By the Mast Divided (49 page)

‘I am minded to grant you that for which you ask.’

‘That also applies to the men brought back aboard with me.’

Barclay laughed. ‘You’ll be asking me to free them too?’

Pearce stiffened then, though he tried to hide it. Was what Barclay said a slip of the tongue, or did he mean it? ‘I speak of men who did just as much as I, maybe more, to retake the
Lady Harrington
.’

‘I fear you must leave them behind.’

‘No. If I go, those in my mess must go too.’

Inwardly Pearce was screaming at his own foolishness. He was being offered what he wanted most and turning it down.

‘Am I to understand,’ Barclay demanded, leaning forward with a smile of disbelief, ‘that you would forfeit your own chance to be out of the Navy for them?’

God, thought Pearce, I’m as much of a gambler as this bastard before me, and just as likely to be a loser.

Had Pearce been able to see inside his opponent’s mind, he would have found a confused train of thought added to a tinge of jealousy, which led inexorably to a clear conclusion for Ralph Barclay. How would the freeing of Pearce look to Emily? There was a nagging suspicion that she had taken a shine to this fellow, hence the jealousy. Then there were his officers and the crew. How would the discharge of one man, whom he had flogged for paying attention to his wife, be perceived, let alone the release of several when he was short-handed and clearly could not spare any men?

Pearce was looking hard at Barclay, trying to guess what he was thinking, when the captain suddenly smiled, then nodded, and said. ‘Very well, you may go and tell your mess to collect their possessions. Please be so good as to ask Mr Burns to join me.’ Barclay picked up a quill, looked at Pearce, looked down again, and said, ‘That is all.’

‘It’s our reward for taking that ship,’ said Pearce, when word came to get their dunnage together, ‘and I think he sees us all as trouble.’

‘I care not,’ cooed Gherson, which earned him an old-fashioned look from Pearce, who when he had said his mess, had somehow forgotten that Corny was part of it.

Michael just beamed and said, ‘I am going to go and kiss that bastard Devenow on his one good cheek.’

Charlie Taverner was speechless but happy, Rufus doubtful. The one who stuck was Ben Walker.

‘I’ll stay, if you don’t mind.’

Charlie was shocked. ‘We started together, Ben, we should stick together, mates.’

‘In misfortune, Charlie,’ Ben insisted, his eyes slightly wet. ‘What are
you going back to when you get ashore? The Liberties, or a life outside dodging tipstaff warrants?’

‘I am not going back to that, Ben, I swear, nor to London. I’ll find a place where I’m unknown. Time I put my back into some work, made a bit of myself. Maybe together it would be easier to prosper.’

‘I wish you joy,’ Ben replied, slowly shaking his head, a look of determination on his face. ‘I’m staying.’

Dysart, now with his arm in a sling, called from the steps to the lower deck. ‘Trunks are out of the hold. Come and get yer dunnage. And Pearce, Mr Lutyens says he wants a word.’

They made for the companionway, all except Pearce and Ben Walker. ‘You’re sure, Ben?’

‘I am, Pearce. There’s nowt for me ashore.’ He let his eyes drift round the maindeck. ‘Maybe if Abel was still alive, I might go, for he was wont to see to our care. Charlie, well I like him but he’s no fellow to go relying on. Who knows, there might just be something here.’

‘Ben, I have to ask you.’ He put a hand up as Walker stiffened. ‘And I know I have no right. But it would grieve me to go through life knowing you as I have without any inkling as to what kept you in the Liberties.’

‘I have a notion to know what brought you there.’

‘It’s a long story, Ben, but I do face arrest. You?’

It took a while, a degree of thought, before Ben said, ‘Twixt thee and me?’

‘On my life, Ben.’

Walker’s shoulders drooped, as if disclosure added a weight to his conscience rather than relieving it. ‘A girl, Pearce. Love – another blade, handsome cove, tall like you and blue-eyed, a charmer. Then betrayal. I went too far to right matters, made them worse.’

Pearce didn’t have to ask how far was too far. It was all in Ben Walker’s slumped posture. ‘Someone died?’

‘Someone dear.’

‘If Michael’s God exists, I’m sure he will forgive you.’

‘He’ll have to, Pearce, for as sure as hell is hot I will never forgive myself.’

