Blown Off Course

by David Donachie

  Several admirals, always the men to profit most by the exploits of their captains, taking a full eighth of any prizes brought in, were their clients. Indeed, Ralph Barclay had been introduced to them by none other than the late Lord Rodney, his one-time patron, and on their walls sat an imposing painting of that sailor’s most famous Caribbean victory, the Battle of the Saintes, in which he had bested the fleet of the Comte de Grasse. He and Alan Gardner had already shared claret and memories of the admiral’s part in the action.

  ‘Then we wish you joy of your prospects, sir,’ added Druce, the smaller of the pair, raising his glass, only to realise a toast was impossible. ‘But, sir, your glass is empty.’ A flick of a finger brought forward the liveried servant, the crystal decanter and a silver tray to top Barclay up, as Druce moved on to business. ‘I think, Captain Barclay, we must look at some investments for your profits.’

  ‘Which, of course, we would be happy to advise you on,’ Ommanny added. ‘The major portion should be placed in the Consolidated Fund, naturally, but there are certain speculative ventures from which you might benefit handsomely. We act as agents for several canal and turnpike trusts, which promise good returns, some as much as ten per cent per annum.’

  ‘There is something of a building boom in progress in my native Frome.’

  There was mischief in the statement, his way of guying this pair, a touch of revenge for their previous attitude. What he was saying clearly did not please them, much as they feigned interest. They wanted his money to play with and profit by, which would not be the case if he favoured his own notions.

  ‘Added to that, I have always thought land around my birthplace a good area to invest.’

  ‘Fluctuation, sir,’ sighed Ommanny, in a theatrical manner, ‘has too often been the death of wise placement. Land rises and falls in value, especially if we have peace. Buildings, and I take it you mean domestic dwellings, require close supervision, or those carrying out the construction will find a home for your materials that is to their profit, not yours.’

  ‘If you are at sea, Captain Barclay …’ Druce added, merely opening his hands, not seeing the need to add any more.

  In truth, the man drinking their wine wanted nothing more than to see income without effort on his part, a dream he had carried since first he went as a lad to sea, the hope of every naval officer, the capital of prize money earning by its mere existence. But trust was not a virtue to which Ralph Barclay was given and he certainly did not repose it in this pair, who, if he lost on their proposed investments, would ensure that they did not suffer likewise. It was the way of all projectors, men who never took a risk with their own funds, unless they could make a killing by some chicanery, like inside knowledge of guaranteed outcomes. These were investments into which their clients were never allowed.

  ‘I employ a man who deals with my affairs,’ he said, his eye acute enough to see the slight change in their expressions. ‘Not that he will be ashore when I have a ship; he is, after all, my clerk, but I will task him to work with you, to look over what you propose, for he has a sharp mind, unlike me. I am, after all, more of a sailor than a man of business.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Ommanny replied.

  Both partners were well aware of what Barclay was saying: your investments will be studied and your fees scrutinised for any signs of excess payments by someone who knows the byways of financial transactions. You will not treat me as you normally treat naval officers, safe off at sea and usually too unquestioning for their own welfare.

  ‘I shall send him to you and you may show him a list of your speculative proposals. His name is Cornelius Gherson.’

  Had Ralph Barclay not drunk deep then, and had he not been quite so self-satisfied, he might have noticed that the name registered with Mr Druce, and whatever connection he made was not a happy one.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The grinding of the jolly boat on the soft, sandy beach, on a cold, grey and misty dawn, still left several feet of shallow water to be crossed, so the trio of Pelicans, having thrown ahead of them their sack of provisions, came ashore with wet feet, albeit their newly sewn trews were rolled up and their shore-going footwear, stockings as well, were safe in their ditty bags. Michael O’Hagan crossed himself as the boat, relieved of their weight, floated off immediately, with the carpenter, who now had the oars they had used to get to this point, quick to drop them into the water and spin round to haul off. There was no farewell, no cheering cry of good fortune to set them on their way, which reflected the silence with which he had accompanied them on the journey: it had not been a trip laced with anything in the way of conversation or advice.

