By the Mast Divided

by David Donachie

  ‘Would the word I’d be looking for be belay?’ asked Michael O’Hagan, a quizzical expression on his face, as he stepped forward to stand in front of Pearce.

  ‘What?’ asked Devenow, confused.

  ‘Well, now, you stupid sods have this tongue that no Christian can grasp. I want to tell you to lay off, but I know if I speak plain English you’ll be too dim to understand it.’

  ‘Michael,’ said Pearce.

  O’Hagan half turned his head. ‘I think what I should say to you, John-boy, is stow it.’

  ‘This is my fight.’

  Pearce was still trembling slightly, and he felt it was in his voice too. But he knew from the past that once he started to fight, the trembling disappeared, only to recur more violently once matters were settled.

  O’Hagan gave him a very gentle backwards push. ‘And it will be your hurt for sure, an’ maybe a maiming.’

  ‘Step aside, Paddy,’ growled Devenow.

  ‘Hold your wind, Devenow,’ Michael replied, without turning, and it was evidence of the respect his size and weight afforded him that the t’ween decks bully stood stock-still.

  ‘Be that as it must,’ said Pearce. ‘I cannot let another fight in my place.’

  ‘Yet you can put yourself between that bastard Kemp’s rattan and a weaker man’s back?’

  ‘That is different.’

  ‘I did not have you down for a fool, John-boy. Sure, I am going to have to have words with this ugly bastard at some time, and it would not, to me, make sense to wait until he had beaten you senseless.’ The Irishman grinned. ‘I had a mind to get you to teach me to read and write, for I am taken with this notion of yours that if I dig a canal I should own it.’

  ‘Still,’ Pearce protested, aware in both heart and head that it sounded weak.

  ‘What would you suggest then, John-boy, that I wait till all taken from the Pelican bow the knee to this sod. Not just you, but Rufus, Ben and Charlie, for he will oppress them all unless he is stopped. Think on this, it is not just for you, it is for all of us, for if I cannot get respect here then not one of us will be safe. And I think if we are to get respect anywhere else on this damned ship, or to ever get off it, you will be the one to bring it about, for which we need you whole.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ insisted Pearce, though he knew in his heart what Michael was driving at. It made no difference whether he wanted the role or not, the men of mess number twelve, with the exception of Gherson, saw him as some kind of leader. He was educated, they were not; he had seen a larger world and they looked to his knowledge to somehow rescue them from the hand fate had played. Dammit he could even swim.

  ‘You have the head, and I have the muscle, so, as I said, John-boy, stow it.’

  ‘Are you pair going to natter much longer?’ asked Devenow.

  O’Hagan turned back to stare the man down, cutting off Pearce’s last feeble protest. ‘Now I have a mind to do this right, shirts off, a mark on the deck to go toe to toe.’

  ‘Suits me,’ said Devenow.

  ‘With no one having the right to step in.’

  It was the one-legged cook who answered then, producing from under his apron a huge meat cleaver. ‘I say aye to that, and I will take the arm of any man who interferes, Paddy.’

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ said Michael, his voice lilting and wonderfully sarcastic, ‘and here’s me thinking that Sam here was universally loved.’

  As they took their shirts off, the proceedings took on a natural formality; a square was formed, a piece of line laid across the deck for the fighters to step up to, and hushed bets were placed. There was no noise, nothing to alert authority to what was none of their business. Pearce looked at the assembled crewmen, at their eyes, trying to see what they thought, hoping that in their hearts they wanted Michael to win, to see a bully humbled, thinking that if they used their heads they would back the man they knew. The Pelicans were hopeful, and keen to let Michael know it, all except Cornelius Gherson, who took care to avoid any notion that he might be involved, showing no desire to exchange a glance with Pearce. He suspected that if asked, Gherson would have backed Devenow.

