By the Mast Divided

by David Donachie

  ‘Nor will there be space by the galley fire,’ said Pearce, ‘for there was none yesterday.’ He remembered just in time to add ‘sir.’

  ‘There will be, Pearce.’

  The use of his real name, instead of Truculence, the first time anyone in authority had employed it, made Pearce look hard at Lieutenant Digby, who met his gaze with words that were soft, but firm. ‘You must not lock eyes with me so, man. It is insubordinate.’

  Pearce continued to do so – a problem the lieutenant solved by issuing orders, for it seemed that the mess carriers were too far gone for the task. ‘You and O’Hagan are the least affected. Go to the cook, whom I have already had words with. He will provide you with a couple of kids of soup.’ As they departed Digby added. ‘The rest of you get your outer garments off. Use your blanket to keep out the chill. And for God’s sake don’t seat yourself under a leaking stretch of planking. Once you have something inside you, make your way to the galley, where Mr Burns here will ensure you get a fair share of the available warmth and a chance to dry your clothes.’

  ‘I need sleep,’ groaned Gherson, a remark that brought a growl of agreement from most of the others.

  ‘You need food,’ barked Digby. He then softened his voice. ‘Believe me, lads, you must do as I say. It’s better to have food and three hours sleep than four hours abed and a four hour watch with an empty belly. Taverner, help Dommet there, and make sure he takes in some victuals.’

  Lieutenant Roscoe, as officer of the watch, had taken station by the wheel, behind the men conning the ship, using their bodies to shield himself from the worst of wind, though not from the spray, which came in as heartily over the ship’s windward quarter as it did the bows. Above his head grey clouds scudded along in the early morning sky, and indistinct in the blowing spume he could just make out a dozen of the convoy ships. Fifty more vessels were out there somewhere, including the second escort, which would become increasingly visible to the lookouts as the light increased. He ordered them to search the horizon astern for an East Indiaman, old, and much smaller than her more recently built consorts, that had hauled its wind at the last of the light the day before; his captain, mad at the time, forced to put the needs of the majority against the requirements of one ship, would want to know if she had rejoined.

  To one side he could see Collins, the master, shut up in his little day cabin, poring over his charts in the hope of finding some clue as to their position. Observation had been difficult with neither a clear sky in daylight nor any sign of a star at night, so all Collins had to go on was dead reckoning, taking the frigate’s last certain position when they had lost sight of land off the high Sussex promontory of Fairlight, hard by Hastings, and by calculating from the ship’s constantly changing course and speed where they were now. In the hands of a competent navigator the result of such a calculation was uncertain. In the hands of a man like Collins, it could be fatal.

  The man should be here on deck with him, keeping an eye on the sails and making adjustments to ease the way on the ship, a task that Roscoe was performing because, if he did not, danger beckoned, as it always did at sea. Midshipman Farmiloe was huddled by the poop steps, looking and feeling miserable, while an oilskin-cloaked marine stood guard over the door to Captain Barclay’s quarters.

  Around him the ship pitched, rolled and groaned, while the wind set up a constant whistle as it howled through the mass of rigging. Just faintly Roscoe could hear the clanking of the pumps as the men below laboured to rid the frigate of the water she was taking in, water that came through working seams in the scantlings and the decks, or poured in gallons down hatchways and between the boats boomed on the waist. Ahead of him on the quarterdeck, other parties were working on the rigging, it being too rough to clean the decks. Mentally he was checking off the mass of tasks with which he could occupy both them and the watch off duty, throughout the coming day, for bad weather or no, training had to continue.

  It was nearly imperceptible, but Roscoe sensed by a changed note in the rigging that the wind had eased just a fraction. The possibility presented itself to spread more canvas, which would, in speeding the frigate through the water, ease her passage. Perhaps he would be able to holystone the decks after all, even if it was pointless, because he was sure if he did not do so Barclay would not only comment on his failure of duty, but would enter the fact in his log. Moving out from the scant protection of the poop, he was in the process of lifting his speaking trumpet to issue orders when a voice called from the tops.

  ‘Deck there. Firefly signalling.’

