By the Mast Divided

by David Donachie

  ‘Anybody wid think we lost,’ moaned Dysart, unaware that the look Pearce gave him was not one of annoyance, but yet another twinge of conscience; if the Scotsman was not to lose the full use of his arm for life, he needed a surgeon as well.

  Sitting in the capacious main cabin, his mood was not helped by his surroundings. Pearce could only wonder at the area allotted to the man who ran the ship compared to that given to everyone else. The whole space, which could fore and aft be divided in two, seemed to occupy a third of the length of the vessel. The captain had his own privy and a separate space for his bed. The furniture would have graced any salon at home and the quality of the late captain’s private stores – the Frenchmen aboard had been heavily at the wine – reeked of easy wealth.

  ‘He was of a high colour, mind,’ said Twyman, talking of the previous occupant, while happily occupying his chair. ‘And choleric, forever yelling and going blue with it. So when he had his seizure none of us were like to be shocked.’

  ‘What happens to the ship now?’

  ‘God knows,’ Twyman replied, his single fang gnawing at his lower lip. ‘Sail into an English port, send a note to the owners and see what happens.’

  ‘Some of us would need to be put ashore prior to that.’

  ‘Was you pressed?’ Pearce nodded, as Twyman added, ‘And freshly so judging by your skills.’

  ‘Not much more than a week ago,’ Pearce replied, ‘though it feels like a lifetime.’

  The thought of his destination had obviously made Twyman gloomy, but he brightened considerably when responding to Pearce’s request. ‘I’d be an ungrateful swab if I couldn’t manage that, mate. Don’t you fret, I’ll get you clear.’

  ‘Lying one-toothed bastard,’ said Dysart, when Pearce accosted him to ask him what he wanted to do – come ashore with them or stay on the ship. He kicked the bulwark by which they were standing. ‘The bugger is salvage at least.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The value o’ the ship and the cargo has tae be redeemed by the insurers – them bastards that tak their coffee at Lloyds. It’s worth thousands, maybe tens of, since we dinna know the cargo. Nae wonder he’s happy to get you off the bluddy thing so you’ll no get a share.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Pearce, feeling rather foolish.

  ‘As sure as a canny straighten my arm,’ Dysart responded, his normally kindly face a mask of real fury. ‘That’s the law o’ the sea, man. You wouldna credit it, would ye? Having saved the bastard’s arse, he wants tae diddle you oot of ony reward.’

  ‘It’s not one we could claim anyway Dysart, since we intend to desert.’

  ‘Well, dinna tae it near to any naval port, for the sake of Christ. There’s an army of glass-combing buggers in them towns that’ll spot you in nae time an’ will hand you o’er for a bounty.’

  ‘I will have to talk with Charlie, Rufus and Michael, and see what they want to do.’

  Dysart’s voice was soft now, fatherly even. ‘Just remember, Pearce, drop anchor in this and you and yer friends are safe, ’cause you’re no deserters. Yer still Navy and you might also be in for a right good dose of coin when this barky is condemned.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I grant ye that’s no sae nice. You’ll be sent aboard another man-o’-war.’

  ‘It’s not worth it,’ Pearce replied.

  The lookout on HMS Brilliant called at dawn. ‘Sail ho! Ship bearing due west. I just picked up the masthead on the rise.’

  ‘Bugger’s run for St Malo,’ Barclay spat.

  For the first time in forty-eight hours he felt able to look and act as he should, like a senior Post Captain, giving the eye to his deck officers instead of avoiding contact. If he had not insisted on closing the Estuary de Trieux they would have missed the enemy.

  The next call came fifteen minutes later. ‘Looks like the India ship, your honour.’

  ‘There might be two sail.’

  It was a good five minutes before the lookout responded, a period in which Ralph Barclay swung between euphoria and despair, hope rising only to be killed off by pessimism, the feeling that all his hopes, dashed more than once, were about to be sunk again.

  ‘There’s only one ship to see and it is definitely the Indiaman, ’cause she is flying the company pennant.’