  There must be others who would pick up on what was happening, the likes of Sykes the Bosun, or Coyle, the red-faced ex-soldier who had brought them downriver, but a look around produced no evidence of their presence. They might be close, but they would stay out of this, as he had seen men of authority do many times in his life with an account that could not be settled any other way. Perhaps the officers likewise would turn a blind eye. Kemp he could see in the crowd, forearming his dripping nose, his rat-like face alight and eager for bloodshed. Ridley the other bosun’s mate was there too, his face showing, if anything, a hint of worry. Hale, the captain’s coxswain, elbowed himself to a place near the cook, and whispered something in his ear, which made the fat, sweating, one-legged fellow wave his cleaver and nod. Then a movement caught Pearce’s eye, and behind a stanchion he was sure he saw the popping pale-blue eyes of the surgeon.

  ‘Right,’ said Costello, the dark-skinned bosun’s mate, who had stepped forward to take charge. ‘You know the rules. As long as your toe is to the line you are fighting. You may step back to change your toe at any time, but not to delay or rest, for that will mean a forfeit. The first man to fail to stand up to the line for a count of three is the loser.’

  ‘Michael,’ said Pearce again, for, stripped off, Devenow was even more formidable, a mass of rippling muscles covered with tattoos: anchors, female names, a mermaid and on his hairy chest a flaming cannon. ‘I ask again.’

  ‘I have been to fairs, John-boy,’ Michael replied loudly, jabbing a finger at the tattoos, ‘where they have painted ladies like this one here. They are nought to be a’feart of.’

  ‘Where you are going, Paddy,’ said Devenow, ‘you will see more pictures than this.’

  ‘Step up,’ said Costello.

  With his dark complexion, flashing Latin eyes and good looks, Costello had the air about him of a showman. Obviously he had selected himself as the adjudicator, and no one seemed to want to challenge him for that role, which Pearce surmised meant that the crew, who were split in their support, trusted him. Very well, if they did, so could he, and any doubts that Michael would get a fair fight – his last worry – were eased.

  Both men obliged. Costello stood, hand raised between them, checking the position of their feet. Then, standing well back, for he had no desire to be caught between the first blows, Costello counted, ‘One, two three,’ then dropped his arm.

  There was no rush of blows – more parrying, easing back, ducking and weaving as each man felt the other out. Pearce had got himself a good spot, in the front row, from where he could look, by moving left and right, at the fighter’s eyes. Neither man’s gaze left the other’s face. Whatever body movements they made they stayed locked on, looking for the first real attempt at a punch, which would come soon. The whole thing was carried out in silence – there was not even whispered encouragement, and Pearce was forced to admire the self-discipline of these sailors, who knew that even quiet goading would make too much noise.

  It was Michael who threw the first punch, making to move back from a jab then suddenly coming forward to parry the blow with one hand while he thumped Devenow on his flaming cannon tattoo with the other. The man didn’t move, even though it was a well-delivered knock, and Pearce looked at Michael to see what effect this would have on him. All he saw was a grin, which had nothing to do with being pleased, more to do with riling his opponent.

  Devenow was too long in the tooth to fall for that, but the punch had changed his expression from one of watchfulness to one of determination, his brows closing down over his eyes as he settled himself for what must come, a trading of blows, for there was little science in this, it was pugilism of the most basic kind. When it developed it was almost rhythmic, made more so by the soft encouragement from a crew who were fighting themselves – to contain their excitement – the sound of landing fists was loud
er.

  Michael cut first, above the cheekbone, and that brought a satisfied grunt from Devenow, who made the mistake of trying to follow it up as the Irishman did a rapid change of feet which left the sailor exposed on his own left side. The shock, as Michael hit him left-handed, with a blow that was every bit as telling as his right, registered on Devenow’s face, as did the blood that spurted from his gashed eyebrow. Michael hit him with his right before he had time to recover and forced his opponent to step back for a count of one.