Lutyens looked out of his little surgery to ensure no prying ears before he spoke to Pearce.

‘Here, take this letter.’ Pearce made no move to accept the folded paper being proffered. ‘If you don’t, you will most certainly regret it.’

‘Will I?’

‘Damn, you’re a hard man to help,’ Lutyens replied, in an exasperated
tone. ‘This is to my father, and is about your father.’

‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’

‘You will when I tell you that my father is the Lutheran pastor of the Deutschkirke in London. You will be even more pleased if I tell you that Queen Charlotte, particularly, worships there often, the King less so. My father is highly regarded by both. Perhaps you will even mellow if I say that a plea can be made directly to His Majesty on your father’s behalf from someone he trusts, which I hazard would be more effective than the same from some of his old radical friends.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Pearce, holding out his hand for a letter that was pure gold. Farmer George only had to click his fingers to get a warrant lifted.

‘I mention you as well,’ Lutyens added, turning away, ‘and I have asked that he extend to you both hospitality and his protection.’

‘Why?’

Lutyens turned back, his voice thick and the strange consonants more pronounced, nailing what Pearce had thought at first, that English was not his native language. ‘You are a strange fellow, Pearce, singular in fact. There are far too few like you. And no man should suffer merely for his bloodline, nor might I add for his beliefs. You should be free to do and say as you like, for if we are fighting anything we are in conflict with a tyranny in France that will not accept the right of any man to that.’

‘That’s sounds remarkably akin to the American Declaration of Independence.’

‘That may be so. But it is what I have always believed. Now go, before I regret my altruism.’

‘Here are your orders, Mr Burns, and a despatch for the Admiralty. You are to take our Indiaman into port and hand her over to whichever senior officer has the command on that station. Then you will deliver this packet to Whitehall.’

Barclay grinned, Pearce’s letter was inside his own, and it would go into hands that knew how to exploit it; let the arrogant sod suck on that!

‘To you will go the glory of the capture, as well as the complete destruction of an enemy privateer. Who knows, you may even get a Gazette to yourself and your exploits. Here also is a sealed request to any naval captain you encounter to leave your crew be – in short, not to press them. I have also enclosed papers of discharge for those in Pearce’s mess, but I abjure you not to open them or hand them over until the fellows you will take with you are on dry land.’

Burns was not sure how to react. He was being given a ship to sail and
he had no idea how to do it. Then he brightened. The crew of the
Lady Harrington
did – Twyman had shown that already – all he would be obliged to do was have a cruise.

‘I have asked Mr Collins to allow you one of his senior master’s mates to get you home.’ Barclay stood up, and held out his hand. ‘I will of course accompany you to the ship, but I would like to shake you by the hand now, a sort of private farewell.’

Burns’ podgy mitt was sweaty, his grip fish-like, which made Barclay glad of his masterstroke. If Emily could be brought to show pity to a cove like Pearce, what would she do if young Burns got into trouble, which judging by his lack of both courage and ability was only a matter of time? And by sending him back to garner the credit for the capture of a British ship and the destruction of an enemy he was doing the best he could for a relation by marriage by way of advancing his career.

The numbers that came to see them over the side touched Twelve Mess; Barclay had Toby Burns and the ubiquitous file of marines sharing his transport, while Pearce and his fellows were allotted the jolly boat. Martin Dent came close to Pearce, grabbing his coat and pulling at it, looking at him in a strange way before running for the rigging. It was only when he moved that Pearce felt the bulk in his pocket, and an investigative hand clutched at his missing purse. How the boy had got it mattered not – it had been returned, and he was sure contained the same near fifty guineas as when he had come aboard.

Dysart waved his one good hand as the boats pulled away, shouting, ‘Scots wae hae,’ and much to Cornelius Gherson’s embarrassment Molly loudly called his name, and then blew him a kiss. Ben Walker did not show, which disappointed four in the boat, but Martin Dent was, by that time, in the very height of the tops, legs entwined round the crosstrees, both arms swinging a farewell.

On the poop, Emily Barclay, standing with Lutyens, had to stop herself from giving a parting wave to the pressed men, the same kind as she had given to her cousin. And she was proud, not for the fact that her views had prevailed, but because her husband, too long a bachelor, too long in the Navy, had come to see sense and to begin to act like the kind soul he truly was. At that moment, she was looking to the future, to marriage and life aboard ship, with great confidence.

