‘I promise my examination will be brief, fellow,’ said Lutyens, still with that smile which annoyed Pearce. ‘Then you can get dressed again.’
Barclay’s voice boomed out again. ‘Mr Farmiloe, take possession of the volunteers’ outer garments as they discard them, coats and the like, those they will no longer need. As they are sworn in I want them, as well as any possessions they may wish to place below, listed and then stored safely.’
That had Pearce doubly damning himself for his lack of foresight – he should have guessed that he and his money could be parted. Yet even as he cursed he knew that an opportunity to do anything about it was as lacking now as it had since he had been taken up and his hands bound – the last thing he needed to do was to draw public attention to what he possessed. Mind blank for a solution he unbuttoned the coat and slipped it off, followed by his waistcoat and his shirt. He felt the damp that had permeated his outer garments, and penetrated through to the linen, which made the wind doubly biting on his exposed skin.
‘Any chance of getting off?’ O’Hagan asked the ship’s surgeon. Leaning close to Pearce’s right ear, he added, ‘I have a craving for a drop of ale to ease the ache in my head.’
If Lutyens heard the Irishman he did not respond. He lifted Pearce’s arms, poked his chest, and prodded his belly, while Pearce looked along the line of semi-naked individuals shivering in the biting wind. Beyond that, the shoreline was visible, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, a row of low yellow-brick houses backing on to a flat featureless island, as well as, in between, a dozen anchored ships of war, some huge, with dozens of gunports, others tiny enough hardly to qualify for the title of ship. Looking over his shoulder he realised there was land even closer, a marsh by the look of, so flat as to be almost invisible, and between this ship and that shore, far fewer boats. In between was a river mouth leading to another clutch of huddled houses, wide, busy, and with a castle visible on the left hand shore.
Could he swim to the nearest land, and if so what would the men on those ships between him and the shore do? They would scarce let him float by, and even if they did, what would he find to aid him on land? Probably there was a whole raft of folk who would turn him in for a reward, and that after robbing him of anything he possessed. Turning back, he became aware that O’Hagan was looking at him hopefully, that the question he had posed was serious. Pearce slowly shook his head, at the same time wondering why the Irishman was seeking his opinion.
The surgeon barely looked at Pearce as he obliged with an outstretched tongue, nor when he undid he breeches, and as soon as he had satisfied himself regarding whatever it was he was looking for he simply said, ‘Get dressed’, and moved on to the next victim.
‘Breeches, shirt and waistcoat, mate,’ said Coyle, grabbing Pearce’s coat from his hand as he tried to reclaim it. ‘That’s all you’ll need. An’ we’ll be having your shoes and stockings as well.’
‘There’s something of value in that coat,’ Pearce growled, not willing to say it was a purse or what it contained.
Coyle lifted the garment and felt the very obvious weight, nodding his head in recognition. ‘Which be safe as houses, mate, you heard the captain, whatever it be. There ain’t a man Jack aboard who don’t have something of worth stowed in the holds, so you can rest easy, you ain’t fallen among a bunch of thieves.’
‘So taking a man’s liberty is not thieving?’ Pearce demanded, far from reassured.
Coyle came close again, his red face only an inch from Pearce’s, his voice soft, almost supplicant. ‘Take my advice, mate, an’ accept what can’t be altered. And don’t go being the smart tongue ’board ship either, ’cause that will only get you trouble.’
‘Cough.’
Lutyens command to O’Hagan cut off Pearce’s response; besides Coyle had turned away. The Irishman cleared his throat of phlegm, as if he was going to spit. Coyle was ahead of him.
‘Let fly with that in view of the captain, and you’ll be the first to the grating on this commission.’
They all ended up much the same by the time the surgeon had finished his examination, shivering with cold, eager to end their semi-nakedness, aware that comments were being made about them by the crew working close by without being actually able to hear what was being said, only that it was belittling. By the time he reached the last man the surgeon had identified one case of the pox and pronounced one fellow as unfit for duty due to some ailment to do with his groin, but that was no recipe for release, since Barclay merely pointed out that in doing so Mr Lutyens had found himself a loblolly boy to assist in the sick bay. As to the pox Barclay reckoned there would be more than one fellow aboard who had that ailment, and since the surgeon earned a fee for treating the disease, he should be pleased.
