Work was easing, with men tying off ropes and clearing what remained of the detritus. Dysart, accompanied by another sailor, came then to give them an instruction, which was delivered in a benign tone, in sharp contrast to the grunts and cursing with which they had been treated up till now.
‘One mair task, lads, afore ye get yer dinner.’
Dysart pointed to a couple of small bolts of canvas by the bulwarks, and ordered that they should open them out into squares. Then he bade them take a corner or an edge to stretch them out. The other sailor helped, explaining as he did so.
‘At this time o’ the day, wi’ the topmen at their victuals, the seabirds like to drop what they have been scooping oot the water while we have been toiling. You might say it is their constitutional moment. You will see as the men are coming doon from the rigging how they are starting to rest on ony place they can lay their wee pink feet.’
Pearce was not alone in looking aloft, something he had done often to check on the position of young Martin, and the truth of Dysart’s words was obvious. Huge gulls that had been screeching and cawing all morning, flying about, floating on the water, never landing close to a human, were now filling the rigging as though it was their home.
‘There’s a duty tae perform, and being the newcomers it falls to you, to ensure that none of what emits from their dirty wee arses stains the deck of this here ship.’
He took hold of Charlie Taverner’s arm and began to pull him in while others on the square of canvas followed. ‘So, until the topmen go aloft again, when we know the buggers will fly off, just move around the deck so, eyes aloft to see what is falling and catch it in this canvas.’ The voice became grave and serious, ‘The Premier will inspect at the coming of the hour, and count what you have missed, and if it be many, and his deck be filthy, well God help you is aw I can say.’
They split into two groups and Dysart’s silent companion led one to the foredeck, while John Pearce, Michael O’Hagan and Rufus Dommet were part of the group allotted the quarterdeck. Dysart said, eagerly, ‘The best way is tae keep moving, and take it in turn to look aloft. When you see one o’ those gulls shake their arse feathers, you will ken they are aboot to pass their packet. Then you just run underneath the wee sod and catch it, neat as you like.’
If he had not been so tired Pearce would have seen it for what it was, a way of guying the lubbers. But with a brain dulled by lack of sleep, too many insoluble thoughts and a lot of heavy toil, it was some time before he realised, time in which he and his companions staggered about the deck with scant coordination, tripping and falling as those who took the task seriously called for a move. It did not help that knowing left from right was not a unanimous ability. Every object on the deck was a trap on which to stumble and, worse, the ship’s goat, excited by the movement, seemed determined to get under their feet.
The whole ship was involved in the jest, including the officer called Digby, who was standing by the wheel surrounded by every midshipman aboard, and behind and above him was the surgeon on the poop, scribbling away. Eventually the youngsters gave the game away, unable to contain their mirth. In an attempt to avoid exposure, they hid behind those with better control of their hilarity. The first loud guffaw from that quarter stopped the sport, as the ship erupted in gales of laughter. Men who had secreted themselves in hatches emerged from their hiding places to point at the fools who had fallen for Dysart’s jest.
Pearce looked at his companions, some smiling in a way that tried to convey that they had all along been aware that they were being practised upon, a couple sheepish and actually blushing. Michael O’Hagan was red-faced and furious, for he clearly did not enjoy being the butt of another man’s joshing. More worryingly, a pair who clearly could not comprehend what was going on were still glancing aloft as though the duty was a serious one.
‘Some bastard’s blood will spill for this,’ growled O’Hagan.
‘Take it for what it is, Michael,’ Pearce advised, thinking, on the occasions he had attended a school, he had known much worse by way of initiation than this. Mirth was not painful, except to the vainglorious.
A grinning Dysart approached them, lifting his hat and tapping his bandage, looking at the man who had caused his wound. ‘That, lads, is by way of being a welcome to the ship and a thank you for this. Now for the sake of Christ fold up those bolts and stow them, for if you do not, some of my shipmates will have a seizure.’
