By the Mast Divided Read online

  Rosie had tired, corn-coloured hair, a full mouth, flushed cheeks and a smile that, like her eyes, denoted the boredom of one who was never free of such remarks. ‘You ain’t got the price, Charlie Taverner, an’ I ain’t got the time nor the puff.’

  ‘Do you have spiced wine?’ murmured Pearce, and when she nodded he added, ‘With a dash of brandy.’

  That made her squint hard at him, as if he was some kind of curiosity. ‘You’ll know the price of brandy, then?’

  A foolish thing to ask for; brandy in England was now contraband and expensive. ‘Any ardent spirit will do, and some bread and cheese.’

  ‘Arrack?’ Pearce nodded, as his neighbour leant forward, attempting to stick his hand down the front of Rosie’s dress, which brought forth an angry cry of, ‘Mr Taverner!’

  ‘Mister,’ the man exclaimed in his overly jocose way, half turning once more towards Pearce, ignoring an expression that denoted that he wanted no part of this raillery. ‘She calls me mister, not good sir, as you do.’ Then he turned his full attention back to the serving girl. ‘Rosie, five minutes up those stairs, in the sweet privacy of your bedchamber, and I swear you would call me your loving Charlie.’

  ‘Old Charlie, more like, an’ since when did anyone your age last more’n two minutes?’

  The girl’s broad back retreated towards the serving hatch, followed by catcalls about Taverner’s prowess and her patience. Pearce, smiling at the put-down, wondered at a life like hers, then shook his head to clear the thought. This was no time for causes, for reflections on the lot of the disadvantaged – the situation he had very seriously to worry about at this moment was his own.

  ‘There’s meat for man there, friend, wouldn’t you say?’

  Charlie Taverner was made to feel foolish because he was grinning, one hand raised and cupped to grip imaginary flesh, at a neighbour who was not responding. In fact the face before him, under that odd hat, seemed devoid of expression, even the eyes, grey and steady with dark circles underneath failed to flicker. Pearce knew he should relax – to stare at this stranger in such a cold way would not aid the obscurity he craved – but he could not. He did register the smiling face, note that this Taverner was of an age with him, and had, though thin, a pleasing countenance, with thick blond hair and bright blue eyes. He had an air that implied he thought himself handsome and gave the impression of a man whose main aim in life was pleasure. But smile he would not, for to do so would only expose him to more conversation. With a confused, ‘Please yourself,’ Taverner turned back to his companions, leaving his miserable neighbour with what he wanted most: peace.

  The noise of the tavern faded to a buzz and the odd shout. Now fully warm, Pearce opened his coat, feeling the weight of his eyelids. Rosie came and went with his food and spiced wine, and took his money, extracted from a purse he took care to re-bury in a deep inside pocket. Pressing his nose to the top of the tankard, he breathed in the heady odours of cinnamon and arrack. Staring into the smoky room as he sipped the alcohol, he chewed his food and silently prayed that those who had pursued him throughout this long day had given up the chase, at least for tonight.

  Four times Pearce closed his eyes, only to start back into consciousness for three. But he had not slept properly for two days, forty-eight hours in which he had travelled many miles, a fair proportion on foot, and with warmth and wine it was impossible to stay awake.

  ‘Grim looking bugger that one,’ remarked Able Scrivens, leaning forward to draw attention as Pearce’s head fell to his chest and stayed there. ‘Don’t look to be from round here, do he?’

  ‘Who in their right mind would want to claim that?’ added Ben Walker, still sour.

  ‘Hunted, I’d say,’ said Taverner in a soft voice, ‘and no knowledge of which way to jump.’

  ‘Which makes him one of us, poor soul,’ sighed Abel.

  ‘He ain’t poor, Abel,’ said Charlie, his face breaking into a knowing look. ‘And he might just be this night’s salvation.’

  Turning to glance at his sleeping neighbour, Charlie Taverner was at last free to examine him in repose, relaxed and less hostile, to look at the tall black hat with the square buckle mounted on the crown, that and the cut of his coat, just as singular, with its wide, severe lapels and high rear collar. There was no suspicion in the examination, just interest. Taverner reached out to place Pearce’s tankard upright before what was left in the bottom spilt out. He ate the remains of the cheese, then put the plate on the floor.

