well. Twyman counted as nothing in the scheme of things. At best he would be given a chance to make a
written submission, one that would not tally with that sent in by himself and Burns.

‘I intend that your ship should sail back to an English port.’

‘Under my direction,’ Twyman insisted.

‘No, sir! Under the hand of one of my officers.’

‘This is an outrage.’

‘You may term it so, I term it prudent.’

They argued for an hour and a half, back and forth, while Barclay, whose mind was firmly made up, so that he only had to respond by rebuttal, used the time to think. Time and again, as Twyman repeated the same grievance, altering the words only slightly, Ralph Barclay conjured up the face of John Pearce, very much with that look of belligerence he had displayed the morning he had been sworn in. The man was a menace, and Barclay wished he had left him in that alley by the Pelican. But he had not, and he was on his ship; what to do about him?

Without his wife aboard, it would have been easy; he had seen troublemakers flogged into submission before. But Emily would make his life a misery if he tried, and it was no comfort to him to know that she could, something she had already proved. Where did the shrew in her come from, for it had never before been evident? Yet she had found looks that made him feel like a scrub, silences that made him feel foolish, and attitudes that made him seethe with impotence.

Slowly, as Twyman ranted on, a solution presented itself, and having arrived at that he brought the argument to a conclusion by alluding to the possibility that the crewman from the Indiaman might find himself clapped in irons if he did not desist.

Hale came into the cabin as soon as the coast was clear, to fill in the bits of the story he had left out for the captain’s wife: how her little cousin had behaved in action. It did not make for a pretty tale and added another layer of anxiety to Ralph Barclay’s complex peregrinations.

‘The captain wants to see you, Pearce,’ said Lieutenant Digby, who was now confirmed as acting Premier.

Pearce looked up from his mess table, where he was once more obliged to take his ease, doubly uncomfortable because he was forever put to the blush with Taverner, Rufus and Michael singing his heroic praises, conscious that such praise had Gherson seething.

‘Am I allowed to refuse?’

Digby had to suck in air – hard and audibly – through clenched teeth. Being acting Premier meant if he had no way of imposing discipline by
dint of personality, he had no recourse to anything other than the Articles of War. Pearce should have leapt to his feet as soon as he addressed him – that he had not done so was in itself a punishable offence, but looking into those defiant eyes he knew that even that threat would not wash.

‘Would you believe me if I said that it might be in your favour to do so?’

Pearce was aware that the exchange had not gone unnoticed by the rest of the crew, just as he knew how much he had challenged Digby’s authority by staying seated. Given that Digby was the only officer who had remotely shown any kindness, Pearce knew that the man did not deserve it. Slowly he stood, and lifted his hand. Breathing stopped on the whole maindeck then, with men wondering if he was going to hit the acting Premier – the bugger was mad by all reckoning, so anything was possible – but Pearce put his fist to his forehead and gave him the required salute.

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

‘Follow me,’ said Digby, turning away to hide his relief, quickly enough to see the eyes of the crew diverted.

Having sent for Pearce, Ralph Barclay had the task of asking his wife to leave the cabin, including the coach, where she was wont to spend her time. It was a delicate task because by doing so, he alluded to the notion that she might eavesdrop.

‘I plead, my dear, the interests of the man himself, for we have seen that this Pearce has a high opinion and few manners. I fear he may say something untoward, and if it is overheard by you I would have no choice but to react.’

‘I will happily take a turn on the deck. With your permission I may ask my cousin Mr Burns to join me. I am agog to hear of his adventures.’

‘I shall send for him,’ Barclay replied, thinking that to eavesdrop on that exchange would be illuminating.

Emily was on the windward side of the quarterdeck by the time Pearce came aft, barefooted and coatless again. That part of the quarterdeck was the preserve of the ship’s captain, a place where he – and his wife – were allowed to walk undisturbed in the freshest air available. That her eye was on the man of the hour was not to be remarked upon; everyone on the ship was looking at him. All she got was a flick in her direction as Pearce crossed the divide, passing the mainmast towards the officer’s preserve. She tried to respond with an expression of reassurance, sure as she was that her husband, faced with her disapproval, was about to
mellow. Burns came trailing in Pearce’s wake, but Emily Barclay did not observe the looks he got from the crew, which could hardly be said to be flattering.

