Uniformed sentries, desultory in their manner, guarded the ramp to the citadel and their clothing was white, indicating they were either Austrian or Dutch; oddly, there was no flag showing anywhere to enlighten Pearce. Reassuringly there was also no sense of coming and going which would attend upon a well-manned fortress, more importantly from those exterior barracks, where any garrison not under threat would be housed. Pearce even took a quick gander inside one of the doorways before continuing on his way, not forgetting to keep Michael abreast of what he was observing.
‘Empty barrack blocks, so there can only be a small number of troops here, and if they lack numbers they may well lack curiosity.’
‘Listen, John-boy,’ Michael said, cutting off the flow of information.
Exiting the esplanade into one of the narrow streets that fed it they had just passed another tavern, one set back from the road with an open courtyard to the front, and both had heard the sound of singing. It was Michael, stopping him talking, that allowed Pearce to hear what the Irishman had already picked up.
‘English?’
O’Hagan nodded. ‘Stay here, while I have a gander,’ responding to a quizzical look with a slightly terse comment: ‘Sure, one man looking will not cause a ripple, but two might.’
Pearce did not agree, because Michael was of a size to do that on his own, so he dogged his heels as the voices grew louder, enough now for the words to be identifiable as a rude drinking song. The place they entered was packed, full of smoke and noise, with a fair number of men obviously drunk – there were women bearing jugs moving to and fro – but even more of their fellows engaged with females who were whores by their manner, some flirting, others occupying a knee, while there seemed to be a degree of traffic of both sexes to and from the upper floor.
‘Full of the damned heathens,’ Michael said, more in envy than anger, ‘and all very oiled. Makes me harken for the Pelican.’
Pearce peered through the fug in vain for a place to sit – all the tables and chairs were occupied – while he was also aware they were being examined by quite a few of the drinkers – and not kindly, which had him whispering to Michael, ‘Hard bargains by the look of them.’
‘Sure, I would say they ain’t much different from them lot that fetched us over last night.’
‘They’re certainly enjoying themselves.’
‘And spending freely.’
Pearce shrugged. ‘Nothing to do with us, Michael, and I am not minded to ask who they are.’
‘John-boy, think on this, if they are like those boatmen from last night, they would not be here in such numbers if they could not come and go as they please.’
‘Let us hope you have the right of it.’
‘Shall we try for a place to sit?’
‘No, time to be making our way back.’
A troubled Arthur Winston was awaiting them and it was clear his annoyance was directed at John Pearce, an attitude that fell on stony ground. ‘I think you are too sanguine about things, my friend, but I am not.’
‘We heard fellows carousing in English,’ Michael added. ‘Lots of them.’
‘You heard it too?’
‘You did not say before this was a place much frequented by our countrymen.’
‘It is a trading port and always has been.’
‘Even with a war on?’
Winston threw his hands up in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘Such a thing is of no concern to me, I am here upon my own affairs.’
‘A fair point, Arthur. What about your ship?’
‘She’s berthed where I last saw her and still loaded.’
‘Rigged for sea?’
‘I would say so, yes, but I lack your knowledge.’
‘Do I now qualify for a name?’
Winston had the decency to look abashed. ‘She is called Hemoine. You must understand, John, that once a man has been cheated …’ That became an unfinished sentence. ‘After such a short acquaintance—’
This time he was interrupted, but gently so. ‘It matters not, we are here now and I need to see her so I can decide what must be done to get her out to sea.’
Winston was up quickly. ‘Then let us do that.’ As Charlie and Rufus rose too, he added, ‘I do not think it is wise that we go as a group. It will draw attention to us.’
‘Suits me,’ Charlie responded, sitting down again, ‘though I am not much taken with this Flemish ale.’
‘Good,’ Pearce said, detecting a very slight slur in the voice. ‘Then you won’t have too much of it, given you will need a clear head. You stay here too, Michael, and keep an eye on him.’
As they exited, Pearce had Winston wrap his comforter around his lower face again. ‘You dare not risk being seen, for it will not take much to deduce why you are here.’
They did not exit through the gates but instead went up on to the deep band of greensward, the grass-covered earth that backed up the fortress walls where the cold wind, light in its strength, seemed unusually biting. From this high elevation Winston pointed out a two-masted vessel, deep in the water, which testified to her being fully loaded, with the sails furled tight on their spars, a jolly boat hanging from her transom, berthed below the bridge they had crossed to enter the town, with Pearce asking what type she was.
‘A Bilander and it is a common vessel in these waters.’
The broad beam pointed to the kind of shallow draught that she would need to sail canals, but it also indicated to him that this was not a vessel for any type of heavy sea, for with a limited depth of keel she would be much affected by the current, while at this high elevation he could feel the increase in the strength of wind that would play on her upper canvas. They watched for a while but no one came on deck or approached the vessel, while from their vantage point they could see the ocean waters, strangely grey under such a clear blue sky.
‘Is there anyone here about whom we can get an opinion of the weather?’
