The smells were those of a fishing port – the strong odours of recent catches being dried, one great container, flat and round, full of tiny dead silver fish, creating a stench so powerful as to make Pearce gag. The clean sea tang of still live crabs and crayfish crawling over each other in great tubs was a welcome relief. Harder to bear, to a man who had not eaten, were the smells of the bubbling marmites of fisherman’s food, the heads and tails of gutted fish slung into a constantly cooking pot. The odour of fresh baking, as he passed an open window, exercised an even greater pull on Pearce’s empty gut, as well as his emotions. What was it about the smell of bread that conjured up an image of hearth, home and sound prosperity?
He reckoned they would be breakfasting aboard Brilliant about now, and that thought made him hanker – for the briefest moment – to be back aboard ship, for there was something to be said for regular meals even if the fare was monotonous and lacking in taste. The thought of the money that had gone missing made him curse, but he was well aware that even if he had it, to proffer English copper and silver to satisfy his craving would hardly aid anonymity, testing enough when he felt that everyone must be looking at him, a stranger in what had to be a close-knit community.
Eventually curiosity overtook trepidation as Pearce realised he was not an object of suspicion – quite possibly they thought him one of the privateers. If anyone looked at him it was a passing glance rather than any form of deep enquiry, and his obligatory bonjour citoyen seemed good enough to allay any mistrust. It was a greeting he calculated would be safe given the prevalence of tricolours in windows and on the hats of the citizenry. Clearly Lézardrieux – unlike many parts of western France – was loyal to the Revolution.
The two vessels lay at anchor in the midstream, confirming what he had suspected: that Barclay had failed in his attempt to capture the privateer. Indeed so unscathed did that ship look that Pearce wondered if the captain had even got near enough to make his planned assault. Close to, he could read the lettering on the counter – Mercedes and St Malo. The Lady Harrington was in the same state in which the crew of HMS Brilliant had last seen her, with damaged bulwarks and shattered stern decoration. Neither ship was of much use to him, his examination being mere curiosity. His instructions were to look out for something big enough to take the stranded party, but not so big that they could not manage her.
The rest of the boats in the river, or lying in the exposed mud of the low tide were inshore fishing smacks, with single masts, in no way big enough to hold a party of seven nor to survive any sea that took them far from the shore. Small rowboats either tied up to a riverside bollard or scuttling about in the water were of no use at all. The bigger boats, those belonging to the Indiaman and the Mercedes, of the same size as those he had hauled on and off HMS Brilliant and perfect for the task, were tied up by their sides, out of reach beyond the broad band of brown mud.
A small knot of people had formed by one of the cables that attached the French ship to the shore, and though it was risky to get too close and chance a conversation, Pearce went to look, because between their legs he was sure he had seen a dash of red.
The dead marine officer had lost half his head and the other side was so damaged that it was unrecognisable. He lay, flat on his back, legs splayed, the belt and breeches that had once been pipe clayed so white now streaked dark brown with dried mud. The red coat was covered with dark stains, too, which made Pearce wonder until one of the group looking at the cadaver sent a long streak of tobacco spit on to the corpse. That was followed by a casual kick, a grunt of ‘cochon’, before the man moved off to be replaced by another citizen ready to abuse a lifeless enemy. Pearce moved swiftly away himself lest he be obliged to do likewise. The English voice, exclaiming, ‘Poor bastard’, almost stopped him in his tracks.
The temptation to spin round and look was overwhelming but had to be resisted, and Pearce waited until he was yards away before he risked a backward glance. Which of the men round the body had spoken? There was nothing to distinguish a Frenchman from a Briton. The solution lay in the lack of abuse, as a pair, nudged by a fellow wearing a tricolour cockade and carrying a pistol, moved away without delivering either spittle or a kick, looking sad rather than satisfied. Pearce, falling in behind, noticed the taller one of the pair had a pronounced limp, while the other had an empty sleeve. Wounded men? But not from Brilliant, because their faces were unfamiliar, which could mean they were from the Lady Harrington, part of the Indiaman’s crew. Yet they passed the merchant ship without making any move to signal for a boat to go aboard, turning instead into an alley that led off the quay, then into several others until Pearce was unsure in which direction they were finally headed.
