By the Mast Divided (3 page)

Charlie Taverner suffered no such mortification. With him it was debt, though he insisted the sum was a mere trifle, a common justification given by those who had got in deep. Reluctant to let on how he had lived, it was left to his companions to imply that Charlie had been a fly sort, making his living from occupations that stood on the very edge of legality. That fitted with his air of easy conversation. He was a man who could approach a stranger, just as he had Pearce, and find the words that would engage them. He was also, clearly, the sort who could weigh the contents of a purse by eye alone.

Walker was more of an enigma. Small and compact, and by his accent from the West Country, his bright, protruding eyes gave him an air of keen intelligence, underlined by the way he kept his counsel, being
unwilling to tell a stranger, or it seemed those he shared his bed-space with, of his reasons for residing here.

‘Ben is our man of mystery,’ said Taverner, a remark that had Walker tapping the side of his nose with his finger. ‘Might as well sound out a stone wall as ask anything of Ben.’

Whatever his story, it seemed to weigh on him, for he was the least likely to chortle at Charlie Taverner’s attempts at a jest. Indeed, when not actively part of the talk, Ben was inclined to stare into his tankard, or into the middle distance, with a doleful expression.

Pearce fielded their enquiries with grins and platitudes, unable entirely to forget his own concerns – the task he had undertaken, to get the proscription on his father lifted so that he could come home, the worry that he now seemed to face arrest himself – which was annoying given that he did not want to dwell on them. He wanted to enjoy this interlude, for that was all it could ever be – he knew he would have to move on, though the offer from Abel Scrivens that they could squeeze him into their hutch for a night’s sleep was one he accepted gratefully, at the cost, on the insistence of Charlie Taverner, of a third refill from Rosie’s circulating pitcher of ale.

Yet that offer exposed him, as though information regarding himself was part of the price of a bed. To distract questions that were becoming increasingly personal, he pointed towards the bulky bench-lifter, who had now accepted the challenge to drink a yard of ale. Staggering around, clearly already very drunk, he appeared in no fit state for the task.

‘Who is that fellow?’

‘That’s O’Hagan,’ said Taverner, frowning, ‘an idiot of an Irishman who earns decent coin by day and manages to return to poverty every night.’

‘You do not care for him, I perceive?’

‘I’m not fond of Paddy as a race,’ Taverner replied, ‘they flood our island and take work that should go to decent Englishmen, though,’ he added, putting a finger to his lips, ‘I would have a care to say so. O’Hagan is a man to avoid. That bulk you observe comes from an ability to dig trenches twice the height of his own head. He thinks he can drink like a camel, but in truth he has a very ordinary capacity for ale, and the hope is that he will fall down before his natural belligerence overtakes him.’

John Pearce looked through the smoke towards the table where the trio of sailors still sat, though the little marine was no longer with them. A glance round the room showed several knots of other sailors in two and threes, some with tarred hats rather than waterman’s caps. One fact
was obvious – they were neither talking to, nor looking at each other, a very strange way to behave for men who shared a profession. All the ease that Pearce had enjoyed was replaced with a return of deep suspicion. He had allowed his guard to drop, idly observed the opening and closing of that distant door to the outside street without really noting who came in as long as they were not the kind of men, in heavy coats and big hats, who were pursuing him.

‘Those tars, Taverner, they look to be Navy.’

‘Do they indeed?’ Taverner replied, peering round the room himself. ‘I daresay you are right, my friend, but never fear the Navy in the Liberties, for we are free from the fear of the Press here. Now, what do you say to standing your new friends another drink?’

Pearce was about to demur, to insist that his means would not stretch to it, when the low front door was thrown violently open, to be filled with more sailors, all streaming through with some kind of weapon. Those around the room, including the pair by the curtained doorway, had got to their feet and produced clubs and coshes of their own. The noise that ensued then, when the customers of the Pelican realised what was happening, was not any more of people enjoying themselves, but of panic as each sought somehow to find a way out.