‘John, it is so calm I doubt I would be troubled by it and I am a poor sailor, as you already know.’
‘I need to know if it is likely to hold.’
‘Does your own experience not tell you?’
Pearce was disinclined to respond, mentally noting that Arthur Winston had become somewhat tetchy, behaviour he put down to the man’s nerves. He was not a man of action, he was a fellow at home in an office or a coffee house doing business. Instead, Pearce looked at the sky, bright blue with a few lines of high, wispy clouds streaming to the south-east, with the shape of a half-moon just visible, like a daub of faint chalk. There was no indication that the weather had altered, and if it did not he would have it, on the course he was set to take, coming in right over his stern but at no great strength, which was far from perfect.
Yet it was good weather and that was not a lasting thing; to wait for it to be perfect could be weeks. In his mind he plotted a variation on his course: he would head for the Goodwins, the wind coming in on his beam to up his rate of sailing, sure that the lanterns of berthed ships in the Downs, as well as the lights of Deal and its castles, would alert him to the danger of sailing too close to the sandbank if he arrived there in darkness. Those same lights would aid him in navigating the deep water at the tip of the southern end, where he could set up his signal lamps and head into the shallows of St Margaret’s Bay. Aware that Winston was looking at him and in a slightly worried fashion, he finally responded.
‘My knowledge tells me that weather is a fickle mistress, Arthur, but with the tide making and high in the hours of darkness, if nothing changes in that sky above us we will attempt to take your Hemoine out at twilight. Now, I need to get close to her and see what numbers are aboard, and I would suggest that is something I should do alone, since even with that comforter over your face you might be recognised.’
Once out of the gates, Pearce wandered along the quays like a fellow out for an innocent stroll, hands behind his back, stopping occasionally to examine a barge or a ship long before he came to the Hemoine, noting, judging by how th
ey lay in the water, that some of those he looked at were partially loaded, while others were showing copper and obviously empty, and on those the decks were all ahoo with coops and untidy ropes. Most striking was the lack of anyone present; they seemed a trusting lot in Gravelines.
Well short of Hemoine, her name was plain on the stern transom, he stopped to look, thinking she appeared to be in very good order, her black-painted sides shiny, and showing no signs of any of the kind of cracks caused by weather or sun. Moving closer, he could see the decks were clear, while the falls seemed to be of good rope and neatly arranged on their cleats in a way that would have pleased an inspecting king’s officer, the only problem being a growling dog, a large creature with her paws on the bulwarks, which barked as he got to the edge of the gangplank.
As he was eying her, and no doubt alerted by the barking, an elderly, craggy-faced fellow, with bent shoulders, came up from below, his peg leg stomping first on the companionway steps and then the decking as he crossed to the gangway. Staring straight at him, Pearce was given to thinking he would have struggled to look benign, which he did not, even if he had smiled, while the way he cuffed the animal to silence was harsh. He had a hooked, many-times-broken nose, far from straight, beetle, near-white, overgrown eyebrows and untidy dewlaps of grey hair down his cheeks all topped by a greasy woollen cap. The gruff question he asked, more of a demand, was delivered in execrable French, which roughly translated enquired what he thought he was gawping at.
‘Un bon bateau, n’est-ce pas?’
About to ask if he was the owner, which might start a conversation and provide some information, his flattering description was met with a jerked thumb and two words spat out with real venom. ‘Privé’ and ‘Marchez!’ There was no point in doing other in response than giving a shrug and moving on, which Pearce did with the same air of insouciance as he had used in approach. Aware he was being watched by the old misery, he stopped to look down into the next berthed vessel, a lugger, its deck being well below the level of the quay. He was hoping his adopted air of curiosity would send the irascible bugger back below, but it was not to be; the old fellow kept him under view, forcing him to walk on.
In truth, he had already gathered all the information he could reasonably hope to get and was, again, stuck with a series of unknowns. Were those furled sails of good canvas? Was there water in the well and how did it smell – of rot or just the usual odour of damp wood? What was the rigging like, though what he had seen looked to be sound and well maintained? More worrying was the fact that, if that old sod was keeping a sharp eye out, he could not get along this open quay without being seen. Against that he saw no evidence that he would have to deal with anything other than that one watch-keeper.
With a firmer step he retraced his walk, passing the Hemoine again, which was done under observation from those same beetle-browed eyes, though the fellow made a dumbshow of working on the binnacle brasswork. Pearce did not even look at him – he went by as though he had purpose, but the feeling of that basilisk look of deep suspicion boring into his back was palpable. Once back inside the walls, he made his way back up to the point at which Winston had first identified the ship. He lay down to avoid being spotted, then spent a whole hour watching the old fellow come and go from below, pleased there was no evidence of anyone else aboard, his back warmed by the sun, his front chilled by the damp grass. The whole quay remained relatively deserted, with only the odd person walking to and fro, which he put down to the low tide making it impossible to contemplate setting sail.
