Sauntering up to the deck, Charlie Taverner was cursed for being slow, then instructed to join his fellow Pelicans, employed to take on water. This was being pumped on board through a canvas hose from a square-shaped vessel alongside into barrels knocked up by the ship’s coopers, the fluid acting to seal the wood as it expanded. Topped, they were hauled up high on a derrick then swung over a hatchway, to be lowered down at the command of the seaman overseeing the operation.
Down in the hold those barrels had to be stacked and wedged. Given the spillage of water from barrels as yet imperfectly sealed, as well as what leaked from the filling, they were allotted a spell at the pumps, then taken on to a windlass, hauling on bars to lift out of the bowels of the ship everything from sails to spars, nets full of shot, powder for the gunner and a barrel of salted pork for the cook. Ordered to the quarterdeck they were cursed for not having any notion of where that lay. But during that endless morning they learnt not only that station, but also the name of the other decks as well as the parts of the ship: the foredeck at the bows, the maindeck below which ran the length of the ship. The orlop deck lay below the main-deck, a dim place of small cabins, and further down yet were the dark, damp and smelly holds, where spells of work were curtailed due to the foulness of the air, and where the squeak of a rat was never far away, nor the scurrying run of a cockroach over bare feet. Sometimes a glint of a rodent eye would be reflected in the guttering lantern light by which they worked.
There was livestock to haul aboard; some more sheep and a pair of snorting pigs to add to the cattle, goat and chickens already on the ship. Soon their hands, with the exception of those who had laboured before, began to blister, for almost everything they were engaged in involved hauling work on a rope, the rough tarred strands of which worked on untried skin that went from red raw to a white swelling that eventually burst to reveal a running fluid and a tender pink layer that would eventually bleed. Those ordering them about were numerous, and as confusing in their titles as they were in their speech.
There were Carpenter’s mates, Gunner’s mates, Yeomen of this, that and the other, Midshipmen the likes of little Mr Burns who, short and young as he was, had the power to lord it over them. One or two termed midshipmen looked older than Rufus Dommet, while another, with a barking voice and a manner modelled on that of the captain, seemed of quite advanced years. There was a marine officer, his sergeant and corporal, and that was before they got to the purser, the master and his mates, the commissioned officers and the captain himself. As Michael O’Hagan observed, there were ‘many around to issue instruction’, and ‘precious few to undertake the toil’, which was ‘much the same as digging a ship canal or a sewer’.
Pearce was more concerned by the constant presence of authority than anything he was ordered to do, which allowed him no time to probe – the slightest attempt to detach himself, to find a place to hide prior to a search for a way off the ship was thwarted by whoever had charge of them. He had to content himself with a study of the various personalities, given that knowledge of them might have a bearing on any future opportunity.
Sykes, the barrel-chested bosun, was one who stood out as a man respected and competent, for he had a voice to match his build and what seemed a need to be everywhere at once, chiding, goading, pointing, barking and occasionally cursing not just the newcomers, but the sluggishness of men who were clearly bred to the sea. But his strictures were taken without much in the way of resentment, so Pearce reckoned Sykes was a man for whom the crew had a degree of respect. Was he the type to turn a blind eye to a pressed man trying to run?
With Kemp, the rat-faced sod who had brought them downriver, there existed no doubt – nothing could be attempted while he was close, which was too often. Either by command or choice, Pearce knew not which, Kemp had decided that it was his task to cajole and discipline those he had helped take out of the Pelican, and his grating voice was a near-constant, as was the way he swung the rattan cane that seemed grafted to his right hand.
There was not much in the way of conversation, and not just because it was discouraged. Most of the twenty souls were as much strangers to each other as they were to the men who had been aboard when they arrived. Charlie Taverner made the odd joke, some disparaging aside on the men who ordered them about, but he was not the cheerful scallywag of the previous night – he was as watchful as Pearce, absorbing what lay around him with a view to exploiting what he learnt.
As the tide slackened Pearce noticed the exposed mud banks left behind on that low marshy island. Was that helpful, shortening the distance he would need to swim, or would cloying mud of an unknown depth be worse than water? There were those numerous supply boats that came towards the ship from all different directions. If he could get aboard one, and always assuming the assistance of those manning it – a very big leap of faith – it mattered what route they took back to their landing place. Directly and over water to the point where they picked up their stores was no good – what point was there setting foot ashore on a busy quay – he needed something that shaved a quiet strip of land close enough for him to wade ashore.
Two other things caught his eye; first, the little fish-faced surgeon was a nuisance. He seemed to be forever close to where he and his fellow Pelicans were working, trying to pretend indifference while surreptitiously jotting in his notebook when something took his interest. The other was the captain’s wife, allowed for a brief period to walk on the deck just in front of the cabin, wrapped in the same cloak, the wind ruffling those strands of her auburn hair not contained by pins and bows. There was a hunger in the look Pearce gave her, not because she represented a means of escape, but more that she was a sign of normality, a symbol that there was a world beyond the confines of these wooden walls, one that he was certain he would return to. He longed to make contact with her, aware that it was as much her unavailability as her beauty that created so powerful a desire. What was her voice like: would she smile or frown to be approached and subjected to a show of gallantry? That she was another man’s wife mattered not at all – in the world John Pearce had left behind in Paris that was a spur to dalliance, not a hindrance. That she was wife to the captain who had pressed him made her irresistible.
Michael O’Hagan spoke softly in his ear. ‘I would look elsewhere, John-boy, if I were you, for you have had one clout on that account already. And if I can see the direction of your gaze so can others.’
It was good advice, so Pearce dragged his thinking from consideration of Barclay’s wife to contemplation of those with whom he was working. Would escape be easier as a group than as an individual? It was a repeat of the situation that had faced them all in the Pelican. Could a situation arise where the same tactic could be employed, enough numbers to overwhelm those trying to stop them? Looking at them toiling, sizing up each one, he felt he had to disregard those he had not met, and concentrate on the men in whose company he had been taken up.
Rufus Dommet was a disappointment. As an apprentice, a letter to his old employer would release him from the ship, and he had the right to demand that contact be made. But the skinny ginger-haired youth had no wish to go back to either the tyrant or the trade to which he was bonded, and claimed to have always had, ‘a half-sort of hankering for the sea’. His attitude was one of outright curiosity combined with a natural cack-handedness that made Pearce wonder how he had ever held down his apprenticeship, or been tolerated by those with whom he had made his living on the riverbank.