  ‘No tricolour above it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mr Collins, more sail.’

  It was Martin Dent who spotted the frigate, sitting as he was on the crosstrees, right at the top of the Lady Harrington’s masts. His gleeful identification of HMS Brilliant was not shared on deck by anyone other than Dysart, and the mood deepened when Twyman denied the possibility of outrunning a frigate.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘As I stand here and breathe.’

  Pearce looked towards the low line of land, just visible. ‘How far offshore would you put us?’

  ‘A good ten miles.’

  ‘Could we take to a boat?’ asked Charlie Taverner.

  It was Dysart who replied, not Twyman, the Scot’s face angry at what he saw as stupidity. ‘You wouldna get two miles. Barclay’s got boats an ‘aw, and men who can row better than you daft buggers. Think what will happen if yer taken up as deserters. The first thing you’d face is the grating, and this time it will be a proper cat, no’ some damp and useless hemp.’

  The deck fell into silence, Harringtons and Brilliants alike struck into silence. John Pearce was aware that others were waiting for him to make a decision, and that annoyed him – had he not done enough? But even as he deliberated on the ineptitude of his fellow men, he could not help but filter through the alternatives they faced. And the conclusion was as unpleasant as it was unwelcome.

  ‘Twyman,’ he said eventually, his voice heavy as he glanced around to what was a totally empty seascape, ‘if we cannot outrun Brilliant then we had best heave to.’ He answered the looks of disappointment with the words. ‘That way, at least, the wounded men will get quick attention.’

  ‘Let fly the sheets,’ Twyman shouted, his face a mask, giving nothing away regarding his own feelings.

  ‘John-boy,’ asked Michael, with an enquiring look. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘No, Michael, I am as unsure as anyone on this deck.’

  The Irishman pulled out the first belaying pin, releasing the mainsail to flap uselessly as the way came off the Lady Harrington.

  The decision had been made and the emotions of those on board varied. Rufus put the best face on it, pointing out that they would be reunited with Ben Walker, which Charlie Taverner spoilt for him by mentioning Gherson. Charlie was looking glum, Pearce thought, like a man on his way to the guillotine or the gallows. Michael just looked angry.

  ‘Sorry, Michael.’

  ‘Sure, I have no idea what you are after saying that for.’

  ‘I thought to get us free,’ Pearce said, nagged once more by the thought of his true motives, and wondering why, having got clear of Lézardrieux, he hadn’t asked to be put ashore at once. Too late now!

  ‘Free. What is free, John-boy? The right to toil until your body fails, then to die in a gutter?’

  Pearce gave him a tired smile. ‘You’re not recommending the Navy, are you?’

  The Irishman shook his head. ‘Not for you, and not on that there ship, ’cause all I can see for you there is trouble, enough trouble to see you dangle, for one day I swear that you will take a swing at Barclay.’

  ‘The tree of liberty must from time to time be refreshed with the blood of tyrants.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thomas Jefferson, an American patriot, said something like that. I’m not sure I have the absolute right of it.’

  Michael was not impressed by the quotation. ‘Me, I care not where I am, a hull is as good as a ditch.’ Pearce looked at him in disbelief, until he realised that the Irishman was speaking to reassure himself.

  ‘It’s not just you.’

  ‘Charlie will sulk but survive, and Rufus, though he will haul on r
opes for eternity and learn little, is as well off at sea as he is ashore.’

  ‘Which leaves me as the problem.’

  O’Hagan favoured Pearce with a huge grin, then put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Sure, you’re that all right, and one I am right glad I met.’

  Brilliant was within hailing distance within the hour, with a boat in the water seconds after she hove to. Pearce could see Barclay in the sternsheets, and observed that the frigate captain was not going to come aboard without a strong party of red-coated marines. Lifting a telescope that he had borrowed from Twyman, he ranged over the deck of the man-o’-war, picking out the cloaked figure of the captain’s wife, Lieutenant Digby and further forward, leaning over the rail, Ben Walker and Cornelius Gherson.

