‘No, sir, not a barge, sir,’ Burns insisted. ‘A chair for the captain’s wife, very like the one you are sat on.’
‘Damn it if you don’t want my seat?’
Burns hopped from foot to foot, aware that perhaps Holbrook was being jocular, practising upon him rather than being genuinely angry – but he could not be certain, and if anything plagued him it was that inability to tell a jest from a threat, and that mostly in the Mid’s berth. The senior midshipman, forty if he was a day and crabbed as hell, was forever being scarifying, just like this blasted marine. Were the allusions to what might become of him one dark night when the ship was far from shore and female company just a common tease or was there some truth in it? Was the steady disappearance of the contents of his chest, so lovingly and expensively packed by his dear mother – the mention of each missing item met by his messmates with innocent incomprehension – true theft, or part of his initiation?
‘Any seat will do, sir, provided it has arms.’
‘Then sir, I shall give you a plain chair and my pistols, will that do?’ Holbrook was looking at Burns, with his popped blue eyes wide open and his expression arch, but that did not last for it was obvious that his pun, rather a fine one he thought, had quite gone over this little idiot’s head, so he yelled out, ‘Steward, a captain’s chair for Mr Burns, on deck at the double.’
‘I will take it, since I was sent to fetch it, sir.’
‘As I suspected,’ Holbrook sniffed, shaking his head. ‘Brought up in a sod-turf hovel. Well, here aboard ship we have servants, sir, and though you ain’t got much in the way of dignity you are supposed to be a young gentleman.’
The marine searched for another witticism that combined arms and chairs, which imposed a pause in which he appeared quite vacant, but somehow ‘cut to the chaise’ did not seem to fit the bill and he had to cover the flatness of the remark with a cough.
‘Servants serve, officers command, young man, which you must learn, and deuced quick! Return to the deck and your chair will be delivered to you.’
Back on deck Burns had the pleasure of saying to the First Lieutenant, ‘I have ordered a chair brought from the wardroom sir,’ which made him feel quite manly.
‘You were damned slow about it, Mr Burns,’ said Roscoe, deflating him.
‘Our boats will reach the wherry carrying your wife, sir.’
Henry Digby stood by the bulwark, telescope to his eye, even though both boats were in plain view. Everything about him seemed somehow pristine; the young face that was not yet required to shave regularly, the unblemished skin of a not unprepossessing countenance, the newness of his hat, coat and breeches.
‘Why was a boat not sent to fetch her?’
Digby stood erect to reply. ‘With respect sir, all our boats are in use, and we were not told of a time to expect her.’
‘Then tell Coyle to haul off and wait.’
‘Speaking trumpet, Mr Burns?’ said Digby. Pint-sized Burns hesitated, as though he had not heard the command. In fact he had, but had lost any notion of where the speaking trumpet might be. Digby chided him gently. ‘By the binnacle, young sir!’
The trumpet in his hand, Henry Digby delivered his orders with a force that must have been noted on shore. Emily Barclay only half-heard him, still pleased that she had not been seasick. By the time she was being helped into the chair that had been slung from a whip on the yardarm, all her fears of that part, detailed to her by a husband trying and failing to reassure her, had evaporated. On a tidal river, she had nothing to fear from her method of coming aboard.
‘Mrs Barclay,’ said Ralph, coming forward to lift her out of the chair, and speaking in a voice, gentle and kindly, the like of which few aboard had heard him use.
‘Captain Barclay,’ Emily replied, taking his proffered hand, before turning to nod towards her husband’s officers, all of whom she had previously met ashore.
‘Shall I order Coyle to come alongside, sir?’ said Digby.
‘My wife’s chest first, Mr Digby, then you may fetch our volunteers aboard. Mr Burns, be so good as to ask the surgeon…what’s his name?’
‘Mr Lutyens, sir.’
‘Ask him to come on deck.’
‘Mr Burns,’ said Emily, ‘you cannot go without greeting me, your own cousin, surely?’
Those who could see Ralph Barclay’s face, as Burns smiled and moved to take his cousin’s hand, froze in anticipation of the blast that was likely to follow. What they observed was a countenance in turmoil, as the captain’s desire not to correct his wife in public fought with the sight of one of his midshipmen disobeying a direct order.