  When the clamour jerked him awake, Pearce experienced several seconds of panic until he realised where he was: not in the Paris which filled his dream, not sharing a tumbrel with his father, being spat at by a screaming rabble, or strapped face down beneath the sharp blade of a guillotine, but still leaning against that brick wall in the Pelican; though the panic was mixed with anger for the fact that he had fallen asleep in the first place. He could feel the sweat of those troubled dreams round his neck and a sip from the quarter-full tankard told him he had been under long enough to let the contents go cold.

  Over the rim he saw what had caused the uproar – a massive, burly fellow was on his knees, a pine bench in his teeth, slowly lifting it from the floor, the tendons on his hefty neck distended. He was surrounded by fellow revellers, some cheering and others – those who had doubtless bet against the success of the feat – jeering. They began to groan as he got the bench high enough to tip back his head, which allowed him to get one foot on the floor and rise, slowly, until he was upright. The noise reached a climax. Removing the bench from his mouth, the huge fellow accepted a tankard from a grateful supporter, the first of several which he emptied quickly and with ease, while behind him bets were settled. Fascinated by the spectacle though he was, Pearce was aware that the tavern door had opened and he stiffened till he could pin an identity on the three men and a small boy who entered.

  In soft waterman’s caps, blue bum-freezer coats and bright striped petticoat trews, with their pigtails, greased and colourfully beribboned hanging at their backs, the adults were, by their garb, unmistakably sailors. The boy was in the uniform of a marine: red coat, white waistcoat and breeches under a black tricorn hat. They made their way through the throng, forcing themselves on to a near full table by the curtained doorway next to the serving hatch, where they engaged one of the serving girls to provide them with drink.

  ‘You rested well, friend?’ The voice made him turn to face Taverner. Having slept for however long it had been must have done something for his state of mind, because he smiled as his neighbour added, ‘I have often observed that true fatigue produces the best sleep.’

  ‘You may well be right, sir,’ Pearce said.

  His neighbour held up protesting hands. ‘There you are terming me sir again. I shall introduce myself, for I am Charlie Taverner and I pride myself on my ease of manner. And you are?’ Seeing the hesitation Taverner added quickly, ‘You do not wish to say, I observe, which is very right and proper in such a place, for I daresay you are thinking that there are any number of thieves, low scullies and crimps in the Liberties.’

  Pearce was still smiling. His lack of desire to answer must have been in his eyes, for he had indeed thought that such a tavern in such an area must harbour people it would be unwise to trust. He suppressed the callous thought that only dishonest creatures could reside here in this haven for debtors. Having once shared a prison with the unfortunate, a co-joined victim of his father’s incarceration, he knew that men and women got into distress in King George’s domains for any number of reasons. The main cause for those in debt might be fecklessness, but he knew enough of the world he lived in to be aware that society itself had an in-built malice against those given to slippage.

  ‘You have a tendency, friend, to wear a thought on your face,’ Taverner added, ‘for you have begun to frown again.’

  ‘My apologies.’

  Taverner grinned and his face was so open and without guile that Pearce, being of a generally friendly disposition, was
tempted to do likewise. But the feeling was overlaid by the sure knowledge that of the people he had met in his life, the most honest looking, the most overtly pious and eager to please, had often turned out to be the most villainous.

  ‘I hope you will be satisfied if I tell you that my given name is John.’

  ‘John will do, fellow, and it will allow me to introduce you to my friends.’

  This Taverner did, noisily, quickly and indistinctly so that Pearce was left uncertain which one was Ben Walker, Abel Scrivens, or Rufus someone else he did not pick up. A hearty wave brought Rosie towards them, and Taverner had ordered ale for all before she was within ten feet. She did not turn to fetch it, but, hands on her ample hips, and a knowing look on her face, demanded how he was going to pay.

