‘Captain Maartens, we met not long past.’
The voice was as rough as the man’s appearance: weathered and scarred skin, where it was not hidden by his beard. ‘You being clad as you are bodes ill.’
‘I am come here for my friends.’
‘Then you’re here for three of my crew, purpose not yet stated.’
When he’d brought his friends to this place, he had told a gathering of privateer captains his own background and to some extent that of his Pelicans, acting as open as he’d been required to be, but no more. His main aim had been to get Michael, Rufus and Charlie into a berth that provided a modicum of safety, with the caveat that no such security totally existed.
Having brought them back from the Mediterranean, by means not entirely proper to a very strict navy, they could technically have been rated as deserters. Another complication: the exemption certificates they had were forgeries, excellent examples of the art but counterfeit nonetheless, so always at risk from deep scrutiny. None of this would have mattered if he’d had any real expectations of a new command, one in which he could claim them as personal followers.
On getting clear of Portsmouth, the trio had once more taken refuge in the Liberties of the Savoy. Indeed, he’d joined them in the very Pelican Tavern from which they had been pressed years past. Remaining there provided no solution; they would struggle to make enough to live on within the confines of the Liberties, while to venture outside the narrow boundaries risked being had up.
John Pearce had money, but not enough to support them for ever, so a way had to be found to alter matters and, thanks to Charlie Taverner and his easy way of talking to anyone, the Thames Watermen had suggested a solution. Shoreham was home to Letters of Marque and was left alone generally by the press so they could operate. The information was quickly acted upon.
Many of the ships were owned by syndicates of powerful men, merchants and London guild masters, the kind who had the connections to ensure their profitable enterprises were not interfered with. At sea, in swift-sailing vessels and with highly competent crews, a sharp eye would be kept out for risk. The sight of a naval vessel demonstrating interest would see any privateer captain up his helm and get as far away as possible, to avoid being boarded and the hands checked for their papers.
‘I wish to ask if they’d be willing to join me in a new ship, Mr Maartens.’
‘Then you will permit me to answer for them. No.’
Pearce had never thought this would be plain sailing. There was a limited supply of tars for this kind of game, thus they were as precious as the men who manned the King’s ships. He had, on his way here, in between educating Oliphant, worked out various ways in which he might overcome opposition.
‘If we were aboard said vessel, Mr Maartens, I would be inclined to offer you a glass of wine.’
He might look like something out of a rare fairground rendition of a pirate comedy, but Maartens’ appearance hid what Pearce suspected to be a sharp mind and a bloody nature. The one eye didn’t blink, but nor did his visitor and for some time. Pearce was aware during the mutual stare of the way the ship was rocking. On the low, still waters of a tidal river, this implied much movement below decks.
‘Do I sense an offer?’ Maartens growled.
‘You sense an eagerness that we should both be satisfied.’
His eye switched, to glance over Pearce’s shoulder, confirming his suspicions: they were no longer sharing an empty deck. Word would have spread, so there was a very strong chance that the presence to the rear included the Pelicans. He could not turn to check and give greeting; for what he was about it would not serve. The business came first.
If an invitation to follow Maartens was issued, it was so gruff and low as to stay within the confines of his beard. Pearce went through the low doorway at a crouch, to enter a space surprisingly refined in its furnishings. There was no desk of any kind, in fact it smacked of the east and even the seraglio. The wall hangings looked to be Turkish and the impression was backed up by the elegant, silk-covered and tasselled divan on to which Maartens threw himself.
Pearce was invited to sit on a low stool, likewise upholstered in silk. A thick intricately patterned carpet covered the deck planking, while the oil lamps, which backed up the daylight coming through the tiny casement windows, were overly ornate in their glister.
‘So, satisfy me.’
‘Can I ask if you have ventured to sea in the last few weeks?’
‘You can and we have.’ Pearce waited to be enlightened as to how the ship had fared; he waited in vain, so was obliged to ask if it had been successful. ‘That’s for me to know and for you to guess.’
