Coming back on to the deck of HMS Brilliant, Midshipman Toby Burns had to stop for a moment to try and recollect where it was he was now supposed to go. If he was unsure of that, he was certain of where he did not want to be and that was the midshipman’s berth, his off-watch home during daylight hours. The last week had shattered any illusions he had about the romance of serving on a King’s ship. The images he had of glorious combat and wonderful camaraderie with like-minded fellows who knew his worth had run foul of the truth – he was stuck in a filthy hovel too small for the half dozen occupants with the foulest people he had ever met in his life, longing to get back to the safety of his night-time berth in the gunner’s quarters where he could, at least, sleep in peace.
‘Mister Burns,’ said Henry Digby, third lieutenant of the ship. ‘What did the captain say?’
‘Say, sir?’
Digby produced a half smile. ‘I do believe Mr Roscoe sent you with a message?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Burns replied, for all the world as if he was dredging up a distant memory. ‘Captain Barclay has asked that a chair be prepared for his wife to hoist her aboard.’
‘Then do you not think, young man, that it would politic to pass that message on?’ The boy blinked and nodded. ‘And might I suggest that having told the Premier of the captain’s request, you immediately ask his permission to fetch an appropriate means of conveyance from the wardroom.’
It was hard not to chastise Burns for being so slow, but then Digby was not much given to that; he could recall his own first days aboard a ship with too much clarity. Not much bigger than this sprat before him, he had entered a world of dark and forbidding strangers, but he did have in his favour the fact that he was a scrapper, always ready to fight his corner. Looking at the pallid, plump face and flaccid eyes of this mid, he suspected Burns was not.
‘I should shift on that task, Mr Burns, for if you look towards the dockyard you will observe that Mrs Barclay’s boat has just come out from beyond the jetty.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ the boy replied, and shot forward to where Roscoe was supervising the slinging of a mainmast yard. The nod of approbation that Burns got for his suggestion, really Lieutenant Digby’s, raised his spirits somewhat, it being the first he could remember, and he shot off to get the chair, as instructed. There was purpose in his step, for he was on a mission, as he barged into the wardroom.
‘Hold up there, sir!’
Holbrook, the marine lieutenant, sitting cleaning a pair of long-barrelled pistols, looked extremely indignant, not difficult for a fellow of high colour and obvious conceit. Alone among the officers he had no duties to perform and he was enjoying the rare moment of peace that afforded him.
‘I’ve come for a chair, sir.’
‘A chair sir?’ Holbrook puffed, ‘I say you by your actions you have come for a barge. Charging in here without so much as a by your leave, sir. Where were you raised with such manners?’
‘No, sir, not a barge, sir,’ Burns insisted. ‘A chair for the captain’s wife, very like the one you are sat on.’
‘Damn it if you don’t want my seat?’
Burns hopped from foot to foot, aware that perhaps Holbrook was being jocular, practising upon him rather than being genuinely angry – but he could not be certain, and if anything plagued him it was that inability to tell a jest from a threat, and that mostly in the Mid’s berth. The senior midshipman, forty if he was a day and crabbed as hell, was forever being scarifying, just like this blasted marine. Were the allusions to what might become of him one dark night when the ship was far from shore and female company just a common tease or was there some truth in it? Was the steady disappearance of the contents of his chest, so lovingly and expensively packed by his dear mother – the mention of each missing item met by his messmates with innocent incomprehension – true theft, or part of his initiation?
‘Any seat will do, sir, provided it has arms.’
‘Then sir, I shall give you a plain chair and my pistols, will that do?’ Holbrook was looking at Burns, with his popped blue eyes wide open and his expression arch, but that did not last for it was obvious that his pun, rather a fine one he thought, had quite gone over this little idiot’s head, so he yelled out, ‘Steward, a captain’s chair for Mr Burns, on deck at the double.’
‘I will take it, since I was sent to fetch it, sir.’
‘As I suspected,’ Holbrook sniffed, shaking his head. ‘Brought up in a sod-turf hovel. Well, here aboard ship we have servants, sir, and though you ain’t got much in the way of dignity you are supposed to be a young gentleman.’
The marine searched for another witticism that combined arms and chairs, which imposed a pause in which he appeared quite vacant, but somehow ‘cut to the chaise’ did not seem to fit the bill and he had to cover the flatness of the remark with a cough.
‘Servants serve, officers command, young man, which you must learn, and deuced quick! Return to the deck and your chair will be delivered to you.’
Back on deck Burns had the pleasure of saying to the First Lieutenant, ‘I have ordered a chair brought from the wardroom sir,’ which made him feel quite manly.
‘You were damned slow about it, Mr Burns,’ said Roscoe, deflating him.
‘Our boats will reach the wherry carrying your wife, sir.’
Henry Digby stood by the bulwark, telescope to his eye, even though both boats were in plain view. Everything about him seemed somehow pristine; the young face that was not yet required to shave regularly, the unblemished skin of a not unprepossessing countenance, the newness of his hat, coat and breeches.
‘Why was a boat not sent to fetch her?’