Ben Walker was actually whistling while he worked, which got him, in a brief moment when no one was in earshot to command silence, a barbed comment from Charlie Taverner.
‘What the hell ’ave you got to be so cheerful about?’
‘Happen you don’t remember what I said about Chelsea Barracks, Charlie, even though I got scoffed at for my pains. Now I might prefer to be a soldier than a tar, but either is better than what we had, and ten steps ahead of what we might have looked forward to in those damned Liberties.’
Abel Scrivens was scathing in reply to that. ‘Those damned Liberties served you well enough when you needed them. They kept the law off your back, an’ since you ain’t inclined to say what for I take leave to opine it were serious, so they might have saved your neck.’
‘Well, as sure as hell is hot,’ Ben growled, for once riled out of his habitual stoical composure, ‘the law ain’t coming to look for any of us here. ’Sides, it were never my intention to spend the rest of my days in the Liberties. This way, I might just get a chance to see something of the world.’
‘Staying in the Liberties would have suited me,’ whispered Charlie, indicating with a jerk of the head that they needed to be careful, for Kemp, briefly absent, was returning to hound them.
‘And me,’ added Scrivens, in a soft, wistful hiss.
Pearce, bent over to lift a bale of canvas, half-turning, saw Kemp closing on them, seeming to compose his face into a look that indicated a deep loathing, odd since as far as he could ascertain they had done nothing to rile him; nothing that is, except be forced to serve aboard this ship. Glancing askance at the screwed-up eyes, his sharp pointed nose with its permanent dewdrop of clear snot and the slash of a mouth, a face which would never have been comely even in repose, he reckoned he was looking at a fellow who took no pleasure from his own life, and was determined that no other should enjoy theirs – a man for whom the small amount of authority he enjoyed, not really much in the scheme of things, was everything. He had met too many of that type in the last year or so, given that the Revolution had allowed turds like Kemp to surface in abundance.
Although little was said when Kemp was close, it was possible to discern by observation and the odd spoken aside how the quartet he had met in the Pelican related to each other, easy to see that when it came to opinion a degree of deference was granted to Abel Scrivens, though he could be in no way counted as their leader, especially in their present circumstances. Would sounding out Scrivens act as a shortcut to anything approaching a collective attitude?
In the nature of their work it was not long before they found themselves together, hauling on a rope, behind the others, far enough from Kemp for an exchange.
‘How do you fare?’
Scrivens half-turned and gave Pearce a look bordering on despair. It was obvious by his appearance that he was wilting more than his companions; lank thin hair in disarray, his face was lined with exhaustion as well as grime and when he spoke his voice sounded just as weary. ‘I do not think I fare very well, friend, but I thank you for enquiring.’
Pearce was touched by the open admission of distress, as well as a civility that appeared to be innate, and whispered, ‘Ease off. Let the others apply the effort.’
Half of a smile was all the older man could manage. ‘Would that be right?’
‘It would be wise.’
‘I doubt that sod behind you would see it so.’
‘With enough dumb show he will not see it at all.’
‘Belay that gabbin’,’ snapped Kemp, who must have spotted moving lips. ‘Save your puff to heave on that there fall.’
The oldest of the Pelican quartet would certainly do anything to be off this ship, but Pearce, looking at him, reckoned he would be a liability. Natural sympathy was quickly overborne by practicality, and his mind went back to Paris, to the way he had left his father, for the reasoning – uncomfortable as it was to recall – was not dissimilar. Scrivens would struggle to merely escape and in the event of a pursuit would as like as not end up having to be carried.
Michael O’Hagan, ahead of the old man and pulling with a will, would be game for anything Pearce suggested, as well as being strong enough to do the carrying should that become necessary. Should he sound him out – would a talk to Charlie Taverner help, perhaps even a notion of how to get away? Taverner was a fly sort, able quickly to spot and exploit an opening – had he seen something that Pearce had missed? Whatever, he knew it would have to wait – there were too many ears on deck to discuss anything now.
A gun boomed from the built-up shore, and everyone stopped pulling as all eyes turned towards the puff of smoke it created. To Pearce, looking aft, those on deck, officers and seamen alike, seemed for a second to be frozen in tableau. That did not last; Barclay appeared, hatless and looking to be in a foul mood, so the officers began to yell even louder at their various parties, as did Kemp. Abel Scrivens was slow to respond, and stood looking at the shore, which earned him a stinging blow across his shoulders.
‘Will you get your back into it, they’ve made our number,’ spat Kemp, his face furious. Having no idea what the bosun’s mate was talking about, Scrivens failed to move at the required speed, and was forced to cower as he received another swipe, which had Pearce interposing his own frame between the bosun’s mate and that of the older man to prevent a third.
Face to face with Kemp, he could see nothing but venom in his eyes, and total contempt in his expression, while at his back he heard the whimper of an old man who had been hurt, perhaps as much in his self-esteem as in the flesh. ‘I think you have harmed him enough.’
‘It’ll be you that’ll feel the pain if you don’t step aside.’
‘I can take pain,’ Pearce hissed, sick to death of being on the receiving end of other people’s malice, ‘and be assured that there will come a time when I can also mete it out.’
The flicker of doubt that flashed through Kemp’s eyes was enough to tell Pearce he had succeeded, planting in the man’s mind some notion of future retribution. For a bully, that was enough to induce caution.
‘Get back to work.’
‘Mister Roscoe,’ Pearce heard Barclay call, ‘my cabin if you please.’
Ralph Barclay could not sort out the watch bills by himself. He might know the warrant and petty officers, but when it came to knowledge of the crew Roscoe, with his constant contact, knew more than he. The task was to balance the two elements that made up each watch so that they matched each other in skill and numbers – the right quantity of topmen per watch, including the older ship’s boys who would deal with the highest yards; men to man the wheel and haul on the falls that controlled the sails, each group working four on four off while the others slept or idled below, with the caveat that should they go into battle over eighty percent of the crew must be able to work the guns or take station to fire from the tops.
‘This will not be written in stone, Mr Roscoe,’ he said. ‘We have too many landsmen for that.’
‘The pilot?’ Barclay asked.
