By the Mast Divided

by David Donachie

  Already he had examined and made notes on those with whom he messed, the members of the wardroom; lieutenants Roscoe, Thrale and Digby in that order of seniority were satisfyingly different, as was the pun-obsessed marine officer, Holbrook. The Purser seemed a slippery cove, almost too true to type, while the Master, Mr Collins, was a worrier. The eight midshipmen and master’s mates who shared the overcrowded midshipman’s berth had eluded him somewhat, but all sorts of skulduggery was going on in that quarter, certainly bullying, perhaps theft, and quite possibly buggery. It was interesting to reflect that every wardroom officer had progressed from what they commonly referred to as ‘that damned filthy bearpit’. Thus he would be given a chance to probe the scars such surroundings created at the same time as he observed the long-term effects on those who had endured them.

  The crew he was slowly getting to know – some because of the numerous cases of the pox aboard. Volunteers or the first takings of the Impress Service, men bred to the sea, would repay close study. What made such people volunteer for a duty that was by common repute so harsh? But men such as Pearce were like the philosopher’s stone; fellows forced to serve in the King’s Navy, brought aboard by a system universally condemned, but one that could not be sacrificed when Britain went to war, men who, when it came to the moment, were reputed to fight with as much tenacity as those who had come aboard of their own free will. From the whole he hoped to discern attitudes and motives that would be at the kernel of the investigations he was here to undertake.

  Then there was the captain. Was he a mass of contradictions, or just a product of the service that had created him? Lutyens had learnt from those members of the crew with whom he had spoken that they saw nothing abnormal in the way Barclay behaved, though it had been obvious such an opinion had been dented by the flogging of Pearce. Watching intently as the cat swung, he had felt the discontent amongst the crew, men too wise to show it in their faces, for they did not want to join the victim at the grating. There was no doubt in Lutyens’ mind that Barclay was aware of the crew’s displeasure, yet it had no effect on his actions. And finally there were the intricacies of the captain’s marriage – a whole other area of enquiry that Lutyens had never anticipated.

  By studying men in the enclosed setting of a ship of war, over an extended period, Charles Lutyens hoped to find many things. Could men be classified as type? Was there a measurable index of types? Why did men indulge in acts of cruelty and kindness, often both in the space of a few minutes? Why did they fight? What caused men to follow other mere mortals, for it had to be more than simple rank? What did leaders have that singled them out? He would make an enquiry into motives and actions, putting the whole together in a carefully written study. And perhaps he would acquire fame from passing on his observations on the truth of the human condition as it applied to the fighting seaman. But now, taking up his notebook and finding the passages that related to his present patient, he would, by gentle questioning, get to the truth about John Pearce.

  Pearce was still talking as Lutyens read his notes, and in doing so found that he had scribbled more on this man than any other on the ship outside the wardroom; the fact that he had marked him at once as different from the rest of the pressed men, the singular reality of his observation that although older than Pearce he had felt to be a junior in his presence. Lutyens found himself slightly embarrassed to discover that he had described Pearce as attractive, which was surely a misnomer, and he searched for what he had really meant, a word to describe the way Pearce attracted men to him. He scored out attractive and replaced it with forceful. Then he renewed his questioning.

  ‘Born in?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Brothers and sisters?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘School?’

  ‘By the score but never for long.’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘A good man, but fixated by the lot of his fellow man.’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘With all my heart.’

  Lutyens saw tears fill the corner of Pearce’s eyes and gentle prodding produced the information that the son felt he had failed his father, deserted him, allowed him to insist on flight for only one, too ready to accept the excuse that he was too ill to travel. That unlocked the thorny emotions of their relationship: mostly a difference of opinion over the way ideas translated into actions. This exposed another strong influence, the teachings in philosophy, rhetoric and law he had received from his tutor, the Abbé Morlant. His life in Paris had not all been dry study; there had been women too, numerous and varied in age and social station. John Pearce had received schooling in riding and fencing, the paradox being that his levelling father was determined his son would have the attributes of the gentlemen he so despised, his excuse being that he wanted these things for all men.

  ‘Your honour.’

  Lutyens turned to see the sailmaker standing in the doorway, looking at Pearce’s leaf-covered back, a quizzical expression on his face, as the surgeon put a finger to his lips to ensure silence. Simpson held up his manufacture, pale brown canvas of a light texture, shining with the cook’s slush, and with the requisite ties hanging off.

  ‘You’ll need a hand to get it on, with him being dead weight by the look.’

  Pearce was still rambling, fortunately in a voice so low that only an ear close by could pick it up. It was not that Lutyens mistrusted Simpson – he was wary of everyone. But let one word of what he was learning here get out and it would be all over the ship in a trice. And the look in Simpson’s eye, as he looked down on Pearce, was one of deep curiosity, which made Lutyens question if he was the only person aboard who harboured doubts about this patient.

  ‘Leave it. I will call for help when I need it.’

  Simpson looked far from pleased, and even less so when the surgeon came out from his small cabin to ensure that he moved away. Then he went back to sit with John Pearce.