Digby stood erect to reply. ‘With respect sir, all our boats are in use, and we were not told of a time to expect her.’
‘Then tell Coyle to haul off and wait.’
‘Speaking trumpet, Mr Burns?’ said Digby. Pint-sized Burns hesitated, as though he had not heard the command. In fact he had, but had lost any notion of where the speaking trumpet might be. Digby chided him gently. ‘By the binnacle, young sir!’
The trumpet in his hand, Henry Digby delivered his orders with a force that must have been noted on shore. Emily Barclay only half-heard him, still pleased that she had not been seasick. By the time she was being helped into the chair that had been slung from a whip on the yardarm, all her fears of that part, detailed to her by a husband trying and failing to reassure her, had evaporated. On a tidal river, she had nothing to fear from her method of coming aboard.
‘Mrs Barclay,’ said Ralph, coming forward to lift her out of the chair, and speaking in a voice, gentle and kindly, the like of which few aboard had heard him use.
‘Captain Barclay,’ Emily replied, taking his proffered hand, before turning to nod towards her husband’s officers, all of whom she had previously met ashore.
‘Shall I order Coyle to come alongside, sir?’ said Digby.
‘My wife’s chest first, Mr Digby, then you may fetch our volunteers aboard. Mr Burns, be so good as to ask the surgeon…what’s his name?’
‘Mr Lutyens, sir.’
‘Ask him to come on deck.’
‘Mr Burns,’ said Emily, ‘you cannot go without greeting me, your own cousin, surely?’
Those who could see Ralph Barclay’s face, as Burns smiled and moved to take his cousin’s hand, froze in anticipation of the blast that was likely to follow. What they observed was a countenance in turmoil, as the captain’s desire not to correct his wife in public fought with the sight of one of his midshipmen disobeying a direct order.
‘You may greet your cousin, Mr Burns,’ Barclay growled, ‘then you will fetch the surgeon.’
Burns’ handshake was perfunctory in the extreme, and he shot off the deck as though a pack of hounds were after him, narrowly avoiding being crowned by the chest of his female cousin that was being dropped towards the deck.
As they lay off the ship the crew moved amongst the men they had pressed, quietly releasing them from their bonds. Pearce had noticed as they rowed downriver, that whenever he caught the eye of one of the sailors and glared at them, he had been gifted with a look that he could only describe as disinterested, as though, having completed their brutal act they had put that behind them, behaving now with an attitude that was totally at odds with their previous violence. As to his fellow captives, some were looking around them with an air that had about it a hint of optimism, and it occurred to Pearce that if they were denizens of the Liberties, living on the edge of the abyss of destitution or arrest, there would be one or two in this boat who might welcome the change. They would certainly take it in preference to the other alternative to freedom – a debtor’s gaol.
Rubbing his bloodless hands, Pearce sat up enough to see over the side of the boat, and with the prow pointing right towards a vessel, one of the dozens anchored within sight, he guessed it to be their destination. The ship lay low in the water, surrounded by boats of various sizes, all occupied in loading their cargoes onto the deck. Black from fresh paint, he calculated her as not much more than a hundred feet long, broad on the waterline, narrower at deck level. Three-masted, with a long blue pennant flying in the middle, the tall sticks were crossed with poles he knew to be called yards, and they had on them tightly rolled canvas and men working on ropes. He reflected on that bit of knowledge – the name of a yard was something a young man learnt early when his father talked often about the iniquity of hanging.
‘What is it?’ asked the dark-haired fellow who had been pulled out of the Thames the night before, shivering in a long linen shirt that was still very damp.
‘Jesus, can you not see it’s a ship,’ said O’Hagan, a remark that earned him a glare that rendered that innocent looking face tetchy.
‘I do believe they are known by their guns,’ said Pearce, who had spent more time looking at the distance between boat and shore than at any of the anchored vessels. ‘And I can count twelve ports on this side, which means the same on the other.’
‘Small then,’ added O’Hagan. ‘I have heard they go as high as a hundred.’
‘Matters not,’ said the youth, with another shiver. ‘I shan’t be there long.’
‘Want a wager on that, mate?’ asked Kemp, who had heard every word.
There was petulance once more. ‘You cannot just take up whosoever you choose.’
‘Can’t we now?’ hooted Kemp. ‘Lest you have a certificate in your breeches, Admiralty signed, which says plain, and has not been ruined and the ink run by your dip in the river, that you is exempt by trade or profession, then you be looking at your new home.’
The young jaw moved but no sound emerged, because Cornelius Ghershon was thinking that, with the need to protest to someone with the power to get him released, he was somewhat short on candidates to provide the favour. The only people he could think of were friends to Alderman Denby Carruthers, the man who had set out to murder him by chucking him off London Bridge. If Carruthers ever found out that he had not drowned there was no certainty that he would not try again. Besides, he was bereft of clothes.
‘I shall have words with the captain,’ Ghershon said finally, though without much conviction.
‘Shouldn’t if I were you,’ said a light, wafting voice. ‘It would be a crying shame to have Barclay take the edge off such a pretty face.’