‘Right, Mr Roscoe,’ called the captain, ‘let’s get them sworn in.’
That was a true farce, as, forced into a shuffling line, the required oath of allegiance to King George, his heirs and successors was read out to each man, any attempt to protest age or occupation as an excuse for release so quickly silenced that those bringing up the rear, the party who shared a boat with Pearce, declined to even try. Each man was told by Barclay, in a piece of hypocrisy even more staggering, that, in volunteering, he was entitled to a bounty of five pounds sterling, a sum which would be entered against his name to help pay for those things he would need throughout the voyage.
‘I’d prefer any money owing to be given out to me,’ said Abel Scrivens, when his turn came.
‘Mark this man’s name, Mr Roscoe,’ said Barclay, disdaining to even look at Scrivens. ‘Should he fail to show the respect due to an officer again I will see him gagged for a week.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Scrivens was grabbed and hustled to the back of the line.
Watching these proceedings gave Pearce plenty of time to think and observe. He noticed that the surgeon had taken up a position close by and was jotting in a small notebook as each man gave his name, which was worrying. What was the purpose of such scribbling? Whatever, it made him decide not to gift anyone his own. But he was damned if he was going to lie and refused to give any: this the Navy was clearly quite used to and was taken care of by the making up of a name to be entered into a ledger, in his case John Truculence, and the entering by that name of a cross.
Ralph Barclay stared hard at Pearce as he read him the oath. His look was returned in full measure, which made him wonder at the nature of the man. That cuff he had meted out for staring at his wife should have seen the fellow cowed, but he was far from that. He was well set, tall, with good broad shoulders and no fat at the waist. The legs were strong too, and the look in the eye denoted intelligence, in every sense the kind of physical specimen Ralph Barclay had set out to find. Yet he was possibly more – the fear of having inadvertently taken up someone well connected resurfaced, but this fellow, for all the glare of defiance, gave no name, made no protest nor demanded to be set on shore or taken before a Justice of the Peace.
Taken from the Liberties there was a distinct possibility of some criminality in his background, greater than mere indebtedness. No matter, whatever he was in life, he had ideas above his new station. That they would be knocked out of him – either painfully or by persuasion – was beyond doubt. If he had too sharp a tongue he could be gagged, too rebellious a personality, then he would find himself stapled to the deck for a day or more; and finally there was the lash, which would most certainly teach him his place. Nonetheless Ralph Barclay was reinforced in his opinion that he was perhaps one to keep a special eye on.
Barclay’s ruminations on Pearce had to be put aside as Gherson, the last to be sworn, demanded that he should be sent ashore immediately: he was a person of means who had powerful friends who would miss his presence. This, because of his unconvincing delivery, the lack of any kind of name when challenged, and his present state of dress, bedraggled and shoeless, was treated as a general joke around the ship, which had the surgeon scribbling furiously in his little book,
so furiously that he attracted the attention of the captain, which led Lutyens to cough and blush, and put his notebook in his pocket.
Once they had all been listed, Ralph Barclay produced papers and began to read. ‘By the powers vested in me by the Lord Commissioners executing the office of Lord High Admiral of Great Britain, I hereby inform all who have volunteered to serve their King in this, his vessel, do so under the provisions of the Articles of War, which promulgated by said body, are as follows…’
The list was long, offence after offence, a worrying number ending with the admonition that the punishment for breaking that particular statute, cowardice in the face of the enemy, failure to obey an order, sleeping while on duty, striking a superior, sodomy, bestiality and mutiny, was death. All other punishments for gambling, drinking, insubordination, lese majesty, fighting, slacking, poor seamanship, sitting on the deck and ten dozen other offences were punishable at the captain’s discretion.
