By the Mast Divided

by David Donachie

  ‘Nothing, your honour.’

  ‘God damn the eyes of those fishermen! Mr Roscoe, all hands, get the best lookouts on the ship aloft and for God’s sake someone get me more sail.’

  What followed was a repeat of the previous day, for although the wind had shifted slightly to the north it was still not a breeze to favour the course they were steering. Brilliant was labouring into both a wind and an incoming Atlantic swell. And all the time the dull booming sound of the guns grew louder until finally what Ralph Barclay feared most was confirmed. The ship he had been chasing all night was attacking what looked like the East Indiaman that had become detached from the convoy.

  Crowding on sail took no account of potential damage to the top hamper. Twice topsails blew out of their deadeyes and had to be reset. Ralph Barclay became frantic when the firing stopped, incandescent and railing at the course the Indiaman must have been sailing, which was nothing like that of the convoy. He was angry – even more so and unfairly – when he was told that Firefly was nowhere to be seen. He fell silent when informed that the Mercedes was hoisting sail, and that a French ensign flew over the East India Company pennant, declaring that she had just captured the valuable prize.

  But despite that, he knew, as he cleared for action, he had a chance to redeem matters. He was between his quarry and St Malo. If the Frenchman headed for his home port he would have to get both barque and prize past the frigate; at the very least he would have to abandon the East Indiaman. At best Brilliant would take her back and board and take her captor as well.

  ‘He is setting his course south, your honour,’ called the lookout.

  ‘Damn the man,’ Barclay cried, almost wailing in frustration, casting his eyes towards the rugged North Brittany shore, just a faint grey line on the southern horizon.

  ‘Mr Collins, look to your charts and any profiles you have of the shoreline. Tell me where he might be headed.’

  Within seconds he was pacing up and down the deck, more concerned with the consequences of failure than the prospect of success, for he would find it hard to justify searching for a vessel that not only had he failed to find, but that he had allowed to be captured. Suddenly Ralph Barclay was aware of the impression he was creating, improperly dressed and very obviously agitated. He shot into his cabin, to come face to face with his wife.

  ‘There is something amiss, Captain Barclay?’ she said.

  Given his mood, the reply was sharper than necessary. ‘It is nothing with which you should concern yourself. My coat and hat, Shenton,’ he said, breathing heavily.

  It was an awkward silence that followed, one in which he could not bring himself to tell her he had been humbugged, one in which she waited in vain for him to express regret at being so brusque. That he did not do so, merely donning the called-for clothing before departing, made Emily cross.

  ‘Shenton, my cloak if you please.’

  The steward looked at her questioningly, but in the face of her own direct and uncompromising glare he had no choice but to oblige. She emerged on to the deck of a ship in the act of coming about, lines of men running this way and that as they adjusted and realigned the sails. Now aware of the safest place to be, she took up a position between two of the quarterdeck cannon, watching a husband too busy with Collins and his charts and shoreline drawings to notice her presence. She was still there when, with HMS Brilliant settled on her new course, the gun crew returned to their station.

  Pearce ignored the dig he got from Michael O’Hagan for staring at the captain’s wife, now only a few feet away. He also ignored the cursed injunction to stand still as he took a step to close that gap, too busy forming some words he could use to establish contact. Unaware of the man’s proximity Emily Barclay started as if she had seen a ghost when she half turned and he came into her eye line.

  ‘Pearce, you omhadhaun,’ hissed Michael. ‘Look away.’

  ‘Madam, you addressed me in French yesterday. Might I be allowed to ask why?’

  ‘Did I?’ Emily replied, flustered, feeling the warm blood began to fill her face as she blushed. That inadvertent use of French had been foolish in the extreme. She might as well have said to this man, “I have read your letter.”

  ‘An affectation of mine, I do assure you,’ she lied, which made her blush even more.

  Pearce was enchanted by the beauty of that reddening face, putting the blush down to a becoming shyness, rather than duplicity. Smiling, he was just about to acknowledge the acceptance of her statement when her husband’s voice roared from across the other side of the deck.