‘Dysart!’ It was the voice of Lieutenant Digby, who, like everyone else on deck was at least grinning. Some went further, staggering around in dumb show replicating what the lubbers had been about. ‘You have had your jest, now take these men below and see that they are fed. And since you have had your pleasure I will allot to you the duty of making sure they are aware of the number of their mess and their rights in the article of food.’
As the rest trickled down the companionway, Pearce held back, drawn by the notion that the deck would be near deserted, the boats alongside possibly the same, his eyes ranging once more along the low-lying marshland. Those left behind on the quarterdeck, Digby and a couple of mids, were talking amongst themselves – would they spot him if he moved? He took a step, only to see one young head turn. So what – if he ran to the side and dived over was that fellow close enough to stop him? The alarm would be raised. Could he get into that tall marsh grass quick enough to evade recapture? Was it wise to even make such an attempt without clothing or money? Would another, better chance present itself?
‘Will you move your arse, man,’ said Dysart, in a peevish tone, his head popping up from below decks. ‘I canna get my vittels till you lot have been served yours.’
The opportunity, if there had indeed ever been one, had gone. Pearce looked at the Scotsman, with his bandaged head, wondering if he had any notion of what thoughts he had disturbed.
‘Does your head hurt?’
‘It does that.’
‘Good!’
Dysart just laughed. ‘I canna say I blame ye, laddie. And a daresay ye’d gie me another belt in the same circumstance, if ye were tae get the chance.’
‘I want to ask you a question?’ Pearce said, as he followed him below.
‘Ask away.’
‘Where is my clothing stored?’
Dysart stopped and turned, his face quizzical. ‘Now why would you be wantin’ to ken that?’
‘They said it was to be stored below. All I want to know is where below?’
Dysart carried on down, speaking over his shoulder. ‘I’ll tell ye, laddie. Not that it’ll dae ye ony good. Yer stuff is in a storeroom hard by the bread room, tin-lined the same as that to keep oot the rats.’
‘Thank you.’
‘An I’ll tell ye this an’ aw. It’s got a padlock on it the size of a cannonball, and the only wan that’s got a key that’s ony use tae you is Coyle.’ The rest of the words were nearly lost in the babble of noise that greeted them at the bottom. ‘Besides that, it’s right close to the gunroom, where the officers hang oot, so you can forget whatever notion ye were gnawing on just noo.’
The maindeck was crowded, lined with lanterns casting a low light over numerous tables on either side of the deck. Pearce was directed to join his fellow Pelicans, who had been sat at a table that bore, in a metal plate nailed to it, the numeral twelve, which, Dysart informed them, was the number of their mess. In time, he told them, their mess could number eight souls – one addition would be a seaman, yet to be appointed, able to look after and train them.
‘An’ a hope tae Christ it’s no me. So get stuck in.’
Rufus, who had been appointed to fetch their food, loaded what he had brought onto the table then sat himself down. They had small beer to drink, fresh bread fetched out from the shore that morning and salted beef in a stew that satisfied five of the party. For once Pearce found himself in agreement with Gherson in disliking the food and drink; the beef, bulked out with beans, was tasteless, tough and full of gristle, and the blanching and short cooking time had do
ne nothing to kill off the excess of salt in which it had been preserved. The small beer was thin stuff and woody, having suffered from being too long in the cask. The cheese was the best; though hard, it was fresh and tasty.
Their mess table seemed like an island in a sea of noise. Conversation was quiet and contained, each member more concerned with making sense of his surroundings than any desire to talk. The seamen sitting at the other tables were a more garrulous bunch, exchanging endless ribbing, and sometimes a barbed insult in a babble of noise. If there was authority present Pearce could not see it, and though weary in both body and mind he could not help making observations. Most present were young, few much older than him, and they tended to be compact fellows rather than strapping, though there was the odd creature who could square shoulders and height to Michael O’Hagan.
