He left before the last of the light went, to make his way back to his companions, the church bell tolling in his ears. It was an unhappy sound to a man who, in his heightened imagination, and well aware of how little he had actually been able to discover, could easily turn the clanging into a knell of doom.
‘Where the hell is that Irish sod?’ demanded Charlie Taverner, stepping to the edge of the trees and peering for the umpteenth time along the darkening shoreline. ‘He should have been back with that powder an age past.’
‘Ye can tell yer no’ a sailor,’ said Dysart, wincing as shifting his body made him aware of the pain in his arm.
Charlie did an impersonation of a sailor’s gait, all bandy legs and rolling body. ‘If I walk like this, Dysart, and swear and drink enough, I’ll get taken for one, won’t I, Rufus?’
The funny walk made Rufus laugh out loud, a sound that pleased Charlie no end and had him repeating the impersonation.
Dysart was less taken with it. ‘At sea ye learn no’ to fret, Taverner, for there is naught you can do. It’s aw wind, tide and the lap of the gods, is that no right, Mr Burns?’
The midshipman sat toying with a rough-looking club. He looked at Dysart for a moment and nodded, though without much conviction. He had hardly said one word since coming ashore, and his face told anyone who cared to look that he had the weight of the world on his slender shoulders. Toby Burns did not speak for he feared his voice would betray his feelings. If being aboard HMS Brilliant had been less than salutary, what had happened here was hellish. All he could reflect on was home, of apples from the family orchard, or fishing in the nearby stream.
He thought of his clerical father delivering grace at the head of a table laden with food; of his mother, who treated him with a tenderness that he longed to experience now, arms that would envelop and comfort him, filling his nostrils with a smell of lemons that he could conjure up without effort. There had been school, which he hated, yet which now seemed a paradise compared to what he was living through. Would those who shared his classroom, who had been so envious of the position his relationship to Captain Barclay had earned him, covet this; the certainty of capture by a fiendish enemy who might well tear him limb from limb?
‘I didn’t have much to fret about till you and your lot came a-calling,’ Charlie sighed.
‘’Cept not having a pot to piss in,’ murmured Rufus.
‘This ain’t no better, Rufus.’
‘No better than what?’ asked Dysart.
Charlie looked at the Scotsman, with his spiky, sand-coloured hair, and that patch of skin red and angry where the surgeon has shaved it to tend to his head wound. Dysart had the kind of brows, near to invisible, and pallid complexion that exaggerated the nature of his pale-blue eyes. It suddenly occurred to Charlie that he might be old enough to have been one of his early victims, for rolling sailors had been a pastime amongst him and his mates a few years back; ashore, drunk and insensible they were easy meat even for fourteen-year-olds, provided you got to their purse before some greedy whore did.
‘Ever been to London, Dysart?’
‘Berthed at Wapping once or twice.’
‘And had a jug in the Prospect of Whitby?’
Dysart grinned. ‘I have that an aw.’
‘My old stamping ground, that was, from the Fleet all the way down to Wapping Steps.’
‘Fleeced many a mark thereabouts, didn’t you, Charlie?’
Taverner glared at Rufus to shut him up. ‘I would have found you easy meat and that’s no error.’
‘Was that your trade, Taverner?’ asked Dysart, in a less friendly tone. ‘Fleecing folk?’
‘You has to make your way in the world, and with whatever means God gifts you. My tongue and my wits was mine.’
The temptation to explain was strong, especially in the face of the look of disapproval on the Scotsman’s face. Taverner senior had laboured long, hard and honestly as a roofer all his life, only to end up dead not yet thirty under a pile of wood scaffold that collapsed under him and his workmates. Nothing came from the man who had put up that scaffold, or from the builder who had employed him to erect it, which left eight-year-old Charlie, his mother and his three younger sisters to fend for themselves. Honest toil never brought in enough – it was law-breaking, not law-abiding that had kept the family out of the workhouse, until age did for his mother and the girls grew old enough to fend for themselves. Those eight years had felt like a hundred. There was no point in even trying to justify such a life as he had led. You had to live it to know why it was as it was.
