By the Mast Divided (50 page)

The shout of ‘Sail Ho’ right in his ear, nearly caused Pearce to lose his grip. He spun round to follow the outstretched arm of the lookout, which was pointing in a vaguely easterly direction, straining his eyes to see the object he had identified.

‘Where away?’ came the voice from the deck.

‘North-east, I reckon,’ the lookout shouted. As he did so something rose from the grey edge of the horizon, and Pearce saw the tip of a mast,
maybe a sail, and most certainly a streaming triangular flag.

‘She’s showing a man-o’-war pennant.’

‘Friend or foe?’ Pearce asked the lookout.

The answer was grudging, for he was with a fellow who had seen his mates pressed in the Navy, to be replaced by a lot he considered useless buggers. ‘Won’t know that for an age yet, till she’s hull up and maybe then she might be flyin’ false colours.’

The commands from below had the yards moving and Pearce saw the prow of the
Lady Harrington
swing slightly westward. ‘We’ll keep as much water betwixt us and them till we’re sure,’ said the lookout.

If time at sea had little dimension at deck level, that sensation was even more apparent at the mainmast cap. To Pearce, little changed; the approaching vessel got bigger, but so slowly as to be almost imperceptible. Yet to the lookout features of the approaching ship were constantly being revealed. She was a line of battle ship, two-decked but too small for a seventy-four, and looked to be British. The flag at the main told him she was in a squadron commanded by a vice-admiral of the white. He gave the information tersely to Pearce that, if he had a brain in his head he would know the Navy had three squadrons, blue, red and white.

‘Sweet sailer too,’ the lookout added, ‘she’s coming up hand over fist and that on a bowline.’ Pearce declined to respond; he thought that meant sailing into the wind but was not certain enough to say so.

‘Pretty,’ the lookout exclaimed as the prow of the warship swung across to another tack, the yards switching also. ‘Sheeted home her yards as sweet as a nut, she did.’

In half an hour they knew for certain she was British; that she was a sixty-four gunner, and as soon as some of the crew on deck could make out her figurehead, a large white face over a blue cloak and a golden crown on the head, they could say for certain that she was HMS
Agamemnon
, and that the request to heave to was one that could safely be obeyed.

The captain who came aboard was slight of build, so much so that standing next to Midshipman Burns, speaking in what was a high, light voice, he nearly managed to make the boy look and sound like a real sailor. The pair paced the windward side of the deck with Burns talking the most, the little captain listening, head bent in deep concentration. Pearce was not alone in edging closer to eavesdrop, unsurprised that in the telling of his tale, which was naturally of the pursuit and destruction of the
Mercedes
, Burns was allotting to himself a role he had not played.

‘Would you listen to that little sod?’ Twyman hissed.

Pearce nodded. ‘I daresay it’s the same story he told Barclay.’

The pacing stopped abruptly, as the small captain, in a piping voice, exclaimed, ‘Some of the men from HMS
Brilliant
, men who took part in the action, are aboard?’

Burns looked slightly crestfallen, and Pearce had the feeling he regretted revealing the fact. ‘They are, sir, four in all.’

‘Then I would very much like to meet them, Mr Burns.’

A moment’s hesitation was followed by a look and a call, which sounded almost martial in its delivery. ‘Pearce, assemble those
Brilliant
s whom I commanded at Lézardrieux.’ There was a very short pause, in which Pearce declined to move, instead glaring at the boy until he added, ‘If you please.’

Gathering Charlie, Rufus and Michael took no time at all, for they had all edged close to the quarterdeck. Gherson looked set to step forward too, but Pearce told him abruptly to get back, and in seconds found himself looking down into a pair of startlingly blue eyes, set in a good-looking but quite pale face, and on the receiving end of an engaging smile. The captain wore his officer’s hat across his head rather than front to back, which rendered clear his look of indulgent enquiry.

‘Captain Horatio Nelson, at your service. You are?’

The reply ‘John Pearce,’ was unavoidable, given that Burns had used that name, and thankfully it produced nothing but a nod. As this Nelson moved along, introducing himself to the other three with the same pleasant manner, Pearce looked at Burns, who wore on his face a look of deep concern. If Nelson asked any questions, Pearce and his friends were in a position to ditch him, to tell the truth about what he had done, four voices against one would entirely destroy the image he had created with this visitor. But crushing Burns would not do him or his friends any good at all, despite any satisfaction it might give. He heard Nelson ask Michael to describe his part in the operation, and cut across the Irishman to answer.