Those just above the age of the ship’s boys were the most raucous. They were slim, lithe fellows, not afraid of vanity or profanity, who moved easily and wore the most elaborate of the many pigtails on show, greased shiny and strewn with multi-coloured beads. Pearce had observed them working aloft, defying death on a second by second basis as they swung effortlessly about in the rigging as if determined to let everyone know of their superiority. Below decks as they added mischief to their catcalls and ribaldry, throwing bread at each other, as well as at other mess tables, earning frowns of either boredom or disapproval from the older members of the crew.
Such men were not older by much, but they seemed to have gained gravitas with the loss of their teenage years, as well as gnarled and scarred faces that testified to the rough life they led. At one table a huge fellow with an angry lived-in face was laying down the law to his silent companions. Pearce reckoned from their hunched posture that the listeners were either cowed, bored or both. But most other tables were lively, with conversations that had about them the air of good-natured argument, with pointed fingers, gestures of frustration or despair, laughter at another’s plain foolishness and the odd thump of a mess table to emphasise some point that could not be gainsaid.
‘Lively buggers, ain’t they?’ said Scrivens, yawning even as he was chewing, as a pair of the topmen began shadow boxing in the gap between the mess tables.
It was Ben Walker who replied. ‘Not much different from folks ashore, Abel. We’s mixed with worse than these on the riverbank.’
‘Well, they are not the company to which I am accustomed,’ sniffed Gherson, his eyes ranging around the deck with obvious distaste, an expression that stayed with him as he looked at his plate of food.
‘And what kind of company would that be?’ asked Charlie Taverner.
‘I am used to a touch more refinement,’ Gherson insisted, poking at a bone with his knife, leaving none of his messmates clear if he was talking about the food, them, or the whole crew of the ship.
‘How come you landed in the river?’
It was Rufus who made the enquiry, all open-eyed and innocent, gauche enough to pose a question that everyone else sensed would be unwelcome, but one to which, judging by the way bodies eased forward, they all wanted an answer.
‘It was a mistake, a foolish error.’
‘I’ll say,’ scoffed Charlie. ‘Dipping in the Thames is not a thing one does for a jest, and that in just a shirt and breeches of a winter’s night.’
The ribbing tone riled Gherson, and he positively spat his reply. ‘None of this is anyone’s business but mine.’
‘That be true,’ Abel Scrivens cut in quietly, but with force enough to silence his companions. ‘Happen you’ll tell us if you want. Till then I, for one, am content to wait.’
So Abel Scrivens did have authority, or at least he was afforded respect from his peers, for they stopped staring at Gherson and concentrated on their food. Pearce welcomed the ensuing silence, which allowed him to get back to thinking about that which mattered most. Slowly chewing the tasteless food he tried to register every detail of the movement on the deck – the undercurrents of friendship or resentment that must exist with this many men cooped up in so confined a space. Every time some fellow went below the deed got special attention, not for the man himself, but for the fact that such an act seemed unimportant to everyone else.
Could he do the same, not now but some time later, to get to his chest with his coat and his money, plus his shoes and stockings, which on land could be equally important. But not if he was going to swim; the coat and his shoes, worn, would make things difficult and would be even worse as a bundle. The money was the key; with that he could acquire whatever he needed. But how could he deal with a padlock?
‘So, John boy,’ asked Michael O’Hagan, nudging Pearce so that he turned round to face a mouth full of the plentiful bread and cheese, ‘what is your plan?’
The Irishman was looking at Pearce as if he expected an answer. It was curious to Pearce, the different reactions the group had to him and Gherson, so different that he almost felt sorry for the other man – almost, because if Gherson had failed to win any friends it was his own idle and arrogant behaviour that was the cause. Pearce seemed to be accepted, as if merely having been taken from the Pelican conferred on him a sort of brotherhood, the same kinship that made the man who asked the question one of that select group.
Again it surfaced, that thought about a collective act of escape, and Pearce realised that if he decided a lone attempt, he might have to do as much to avoid these enforced messmates of his as he would to avoid any member of the crew.
‘What makes you think, Michael, that I have a plan?’
