By the Mast Divided (32 page)

The notion that he was hunting a straggler of an East Indiaman would not pass muster under malign scrutiny, but Ralph Barclay knew that if he had a capture the examining eyes would look more kindly.

‘Mr Burns, please tell Mr Roscoe that the hands are to be piped to supper.’

Emily looked at her husband then with admiration, and he, returning that look thought of what success would bring for her. That she was a lady was not in doubt; neither was the fact that she would grace his rank to whatever heights he rose. In his mind he imagined the benefits she 
would enjoy from being wife to a successful sailor, a taker of numerous prizes: carriages, a beautiful home, servants, and children so well found in wealth and position that if they ever did decide to go to sea, they would do so with none of the constraints which had dogged his career.

‘And Mr Burns, please ask Mr Roscoe to prepare to darken ship. We are going to continue the chase once the light goes, but I have no notion to let the fellow know it.’

It was ghostly sailing along in the dark. A tarpaulin had been rigged before the binnacle locker so that no light showed forward. Below decks only enough lanterns were lit to allow a man to pass from one place to the next without injury, and screens had been rigged to ensure that nothing showed aloft. HMS
Brilliant
ploughed on in stygian darkness that, with solid cloud cover, allowed for no phosphorescence, either from the crest wave, the frigates bow, or even the wake of the chase. Men were forward, one out on the bowsprit, eyes peeled for a glimmer of inadvertent light – for the chase had darkened likewise – or for some clink of sound as someone moved around the deck, able to report back to Ralph Barclay, sat in his cabin, that the odd noise could be heard as, ‘those lubberly French dogs moved around.’

‘Orders to Mr Roscoe,’ Barclay replied. ‘Men to sleep by watches, two hours each. Any man making a sound I will flog to oblivion.’

That such reports of noises ceased as the night wore on did not bother Ralph Barclay over-much. He assumed that with everything set and braced, on a breeze that was holding steady, his adversary had sent most of his crew to their hammocks. He started to doze in his chair, unaware that his wife, worried about him, was having difficulty sleeping at all in the restored and screened off cot.

‘Pearce, wake up!’

Dragged from a lubricious dream that largely featured the captain’s wife – naked as well as willing – and life on land and comfort, Pearce was slow to respond to the shake, reluctant to leave such an agreeable fantasy. When he did awake it was to the immediate knowledge, through sound and smell, that he was still aboard ship. Such interruption was doubly unwelcome given that sleeping two hours on and two off exacerbated the exhaustion of the normal four-hour regime. Eyes open, he had to think hard to recognise the voice that was urgently repeating his name, for there was no light at all on the maindeck of the darkened ship.

‘Rufus,’ he guessed. 

Dommet answered with an urgent whisper. ‘Corny’s in trouble.’

‘Good,’ Pearce murmured.

‘It’s serious.’

Pearce yawned before he responded. ‘Even better.’

Rufus shook him hard again. ‘It’s no jest. I mean it. I was on my way to the heads when I heard the clack of dice coming from one of the boats.’

Still reluctant to be awake, wishing to return to the agreeable reverie of his dream, Pearce growled at Rufus. He, like some of the others, had spotted, since coming aboard, that there were any number of surreptitious activities taking place with the crew off watch; sailors slipping away from the maindeck with backward looks that could only be described as furtive. He had reckoned gambling or secret drinking, without wanting to think about anything else certain members of the crew might be getting up to in the dark corners of the lower deck.

‘Then I heard that boy Dent. He were whispering but I’m sure it were him.’

That name brought Pearce fully awake. ‘Dent.’

‘He was talkin’ murder, John.’

Pearce growled, ‘Wake Charlie and Ben!’ Swiftly he rolled out of his hammock, jostling O’Hagan to rouse him, pressing his mouth close to the Irishman’s ear and using Dent’s name to cut through any confusion.

Michael O’Hagan was on his feet in no time at all because he, like all the other members of the mess, was under no illusion that, just because he had beaten Devenow in a fight, Martin Dent had ceased his vendetta against Pearce and Charlie Taverner, as well as all those associated with them. Ben was up in a flash, like a man who lived in the fear of a hand on his collar. It took longer to get Charlie Taverner stirring, but within a minute all five men were huddled under their hammocks as Rufus told what he had heard.

‘It was when I were coming back that I heard a bit of commotion, double quiet like, but much like a bit of a scuffle, so I stops to have me a listen. Then I heard Corny’s squeak. You know how he wheedles.’