‘Aye, aye,’ crowed another sailor. ‘Molly’s picked him out already.’
‘Goin’ to show him golden bolt, Molly?’ called a third, which was immediately followed by one of the boat crew breaking into song.
‘Was in the aft hold where a sailor made bold, and showed me his ring a ding-ding.’
Half the crew took up the refrain. ‘You can call me Nancy it’s you that I fancy, and joy to you I will bring.’
‘Stow it you lot,’ yelled Coyle, ‘This is no time for chanting.’
Pearce, Michael O’Hagan and Cornelius Ghershon exchanged a look, in which it was clear that two of them understood the meaning of the song, while Ghershon seemingly did not. There was no time to explain as Coyle, in response to hail from the ship, added another shout ‘Bend to your oars,’ he cried, and all three found themselves falling over as the crew sent the boat lunging towards the ship. Pearce forgot about the sailor’s joshing – he was too aware of the pain as the blood began to fill limbs that had been starved by the ropes that had so recently been removed. But it was nowhere near as hurtful as the words Coyle shouted as the boat came alongside.
‘No need for bonds now, boys. You belong to King and Country as soon as you step on that there deck. So get off your arse and get up that there gangplank.’
‘Mind your cursing, Coyle,’ called Lieutenant Digby, who was leaning over the side. ‘There is a lady on deck.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Coyle, touching his forelock, but Pearce noted that the respect in his voice was not mirrored on that bright red face.
Glancing at the others he had been taken up with, mostly bent and beaten in the very way they held themselves, Pearce determined he would not give Barclay, if the bastard was aboard, the satisfaction of seeing him in distress. Painful as it was, he used his hands to make less of a mess of his hair, retied the queue that had somehow survived the journey and employed his sleeve to wipe most of the accumulated grime off his face.
‘Getting yourself up for a parade?’ asked O’Hagan.
Kemp pushed both men on to the green, slippery, water-lashed platform at the base of the gangplank, admonishing them to ‘step aboard right foot to the fore, to save cursing the barky.’
Emily, about to exit the deck, turned when the first of the ‘volunteers’ shuffled through the gangway, each one rubbing his hands and wrists, and clearly in pain, a few eyes lifting in wonder, as she had herself, at the height of those great masts, seen close up, a sort of collective murmur seeming to envelop them. The third one in the group did not look up, he looked aft to where she was standing, cloak half-open and hood now lowered in the lee of the poop, hair rustling in what breeze remained, and for no reason other than accident their eyes locked for a couple of seconds.
Pearce had a keen eye for a pretty woman, and the one he was looking at now was most certainly that, unblemished skin pink from the cold air, even features in a sweet oval face, clear green eyes, straight nose and a full-lipped mouth, slightly open, that was to him like an invitation to a kiss. For a moment it was as if the last twenty-four hours had not happened – he was free from pursuit or capture, back in a world where the sudden sight of a beautiful female brought forth the thrill of the chase. He was halfway to framing the words of an introduction when Barclay stepped forward.
‘How dare you, scum, stare at my wife!’ the captain cried, cuffing Pearce hard round the ear. The object of Barclay’s anger just had time to register the shock on that lovely face before the force of the blow turned his head away.
The sight of that piece of casual brutality, and the way that the victim took it without vocal complaint, made Emily look at all the men shuffling aboard, not murmuring now but silent and fearful. She knew that her knowledge of ships and the sea was limited, really no more than common gossip mingled with what she had seen at tented raree-shows when a fairground was set up on the nearby common. But she was aware, for the very first time in her life, she was looking at men who had been press-ganged into the Navy.
Raised to deplore a thing of which she had only heard in whispers, Emily fought to compose her features, knowing that what sympathy she might have for the plight of such creatures was not to be shown. She was the wife of a naval captain and must behave like one.
‘You are Mr Lutyens, the surgeon?’
The surgeon nodded, as Ralph Barclay tried to recall what little he knew of this fellow: short of stature, bright-eyed and pointy-nosed, with a startled expression, he was certainly singular. Very well connected apparently, of a sober disposition, and from a proper medical school, Lutyens was an unusual cove to find in a Navy more accustomed to men better at being barbers than mendicants – and quite often serious drunkards. So well qualified was this Lutyens that if he were to serve in the fleet at all, it should have been in some flagship with an admiral and a spacious sickbay. Apparently he had declined just such an offer, asking instead for a frigate, which made Ralph Barclay suspect there was something not right about him. It mattered little; here was another person he was not at liberty to choose – the Sick and Hurt Board provided his warrant and attested to his competence.
‘Then let me welcome you aboard, sir, though I would appreciate more despatch when I ask that you attend the deck, especially in circumstances when we are obliged to weigh anchor with haste.’
‘I was asked to clean and bandage a wound, I believe from a sailor who was with you last night.’
‘It is customary, Mr Lutyens, to allow the captain of a King’s ship the courtesy of sir.’
‘Then, sir, far be it from me to contravene a custom.’