‘Already aboard, sir.’
Every minute of delay endangered the ship. The pilot had been in the wardroom for over an hour, with the Commodore’s gun banging and HMS Brilliant’s number on his signal mast above the order to weigh immediately. The man who was supposed to take them safely downriver would, as like as not, be so drunk as to be incapable before the frigate finally complied with its orders. That was not unusual – pilots as a breed were addicted to the bottle and not shy of demanding that craving be satisfied.
‘I need a time, Mr Roscoe?’ demanded Barclay, as that infernal signal gun banged out yet again. Every other captain at anchor would be laughing up his sleeve at him, while secretly thanking God it was not himself on the receiving end of the Commodore’s impatience.
‘I would say as soon as the men have been fed, sir.’
This was imparted with some passion – Roscoe was clearly worried that Barclay would deny the crew that before they weighed, for they were, as the captain himself was well aware, disgruntled that dinner and the spirits they were entitled to before that, had been delayed.
‘Then you have my permission to tell the cook to get his coppers lit,’ Barclay said, before adding, ‘I want that we come off river discipline on the first dogwatch. Come dawn, whatever our position, all hands are to stand to quarters as if we were at sea.’
That surprised Roscoe, and Barclay knew he might well be gilding it, for they could very well still be in the lower reaches of the Thames. But he wanted his ship to be an efficient weapon of war in record time, which meant working up the crew to sea duty as soon as it was humanly possible.
‘I would point out, sir,’ Roscoe protested, ‘that many of the men have yet to be allotted any station for that. We could have mayhem.’
‘We will not have that, Mr Roscoe, because you, along with the other officers, will ensure we do not. A certain muddle is inevitable – I do not expect everything to be just the thing. Dawn will not be for some three hours in this part of the year, ample time after the men are roused to get matters organised without anyone on any nearby ship observing the confusion.’
‘Forgive me,’ said Emily Barclay, emerging from a side cabin. ‘Am I disturbing you?’
Roscoe had shot to his feet, careful to duck his bare head to avoid cracking it on the deck timbers, while Emily’s husband had eased his backside a fraction off his chair. ‘My dear, I think Mr Roscoe and I are done, are we not?’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
Emily had only met Roscoe on two occasions, both ashore, and found him very stiff and formal. On the first her husband had made the introduction, which, having already been appraised of the nature of their relationship, accounted for his manner. But the second time had been the previous night at the Assembly Rooms and then he had been excessively reserved. Her sex and station made it impossible for her to encourage him to add his name to her dance card, and he had shown no inclination to place it there – indeed he had actively sought to avoid the sociable look in her eye. She suspected that, regardless of his opinion of her husband, he did not approve of her presence aboard ship.
‘I have been knitting, lieutenant, a comforter for my husband, to wear under his foul weather clothes when the weather is inclement.’
Roscoe’s look made her feel foolish. Of course, with his lazy half face he had to work for any expression, but there was not a trace of a smile at yet another effort to be friendly.
‘With your permission, sir,’ Roscoe said, ‘I will be about my duties.’
‘Certainly,’ Barclay replied, ‘but be so good as to send my coxswain to me.’
‘He does not like me, Captain Barclay,’ Emily said, as the door closed behind him.
‘Nonsense, my dear! He is shy of your sex, that is all. I doubt Roscoe has much experience of ladies outside the…’ Barclay had to clear his throat then, as he had been about to say whorehouse, which was not a word to be used in polite company, let alone that of his wife. ‘From the little I know his family is all males, brothers.’
‘There must, in all conscience, husband,’ replied Emily, with a twinkle in her eye, ‘have been one lady in the house. It is a necessity of reproduction, I believe.’
The remark jarred, being almost too much like deck language, not blasphemous but outré, until Ralph Barclay recalled that Emily was almost of a different generation, one perhaps where liberties such as the one she had just taken might need to be forgiven.
‘Of course, but I alluded to a lack of sisters, who are less inclined to indulge a son than a mother, who for the sake of nature is free with her partiality.’
Ralph Barclay had three sisters and Emily had watched the way they twittered around him, the head of the family, terming him their hero and flattering him for a wit that he could hardly be said to possess. They were, to her mind, mighty silly creatures, but of course she could not say so. She could only think that if she had possessed any reservations about coming to sea with her husband, the prospect of being left at home in Somerset with that trio had spurred her to bury them.
‘Tell me, my dear, what do you think of your new home?’
‘It is all very strange.’
‘Naturally.’
With her husband looking at her expectantly, Emily was in a quandary. There were many unpleasant things about being aboard; it was cramped in the extreme, and in terms of creature comforts sadly lacking – no pictures adorned the walls and what furniture had come aboard was functional rather than eye-catching. Some of the smells she had experienced, especially on her short tour of the ship, had made her thankful that she had brought aboard a batch of herbs to make a nosegay, and there seemed to be no one for her to talk to. Poor Captain Barclay was buried under the pressure of his labours, the only other woman, the wife of the gunner, had shown a marked disinclination to share intimacies, no doubt due to Emily’s rank, though there was hope that would alter with time. The officers and midshipmen were polite but silent, going no further than a raised hat, and connection to anyone below that was impossible, and very likely forbidden. Shenton, the steward, was not used to the needs of females, nor overburdened with what could be termed decent manners and had already barged into the side cabin after only the most perfunctory knock.
‘I am sure,’ she replied, walking round the desk to touch her husband’s shoulder, ‘I will come to love it so much that I will scream when you try to put me ashore.’
Ralph Barclay laid his hand on hers, positively cooing. ‘Take the word of an old salt, my dear, the day will come when you will scream to be ashore, for that is a state everyone reaches who goes to sea. But I would want you happy now.’
‘When will we be able to invite your officers to dinner?’ The sudden look in his eyes, a change from tender affection to a flash of annoyance had her adding, ‘I would so like to feed up little Mr Burns – am I allowed to call him Toby? He looked so peeked when I came aboard.’
Ralph Barclay had softened his look, though inwardly he was still taut. Thanks to Emily he had the means to entertain his officers royally, and her question had reminded him of that. But it had also reminded him of the fact that his deck officers were not his choice. Sam Hood had foisted them on him, so the natural inclination to be social with them was lacking.
