Charlie Taverner and Rufus Dommet, who called back to Pearce’s repeated shout, were clasping on to rocks in an exposed position, next to the barrel that had kept them afloat, still with hands on it as though they feared even on dry land to break contact. They too had to be urged to look to their welfare and follow the others. Before joining them, Pearce climbed as high as he could on the boulders, calling out to sea and in both directions in a last forlorn attempt to find survivors. No shouts came from out of the water or off the other rocks. The rest of the men on the oars, if they did not respond to his call, like Thrale, might still have made it to the shore, but any search for them would have to wait till first light. The marines, festooned with ammunition and grenades would have had the least chance, weighed down by their heavy red coats and equipment.
Upriver the cracking of muskets had intensified for a while before dying away, leaving only the dull boom of an occasional cannon. Had they succeeded or had they failed? Was Barclay at that very moment conning his capture out of the narrows of the anchorage into the wider estuary? If he was, how could they signal they were here, and should Pearce even try? It was quickly obvious to Pearce that if he could cope on French soil, most of the others would not, and he could not just abandon them. If he could get them back aboard ship he would be free to go his own way.
‘Mr Burns,’ he called down, ‘tell me about this attack.’
There was no reply, so Pearce jumped down, crawled out of the wind, and peered into the dark recess where the survivors were sheltering. ‘Mr Burns, without Lieutenant Thrale here you are in charge.’ Burns groaned, so Pearce added, ‘Which does not inspire me any more than it does you, but it is the case. We have to make contact with the rest of the cutting out party, or you will all be stuck here. Now tell me what you know.’
It wasn’t coherent, for Burns was shivering with cold as well as confused, but Pearce got a bare outline of what Barclay had planned, the name of the town, Lézardrieux and something of the layout of the estuary, the most important fact being that the whole affair had been timed to coincide with the tides. Looking at the spume still smashing off the rocks below his feet it was difficult to believe the tide was turning, but it must be, and the situation could only get better as time wore on.
‘How far up the estuary was Mr Roscoe required to beach his boat?’
Pearce got a slight sob in reply, hardly surprising from a boy only twelve years old. There was no hope of any leadership from that quarter, but a hard jab produced the required information.
‘Michael, how are you?’
‘Wet, freezing cold and not sure if I’m in heaven, hell or limbo.’
‘Dysart?’
‘Worse,’ Michael said. ‘I don’t think he is conscious.’
‘I’m going to try and get up the estuary to look for Roscoe. Has anybody got flints?’
Dysart’s weak voice came out of the darkness, to deny what O’Hagan thought. ‘I have. Or I had them when I went into that boat.’
‘Then it would be an idea, Michael, to come with me and look for driftwood.’ He handed over his short knife, which, stuck in his waistband, had survived. ‘I am sure there are trees yonder, and that means kindling. You can cut some larger branches if this will suffice.’
‘In the dark?’
‘We need a fire if we are not to perish from cold. And it should be one that can be seen from the water, so that it will act as a signal, though it should be facing the sea so that it is hidden from the French.’
There was a great deal more Pearce could have said, but he lacked the time – let them figure out, themselves, what needed to be done. If the gunfire had slackened, with even the cannon now silent, that meant that the action had been terminated. Barring complete failure the diversionary attackers would be running back for their boat, and once there they would not linger, but shove off hastily to get free of any pursuit. Crossing the rock causeway was not easy, and he and Michael had to hold on to each other several times to steady themselves against the waves rushing around their legs, or at others just to get across great bone dry boulders smoothed by centuries of wind. Finally Pearce dropped into a gap and felt sand underfoot, while in his nostrils, which had been full of the tang of the sea, he could smell wood.
‘Jaysus, I have no desire to try and get back to the others on my own.’
‘The tide is falling, Michael, it will get easier.’
‘For a fish maybe.’
‘If the water recedes enough, it would be a good idea to get everyone off that rock.’