  The sight that greeted them, a huge area of flat, damp sand turning to a bank of that mixed with shingle quite some way off, in a featureless landscape, did not cheer either, while one isolated lean-to hut, far away along the highest point of the scrub-covered dune, in truth not much in height, showed no sign of occupancy. Along the seemingly endless shoreline, in the distance, a few forlorn-looking boats were up out of the water, sitting on the baulks of round, tar-soaked timber used to protect the hull from damage as it was hauled above the high-water mark – that a wavy line of seaweed stretching away on either side – while in the direction from which they had come, the faint outline of what they had been told was Hayling Island, a thick line of trees, was just visible through the mist.

  The sounds were few, the hiss of the waves running up the sand behind them, the odd cry of a gull, always sounding dejected, all under a lowering grey sky that merged with both land and sea. Rufus rolled down his trews and looked set to put on his stockings and the new shoes provided by the purser.

  ‘Belay that,’ Michael barked. ‘Wait till your feet are dry and free of sand, boy, or they will be bleeding before you have gone a mile.’

  ‘A mile to where?’ Rufus responded, with a bit of a pout at being admonished.

  ‘First we must get off the beach and see if we can find something to get our bearings.’

  ‘We should eat,’ Charlie Taverner added, as they made to a dune, partially covered in a line of dark green scrub and high tufts of marsh grass.

  ‘Shortly,’ Michael said.

  Topping the dune through a tiny gap, no doubt made by locals, looking into the land behind, flat fields of grazing sheep, dotted with stunted trees too sparsely gathered close to the shore to provide any shelter, Michael scanned the landscape, grey where sky and mist combined. He pulled from his pocket the drawing the master had made for them showing, roughly, a route they should follow, which would take them away from the many inlets that dotted the shore, with crosses to denote towns, places to be avoided. He had also written the names, but Michael only knew them from the memory of them having been spoken, for he could not read more than a few words. All he knew for certain was that they were to make sure to avoid the Portsmouth to London road, bound to be crawling with crimps.

  ‘We has to get to the east of a place called Chichester and aim for a town further on called Midhurst.’

  ‘What bearings might we be looking for?’

  ‘Church spires, Rufus,’ Michael said, ‘though, sure enough, they will be hard to spot in this mizz. You makes your way in England from parish to parish, for sure there is always a path from one to t’other. I swear on the blood of Holy Mary you won’t go far in this land before you spot a house of worship, never mind it being one tied to a heathen faith.’

  ‘The Irish are the godless ones,’ said Charlie, without rancour.

  He spat after he said that; Michael being a papist was not commonly a bone of contention, but Charlie, who would likely never have entered the portal of a church except to steal its plate or raid the candle box, was not about to have his nation’s Anglican religion insulted by a Catholic Irishman.

  Rufus looked at the grey sky, then at the paper in Michael’s hand. ‘How will we know we’s going in the right direction?’

  ‘Sure, there are ways, and many of those same churches have a pointer to the north
on the spire. If in real doubt we will have to ask, will we not?’

  ‘A risk, Michael.’

  ‘One we might have to hazard if the sun don’t show. According to the ship’s master, London is to the north and east of where we are.’

  ‘To the north and east of where we think we are,’ Charlie objected, talking to a man who had turned round to look back out to sea.

  ‘Get down,’ Michael cried, immediately dropping behind the deep scrub and scrabbling for better cover. ‘A guard boat.’

  ‘Where away?’ demanded Charlie, who had followed him down automatically, with only Rufus still visible, that was until Michael took his legs from under him. The youngster collapsed in a heap of arms, legs and swearing that ceased as his landing winded him.

  ‘In the distance to the east, following the shoreline, a cutter by the shape and size, and low in the water from the number of men it’s carrying. It’s no fisherman.’