Pearce could not see the heads nod in the dark, but he could almost feel their reaction; the other three knew and disliked, just as much as he did, the tone Gherson used when he was after something.

‘Anyway, I got a bit closer. Then I heard Dent saying that a pressed man was not to be trusted, that he might start a’gabbin’ and the safest way to be secure was to chuck the bastard overboard.’

‘No need to enquire who the bastard is,’ hissed O’Hagan.

‘We’ve got to look,’ said Pearce. 

‘Why?’ demanded Charlie Taverner in a soft, but bitter voice. ‘That sod would see us swing as soon as look at us.’

‘You don’t know that for sure, Charlie,’ whispered Ben Walker, ‘and he’s one of our mess, for better or worse.’

‘If you don’t move quick,’ Rufus insisted, in what for him was a rare show of determination, ‘he won’t be. We’ll be down to five instead of the seven we started with, and that little sod Dent will be huntin’ for another victim.’

Pearce nudged Rufus to lead the way, tapping the others to follow, thinking, as they complied, they were motivated more by apprehension at what a slip of a boy might get up to next rather than any desire to save Gherson. The need to be quiet was paramount for the ship was still after that Frenchman – even the marines doing sentry duty on the quarterdeck and outside the magazine had been told to discard their shoes, lest a clicking heel carry to the enemy, and no petty officers were touring the decks as was normal on watch.

Barefoot, they made no noise at all as they slipped up the companionway steps and, feeling the cold of the night air, scurried on to the gangway, crawling forward, ears straining for a sound, until Rufus, stopping, forced the others to do likewise.

Pearce heard what had stopped him, muffled voices, but disputatious, coming from under the canvas that covered what he thought would be the cutter, a good place to gamble, being out of sight and a spot from which, under a thick tarpaulin, no light would escape. It did just then, for the briefest second, before an angry voice commanded someone to shade it, leaving Pearce to wonder at men so obsessed with their compulsion that they would take a risk on such a night as this, when Barclay would certainly flog to oblivion any man he caught alerting his quarry to his position.

A grunt brought forth another command to ‘silence that bugger and get him over to the bulwark’.

‘Stop right there, mate,’ said Pearce, in a voice he feared was loud enough to carry to the quarterdeck, praying that the sound of the wind and the creaking of the masts and rigging would muffle it.

The response was a hiss. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Twelve Mess, mate, and I reckon you have one of our number.’

‘You’re wrong, friend.’ A short low moan followed, then a slight thud. Pearce knew the first had come from Gherson and the second from whoever had hold of him. ‘And you be takin’ a right risk raising your voice so. 

‘Dicing is a risk on its own, friend.’

‘Who’s to say what we was about?’

‘I don’t care about that,’ Pearce growled, ‘and neither does the man you are holding.’

‘You ain’t listening, are you?’

Michael had eased up beside Pearce and it was he who replied. ‘For sure, it is you that is not using your ears.’

‘It’s the big Paddy,’ said another voice

The fellow who was the leader hissed then, ‘Will you cap that bloody noise!’

‘There’s more than the big Paddy, brother,’ Michael added. ‘There’s enough here to take you on, and sod the noise.’

‘You lot would suffer along with us.’

‘Be that as it may,’ Pearce whispered, ‘it is what will come to pass. Best just let our man go.’

‘He’s like to squeal.’

‘If I guessed gambling was going on aboard, so can those in authority.’

The pause before the speaker replied worried Pearce, but eventually the fellow said, ‘It be the sure way for quiet.’

‘Only Martin Dent would say that, and you should be sure his aim is the same as your own.’

The sudden sound of scampering feet alerted Pearce to the boy’s presence. It also told him that Martin was not going to hang around.

‘Martin who?’ the sailor responded.

‘I am going to count,’ murmured O’Hagan, ‘quiet like and not past three. If our man is not set free then I will come into that boat and start swinging.’

‘Get those bonds off him,’ the voice said, after another pause.

‘Leave them on,’ said Pearce suddenly, and too loudly for safety, for he was fearful that Gherson, free to take off his gag and yell blue murder, would do just that and damn the consequences. ‘Just help him out and we will take him below.’

‘If he talks…’

‘He won’t,’ Pearce insisted, ‘you have my word on that.’

‘I know who you are, mate, with that gent’s manner of yours, and if that word is broken it will be you I come after.’

