‘Which would make your life difficult.’
‘Holy Mary, mine don’t matter, but they’s got to know there are things that cannot be borne. Strikes me, Mr Peat will settle for nothing less than two dozen.’
‘He would ideally like a hanging.’
‘Christ in heaven,’ was the response, which came with the sign of the cross, ‘for a push?’
‘How would you say the rowing is progressing?’
‘I’d say it’s a bit rough, but they won’t drown.’
‘Tell Mr Maclehose to be ready to take the barge over to HMS Bedford.’
O’Hagan laughed. ‘He’s Jock the Sock now.’
That gave Pearce something to smile about. ‘That was quick.’
‘Bedfords started it and our lads lapped it up.’
That was a good thing. If the crew could laugh together, then perhaps they could work likewise. Pearce fretted until he was told his barge was ready, then donned his scraper and boat cloak. The waters weren’t choppy this far upriver, but with an inexperienced set of oars it could be damp. To the suggestion he use some of the Bedfords, he declined; time the men he led saw him in close proximity.
Jock the Sock was nervous, but he made a great effort to keep that hidden. Pearce wondered if he knew his new soubriquet and what he would make of it. There was a temptation to tell him that such appellations were usually made affectionately, in fact a sign of popularity not denigration.
It was soon evident, once he’d lowered himself into the boat, that the men crewing the barge were edgy too, which made him wonder if they saw this as a test. It was frustrating: he couldn’t say anything to ease their worry. How different this ship was from those he’d served in before, some of which had been more like family, with everyone knowing their place and duty so that the running was relaxed. Hazard might be like that one day, but it seemed a distant future.
‘Mr Maclehose, haul away.’
The response was crisp, the order to the crew likewise, but the effect was far from perfect. There was no rhythm, so Pearce decided it should be provided, this done by slapping the gunwale and it had an effect as the progress of the boat markedly smoothed.
‘You know what your duty requires, Mr Maclehose.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
The shout of Hazard, which followed, was pitched at the required level to alert a quarterdeck which would have seen them coming anyway. Unfortunately, the approach to the lowered gangway, which ran from sea level to the entry port, was less so. Thanks to poor steering, the boat hit the lower platform with a degree of force, unbalancing the already standing captain. This had the young midshipman look at Pearce with alarm.
‘Room for improvement, Mr Maclehose,’ was his parting shot, as he leapt on to the platform.
‘Sir.’
It was, as was common, whistles and stamping marines as he was welcomed aboard by Bedford’s premier, to be led to the great and spacious cabin occupied by Byard, the first thing to be apparent the decanter sitting beside two goblets.
‘A surprise visit, Mr Pearce.’
‘Returning the compliment, sir.’
The decanter was immediately in his hand. ‘Which I must do also.’
Pearce sighed as he anticipated a rough tongue and a thick head come morning.
The sloping gangway was welcome when he left. The idea of batten and man ropes did not appeal to a fellow who’d had too much of Byard’s claret. He left with two pieces of unwelcome news. HMS Bedford was going to weigh to join Admiral Duncan in three days’ time and Byard would need his men back the day before to prepare the ship for sea. Just as depressing was Byard’s opinion on the problem of Teach.
‘You either flog the sod, which you can control, or hand him over to Buckner for what I would reckon to be a sentence much more severe. Navy takes a dim view on assaults of officers and, from what you say of this Peat fellow, he would claim more than just a shove. And I would say, soonest done is best.’
The calling of all hands the next morning was to witness the punishment. It had to be carried out before the Bedfords came aboard and, having witnessed the act of flogging before, Pearce was aware of another thing he lacked. There was no drummer boy to rap out the call to the deck. Mr Crocker, lacking the usual bosun’s mates, had been obliged, overnight, to prepare the cat-o’-nine-tails himself and it would be he who administered the penalty, which had led to a very elliptical conversation.