  Ralph Barclay had on his desk a drawing of the observations the master had made, showing as notations what they knew regarding the depth of water and what hazards lay in their path in the way of rocks and sandbars. The information Collins had brought back with him only served to underline the folly of trying to take his ship into the estuary.

  Thankfully Collins had not observed any preparations for a stout attempt to defend the place – a modicum of activity around the bastion, but nothing to suggest the place was being made ready to repulse an attack. Nothing untoward either aboard the vessels except the comings and goings between ship and shore. Barclay had to believe his enemy reckoned himself secure, so a boat attack under such circumstances stood a good chance of success. In a previous commission, with officers he trusted, he would most certainly have invited them to a conference to discuss the raid, that followed by a good dinner in which they would be free to air their opinions. Ralph Barclay could not bring himself to do that now. The plan was his, and his alone. He was, for once, aware of that sense of isolation that afflicted all captains – the obverse side of the privilege bestowed by rank.

  It was doubly galling that the one person he should have been able to talk to, not in a tactical sense but merely as a sounding board, he could not. Emily would keep referring, obliquely but doggedly, to the incident that had taken place that morning on deck, and much as he did not wish to discuss the matter he was finally forced to respond – to tell her that in matters of discipline she was not allowed to even comment, never mind disagree. Her statement, that that being the case, she would say ‘nothing at all’, was denied any response by her huffy departure, followed by the immediate entrance of those who would be taking part in the raid.

  ‘Gentlemen, this will be a cutting out operation with boats.’

  Ralph Barclay looked at each face in turn then, and saw nothing, neither approval not divergence of opinion. He had been about to explain his thinking, but such bland acceptance killed off the notion, and he confined himself to outlining th
e salient points of the defence and how he wished to confound them.

  ‘Mr Roscoe, your task is to cause a diversion by attacking that bastion, with Mr Thrale in support. I wish you to land where you will not be seen,’ Barclay jabbed at the rough-drawn map, indicating a small promontory on the western shore that would provide a degree of cover for Roscoe to land his men. ‘I have marked the spot here, which will allow you to get ashore unobserved. In the dark you should be able to get right up to the walls without alerting them. I want noise and confusion, our enemies thinking those guns the main object of our endeavour, that by taking the stronghold we intend to use the cannon against the Mercedes and render the position untenable, driving them from the anchorage. With luck they will rush to aid its defence. That will render my task of taking the ships easier, for once they depart I can board.’

  ‘Can the cannon on that bastion be brought to bear on the anchorage?’ asked Roscoe.

  ‘I would think it likely.’

  ‘Then, sir, does that not, in fact, present the best means of recapture?’

  Barclay waved an impatient arm across the table. ‘Only if we could take and hold such a position, Mr Roscoe! That means taking on the town as well as the crew of the privateer, and quite possibly troops from the interior. I doubt we have the number to achieve that and we certainly do not have the time. No, it must be a diversion only, though I intend you should take with you the means to destroy the position, gunpowder to blast down the walls and spikes for the cannon. It would be an advantage to our nation to make it untenable for future use.’

  ‘Then would I be allowed to state my desire to lead the main assault, sir, that is the boat attack?’

  ‘Your zeal will be noted,’ Barclay said, ‘but I have given myself that duty.’

  Roscoe gave him a cold look. It was Gould and Firefly all over again. Barclay knew he was taking to himself a duty that should have gone to his Premier. Ship’s captains generally stayed aboard and sent in an assault – giving their inferior officers a chance at distinction – they did not, themselves, lead them. But then not all faced possible disgrace, as did he.

  ‘All three boats will act in unison, and we will only part company once we are inside the arms of the estuary. Mr Collins has given half an hour before midnight as the hour of high tide. Your assault, Mr Roscoe, begins at midnight and provides the signal for mine. I intend to cut the ship’s cables and drift out of the anchorage on a falling tide.’

  There were nods of agreement. The wind had shifted throughout the day, becoming more northerly and breaking up the cloud cover, so the possibility existed that it would be foul for an exit.

  ‘Mr Farmiloe will accompany me, Mr Craddock as senior midshipman to second you Mr Roscoe, Mr Burns to second Mr Thrale.’

  It was annoying the way the boy Burns blanched at that; he almost seemed to shiver with dread, which was unbecoming for one related to him by marriage.

  ‘Mr Digby, you will stay aboard and command the ship with the assistance of Mr Collins. You will keep a sharp lookout for either ship coming out. If there is no lantern on either at the foremast they are still in the possession of the enemy and you may, as you see fit, engage them. Now I suggest we commit what the master has noted to memory, for we will begin and end this action in darkness.’

  None present could be in any doubt that it was a desperate throw, but even if what they were about had been caused by their captain’s recklessness they were keen to go in. What it presented to these officers and the mids who would accompany them was priceless in a world with too many applicants chasing too few berths – any chance for glory was also a chance for promotion. Succeed, and every man would be lauded, fail and only Barclay would suffer ignominy.

