By the Mast Divided

by David Donachie

  Such thoughts were pointless anyway. Right now he did not even know if he would be gifted a chance. If he was, he would have to move swiftly, and if that move needed the help of Michael’s muscle then he would, at that point, have to trust him. Would Michael respond as he had previously, asking no questions? The thought that he might not weighed a great deal, but asked, he would never have been able to say why he decided to trust the Irishman now – it was instinct, no more, and perhaps, like other men, he sometimes felt the need to unburden himself was too great to bear.

  ‘I must request that what I tell you goes no further.’

  Michael frowned. ‘Would a man not have to accept that before saying a word?’

  He would, of course, and Pearce knew it well. Looking right into those green, unblinking Irish eyes he observed no guile or treachery and the way Michael held his gaze was reassuring.

  ‘If you would like me to swear on the Holy Father or the Blessed Virgin I will do so.’

  Pearce shook his head, smiled, and laid a hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘I have known men, Michael, claiming piety, who could lie with their hand on a piece of the True Cross.’

  ‘I have known men like that too, John-boy.’

  ‘Yet I think you’re not one of them.’ That comment was answered with a nod so emphatic that Pearce found himself speaking almost without realising it. ‘Have you ever heard Michael, of a man called Adam Pearce?’ Michael shook his head. ‘There was a time his name seemed to be on the lips of everyone in the two kingdoms.’

  Pearce smiled as he recalled the nickname Old Adam hated, but one by which he might be more easily recognised. ‘He is my father, who is also known to some as the Edinburgh Ranter.’

  That meant nothing either. ‘And what would this man, your Da, be ranting about?’

  ‘At its simplest, Michael, this: if you dug a ship canal from an inland town to the coast, then you should be part owner of what you have created. Every time a vessel sailed that water, you should be paid. If you dug a sewer, the same.’

  ‘A notion that appeals,’ Michael replied, grinning broadly, ‘though I will pass on what revenues I might get from a sewer.’

  ‘Three years ago my father wrote some pamphlets, that brought on his head a charge of seditious libel.’ It was clear Michael didn’t understand what that meant, so John added; ‘Billy Pitt and his government fear my father’s ideas so much that he faces arrest if he sets foot in Britain.’

  Pearce described the life he and his father had led – the time before the turmoil in France when life had been rough for what often seemed a lone voice crying in the wilderness: food scarce, barns to sleep in not rooms, occasionally the need to work to pay for a bed. He skipped over the hell of their stay in prison; to describe that too deeply would serve no purpose. Instead he went on to how life had changed following that incarceration, as Correspondence Clubs and Debating Societies sprung up all over the land on news of the Revolution. Adam Pearce went from being a pariah, a nuisance and a felon to a sought-after luminary, a hopeful beacon for the downtrodden of England. But he had also been dogged by government agents – men who wanted nothing more than to put him back behind bars. Every word he spoke was noted and reported, every disturbance caused by his inflammatory remarks held against his name. He had written much before, and it was moot if the pamphlet that brought forth a second King’s Bench warrant was any more provocative than any that had preceded it. But the ground had shifted, disenchantment was rife regarding affairs in France and a government that had, up till then, been too frightened to act, took advantage of that.

  ‘He had to flee the country – it was that or a return to the Bridewell – first to Holland and then to Paris. That’s where he is now, Michael. Old, unwell, in danger of arrest there too, and for much the same cause – those in power do not like his views and he will not be silent. Indeed, he may well be in a French gaol now for speaking out about the excesses taking place, and I must tell you he lacks the strength to withstand it. I came back in the hope of getting that warrant lifted, for he has friends who might achieve such a thing, so he can come home.’

  Pearce could not avoid putting his head in his hands then, assailed once more by the feeling that he had selfishly abandoned Old Adam for fear of what might happen to him, mixed with the deeper fear that his father might not be in prison, but dead.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I fear I risk arrest too, just for being his son, or for aiding and abetting his writing or his escape from England, I know not which. The men who would arrest him tried to do the same to me yesterday. In running from them I chose the Pelican as a refuge.’