O’Hagan responded with a grin. ‘Sure, the look in your eye, which has not been still all this morning, and has been the same since we sat to eat. I swear if asked you could tell me the something about every soul on this deck, just as you could relate the number and size of every boat that came alongside. I would hazard also that you have a fair idea of the distance between ship and shore.’
O’Hagan’s words had caught the attention of the rest, who were all now looking at Pearce with an uncomfortable air of expectation. ‘I have, Michael. It is too dangerous to swim at night and too crowded with ships to attempt by day.’
‘Swim?’ asked Ben Walker, a word that produced a distinctive shudder from Gherson. Ben leant back and rubbed his belly, adding a burp to let all know he was satisfied. ‘Can you swim, John?’
Pearce nodded, looking keenly at the others. No one met his eye or wanted to tell him they shared that rare skill, one he had acquired almost at the same time as he had learnt to walk. ‘I take it none of you can swim?’
‘Why would anyone want to swim away from such plenty as this?’ Ben asked, his West Country drawl even more pronounced because he was filling his belly.
‘Best meal we’ve had in a month past,’ added Rufus Dommet.
Cornelius Gherson managed to snort and sneer simultaneously. ‘Then I do not envy you your table.’
The ginger-haired youth who had been, with Ben Walker, designated to collect their dinner was all enthusiasm. ‘Do you know what we get?’
‘Prison food,’ said Scrivens, jabbing at a piece of bone, an act that made him wince as he jarred his bruised shoulder blades. ‘That’s what it is, prison food.’
‘Not even Newgate Gaol would serve you this,’ Gherson scoffed.
‘How would you know?’ asked Charlie Taverner, quickly.
‘A guess,’ Gherson spluttered, his face reddening to give lie to the words.
Pearce looked closely at Gherson then, to see if there was any trace of the effect of prison on his face. But, of course, there was none; his skin was flawless, and even streaked with the grime from his morning’s work, absurdly handsome. If he had been in Newgate, by reputation even worse than the Bridewell, any marks would have faded, just like it had on his own. The scars of such confinement were in the mind.
‘Chancy thing guessing,’ Charlie added, ‘might get us making up all kind of tales. Might be best if you was to tell us all about yourself. Confess like.’
‘What makes yo
u think I have something to confess to?’ Gherson demanded.
That got a hoot from Charlie. ‘If you ain’t, mate, you’re the only one at this board.’
‘Leave him be, Charlie,’ said Abel.
Charlie’s bandage had not been very successfully applied. It had come loose and, dropping over one eye, made him appear piratical. But when he swept it back it was clear he had lost any trace of good humour, and he was not about to be put off. ‘Happen there’s more to you than you’re letting on.’ Gherson declined to answer, as Charlie looked hard at Ben and Rufus. ‘You two may be content with this, but I am not, any more than Pearce.’
The use of his name again earned Charlie Taverner a glare, while those not sure of it looked happy to have it confirmed.
‘Content?’ They all lifted their heads to the voice, and saw a knobbly faced fellow with black eyes and a swarthy, scratched complexion, pigtailed under a shiny black-tarred hat. ‘That be a lot to ask for in this life, to be content.’
No one replied, but that did not stop him from pushing on to the end of the bench.
‘Take a seat,’ said Michael, sarcastically.
‘Hale.’
‘Would that be a name or a salute?’ asked Michael.
The look with which Hale responded to Michael’s jest, and Pearce’s added chuckle, was humourless – more an expression of tolerance for an old joke than any ire at the affront. If he reacted at all it was only to chew slightly harder on the quid of tobacco in his mouth. Pearce hardly noticed; he was looking over Hale’s shoulder, aware that their mess table was now under observation and that the level of babble had eased just a fraction. This fellow joining them had drawn attention. Why?
‘You’ve been marked as the droll one, Paddy.’
Michael’s face closed up. ‘I am after being choosy who I allow to call me Paddy. Generally I grant the right to my friends, which is an estate you do not enjoy.’
By the Mast Divided Page 13