Once released, Gherson started to mumble through the gag, until Michael threatened to throw him overboard. They hustled him down to the maindeck, eyes fixed towards the invisible quarterdeck, sure that 
every sound they were making must carry to whichever officer was on watch. But nothing stirred from that area, and soon, by feel and with a writhing Gherson, they got back to the spot under their own empty hammocks, not without grunts from those whose slumber they had disturbed.

‘Un-gag him,’ said Pearce. ‘But leave his hands.’

‘I…’

‘Shut up,’ hissed Pearce, ‘or that gag goes back on. You get into your hammock, you close your eyes, and you say nothing, do you understand?’

The reply took several seconds to emerge, and Pearce could easily imagine Gherson trying to calculate which was the best for him. The needs of the men who had just saved his life would probably not count.

‘Yes,’ he whispered eventually.

‘Undo his hands. Then let’s try and get some sleep.’

Michael O’Hagan had the last word, speaking from his cot to a
wide-awake
Pearce.

‘Why did we bother, John-boy?’

But not the last sound. That was of sobbing coming from Gherson’s hammock.

The time was marked without bells, each turn of the half-hour sandglass merely scored on the slate. But Barclay had left his orders, and he was on deck well before the first hint of light, whispering admonishment to the men proceeding to their battle stations to be quiet. He even went down to the maindeck to talk to the bow chaser gunners, aware as he passed each loaded cannon that not every one was manned, for he needed his topmen aloft to take in sail damned quick. With so much set he risked a great deal if anything important was shot away by his quarry’s stern chasers.

The first hint of grey produced no silhouette. That was not a worry, both ships would have made subtle alterations to their course throughout the night, and indeed
Brilliant
might have head-reached the chase and been forced to come about to engage. The slow March dawn was agonising, taking as it did almost an hour from the first tinge on the horizon until there was enough daylight to see a patch of seawater. As the light increased it revealed an ocean bereft of ships. Ralph Barclay waited until he could see the proverbial grey goose at a quarter of a mile, till he knew that he was alone on the water, before issuing any orders.

‘Stand the men down, Mr Roscoe, and resume normal duties once the ship has been put back to rights. Mr Collins, we need to come about and make a rendezvous with the convoy. Pray be so good as to shape us a course.’

Everything that had been struck below was brought up again and put back in place. The guns were housed, cartridges returned to the gunners, rammers, swabs and crowbars stowed over the replaced mess tables and the makeshift benches. The only thing that was not the same as before was the mood of the ship, which ranged from quiet disappointment to spoken disenchantment.

Ever since waking, and thinking about what had occurred the previous night, Pearce had felt a nagging doubt. Contemplating murder was a somewhat extreme way to cover up an activity such as gambling. At his station beside the quarterdeck cannon he had tried to examine Gherson’s face for some clue to another reason – without enlightenment,
for the subject of his scrutiny would not look any of his messmates in the eye, and especially not John Pearce, confining any communication to an occasional grunt, one of which was a less than fulsome thanks. The near-silence lasted through the morning rituals of cleaning and eating breakfast, and it was not until they began to carry out deck work, greasing blocks and pulleys, that Pearce could get Gherson far enough away from the others to pose some questions.

‘I was not snooping,’ Gherson insisted, his face taking on the habitual look of a thwarted child.

‘It’s natural to be curious,’ Pearce replied, soothingly, ‘and I myself wondered what some of the crew were up to creeping about, and I daresay the others have too.’

‘Who? Idiots like Taverner or Dommet. That I doubt.’

Pearce was about to say that it was unwise to underestimate Charlie, but thought better of it. ‘It was Rufus who told us you were in danger. Odd that you have not asked how we came to your rescue?’

‘I am grateful. I have already said that.’

Pearce thought if he was he did not look it. ‘What was it those fellows were up to?’

‘Gambling, of course.’

‘What else?’

Gherson’s reply was, to Pearce’s ears, too emphatic. ‘There was nothing else.’

‘So why were you there?’

‘I admit to a weakness for dicing. I was looking for a way of making that known, when I was set upon and dragged under the canvas.’

‘Silently?’ Pearce asked. ‘You made no noise.’

‘I had no chance to,’ Gherson replied with a direct stare that challenged Pearce to disagree. That was followed by a look over his shoulder and the warning word, ‘Kemp!’ Pearce was left none the wiser. But he was still curious, and listened with care as the others asked very similar questions to his own, and ribbed Gherson for his less than convincing replies.