  Devenow was toe to the line again in a second, his shoulders now more hunched as he sought to get all his weight behind his punches. With not much chance for guile, Michael’s next attempt at a foot change worked more against than for him, proof that Devenow had, when it came to fighting, natural cunning, for he caught Michael on the upper jaw with a punch that sent him reeling away, then scrabbling back into position with his head shaking.

  Pearce knew that his friend was on the defensive, parrying blows and ducking away rather than delivering, and he had an eye on the one-legged cook with a view to snatching that cleaver and going after Devenow, for he was well aware that if Michael were beaten he would be next. The notion that it was not fair did not enter into his head – growing up he had learnt the absolute necessity of winning, and sometimes when the odds were too heavy the wisdom of running. To lose a fight was to suffer not only ignominy but pain, and to risk much worse. If he used whatever came to hand to gain a victory, a length of wood, a heavy stone, John Pearce could always reassure himself with the knowledge that all he required was enough submission for his own safety; that, just as he had never abandoned a friend in distress, he had never continued to beat a man who was down.

  The steady thud of exchanged blows continued for a long time. Michael was weakening; the blows he was giving seemed to have less weight than those he was receiving. Those sailors who had bet on Devenow were trying to increase their stakes; those few who had backed Michael were attempting to cover what looked certain to be a loss. Devenow seemed confident now, his punches reaching further, nearly overbalancing him as he sought to beat Michael back off the line. That was when Michael did another two-step move, and caught the off-balance Devenow with a haymaker to the left of his head. He got in a second one before changing feet again, this time catching his opponent out because Devenow had changed his own feet to parry the danger from Michael’s left hand.

  ‘Come on, Michael.’

  Charlie Taverner got many a sharp look that said shut up. It wasn’t much of one because they were enthralled by the contest, now much more even as a recovered O’Hagan put as many blows into Devenow as he received. The tattooed sailor was now forced to take a two-count break, and several deep breaths before coming back to the line. Michael gave him no respite but hit him on arrival with a straight jab that caught Devenow right under the heart. Aimed to go through his body and come out the back, it was a huge punch that stopped the other man’s breath, most of which came hissing out of his lungs, forcing Devenow off the line for another second.

  But he was back trading with Michael in a series of exchanges that seemed to last for an age. It was clear that both men were tiring, their labouring breath mixing with the steam rising off the sweat on their bodies; their faces a mass of cuts and swellings, their lips sliced open in more than one spot. Devenow could hardly see, so gross had those heavy brows become, and with so much blood running into his eyes.

  Michael was in no better state, but it seemed that his stamina was just that much greater. He might take an age to get his arm up but it came up all the way, while Devenow’s seemed only able to reach chest height, not the shoulder height he needed. All the tattoos on his body were smeared with blood now, and it glistened in his thick matted body hair, as Michael leant into his assault, throwing punches that were a tenth of the strength he had started with but had a relentless pressure that drove Devenow off the line half a dozen times. But he came back, until Michael, nearly over-reaching himself, summoned up the strength for a killer punch, that took the hunched Devenow right under the point of his chin. The cheekbone seemed to pop out to the side as the jawbone went, and Devenow staggered back. He was game, he tried to make the line, but his toe got there just as Costello called the count of three, and declared the contest over.

  There was a pause of a few seconds, looks of disbelief on many a face, and Michael O’Hagan sunk to his knees, fists out before him.

  ‘Charlie, Rufus, hot water,’ said Pearce as he knelt beside his champion.

  ‘Now do me a favour, John-boy,’ said Michael, thickly, through heavily swollen lips. ‘Get hold of that little shite Dent, and throw him overboard.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The howl of the wind in Pearce’s ears, which for hours had doubled the discomfort of his unquiet, empty stomach, died the instant he dropped down the companionway, replaced by the sound of timbers groaning so loud that it was easy to imagine the ship tearing itself apart. That he had heard it before every time his watch was called on deck, and that the frigate was still afloat, did little to reassure him that he was not about to drown. There was no respite from the motion either so that he had to clap on to the deck timbers with still-blistered hands, just to get to the bottom, his bare feet slipping on the dripping wooden steps. Soaked to the skin, he already knew that he had ahead of him four hours of deep discomfort in which sheer exhaustion would, if he were lucky, bring the sleep he craved.