‘You may greet your cousin, Mr Burns,’ Barclay growled, ‘then you will fetch the surgeon.’
Burns’ handshake was perfunctory in the extreme, and he shot off the deck as though a pack of hounds were after him, narrowly avoiding being crowned by the chest of his female cousin that was being dropped towards the deck.
As they lay off the ship the crew moved amongst the men they had pressed, quietly releasing them from their bonds. Pearce had noticed as they rowed downriver, that whenever he caught the eye of one of the sailors and glared at them, he had been gifted with a look that he could only describe as disinterested, as though, having completed their brutal act they had put that behind them, behaving now with an attitude that was totally at odds with their previous violence. As to his fellow captives, some were looking around them with an air that had about it a hint of optimism, and it occurred to Pearce that if they were denizens of the Liberties, living on the edge of the abyss of destitution or arrest, there would be one or two in this boat who might welcome the change. They would certainly take it in preference to the other alternative to freedom – a debtor’s gaol.
Rubbing his bloodless hands, Pearce sat up enough to see over the side of the boat, and with the prow pointing right towards a vessel, one of the dozens anchored within sight, he guessed it to be their destination. The ship lay low in the water, surrounded by boats of various sizes, all occupied in loading their cargoes onto the deck. Black from fresh paint, he calculated her as not much more than a hundred feet long, broad on the waterline, narrower at deck level. Three-masted, with a long blue pennant flying in the middle, the tall sticks were crossed with poles he knew to be called yards, and they had on them tightly rolled canvas and men working on ropes. He reflected on that bit of knowledge – the name of a yard was something a young man learnt early when his father talked often about the iniquity of hanging.
‘What is it?’ asked the dark-haired fellow who had been pulled out of the Thames the night before, shivering in a long linen shirt that was still very damp.
‘Jesus, can you not see it’s a ship,’ said O’Hagan, a remark that earned him a glare that rendered that innocent looking face tetchy.
‘I do believe they are known by their guns,’ said Pearce, who had spent more time looking at the distance between boat and shore than at any of the anchored vessels. ‘And I can count twelve ports on this side, which means the same on the other.’
‘Small then,’ added O’Hagan. ‘I have heard they go as high as a hundred.’
‘Matters not,’ said the youth, with another shiver. ‘I shan’t be there long.’
‘Want a wager on that, mate?’ asked Kemp, who had heard every word.
There was petulance once more. ‘You cannot just take up whosoever you choose.’
‘Can’t we now?’ hooted Kemp. ‘Lest you have a certificate in your breeches, Admiralty signed, which says plain, and has not been ruined and the ink run by your dip in the river, that you is exempt by trade or profession, then you be looking at your new home.’
The young jaw moved but no sound emerged, because Cornelius Ghershon was thinking that, with the need to protest to someone with the power to get him released, he was somewhat short on candidates to provide the favour. The only people he could think of were friends to Alderman Denby Carruthers, the man who had set out to murder him by chucking him off London Bridg
e. If Carruthers ever found out that he had not drowned there was no certainty that he would not try again. Besides, he was bereft of clothes.
‘I shall have words with the captain,’ Ghershon said finally, though without much conviction.
‘Shouldn’t if I were you,’ said a light, wafting voice. ‘It would be a crying shame to have Barclay take the edge off such a pretty face.’
‘Aye, aye,’ crowed another sailor. ‘Molly’s picked him out already.’
‘Goin’ to show him golden bolt, Molly?’ called a third, which was immediately followed by one of the boat crew breaking into song.
‘Was in the aft hold where a sailor made bold, and showed me his ring a ding-ding.’
Half the crew took up the refrain. ‘You can call me Nancy it’s you that I fancy, and joy to you I will bring.’
‘Stow it you lot,’ yelled Coyle, ‘This is no time for chanting.’