‘You may call him Toby in private, my dear,’ Barclay replied, hedging round the main question, ‘but it would be a mistake to do so on deck, or even if he was our guest at dinner. As to entertaining the officers, let us get to sea, for I fear that you will observe me being stiff with all of them until the ship is properly worked up. I must also tell you that it is deuced difficult to be continually barking at a fellow one minute, which the nature of my duty demands, then hosting him to a meal the next.’
The knock at the door saved further explanation, as the shout of ‘Enter’ brought in Hale, her husband’s coxswain, who immediately whipped off his tarred hat and knuckled his forehead, while at the same time shoving a quid of tobacco, which he had been chewing, into the side of his mouth.
‘Mr Hale,’ Emily said, noting the numerous scratches that covered the coxswain’s face. ‘I am very pleased to see you again.’
‘Why that’s right kind of you, Mrs Barclay,’ Hale replied, his knobbly face creased with pleasure, the number of missing teeth rendered visible by a wide smile that showed, in a rather unpleasant way, the brown, tobacco-stained remainder.
Here was another person Emily thought she must get to know better, for Hale had served with her husband for many years, and had turned up to attend his captain at their wedding, walking all the way from Portsmouth to Frome, a distance of some seventy miles. He had brought a gift of a pair of embroidered linen handkerchiefs that must have cost much more than he could afford, which served to mark the depth of his respect and loyalty. The bond that lay between them was obvious in the way Hale had been greeted by her husband at the churchyard, with equal respect. Here was a man that Captain Ralph Barclay trusted absolutely. The thought struck Emily, that from Lemuel Hale she might learn more about her husband than she would ever glean from his own lips.
‘I be right sorry, Mrs Barclay,’ Hale said, twisting his stiff black hat in his gnarled hands, smile now gone, ‘that you was forced to hire a pair of Medway brutes and their wherry to get yourself aboard the barky. Should have been me that fetched you, it bein’ like my duty.’
‘I am sure you had other duties more important to perform, Mr Hale.’
‘Still, I made plain to Mr Roscoe that it weren’t right, respectful like, but plain, but he would not spare me a boat and the men to crew it.’
Ralph Barclay shook his head slowly and tut-tutted at such pettiness, but she could only nod, feeling a marked reluctance to enter into any discussion with the likes of Hale regarding any of the officers, and particularly Lieutenant Roscoe. At the very least it would be tactless, and quite possibly downright perilous, for Emily was already aware of some of the currents of friction that existed. Besides, it was a golden rule drummed into her by her own mother that one did not discuss one’s peers with servants.
The fact that the two men obviously had some service matter to discuss saved her from any response and obliged her to move to the coach, the small side cabin which had been set aside for her as a place of ease, leaving her husband and Hale to their business.
As the morning wore on, a gun banged every half hour and each time they heard it those in command looked towards the shore with a troubled expression, before yelling at their parties to demand greater effort. During that time Pearce warmed more and more to Michael O’Hagan, for the Irishman, a prodigious worker, had a happy knack of getting under the skin of those put over him with seemingly innocent, softly delivered enquiries, questions that had Pearce struggling not to laugh out loud.
‘Would you be after explaining to me now,’ he enquired of some fellow in a blue coat, ‘what it is you mean by stays, as any of those I ever saw were on a lady and never made of rope?’ That answered, he had another, which earned him a swipe. ‘Would them blessed stays you were telling me about, be like to hold in what you’re after calling the waist?’
Michael got in another telling dig when Kemp showed them the heads, and the common sailors’ place of easement, no more than an exposed wooden seat facing the prow with a hole that led to the filthy detritus-filled water that lapped against the side of the frigate. Kemp, eager that they should not mistake their station, pointed to another privy, one with a door. ‘This here roundhouse, which be shut off from wind and weather, ain’t for the likes of you. This be for those with the rank to go with the privilege.’
‘Well, John-boy,’ said Michael, with a look of wonder. ‘There’ll be a right rank stink emanating from that quarter. Happen we’re better off in the fresh air.’
All the pressed men had felt a rattan cane on their backs at some time during the morning, but Michael seemed almost to go out of his way to encourage it, never once, to the further annoyance of those given charge of him, letting them know that he had even felt their blows. Abel Scrivens got his repeatedly for feeble inability and squealed like a stuck pig each time it happened, seemingly unaware that such a carrying sound tended to encourage a second blow. There were two others in the same mould, grey faced coves of the kind he had seen too much of in the Bridewell, who looked set to collapse, and for reasons he did not bother to explore, Pearce set himself to alleviate their suffering as he had Abel’s, time and again getting his own body in between them and whoever was close enough to clout them. O’Hagan did likewise, and managed half their work as well, which went some way to getting the three of them through the hours of toil.
With Gherson, Pearce experienced the overwhelming temptation to borrow the rattan himself and give him a good hiding. When not grinning inanely at any passing sailor in the hope of eliciting some favour he moaned incessantly without ever seeming to consider that everyone else had suffered an equal loss of liberty. He refused to put any extra effort in where it might have aided another – indeed he was able to avoid labour while seeming to be extremely busy. He was lazy in a manner that was clearly endemic to his nature, yet he had the knack of never being near the means of an administered punishment when his ruses failed – that always seemed to devolve on to another back.
The pressed men had scant contact with the crew, most of whom would grunt at them as a form of communication rather than speak, though it was clear they were just as busy, and in many cases no less put upon. There was an occasional audible complaint that they were ‘strapped’ from not yet having had their dinner, which, with the coppers only just lit, was ‘like to be held back in the face of all custom.’ It was as if the newcomers were an alien species, though John Pearce noticed that in some cases the look in a man’s eyes didn’t always correspond to the grating tone of his voice. If it wasn’t sympathy it was at least an understanding, the same kind of look he had had from that fellow who had sought to accost him in the back room of the Pelican just before he clouted him. It did nothing to soften his feelings for them – he despised them – and he made sure in his returned looks that they had a clear idea of how he felt.
Pearce had seen the fellow he’d clobbered several times, moving between the points at which he was working and the bows of the ship, had heard him called Dysart, and noted that he had a bit of Scotch about his accent when he replied. He wondered if he might seek retribution for a blow that had left him wearing a bandage under his hat. But there was no sign of animosity. Soon the deck was nearly clear of stores and the work began to slack off as the ship was tidied to the satisfaction of the Premier, who had finally left Digby in command.