The sight of another armed guard holding a musket and sporting the obligatory tricolour, slouched by a doorway, made Pearce slip out of view, hiding in an angle where one building protruded further than another. He heard indistinct words exchanged and the rattle of keys, the sound of a lock being eased, the creaking of an opening door followed by slamming and relocking. Peering out he saw the two Frenchmen exchange a few words, before the one who had escorted the prisoners to this place moved off, with no sign of the men he had been guarding, leaving what was clearly a sentinel still in place.
He was gone while the stationary Frenchman was still looking at his colleague’s back, turning right and right again in the hope of coming to a point of contact at the rear. All he encountered was high unbroken walls, under some kind of enclosed bridge, and another right turn brought him to the far end of the original alleyway where he could look back on the sentry, who was now leaning on the wall, head down as if half asleep.
If this was a place of confinement they had chosen it well, a house with only one door at ground level, though Pearce decided to check on that by walking past the sentry, who lifted a sleepy head to acknowledge his approach, but made no comment. There was a window, impossible to see from a few feet away, barred and shuttered, which meant little since, if it was a way to talk to those inside, it was so close to the man guarding the door that no communication could take place without him hearing the exchange. The act of talking to the sentry was completely spontaneous, seemingly unbidden, and one that later would make John Pearce wonder if he was tainted with a touch of madness.
‘Good day, citizen.’
The head lifted and the eyes were on him, but there was no unease in them, more the light of a bored man happy to engage in conversation. The reply was equable, without being overly friendly, though the fellow did straighten and take a firmer grip on his musket. ‘Good day to you, citizen.’
There was a fraction of a second when Pearce thought to just walk on, but he had created an opening and if he did not exploit it, it might never happen again. And his mind was racing on another level; behind that shutter were British sailors. Dysart was no doubt right when he insisted that all they could manage was a single-masted boat; that even a large enough fishing smack, with him a one winged bird, might prove beyond their competence. But that did not apply to the men from the Lady Harrington. They could handle anything, for even he, a lubber, knew that the East India Company, the richest trading cartel in Britain, was fussy in its crews and with the wages it paid, it could afford to be. Wages, food, the two words seemed to clash in his head.
‘Is this where they are confining the English prisoners, citizen?’
‘It is, citizen.’
Pearce took two paces back, peering at the shuttered and barred window, suddenly assailed by less sanguine thoughts. These men were locked up and guarded – not very well guarded – but by an armed man none the less. He and the other survivors of Thrale’s party would not only have to get them out of their confinement, but get them aboard a boat big enough to accommodate them all, something like the cutter he had come ashore in. Such a boat lay alongside the Lady Harrington, one that could get them back to England, and the men to sail it were feet away.
‘Are they being fed?’
The sentry shrugged. ‘They br
ought some victuals with them when they came ashore.’
‘Fresh food would be better. Who do I speak to about providing them grub?’
‘Search me, citizen,’ the sentry replied, to a fellow who was wondering from where those words had surfaced. It was the only thing he could think of, and seemed directly linked to his own lack of funds and his empty gut. It also sounded lame and stupid, though the sentry didn’t seem to think so, which emboldened Pearce to keep going.
‘I was thinking to bid for it?’
‘It won’t be worth much, citizen, they’re off to St Malo as soon as that English pig and his warship clear the coast.’
Pearce grunted. ‘A little is a lot to a man who has next to nothing.’
‘Where you from?’ the sentry asked, a trifle more animated in the way he looked Pearce up and down.
That, since he had heard the local dialect, was a dreaded question, yet with only one answer, given the city where he had learnt his French.