When he said those words, ‘the captain’s discretion’, Barclay looked up from his reading, giving them all a look in turn so that they would know what it meant; that he was the sole judge and jury in these matters; his word was law. Barclay met the look of irritation that the man entered as John Truculence threw him and held it for a moment before discounting it; he would learn soon enough that to display such obvious belligerence was unadvisable. Barclay finished with the words, ‘anyone disobeying the aforesaid does so at their peril’.
That ceremony concluded, the whole party was finally led below, with the voice of Barclay following them down the companionway. ‘We have had enough larking about for one day, Mr Roscoe, and enough of a show. Get the hands back to a proper rate of work. Then, when I am ready, you can join me in my cabin to sort out the watches.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘Some King’s bounty,’ Abel Scrivens complained, ‘given with one hand and damn well taken away with the other.’
‘Happen you should go back up and tell him, Abel,’ said Ben Walker.
‘I’ve a damn good mind to do just that, Ben,’ Scrivens grunted. ‘There’s no fair dealing when coin is offered and then taken back.’
The remark brought forth a chorus of agreement from the whole assembly, a steady growl that obviously emboldened Abel Scrivens because, in a piqued voice, he began a litany of complaints about being cold, being near naked, starving hungry and thirsty, that took the accompanying noise from a collective rumble to the beginnings of a collective wail. Pearce was paying little attention – he was looking along the deck, at the wooden tables in between the guns, each bearing a variety of objects, bits of clothing, quids of tobacco, knives, baulks of wood and the like – things that could be used as weapons. More enticing still, in front of those guns the ports were open, leaving a possible route of escape.
Escape to what – the river or the boats lying off the ship’s side? Either would do if he could get away, though the thought did nag him that the loss of his purse was, for obvious reasons, a real hindrance. Both to the front and rear men were working, paying the newly pressed men no heed, helping to lower articles through the hatches to some point further down in the ship, so Pearce began to ease himself forward, heading for the nearest gunport, unnoticed by the men listening to Scrivens. The beams on this deck were too low for him to walk upright, and here he had his first whiff of a smell that pervaded everything aboard ship, one he recalled from two crossings of the English Channel, the rotten egg stink of bilge water mixed with the odour of damp wood, topped by the reek of animals and unwashed humanity.
‘Belay that damned noise,’ barked a new voice, which shut up Scrivens and his audience as if they were a bunch of errant children. ‘And you,’ he demanded of Pearce, ‘where the hell do you think you’re goin’? Get back with the rest.’
With no choice but to oblige, Pearce did so, glaring at the speaker, a bear of a fellow with a barrel chest, huge shoulders, little neck and a round, large, crop-haired head which rendered small what were decentsized features. ‘I am Robert Sykes, Bosun of His Majesty’s twenty-eight gun frigate, HMS Brilliant. Just to prove we ain’t true bastards, the captain has agreed to feed you, even though the hour for breakfast is long passed.’
Charlie Taverner responded with a slight jab at Pearce’s shoulder, one that implied a friendship they truly did not share. ‘Thank Christ for that, I ain’t had a bite since I nicked a bit of your cheese last night, John Pearce.’
The fierce look that earned him was enough to make Taverner flush, for he had been close enough to hear Pearce refuse to volunteer his name to the officer swearing them in. He must have indeed overheard him when he gave it to O’Hagan. There was no doubt that the bosun had noted it now, because he gave a slight nod.
Kemp, who had come down as well, tapped off four of the group, Rufus among them, and ordered them to follow him, while Sykes told the rest to sit at some of the mess tables. As they did so the surgeon walked by, stopped, then stood several feet away, his eyes ranging over the whole group. He was followed by another officer, who stood before them with the air of a man about to make a speech, which he promptly did when Kemp and his quartet returned with lumps of bread and cheese.