  ‘Mr Farmiloe!’ snapped Roscoe. ‘The signal book and a glass.’

  Lanky Farmiloe uncoiled himself too slowly for an impatient Premier, and had to scurry when Roscoe barked at him to ‘double up’. The light was poor, grey skies full of scudding dark clouds and the spume set up a fine, all-encompassing mist which, with a group of merchant ships pitching and rolling in the waters between the two warships, made reading Davidge Gould’s message difficult.

  ‘Get aloft, Mr Farmiloe,’ shouted Roscoe, telescope to his eye, straining to see the triangular flags that stood out stiff from Firefly’s mainmast, ‘and take the book with you.’ Then he shouted too for someone to man the frigate’s halyards and acknowledge Gould’s signals as they were deciphered.

  Stuffing the book under his foul weather hat, that being the only place from which it would not disappear, and with telescope slung by a strap over his shoulder, Farmiloe headed for the rigging on the weather side, fighting to cross a deck pitched at an angle of fifteen degrees. Being tall and gangly made it easy for him to get up on the bulwark and as he began to climb the rigging he felt the security of that wind on his back, pressing him into the ropes. Nevertheless the climb was laborious and clearly too laggardly for the officer of the watch. He could hear Roscoe belabouring him with the epithets of ‘damned lubber’ and ‘useless bugger’, this because he had chosen, with the foul conditions, to get to the safety of the mainmast cap through the lubber’s hole.

  From that secure platform Farmiloe had a better view, and with the bulk of the mast to kill the wind he could risk taking out the signal book from under his dripping hat. Telescope pressed to his eye, he read the still indistinct flags on Davidge Gould’s sloop. Flicking through the book he hesitated to call out what he thought they said, and because he was fresh to the task of signal midshipman, took another look to make sure, which earned him another shouted rebuke from Roscoe.

  Finally, Farmiloe called down to the deck. ‘Firefly signalling, sir, enemy in sight.’

  ‘Acknowledge,’ shouted Roscoe, before turning to the marine sentry. ‘Rouse out the captain.’

  By the base of the mainmast two sailors struggled with the signal halyards, to get aloft the flags that would tell Gould his message had been read and understood. This would allow him to send the second part of the signal, the bearing on which this enemy lay as well as some indication of the size of the threat. By the time that had been done, Ralph Barclay was on deck aware that the enemy was a single ship bearing south-south-east and that Davidge Gould was asking for permission to engage. Assessing the situation, Barclay stood, silently, for a full two minutes before he issued his orders.

  ‘All hands, Mr Roscoe and a signal to Captain Gould to hold his position.’ There was no immediate threat; if there had been Gould would have engaged without waiting for orders. ‘Mr Collins, I need to know our position.’

  The reply was hesitant. ‘I would put us at – about – let us say – Latitude forty-nine degrees North, Longitude some three and a half degrees East.’

  Ralph Barclay conjured up a mental picture of the long neck of the English Channel as it trended west between the south coast and France to that point where he could turn southwards once he had weathered the great Atlantic headland of Ushant. Collins’ calculations placed the convoy past the Channel Islands and somewhere between the Brittany shore and Devon to the north, closer to the French side than England, not much distance covered for four d
ays sailing. That was, of course, only true if Collins had the right of it, which looking into the man’s worried countenance was far from certain. Right at this moment it mattered little, as long as he had plenty of water under his keel.

  ‘I need you to shape me a course to get to the south-east of our convoy.’

  Pearce and Michael O’Hagan approached the galley from the rear. The small space was crowded with a shuffling mass of half-clad sailors standing in a cloud of blue pipe smoke and steam, none of whom showed the slightest inclination to move. Behind the pair, a high-pitched voice, without the least trace of authority or confidence, piped, ‘Stand aside there.’

  ‘By Christ, there’s a future admiral come among us,’ said a jester from the throng, a remark that was greeted with general laughter. ‘Hard horse ain’t in it.’