  The fair-topped head with the tipped back hat jerked towards Pearce, eyes bright with mischief. ‘Why my new friend here has the means, as I observed when he paid for his spiced wine and cheese. Deep in his coat there is a purse that has about it a decent weight. John is his name, and as a fine sort he will know that it is the custom to seal an introduction to the Pelican with a wet to the familiars.’ Taverner turned to grin at Pearce, face and eyes alight with the kind of certainty that was the stock in trade of a trickster. ‘Is that not so, John?’

  Dunned, thought Pearce, catching himself in the act of nodding before he had even made up his mind to comply, for he did indeed have money in his purse, the remains of just over fifty guineas that he had changed from Louis d’or in Calais. This joker had had him over like the biggest country bumpkin and flat in creation.

  ‘Now do not frown again, John,’ said Taverner, his grin even wider now, ‘for a man with much must, for all love, share what he has in the Liberties with those who have little. It is the custom.’

  Pearce did smile, for in truth he was grateful for the companionship. ‘I daresay it will not be the last custom I shall hear about.’

  He bought the drink without fuss, and another after that, for they were an agreeable bunch – even if Taverner had about him a touch of the rascal – and company kept his mind from his anxieties. John Pearce was not one to judge his fellow men harshly; their reasons for living in the Savoy, eking out an existence from the bank of the river rather than returning to the world from which they had sprung, emerged in fragments, companions through chance rather than natural friendship, who had combined for reasons of economy. It was clear that they looked to the older man, Abel Scrivens for wisdom, and to jovial Charlie to brighten their stay.

  What emerged was a compendium of familiar tales: Scrivens had worked for a lawyer who had run off with his client’s funds, leaving his clerk to deal with the consequences. He recounted his tale without rancour, in a low steady voice, which, allied to his desiccated appearance, led Pearce to suspect it had happened a long time ago. The Rufus person, gauche, all ginger hair, bright blue eyes and a face that was a mass of freckles, whose surname turned out to be Dommet, hailed from Lichfield, which he pointed out with an artless air was the birthplace of Garrick the actor, as well as the sage and writer Doctor Samuel Johnson. Obviously a claim for distinction, his boast occasioned hoots of derision from his companions, who declared that Rufus was only fit to act the fool and could barely write his name. He had been bonded to a slave-driving employer in the leather trade, running rather than complete the apprenticeship. Pearce liked him for the way he accepted the drinks he had been bought – he took his tankards with becoming diffidence and a look that imparted a degree of shame for the ruse by which they had been extracted.

  Charlie Taverner suffered no such mortification. With him it was debt, though he insisted the sum was a mere trifle, a common justification given by those who had got in deep. Reluctant to let on how he had lived, it was left to his companions to imply that Charlie had been a fly sort, making his living from occupations that stood on the very edge of legality. That fitted with his air of easy conversation. He was a man who could approach a stranger, just as he had Pearce, and find the words that would engage them. He was also, clearly, the sort who could weigh the contents of a purse by eye alone.

  Walker was more of an enigma. Small and compact, and by his accent from the West Country, his bright, protruding eyes gave him an air of keen intelligence, underlined by the way he kept his counsel, being unwilling to tell a stranger, or it seemed those he shared his bed-space with, of his reasons for residing here.

  ‘Ben is our man of mystery,’ said Taverner, a remark that had Walker tapping the side of his nose with his finger. ‘Might as well sound out a stone wall as ask anything of Ben.’

  Whatever his story, it seemed to weigh on him, for he was the least likely to chortle at Charlie Taverner’s attempts at a jest. Indeed, when not actively part of the talk, Ben was inclined to stare into his tankard, or into the middle distance, with a doleful expression.

  Pearce fielded their enquiries with grins and platitudes, unable entirely to forget his own concerns – the task he had undertaken, to get the proscription on his father lifted so that he could come home, the worry that he now seemed to face arrest himself – which was annoying given that he did not want to dwell on them. He wanted to enjoy this interlude, for that was all it could ever be – he knew he would have to move on, though the offer from Abel Scrivens that they could squeeze him into their hutch for a night’s sleep was one he accepted gratefully, at the cost, on the insistence of Charlie Taverner, of a third refill from Rosie’s circulating pitcher of ale.