Pearce, Michael O’Hagan and Cornelius Ghershon exchanged a look, in which it was clear that two of them understood the meaning of the song, while Ghershon seemingly did not. There was no time to explain as Coyle, in response to hail from the ship, added another shout ‘Bend to your oars,’ he cried, and all three found themselves falling over as the crew sent the boat lunging towards the ship. Pearce forgot about the sailor’s joshing – he was too aware of the pain as the blood began to fill limbs that had been starved by the ropes that had so recently been removed. But it was nowhere near as hurtful as the words Coyle shouted as the boat came alongside.
‘No need for bonds now, boys. You belong to King and Country as soon as you step on that there deck. So get off your arse and get up that there gangplank.’
‘Mind your cursing, Coyle,’ called Lieutenant Digby, who was leaning over the side. ‘There is a lady on deck.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Coyle, touching his forelock, but Pearce noted that the respect in his voice was not mirrored on that bright red face.
Glancing at the others he had been taken up with, mostly bent and beaten in the very way they held themselves, Pearce determined he would not give Barclay, if the bastard was aboard, the satisfaction of seeing him in distress. Painful as it was, he used his hands to make less of a mess of his hair, retied the queue that had somehow survived the journey and employed his sleeve to wipe most of the accumulated grime off his face.
‘Getting yourself up for a parade?’ asked O’Hagan.
Kemp pushed both men on to the green, slippery, water-lashed platform at the base of the gangplank, admonishing them to ‘step aboard right foot to the fore, to save cursing the barky.’
Emily, about to exit the deck, turned when the first of the ‘volunteers’ shuffled through the gangway, each one rubbing his hands and wrists, and clearly in pain, a few eyes lifting in wonder, as she had herself, at the height of those great masts, seen close up, a sort of collective murmur seeming to envelop them. The third one in the group did not look up, he looked aft to where she was standing, cloak half-open and hood now lowered in the lee of the poop, hair rustling in what breeze remained, and for no reason other than accident their eyes locked for a couple of seconds.
Pearce had a keen eye for a pretty woman, and the one he was looking at now was most certainly that, unblemished skin pink from the cold air, even features in a sweet oval face, clear green eyes, straight nose and a full-lipped mouth, slightly open, that was to him like an invitation to a kiss. For a moment it was as if the last twenty-four hours had not happened – he was free from pursuit or capture, back in a world where the sudden sight of a beautiful female brought forth the thrill of the chase. He was halfway to framing the words of an introduction when Barclay stepped forward.
‘How dare you, scum, stare at my wife!’ the captain cried, cuffing Pearce hard round the ear. The object of Barclay’s anger just had time to register the shock on that lovely face before the force of the blow turned his head away.
The sight of that piece of casual brutality, and the way that the victim took it without vocal complaint, made Emily look at all the men shuffling aboard, not murmuring now but silent and fearful. She knew that her knowledge of ships and the sea was limited, really no more than common gossip mingled with what she had seen at tented raree-shows when a fairground was set up on the nearby common. But she was aware, for the very first time in her life, she was looking at men who had been press-ganged into the Navy.
Raised to deplore a thing of which she had only heard in whispers, Emily fought to compose her features, knowing that what sympathy she might have for the plight of such creatures was not to be shown. She was the wife of a naval captain and must behave like one.
‘You are Mr Lutyens, the surgeon?’
The surgeon nodded, as Ralph Barclay tried to recall what little he knew of this fellow: short of stature, bright-eyed and pointy-nosed, with a startled expression, he was certainly singular. Very well connected apparently, of a sober disposition, and from a proper medical school, Lutyens was an unusual cove to find in a Navy more accustomed to men better at being barbers than mendicants – and quite often serious drunkards. So well qualified was this Lutyens that if he were to serve in the fleet at all, it should have been in some flagship with an admiral and a spacious sickbay. Apparently he had declined just such an offer, asking instead for a frigate, which made Ralph Barclay suspect there was something not right about him. It mattered little; here was another person he was not at liberty to choose – the Sick and Hurt Board provided his warrant and attested to his competence.
‘Then let me welcome you aboard, sir, though I would appreciate more despatch when I ask that you attend the deck, especially in circumstances when we are obliged to weigh anchor with haste.’
‘I was asked to clean and bandage a wound, I believe from a sailor who was with you last night.’