  ‘You!’

  ‘Holy Christ, you are truly a fool, in English as well as the Erse.’ said Michael, as Pearce turned to look at Barclay, now advancing, his fist raised to strike. A sailor talking to Emily was bad enough – this one, a bloody landsman whom he’d already had occasion to clout, was tantamount to mutiny.

  ‘You dare to address my wife on my quarterdeck!’

  Pearce felt his limbs begin to tremble and shaped to defend himself, mentally damming the consequences, sure that if Barclay laid a finger on him he was going to retaliate. His own bunched fists were ready, when the captain’s lady intervened.

  ‘It was I who spoke to him, husband.’ That stopped Ralph Barclay dead, as much the firm tone in her voice as the words themselves. ‘And I fail to see that a mere exchange of pleasantries should occasion such a reaction.’

  He was still staring at Pearce when he said, ‘Mrs Barclay, you will oblige me by leaving the deck forthwith.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘This second, madam!’

  ‘I would plead that this man is innocent, husband.’

  Barclay had to restrain himself from shouting at the top of his voice, but the tone of voice he employed was obvious enough. ‘Leave now!’

  Emily did so, with a backward and sympathetic glance at Pearce, which enraged her husband even more. The two men were left staring at each other, the captain aware that if he struck this man, he would get a blow in return. The temptation to bring that on was high, for to strike a captain would see this bugger swing. Yet here he was, with an enemy in the offing, one he was once more pursuing. His dignity did not permit of a bout of fisticuffs.

  ‘Master at Arms, I want this man in irons.’

  The whole ship had been watching, some fearing what might happen – others anticipating it with pleasure. Coyle, one of the latter and the man called to react, was alongside Pearce in a second, with a very willing Kemp to aid him in securing the prisoner. ‘You’re for it now, mate, an’ if the powers that be are kind, I’ll be the one swinging the cat,’ he snuffled happily.

  Taken below, chained and locked in the cable tier, Pearce was not witness to the way the privateer, along with his capture, evaded Barclay and HMS Brilliant. Both ships were plain to see, the sleek barque and the Indiaman with her damaged bulwarks, smashed stern rail and the jeering men lining it, the Frenchman who had taken possession of her. The pursuit took the frigate in dangerously close to the rock-strewn shore of Brittany, to an inlet that his quarry knew well and Barclay did not. Eddies of water showed the location of the submerged rocks, while great rolling waves broke over those that were visible. By noon, on a high tide, both the chase and the Indiaman had entered a long inlet, forcing Barclay to haul off. The risk of going in further was too great, with uncharted rocks everywhere around that could rip out his bottom and sink him.

  ‘Mr Collins, have you yet managed to discern what is this place?’ The master replied with some certainty, ‘I believe it is the estuary of the River Trieux, Captain Barclay, and my charts tell me there is a small port about a half a mile inland called Lézardrieux.’

  ‘With deep water at low tide?’

  ‘I fear so.’

  ‘Mr Roscoe, Mr Collins and I will require the cutter to be launched. Once we are aboard her I wish you to take our ship out into deep water and out of sight of land. Please arrange a rendezvous with Mr Collins before we depart.’

  A tiny mid-stream, uni
nhabited island allowed Ralph Barclay to enter the estuary without being observed from upriver, and provided, when he climbed to the top of the scrub-covered rock, a good view of what he faced, which avoided the need to take the cutter in close and reveal that he was reconnoitring the area. The two ships were anchored out in deep water, prows facing seawards. Lézardrieux lay on the western shore, a run of low buildings interspersed with the odd two- or three-storey edifice – really no more than a fishing village, dominated by a hillside church. A dilapidated bastion lay at the northern edge – a stone-fronted gun emplacement that had been allowed to fall into disrepair, though he could see cannon muzzles poking out and a certain amount of activity around the embrasures. Most of the local boats, small fishing smacks, were tied up in the lee of that.