‘Mister,’ Charlie sneered, determined to change the subject, his arm pointed in the general direction of Burns. ‘Did you not term him that?’
‘I did,’ Dysart replied, nonplussed, as the midshipman stiffened, for he discerned a threat in Taverner’s tone.
‘Here we are, stuck in the middle of nowhere, with no ship, and still, to you, this pup is mister.’
‘Mr Burns is a young gentleman,’ Dysart insisted, ‘and that gets him the courtesy.’
‘You’d be better off gifting him the toe of your boot.’
‘Sure, a fine bunch you are.’ O’Hagan’s voice made everyone turn. He and young Martin stood silhouetted at the edge of the trees, the gunpowder barrel under one Irish arm. ‘Nobody keeping watch.’
‘We was just about to get a fire going,’ said Charlie quickly, ‘now that dusk is upon us.’
‘Then I’d best put this powder well away from here, for any fire you light is likely to blow us to Kingdom Come.’
‘Rufus, Mr Burns,’ Charlie spat, ‘it’s time to fetch some kindling.’
When Pearce arrived they had a small blaze going, well back in the trees, and with no fear in what light was left that any smoke would give away their presence.
The rise of the tide indicated to Pearce that it was time to move. Thankful for a moon, they left the woods to pass silent and dark houses on the way into Lézardrieux, with only the odd barking dog to note their presence. Pearce and Michael were in the lead; Dysart, the two boys and the barrel of gunpowder behind, with Rufus and Charlie Taverner, very nervously bringing up the rear.
‘Don’t tiptoe,’ Pearce insisted, ‘walk normally but quietly and upright, for if you crouch you will look suspicious.’
Rufus and Burns had contrived clubs – pathetic affairs made of crooked wood, with stones lashed to the timber by strips of bark – and Pearce recalled with an odd feeling the way they had shown them to him for his approval, as though he was in all respects what he did not want to be, their leader. He had said kind words in praise of their efforts, feeling like a hypocrite, even more of one as he observed the way his approbation cheered them both. It was a sobering thought, that apart from Michael O’Hagan, they were not warriors, and his skill was in fisticuffs, not the use of weapons. Pearce certainly did not think of himself in that vein either – childhood scrapping did not count. He could use a sword, but had only ever done so in bloodless contests at a Parisian fencing school. Even if they had to be whispered, the need to share his concerns was overwhelming.
‘We’re a mite short on muscle, Michael.’
‘We are that, John-boy.’
‘Dysart would have been a fighter, but he’s now useless with that broken arm. I would hazard that Charlie and Rufus have spent their lives avoiding any skirmish rather than engaging in one. Martin Dent is like Burns, too small to count, and here I am, a total impostor, leading them into a strange port in a strange land to rescue a group of men they don’t know. And what do we have to do? Steal a huge and complex ship from under the noses of its captors. Am I mad or what?’
‘Sure, anything for an easy life,’ the Irishman replied.
Pearce felt the anger well up in his breast, but that died as he heard the chuckle that followed Michael’s words. Unbidden, he felt his own laughter begin to bubble up, and it forced him to halt as it burst forth in serried splutters. Michael O’Hagan was laughing too, and making as much of a hash of mainta
ining a decent silence as Pearce. They ended up leaning on each other, hands on heaving shoulders, wheezing as they sought air from their pained and starved lungs, with an angry Dysart hissing at them to, ‘Hud yer bluddy wheest, ye pair o’ dozy sods.’
‘Sorry,’ Pearce gasped, forced to pound his chest in order to regain control.
‘So ye should be, daft buggers.’
‘Are you all right, Michael?’
‘I will be, John-boy,’ replied a panting O’Hagan, ‘just give me a minute and I will be.’
‘We’d best get moving.’