‘Mr Burns, come walk with me and tell me what you have been up to. I am sure now that you are a hero Captain Barclay would not mind.’

Burns still hesitated, for the windward side was sacrosanct when the captain or his lady graced the deck. It was Digby, turning from having delivered his charge, who saved his face, being one of the people aboard yet to be told the whole truth about the cutting out of the
Lady Harrington
. He said, ‘Carry on, Mr Burns. I am sure the captain would have no objection.’

‘Now, cousin,’ Emily whispered, ‘from the very beginning.’

Toby Burns had had time to think, had talked to the captain, heard himself referred to in heroic terms and faced and boasted to his fellow midshipmen. So he now had a story to tell that put him in a good light, from the very moment he had warned Lieutenant Thrale that he was
off-course.
Cousin Emily heard how his action had saved some of the crew; how, reluctant as he was, he had had to take command. She heard of the difficulty of one so young as he ordered about grown men to get them to act for their own sake in the face of their natural lethargy and their sense of despair. His role in the freeing of the prisoners was central – and he was working off what Pearce and O’Hagan had reprised of that affair – he being the only one small enough to slip through a skylight at the top of a securely locked door and attack the guard.

‘He was asleep, cousin,’ he added hastily. ‘So it was not a difficult thing.’

‘Were you not terrified?’

Chest puffed out, Burns replied, ‘Petrified is a better word, but I knew I had to do my duty. So many men’s lives depended on it.’

‘And the taking of the ship, the destruction of the privateer, Toby?’

‘The men must take praise for that, for I am only one; they fought like demons, outnumbered too. But I have a small hope that they would acknowledge that my plans and my instructions, plus the encouragement I gave them in battle, played some part in our success.’

The kiss that Cousin Emily planted on his cheek, the words that he was indeed a hero, were music to his ears.

Barclay kept Pearce waiting, going over the thoughts he had harboured earlier. The concern that was uppermost was not of his wife’s disapproval, but the attitude of his crew when he had flogged the man; then, that
moment on deck when Pearce had nearly struck him. He was aware that his men were not, on either occasion, with him. Sensitivity to the feelings of a crew was a paramount part of being a good commander, and Ralph Barclay had no doubt he was that.

‘Fetch him in,’ he said to Shenton, ‘then I want everyone out of earshot, so make sure you tell Mr Digby to clear the poop.’

Both sets of eyes lifted to the skylight above Barclay’s head, a fine place for a senior member of the crew to listen in on cabin gossip. There was a pause while this order was carried out, then the marine sentry showed Pearce in and escorted Shenton out. Still scruffy from his adventures, unshaven and his ducks streaked with everything from gunpowder smoke to mud, Pearce did not look like much to trouble a Post Captain. But he did trouble him, and in a way that undermined both Barclay’s domestic and professional well being. There was no invitation to sit, just as Pearce gave no salute, keeping his balled fists firmly by his sides.

‘Mr Burns told me you behaved well.’

He nodded slightly, unblinking; the man had presence – there was no doubt of that, but Barclay had dealt with people of greater merit than this rogue and was not about to be put off his stroke.

‘I would be obliged if you would tell me how he behaved?’

‘I think whatever he told you would be as close to the truth as you need to know.’

‘Do you have any reason to feel that you should not be aboard this ship?’

‘No more than ten or twenty others, and as to reasons I think you know them all.’

Barclay tapped his fingers on his desk, holding Pearce’s look with his own. ‘I am minded to show you some favour, for you and your fellows have helped Mr Burns to deliver to this ship a valuable prize. But I must warn you that insolence is not likely to aid that.’

‘Let us just say then that I am not bred to the sea.’

‘I am curious to know what you are bred to.’

‘The freedom to choose my time of waking and sleeping, eating and washing.’

Ralph Barclay was getting nowhere. He was going to have this man off his ship, for reasons that had nothing to do with kindness, but he wanted Pearce to hint at some gratitude.