‘Right, Mr Twyman, I am putting aboard Mr Burns in command of the prize, and master’s mate to sail her home.’ 

‘You can do as you wish, Captain Barclay, it will make no odds. This vessel is salvage and that is that.’

‘As I have said, a matter for the court.’ Behind him Pearce and his party were coming aboard. Twyman had seen them approach, but was surprised to see them bearing ditty bags, for he had heard from their lips that
Brilliant
was short-handed. ‘Here, I have gifted you five hands, not the best I grant you but good enough to haul on a rope. Plus a master’s mate to undertake navigation, six men in all. You will oblige me by selecting the same number from your crew to take their place aboard my ship.’

‘I’m damned if I will, sir. You’re not at liberty to press from a convoy ship.’

‘But you are no longer on convoy. You are setting sail for home waters.’

‘But…’

‘Marines,’ was all Barclay said then, not loud, but it brought down a line of muskets nevertheless. ‘As I say, Twyman, you choose. I do not wish to usurp the right to decide what men I shall take, but I will if I have to.’

The inference was plain; tally off some men, or you will be the first on in my boat.

Those left behind were still cursing Barclay’s perfidy when the two vessels parted company, HMS
Brilliant
setting all sail to the west and her convoy, the
Lady Harrington
, as much as she could safely carry, to the northwest, the master’s mate Barclay had sent aboard insisting that was necessary to avoid the deadly waters around the Channel Islands.

Standing by the shrouds after his breakfast, watching other members of the crew go aloft, Michael O’Hagan and Rufus Dommet included, Pearce was conscious of the trepidation that held him back, and that knowledge annoyed him. No one had challenged him and there was no authority ordering him to go against his own inclinations to keep his feet firmly rooted to the deck planking. Sailing the
Lady Harrington
was very different from sailing a frigate, not comfortable exactly, but leisurely in comparison to the loud and persistent demands to ‘double up’ that were such a feature of life aboard HMS
Brilliant
. Sails seemed to be set and taken in at a pace to suit the crew, not the demands of some naval captain’s vanity. He had to assume that in bad weather things would be different; self-preservation would demand swift action, but on this short voyage home the weather was as benign as the discipline.

Pearce knew he could climb to the mainmast cap, and he could recall the feeling of superiority, indeed almost of pleasure, such an ascent had given him. But could he go higher, to the actual tops, a place where boys like Martin Dent could get to with ease; and if he could, why would he want to? He supposed he would – because of the devil in him; that trait his father so gently deplored, the need his son seemed to have to be better than other men: to ride a horse faster, to pin an opponent swiftly on the point of an épée or slash at his head guard with a sabre; to be the first to attempt a seduction, moving to introduce himself while others, his peers in age and aspiration, held back. As these thoughts filled his mind, Pearce was already climbing.

At the lower mast top he acknowledged an amused shake of the head from Michael O’Hagan, before placing a foot on the much narrower shrouds that led up to the tops, noting that they were less springy, more taut than those below. They narrowed ever more as they passed the access point to the topmast, until at the cap they were no wider than his own shoulders, while at his feet only a few strands stretched crossways. The wind, gentle on deck, tugged at his clothing and chilled his body. Hauling himself on, he joined the fellow posted there as lookout in a space a third of the size of the platform below. The cap consisted of a mere three strakes of thick square timber, and at this height he was much more aware of the motion as the
Lady Harrington
dipped and rose on the ocean swell; aware, but not in any way alarmed.

As soon as he felt secure, both arms looped around the masthead, Pearce experienced a creeping feeling of exhilaration, with the wind strong on his face, the air clean and salt-free, knowing as he looked around that he could see for miles in every direction, while below the likes of Charlie Taverner and Gherson, who had flatly refused an invitation to join him, were mere specks on the deck. Burns was an even smaller dot, standing before a wheel that was held by the master’s mate from Brilliant, closely shadowed by Twyman, who refused to yield the deck to Barclay’s appointees. It occurred to Pearce that the little midshipman was another person who showed little inclination for climbing masts.