Back at the tavern, as he entered, he was met by a quartet of enquiring looks, most earnestly from Arthur Winston, that met with a nod and the information that his supposition looked to be correct: there was only an anchor watch and not one that could not be dealt with. That was followed by a question.
‘What are the signals you have arranged at the landing place?’
The look that crossed Winston’s face had, once more, that air of caution, which irritated Pearce: what in the name of creation was wrong with the man? His eyes dropped, as did his head, and Pearce suspected he was wondering if that, too, was information best kept to himself, so he added, for it was the case, ‘It matters not, but we must go to the market outside the citadel and buy some raw meat.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Given a clear sky and that gentle north-east wind, twilight was going to be a long drawn-out affair, and still that half of a moon was faintly visible in the clear blue sky, which suited the way Pearce wanted to approach matters. It would be best to avoid violence: that would attract attention from any people on the vessels berthed close by. Also, overlooked by the outer walls of the town, there was no way of knowing who might see what they were about. Possibly a concerned citizen could alert the estuary forts, which would induce unwelcome curiosity; Hemoine had to be taken over quietly and sailed out calmly.
The pistols, that same pair which Michael had wrested from the crimps, were quietly loaded in the tavern while those serving were out of view. The notion was advanced by Charlie Taverner that more shot might be an idea – there was only enough for a couple of reloads, but Pearce was of the opinion that unless they had in mind to put a ball in someone that would be unnecessary – as stated before by the Irishman, the advantage lay in the threat not the discharge. After a last look at his watch, Pearce announced it was time to go and, bill settled, they made their way out into the now deeply shaded street, heading for the city gate and bright, if low sunlight.
As they made their way towards the gangplank they could see smoke coming from the chimney; hopefully the miserable old sod was busy at his dinner. Pearce, as a precaution against being recognised, walked behind Michael O’Hagan, Winston, once more obeying the instruction to hide his face behind his comforter, bringing up the rear, while Rufus skipped along well in front tasked to play the fool.
How the dog would react was a factor, the hope being that the way the old fellow had cuffed it hard, argued against it being well cared for: folk who behaved in that manner tended not to overfeed their animals. Certainly it had its paws up on the bulwark again, but before it issued a growl, Rufus tossed the first piece of raw horse meat over the side, which, whizzing past its ear, took its eye before the smell – they had bought some high, well-hung produce – took its nostrils. The paws disappeared.
‘Move,’ Pearce hissed.
Michael broke into a run, Pearce following, both producing pistols at the bottom of the gangplank before gingerly making their way onto the deck. Rufus kept the dog busy with more meat, but two weighty bodies could not board a floating platform without the deck dipping and alerting the man left to watch. Charlie went to work on the line, tied around the aft bollard, preparatory to casting it off, Rufus making for the bows to do likewise, while Arthur Winston stood transfixed on the quay.
An indistinct voice called from below, to which Pearce did not respond as he and Michael, hearing the first stomp of that peg leg, took up a position on either side of the hatchway. There was an angry growling sound, obviously complaint, as he climbed the steps, but that ceased as he saw two pistols aimed at his head, while the light, coming from the east over the vessel’s stern, shone on John Pearce’s recognisable face.
‘Vous!’
A finger went to Pearce’s lips. ‘Silence, mon vieux, au …’
The pistol was waved and the message was clear. Michael reached down and grabbed at his clothing, hauling him up to deck level, which produced a whimper of terror, this as Pearce said softly in French that he had nothing to fear if he did exactly as he was told. Passing his pistol to Pearce, Michael dragged him, it had to be said without much protest, to the gangplank, indicating to Winston to come aboard, before Pearce instructed the old fellow to untie the dog, which was still chewing on the horse meat, and take him on to the quay.
‘Cast off those lines,’ Pearce called, now with two pistols aimed at the old fellow, not in the least surprised when his speaking in English got a shocked response. ‘Everybody aboar
d and haul in the gangplank. Pole us out into the channel. Michael, the wheel.’
Charlie and Rufus grabbed the long poles, hooked at one end, which were sat on the bulwarks, these placed against the quay and their backs bent. As the gap widened between ship and shore they were transferred to either side to get it moving downstream. Pearce called to the old fellow, reverting to French, telling him to stay where he was and not to seek to raise the alarm, an admonition that only lasted until he thought himself out of range. At that point he began to stomp back up the quay towards the town gate, dragging a very cowed dog behind him, while Pearce jammed the now uncocked pistol into his waistband.
‘Thank the Lord he cannot run,’ Winston said, pulling the comforter off his mouth.
‘We’re not clear yet, Arthur, put it back on.’
‘Would it anger you if I went to assess the state of my cargo? I need to see it has not perished.’
Pearce shook his head: there was nothing Winston could do on deck, and even if he had urged caution he knew the river current and poling was taking them downstream with relative ease. At some point he would have to get aloft and release some sail and it would be damned hard work with so few hands to employ at the task, but once they had dropped the canvas and sheeted it home it should be plain sailing, with little to do aloft until they were out in deep water. Then there would be ample time, safe from interference, to get set a proper suit of sails.
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