  That produced a wry smile from the Irishman. ‘And that is why you will not give your name.’

  ‘I have no notion of how potent that name now is,’ said Pearce, looking at the deck beams above his head, ‘nor how public is the desire to apprehend him. All I know is I cannot help him from a prison cell, though this ship can hardly be said to be better.’

  ‘You are sure you would go to prison?’

  ‘No, but I could not risk it. What if my father and I are seen as one?’ Pearce sighed, and produced a sad smile, wondering what had happened to that blind faith he had carried until only a few years ago, the certainty that everything his father believed in was right.

  ‘One question for you, Michael.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Can you swim?’

  The Irishman responded with a rueful smile. ‘I cannot, so if you get a chance John-boy, to jump overboard and make the shore, think nothing of Michael O’Hagan. Just do it, and if I can come between you and those who would try to stop you, I will.’

  ‘Thank you for that,’ Pearce said, again laying a hand on Michael’s shoulder, adding, more from wishful thinking than any sense of anticipation, ‘So let’s hope for a boat.’

  The Bosun’s whistle blew again, and that was translated for the Pelicans as ‘down hammocks’. Many had forgotten what they had learnt earlier about hammock-rigging and to avoid a repeat of the earlier hilarity, Pearce found himself helping several people, including Michael and Scrivens, to rig their hammocks. Once in he now found that Dysart’s idea of being snug really meant a hammock slung so close to his neighbour either side that movement was barely possible. But he knew it to be comfortable.

  ‘Ship’s company, fire and lights out.’

  The guttering candles that had illuminated the maindeck were extinguished, leaving only a glim from the lanterns left at the foot of the companionway and around the mess tables of those on watch. Pearce lay there, still thinking, still running over in his mind, and discarding, ideas for escape, trying and failing to convince his teeming brain that there was nothing he could do till morning and that sleep was now necessary. He heard Michael begin to snore beside him, but that was not singular, half the maindeck resounded to a veritable symphony of nasal notes – that, mingled with a stream of noisy farts. It was with the thought that he had slept in worse places than this, and the more troubling one that he might do so in the future, that mixed with the hope that the morrow and daylight might gift him the chance he needed, that the exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours overtook him.

  The sense of falling was like part of a dream until his body crashed into the deck, shoulder first, sending a shaft of pain through his elbow that was quickly overborne as his head thudded into the same planking. The cry that came from another throat failed to penetrate at first, because he was momentarily stunned. But as he rolled his body to get up he saw, by the silhouette of those lanterns still lit, that Charlie Taverner was in similar distress, his hammock hanging down from one line, he in a heap cursing and swearing. Pearce was also sure that he saw a pair of legs scurrying away, belonging to a body that was small enough to slip under the slung hammocks.

  He had to crawl over to Charlie Taverner, who had landed head first, on the same spot that the surgeon had treated that day. He was hurt worse than Pearce, dazed and confused and touching his wound Pearce felt dam
p, which told him it had begun to bleed again. Pearce himself felt on his head the beginnings of a substantial lump and his elbow was painful. But having fallen in slumber he had been relaxed at the point of contact and reckoned the damage slight. He lifted the end of Charlie’s hammock rope, holding it up the frayed end. Obviously it had been sliced through with a knife.

  ‘What bastard…?’ swore Charlie, in a thick voice, as Pearce tried to help him to his knees.

  ‘The marine boy from the Pelican,’ Pearce replied, as he set about trying to tie up Taverner’s hammock with what little rope was left. ‘The one they call Martin. I broke his nose last night, and this morning you gave it an elbow. I think he wants his revenge.’

  Sleep was fitful after that – the level of snoring was stentorian, the lack of air, with so many bodies packed tight, was suffocating. Besides those constraints Pearce could not rule out a second attempt by the boy, and it was with relief that he heard the sound of Coyle moving through the packed hammocks shouting, ‘Show a leg there’, and ‘Up or down’, with the thud of a falling body for those who did not heed the last, as they found the lashing of their hammocks cut away.