  But they did move enough to let little Burns through, which was nowhere near enough space for the pair following. O’Hagan bunched his fists, but John’s voice in his ear stopped him throwing a punch that, given the bruising those hands bore, was like to hurt him more than any victim. Michael’s face was less swollen than it had been after the fight, each bruise now black with a yellow surround. The stitching above his badly cut eye was a mess, evidence that Surgeon Lutyens was no master of that particular art.

  Having beaten Devenow, who was on light duties now with his broken jaw, the Irishman was acknowledged as the hard man of the ship – but the men of this crew had soon worked out that he was nothing like his late opponent. O’Hagan might be a pest when drunk, but sober he had to have a reason to fight, and hated to be thought of as a bully. Devenow had beaten up others for pleasure, when he was not doing so to steal their grog.

  ‘We’d be obliged if you would make way, lads,’ Pearce said to a sea of bland faces.

  ‘Hear that, boys, Truculence has spoken.’

  ‘Don’t you mean the dolphin?’ said a voice from the rear. ‘I hear tell he swims like one.’

  ‘Damn near pierced my ears, Truculence did,’ called one wag, making very obvious that, hardly surprisingly, his true name was common knowledge. Not that it mattered; they were too far from the English shore now.

  ‘Sounds like a bleedin’ officer,’ said another voice, before adding a mordant, ‘beggin’ your pardon, Mr Burns.’

  ‘Sure as God made trees grow that little bugger don’t sound like one.’

  ‘Sounds like a rat, looks like a runt,’ called the jester from the back.

  Voices came from both sides, the owners hidden by their mates, as Pearce pushed into the mass of bodies, to be greeted by a steady stream of coy, salacious remarks, and a hand that, in the press of swaying bodies, goosed his backside. He could hear O’Hagan behind him growling at his tormentors, who knew just how far to take the joshing before backing off. On the other side of the crowd they were faced with the cook, red as usual from the heat of the fire underneath his coppers. Burns was eagerly supping from one of the wooden mess kids they had come to collect. He blushed, as Pearce looked at him hard.

  ‘For the men, I think, Mr Burns.’

  ‘Carry on,’ Burns slurped, making it obvious that he had no intention of returning with them, preferring to stay with the heat and the prospect of more food. Pearce took the rope handle of one of the small wooden buckets, passed the other to O’Hagan, and they turned to retrace their steps. Michael O’Hagan stopped before the throng that barred their passage. He passed his kid of steaming soup back to Pearce.

  ‘Right mates,’ he said, ‘if I swing for it, I’ll belt the first bastard to lay a hand on those there kids. My mates are beyond, freezing, cold and wet and in need of food, and so help me I don’t care a tinker’s curse what anyone says.’

  The crowd parted like the Red Sea in the time of Moses.

  ‘All hands on deck, at the double.’

  The men responded to that command with a speed that surprised Pearce and O’Hagan. Within seconds all the lines that had held damp clothes were empty. What was less obvious was what they were to do themselves, which was not helped by Burns skipping by, and knocking half the contents of one kid onto the deck.

  ‘Get on deck, you pair of slow arses,’ called Coyle, who was coming along the maindeck repeating the command for ‘all hands’. He tried to grab the full kid from John, who pulled it out of his reach. ‘Don’t you know an order when you hears one? Put those bloody mess kids down and get on deck.’

  ‘Lieutenant Digby told us to fetch these.’

  The red face went a deeper shade. ‘Christ Almighty, if I had a starter now you’d feel it.’

  The cook intervened, stomping over to push Coyle on his way and get about his duties, before he turned his sweating face to Pearce. ‘All hands, you stupid half-brick means what it says. Everyone on deck, at the double, ’cause the captain apprehends danger. Do yourself a favour and fill your mouths, but if you don’t want the cat skinnin’ your backs, move your arse.’

  ‘We’ll take them with us,’ said Pearce.

  ‘You ain’t even half a brick,’ shouted the cook at their retreating backs.

  They were the last on deck, and they found the others already hauling on the falls to the leeward side of the quarterdeck. Rising and falling twenty feet on each wave, bare feet slipping on the planking, they were seeking to bring the yards round to take more wind, which earned them many a curse from their shipmates. All was confusion, and, taking advantage of that, Pearce, followed by O’Hagan, walked along the line of heaving men and lifted the heavy wooden kid to each pair of lips.