The sight of a pair of fishing boats, inshore of the frigate, caused Ralph Barclay to change course and close with them, ostensibly to buy fish but in reality to ask if they had seen his quarry. Pearce and his mates were on the foredeck, with Dysart, picking shakings out of old ropes that they had been told were too far gone for use, so when HMS
Brilliant
came alongside they could hear the exchange of words, though only Pearce could comprehend them. Young Farmiloe was fetched forward by the 
captain to interpret, and made a good fist of his task, his questions about the privateer subtly interspersed with haggling over the price of the fish, which was eventually brought aboard in a basket.

‘You know what they are about, don’t you?’ asked Michael. ‘As you would, having lived among them.’

Pearce had been listening with obvious intent, ears cocked, wondering if he could drop overboard unseen and stay out of sight until the Frenchmen could pick him up. He might manage the former, but the latter was too risky – unable to shout because that would alert the frigate, he might find himself left to drown.

‘I know that if those fishermen have any information about that ship we were chasing they are not saying.’

‘What are they saying?’

Pearce smiled. ‘They’re damning the Revolution, Michael, for it has made it harder for them to get a decent price for their fish, let’s say making music for an Englishman’s ears.’

‘Is that right?’ asked Dysart. Neither Pearce nor Michael had seen the Scotsman move closer to them. In answer to their look of alarm, he winked. ‘Dina worry yersel. Ah’ll no tell onyone ye speak their heathen tongue.’

Pearce and the Scotsman exchanged a look, a half smile met by a nod from the sailor, then noticing that Dysart no longer wore his bandage he asked, ‘How’s the head?’

‘Dinna go pretending yer concerned, laddie,’ Dysart replied, but without rancour, lifting his hat to reveal a patch of shaved head and an ugly red scar. ‘Dae ye want tae see yer handiwork, and that right though ma bluddy hat?’

‘The surgeon’s done a good job.’

‘Like hell! I’d have been better off goin’ tae the gunner’s wife,
cack-handed
bugger that she is. At least she can use a bluddy needle, for as sure as God made little apples he ca’nae.’

Pearce, smilingly, could only agree. Dysart would bear that scar for life, even if it was hidden by his re-grown hair. ‘I promise not to do it again.’

Pearce got a gentle elbow in the gut. ‘You’ll no get the chance, laddie. I’ll shoot you first.’

Behind them the transaction was completed – Barclay and the wardroom had their dinner, freshly caught fish, some still writhing in the basket, and HMS
Brilliant
parted company, resuming its previous course.

In the last hour of their watch Pearce and his mates were ordered aloft. First they were required to climb and re-climb the shrouds, then when HMS
Brilliant
was on the starboard tack, the yards braced round so that they ran their whole length above the planking of the deck, they were being instructed on how to make their way on to the maincourse yard. They had come, if not to like, at least to accept climbing the main shrouds to the point where they joined with what was called the futtock shrouds, with the wind on their backs. Pearce felt reasonably secure clapped on to those ropes, even if the ship did sometimes heave over so that he was leaning backwards. Now he was required to move out into what seemed like thin air, with only a rope under bare feet to rest on, and that bordered on the suicidal. He looked at the looped lines that hung from the yard to hold that footrope, heard them called stirrups, and reckoned the whole assembly too flimsy for security.

‘Look at that, lily-livers,’ said Costello, as Michael O’Hagan, without a blink or a backward glance, put his foot on the rope and, arms and half his upper body over the yard, eased himself out. The ropes bent alarmingly, but they did support him. ‘Now if a heifer like Paddy can trust his weight to the footropes, so can any other man here.’

His words earned him a glare from Michael, who was confident enough to free one hand to point a finger. ‘Don’t call me Paddy, and if I am a heifer beware of my hoof.’

Costello responded with his habitual grin, white teeth flashing, and ignored him, instead addressing Pearce, the next candidate. ‘Well, Pearce, are you going to let this bog-trotter shame an Englishman, or is it only swimming you can manage?’

Pearce declined to challenge the nationality, and had no desire to acknowledge the other. He took a deep breath, and put out one foot.

‘Call “Step on,”’ said Costello, ‘let the man already on the rope know you are coming, so that he will be aware of his own footing on the ropes, which will sag with your weight. If he is not properly set he will take a tumble.’