‘Paris,’ Pearce said, which produced a look of deep inquisitiveness that invited explanation. Parisians were not popular outside their city; they were held to be rude and arrogant. That was something Pearce knew to be true himself, having suffered from much Parisian condescension – a trait that had nothing to do with Revolutionary spirit.
‘Wanted to be a sailor until I found it was no life for a dog. Ran away, I did – young and stupid, then, citizen, wiser and poorer these days, and likely to be scraping for want of employment. Now there’s a war on, and few ships setting out because of the English blockade, berths are hard to come by.’ Pearce cocked his thumb. ‘Any chance of a word.’
That really brought the sentry upright. ‘A word?’
‘I speak a bit of theirs. Landed cargoes over the water in the peace. Worked a few of their women as well, though they are smelly, ugly brutes.’
‘They’re not much different here, citizen, in case you ain’t noticed,’ the sentry with a bitter laugh. ‘I know, I live with one.’
Pearce lifted a hand, making a fist with his middle finger out as if to knock on the shutter. There was a long pause while the sentry thought about it, before he gave another shrug and resumed his leaning position against the wall, which allowed Pearce’s heart, which had seemed to move up into his mouth, to return, pounding, to where it belonged.
The rap on the shutter echoed down the narrow alley, as did the creak as it opened, and Pearce found himself looking into a rubicund face with a pair of questioning bright blue eyes and a long clay pipe clamped between the teeth. Having got this far on inspiration Pearce had no idea how to proceed. He could hardly just address the fellow in fluent English – even if the guard wouldn’t understand a word, any ease with the language was bound to make him suspicious, so he asked lamely, ‘Parlez-vous français?’
‘No, mate.’
Pearce pointed at the man. ‘British’, then at himself, ‘friend’.
The reply was sarcastic. ‘Why that be right nice.’
‘Shut that fucking winder, Dusty, the draft is freezing my balls off.’
Pearce put a hand out to hold back the shutter, in case the injunction was obeyed, turned his back full on the sentry, put his shoulder against the wall and whispered, ‘Don’t shut it.’
‘Who the…’
The finger to the lips shut him up, and Pearce said, ‘HMS Brilliant.’
‘You’re having a laugh,’ the man cried, turning back into the room. ‘This arse claims to be one of those no good buggers from that frigate.’
‘Well, if he is, tell him to bugger off,’ came the reply, from a different voice, ‘’cause they’s done enough harm as it is, the useless sods.’
‘I need to talk,’ Pearce insisted, with a jerk of the head back at the sentry. He followed that with a stream of louder, pleading French, on the subject of poverty, before dropping his voice once more, ‘and he thinks I’m a frog.’
‘Sounds like he has the right of it, mate.’
‘You have to talk to me.’
‘Talk? What about?’
That made Pearce angry. ‘Anything, you dozy turd.’
That rubicund face went taut and but for the bars on the window Pearce might have found himself ducking away from a clout, but then the man he was talking to was pulled violently backwards and there was another face at the bars, a more battered affair, with a long nose, prominent cheekbones and one tooth in the middle of a wide mouth. ‘He ain’t no frog a’talking like that.’
‘Vous comprendez manger?’ asked Pearce, loudly, making a very obvious gesture with his fingers to his mouth, before adding softly, ‘I’m supposed to be bidding for the job of feeding you.’
‘Then you best go see that tight-fisted mate that took over captaincy of our ship.’ Pearce just shrugged, which made One Tooth continue with a subject clearly close to his heart. ‘He’s set himself up good and proper in the best tavern in the place, eating heartily and quaffing wine, while we are left to rot.’
‘Dit-moi – tell me, just keep talking.’
‘What’s your game?’
‘You’re prisoners, right?’
‘No, mate! We’s here on one of them soddin’ Grand Tours that rich folk take.’
John put his hand up to silence the sarcasm, before calling back over his shoulder. ‘Il est tres difficile, mon ami. Les anglais sont des idiots, non? En particular cet homme avec un seul dent.’
‘Tout les anglais, citoyen, sans exception,’ the sentry replied.