  Thick woods ran from the surrounding hills on both sides of the narrowing estuary down to slender strands of sandy beach. There was no sign of any occupancy – no farm or manor houses, though there was a good chance that such things existed inland, hidden from view by the tall trees. There would be few roads into a place like this. It was very likely a village that depended on the river for contact with the interior – a good place for a privateer to lay up without in any way drawing attention to itself.

  The Lady Harrington was anchored upriver of its captor and Ralph Barclay could see boats plying to and fro disgorging men on to the shore. But of more interest was the fact that no cargo was being moved, which underlined his supposition that the Mercedes had run for this place to avoid him, and that as soon as Brilliant departed she would make for a bigger port, in all likelihood St Malo, a place where her crew could get a good price both for the cargo and find a willing buyer for such a valuable hull.

  Could he get his ship in here and alongside the sod? If he could he knew that he could take the privateer with ease and at the same time subdue any fire from that rundown bastion. But there was the rub; he would need a favourable wind, which he did not have, and he would need to be quick, which ruled out towing Brilliant in with boats, for a slow approach would allow his enemies to mount a defence by warping both ships across the channel alongside the land-based cannon, thus presenting him with an array of fully manned guns he would find it hard to match. And his approach would be fraught with danger, bow on to broadsides. The damage they could inflict before he could swing round to bring his own guns to bear might be terminal, and that took no account of underwater hazards like submerged rocks or sandbars.

  ‘Mr Collins, your opinion on the risks of bringing HMS Brilliant into this estuary?’

  The master, who had been busy sketching what they could see, so that his captain would have a record of their observations, actually shuddered at such a notion. ‘It would need a week of soundings afore I would even think of giving you an answer, sir.’

  ‘We do not have a week, Mr Collins.’

  ‘Then, sir, I must most emphatically advise against it.’

  If a man as timorous as Collins was wont to make such a clear-cut statement, then most certainly the risk was too great. But Ralph Barclay was conscious of one very pertinent fact; that he had to find a way to try and get that Indiaman back – his whole future could depend on it.

  ‘Mr Collins, I require you to remain here overnight, and I will detail some men to stay with you. I will take with me what you have already drawn, and wish you to make what observations you can before darkness falls. But more pertinent is what you can see at first light when the tide is lower. No fires, even on the seaward side of the island, so I fear you will be cold, for flames and smoke will alert anyone looking from those hills above the woods, or even from the port itself to your presence. I will send a boat in to pick you up before the tide peaks tomorrow.’

  It was dark before the cutter rejoined the ship, even though Roscoe had brought HMS Brilliant inshore to the pre-arranged rendezvous as soon as the light of the day began to fade. In a long, uncomfortable and wet journey, in an open boat with only his foul weather cloak to protect him, Ralph Barclay had found many things to worry about, and he was also, after a long and dispiriting day, wet through and very tired. An argument with his wife about naval discipline the moment he made his cabin he did not need, and had no desire to engage in. But Emily would not be fobbed off.

  ‘I find it utterly barbaric, Captain Barclay, that you can even consider punishing a man for merely talking to me.’

  ‘It is not you, my dear, but what you represent.’

  ‘I do not represent anything.’

  ‘You do,’ Barclay insisted. ‘Me!’

  The mutual stare was short but telling, with both parties thinking along the same lines; had it been a wise decision for Emily to come on board ship? Ralph Barclay was deliberating that if Emily could not comprehend the absolute requirement for discipline then he was in for a difficult time. She was thinking that the proximity imposed by the cramped accommodation, in which each party saw too much of the other, never mind actions of which she thoroughly disapproved, was inimical to harmonious relations.

  At the base of Emily’s concern was the knowledge that she had been foolish; she should never have addressed this Pearce fellow at all, even out of politeness, and certainly not in French. Ralph Barclay had a nagging thought at the back of his own mind; wondering if she had, as she had said, spoken first, and if so what had been the content of her conversation, for he could not forget her reluctance to translate that letter.