The wind had dropped as they sighted the topmasts of both vessels. Hearing the creaking of their timbers as they rode the incoming tide, a ripple of murmurs went down the line. Pearce led them to a deep doorway on the quayside that had been like a coal-black recess even in the early evening light. At night it would, he hoped, keep those who would stay here safe from view, provided they did not speak and no one came to the place. He went off alone, to examine the ships.
The privateer was gloomily lit on the deck, but only chinks of light came from the casements of the Indiaman’s great cabin, indicating that those who had drawn the short straw to stay aboard were still there. Apart from the stars, the lanterns outside the taverns provided the only light in the place. They were quieter now, and he was tempted to enter and see how many potential foes were still capable of reacting if the alarm was raised. But that would be unwise, though he hoped, from the low buzz of conversation coming through the wooden shutters, that it would be few. The rest of the fishing village appeared to be asleep.
‘Come along, Michael,’ Pearce said on his return. ‘This is, I fear, a task for thee and me.’
‘A club?’ Michael asked.
Pearce smiled, wondering if his friend could see it by the light of the moon. ‘I think nature has endowed you with what you need.’
The first problem arose when they entered the narrow passageway – the height of the buildings cutting out what little light existed.
‘This will never do, John-boy. I cannot see my hand in front of my nose.’
‘I am damned if I know what to do about it.’
A wave of weariness assailed Pearce then, a product of too little sleep and too much thinking, not helped by a resurgence of the numerous doubts that had flitted through his brain all day. It was a more certain hand that took his arm and led him back out to a point where the starlight and moon gave a glimmer of sight.
‘Wait here.’
Michael moved away, heading for the nearest tavern, and Pearce had a heart-stopping moment when he thought that the Irishman was going to walk in and demand a candle. But he stopped outside, right under the light, and without waiting to calculate any risk he reached up and took hold of the iron bracket that attached the lantern to the wall. Slowly, wrenching back and forth, he detached it from its fixing. Holding it out, with the wooden dowels that had been sunk in the stone still fixed to the end of the bracket, he returned to join Pearce, and they set off up an alley in which they could now see where they were putting their feet.
As soon as they turned into the right alleyway Pearce felt a familiar sensation. He began to shake, and he wondered if it was evident in his voice as he started talking, not loudly but audibly in French, Michael’s head bowed, pretending to listen. If it was the Irishman gave no sign, and as they approached the point where the sentry should have been, he laughed so loud that Pearce nearly had a seizure, which was doubled in its effect when he realised there was no one to hear it, no one guarding the prisoners – a fact that put paid to his trembling.
As he walked past the door, Pearce, under his breath, swore heartily in two languages, cursing his own stupidity for not realising that on a cold night no sentry would stand outside. He recalled from his visit earlier that day the interior doorway the sentinel had opened to give him access to the prisoners in the large room they occupied. He racked his brain but without success to try and recall if there was another room. Finally, because there was no choice, he tapped softly on the shutter, so that he could communicate with those inside. It swung open on a dark room, and One Tooth’s face appeared at the window. The look Pearce got when he explained was eloquent testimony to the fact that he was not alone in thinking himself dense.
‘Sentry sleeps, we reckon, in the corridor between the front door and ours. There ain’t no other, and there’s no way up a floor either from what we has seen, though the sound of feet give me to reckon there’s habitation above us.’
‘On his own?’ asked Michael, which was answered with a nod.
The silence that followed was punctuated by an odd sound, a sort of low rattle that made Pearce move from the window to the door. The wood was too thick for any sound to penetrate but there was definitely something making a noise. It was only when he stood back, perplexed, that he realised it was coming from above his head. At the top of the studded oak door was a skylight, slightly ajar. Beckoning to Michael, he had himself lifted on a cupped hand, put his ear next to the gap and heard the unmistakable sound of snoring; he also caught a very strong whiff of a human being not overly fussy about washing.
A sleeping sentry, but where was the key – on his person or in the door? Running a hand into the gap at the top he felt for the cord that must hold the skylight in place, and, finding it in the centre, steadied both it and himself on the frame. He cut slowly with the edge of his knife until the string parted, at which point he began to lower the skylight. It did not go far, about six inches at the top, as it had a metal catch to stop it from being fully opened, a protection against thieves using the gap as a way of entry. He tried to push it aside but the metal was too thick and he could not apply enough pressure. Dropping down, he explained the problem to One Tooth.