  A series of whistles blew, and the whole crew began to roll their hammocks. Lashing and stowing them, easy for the seamen, was another farce for the newcomers as none of their attempts at bundle would pass through the hoop help by a swarthy bosun’s mate who had, even for a sailor, a rare line in foul abuse. But this time the crew were willing to assist and show them the way – Charlie Taverner found the attitude was not caused by kindness, but by the fact that any delay was likely to interfere with the crew getting their breakfast. Once lashed the hammocks were taken on deck to be stowed in nettings along the side of the ship, or in a rack of similar design at the front of the quarterdeck.

  ‘For the sake o’ Christ, dinna lose sight of where you have put it,’ warned Dysart.

  It was still dark, and cold, so that to be put to work was less of a hardship than standing still, that was until they touched a rope and felt on their raw hands a return of the previous day’s pain.

  ‘Mr Sykes,’ called Lieutenant Digby, observing how gingerly they took hold of the fibres, ‘may I suggest the latest volunteers would be best employed in cleaning below decks. If their hands remain raw they will scarce be any use if we need muscle in a blow.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ the bosun replied, before turning to a lanky sailor with a spotted bandana tied above protruding eyes, a prominent nose and a jutting jaw. ‘Ridley, you heard what Mr Digby said?’

  ‘I did Mr Sykes.’

  The sailor called Ridley took them down to the maindeck, admonishing them to dip their mitts in a tub that stood forward near the manger.

  ‘Piss,’ said Ben Walker lifting the lid. ‘It’s a bucket of piss.’

  Ridley’s large nose seemed to twitch in response. ‘Chamberlye, mate, an’ now’t to be afeard of, for it is all your get at sea to clean your ducks till it rains. But it will aid your hands also, for there is something in piss that helps to harden the skin.’

  ‘An astringent created by nature,’ said the ship’s surgeon, Lutyens, who had moved up behind them without being observed.

  ‘Is he Creeping Jesus or what?’ whispered Charlie Taverner.

  If Ridley heard Charlie he did not respond, replying directly to the surgeon. ‘Whatever it be, your honour, it does the trick, even with the poxed sons of bitches we has aboard this barky.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Lutyens enquired, ‘I do not know your name or station?’

  ‘Ridley, your honour, bosun’s mate.’

  ‘A volunteer?’

  ‘Course,’ Ridley replied, surprised enough to double the size of those already popping eyes. ‘Hardly have my rating if’n I weren’t.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Lutyens insisted, pulling out his little notebook, ‘for I am as new as these fellows you command. The ranks and stations of a warship are exceedingly confusing. Would you permit me to write that down?’

  Ridley smiled, nodded, and replied in a kindly voice, as though he was the superior person, not Lutyens. ‘It’ll come to you in time, your honour, just as it will come to this lot.’

  Asked, Pearce would have admitted himself to be as baffled as the surgeon regarding who was who aboard ship. Officers in their blue uniform coats were easy, but there was little to determine many of the ranks, for everyone, though not dressed entirely alike, was at least clothed in a similar manner. That was less important than the way they behaved – for instance this Ridley seemed to share the same rating as the rattan-wielding Kemp, yet even on only a minute’s acquaintance it was obvious he was very different. He didn’t bark and scowl as Kemp continually did, but spoke softly with a benign expression. More than that his hands were empty – there was no cane.

  ‘Now who’s going to be first?’ Ridley asked, pointing to the tub.

  Abel Scrivens proved to be the least squeamish about the chamberlye, and had his hands dipped quickly, his eyes closing tight. Pearce followed suit, wincing as the caustic in the urine hit his raw skin.

  ‘Do likewise when you attend the heads,’ Lutyens added, ‘for I suspect that the fresher the brew the more efficacious it is. You may also find that slush from the cook will help too. Grease entering into the skin has a soothing effect. There are other unguents…’

  ‘If you don’t mind, your honour,’ Ridley interrupted, in a slightly exasperated tone. ‘We has work to do, and the captain wants us to stand to quarters when it gets light, Christ alone knows why, ’cause if there be a French ship in the offing here, while we are no more’n a cable’s length from the Kent shore, we’s lost the bloody war without a month yet gone.’