There was no mystery to the ploy; a successful sortie into the Channel – there had been no time to go further – would mean Maartens was in funds. A dry run on the other hand and he could be stretched. Unlike many of his Shoreham contemporaries, this man owned his ship, one of the reasons Pearce had asked him to take the Pelicans on board. An owner who had to bear all the costs of running his ship was more likely to be a hungry hunter.
‘What makes you think they’ll be interested in being King’s men? With decent fortune, this is a better berth by far.’
‘I pride myself on my knowledge of these men.’
Maartens waved a hand to encompass not only his immediate surroundings but the trade in which he and his peers were engaged. ‘And give up this? For myself, I’d want more than your word.’
Pearce smiled in that way a man does when he plays a winning card. He pulled from his pocket the commission appointing him to HMS Hazard, to then pose a question.
‘I’m curious to know what value you would put on an exemption certificate.’
Maartens shrugged, but it appeared to be play-acting to Pearce. ‘They’re not easy to come by.’
‘And my friends, if they join me, have three they will no longer require.’
‘So you say.’
‘The mere presence of these, plus my rank, will stymie any of the watchmen on the way out of Shoreham. Once they are aboard HMS Hazard and on the ship’s muster roll, they have no need for such documents.’
If the smile stayed on Pearce’s face, there was a degree of internal turmoil. Did this fellow captain know the certificates alluded to were forgeries? If he did not, if he rated them genuine, they could be used by others and so had sale value. Pearce made much of looking around the cabin, at the elaborate way in which it was appointed, which utterly belied the physical appearance of the owner.
He knew the time had come to make his offer and so did Maartens, hence the ensuing silence. The last thing he wished for was a dispute, yet there were factors to take account of. Even if the privateer crews were supposed to be free agents, it was never that simple. Any profits shared would be quickly expended on pleasure in the manner of sailors everywhere: navy tars were likewise spendthrift in a ‘tomorrow you may die’ fashion. They caroused until every last penny was gone and all hope of credit exhausted.
‘How much are my friends owed?’
It was Maartens turn to smile. ‘You’re sure they’re owed anything?’
‘Happen they owe you.’
‘That could be closer to the truth.’
‘It cannot be much after so little time.’
‘The exemptions freely given will suffice.’
Pearce was slightly thrown by that: he always intended to give them up gratis; he had, after all, the genuine article in his pocket. Maartens had obviously surmised he was going to have to pay for them, which underlined their value. To look pensive was necessary, to sound worried likewise.
‘Then I would need to ask my friends …’
‘Friends?’ came the quick response, the one eye taking in his uniform.
‘My rank is of no moment, as long as it’s acknowledged in public. In private I see us as equals.’
‘Happen you’re on the wrong side of the Channel? The levelling is done on the French shore.’
‘I need to talk to them and
out of earshot of the rest of your crew. That can only be done ashore.’
‘You may have my cabin.’
In other words, ‘They’re not to set foot out of this ship until I have my part of the bargain.’
For all its Levantine decor, Maartens’ cabin was as tiny as those normally occupied by John Pearce. So, when the Pelicans were crowded inside, Michael O’Hagan naturally taking up the most space, there was no room to swing the proverbial cat. There was, though, scope to shake hands and have his hand near crushed by the Irishman.
‘Uniform, John-boy,’ he said. ‘Not the garb for Shoreham.’
‘I have a ship, Michael, and a place on it for all of you.’
There was a long silence and no joy in their expressions. The spoken response came from Charlie Taverner and with it a slight shake of the head. ‘Don’t know that appeals.’
Rufus Dommet backed him up with a glum look. ‘Good berth here, John, in grub and space to hang your hammock. Better than a King’s ship.’
‘Sure, and right good mates we’ve made,’ O’Hagan murmured.