Pearce obliged, and that was followed by a command to, ‘Clap on to that preventer stay,’ Costello adding, in response to a look of utter incomprehension, ‘that bloody great up and down rope right in front of you. Haul yourself on, then do what our Irish friend did and hang your body over the yard. Right, now move on out so that the rest can follow.’

Pearce, breathing deeply, hung as he was told without any feeling of security, the rope biting into the still-soft soles of his feet. That was when he heard the first faint sound of gunfire, a dull boom that reverberated 
across the water and was more obvious to those aloft than on deck.

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Costello, looking forward.

‘What can I do for you?’ asked Michael, with a mischievous look.

‘Get down now,’ the bosun’s mate yelled, ‘and stuff your jokes.’

Another dull boom came floating through the grey morning air as Ralph Barclay, hatless and coatless, came on deck, his eyes straining forward. ‘Masthead, what do you see?’

‘Nothing, your honour.’

‘God damn the eyes of those fishermen! Mr Roscoe, all hands, get the best lookouts on the ship aloft and for God’s sake someone get me more sail.’

What followed was a repeat of the previous day, for although the wind had shifted slightly to the north it was still not a breeze to favour the course they were steering.
Brilliant
was labouring into both a wind and an incoming Atlantic swell. And all the time the dull booming sound of the guns grew louder until finally what Ralph Barclay feared most was confirmed. The ship he had been chasing all night was attacking what looked like the East Indiaman that had become detached from the convoy.

Crowding on sail took no account of potential damage to the top hamper. Twice topsails blew out of their deadeyes and had to be reset. Ralph Barclay became frantic when the firing stopped, incandescent and railing at the course the Indiaman must have been sailing, which was nothing like that of the convoy. He was angry – even more so and unfairly – when he was told that
Firefly
was nowhere to be seen. He fell silent when informed that the
Mercedes
was hoisting sail, and that a French ensign flew over the East India Company pennant, declaring that she had just captured the valuable prize.

But despite that, he knew, as he cleared for action, he had a chance to redeem matters. He was between his quarry and St Malo. If the Frenchman headed for his home port he would have to get both barque and prize past the frigate; at the very least he would have to abandon the East Indiaman. At best
Brilliant
would take her back and board and take her captor as well.

‘He is setting his course south, your honour,’ called the lookout.

‘Damn the man,’ Barclay cried, almost wailing in frustration, casting his eyes towards the rugged North Brittany shore, just a faint grey line on the southern horizon.

‘Mr Collins, look to your charts and any profiles you have of the shoreline. Tell me where he might be headed.’ 

Within seconds he was pacing up and down the deck, more concerned with the consequences of failure than the prospect of success, for he would find it hard to justify searching for a vessel that not only had he failed to find, but that he had allowed to be captured. Suddenly Ralph Barclay was aware of the impression he was creating, improperly dressed and very obviously agitated. He shot into his cabin, to come face to face with his wife.

‘There is something amiss, Captain Barclay?’ she said.

Given his mood, the reply was sharper than necessary. ‘It is nothing with which you should concern yourself. My coat and hat, Shenton,’ he said, breathing heavily.

It was an awkward silence that followed, one in which he could not bring himself to tell her he had been humbugged, one in which she waited in vain for him to express regret at being so brusque. That he did not do so, merely donning the called-for clothing before departing, made Emily cross.

‘Shenton, my cloak if you please.’

The steward looked at her questioningly, but in the face of her own direct and uncompromising glare he had no choice but to oblige. She emerged on to the deck of a ship in the act of coming about, lines of men running this way and that as they adjusted and realigned the sails. Now aware of the safest place to be, she took up a position between two of the quarterdeck cannon, watching a husband too busy with Collins and his charts and shoreline drawings to notice her presence. She was still there when, with HMS
Brilliant
settled on her new course, the gun crew returned to their station.

Pearce ignored the dig he got from Michael O’Hagan for staring at the captain’s wife, now only a few feet away. He also ignored the cursed injunction to stand still as he took a step to close that gap, too busy forming some words he could use to establish contact. Unaware of the man’s proximity Emily Barclay started as if she had seen a ghost when she half turned and he came into her eye line.

‘Pearce, you omhadhaun,’ hissed Michael. ‘Look away.’

‘Madam, you addressed me in French yesterday. Might I be allowed to ask why?’

‘Did I?’ Emily replied, flustered, feeling the warm blood began to fill her face as she blushed. That inadvertent use of French had been foolish in the extreme. She might as well have said to this man, “I have read your letter.”