‘Sit still!’ Pearce shouted, using one hand forcibly to restrain Charlie Taverner, and the power of a strong voice, which had the same effect on the others. An awkward stillness ensued, and Pearce had the uneasy feeling that, because of that commanding shout, this quartet of drinking companions were now looking to him for some kind of guidance. How did that affect the need he had to get out: would they stand a better chance as a body than he did on his own?

There was no way of telling, for having been party as a growing boy to many a riot, more than a few caused by the inflammatory radical statements his father had been hollering from the stump, combined with the brute reaction of those who fundamentally disagreed with him, John Pearce had had plenty experience of sudden disorder; that moment when unexpected violence erupts. Near both exits people were milling around, shouting and screaming, intent on saving themselves or avoiding hurt, but by their actions doing more to hinder any chance of escape than aid it. If he had learnt anything from previous bruising encounters it was that panic was inimical to safety. It was best to stay still, take a look – then react. Not that he was calm; he could feel the pounding of his own heart, and the tremor at the extremities of his body, a reaction to this sudden explosion of aggression and what he could conjure up in his imagination might be the outcome. But Pearce could also see and hear with a heightened clarity, and that helped him to spot a possible route of escape.

The main entrance was no use; near the front door, fists were flying, as those too close for a quick retreat fought with what was clearly a
press-gang
. But bare knuckles against clubs put the men there at a disadvantage, and the sailors had already got ropes round their first victims, lashing them tight and dragging them out into the night. Some bodies were slipping through the cordon of sailors unscathed, but they were the old, the fat and any females that sought escape. Others of the same shape, age and sex had retreated to the walls, hoping by inactivity to be spared, making considerably easier the work of singling out those this gang were after – the young males.

At the rear of the tavern, those closer to him were still in a state of
panic, crowding the opening near the servery that would provide a route to the side street, a spot where the original party of sailors had taken a seat. They were not seated now; they were standing, thick, foot-long leather coshes raised, threatening to brain anyone who tried for that way out, determined to keep everyone in place until they had been sifted. There was a clear space in front of them that none of the potential escapees seemed prepared to cross, regardless of the pressure exerted on them from behind.

‘They are forbidden to press here,’ cried Charlie Taverner, suddenly finding voice, shouting so loud it was as if he expected the gang to hear him and desist. ‘It is against the law.’

‘They ain’t going to listen to that, Charlie,’ hollered Ben Walker, who stood, fists clenched, in front of old Abel and young Rufus, neither of whom seemed to have yet quite cottoned on to what was happening. ‘And there ain’t no law nowhere’s around to make ’em.’

Coming off their seats had brought all five close to the swaying Irishman, O’Hagan, who was looking around him in a bewildered way, clearly unable to take in what was going on. As Pearce came into his eye line he swung a huge fist at him, a proper haymaker, easy to duck under and one that sent a man already unsteady even more off balance. Instead of avoiding him, Pearce went in close to grab him and yell in his ear.

‘You’ve got to get out, friend. There’s a press-gang after you.’

Inebriated, O’Hagan looked down at him, unfocused eyes reflecting his confused brain, doubt rendering him ineffectual. Pearce spun the Irishman round and propelled him towards the back of those standing off from the cosh-wielding sailors. Rufus lent his weight, which in truth was not much, to push him bodily into the back of the maul. The Irishman, fired up by indignity, wanted to fight regardless, and was less than fussy about who felt his blows. Roaring and advancing like a bull towards the crowd, he cleaved his way through, arms swinging wildly. Furious-faced and spitting, O’Hagan left behind him an avenue for Pearce, Rufus and the others to follow, though it took strong elbows to keep it open. Time was not on their side – behind them the tars had overwhelmed their quarry and were now dragging fools from under the tables where they had tried to hide. This lot would be next.

With the noise of yelling and screaming drowning out any other sound, O’Hagan’s progress surprised those at the front of the throng, propelling a pair into the arc of those coshes, which came down on their heads. Pearce stopped abruptly; he reckoned that once engaged those sailors could not hold a line – with such numbers they must leave
a space to get to and through that curtain. He was aware that Charlie Taverner and his companions were with him, making no attempt to get past, obviously still content to let him to take the lead, which produced a sudden flash of annoyance.