There had been no sight of the little marine, though Pearce gave a smile when Charlie told him what he had done to make his nose bleed again. Normally Pearce would sympathise with the immature and vulnerable; was he already so corrupted by the harshness of the Navy as to take pleasure in pain being visited on one so young? A single hate-filled look from the boy, when he finally did espy him, disabused Pearce of any compassion. He watched young Martin make his way into the rigging and forgot about him, until a belaying pin landed no more than a foot from where his head would have been had he not been moving, and a glance aloft showed him the little bastard grimacing from above, furious with himself no doubt for having missed.
Work was easing, with men tying off ropes and clearing what remained of the detritus. Dysart, accompanied by another sailor, came then to give them an instruction, which was delivered in a benign tone, in sharp contrast to the grunts and cursing with which they had been treated up till now.
‘One mair task, lads, afore ye get yer dinner.’
Dysart pointed to a couple of small bolts of canvas by the bulwarks, and ordered that they should open them out into squares. Then he bade them take a corner or an edge to stretch them out. The other sailor helped, explaining as he did so.
‘At this time o’ the day, wi’ the topmen at their victuals, the seabirds like to drop what they have been scooping oot the water while we have been toiling. You might say it is their constitutional moment. You will see as the men are coming doon from the rigging how they are starting to rest on ony place they can lay their wee pink feet.’
Pearce was not alone in looking aloft, something he had done often to check on the position of young Martin, and the truth of Dysart’s words was obvious. Huge gulls that had been screeching and cawing all morning, flying about, floating on the water, never landing close to a human, were now filling the rigging as though it was their home.
‘There’s a duty tae perform, and being the newcomers it falls to you, to ensure that none of what emits from their dirty wee arses stains the deck of this here ship.’
He took hold of Charlie Taverner’s arm and began to pull him in while others on the square of canvas followed. ‘So, until the topmen go aloft again, when we know the buggers will fly off, just move around the deck so, eyes aloft to see what is falling and catch it in this canvas.’ The voice became grave and serious, ‘The Premier will inspect at the coming of the hour, and count what you have missed, and if it be many, and his deck be filthy, well God help you is aw I can say.’
They split into two groups and Dysart’s silent companion led one to the foredeck, while John Pearce, Michael O’Hagan and Rufus Dommet were part of the group allotted the quarterdeck. Dysart said, eagerly, ‘The best way is tae keep moving, and take it in turn to look aloft. When you see one o’ those gulls shake their arse feathers, you will ken they are aboot to pass their packet. Then you just run underneath the wee sod and catch it, neat as you like.’
If he had not been so tired Pearce would have seen it for what it was, a way of guying the lubbers. But with a brain dulled by lack of sleep, too many insoluble thoughts and a lot of heavy toil, it was some time before he realised, time in which he and his companions staggered about the deck with scant coordination, tripping and falling as those who took the task seriously called for a move. It did not help that knowing left from right was not a unanimous ability. Every object on the deck was a trap on which to stumble and, worse, the ship’s goat, excited by the movement, seemed determined to get under their feet.
The whole ship was involved in the jest, including the officer called Digby, who was standing by the wheel surrounded by every midshipman aboard, and behind and above him was the surgeon on the poop, scribbling away. Eventually the youngsters gave the game away, unable to contain their mirth. In an attempt to avoid exposure, they hid behind those with better control of their hilarity. The first loud guffaw from that quarter stopped the sport, as the ship erupted in gales of laughter. Men who had secreted themselves in hatches emerged from their hiding places to point at the fools who had fallen for Dysart’s jest.
Pearce looked at his companions, some smiling in a way that tried to convey that they had all along been aware that they were being practised upon, a couple sheepish and actually blushing. Michael O’Hagan was red-faced and furious, for he clearly did not enjoy being the butt of another man’s joshing. More worryingly, a pair who clearly could not comprehend what was going on were still glancing aloft as though the duty was a serious one.
‘Some bastard’s blood will spill for this,’ growled O’Hagan.
‘Take it for what it is, Michael,’ Pearce advised, thinking, on the occasions he had attended a school, he had known much worse by way of initiation than this. Mirth was not painful, except to the vainglorious.
A grinning Dysart approached them, lifting his hat and tapping his bandage, looking at the man who had caused his wound. ‘That, lads, is by way of being a welcome to the ship and a thank you for this. Now for the sake of Christ fold up those bolts and stow them, for if you do not, some of my shipmates will have a seizure.’
‘Dysart!’ It was the voice of Lieutenant Digby, who, like everyone else on deck was at least grinning. Some went further, staggering around in dumb show replicating what the lubbers had been about. ‘You have had your jest, now take these men below and see that they are fed. And since you have had your pleasure I will allot to you the duty of making sure they are aware of the number of their mess and their rights in the article of food.’
As the rest trickled down the companionway, Pearce held back, drawn by the notion that the deck would be near deserted, the boats alongside possibly the same, his eyes ranging once more along the low-lying marshland. Those left behind on the quarterdeck, Digby and a couple of mids, were talking amongst themselves – would they spot him if he moved? He took a step, only to see one young head turn. So what – if he ran to the side and dived over was that fellow close enough to stop him? The alarm would be raised. Could he get into that tall marsh grass quick enough to evade recapture? Was it wise to even make such an attempt without clothing or money? Would another, better chance present itself?
‘Will you move your arse, man,’ said Dysart, in a peevish tone, his head popping up from below decks. ‘I canna get my vittels till you lot have been served yours.’
The opportunity, if there had indeed ever been one, had gone. Pearce looked at the Scotsman, with his bandaged head, wondering if he had any notion of what thoughts he had disturbed.
‘Does your head hurt?’
‘It does that.’
‘Good!’
Dysart just laughed. ‘I canna say I blame ye, laddie. And a daresay ye’d gie me another belt in the same circumstance, if ye were tae get the chance.’
‘I want to ask you a question?’ Pearce said, as he followed him below.
‘Ask away.’
‘Where is my clothing stored?’
Dysart stopped and turned, his face quizzical. ‘Now why would you be wantin’ to ken that?’
‘They said it was to be stored below. All I want to know is where below?’