Pearce didn’t know whether to be angry or sad as he reflected on this unforeseen reaction. If he had risked his life in France for his own ends, it had been on behalf of this trio as well and there was a real temptation to tell them so. They were all looking at him with a touch of defiance, as if to say, how dare you take us for granted, enough to allow for a lump in his throat at the notion of sailing without them. Certainly he had done so in the past, but he held them to be a band of brothers, in the way spouted by King Hal before the walls of Harfleur.
‘Well, I am pleased to hear it,’ he lied. ‘I had hoped you would see your way to joining me but, if that’s not to be, I have something for you.’ He pulled the three proper certificates out of his pocket. ‘These, unlike those you now carry, are genuine.’
‘And you’d be as well to use them to wipe your arse.’
Charlie added a physical gesture to go with the slur. That shocked John Pearce and it showed. His blood began to boil: he was not one to be so treated even by those for whom he had such regard and had shared so much. Just about to respond in kind, he picked up the fact that Rufus’s shoulders were shaking, this in an effort not to laugh. He couldn’t hold the air in and once he went the others did too.
‘You bastards!’ was aimed at a laughing trio.
‘Holy Mary, it takes one to know one, John-boy.’
Hands were clasped again and mirth turned to smiles.
‘Have you squared us departin’ with Cyclops?’ Rufus asked.
‘I said you’d leave behind your exemptions, the old ones.’
‘How in the name of Jesus did you get a ship and us free if we want it?’
‘A long story, Michael, and one that must wait till we’re off this barky. So gather up your ditty bags and let’s get into the boat I have waiting.’
Maartens, having taken possession of the certificates, went off, John Pearce thought, to make sure the Pelicans were not leaving with anything not their own. There were no fond farewells in the noisy sense, just quiet nods, some murmured good wishes and the odd glare, which made Pearce curious, though he put it down to the short time they’d been aboard. They were halfway to the shore when Charlie admitted some of the crew would likely be glad to see the back of them.
‘Why so?’
‘Well now, John-boy,’ Michael informed him, ‘there were a couple of sods aboard seeking to rule the roost an’ thinking us easy prey. Happen not me, but Charlie and Rufus.’
‘We put them in their place,’ Rufus added, making a fist. An arch look from Michael got the admission it was he who’d done the chastising. ‘But it was more their hangers-on who suffered most. Lost their swagger.’
‘Hard to know who was happy and who was put out,’ was Taverner’s opinion.
‘You had a cruise?’
Charlie was quick to pronounce on that. ‘Slim pickin’s out there, John. Frogs sail close inshore and run to beach themselves to avoid being taken.’
‘Which had us near grounded alongside them,’ Rufus added. ‘Maartens was desperate, I reckon, needs to go deep blue but is short on the money to buy in stores.’
‘So you took a ship?’
‘We did, but not much of a cargo. Still, he paid you out of what we was owed. Came special to tell us.’
Michael was looking at Pearce when he said this and, if he had spoken with confidence, it lasted only seconds before the face fell. ‘Jesus, you’re not sayin’ … ?’
The protest sounded feeble, even to the man making it. ‘You should have said something.’
Charlie’s head was shaking, his expression part wonder, and part misery. ‘I don’t know what has become of you, John Pearce.’
‘True, Charlie,’ Michael added, with a sympathetic, almost pitying look. ‘Dunned like a bairn.’
‘You’re as much to blame as I am.’
They started to laugh again, telling Pearce he was being guyed again, with Michael adding, ‘Must be the blue coat. Was a time he could see a jest a mile off.’
Rufus wanted his say. ‘Been away from us too long, I reckon.’
‘I can’t wait to get you on board Hazard. I’ll show you what a jest is.’
The first task was to bespeak rooms for the night, book the coach for the morrow, to then order a meal fit for a prince, before rousing out Oliphant to meet the Pelicans and to inform them.
‘This fellow will be sailing with us.’