  ‘Man ropes,’ said Twyman. ‘We need to rig man ropes for your captain to come aboard.’

  ‘Those,’ Pearce replied, bitterly, ‘you can do yourself.’

  A call brought one of the Harringtons to drop two lines over the side that looped through eyebolts and acted as the side of the ladder needed to get aboard at sea. Barclay climbed the wooden battens on the side of the ship with ease and came on deck with a look of deep curiosity. That he was not pleased to see Pearce was obvious by the glare aimed in his direction, nor was he about to favour anyone on the deck, Brilliants or Harringtons, with a smile, though Dysart was worth a nod. But when he spotted Midshipman Burns by the wheel, a wave of relief swept over him.

  ‘Mr Burns, an explanation if you please.’

  ‘Sir,’ the mid replied, stepping forward and lifting his hat.

  ‘Who commands here?’

  ‘Well, I do,’ said Twyman.

  Barclay looked him up and down, then called to Burns, ‘Would I be right in assuming, young sir, that this ship was taken from under the noses of that dammed privateer?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘By men from my ship?’

  ‘Partly.’

  Barclay glared at the boy. ‘Partly?’

  ‘We took it back with the help of the ship’s own crew, sir.’

  ‘Only right and proper, Mr Burns, but that does not alter the fact that this ship was in enemy hands for a full thirty-six hours.’

  ‘She were not,’ protested Twyman, ‘not more’n twenty four.’

  Barclay reacted as though Twyman had not spoken, his remarks still aimed at Burns. ‘Which means, young sir, that this vessel became property of our enemies, and, retaken, is now a lawful prize of His Britannic Majesty, King George. And that means, Mr Burns, that until I myself set foot on this deck, you had the command here.’ Then Barclay lifted his hat. ‘And it behoves me, before superseding you, to give you your due salute.’

  Burns had not the wit to reply, but he did, once more, lift his own hat.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Burns. Now be so good as to escort me to your cabin.’

  ‘I protest,’ said Twyman.

  ‘Noted,’ Barclay replied, without giving the man a glance.

  There was not a jaw that did not drop as Burns complied with his captain’s request – taking Barclay to his cabin, and two marines, who took station at the cabin door, made sure no one, not even Twyman, could follow.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  When Barclay emerged he had the truth of the tale. Burns had not admitted how little he had personally achieved, nor did he over-praise the man who had actually led them. But then he didn’t have to, for as Captain Barclay informed him he was the senior in the party, and even if he was only a slip of a mid, he was, by the very nature of his coat and rank, in command, so all the glory accrued to him.

  ‘And I shall have pleasure in saying so in my despatch. I don’t doubt it will be well received by higher authority. I would say, Mr Burns, that such a feat will make your name in the service. Now, oblige me by sending my barge back to Brilliant so we can get a proper prize crew aboard this vessel. And once that has been achieved it would give me great pleasure, nay pride, to invite you to dine with myself and Mrs Barclay.’

  Then he looked to where Pearce stood, giving him that same baleful stare as he had the day he had first come aboard. ‘Naturally, that will mean the return of the men you led to our own ship.’

  ‘Mr Burns,’ Pearce said, ignoring Barclay. ‘We need the surgeon.’

  Barclay said nothing till the midshipman repeated the request, and nodded once he did.

  The whole ship knew the truth within ten minutes of their own men corning back aboard. Dysart and Martin Dent were quizzed rather than the Pelicans, which set up a buzz that had Hale calling on his captain, though unhappily, for his account did not make pleasant hearing. What he reported was not the truth, for it had grown in the telling, making gods out of mere mortals. What was galling was the frequency with which Pearce’s name came up, especially since Emily Barclay could hear every word his coxswain was saying, having sat in uninvited to listen to the conversation. That forced the coxswain to filter what had been said about the behaviour of Midshipman Burns.

  ‘Surely that is good news, husband,’ said Emily, once Hale had departed. ‘That a member of your crew should show such ability.’