It was O’Hagan who created the gap, momentum and drunken fearlessness carrying him on. One sailor missed him, his cosh taking him on the shoulder instead of the head. The unfortunate tar then found himself pinned back to the serving hatch, with the Irishman biting off his ear at the same time as he attempted to gouge out an eye. The panicked cry brought immediate assistance as his mates closed in behind and started to belabour O’Hagan without mercy. Strong he might be, with thick tight curls to protect his head and drink to dull any pain, but he could not withstand the punishment he was taking and started to sink to the floor.

Pearce followed on the Irishman’s heels, throwing out blows of his own, some of which landed on female heads rather than those of men. But he had to clear a route, whatever it took, and the women were adding to the confusion for they had nothing to fear. The sailors weren’t after women and pleasure; they were after young and fit men. O’Hagan was on his knees now, no longer a threat and the three who had subdued him turned to resume their defence of the archway, just in time to stop Pearce getting clear through. It was the rush of those following that saved him, for there were just too many heads to crown, and the man attacking him had taken his eye off his present target to look for the next, so the thick leather cosh swished past Pearce’s ducking ear. But the sailor still blocked his way, until, that was, Pearce’s fist came up hard into his groin, which doubled the man over and took him out of the fight.

Half-turning, Pearce saw Charlie Taverner go down to a cosh, now lifted for a follow-up blow. But Abel Scrivens grabbed hold of the weapon with both hands and, hanging on for dear life, saved Charlie from further punishment. Old and skinny Scrivens might be, but he had the strength of desperation. With his pointed features all scrunched up, flung left and right, he looked like an ugly mongrel dog contesting the end of a bone. The man tugging the other end left himself wide open to half a dozen fists, forcing him to relinquish his cosh just to defend himself. Scrivens turned it on the last of the trio of sailors, who dropped to his knees, forearms covering his head, and suddenly there was no bar to a general rush for the curtain.

Pearce was first through, vaguely aware of colder, clearer air, of long tables covered with dirty crockery, pewter pitchers and tankards, as well
as the row of big beer barrels that lined one wall. Ahead of him lay the open door, beyond that the street and safety, but Pearce sensed that to rush through there constituted danger, so he slowed to let others pass. Pushed into the space between two of the barrels, his hand found the thick end of a wooden lever, which would be used to move the barrels when full.

This escape route was just too easy; no press-gang in creation would leave it uncovered. Those men had been by that curtain to slow things down, not to stop them, and so allow some of the sailors now free from the struggle at the front to come round and block the way. The truth of that was proved by Ben Walker, who, having been right on Pearce’s heels, scurried past to be the first fellow through the door. Immediately he ran into a wall of sailors who suddenly filled the doorway, one throwing a rope around him, while two others wrestled him to the ground. That did not deter the crowd that had followed from still trying to escape; they knew what was behind them.

Pearce stayed still for a half a minute, fighting still going on at his back while individuals ran past him, his mind racing as he watched another develop out in the street. He could hear the cursing sounds of resistance as well as a loud, harsh voice of command, echoing off the walls outside, directing operations.

‘Let that tub of lard go, he is of no use to us. That fellow there is, and he is trying to crawl clear. Rope him, Coyle! Damn you, Kemp, club the bastard if you must. Get that damned woman off Hale before she scratches his bloody eyes out. You two, look lively! Drag those fellows already roped down to the boats. Christ in heaven, will you get a move on, before we fall foul of the watch.’

A scuffing sound made Pearce turn. A squat sailor was coming up on his rear intent on roping him, with two others behind him carrying a trussed and groaning O’Hagan. Pearce’s assailant got a boot on the shins for his trouble, and as he bent, Pearce laid a blow on his tarred hat that cracked it wide open. That lever, when he held it out, kept the other pair, who had now dropped O’Hagan, from getting close, as, with no alternative, Pearce backed towards the door.