  ‘Of course,’ the surgeon replied, in a tone of voice that Pearce sensed was disappointed, an impression that was enhanced by the hunched cast of his shoulders as he moved away and left them to their tasks.

  ‘Now that is an odd bugger,’ whispered Ridley. ‘Has you seen him creeping round the barky, staring at all and sundry?’ No one replied, and it was now Ridley who looked disappointed, and his voice turned gruff as he said, ‘Well, you’re a chatty crew an’ no error. Let’s get a’daubing.’

  He passed out the materials the men needed, ragged cloth and mops, while a pair were set to filling buckets through an open gunport, not easy with a cannon in the way. ‘We wants not to get the bloody deck or the scantlings too wet, so there will be no chucking water about like billyo! It’s damp tow and a wipe an’ no more, ’cause the bugger won’t dry out in this weather, and there’s not a one of you that won’t be coughing near fit to bring on a rupture if it stays damp a’tween decks.’

  Pearce was looking at the open gunport, which had been left that way even after the bucket had been filled, wondering if, with Ridley’s back turned he could get through it. How long was a cable’s length? Could he swim the distance, whatever it was? The blowing wind, a cold one that whistled round his bare feet made him disinclined even to try. The water would be freezing and besides it was still dark. But logic dictated that the only way to dry ’tween decks was to leave the gunports open to the breeze, and that might well last till dawn. He eased over, while vigorously rubbing the planking on the ship’s side, as he tried to have a look at the possible route of escape.

  ‘Now, mate,’ said Ridley, who suddenly appeared by his side. ‘You don’t want to be a’rubbing those scantlings so they wear do you?’ Pearce looked at him and said nothing, but there was clear comprehension in Ridley’s look, even if there was no antagonism. ‘And if you was thinkin’ of taking a dive through that there open port I should tell you that there are, as often as not, marines on the deck with loaded muskets, and they will put a ball in you as soon as blink.’

  ‘Would that not be murder?’

  Ridley shook his head slowly, thumb and forefinger pulling at his nose. ‘Shooting a deserter, mate. It wouldn’t get no further than the captain’s log, with as like as not a pat on the back from their lordships for doin’ things proper when it’s exami
ned. Now for my peace of mind, since I don’t like to think on anybody floating dead in the water or hauled bleeding into our eight-oared cutter, take up a mop and stay amidships.’

  It made sense to comply, for this was not the time. But when the sun came up he would head for one of those open ports, and he would also know, before he made his exit, what was meant by a cable’s length.

  Ralph Barclay came on deck at four bells in the morning watch, when it was still dark, his face illuminated by the light from the binnacle locker set forward of the ship’s wheel, unaware of the nudges from all and sundry as they looked to see if his night of carnality had had any effect on him. Looking at the slate, and calculating course and distance, he reckoned that the frigate was about to clear the North Foreland off Ramsgate. The Thames pilot had departed during the night, and he could thank God that his ship was briefly back under his control – briefly because he would need a Deal pilot to get him through the Brake Channel, which cut from the north-east between the East Kent shore and that ship’s graveyard called the Goodwin Sands.

  ‘Mr Collins, at what time do you anticipate a change of course?’

  ‘Five bells, sir,’ the master replied.

  Half an hour, Barclay thought. That could be delayed because he would have to stand to off Pegwell Bay until a pilot came to him – it would be full daylight, probably the forenoon watch before that happened. Yet if he stuck to ship routine and gave the men their breakfast at the appointed hour of seven fifteen he would have to drag them from their mess tables when he beat to quarters, which was not a good idea. Better a late breakfast than a disturbed one.

  ‘Mr Digby,’ he said, to the officer of the watch, ‘I am surprised to see that the decks have not yet been cleaned.’