Dysart carried on down, speaking over his shoulder. ‘I’ll tell ye, laddie. Not that it’ll dae ye ony good. Yer stuff is in a storeroom hard by the bread room, tin-lined the same as that to keep oot the rats.’
‘Thank you.’
‘An I’ll tell ye this an’ aw. It’s got a padlock on it the size of a cannonball, and the only wan that’s got a key that’s ony use tae you is Coyle.’ The rest of the words were nearly lost in the babble of noise that greeted them at the bottom. ‘Besides that, it’s right close to the gunroom, where the officers hang oot, so you can forget whatever notion ye were gnawing on just noo.’
The maindeck was crowded, lined with lanterns casting a low light over numerous tables on either side of the deck. Pearce was directed to join his fellow Pelicans, who had been sat at a table that bore, in a metal plate nailed to it, the numeral twelve, which, Dysart informed them, was the number of their mess. In time, he told them, their mess could number eight souls – one addition would be a seaman, yet to be appointed, able to look after and train them.
‘An’ a hope tae Christ it’s no me. So get stuck in.’
Rufus, who had been appointed to fetch their food, loaded what he had brought onto the table then sat himself down. They had small beer to drink, fresh bread fetched out from the shore that morning and salted beef in a stew that satisfied five of the party. For once Pearce found himself in agreement with Gherson in disliking the food and drink; the beef, bulked out with beans, was tasteless, tough and full of gristle, and the blanching and short cooking time had done nothing to kill off the excess of salt in which it had been preserved. The small beer was thin stuff and woody, having suffered from being too long in the cask. The cheese was the best; though hard, it was fresh and tasty.
Their mess table seemed like an island in a sea of noise. Conversation was quiet and contained, each member more concerned with making sense of his surroundings than any desire to talk. The seamen sitting at the other tables were a more garrulous bunch, exchanging endless ribbing, and sometimes a barbed insult in a babble of noise. If there was authority present Pearce could not see it, and though weary in both body and mind he could not help making observations. Most present were young, few much older than him, and they tended to be compact fellows rather than strapping, though there was the odd creature who could square shoulders and height to Michael O’Hagan.
Those just above the age of the ship’s boys were the most raucous. They were slim, lithe fellows, not afraid of vanity or profanity, who moved easily and wore the most elaborate of the many pigtails on show, greased shiny and strewn with multi-coloured beads. Pearce had observed them working aloft, defying death on a second by second basis as they swung effortlessly about in the rigging as if determined to let everyone know of their superiority. Below decks as they added mischief to their catcalls and ribaldry, throwing bread at each other, as well as at other mess tables, earning frowns of either boredom or disapproval from the older members of the crew.
Such men were not older by much, but they seemed to have gained gravitas with the loss of their teenage years, as well as gnarled and scarred faces that testified to the rough life they led. At one table a huge fellow with an angry lived-in face was laying down the law to his silent companions. Pearce reckoned from their hunched posture that the listeners were either cowed, bored or both. But most other tables were lively, with conversations that had about them the air of good-natured argument, with pointed fingers, gestures of frustration or despair, laughter at another’s plain foolishness and the odd thump of a mess table to emphasise some point that could not be gainsaid.
‘Lively buggers, ain’t they?’ said Scrivens, yawning even as he was chewing, as a pair of the topmen began shadow boxing in the gap between the mess tables.
It was Ben Walker who replied. ‘Not much different from folks ashore, Abel. We’s mixed with worse than these on the riverbank.’
‘Well, they are not the company to which I am accustomed,’ sniffed Gherson, his eyes ranging around the deck with obvious distaste, an expression that stayed with him as he looked at his plate of food.
‘And what kind of company would that be?’ asked Charlie Taverner.
‘I am used to a touch more refinement,’ Gherson insisted, poking at a bone with his knife, leaving none of his messmates clear if he was talking about the food, them, or the whole crew of the ship.
‘How come you landed in the river?’
It was Rufus who made the enquiry, all open-eyed and innocent, gauche enough to pose a question that everyone else sensed would be unwelcome, but one to which, judging by the way bodies eased forward, they all wanted an answer.
‘It was a mistake, a foolish error.’
‘I’ll say,’ scoffed Charlie. ‘Dipping in the Thames is not a thing one does for a jest, and that in just a shirt and breeches of a winter’s night.’
The ribbing tone riled Gherson, and he positively spat his reply. ‘None of this is anyone’s business but mine.’
‘That be true,’ Abel Scrivens cut in quietly, but with force enough to silence his companions. ‘Happen you’ll tell us if you want. Till then I, for one, am content to wait.’
So Abel Scrivens did have authority, or at least he was afforded respect from his peers, for they stopped staring at Gherson and concentrated on their food. Pearce welcomed the ensuing silence, which allowed him to get back to thinking about that which mattered most. Slowly chewing the tasteless food he tried to register every detail of the movement on the deck – the undercurrents of friendship or resentment that must exist with this many men cooped up in so confined a space. Every time some fellow went below the deed got special attention, not for the man himself, but for the fact that such an act seemed unimportant to everyone else.
Could he do the same, not now but some time later, to get to his chest with his coat and his money, plus his shoes and stockings, which on land could be equally important. But not if he was going to swim; the coat and his shoes, worn, would make things difficult and would be even worse as a bundle. The money was the key; with that he could acquire whatever he needed. But how could he deal with a padlock?
‘So, John boy,’ asked Michael O’Hagan, nudging Pearce so that he turned round to face a mouth full of the plentiful bread and cheese, ‘what is your plan?’
The Irishman was looking at Pearce as if he expected an answer. It was curious to Pearce, the different reactions the group had to him and Gherson, so different that he almost felt sorry for the other man – almost, because if Gherson had failed to win any friends it was his own idle and arrogant behaviour that was the cause. Pearce seemed to be accepted, as if merely having been taken from the Pelican conferred on him a sort of brotherhood, the same kinship that made the man who asked the question one of that select group.
Again it surfaced, that thought about a collective act of escape, and Pearce realised that if he decided a lone attempt, he might have to do as much to avoid these enforced messmates of his as he would to avoid any member of the crew.
‘What makes you think, Michael, that I have a plan?’