  Yet that offer exposed him, as though information regarding himself was part of the price of a bed. To distract questions that were becoming increasingly personal, he pointed towards the bulky bench-lifter, who had now accepted the challenge to drink a yard of ale. Staggering around, clearly already very drunk, he appeared in no fit state for the task.

  ‘Who is that fellow?’

  ‘That’s O’Hagan,’ said Taverner, frowning, ‘an idiot of an Irishman who earns decent coin by day and manages to return to poverty every night.’

  ‘You do not care for him, I perceive?’

  ‘I’m not fond of Paddy as a race,’ Taverner replied, ‘they flood our island and take work that should go to decent Englishmen, though,’ he added, putting a finger to his lips, ‘I would have a care to say so. O’Hagan is a man to avoid. That bulk you observe comes from an ability to dig trenches twice the height of his own head. He thinks he can drink like a camel, but in truth he has a very ordinary capacity for ale, and the hope is that he will fall down before his natural belligerence overtakes him.’

  John Pearce looked through the smoke towards the table where the trio of sailors still sat, though the little marine was no longer with them. A glance round the room showed several knots of other sailors in two and threes, some with tarred hats rather than waterman’s caps. One fact was obvious – they were neither talking to, nor looking at each other, a very strange way to behave for men who shared a profession. All the ease that Pearce had enjoyed was replaced with a return of deep suspicion. He had allowed his guard to drop, idly observed the opening and closing of that distant door to the outside street without really noting who came in as long as they were not the kind of men, in heavy coats and big hats, who were pursuing him.

  ‘Those tars, Taverner, they look to be Navy.’

  ‘Do they indeed?’ Taverner replied, peering round the room himself. ‘I daresay you are right, my friend, but never fear the Navy in the Liberties, for we are free from the fear of the Press here. Now, what do you say to standing your new friends another drink?’

  Pearce was about to demur, to insist that his means would not stretch to it, when the low front door was thrown violently open, to be filled with more sailors, all streaming through with some kind of weapon. Those around the room, including the pair by the curtained doorway, had got to their feet and produced clubs and coshes of their own. The noise that ensued then, when the customers of the Pelican realised what was happening, was not any more of people enjoying themselves, but of panic as each sought som
ehow to find a way out.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Sit still!’ Pearce shouted, using one hand forcibly to restrain Charlie Taverner, and the power of a strong voice, which had the same effect on the others. An awkward stillness ensued, and Pearce had the uneasy feeling that, because of that commanding shout, this quartet of drinking companions were now looking to him for some kind of guidance. How did that affect the need he had to get out: would they stand a better chance as a body than he did on his own?

  There was no way of telling, for having been party as a growing boy to many a riot, more than a few caused by the inflammatory radical statements his father had been hollering from the stump, combined with the brute reaction of those who fundamentally disagreed with him, John Pearce had had plenty experience of sudden disorder; that moment when unexpected violence erupts. Near both exits people were milling around, shouting and screaming, intent on saving themselves or avoiding hurt, but by their actions doing more to hinder any chance of escape than aid it. If he had learnt anything from previous bruising encounters it was that panic was inimical to safety. It was best to stay still, take a look – then react. Not that he was calm; he could feel the pounding of his own heart, and the tremor at the extremities of his body, a reaction to this sudden explosion of aggression and what he could conjure up in his imagination might be the outcome. But Pearce could also see and hear with a heightened clarity, and that helped him to spot a possible route of escape.

  The main entrance was no use; near the front door, fists were flying, as those too close for a quick retreat fought with what was clearly a press-gang. But bare knuckles against clubs put the men there at a disadvantage, and the sailors had already got ropes round their first victims, lashing them tight and dragging them out into the night. Some bodies were slipping through the cordon of sailors unscathed, but they were the old, the fat and any females that sought escape. Others of the same shape, age and sex had retreated to the walls, hoping by inactivity to be spared, making considerably easier the work of singling out those this gang were after – the young males.