‘I have acquired some volunteers,’ Barclay added, ignoring a response that bordered on the facetious, though disconcerted by the way this fellow, with his protruding eyes, continued to stare at him, as if he was a needy patient. ‘Naturally they must be passed fit for service.’
Lutyens turned towards the men lined up on the fore part of the quarterdeck, backs to the rail that surrounded the waist, a group of sorry looking specimens in damp clothing made to look more depressed by the evidence of the blows they had received. Behind them stood members of the crew, faces set firm, clearly there to stamp on any temptation to talk or protest.
‘This fellow also needs his wound cleaned,’ Lutyens said, as he stood in front of Charlie Taverner, the only one of the men who had bled copiously enough to stain his clothing, though there were bruises, scratches, black eyes and split lips in abundance.
‘You may treat him as soon as he is entered on the ship’s muster, Mr Lutyens. The King’s Navy is not a charity foundation. What is vital is to ensure these fellows do not introduce any fevers to the ship. We will be at sea very shortly and who knows what ailments these creatures have been exposed to in the gutters from which they come.’
‘Then if I am to be sure they are free of ailments, sir, they must strip off their clothing.’
Ralph Barclay reacted with a weary sigh. ‘Mr Lutyens, be so good as to pass fit what men are fit. I have always observed others of your profession carried this out with a look at the eyes, an examination of the tongue and a quick check for venereals.’
That statement coincided with the moment Lutyens reached the end of the line of twenty souls, where he found himself looking into the eyes of one fellow who had a very defined spark of real defiance. Pearce was seething – even unbound he felt like a prisoner, and to be stood here like some exhibit in a travelling show was worse. That arbitrary cuff from Barclay as he had come aboard, so casual, dragging him from reverie back to reality, accepted by everyone around as within the captain’s prerogative, just served to underline his situation, and he was not prepared to hide his mood to correspond to the benign look of the man before him.
‘A proper examination requires the patient to strip.’
‘They are not patients, Mr Lutyens,’ Barclay sighed, ‘they are hands. However you may request that they remove any outer garments and their shirts. The unbuttoning of their breeches will suffice for the rest.’
Seeing Barclay in daylight, Pearce was struck by the man’s appearance. The uniform gave him a presence that commanded those around him – blue cutaway coat with twin gold epaulettes, the snow-white waistcoat and breeches and a face that perhaps had once been fetching. Now it had a puffy quality, and the veins on his cheeks were broken, either by exposure to the elements or a love of the bottle.
‘If that is what you wish,’ the surgeon replied testily, ‘but they risk suffering from cold.’
Pearce thought this Lutyens an odd fish, pale complexion, popping eyes, a prow of a nose even if it was small, a high forehead topped by fine ginger-curled hair. The voice was strange too – it had a rolling quality on the consonants that seemed to imply it was not the surgeon’s native tongue. And why was the bastard smiling at him, as though they shared a friendship?
‘The men will get used to the elements soon enough, Mr Lutyens,’ Barclay replied. ‘Best they find out now that what the Good Lord wills us in the way of weather has to be borne.’
‘Coats off, you swabs,’ barked Coyle, coming up on Pearce’s left ear, ‘as the good doctor wants, shirts an’ all.’ His voice dropped to a whisper as he spoke, for he, close to the ‘volunteers’, had seen the fury on the bruised face, which if anything had deepened at the command to strip. ‘Now we can do this hard, mate, if’n that what you desire. But it will be done, so it best be done with a will.’
Glancing along the line Pearce saw that half the men, nudged and goaded by the crew members, had already begun to obey the command, though not without some vocal complaint. Within seconds those who had hesitated were forced to follow, each man obeying an injunction to place what he discarded at his feet. For him to rebel would be to single himself out, and that would have only one consequence. He knew enough about the Navy from hearsay and conversations with ex-sailors to be aware just how often the men who served were punished.
‘I promise my examination will be brief, fellow,’ said Lutyens, still with that smile which annoyed Pearce. ‘Then you can get dressed again.’
Barclay’s voice boomed out again. ‘Mr Farmiloe, take possession of the volunteers’ outer garments as they discard them, coats and the like, those they will no longer need. As they are sworn in I want them, as well as any possessions they may wish to place below, listed and then stored safely.’
That had Pearce doubly damning himself for his lack of foresight – he should have guessed that he and his money could be parted. Yet even as he cursed he knew that an opportunity to do anything about it was as lacking now as it had since he had been taken up and his hands bound – the last thing he needed to do was to draw public attention to what he possessed. Mind blank for a solution he unbuttoned the coat and slipped it off, followed by his waistcoat and his shirt. He felt the damp that had permeated his outer garments, and penetrated through to the linen, which made the wind doubly biting on his exposed skin.
‘Any chance of getting off?’ O’Hagan asked the ship’s surgeon. Leaning close to Pearce’s right ear, he added, ‘I have a craving for a drop of ale to ease the ache in my head.’