‘You’re right,’ the Irishman replied, though without much force. For the first time Pearce thought he detected a note of despair in a man he had come to see as a fount of optimism.
‘Are you going to be all right, Michael?’
‘Mother of God, of course I am. Have I not got good earth under my feet? Don’t have a care for me, John-boy, have a care for yourself.’
‘I will, Michael.’
‘We will see you soon,’ The Irishman said, in a tone that Pearce could hardly fail to register. It was more of a question than a statement.
‘Very soon, friend.’
Pearce had to move slowly, with a mixture of sand and stones to negotiate, but at least he was in the lee of the rocks which had destroyed the boat, so when he was obliged to enter water, though cold, it was calm by comparison to the open sea, gentle breaking waves instead of a torrent. He was vaguely aware of moving in an arc in the direction he wanted to go, until he found himself looking at the sea breaking without tumult over a spit of sand, with just enough light to tell him that he was on an island and that sandbar was his route to the main shore.
Once over that, he jogged, soft sand slowing him until he trended down to where the top of the waves petered out on the shore. There the wet sand, glistening in the moonlight, gave him a firmer surface and he was able to run. His thoughts were a jumble – should he even be doing this – could he get from this part of France to a place where he could cross back to England? If he could, what would he use to pay for his passage, for he had no faith that someone would gift him a crossing, and he certainly did not have the skill to steal a boat and make the journey himself.
Should he try to return to Paris, to his father? He had no papers to travel and given the number of times he had been stopped by nervous National Guardsmen just three weeks previously between Paris and Calais, that could be a more difficult journey than traversing the Channel. And that too would require money. What if others had no desire to go back aboard – Charlie and Rufus? He thought he could manage Michael if he wanted to come with him – an Irishman could easily plead a visceral hatred of England – but any more might make the very necessary task of evasion impossible.
He was breathing very hard by the time he saw the faint pinpoint of light reflecting off something metal, so that the shout he tried was not as powerful as he wished. Clearly he was too distant to be heard so he concentrated on trying to increase his speed, trying to ignore the sharp pain of the stitch in his side. The crack of a musket, distant but clear, made him slow abruptly, and at half pace he saw a series of flashes in the far distance, then heard the cracks as fire was returned.
That had to be Roscoe retreating, firing off volleys at some form of pursuit, which spurred him on to run flat out, now far from cold, the damp on his face and his body slick with sweat. Pearce got more of an impression of what was happening ahead than a clear picture. Ragged flashes were followed, at regular intervals, by steady volleys of musketry, as Roscoe’s marines returned a disciplined fire. Pearce only saw the outline of Roscoe’s boat as it was pushed into the water, the silhouette like a dark dot on a silvered mirror. Now that the marines from Brilliant were side on he could see the long tongues of flame from their weapons streaking out towards the shore, where random shooting was flashing in reply.
That made him stop – if he ran on he would only get closer to the pursuers. Standing, gasping for breath, he found it hard to think clearly, but it was obvious that o
nce Roscoe had cleared the shore he would turn his boats to head out to sea. That would bring him parallel to the point where Pearce was standing. Could he swim out and stop them? Not likely, the distance might be too great and who would see a bobbing head in the water? But at night a shout should easily carry the distance, and once he had been seen and identified they could row in to pick him up, which would allow him to take Roscoe to the point where the others were sheltering at a pace no pursuit on foot could match. Once there, in darkness, he was sure he could disappear.
Pearce stripped off his coat and shirt, the latter he needed to signal with, and stood waiting, letting his breathing ease until it was normal. The firing had stopped completely now, and the only sounds were lapping waves and the wind brushing past his ears. Now the boat was visible, no marines standing now. They were probably hunched over – happy to be alive and safe, thanking God.