Every flogging qualified for its own instrument and there was a way for a crew to affect the degree of pain. Tarred and rough rope, riddled with knots, would rip the skin in a trice; soft hemp with a knot or two would hurt like the devil but bring forth no blood. Then there was the level of force used in laying on. With a man he considered friendly, Pearce could have been open. But he and Crocker were not that, indeed his feeling the man was a misery had only grown in the last few days.
So to get the message across, that he wished for as little gore as possible, risked Pearce wandering into territory it was not his right to occupy. If there was doubt as to severity, it would be the collective view of the crew, passed to those working the rope, which would affect matters. In the end he had to leave it be and let Crocker, who clearly found the duty demeaning, to decide.
Teach, who’d spent the night in the cable tier, came blinking into the sunlight of a beautiful morning, one in which Pearce would have welcomed goose-grey clouds. The grating was set at an angle against the poop and, as was standard, Moberly and his marines were in place with their muskets to ensure no one could act up.
Once everyone had shuffled into place Pearce, given the lack of a divisional officer – that too would come in time – read out the crime and the sentence, which would be the two dozen lashes he was permitted as a maximum. At that point Peat stepped forward and asked permission to speak. Much as he would love to have denied the man, it was not possible.
‘Mr Pearce, I ask that the sentence be increased. The offence was egregious in the extreme. Too light a punishment will not drive home how heinous it is to lay hands upon a King’s officer.’
‘I cannot do that, as you well know, Mr Peat.’
The exchanged look implied that he was hiding behind the Articles of War, not enforcing them. A captain could dish out a lot more. A glance from Peat towards Hallowell showed his fellow lieutenant he had no intention of supporting him, not even to the point of catching his eye. The glare switched back to Pearce and the tone of his complaint was persistent.
‘You could apply to the C-in-C for the right to apply a greater number.’
The look was challenging: both men knew how often a captain exceeded the limit. Many handed out as much as they chose, then asked retrospectively for permission from a senior officer. It was never denied and, as long as the correct formalities were observed, there was no point, and truly no easy mechanism, by which a common seaman could complain.
Pearce wanted the sod to shut up. First, he was not enjoying this, which Peat seemed so minded to do. Added to that, the discussion was unseemly in front of the whole crew who, if they were supposed to be eyes front and silent, were not: he was sure he could hear murmurs, probably of complaint, and it was moot as to whom they were aimed at.
‘Seize up the prisoner, but remove his shirt before you do so.’
That had Peat scowl, not that it was easy to discern the difference between that and his normal expression. But Teach had just bought his slops from Porlock and it would be a double cruelty that he should have to pay to replace a ripped garment.
That duty fell to Charlie and Rufus Dommet, with the former whispering in the Teach ear, as he lifted his shirt over his head, that he had told him so. Teach did not protest as he was dragged towards the grating, but he did manage to look up at Pearce in a way, a hard and uncompromising stare, which implied this was not the end of the matter.
Hands tied, the next command was to call forward the bosun to ‘Carry out the sentence’.
Crocker was in his shirtsleeves, the arms of which wer
e rolled up to reveal a set of strong muscles. By the look on his face, pure determination, he seemed set to lay on hard. Pearce had the sudden and disturbing thought that Teach was going to pay with his skin for what the bosun found had become an ill-starred posting. As the cat swung in Crocker’s hand, his captain could see the colour of the rope and its outline. It was black with tar and every strand of the nine tails was heavily knotted.
Moberly was looking straight ahead, Hallowell at the bright blue sky. Peat was staring keenly at what was about to occur. John Pearce, who would have dearly liked to have copied Hallowell, was obliged to keep his eyes fixed on the object of the gathering.
The first strike had Teach arch his body and it left a deep red weal across his pale white skin. Crocker had done this before and he knew how to land the next blow right on top of the previous mark. The thwack as skin met rope made more than Teach tense his body. Everyone watching was putting himself in the man’s place.