If Lutyens heard the Irishman he did not respond. He lifted Pearce’s arms, poked his chest, and prodded his belly, while Pearce looked along the line of semi-naked individuals shivering in the biting wind. Beyond that, the shoreline was visible, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, a row of low yellow-brick houses backing on to a flat featureless island, as well as, in between, a dozen anchored ships of war, some huge, with dozens of gunports, others tiny enough hardly to qualify for the title of ship. Looking over his shoulder he realised there was land even closer, a marsh by the look of, so flat as to be almost invisible, and between this ship and that shore, far fewer boats. In between was a river mouth leading to another clutch of huddled houses, wide, busy, and with a castle visible on the left hand shore.
Could he swim to the nearest land, and if so what would the men on those ships between him and the shore do? They would scarce let him float by, and even if they did, what would he find to aid him on land? Probably there was a whole raft of folk who would turn him in for a reward, and that after robbing him of anything he possessed. Turning back, he became aware that O’Hagan was looking at him hopefully, that the question he had posed was serious. Pearce slowly shook his head, at the same time wondering why the Irishman was seeking his opinion.
The surgeon barely looked at Pearce as he obliged with an outstretched tongue, nor when he undid he breeches, and as soon as he had satisfied himself regarding whatever it was he was looking for he simply said, ‘Get dressed’, and moved on to the next victim.
‘Breeches, shirt and waistcoat, mate,’ said Coyle, grabbing Pearce’s coat from his hand as he tried to reclaim it. ‘That’s all you’ll need. An’ we’ll be having your shoes and stockings as well.’
‘There’s something of value in that coat,’ Pearce growled, not willing to say it was a purse or what it contained.
Coyle lifted the garment and felt the very obvious weight, nodding his head in recognition. ‘Which be safe as houses, mate, you heard the captain, whatever it be. There ain’t a man Jack aboard who don’t have something of worth stowed in the holds, so you can rest easy, you ain’t fallen among a bunch of thieves.’
‘So taking a man’s liberty is not thieving?’ Pearce demanded, far from reassured.
Coyle came close again, his red face only an inch from Pearce’s, his voice soft, almost supplicant. ‘Take my advice, mate, an’ accept what can’t be altered. And don’t go being the smart tongue ’board ship either, ’cause that will only get you trouble.’
‘Cough.’
Lutyens command to O’Hagan cut off Pearce’s response; besides Coyle had turned away. The Irishman cleared his throat of phlegm, as if he was going to spit. Coyle was ahead of him.
‘Let fly with that in view of the captain, and you’ll be the first to the grating on this commission.’
They all ended up much the same by the time the surgeon had finished his examination, shivering with cold, eager to end their semi-nakedness, aware that comments were being made about them by the crew working close by without being actually able to hear what was being said, only that it was belittling. By the time he reached the last man the surgeon had identified one case of the pox and pronounced one fellow as unfit for duty due to some ailment to do with his groin, but that was no recipe for release, since Barclay merely pointed out that in doing so Mr Lutyens had found himself a loblolly boy to assist in the sick bay. As to the pox Barclay reckoned there would be more than one fellow aboard who had that ailment, and since the surgeon earned a fee for treating the disease, he should be pleased.
‘Right, Mr Roscoe,’ called the captain, ‘let’s get them sworn in.’
That was a true farce, as, forced into a shuffling line, the required oath of allegiance to King George, his heirs and successors was read out to each man, any attempt to protest age or occupation as an excuse for release so quickly silenced that those bringing up the rear, the party who shared a boat with Pearce, declined to even try. Each man was told by Barclay, in a piece of hypocrisy even more staggering, that, in volunteering, he was entitled to a bounty of five pounds sterling, a sum which would be entered against his name to help pay for those things he would need throughout the voyage.
‘I’d prefer any money owing to be given out to me,’ said Abel Scrivens, when his turn came.
‘Mark this man’s name, Mr Roscoe,’ said Barclay, disdaining to even look at Scrivens. ‘Should he fail to show the respect due to an officer again I will see him gagged for a week.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Scrivens was grabbed and hustled to the back of the line.
Watching these proceedings gave Pearce plenty of time to think and observe. He noticed that the surgeon had taken up a position close by and was jotting in a small notebook as each man gave his name, which was worrying. What was the purpose of such scribbling? Whatever, it made him decide not to gift anyone his own. But he was damned if he was going to lie and refused to give any: this the Navy was clearly quite used to and was taken care of by the making up of a name to be entered into a ledger, in his case John Truculence, and the entering by that name of a cross.
Ralph Barclay stared hard at Pearce as he read him the oath. His look was returned in full measure, which made him wonder at the nature of the man. That cuff he had meted out for staring at his wife should have seen the fellow cowed, but he was far from that. He was well set, tall, with good broad shoulders and no fat at the waist. The legs were strong too, and the look in the eye denoted intelligence, in every sense the kind of physical specimen Ralph Barclay had set out to find. Yet he was possibly more – the fear of having inadvertently taken up someone well connected resurfaced, but this fellow, for all the glare of defiance, gave no name, made no protest nor demanded to be set on shore or taken before a Justice of the Peace.