‘Brilliant,’ Pearce yelled, waving his shirt, waiting a few seconds for a response before yelling again. The third shout and wave got a response, a volley of musket fire that made him dash for the tree line to his rear with sand spurting all around him as the balls struck. Cursing, standing behind a trunk too thin for true protection, he called down all the gods in creation on Roscoe’s thick skull. Looking out again he saw the boat continue on its way, the occupants unaware that they had very nearly killed one of their own, also blissfully unaware that they had abandoned at least seven of their own crew.
He got back to find that they had rowed by without any of his party spotting or hailing them, because Michael, seeing the way across getting easier by the minute, had done as Pearce suggested and fetched everyone on to the more comfortable shore. It was thickly wooded and lighting a fire had been easy. There was kindling in abundance, though the cut branches, being damp, tended to make for a great deal of smoke and not too much flame. Pearce set another fire going on the dry rocks, facing seaward to act as a beacon, but with no result. How had the attack fared? When the moon was showing it had revealed no sign of any ship heading out to sea. That did not mean, with any certainty, that Barclay had failed, but it certainly did not point up that he had succeeded.
Dysart had a broken arm, and a big gash on his head, but no one else seemed to have suffered anything more than scratches and a bit of bruising. Pearce could feel dried blood on his face, but he suspected underneath that was a scratch, and his back, though it ached abominably, had to be borne. A search of the beach had revealed no more survivors and the firelight had brought no one in.
‘They would not have seen you, Pearce,’ said Michael, a more amenable soul now that he had heat, though the glow highlighted the deep teeth marks on his cheek, ‘with your back against the dark shore.’
‘Michael, no sweet words will make me feel less angry. What Frenchman is going to shout the name of their own ship at a passing boat?’
‘With the wind in your face the shout might not have carried with clarity.’
Pearce growled, ‘I don’t even know why I did it. What have we, me most of all, got to gain by going back aboard that damned ship?’
‘I would care to hear what in the name of Holy Mary we can do else?’
‘Surrender,’ Pearce replied, without adding that he was thinking of them, not himself. ‘Hand ourselves over to the French. Tell them we are pressed seamen looking to be free.’
‘And what then?’ Michael demanded. ‘Will it be a life of ease and comfort?’
‘The Frogs are not good with captures,’ said Dysart, who was laid out, his arm secured by two reasonably straight bits of branch bound by his own torn shirtsleeve. ‘When we take a Frenchman he is offered a chance to join.’
‘To fight against his own?’ asked Pearce.
‘To some that is better than confinement in a prison hulk, where yer like to expire frae some fever. At least we dinna work them to death as the French dae. Galley slaves have a better life than a French prisoner.’
Dysart rambled on, telling tales of men digging to sink pylons up to their necks in water, of sailors scraping out rat-infested sewers and other delights in a voice that had a strong hint of tale telling about it, underlined by the way the others sat forward to listen, their faces in the few flames showing the requisite level of horror at each revelation of French perfidy. Pearce was not certain, but he suspected the French treated their prisoners in much the same manner as the British, and that if he had been talking to a Frenchman fearing capture, he would hear the same lurid tale in reverse.
Surrender, claiming to be pressed and seeking sanctuary, was not really an option anyway, simply because, as any fool could see, they would not be believed. Had they rowed into the port in an intact boat with a white flag aloft, and singing the praises of the Revolution – perhaps. But to walk in on foot, in the condition they were in, after an assault had been mounted to take back that Indiaman, would leave no one in any doubt as to how they came to be here. Staring into the flames, as Dysart droned on, he contemplated once more the idea of making for Paris, enjoying a short romantic daydream in which he would confound the whole rotten structure of Revolutionary authority and rescue his father. But he soon realised the process of his thoughts was a fantasy – how could he leave this lot here, when, with his ability to speak French he was very likely the only one who could even attempt to get them out of their predicament?
‘Am I right in saying the only option we have is to get back aboard Brilliant?’
Looking round the faces, Pearce could see that such an option appealed to Burns, Martin Dent, Dysart and Rufus, but not to Charlie Taverner or Michael. And it certainly did not appeal to him. What was also obvious was that the latter pair had no other suggestion to make. The misery of the thought provided no other solution.