  A short crawl still gave him cover but also a view over the sea and that showed no sign of their carpenter. He had rowed out of sight in haste and the thought could not be avoided that the men who had suggested this route of escape must have known it would be patrolled for deserters, a notion he shared with his companions and one that brought forth from Charlie a long list of expletives for not being given any warning.

  Ignoring him, Michael edged his head out enough to look along the beach. The guard boat, which he had first seen as an indistinct shape in the mist, was now in plain sight and it had not altered course, still hugging the shoreline at a steady pace, but it took no great genius to work out that someone aboard would be looking into the soft sand below the high-water line for footprints.

  ‘We must get away from this shore and quickly.’

  Michael was moving as he was explaining. The marks of their landing would stick out like a pus-filled boil and as soon as they were spotted the boat would beach and those aboard would come inland to hunt for them. The only hope he could think of was to outrun them first and find somewhere to hide up next.

  ‘Stop!’ Charlie Taverner’s voice was so commanding that the Irishman obeyed. ‘Now get shod and do as I say.’

  Still sat down, Charlie was already scrabbling in his ditty bag to get out and slip on his shoes, talking as he did so. ‘We will not lose the men in that boat and for all we know they are armed with muskets, so all they need is a sight of our backs to bring us to.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Look at the sand we have to walk through to get onto grassland,’ Charlie insisted. ‘It is damp from the morning dew so we cannot avoid leaving a trail.’

  ‘Shoes won’t help,’ Michael insisted.

  ‘Then watch what I do,’ Charlie commanded.

  Standing, he made heavy steps through the sand, sure enough leaving obvious footprints and, as soon as he reached the point where the ground underfoot turned from mixed to pure grass he stopped, then very carefully walked back into his own footmarks. He had just got back to the point where he started when a cry floated through the morning air: the men in the boat had spotted what they were set to look for, a line of prints pointing to where the Pelicans had stopped to get their bearings.

  ‘Do the same, Michael, you too Rufus, then we must look for cover in this scrub, just enough to keep us hidden.’ Charlie, frustrated at their lack of speed, positively hissed. ‘Will you move your arses or we’ll be had up, an’ don’t you go making it all too neat. Try to make it look as if we was in file.’

  As his companions complied, with an air of doubt as to whether what they were about was wise very obvious in their attitude, Charlie had his clasp knife out and was sawing at the branch of a bush, talking all the while. As soon as it separated he spat on his finger, picked up some sand, rubbed that and his spittle together and used it to cover the fresh cut wood, making dark what had been a clear white cut.

  ‘The tide was making when we landed so them coves will not know how long we’s been ashore, could be minutes, could be near to a glass of sand. When you’se done, get your shoes off again and back in your ditty bags.’

  The air was now full of faint voices, some just shouts, spliced with the odd clear command, and each of the trio of Pelicans had in their mind a vision of what would be happening shore side of the dune. The cutter being beached, men leaping out with cutlasses certainly, and maybe a musket or two, hard-eyed bastards, maybe marines, more likely press-gang tars, who would be keen to take them up for the bounty or maybe just for the sheer joy of capture.

  ‘They must have known, them sods,’ wailed Rufus, sat again and removing his shoes. ‘And they said not a word.’

  ‘Course they knew,’ Charlie hissed, ‘they just wanted rid of us. But no more talking. Get in among them bushes, you too Michael, while I spoil our trail. We don’t need to go far to lie down and be hidden and for the sake of the Lord breathe easy when you is settled.’

  Crawling through the bushes to the sound of hearty shouting from the beach, ditty bags and the sack of provisions before them, they did not see Charlie back into the greenery, brushing the sand behind them to remove any trace of their passage. He had not gone far when he heard the first sound of shod feet on the sea side of the dune, scrabbling on the shingle, which had him pushing himself down so hard it was as if he wished the earth to swallow him up. Godless he might be, but the prayers he was mouthing now were as fervent as those of Michael O’Hagan had ever been.