Crocker had his rhythm and he broke the skin on his sixth blow, in a set of marks no more than a couple of inches wide. Pearce knew this was going to be gory: that the canvas on which Teach stood, to protect the deck from dripping blood, was going to be necessary.
A scream rent the air on the seventh strike and each subsequent blow raised the level of agony. By the time Crocker got to the first dozen, that strip of Teach’s back was truly lacerated; soon it would be bone they were looking at, not skin. Peat was leaning forward, his lips wetted by his tongue, his eyes bright with concentration and pleasure.
‘Enough! Mr Crocker lay up the cat. The man has suffered enough.’
The bosun, his chest heaving, looked disappointed, but that was nothing to the fury which suffused the face of Peat. Nor was he silent, indeed he shouted in a high passion.
‘Sir, I protest.’
‘Noted, Mr Peat, but the Lord Commissioners did not see fit to give you command of the ship. That they gave to me.’ Orders were directed at Charlie and Rufus. ‘Cut the man down and take him to the cockpit. Mr Maclehose, please boat over to HMS Bedford and request from Captain Byard that we borrow his surgeon. Master-at-arms, dismiss the men. Mr Hallowell you have duties to perform, please go about them, and you, Mr Peat, I will see you in my cabin. Mr Moberly, please join us.’
When the man looked set to protest, Pearce shouted to cut him off. ‘At once!’
It was a defiant, elderly lieutenant who entered the cabin, to be faced with a look of stone from his captain. When he made to sit down, he was abruptly told to remain standing.
‘Mr Peat, I find that you do not suit this vessel or myself as a reliable inferior. I therefore request that you forthwith pack your sea chest and make arrangements to depart the ship. I will write to the Admiralty with a report on what I consider your unfitness for the responsibilities of your rank.’
‘Damn you!’
‘Have a care, or you and your dunnage will be trying to get ashore without a boat. There is a man below with a torn back and it’s entirely due to your love of a thrashing.’
Pearce knew Crocker was as much at fault, but was not going to say so.
‘I will report this to Admiral Buckner.’
‘Do so. I care not one jot for what he thinks and you may pass that on to him as well. I now ask what it is you are waiting for. Get out.’
Peat tried to retain his dignity, but the import of what was happening made that hard. He had been beached for so long it had come close to breaking his spirit, this Pearce knew from his pleading in the initial letter. And now he was going to be without employment once more. He could blame that on as many malign influences as he wished, but surely he must know the chance of a place was unlikely to come up again. By the time he made the cabin door his shoulders were slumped.
‘And Mr Peat, you best bespeak a wherry. I cannot spare men to row you ashore.’ When the door closed behind him he turned to Moberly. ‘I think you too can go about your duties. We cannot hang about at anchor for ever. We must weigh and see how we fare.’
For a man who always looked as if little could dent his self-regard or confidence, the thought changed the marine officer’s expression markedly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
John Pearce was determined to see how HMS Hazard would fare with the assistance of the Bedfords before they departed to join the North Sea Fleet. Byard, who must have read his mind, sent over a couple of his lieutenants to beef up the aid, while the recipient blessed the luck that gave him a gentle breeze, one sufficient to provide steerage way, without being strong enough to present difficulties.
The mood in the ship was not good and he could feel it, while being painfully aware he had none of the conduits by which a captain could gauge the feelings of the crew. His Pelicans were too obviously close to him and the quota men clammed up when they were in earshot, likewise Hallowell and Moberly, though that was more common, officers rarely seen as being companionable.
Rapport with others was yet to be formed, so he was left guessing. Even Mr Low, the gunner, with whom he felt a certain community of spirit, was unwilling to enter into any conversation that related to such a matter. The best he could do, as much a hope as anything else, was put it down to a general anxiety.
The two Bedford lieutenants went where he directed them, as did the midshipmen who’d been a previous presence, which was to shadow their equals where possible. Young Livingston he kept by his side to act as a messenger. Maclehose he reckoned could manage to look like he had authority. Those manning the sheets, whom he would supervise, required little instruction other than when to pull, release and tie off ropes.