‘It is customary, Mr Lutyens, to allow the captain of a King’s ship the courtesy of sir.’
‘Then, sir, far be it from me to contravene a custom.’
‘I have acquired some volunteers,’ Barclay added, ignoring a response that bordered on the facetious, though disconcerted by the way this fellow, with his protruding eyes, continued to stare at him, as if he was a needy patient. ‘Naturally they must be passed fit for service.’
Lutyens turned towards the men lined up on the fore part of the quarterdeck, backs to the rail that surrounded the waist, a group of sorry looking specimens in damp clothing made to look more depressed by the evidence of the blows they had received. Behind them stood members of the crew, faces set firm, clearly there to stamp on any temptation to talk or protest.
‘This fellow also needs his wound cleaned,’ Lutyens said, as he stood in front of Charlie Taverner, the only one of the men who had bled copiously enough to stain his clothing, though there were bruises, scratches, black eyes and split lips in abundance.
‘You may treat him as soon as he is entered on the ship’s muster, Mr Lutyens. The King’s Navy is not a charity foundation. What is vital is to ensure these fellows do not introduce any fevers to the ship. We will be at sea very shortly and who knows what ailments these creatures have been exposed to in the gutters from which they come.’
‘Then if I am to be sure they are free of ailments, sir, they must strip off their clothing.’
Ralph Barclay reacted with a weary sigh. ‘Mr Lutyens, be so good as to pass fit what men are fit. I have always observed others of your profession carried this out with a look at the eyes, an examination of the tongue and a quick check for venereals.’
That statement coincided with the moment Lutyens reached the end of the line of twenty souls, where he found himself looking into the eyes of one fellow who had a very defined spark of real defiance. Pearce was seething – even unbound he felt like a prisoner, and to be stood here like some exhibit in a travelling show was worse. That arbitrary cuff from Barclay as he had come aboard, so casual, dragging him from reverie back to reality, accepted by everyone around as within the captain’s prerogative, just served to underline his s
ituation, and he was not prepared to hide his mood to correspond to the benign look of the man before him.
‘A proper examination requires the patient to strip.’
‘They are not patients, Mr Lutyens,’ Barclay sighed, ‘they are hands. However you may request that they remove any outer garments and their shirts. The unbuttoning of their breeches will suffice for the rest.’
Seeing Barclay in daylight, Pearce was struck by the man’s appearance. The uniform gave him a presence that commanded those around him – blue cutaway coat with twin gold epaulettes, the snow-white waistcoat and breeches and a face that perhaps had once been fetching. Now it had a puffy quality, and the veins on his cheeks were broken, either by exposure to the elements or a love of the bottle.
‘If that is what you wish,’ the surgeon replied testily, ‘but they risk suffering from cold.’
Pearce thought this Lutyens an odd fish, pale complexion, popping eyes, a prow of a nose even if it was small, a high forehead topped by fine ginger-curled hair. The voice was strange too – it had a rolling quality on the consonants that seemed to imply it was not the surgeon’s native tongue. And why was the bastard smiling at him, as though they shared a friendship?
‘The men will get used to the elements soon enough, Mr Lutyens,’ Barclay replied. ‘Best they find out now that what the Good Lord wills us in the way of weather has to be borne.’
‘Coats off, you swabs,’ barked Coyle, coming up on Pearce’s left ear, ‘as the good doctor wants, shirts an’ all.’ His voice dropped to a whisper as he spoke, for he, close to the ‘volunteers’, had seen the fury on the bruised face, which if anything had deepened at the command to strip. ‘Now we can do this hard, mate, if’n that what you desire. But it will be done, so it best be done with a will.’
Glancing along the line Pearce saw that half the men, nudged and goaded by the crew members, had already begun to obey the command, though not without some vocal complaint. Within seconds those who had hesitated were forced to follow, each man obeying an injunction to place what he discarded at his feet. For him to rebel would be to single himself out, and that would have only one consequence. He knew enough about the Navy from hearsay and conversations with ex-sailors to be aware just how often the men who served were punished.
By the Mast Divided Page 9