Taken from the Liberties there was a distinct possibility of some criminality in his background, greater than mere indebtedness. No matter, whatever he was in life, he had ideas above his new station. That they would be knocked out of him – either painfully or by persuasion – was beyond doubt. If he had too sharp a tongue he could be gagged, too rebellious a personality, then he would find himself stapled to the deck for a day or more; and finally there was the lash, which would most certainly teach him his place. Nonetheless Ralph Barclay was reinforced in his opinion that he was perhaps one to keep a special eye on.
Barclay’s ruminations on Pearce had to be put aside as Gherson, the last to be sworn, demanded that he should be sent ashore immediately: he was a person of means who had powerful friends who would miss his presence. This, because of his unconvincing delivery, the lack of any kind of name when challenged, and his present state of dress, bedraggled and shoeless, was treated as a general joke around the ship, which had the surgeon scribbling furiously in his little book, so furiously that he attracted the attention of the captain, which led Lutyens to cough and blush, and put his notebook in his pocket.
Once they had all been listed, Ralph Barclay produced papers and began to read. ‘By the powers vested in me by the Lord Commissioners executing the office of Lord High Admiral of Great Britain, I hereby inform all who have volunteered to serve their King in this, his vessel, do so under the provisions of the Articles of War, which promulgated by said body, are as follows…’
The list was long, offence after offence, a worrying number ending with the admonition that the punishment for breaking that particular statute, cowardice in the face of the enemy, failure to obey an order, sleeping while on duty, striking a superior, sodomy, bestiality and mutiny, was death. All other punishments for gambling, drinking, insubordination, lese majesty, fighting, slacking, poor seamanship, sitting on the deck and ten dozen other offences were punishable at the captain’s discretion.
When he said those words, ‘the captain’s discretion’, Barclay looked up from his reading, giving them all a look in turn so that they would know what it meant; that he was the sole judge and jury in these matters; his word was law. Barclay met the look of irritation that the man entered as John Truculence threw him and held it for a moment before discounting it; he would learn soon enough that to display such obvious belligerence was unadvisable. Barclay finished with the words, ‘anyone disobeying the aforesaid does so at their peril’.
That ceremony concluded, the whole party was finally led below, with the voice of Barclay following them down the companionway. ‘We have had enough larking about for one day, Mr Roscoe, and enough of a show. Get the hands back to a proper rate of work. Then, when I am ready, you can join me in my cabin to sort out the watches.’
‘Some King’s bounty,’ Abel Scrivens complained, ‘given with one hand and damn well taken away with the other.’
‘Happen you should go back up and tell him, Abel,’ said Ben Walker.
‘I’ve a damn good mind to do just that, Ben,’ Scrivens grunted. ‘There’s no fair dealing when coin is offered and then taken back.’
The remark brought forth a chorus of agreement from the whole assembly, a steady growl that obviously emboldened Abel Scrivens because, in a piqued voice, he began a litany of complaints about being cold, being near naked, starving hungry and thirsty, that took the accompanying noise from a collective rumble to the beginnings of a collective wail. Pearce was paying little attention – he was looking along the deck, at the wooden tables in between the guns, each bearing a variety of objects, bits of clothing, quids of tobacco, knives, baulks of wood and the like – things that could be used as weapons. More enticing still, in front of those guns the ports were open, leaving a possible route of escape.
Escape to what – the river or the boats lying off the ship’s side? Either would do if he could get away, though the thought did nag him that the loss of his purse was, for obvious reasons, a real hindrance. Both to the front and rear men were working, paying the newly pressed men no heed, helping to lower articles through the hatches to some point further down in the ship, so Pearce began to ease himself forward, heading for the nearest gunport, unnoticed by the men listening to Scrivens. The beams on this deck were too low for him to walk upright, and here he had his first whiff of a smell that pervaded everything aboard ship, one he recalled from two crossings of the English Channel, the rotten egg stink of bilge water mixed with the odour of damp wood, topped by the reek of animals and unwashed humanity.
‘Belay that damned noise,’ barked a new voice, which shut up Scrivens and his audience as if they were a bunch of errant children. ‘And you,’ he demanded of Pearce, ‘where the hell do you think you’re goin’? Get back with the rest.’
With no choice but to oblige, Pearce did so, glaring at the speaker, a bear of a fellow with a barrel chest, huge shoulders, little neck and a round, large, crop-haired head which rendered small what were decentsized features. ‘I am Robert Sykes, Bosun of His Majesty’s twenty-eight gun frigate, HMS Brilliant. Just to prove we ain’t true bastards, the captain has agreed to feed you, even though the hour for breakfast is long passed.’
Charlie Taverner responded with a slight jab at Pearce’s shoulder, one that implied a friendship they truly did not share. ‘Thank Christ for that, I ain’t had a bite since I nicked a bit of your cheese last night, John Pearce.’
The fierce look that earned him was enough to make Taverner flush, for he had been close enough to hear Pearce refuse to volunteer his name to the officer swearing them in. He must have indeed overheard him when he gave it to O’Hagan. There was no doubt that the bosun had noted it now, because he gave a slight nod.