‘What’s the state of the tide?’
‘Coming to its peak, very likely.’
‘Then you have to do something.’
That niggled Pearce – and he was close to saying so – but what was the point? A sentry asleep, suddenly awakened, was not going to be thinking as clearly as he should. This was no professional soldier but some layabout recruited into the local National Guard, given a worn blue coat, a hat and a big cockade. He had seen enough of them, often the scum of the earth, to have little respect for the breed. There was no way through that door unless the sentry opened it and he probably would not respond to a knock. But he might, just might, react to a row. Then he paused, holding up his hand to stop One Tooth saying any more, because once they were committed there would be no going back. The noise he anticipated would certainly wake up more than the sentry – for there were the people who lived above. What would they do? There was no time to decide if he was right or wrong – he had to act!
John Pearce could hardly say that rioting was his speciality, but he had seen enough in his time – not least the night he was taken from the Pelican – to know that most people kept their shutters closed if they heard a disturbance outside. In France, or certainly in the Paris he had so recently left, that was doubly the case for fear of implication in something that might see a person in a tumbrel on the way to the guillotine. And really there was no choice, except to revert to the original idea of leaving the crew of the Indiaman to try for a boat on their own. They had a chance tonight that would not last.
‘Pretend I’m your mate,’ he said, taking the lantern from Michael.
‘What?’
‘You miserable swabs,’ Pearce shouted, trying to be loud and slur his words at the same time. ‘You can rot here in hell for all I care, I shall buy my way back from St Malo and set my feet on my own good hearth.’
He had to make a really sharp gesture to get a shocked One Tooth to reply, and his shouted response was not truly effective, more of a growl than a yell.
‘Get them all shouting, man,’ Pearce yelled, ‘we need a commotion.’
One Tooth hesitated for a second then gestured to his shipmates, who had been standing back, no doubt hoping for their prison door to open. Within half a
minute they were crowded at the window trading insults with Pearce, who was staggering around like a drunk. Michael, unbidden, had placed himself on the jamb side of the door, one fist raised to clout the sentry if he showed his face.
The door only opened a crack, and showed nothing more than a nose, but Michael dropped both fist and shoulder then hit it with all the force he could muster, sending the man at the rear flying back into the wall behind, his musket clattering along the flagged floor. Michael was through and on him before the poor soul realised what had happened. Unable to deliver the kind of blow he would like, Michael was reduced to scrabbling about the man’s body for his throat, ignoring the screaming pleas in French for mercy. The lantern saved the fellow’s life, for it illuminated him seconds after Michael got his hands round his neck. The sentry’s eyes were already popping from his head, his face going a dark red colour, as Pearce intervened, shouting to O’Hagan that the keys were more important.
Michael let the man go and he fell sobbing into a heap. Pearce lent over him, loudly demanding ‘les clés,’ and giving him several rough shakes to keep him frightened. Michael picked up the musket and jammed the weapon against his head.
‘La porte, dans la porte,’ he cried, a feeble finger trying to point to the door, which revealed a pair of large keys on a ring, one in the lock. Pearce grabbed at them, and found that his hands were shaking as he tried to open the interior door. He had to take a deep breath to get the key in the lock, only to find that he had inserted the wrong one. Cursing, he tried the other and the door swung open to reveal a group of anxious sailors. They could not see but only hear what was going on, and they had fists raised, ready for a fight.
‘Get him in here, Michael,’ said Pearce. ‘And somebody close those shutters and the outside door. I want his hat and his coat.’
That took a few seconds, not because the sentry resisted, merely because in his fearful state he could not comply. Pearce put on the large cockaded hat first and the blue coat next. He took the musket out of Michael’s hands, said, ‘Wait here,’ and went back out through both doors, shutting the outer one behind him.
By the Mast Divided Page 40