  ‘I am asking, husband, as a favour to me, that no punishment is given to that sailor, for I swear he is innocent of any crime. Any transgression was mine, and I must bear any reprimand you choose to issue.’

  It was tempting to give way to such a supplicant look and the very obvious manner, which denoted a future full of submission; a mere allusion to this moment would be enough to quell these burgeoning signs of wifely determination. Against that he had been publicly insulted, by a pressed seaman on his own quarterdeck. To allow that to pass, with the officers he had aboard and his crew yet to take his full measure, could lead to all sorts of problems. Ralph Barclay had seen it before – one act of leniency seen as weakness, which allowed the whole system of naval discipline to collapse. He was contemplating battle, one which he would trust no other to lead, and the sooner the entire ship’s company, including his wife, understood he would brook no dissent, the better.

  ‘Shenton,’ he called, saying slowly and deliberately as his servant appeared. ‘A message to Mr Roscoe, that I require the sentence of punishment for the man in irons to be carried out at first light, before the decks are cleaned. I will decide what that is to be dependent upon his attitude, but it will most certainly require a grating to be rigged and the bosun to make up a cat.’

  Then, looking into the still-pleading eyes of his wife, he added. ‘You do not understand, my dear.’

  The sudden light sent the rats, which had been scrabbling around the cable tier eager to investigate a warm living body, scurrying for cover. The lantern also lit up Pearce, who was sitting on a slimy cable, chains round his wrist, and the face of Lieutenant Digby, who held it out before him.

  ‘The captain has decided to institute the punishment in the morning.’ Seeing Pearce’s look of incomprehension, he added, ‘It is customary for such a thing to be carried out on the following day.’

  ‘And what is the punishment to be?’ asked Pearce.

  ‘If you plead for leniency, perhaps it will be nothing more than a verbal reprimand.’

  ‘Do you believe that, Mr Digby?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Am I to be flogged?’

  Digby nodded, and Pearce fought to prevent a very natural shudder as the lieutenant added, ‘But I do know that a plea has a chance of reducing the number of lashes you may receive, to perhaps as little as half a dozen.’

  ‘That requires that I plead to Barclay, does it not?’

  ‘Captain Barclay,’ Digby insisted. ‘And it is I who will do the pleading, you are merely required to look contrite.’

  Pearce was aware that, pos
sibly, he was being foolish – any plea Digby made would not be believed by anyone who heard it anyway, least of all the man who wished to chastise him. So was it a meaningless gesture to decline such alleviation? His father’s voice was in his ear then, telling him, as he had all his life, that most of men’s folly was brought about by pride, and it was that which he could not swallow.

  ‘That, I am afraid, I will not do.’

  ‘All hands aft to witness punishment, Mr Roscoe,’ said Ralph Barclay, looking south to an empty sea, grey as it reflected the colour of the sky, devoid even of the fishing boats he had expected to see, the very same vessels he had observed tied up by that bastion at Lézardrieux.

  HMS Brilliant had hauled off from the Brittany shore once more and it was no longer in view. He had already formulated most of a plan to cut out both ships that very night; when the master rejoined that would finalised, but he had no intention of alerting his opponents by beating to and fro in full view throughout the day. Let them think he had gone back to his convoy. That way he would gain the most telling advantage: surprise.

  The bosun’s mates had rigged the grating to the poop rail and the marines, fully dressed and armed, were lined up behind that, overseeing the deck on which the crew would congregate, the captain’s protection against protest. All the officers and midshipmen were in full dress, best blue coats, number one scrapers on their heads, swords at their waist, held by one white-gloved hand, and they moved to head their divisions as the men took their place. Barclay was at the windward side of the quarterdeck, staring idly out to sea, the picture of unconcern. But he was no fool, he knew what he was about would be unpopular, not because this fellow Pearce was a favourite amongst the crew – he was after all a landsman – but because they would be aware he was being punished to discourage any others who might be tempted to be over-free with his wife.

  Roscoe called out as soon as the assembly was complete, ‘Master at Arms, bring forth the prisoner.’