‘You might as well pack it in, mate,’ one of the sailors said, with a slight and worrying grin. ‘You ain’t goin’ no place whatever you do.’

‘Give in easy,’ the other one added. He was also smiling, and Pearce thought it strange that there was no malice in his look, no desire to inflict pain. ‘That way you won’t be so black and blue when you gets aboard ship.’

‘There’s another one getting away,’ the commanding voice outside called. ‘He’s in his prime. I want that fellow caught.’

Still backing away towards that sound, Pearce emerged into a few feet of clear space, but there was still much wrestling going on at either end of what was no more than a wide alley, lit by the flaming torches of the sailors who closed off each end, allowing through only those that were of no use. Ben Walker was still struggling to free himself, his labouring breath a rasp, as the rope, intended to confine his body stopped at his neck and pulled tight, was almost choking him. Walker was done for – he would be taken up, dead or alive. Rufus, obvious by that flaming red hair, was under a clutch of sailors struggling feebly as they tied him up, while Scrivens had clearly taken a blow and was on his knees, a rope pinning his arms hard to his side, no terrier now, more of a sad old mutt.

Pearce knew if he stood still he was done for. Raising the wooden lever, he started to swing it over his head, running towards those coming to take him, to try and force a passage, heading slightly uphill and away from the river. The tars fell away on both sides, backs pressed to the wall, leaving what looked like a clear route to freedom, with only a torchbearer to stand in his way, a man who would have to be a fool to try and stop him.

What killed his hope of escape was no more than a flash of white below his eye line. Pearce fell headlong over the outstretched foot, hat flying free, landing and rolling on the hard cobbles, his thick coat saving him from injury, the lever spilling from the hand required to break his fall. Hampered by his topcoat Pearce came up to defend himself, fists ready, to find himself looking into the face of a child, the little red-coated marine who had arrived with the first party of sailors. Immature he might be, but this boy had a cosh to swing, so Pearce hit him with as much force as he would an adult. Connecting with bone, he felt the nose give way.

As the boy staggered back, holding his face, blood streaming from between his fingers, two of the sailors Pearce had scared off jumped on him and forced him to the ground, one ripping off the high, rear collar of his coat in the process. Pearce’s response, a head butt, lost force from the prone position of delivery, but the second man received an elbow in his ribs that winded him. However, both had hit Pearce, one a clout that made his head reel. Trying to get to his feet, hard enough with his coattails, was made even more laborious by that blow. He knew before he was halfway up that they had got a rope on him. Pearce dropped down again immediately. He had to get that rope off – nothing else mattered as
he rolled and scrabbled at the rough fibre, getting one arm free, thrusting it out to grab at a metal boot scraper, hoping to drag himself clear. The foot that came down hard on his forearm wore a polished shoe with a garish buckle, while the calves were clothed in white stockings. It was odd to pick out so clearly the pinchbeck quality of that shoe buckle, as well as the buttons that held tight the bottom of the breeches.

‘Get that damned rope round him now!’

With four or five men on him, all cursing with the effort, Pearce was soon well trussed. The little marine slipped between them while he was still on the ground and fetched him a hefty kick to his cheek that brought the taste of blood to his mouth. The foot went back to land a second blow, but the harsh, authoritative voice stopped it.

‘Belay that, I want these fellows whole. This one’s a fighter, so get him properly secured. Mr Farmiloe, search the tavern, make sure we have not missed anyone.’

The ropes bit tighter as Pearce was hauled, first to his knees, then to his feet. Another rope was used to bind his hands behind him, with a tail that went to a second cord that hobbled his ankles. A torch was brought close and dazed, he looked up into the face of the man issuing orders, a purple-faced naval officer who managed a smile that had about it the look of a happy executioner.

‘Your name?’

Pearce shook his head, which hurt. ‘This is illegal.’

The thick, knotted rope, which the officer had in his hand, caught him painfully just behind the ear in a blow that half-stunned him. He would have fallen to his knees if the men holding the bindings had not kept him upright. ‘Your first lesson of your new life, do not dare contradict an officer.’