Pearce looked at One Tooth, whom he had just insulted, listening to a tirade against the East Indiaman’s mate, who, after the captain had suffered a seizure and died, had got them into this mess by failing to come up with the convoy. Captured, he had seemingly abandoned his crew to their fate while seeking favours for himself, using the dead captain’s private ventures as a bribe. St Malo was where these sailors would go, and to a future that, according to what Dysart had told him, even taking out the embellishment, was at the very least going to be damned unpleasant. Did these men share Dysart’s view, that captured British seamen were put to toil that could best be described as slavery? If they did they would be desperate to escape.
This lazy sod leaning against the wall must have the key to that door – Pearce had heard it open and close – and it was hardly likely that fellow who had brought them here carried it with him. It was simple: clout the guard, open the door, free the crew of the Indiaman. And what then?
‘How many are you?’ One Tooth didn’t like being interrupted, that was plain by the look on his face. So Pearce spoke quickly, hand held up, reeling off for the benefit of the sentry every French dish which he had ever heard of or tasted, before reverting to English. ‘We have a party ashore from Brilliant. We’re stranded – no boat – we can try and get you out…’
Pearce stopped, because One Tooth, judging by the look in his eye, could obviously guess the rest. ‘How big a party?’
‘Seven,’ Pearce replied. No use saying that included two boys and a broken arm. ‘You?’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘Wounded? I saw some wounded.’
‘Two. Not bad enough to leave. Coin?’ One Tooth demanded, rubbing thumb and forefinger together, to which Pearce shook his head.
‘Wait.’
The babble of noise inside the room was silenced by a bark from One Tooth. ‘Shut your gobs and listen.’ His voice dropped then, becoming too soft to overhear, so Pearce turned back and engaged the guard in conversation, the man being unaware that the question posed to him about how long he was on duty had nothing to do with sympathy and everything to do with trying to put together some form of plan. Pearce’s mind was racing. Darkness would be best – and the tide, like last night would be high. How to get his stranded party into the town without being seen, or at least arousing suspicion? Then they would have to free One Tooth and his mates. It would be a different guard from this one. Would he be as easy to fool? Could they gather any weapons?
‘Froggie!’
One
Tooth was back at the window, his hand cupped as he held it out through the bars. ‘Money.’
‘Not French?’ said Pearce, looking at the small pile of shillings and sixpences in his hand, every one bearing the head of an English King.
‘Makes no odds, mate. Take my word, they’ll ’cept anything in a port as long as it’s silver. A golden guinea is even better. Use it to buy grub, then come back here and see if that arse that’s a’guarding us will let you inside. If we’s to do ’owt we has to talk free.’
One Tooth, despite what Pearce had said earlier, was clearly no idiot. He was right about the money too, though the silver was not taken without being tested with a strong tooth and some murmuring, for he was obliged, because of those same coins, to lie about who he was, where he was from, and for whom he was buying. The idea of British prisoners eating at all was bad enough when, he was repeatedly informed, no fisherman dared go far out on what was a good day because that damned frigate was still in the offing.
The notion that some shit from Paris, and an impatient one at that, who ate almost as much as he purchased, was earning out of it, was worse. Pearce was as rude as anyone from the capital would have been, because time was not on his side. He bought, for prices that were an outrage, bread, cheese, some cooked fish and cider, taking, when any change was proffered, the useless paper assignats that were the debased currency of Revolutionary France.
Pearce listened too, and in doing so overheard several different versions of what had happened the night before, some too overly fantastic to be true. But the depth of Barclay’s failure was obvious. His enemies had been waiting for him and had given les rosbifs un nez sange. The locals were proud that the little bastion that protected the anchorage, manned by their own citizens, had repulsed the English, unaware that taking the place had never figured in Barclay’s plan. The crew of the Mercedes won less praise, probably because they were strangers, the general opinion being that if the locals had not stood firm, then the result might have been different.
By the Mast Divided Page 38