‘It was a joint affair, Captain Nelson, in which everyone played their part in what was a very confusing occasion. For any one man to single out and relate his own efforts would, of necessity, be partial, and quite possibly inaccurate. And I think it is worth reminding ourselves that nothing could have been achieved without the aid of the crew of the
Lady Harrington
, led by Mr Twyman, who is standing by the wheel.’

‘Well said, fellow,’ Nelson replied; looking at the speaker he did not see the glare aimed at Pearce by Michael O’Hagan. ‘I have been in the odd scrap myself, and have found it hard in the aftermath to remember clearly what has occurred.’

For a moment Pearce wondered if Nelson was as much of a liar as Midshipman Burns; he didn’t look as though he could punch a hole in a paper bag, never mind take part in a proper scrap.

‘Well, let it be enough to say that I congratulate you all. It is a fine thing you have done and I daresay when the news reaches England it will do much to cheer the folk at home. Mr Burns, time and tide do not wait and I have my orders for the Mediterranean. But let me say before I go back aboard
Agamemnon
that should you ever need a berth, and I have a ship, I would consider it an honour if you would apply to me for a place.’ Nelson spun slowly round, taking in the whole deck as he added, ‘and quite naturally, I would welcome any man here to join my crew. Good day to you all, and God speed.’

They watched, rocking on the swell, as Nelson’s barge made the short trip back to his ship. As soon as he got aboard, men began to swarm up the shrouds to set sail. It was a shock, and an emotional one as, on a command from the quarterdeck, where all the officers including the little captain stood with their hats raised, the entire crew of the sixty-four gun ship of the line gave the crew of the
Lady Harrington
three times three in cheers. In utter silence, with not a shout to be heard but the order to make sail, the men of the warship sheeted home their yards and HMS
Agamemnon
got under way.

‘Time we did the same,’ said Twyman.

Cornelius Gherson added bitterly, as he looked at the departing man-o’-war, ‘Drippy naval buggers.’

They had sighted land from the masthead hours before, and had put up the helm of the
Lady Harrington
to crawl along the long, low Dungeness shore, heading for the South Foreland and the Downs. Twyman had promised to put the five pressed men ashore before they made their landfall. In light airs there was nothing to do, so Pearce found himself on the quarterdeck in front of the wheel, in the place where Barclay would stand aboard HMS
Brilliant
. Pearce thought about the events of the past two weeks; it had been an experience, certainly, almost too much crowded into a short space of time to be credible. He had made friends and enemies. The first he would keep, the latter he would try to forget, for to recall them would require an ongoing hatred he knew to be more damaging to him than to those at whom it was aimed.

The view from this part of the deck was different – he had to acknowledge that fact. Men stood here looked forward, to where the ship was headed, watching the great bowsprit lift and fall on the swell,
poetically he thought, as a measure of their hopes. But it was just wood beneath his feet – the same wooden planking that graced the other parts of the deck. What made the denizens of a warship’s deck different were their uniforms and rituals – that allied to centuries of tradition. He had learnt that a ship, small East Indiaman or man-o’-war, was a complex affair – that the ropes, blocks, tackles and rigging represented a world of knowledge that could take years to acquire. And then only if what had been learnt passed down from those who had sailed the seas before – and that was before anyone had decided to take these great engines of war or commerce anywhere.

Navigation was a whole other art, seamanship the same: the ability to spot what was going to happen in the way of weather from the run of the sea or the colour and composition of the sky. But much as he admired the competence of those who sailed these ships, who could not but wonder at what they put up with. If accommodation had been tight in the frigate it was more so on this Indiaman; the crew, including the Pelicans, was confined to a tiny forepeak barely big enough to hold them all, so that space could be saved for cargo. Midshipman Burns, now once more pacing the windward side of the quarterdeck, still pretending to be an officer and a gentleman, abrogated to himself half the great cabin, with Twyman using the other half. It was the same on a merchant ship as in the Navy – those with wealth and position acquired more, and the space to enjoy the luxury it provided. Those with little toiled as they were directed – though life was much easier on a trading vessel than a warship – before hauling themselves into cots in a stinking pit, where privacy was unknown and comfort wholly absent.