O’Hagan responded with a grin. ‘Sure, the look in your eye, which has not been still all this morning, and has been the same since we sat to eat. I swear if asked you could tell me the something about every soul on this deck, just as you could relate the number and size of every boat that came alongside. I would hazard also that you have a fair idea of the distance between ship and shore.’
O’Hagan’s words had caught the attention of the rest, who were all now looking at Pearce with an uncomfortable air of expectation. ‘I have, Michael. It is too dangerous to swim at night and too crowded with ships to attempt by day.’
‘Swim?’ asked Ben Walker, a word that produced a distinctive shudder from Gherson. Ben leant back and rubbed his belly, adding a burp to let all know he was satisfied. ‘Can you swim, John?’
Pearce nodded, looking keenly at the others. No one met his eye or wanted to tell him they shared that rare skill, one he had acquired almost at the same time as he had learnt to walk. ‘I take it none of you can swim?’
‘Why would anyone want to swim away from such plenty as this?’ Ben asked, his West Country drawl even more pronounced because he was filling his belly.
‘Best meal we’ve had in a month past,’ added Rufus Dommet.
Cornelius Gherson managed to snort and sneer simultaneously. ‘Then I do not envy you your table.’
The ginger-haired youth who had been, with Ben Walker, designated to collect their dinner was all enthusiasm. ‘Do you know what we get?’
‘Prison food,’ said Scrivens, jabbing at a piece of bone, an act that made him wince as he jarred his bruised shoulder blades. ‘That’s what it is, prison food.’
‘Not even Newgate Gaol would serve you this,’ Gherson scoffed.
‘How would you know?’ asked Charlie Taverner, quickly.
‘A guess,’ Gherson spluttered, his face reddening to give lie to the words.
Pearce looked closely at Gherson then, to see if there was any trace of the effect of prison on his face. But, of course, there was none; his skin was flawless, and even streaked with the grime from his morning’s work, absurdly handsome. If he had been in Newgate, by reputation even worse than the Bridewell, any marks would have faded, just like it had on his own. The scars of such confinement were in the mind.
‘Chancy thing guessing,’ Charlie added, ‘might get us making up all kind of tales. Might be best if you was to tell us all about yourself. Confess like.’
‘What makes you think I have something to confess to?’ Gherson demanded.
That got a hoot from Charlie. ‘If you ain’t, mate, you’re the only one at this board.’
‘Leave him be, Charlie,’ said Abel.
Charlie’s bandage had not been very successfully applied. It had come loose and, dropping over one eye, made him appear piratical. But when he swept it back it was clear he had lost any trace of good humour, and he was not about to be put off. ‘Happen there’s more to you than you’re letting on.’ Gherson declined to answer, as Charlie looked hard at Ben and Rufus. ‘You two may be content with this, but I am not, any more than Pearce.’
The use of his name again earned Charlie Taverner a glare, while those not sure of it looked happy to have it confirmed.
‘Content?’ They all lifted their heads to the voice, and saw a knobbly faced fellow with black eyes and a swarthy, scratched complexion, pigtailed under a shiny black-tarred hat. ‘That be a lot to ask for in this life, to be content.’
No one replied, but that did not stop him from pushing on to the end of the bench.
‘Take a seat,’ said Michael, sarcastically.
‘Hale.’
‘Would that be a name or a salute?’ asked Michael.
The look with which Hale responded to Michael’s jest, and Pearce’s added chuckle, was humourless – more an expression of tolerance for an old joke than any ire at the affront. If he reacted at all it was only to chew slightly harder on the quid of tobacco in his mouth. Pearce hardly noticed; he was looking over Hale’s shoulder, aware that their mess table was now under observation and that the level of babble had eased just a fraction. This fellow joining them had drawn attention. Why?
‘You’ve been marked as the droll one, Paddy.’
Michael’s face closed up. ‘I am after being choosy who I allow to call me Paddy. Generally I grant the right to my friends, which is an estate you do not enjoy.’
Hale pulled the now-empty mess kid towards him, directed a stream of dark brown spittle into it, then replied calmly, clearly unfazed. ‘Happen I’ll tell them you’re windy as well, given to speechifying.’
‘You can tell them,’ Michael added, raising a clenched fist, ‘whoever them may be, that I dislike being practised upon, and that I am inclined to act upon such with this.’
Hale’s sparse-toothed smile was slow and infuriating, though as he spoke he took a care to lean back slightly, which would take him out of the range of that ham fist. ‘There’s one or two aboard who will not shy away from that, Paddy.’
‘Now, mate, on an open deck for all to see, and a bosun’s cat and a disrating just waiting for the miscreants. Fighting begets punishment when it can be seen, but happen in a quiet corner you would find I would not shy off, for I am not one to measure a man by the size of himself or his fist.’
‘O’Hagan has nothing to lose,’ said Cornelius Gherson, with a snide air.
Hale grinned slowly. ‘He has, and I reckon before this commission is out he will find out what that is.’
‘What is it you want, Hale?’ asked Pearce, throwing a sharp look at Gherson to shut him up. He had a fair idea what Michael would lose: the skin off his back.
Hale executed a slow chew before replying. ‘Why would I want something from the likes of you?’
‘Mr Hale.’ The compliment earned Pearce a nod. ‘You were one of those who pressed us, were you not?’ Another nod, slower to come this time, to confirm what had been a guess, because though Pearce thought he had heard Barclay shout the name, and allude to a scratching female, who could well be responsible for the very obvious marks on the man’s face, he could not be sure.
One cheek appeared to swell as the tobacco was pushed sideways. ‘It would be of interest to hear what you think of the likes of me.’
‘It would not be pleasant to the ear,’ said Charlie Taverner, ‘but I am happy to try if you so wish it.’
‘Like as not,’ Hale replied, ‘but what we was doing comes under the heading of necessity.’ He could see half the table about to protest and held up a hand to stop them. ‘I came here to do you a favour.’
‘Like last night?’ demanded O’Hagan.
‘And to stop you from doing something daft, like trying to jump off the ship into a boat, or swim to Sheerness or the Isle of Grain. Thoughts like that be natural, but you has been told already under what laws you serve, and don’t have a doubt they would be applied. You won’t get clear of this ship so you’d best accept it. You’ll be hauled in with a quick round turn and had up at the grating without doubt. It would do no good to claim you were pressed ’cause you are on the ship’s muster as volunteers. Now I will grant that being had up like that is not agreeable, and I know ’cause it was my way into the Navy just like you.’