Kemp, who had come down as well, tapped off four of the group, Rufus among them, and ordered them to follow him, while Sykes told the rest to sit at some of the mess tables. As they did so the surgeon walked by, stopped, then stood several feet away, his eyes ranging over the whole group. He was followed by another officer, who stood before them with the air of a man about to make a speech, which he promptly did when Kemp and his quartet returned with lumps of bread and cheese.
‘I am Lieutenant Digby, third of this ship, HMS Brilliant.’ Digby paused to let that sink in, before adding, ‘The method by which you have come to serve aboard this vessel is to none of you pleasant, but serve you must, for after taking the oath on deck you are subject to the Articles of War, and those articles do not allow for any insubordination. Do not, whatever you do, seek to fight the system of discipline aboard this ship, for I warn you that retribution will be swift and unpleasant. You will all be given a number and be assigned to a watch, of which there will be two once we weigh anchor, and you will be allotted duties to perform by Mr Sykes here, who as the bosun is responsible for training you up to your work. Without doubt this world you have entered will be strange, as will the tasks you will be asked to carry out, but in time you will learn enough to make you proper members of the crew.’
‘Orders from Mr Roscoe, sir,’ piped Burns, coming down the stairwell. ‘He requires the new hands to be put to work immediately on the forward derrick.’
A deep frown creased the lieutenant’s face – it was clearly an order he did not welcome.
‘Wait here,’ Digby said, making to go up past the little midshipman, before he was halted by the surgeon’s voice.
‘Lieutenant Digby,’ said Lutyens. ‘I do believe the Captain said I could attend to the man with the blood wound.’
‘Of course.’ Digby looked at Charlie Taverner, demanding his name. ‘Go with Mr Lutyens.’
Roscoe was on the quarterdeck, in an old working coat, his lopsided face a picture of the kind of frustration that seemed to be the hallmark of a First Lieutenant. Though it was an office he coveted, Henry Digby was well aware that it was, in naval terms, and given the wrong type of commanding officer, the proverbial poisoned chalice. As Premier to a taut captain like Ralph Barclay you got scant praise and all the blame that was going if things went wrong. So the lack of a smiling countenance was hardly surprising.
‘Sir,’ Digby said, lifting his hat to a look of indifference. ‘These new fellows have not even been shown the layout of the ship, I…’
Roscoe cut across him. ‘Perhaps Mr Digby, with my permission, you can go to the captain and explain why the holds are not yet stowed. We are under orders to weigh, we still have stores coming aboard, and that does not allow for indulgence. Be so good as to obey the instruction you have been given. And might I suggest that someone who knows how to drive them, Kemp perhaps, be detailed to that duty, for they will not work with a will unless they are made to.’
‘Sir,’ Digby replied, because there was no other option.
Backside on a wooden chest, being attended to by the surgeon, Charlie Taverner was left to wonder how Lutyens had come by the title, for he had not received it for tenderness.
‘This particular herbal curative is called Melissengeist, and is of German provenance, made by the nuns of a particular Rhineland abbey. The ingredients are secret, unlike the effect, which can be remarkable when used on a wound.’
If Lutyens had bothered to look into the face of Charlie Taverner, he might have had some notion of how ham-fisted he was being. Every time he jabbed at the wound on his patient’s head, Charlie winced, though he kept himself from emitting any sound. On deck, the man Lutyens had already treated in a like manner, who also had broken skin on his crown, a quarter gunner by the name of Dysart, was warning his fellow crew members that their new surgeon, ‘was as close to a sorcerer as he had ever seen, with his strange reeking foreign potions, as well as bein’ a heavy handed bugger’.
‘Charlie Taverner,’ Lutyens said.
Though it was not a question, Taverner answered in the positive.
‘You’re not a seaman?’ the surgeon asked.
‘My you are the quick one, your honour,’ Charlie responded, eyebrows raised, eyes twinkling, thinking that it was a daft question. ‘You’ve gone and seen me for what I really am, a proper gent.’ Lutyens just looked at Charlie, as he added, ‘Hard as I tried to hide it.’
‘You choose to be jocose?’
‘I might if’n I knew what it meant.’
‘What was your occupation?’
‘How does grave robber sound? Bet you, being a medical cove, has bought a few corpses in your time.’
‘I have, and I doubt they came from you, for robbing graves is hardly necessary when so many cadavers can be had from the streets or the river. So what was your true employment?’
‘Let’s just say this and that, your honour. Obliging Charlie Taverner they called me. You wanted something done, I was there to do it.’
‘No trade then?’
‘None that warrants the name.’
The surgeon was looking at him in an odd way, unblinkingly, like a cat would look at a caged bird, which served to remind Charlie of what he had temporarily forgotten – where he was and why.
‘Are any of the others come aboard your friends?’
‘One or two,’ Charlie replied, more guardedly.
‘Anyone in particular – that fellow who refused to give his true name perhaps?’
Charlie positively spat, ‘No.’