Idly looking at what ships were passing, going tip and down the Channel, Pearce rehearsed his plans for getting to London and Lutyens’ father without risk. The idea was that they would go ashore this very night as soon as it was dark, close enough to Dover – St Margaret’s Bay had been mentioned. They would then be able to walk to one of the coach stops between there and Canterbury, without risking the port itself for fear of bounty-hunting crimps. Charlie and Rufus had opted for rural Kent, well away from the metropolis while Pearce himself would go on to London with Michael for company. He would need new clothes, for the coat that he had worn when taken up was torn and useless. And a big hat, one that created shadow enough to hide his face.

‘Armed cutter signalling, Mr Burns,’ said the master’s mate whom Barclay had put aboard. ‘Signal is to heave to. They’ll be after hands.’

Pearce followed the pointed finger and observed a small ship, with
one great mast dwarfing the hull, beating up the coast towards them.

‘Oblige him,’ Burns replied, in his squeaky voice. ‘Though I fear he is in for a grave disappointment.’ Then he made for the cabin, to fetch the papers Captain Barclay had given him.

All the pressed men had been told that it was common for ships to be apprehended once they were in soundings – the point where a lead line could touch the bottom of the sea. It was from incoming merchant vessels that the Navy took most of its crews. The news brought everyone on deck to stare at the approaching cutter, a tiny affair dwarfed by the ship she had ordered to halt, though with gunports that showed she had teeth. Expertly, the man who conned it brought the vessel under the Indiaman’s lee and backed the sails, edging on the rudder until the sides touched by the man ropes Burns had seen rigged, so that a blue-coated officer could clamber aboard. As he came on deck, he showed surprise at who walked the quarterdeck – not some flushed full-of-wealth India captain, but a slip of a naval mid with his hat off his head.

‘Lieutenant Benjamin Colbourne, at your service,’ the officer announced, returning the compliment with the hat.

‘The prize ship
Lady Harrington
,’ piped Burns. ‘Taken by HMS
Brilliant
, Captain Ralph Barclay commanding.’

‘Salvage,’ barked Twyman, as he had done every time the word prize was uttered.

That raised an eyebrow and a discussion followed in which Burns put
Brilliant
’s case and Twyman that of the Indiaman crew, neither with true clarity, producing on the face of the lieutenant a look of wry amusement.

‘You had best make up your mind, gentlemen,’ he said finally. ‘Your ship is in soundings and therefore I have the right to press some of your crew for service in the Navy. That is if you are salvage; a prize, of course, is different.’

Pearce looked him up and down. Colbourne was tall, well mannered, neatly dressed, but stooped.

‘My captain gave me these to cover this very moment,’ said Burns, handing over a letter.

Colbourne took it, broke the seal and read it. ‘You have aboard, this says, five seamen from your frigate. Captain Barclay intends them for the press tender, and another ship, but writes that any captain intercepting this vessel should feel free to take his men on board.’

‘You’re wrong,’ protested Gherson. ‘Those are our papers of discharge.’

‘We were illegally pressed,’ said Charlie Taverner, a remark parroted by Rufus Dommet.

‘I think,’ Michael piped up, making more sense of what had happened than the others, ‘that you will see we have been right royally stuffed.’

Pearce spoke up last; having listened to the exchange with a sinking heart, he was sure he knew what Barclay had done. ‘These men are right. We were illegally pressed from the Liberties of the Savoy on the banks of the Thames. Captain Barclay undertook to free us.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Colbourne, his voice almost sympathetic, ‘but by your garb you are clearly seamen. Those are Navy ducks you are wearing and I can clearly see that your hands are stained by tar.’

‘Our shore clothes are stored.’

‘Which is as it should be.’

‘Would I be allowed to read Captain Barclay’s letter?’ asked Pearce, holding out his hand.

That occasioned an even more marked lift of the eyebrows, for common seamen were rarely able to read. But the officer passed the letter over. Pearce read the words with a cold sensation in his gut; their names were listed, their rating as landsmen, and the words this lieutenant had just quoted. There was one last chance, and he turned to the confused midshipman.