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 con
fine 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.’
His head numb, it was with some difficulty, and in a thick voice that Pearce replied. ‘The law says you can only press those bred to the sea.’
The rope caught him again, and as his knees began to buckle the officer’s face came right up to him to growl, ‘From now on, for you, I am the law.’
Pearce was hurt, but he was still trying to think what to say. It was illegal to press in the Navy any man who was not a sailor by trade, but it was, notoriously, a law frequently ignored. Press-gangs would take up anyone they could lay their hands on and hope that once confined to a ship the victim would be in no position to do anything about it. Any person who missed the sufferer was unlikely to have enough influence either to find the poor soul or to get him free. Even then, a justice of the peace would have to be involved and, in Pearce’s case, that was not the sort of official he could give his name to.
Those holding him spun him round and he could see, down the alley in the light of several lanterns, that the group with whom he had been drinking was reunited. They were trussed as he was, as were at least a dozen other souls, like chickens ready for the pot. All except Charlie Taverner, who, hatless now and bleeding from a head-wound, was bent over and clearly in no condition to run anywhere. O’Hagan, still shuffling and groggy, was dragged out through the door to join them, the man that Pearce had clobbered, hatless, staggering at the rear.
‘Tavern’s clear, sir,’ said a light, youthful voice at Pearce’s rear. ‘Except for women and the useless.’
‘Thank you, Mr Farmiloe, get these men into the boats and away from here.’
Flickering torches lit the way to the boats, three of which, sitting offshore, were hailed to come and collect their cargo. The officer and the youngster called Farmiloe got into the smallest and were immediately rowed away. One by one each of the trussed men was dragged through a few feet of Thames mud, to be thrown bodily over the side of the bigger boats, cuffed hard if they showed the slightest reluctance, before being told to lie down. The smell of stale seawater rose to greet Pearce as he was forced to his knees, then on to his side, where he and the others were bound by another rope, his lashing him to O’Hagan, who was mumbling incoherently. Pearce’s head was still buzzing from the blows he had received, but he was, nevertheless, listening as hard as he could to the jocose talk of his captors, hoping, as they shipped oars noisily into the rowlocks, to glean from that some clue as to where he was being taken.
‘Be a mite parky this night what with this ’er wind, Kemp, an’ we’ve a fair way to go to the Nore.’
The Nore – the anchorage at the mouth of the Medway – Rochester, Chatham, Sheerness, naval and military towns that had never been sympathetic to any radical ideas. He tried hard to recall if his father had any friends there, which produced a blank even before he considered the impossibility of any form of communication with them.
‘Tarpaulin capes, Molly, if Barclay gives us forty winks, other ways it will freeze your balls off.’
‘I’ve got a big one if you wants to share it. Keep you right warm it will.’
The reply was tired, as if responding to an old joke. ‘Sod off, mate.’
‘You’ll be rowing too hard, mate,’ added a third voice, ‘to ever feel cold, ’cause Barclay, I can tell you, is in a hellfire hurry.’
‘He allas is, Coyle.’
Different accents, one sounding of the Midlands, the other, called Molly, of Norfolk, the last, the man named Coyle, unknown. But the name Barclay – which must be that of the officer – had been said loud and clear. How many different shades of English had Pearce heard in his travelling years, how many miles had he and his father coached, ridden or walked? How much stupidity had they seen in the glaucous looks of slack-jawed peasants, or in the ale-red faces of so-called squires? Were this lot dim enough to present him with a chance of escape?
The one called Coyle, clearly in charge, spoke again, loudly, to address those captured, standing to be visible to all. ‘We will have silence now, d’ye hear. Not a word spoken, and especially not any cry for succour as we pass by the ships downstream, with their captains and crews sound abed.’ A knotted rope was raised to swing shoulder high. ‘This be the least you’ll get if you break that commandment, and my mates, who will row this boat, can employ their oars, if need be, to ensure silence. It would be an erro
r to think they might hold back for fear of knocking you to perdition.’
‘Easy to enter a dead soul as a volunteer,’ wheezed a pinched-faced sailor who stood beside Coyle. Pearce recognised his voice as the Midland one. ‘Save the King a bounty, that would.’
‘Belay that,’ said Coyle, without much force, his eyes now fixed on Pearce, who was staring at him hard. ‘But it would reward you to listen to Kemp there, given that him being a bosun’s mate, and a real terror with the cat o’ nine tails, he has maimed many a soul before.’
Pearce thought to make another protest, but decided it would be useless. If he could not persuade the officer called Barclay, then he had no chance with his inferiors, and the result would probably only be another blow to his already aching head. No protest came from the shore – there was no sign of any watchman or a rescue posse, those who had fled must have looked to their own skin and safety rather than showing any concern for the ones who had been caught. He could not see much from his prone position, but he could guess at the attitude of those with whom he shared this boat and his bonds – resigned at best, despairing at worst, frightened when they contemplated what might be about to befall them – for there were no end of tales to recall, stories of the harshness of life at sea. All the torches had been extinguished, leaving a single lantern hanging on a pole above the stern of the boat, to which Coyle moved, sitting down, hand on the tiller, next to the little marine.
He spun the boy’s head to look at his swollen face. ‘Well, young Martin, Dent by name and well dented by nature. You’ll be even prettier when that nose is healed.’
Then, with a soft command to dip, the oars hit the water, the sailors either side leant forward, took the strain, and the boat began to move.
By the Mast Divided Page 3