It was amusing to watch them, their reserve, for Oliphant was not like some fellow tar: his dress alone marked him out as closer to a gent, while his hands were delicate where theirs were rough. The Pelicans were quite open about much Pearce still would have kept back, but they had the sense to stay off the subject of Emily Barclay, and to some extent her sod of a husband.
Sitting back and listening, only occasionally interrupting to dispute some claim of exceptional behaviour, Pearce noted a slight and worrying glint in the eye of Charlie Taverner, though nothing was said. It was unfortunate Oliphant was a trifle arch and acting superior for, in truth, the Pelicans were an easy-going lot if treated right.
He’d obviously decided he must establish he was a superior sort of person. Pearce wished he had warned him; to the Pelicans no such body existed, but it was too late now. Matters deteriorated over the feast and obviously, with much drink taken, the various attributes of all parties were exaggerated.
Oliphant became near to insufferable and all attempts by the host to soften the way he was presenting himself went right over his head. But it was Charlie who produced the spoke in the wheel. Normally the most garrulous of the trio, as well as the most flippant, he’d been unusually quiet during the meal, leaving the others to make what running was required.
Because of their positions at the table it was some time before Pearce realised he was watching Oliphant the way a cat eyes a bird. That was until he sat forward, elbows on the table, and said in a cold tone, ‘I has a notion I’ve clapped eyes on you afore.’
There followed the briefest moment of fluster in the man thus challenged, before he managed to produce a look of disdain, quickly adding a humourless chortle.
‘I cannot for the life of me imagine where that would be. We don’t look the type to share a social milieu.’
The use of that last word annoyed Charlie and his tone reflected that. ‘The Strand, Covent Garden, happen where the Fleet meets the Temple.’
‘I can hardly deny having been in such locations, Mr … er …’
‘Taverner,’ Pearce said, finding it hard to believe Oliphant had forgotten a name he’d used a couple of times already.
‘Charlie will do. Can’t fix it, though. Daresay it’ll come to me.’
‘What will come to you, Charlie, is more porter.’
Said loudly and with false bonhomie, a jug was slid down the table, with it a look from Pearce to tell Charlie that, if enlightenment came, he was to keep it to himself. Unsure if he liked Oliphant – the ma
n was too devious for his own good – Pearce knew his presence was necessary.
If he had been given HMS Hazard, Dundas’s emissary came as part of the package. They would all be on a cramped sixteen-gun vessel, with a compliment of close to a hundred souls if the muster was full. The mood required to be lightened, so Pearce lifted his flagon and cried out, ‘To HMS Hazard and all who sail in her.’
All the other flagons came up in a toast, one of many, which ensured it was a happy party that made their beds. It was less so in the morning, but the hangovers kept conversation to a minimum, for which John Pearce, with a thudding headache, was grateful.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As the Pearce party were crossing Kent in a series of mail coaches, Emily Barclay was on her way to Newgate, in order to bespeak private accommodation in the State House for Cornelius Gherson. With nothing substantial in the papers she owned, it was obvious any worthwhile information was going to come from him. An individual cell, decent clothing and the provision of food from outside the prison seemed the easy part; his requirement that steps be taken to prove his innocence was much more complex. The errand she was undertaking was not one with which to engage the fellow on the door: it was within the gift of the governor to grant a comfortable chamber for single occupation. A note had been sent ahead requesting an interview so, on arrival, she was shown the way to his apartments, traversing the very same corridors as she had passed through previously. Indeed, it took her past the very anteroom in which she had confronted Gherson.
‘Mrs Barclay,’ the governor boomed, as she was shown in.
He was a giant of a man in all respects, height and girth, but there was nothing slack about him; he filled out his well-cut garments, down to the heavy thighs over wide-spaced feet, with his head covered in what seemed like a long, quasi-judicial wig. The voice was a deep basso profundo, which seemed to emanate from his boots and bounce off the oak-panelled walls.
‘Sir Jerrold Crossley at your service, ma’am.’
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