‘We need a boat,’ Dysart insisted, clearly aware of the reluctance of the pressed men. ‘But as to getting back aboard Brilliant, why I doubt she would still be about. Even if he has cut out that privateer, Barclay can’t hang about here. He will luff up for the convoy and rejoin.’
‘Without looking for us?’ asked Charlie.
Dysart didn’t answer – he didn’t have to. A man like Ralph Barclay, with no Lieutenant Thrale and no cutter in evidence, would assume them lost, and write them off as dead in the execution of their duties. He was not the type for a sentimental search to see if they had survived.
‘My aunt might ask him to search,’ said Burns, without much conviction.
‘Your aunt?’ Pearce asked, confused.
‘The captain’s wife.’
Pearce was mildly surprised at the information and had to force himself to think of the present. His voice was full of irony, as he challenged the Scotsman. ‘So what you’re saying Dysart is that not only do we need a boat, we need one that will get us to England? Will another frigate do?’
Even wounded, Dysart could summon up some venom. ‘Anything that can step a single mast will do, and anything bigger will not, ’cause you lot are as useless as Barbary monkeys.’ He calmed down a bit, taken with the problem. ‘A small fishing smack can manage, telling you lot what tae do, but better than that would be something no much bigger than the gig, as I say it has tae step a mast. If Brilliant be still aboot then come the morning we might spy her in the offing. Happen she’ll respond tae a signal.’
Dysart went on, weaving, to Pearce’s way of thinking, as much of a fantasy as he had when he was talking about the French treatment of prisoners. The fact that he quite liked the man did not blind Pearce to the thought that the Scotsman was so wedded to storytelling that he could talk himself into anything. What was more worrying was the way he seemed to be able to convince the others that stealing a boat was not only possible, it was easy, as easy as putting to sea without food and water, and, if they did not find Brilliant or some other British ship, of sailing up the French coast in sight of land till they reached the Dover narrows, where they could just port the tiller and sail in, ‘nae bother’.
‘And where,’ Pearce asked, trying to inject some sense into thin
gs, ‘are we to find this miracle boat?’
‘We’re no mair than a long walk from one, Pearce, and you ken it. Just as ye ken, that wi’ you knowing the Frog lingo, you are the man to go look for it.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dawn revealed three corpses on the strand of what was now a long, deep and benign beach: Thrale and two marines were only identifiable by their coats, the old blue one of the lieutenant and the red ones of the marines, all three nearly shredded to rags by the rocks and the seabed. The bodies, particularly about the head, were in a worse condition than the clothing, evidence of the violence of their death. Pearce and Michael O’Hagan climbed the rose-coloured rocks which, with the tide slack, were now clear of any water right to their base, bar the odd wind-ruffled pool. The very peak, shaped like a chimney and smoothed by eons of time, was inaccessible to them, but they got high enough for a good view out to sea, and Michael was able to lift Martin Dent even higher so that he could scrabble onto the top.
Further out, waves broke over black boulders, that last night had been under their keel, yet between them and the shore was nothing that denoted danger. How could this small, sandy cove, lying like a horseshoe in the centre of the rocks, be any kind of hazard? Yet it had been just that; the whole mass of water had been white, the spume had flown everywhere, and the sucking sound as the waves retreated, loud enough to mask the cries of the drowning, had been like the sound of hell incarnate.
Somewhere out at sea they would be mourning the loss. Barclay’s wife would very likely be crying for her nephew. Would she shed a tear for Pearce? Would she even notice that he was no longer aboard? Lutyens would, and Pearce wondered what he would have made of the man in other circumstances. He had his father’s capacity for debate, and Lutyens had come across, as he recalled their sparring conversation, like a man who enjoyed the cut and thrust of that activity. Like a thought dragged from slumber, he had a sudden memory of talking about Plato, Spartans and Ancient Greece, without being sure why.
By the Mast Divided Page 36