  It had been like this for four days now, the weather steadily worsening as the whole convoy struggled to make some headway down the English Channel in what was heard to be, ‘a right true bastard of a sou-westerly’. If the meaning of tacking and wearing had been obscure to Pearce at first it was not so now, as the bowsprit of HMS Brilliant drove left and right then left again into the teeth of the wind. Roused at four in the morning, still wet from the watch they had worked until midnight, Pearce and his messmates had gone on deck in the pitch darkness, the only visible light a reflected glow that lit the faces of the trio of heavily garbed sailors on the wheel. They had come up on to a heaving deck swept by stinging salt spray, and endless toil. Occasional relief came from equally hard graft on the capstan, lifting some heavy object into or out of the night sky, or a spell at the pumps to keep the water in the well from rising to a point where it would threaten the frigate’s stability.

  Above their heads, in pitch darkness, the topmen of the larboard watch worked on the sails, jerked endlessly forward, back and sideways by the motions of the hull. On the deck, constantly screamed at by those who had charge of them, Pearce and his fellow landsmen, the lowest of the low, hauled on the ropes that controlled the angle of the yards. Beneath their feet the starboard watch had swung in their hammocks, with water dripping on them through the working of the deck planking, trying to get their four hours of allotted sleep. Now, roused out, they came back on duty to continue their labours in the cold light of dawn.

  The experienced hands on Pearce’s watch were nowhere to be seen. They had shot below with the speed of men who knew what they were about, to get out of their soaking outer garments and do what they had done the evening before; take up most of the space around the back of the galley fire, which had warmth enough to dry their ducks, heat their limbs and provide a light for pipes in the only space on the ship where they could smoke.

  Behind Pearce, framed against the grey sky, Charlie Taverner had collapsed the moment they made the relative quiet of t’ween decks, only to be kicked by Kemp as he followed him down, each strike accompanied by a swearword, as well as a flick from his rattan. Cornelius Gherson had to be prised off the newel post at the base of the stairs so that Pearce could get by, while Rufus Dommet was leaning over at the other side, retching from a stomach that contained nothing with which to be sick, next to Ben Walker, who, head on his chest was also in some distress. Ahead, in the gloom, Pearce could just make out Michael O’Hagan, legs and hands spread, bent under a too-low deck head, as he tried to stay upright, and in front of the Irishman the e
asily swaying figure, in dripping oilskins and a foul weather hat, of Lieutenant Digby. Behind him, looking like a wet rag doll and less assured in his stance stood the diminutive figure of Midshipman Burns.

  ‘Belay that, Kemp,’ Digby shouted, bending a knee to ride the action of the frigate as it crested another wave. ‘There is little use in the beating of tired men.’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ Kemp shouted back, ‘the Premier wants that the new men should know their duty, an’ in that I am following his express orders to drive them hard.’

  ‘These men are in my division, Mr Kemp, and when they are off the deck, I will decide how they are to be driven. Now I suggest that you have other duties, and I would be much obliged if you would return to them.’

  ‘Mr Roscoe…’

  ‘I will speak with Mr Roscoe, Kemp, and unless he issues orders to the contrary mine will stand.’

  Kemp had to obey, but the look on his crooked face and the forced ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ with which he acknowledged the order left no one in any doubt of his sentiments.

  ‘Don’t tell me we’re shot of the bastard, Michael,’ hissed Pearce.

  ‘Silence,’ said Digby. ‘Those of you who can, help your shipmates to a mess table. Two men who have the duty to fetch something hot to eat, the rest of you get out of your clothes, for they will not dry on your backs.’