‘You were pressed?’ asked Rufus, with his habitual innocent air.
Pearce was not surprised at Rufus’s trusting response but he himself did not believe a word the man was saying. If sailors had a reputation for anything – apart from over enthusiastic carousing and whoring – it was for tale-telling that extended to downright falsehood. Hale had an air about him of that sort; the slight cock of the head, a lop-sided smirk, the earnest look in the eyes to imply sincerity that achieved the exact opposite.
‘I was, lad, and younger than you, it being during the American War.’
‘The American Revolution,’ said Pearce, in a dogged tone of which his father would have approved.
‘Call it what you will, mate, it was war and the fleet was short, and bein’ a striplin’ under the legal age of seventeen made no odds. I was taken just like you and I can recall to this day what I felt on my first night aboard ship. Lost, sitting in a huddle like you was, plotting an’ a’plannin’, cursing those who did the deed.’ Hale’s voice changed then, becoming eager and intense. ‘But in time I came to see that I had fallen lucky. The work was hard, no error, but what toil ashore is any better? Life before the mast weren’t half bad. I had food, clothes and money being paid that I could scarce spend.’
The black eyes, heavy browed, ranged round the table. ‘Honest in your heart now, how many here have had more in their hand than would keep them sound for a week at most, eh?’
‘I have,’ insisted Gherson, looking to the others as if determined to make a point, underlining once more that he was not like them. The rest of his mess did not know him enough to concur, or esteem him enough to care, so that the added words, ‘many times’, sounded weak and unconvincing.
At the same time Hale’s voice, and the look in his eager face, took on a fervent cast. ‘And that be before we has a chance to take a prize. Why, I could tell you tales of fortunes made at sea, Spanish treasure ships so laden with gold they can barely float have been taken by the King’s Navy, with money by the sack load for every man in the crew. Think of that! Look around this deck. Do you see heartbreak? Look at me. I ain’t nobody now. I put myself to it, and I have an honourable station in this here Navy.’
‘Mr Hale,’ said Pearce, electing to speak for them all, including Cornelius Gherson, whose eye had lit up at the talk of gold. ‘I thank you, even if your tales of prize money are romance.’
‘Ain’t romance, mate, it be the right sound truth.’
‘So true,’ Pearce replied, with cold precision, ‘that you are still in your honourable station.’
The pair locked eyes, as if Hale thought that by doing so he could make Pearce back down. His adversary was tempted to let him know just how wise he was to such deceit. There was hardly a tavern in the land that did not have its ex-tar trying to keep his throat lubricated by exaggeration; sea monsters, deadly storms, compliant women, some of them two-headed, and most of all wealth, gold and sparkling jewels which by the most devilish ill-fortune had slipped through their fingers. Pearce had met them, listened to them and long ago learnt to see such storytelling for what it was; just that.
Hale broke the stare first, nodded, stood and said, ‘Hark at what I said.’
‘Which part, the truth or the fiction?’
That was received with a grunt, and the man turned. All eyes watched as Hale made his way to another mess table, to another huddle of pressed men from the Pelican. They would be talking the same talk, and Hale would no doubt deliver the same lecture, and hold out the same prospect. Who knows, thought Pearce, he may well find willing ears, for, as well as hearing the tall-tales, he had observed many a gawping soul who plainly believed every word.
‘So, John boy, I ask again, what’s the plan?’ said Michael.
Faced with more looks of hope, and not wishing to say nothing, Pearce replied, ‘Pen and paper, Michael.’
‘Handy instruments if you can employ them,’ the Irishman replied, holding up his hand again, this time with thick fingers spread. ‘Jesus they’re not much use to me.’
‘And who would you be writing to?’ asked Charlie Taverner.
‘Anyone in authority that can get me off this ship.’
‘Just you?’
Pearce locked eyes with Charlie then, but said nothing.
‘I can write,’ Gherson said, with a surprised look.
The notion seemed to trigger something in his mind, for he rose quickly from the table and walked away, to pass slowly each of the other mess tables set out at intervals along the deck. Even though Pearce could only observe his back, he guessed Gherson was employing that infuriating smile, ingratiatingly aimed at every member of the crew, some of whom were responding. At one table it was enough to allow Gherson to sit down.
‘You must be able to write, Abel,’ said Pearce.
‘Happen I can,’ the old man replied, his face and voice full of melancholy. The others, who knew him well, just looked away. ‘But then what’s the point when you ain’t got no one to pen a letter to, ’cepting some sod that wants to chuck you in gaol.’
‘Another visitor,’ hissed Charlie Taverner, which forced Pearce to forget Gherson, and look instead at Kemp, who was heading for their table.
‘They say,’ Michael expounded, ‘that the smell of corruption comes from what they term the bilges.’ Kemp got a direct look then. ‘But I take leave to doubt that’s the true cause.’
‘Your nose might be too close to your arse,’ Kemp replied.
‘While yours I would liken to a diseased prick, with the discharge you have hanging from its end.’
Kemp had been insulted too many times in his life to be fazed, but he did use his sleeve before he spoke again. ‘Clear up around you, and the mess table, lest you want to be mother to your own tribe of rats.’
‘We were promised clothes in which to work,’ said Rufus Dommet, very obviously thrilled at the idea of being given anything.
‘We have to weigh first,’ Kemp replied.
‘Would I be right to say that the purser advances goods against wages to come?’ asked Pearce, too busy with his own thoughts to register what Kemp was saying.
‘You would,’ Kemp replied, ignoring a curse from Abel Scrivens; he added, ‘an’ he’ll put it against your bounty if’n you ask him. So what is it you’re after?’
Kemp’s face showed a deep curiosity, an eagerness to know what this John whatever-his-real-name-is wanted to buy. Pearce had no intention of obliging him.
A whistle blew several notes, followed by a shouted command. ‘All hands, stand by to weigh anchor.’
Kemp’s rattan twitched. ‘Time to shift.’
Pearce, holding the man’s gaze, had felt his heart jump at the command to weigh, and cursed himself for missing what Kemp had said earlier. The frigate was about to depart the Nore anchorage; if he was going to go it had to be now, but standing, he found himself swept along with his own messmates as well as others, all heading for the capstan.