  Pearce slept throughout the day, a blissful eight continuous hours, his back coated with the soothing comfrey, for once not damned by the need to man his watch. Lutyens let him be, more taken with the paradox he was witnessing amongst the crew, one he alluded to when Pearce awoke, but only after he had enquired about his condition.

  The patient eased his back, feeling the skin still tight, itching rather than stinging, and beneath the skin bones that carried a bearable ache. And he felt refreshed, almost like a different person, more alert after a slumber that went beyond the usual three and a half hours.

  ‘I can scarce credit that I was at that grating, let alone that it is only half a day past.’

  ‘Old remedies, Pearce,’ Lutyens insisted, ‘they never fail. Comfrey was known to the ancient world as a palliative, yet few medical men use it now. But go to the country and you will find the common village healer swears by it. Laudanum, too, comes from a natural source, a variety of poppy. I cannot think why there is such a desire in medicinal circles for innovation when we have to hand so many well-tried cures.’

  Pearce was tempted to disagree but Lutyens had moved on to discuss the forthcoming attempt to cut out the Indiaman, openly perplexed by the attitude of the crew.

  ‘I cannot fathom it, Pearce,’ eyes alight as he hooted at the expression. ‘Salty is it not?’ Then he adopted a more serious tone. ‘It is plain that the crew are indifferent to Captain Barclay – there is no air of him having inspired them to attempt exemplary deeds. Yet what do I witness as preparations go ahead for this adventure: a heightened state, a glow in the eyes of many, impatience! They shake their heads at what has happened so far,’ the voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone, ‘I do believe they think Barclay a fool to have been so guyed by the Frenchman, even more of a fool to increase the stakes to try and win all on a throw. Yet they are afire to fight.’

  Pearce wondered if he should reply, just as he wondered why this surgeon wished to engage him in conversation on such a topic. His recollection of the time since he had entered this sickbay was vague, but he had a nagging suspicion that he had talked a great deal, that he might have told Lutyens more about himself than he wished.

  ‘Come, John Pearce, you must, for all love, have an opinion.’

  ‘There are those who love nothing more than a scrap.’

  Lutyens bowed, leaning forward towards his seated patient, his voice insistent.

  ‘Are you one of them, Pearce?’

  ‘I will fight if I have a reason to do so, but I have always thought it foolish to seek one out.’

  ‘My point! Surely a man must have a motive to wish to fight, to face death or disfigurement, especially for a cause that will not improve his life one jot. Or is the reasoning and need of another, or some notion of patriotism, sufficient?’

  ‘Perhaps it is the ship,’ Pearce said, for he had observed that the sailors aboard talked of it fondly. ‘They have a collective love of this vessel, of its reputation…’

  ‘I hazard, not enough,’ Lutyens interrupted, with an impatient scowl, which annoyed Pearce enough to produce a sharp response.

  ‘…Or perhaps the life they lead is so dire in its prospect that anything, including their own mortality, is forfeit in the name of excitement or some false notion that they are on the verge of a wealth that will bring them ease and comfort. Narrow horizons make men prey to all sorts of designs, and they usually find whatever sacrifice they endure is more for the benefit of another than themselves.’

  ‘That, I suspect, is precisely what Adam Pearce would say?’

  Tempted to say, ‘Who?’ Pearce was stopped by the knowing look in the surgeon’s eye, more so when he added, ‘Laudanum eases more than pain.’

  ‘I have seen what it does, Mr Lutyens,’ Pearce said guardedly, and indeed having listened to his father’s ramblings under the influence of the opiate, he knew he might have performed likewise. ‘But I would be cautious about any revelations made. They are more likely to be invention than fact.’

  Lutyens was amused. ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Am I free to go?’

  ‘You are if you can stand and walk.’

  Pearce felt a deeper ache in his back as he pulled himself to his feet, yet felt better for being upright and so much taller than Lutyens. Sit
ting, he had considered himself at the man’s mercy. Looking down on him he felt less so.

  ‘I do agree with you,’ Lutyens purred, ‘regarding revelations made under the influence of laudanum. To pass them on would be very unwise. Besides, it is no one else’s business, is it?’

  A slight nod was all Pearce would allow himself.

  ‘You ain’t never seen a man hacked about, have you lad?’ said Molly, with a heavy grimace. ‘Horrible it be, truly horrible.’

  ‘Blood everywhere,’ added his messmate, Foley, ‘with great dark gashes that the flies love to feed on. And the eyes, dead, like bits of glass.’

  ‘Cannon shot is worse, mind,’ Molly continued, ‘cut a man in half that will. Why I’ve seen men carried below in two bits, top bit screaming and the legs still twitching ten feet away on the deck.’

  ‘Carried below,’ cried Foley, ‘though they were scarce to last. Tossed them through a gunport then, we did, for there’s no ceremony in the midst of a sea fight. In warm water too, so it weren’t no burial they had but the makings of a meal for the sharks. Makes you wonder if it be part of God’s purpose, one of his creatures gifting sustenance to another.’

  ‘Leastways we won’t have splinters, Foley,’ said Molly, gravely, ‘’cause if there’s ’owt to turn your stomach it be a shard of wood slicing through flesh like a butcher’s hatchet.’