Campbell he put on the capstan: the exercise would do him good and he would be required to shout instead of whisper. Tennant, in the company of a Bedford lieutenant, was given the bitts, to oversee the laying out of the anchor cables as they were hauled in, the stern being the first so Hazard would be at single anchor. The next task would be to sail over that and pluck it from the seabed. Catting and fishing the fore anchor was a job requiring skill. Hallowell would be there to oversee a duty that could well fall to him anyway.
Every ship in the anchorage would be watching, with Pearce far from sure if it would go smoothly. But that had to be risked. There was no way to teach certain actions by dumbshow; only the actual handling of the various items would demonstrate the moves required and he was painfully aware that this day would be the last he could expect help. He hoped to be able to repeat it several times.
The paying out of the bow cable went smoothly enough, the stern cable being brought in at the same rate, to sustain tension. Once that was on board they could proceed to weigh. Pearce was on hand to see the nippers tying on the lines by which it would be hauled in a criss-cross manner between the bitts. The layers had to heave the thick cable, which was weighty, slimy and wet. He returned to the deck to give the orders that would let fall some canvas, the yards being swung enough to catch the wind.
He felt it necessary to use the speaking trumpet to address those of his own men manning the yards; the quartet of Bedford topmen knew what they were about. He told them this was an exercise and he had no great ambition that it should be seamless so no risks were to be taken. His last admonishment was that they ensure they kept their footing.
‘Know that as a member of the crew you are valued. Nothing would depress me more than that one of you should perish by falling to the deck.’
The orders were simultaneous; the topmast sheets were let fall and, as soon as they billowed, the men on the sheets hauled hard to swing the yards. Below, at the first sign of slack on the anchor cable the order was given to stamp and go, the men on the capstan bars leaning at an acute angle and pushing like the devil to get it moving.
A clean pluck was a combination of wind power and muscle, a bit of decent way on the ship as it sailed over the taut cable being the best method to detach it cleanly from the muddy seabed. If Pearce could barely hear the yells from below, he could certainly hear the cacophony of shouting from aloft, as the Bedford topmen
cajoled their Hazard trainees in the things in which they had been instructing them. At his rear was Michael O’Hagan, acting as quartermaster and gently adjusting the wheel. Mr Williams was beside him to ensure the course he had laid down – a simple one – was adhered to.
A quick look around with a glass showed every other deck with an audience. Some of them even had men manning their tops, no doubt in the hope of being witness to a disaster. They were not to be wholly disappointed, given the manoeuvre was far from smooth. But weigh they did, albeit with the anchor trailing off the bow as the hauling in failed to match the movement. Finally, the anchor was fished and catted: Hallowell saw to that.
The blue light, shooting up from the deck of HMS Bedford, brought forth smiles from more than John Pearce. Even if it lost much of its purpose in daylight, Byard was signalling to the whole fleet at anchor his delight that Hazard was under way and moving out, at near to high tide, onto the broad reach of the Thames.
It was with caution that Pearce called for the main course, which had the fellow, acting as captain of the main, yelling like a banshee as he cajoled those under his care to loosen the ties and let out a couple of reefs. The heavy canvas did not drop evenly, in fact the lee side was down before the windward even moved, which occasioned much cheering – it was truly jeering – which came floating distantly from other ships.
For all the gremlins, Pearce felt alive; he might barely have steerage way, but it was enough to provide a degree of exhilaration. Looking about him he could see, if not smiles, that exchange of glances between men, one that denotes the feeling they had done well. In short, the mood of the ship had changed.
The more difficult task was to follow; anchoring was a much more complex operation than weighing. Yet he now saw his quota men, for all their errors, going about their duties with enthusiasm. That cheering-cum-jeering, designed to mock them and so diminish their morale, seemed to have achieved the opposite, making the crew more determined.
A Close Run Thing Page 22