  ‘A good idea, Pearce,’ shouted Digby from the rear. ‘Make sure every man has something and if they refuse force it down their throats.’

  He made his way down the line, feeding Taverner and Ben Walker in turn. Gherson tried to refuse, and got a slap round the head from Pearce, who was in no mood to accept a refusal. Rufus Dommet, his hair dark red from spray, his face gaunt from four days of being sick, needed O’Hagan to hold his head to obey. And in truth by the time they got to him the soup was getting cold and had within it a goodly dose of salt water. It was only when they had finished that both the providers realised that they had left nothing for themselves.

  ‘Mr Digby,’ shouted Barclay, from beside the wheel, ‘would you oblige me with some notion of what you are about. I am informed that you are feeding the hands on deck.’

  ‘So that they will fight better, sir,’ Digby shouted back, then in a quieter voice, ‘Get rid of those kids, damn you.’

  ‘British sailors, Mr Digby,’ replied Barclay, as the small wooden buckets disappeared over the side, ‘will fight on an empty belly if needs must.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Finally accepting that the yards on the course and topsails could be hauled round no more, Barclay ordered them to be sheeted home. As the falls were securely lashed off to a belaying pin the men who had been hauling on them relaxed, some just to lean, others to collapse – that was until a quiet word from their divisional officer reminded them that they must stand up, especially here close to the quarterdeck, within plain view of the captain.

  If Pearce had learnt anything this last awful week it was the division that the mainmast provided. Astern of that great round timber, the height of two men in diameter, was the preserve of the officers, termed the quarterdeck for no reason that he could discern. He was allowed to cross the divide to carry out any task allotted – scrubbing the decks, hauling on the falls – but he was not permitted to linger or address anyone unbidden, and that was a stricture that applied to the whole crew of seamen, regardless of their rating.

  No social division pointed out to him on land by his father – and there had been plenty – had ever been so clearly defined. It was like an invisible wall that separated officers from men; those who held or, like midshipmen, anticipated commissions, from those whose task it was to carry out whatever orders such people dealt out. Whether they made sense or not, were issued with kindness or malice, the most depressing aspect about the system was the way the men on the shi
p accepted this divide and respected it. Sovereign of the quarterdeck was the captain – that was where he was deferred to most, his rank acknowledged in endless lifting of hats, barks of ‘aye, aye, sir’ and obsequious looks meant to convey to him just what a puissant personage he was. Each time he thought on it, or witnessed the sight of what to him appeared mere grovelling, Pearce felt himself sickened.

  Ralph Barclay, unaware of the stare of malevolence aimed in his direction, was running a mass of facts through his mind – the accumulation of his own years at sea and the teachings of those who had preceded him. Was the wind easing, and with it the swell? The sky was certainly clearing, the heavy cloud cover lifting. How was Brilliant handling, had her holds been stowed right; were her masts taking the strain or labouring; how much sail could she carry on this heading, into the wind but twenty points free, on a course that he hoped would put him between the Frenchman and his home shore?

  ‘Topgallants, Mr Roscoe.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Half an hour later Ralph Barclay was wondering if he should clear for action, knocking out the bulkheads and striking below everything not required, but that was a disruption to the ship that was best avoided. Against that, it was an exercise the crew had not yet had time to practise, so it was likely to be a slow and laborious affair if he had to order it done. And what would happen if they saw action? With the lack of time and foul weather he had not been able to get in some exercise on the great guns, or even a bit of practice with small arms.

  With all these worries to contend with, there was some satisfaction to be gained from the knowledge that the crew, despite failing to act as the unit it would one day become, would already have carried out certain tasks. Mess tables would have been lashed off to the deckbeams, all extraneous articles secured, and the gun crews, even if the order had not come, would be close to their weapons. Behind him, the marines were lined up on the poop, muskets at the ready, prepared to act wherever he sent them, and the topgallants were being rigged, if not at pace, with efficiency.