  Ralph Barclay waited for her to say ‘volunteer’, dreading that she might do so. He was seething inwardly, for the last two days with his wife had been hard indeed, and these were almost the first civil words she had spoken to him since he had flogged this man she seemed to want to hail as a hero. Emily was not unaware of the effect of her words; it had never occurred to her that she might have power inside her marriage, but the argument over that flogging, and the way her husband had acted since then, half blustering, half timid, was enough to show her that she had a substantial amount. The trouble was knowing how to use it; for certain it would be fatal to overplay her hand. Meekly applied pressure was forceful enough.

  ‘You feel I should reward him?’

  ‘Only, Captain Barclay, if you think that it is merited. It is, after all, beyond my competence to judge.’

  It was difficult to reply in an even tone. ‘Let me think on it.’

  He scarce got time for that, for Twyman came aboard demanding to see him, insisting that he remove his prize crew forthwith, ‘For at best, Captain Barclay, the Lady Harrington is salvage.’

  ‘Salvage?’ Barclay exploded. ‘You are taken by that French dog, rescued from confinement by a party led by one of my midshipmen…’ He had to stop then, for the look on this merchant seaman’s face was too startled to continue.

  ‘Midshipman. The little lily-livered bastard hid away the whole time.’

  ‘Language, sir,’ Barclay barked, glad that Emily had gone to the sickbay to assist Lutyens, and so would not hear these words. ‘This interview is at an end now. You have just seen fit to insult a cousin of my own wife, a boy she holds dear to her breast.’

  ‘It matters not who did what,’ Twyman insisted. ‘The ship was not in enemy hands for the required time.’

  ‘I think, sir, that an Admiralty court will be the judge of that.’

  Barclay did not really resent Twyman’s anger or his insults. Nor did he mind the fact that he was lying about the time spent in captivity. After all, as a prize taken by a King’s ship he would get not a penny; as salvage Twyman and his crew would do well, though they might be obliged in extreme circumstances to share their good fortune with the crew of Brilliant. No one, least of all Barclay, could resent a fellow trying to fight his corner when there was money involved. Against that he had a degree of confidence. Ommaney and Druce would present his case to the Admiralty Prize Court at Lincoln’s Inn with the kind of zeal occasioned by the notion of profit. The ship’s insurers, coffee house vandals, would no doubt put up a good legal team as well. Twyman counted as nothing in the scheme of things. At best he would be given a chance to make a written submission, one that would not tally with that sent in by himself and Burns.

  ‘I intend that your ship should sail back to an English port.’

  ‘Under my direction,’ Twyman insisted.

  ‘No, sir! Under the hand of o
ne of my officers.’

  ‘This is an outrage.’

  ‘You may term it so, I term it prudent.’

  They argued for an hour and a half, back and forth, while Barclay, whose mind was firmly made up, so that he only had to respond by rebuttal, used the time to think. Time and again, as Twyman repeated the same grievance, altering the words only slightly, Ralph Barclay conjured up the face of John Pearce, very much with that look of belligerence he had displayed the morning he had been sworn in. The man was a menace, and Barclay wished he had left him in that alley by the Pelican. But he had not, and he was on his ship; what to do about him?

  Without his wife aboard, it would have been easy; he had seen troublemakers flogged into submission before. But Emily would make his life a misery if he tried, and it was no comfort to him to know that she could, something she had already proved. Where did the shrew in her come from, for it had never before been evident? Yet she had found looks that made him feel like a scrub, silences that made him feel foolish, and attitudes that made him seethe with impotence.

  Slowly, as Twyman ranted on, a solution presented itself, and having arrived at that he brought the argument to a conclusion by alluding to the possibility that the crewman from the Indiaman might find himself clapped in irons if he did not desist.

  Hale came into the cabin as soon as the coast was clear, to fill in the bits of the story he had left out for the captain’s wife: how her little cousin had behaved in action. It did not make for a pretty tale and added another layer of anxiety to Ralph Barclay’s complex peregrinations.