  ‘Here, Lieutenant,’ called a voice. ‘They sat here a while by the state of the sand.’

  ‘How long, man?’ came the gruff cry, obviously the voice of an officer by his impatience.

  ‘Hard to say precise, Your Honour, but not too much time has passed. They shoed up here and I can see their marks as they made their way inland.’

  ‘Right, set off a musket, let the inshore picket know we are on the hunt.’

  The crack of the fired weapon rent the air, which had all three hidden Pelicans digging their fingers into the sand, as though the weapon had been aimed at them; noisy birdcalls were aired too and for the same reason. For Charlie it was worst of all: closer than the others to the gap, he could see the striped woollen stockings and boots of the man leading the hunt. They soon disappeared and another dozen legs went by, one with white stockings, which had to be the officer, the whole party a mass of eager, mumbled voices, the one of the man in charge the only clear sound, his voice gruff.

  ‘We must hurry, lads, and keep a sharp eye out, we don’t want those scallies at Bracklesham Church to get the bounty for three men run, do we now? There an extra pot of ale for the one to spy them first.’

  The sound of movement and voices died away, the last discernible order from the officer for his men to spread out a bit and cover more ground, with Rufus whispering, ‘Christ, that were close.’

  ‘Be quiet,’ Charlie hissed. ‘There will be fellows still with that boat.’

  Michael crawled close to Charlie’s ear. ‘Sure, you were sharp there, Charlie boy, but what do we do now?’

  ‘We must get along the shoreline, the way from whence they came, and lay low until dark.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Pray to your papist god for a moon, Michael, for without one we will be stuck.’

  The progress was slow, great care taken to ensure that no one could see them, with Charlie’s cut branch employed continually to hide their trail, this as the cloud cover began to lift and the first signs came of a watery sun. Hundreds of yards away from the point at which they had come ashore they found a clump of low trees and bushes in which they could at least sit up and occasionally stand to study the land around.

  ‘Best rest up here,’ Michael said. ‘The more we move the more we risk till the hunt is called off.’

  ‘Those sods, curse them,’ Charlie moaned, with neither of his companions needing to enquire of whom he was speaking. ‘And what makes you think those after us will give up?’

  ‘It’s a hope, brother.’

  ‘We ain’t got a prayer,’ groaned
Rufus.

  ‘We always has a prayer,’ Michael replied, ‘and, sure, if you say enough of them an’ mean it, the good Lord above will hear them.’ Those words, and the way they were delivered, got the Irishman a look from Charlie that would not have shamed Old Nick himself, so full was it of doubt. ‘The question is, how far will they go afore they see they has missed us, and give up. They might set pickets out overnight.’

  ‘If there’s a bounty, Michael,’ Charlie snorted, ‘an’ there surely will be, then it is not just their pickets we need to worry on. Every bumpkin in creation will be on the watch for miles inland.’

  ‘For three tars, Charlie, remember our guise of weather tarpaulin.’

  ‘That won’t suffice if we are had up close to shore.’

  ‘No, but it is a start, Charlie, and we must find a barn or outhouse and look to steal some tools.’

  ‘What kind of tools?’ asked Rufus.

  ‘Farm stuff, or maybe the kind of shovels that will let us pass for men working to repair the roads.’ Seeing the doubt in their faces, Michael had to tell them that in his travels along the byways of the land he had seen, many a time, small parties of men, paid by the parish to keep the roads in decent repair. ‘Not that they stay free of holes, so it is permanent work that folk are obliged to do.’

  ‘Poor souls’ labour,’ opined Rufus.

  ‘Our ditty bags we must keep hidden,’ Michael added. ‘We must not be seen as travelling men.’

  They sat there until the light began to fade, the inside of the hiding place made darker by the overhead cover, eating the biscuit they had been given, grateful it was shore-made and no more than a few days old, for, lacking water or any other liquid, real hard tack would have been inedible, though it was hard to swallow, even with cheese.