‘I am Lieutenant Digby, third of this ship, HMS Brilliant.’ Digby paused to let that sink in, before adding, ‘The method by which you have come to serve aboard this vessel is to none of you pleasant, but serve you must, for after taking the oath on deck you are subject to the Articles of War, and those articles do not allow for any insubordination. Do not, whatever you do, seek to fight the system of discipline aboard this ship, for I warn you that retribution will be swift and unpleasant. You will all be given a number and be assigned to a watch, of which there will be two once we weigh anchor, and you will be allotted duties to perform by Mr Sykes here, who as the bosun is responsible for training you up to your work. Without doubt this world you have entered will be strange, as will the tasks you will be asked to carry out, but in time you will learn enough to make you proper members of the crew.’
‘Orders from Mr Roscoe, sir,’ piped Burns, coming down the stairwell. ‘He requires the new hands to be put to work immediately on the forward derrick.’
A deep frown creased the lieutenant’s face – it was clearly an order he did not welcome.
‘Wait here,’ Digby said, making to go up past the little midshipman, before he was halted by the surgeon’s voice.
‘Lieutenant Digby,’ said Lutyens. ‘I do believe the Captain said I could attend to the man with the blood wound.’
‘Of course.’ Digby looked at Charlie Taverner, demanding his name. ‘Go with Mr Lutyens.’
Roscoe was on the quarterdeck, in an old working coat, his lopsided face a picture of the kind of frustration that seemed to be the hallmark of a First Lieutenant. Though it was an office he coveted, Henry Digby was well aware that it was, in naval terms, and given the wrong type of commanding officer, the proverbial poisoned chalice. As Premier to a taut captain like Ralph Barclay you got scant praise and all the blame that was going if things went wrong. So the lack of a smiling countenance was hardly surprising.
‘Sir,’ Digby said, lifting his hat to a look of indifference. ‘These new fellows have not even been shown the layout of the ship, I…’
Roscoe cut across him. ‘Perhaps Mr Digby, with my permission, you can go to the captain and explain why the holds are not yet stowed. We are under orders to weigh, we still have stores coming aboard, and that does not allow for indulgence. Be so good as to obey the instruction you have been given. And might I suggest that someone who knows how to drive them, Kemp perhaps, be detailed to that duty, for they will not work with a will unless they are made to.’
‘Sir,’ Digby replied, because there was no other option.
Backside on a wooden chest, being attended to by the surgeon, Charlie Taverner was left to wonder how Lutyens had come by the title, for he had not received it for tenderness.
‘This particular herbal curative is called Melissengeist, and is of Germ
an provenance, made by the nuns of a particular Rhineland abbey. The ingredients are secret, unlike the effect, which can be remarkable when used on a wound.’
If Lutyens had bothered to look into the face of Charlie Taverner, he might have had some notion of how ham-fisted he was being. Every time he jabbed at the wound on his patient’s head, Charlie winced, though he kept himself from emitting any sound. On deck, the man Lutyens had already treated in a like manner, who also had broken skin on his crown, a quarter gunner by the name of Dysart, was warning his fellow crew members that their new surgeon, ‘was as close to a sorcerer as he had ever seen, with his strange reeking foreign potions, as well as bein’ a heavy handed bugger’.
‘Charlie Taverner,’ Lutyens said.
Though it was not a question, Taverner answered in the positive.
‘You’re not a seaman?’ the surgeon asked.
‘My you are the quick one, your honour,’ Charlie responded, eyebrows raised, eyes twinkling, thinking that it was a daft question. ‘You’ve gone and seen me for what I really am, a proper gent.’ Lutyens just looked at Charlie, as he added, ‘Hard as I tried to hide it.’
‘You choose to be jocose?’
‘I might if’n I knew what it meant.’
‘What was your occupation?’
‘How does grave robber sound? Bet you, being a medical cove, has bought a few corpses in your time.’
‘I have, and I doubt they came from you, for robbing graves is hardly necessary when so many cadavers can be had from the streets or the river. So what was your true employment?’
‘Let’s just say this and that, your honour. Obliging Charlie Taverner they called me. You wanted something done, I was there to do it.’
By the Mast Divided Page 10