Lutyens sighed, as if frustrated, seemed set to pose another question – then thought better of it. ‘You are done. You may join your fellows on the upper deck.’
‘Where would that be?’
It was pleasing to see the man hesitate for just a second – evidence that he was not himself certain. ‘Just keep ascending the stepways, until you are in daylight.’
Charlie Taverner walked out, barging into a slip of a boy with two black eyes and a very swollen nose, waiting to be attended to. He recognised him as one of the party who had come first into the Pelican, and who, slipping out, had no doubt been the messenger to those outside to say that it was safe to raid. Clearly he had taken part in what followed and got clobbered for his trouble – now he had come to see the surgeon to have his nose repaired. Charlie, with a deft yet sharp use of the elbow, made sure it was bleeding again before the boy entered the sick bay, and he proceeded jauntily away from the stream of muffled curses that followed the blow.
The sight of the captain, with a woman clearly his lady on his arm, was enough to make him produce a show of haste.
Ralph Barclay had no time for this, showing his wife the layout of the ship – but it was a necessary courtesy. Heads bent under the low beams, he pointed out the various cabins, really tiny screened-off cubicles, occupied by the various petty officers, pleased as he pulled back each piece of canvas which served as a door to find them empty; that meant the occupant was busy, going about his duties.
‘This is the home of the ship’s surgeon, Mr Lutyens.’
That screen, pulled back, showed a boy sat on a chest with his head held back, while the surgeon sought to stem the copious flow of blood emanating from his nose.
‘My dear,’ said Barclay, seeking to shield his wife from the sight.
‘I have seen blood before, husband. My brothers seem to be able to get into all sorts of scrapes. I would be blessed indeed if I had a guinea for every nosebleed or scraped knee I have attended to.’
‘Mr Lutyens, allow me to introduce you to my wife.’
Lutyens shoved a piece of tow under Martin Dent’s nose, then looked at his blood-covered mitts. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Barclay, if I do not shake your hand.’
Emily smiled and nodded. ‘I understand, sir, and acknowledge your consideration.’ Then she looked at the boy on the chest. ‘And you are?’ Martin Dent responded with his name, but indistinctly, through blood and tow. ‘And how did you come by this?’
‘Won o’ ’em biggers we took up lass night.’
Ralph Barclay cut in quickly. ‘A blow taken in the line of duty, my dear, which I suggest would benefit from our leaving Mr Lutyens to attend to it.’
Lutyens gave a slight bow, but thanks to Barclay’s hustling, it was to the female back. ‘And now we come to the domain of the gunner, my dear.’
Emily tried to take in everything her husband said about the danger of gunpowder and explosions, of hanging magazines, fear nought screens that were wetted before a battle, men having to enter the magazine in felt slippers and no light to see by excepting that which came from a lantern shielded by glass, but it was all delivered at such a pace she was sure she only got the half of it.
‘It is one of the most important keys I hold, my dear, and one of the most precious resources on the ship, for if the gunner does not properly carry out his duties, we would be helpless in a sea fight.’ Another screen was pulled back, to reveal a plump middle-aged lady, sewing a piece of canvas by lantern-light. ‘Ah, Mrs Railton, allow me to name my wife to you. My dear, this is the gunner’s wife, the only other lady aboard the ship, who amongst other things, looks after the younger mids at night.’
The woman was up quickly, surprisingly so given her bulk, for on her feet she was as broad as she was high: that wasn’t much; her head missed the beams by several inches.
‘And I have duties to perform, my dear, which cannot wait,’ Barclay added, clearly eager to be off. Emily, having found a woman to talk to, was less keen.
‘Am I at liberty to find my own way back to your cabin?’
Barclay, head already bent, came lower to kiss her hand. ‘It is now our cabin, my dear, and of course you are at liberty to go anywhere you choose’. He added, as he departed, ‘Though I would caution against going anywhere near the holds.’
‘Mrs Railton,’ said Emily, turning back to the gunner’s wife, round red face, lowered so that she did not meet Emily’s eye.
A curtsy, then a soft, ‘Ma’am.’
Looking around the confined space, which could be no more than ten feet by four, Emily tried to imagine how this lady slept in it, never mind her husband and God knew how many others. Lost for a compliment, she said, ‘Snug, very snug.’
‘Ma’am.’
‘How many boys do you care for?’
Finally their eyes met. ‘Only one, ma’am. Mr Burns.’
Emily was about to say, ‘Who is my nephew,’ but Mrs Railton’s guarded look stopped her. At ease herself in conversation with strangers, Emily was acutely aware when others were not, and what followed was an embarrassed silence.
‘I daresay you have many duties awaiting your attention.’
‘Ma’am.’ Was the only reply she got, but the slight hunch of the shoulders spoke more of, ‘leave me in peace’.
‘Well, when I have found my feet we shall talk Mrs Railton, for all of this is very new to me, and I am sure I can trust a fellow member of my sex to advise me of the dos and don’ts of life aboard ship.’
‘Ma’am.’
‘Captain Barclay’s cabin is right back that way?’ Emily said, pointing towards the stern. A sharp nod was the response.