Blown Off Course Read online

  As he followed the dog across the ground, soft underfoot for it was marsh, Michael could see, now that the air was a bit more clear, that this flat landscape extended well inland to a very obvious line of dark-green, forested hills, and that reinforced his thought that a boat would be safest. There was a serious lack of cover on such a windswept shore – it was the kind of place where anyone on a high spot, even a man-made structure like a church tower, could see for miles around.

  The door, when he approached it, seemed to be hanging off what passed for its hinges, rotten wooden dowels poorly fixed on the main frame, with rusted iron hoops sat over them just adding to the run-down nature of the whole. The dog had disappeared inside, through a gap in the board wall, moving faster than it had previously, no doubt in anticipation of some food, yet there was no hint of anyone being around: take away the sound of the birds overhead and the place was silent. Standing outside, Michael had to consider what to do: if anyone was awake in this hut they could not have failed to see him approach, yet surely the natural thing to do would be to exit and seek to identify a stranger. The other alternative would be to wait inside, in the dark interior, with the means to crown anyone who came over as a threat.

  A swift look around failed to locate that which Michael was looking for, oars leant against the exterior walls – he would have to search inside, which had the Irishman crossing himself by habit. The creak of that hanging door as he pulled it open was, to his ears, like a siren call, which had him tensing his jaw, and peer as he might, he could not see anything clearly inside. He stepped forward very gingerly indeed, his voice low as he spoke.

  ‘God bless all here.’

  The greeting got no response, which emboldened him to move a little further forward, but he stopped, letting his eyes become accustomed to the gloom before taking another step. The shape was slow to be identifiable and it was as much the dog whining at its feet that had him looking to make sense of it. A man slumped over a table, one hand stretched out and by it a tipped-over dark-brown bottle, the hair dirty, grey and matted but with no other features visible.

  A pair of oars sat just inside the doorway, not more than a hand’s reach away and that he did. There was a touch of conscience then, for Michael O’Hagan was not of the robbing type and he knew he was about to do that to this poor fellow. Oars were to hand and that bottle might not be the sole thing to hold and carry water, so putting aside his scruples he stepped forward, then stopped. The cold of the metal against his head was enough for that, though the deep voice was another good reason.

  ‘Got him, Jed.’

  The head was slowly lifted off the table and Michael found himself looking into a pair of gleaming eyes and the barrel of a pistol – aimed right at his heart.

  ‘Never fails, that old mutt, do it Francis? Jack tars being such soft-hearted sods. They see a starving dog and they just has to come an’ investigate. You’ll be looking for the means to row that boat, will you not? And what have you found, just two of the sharpest bounty boys in creation, that’s what. You got the press running all over the county looking for you, but Francis and I, we know you could not have got away unspotted, so we set our little trap, one that has served us well in times past.’

  The other pistol, for it could only be that, pressed a little harder on Michael’s temple. ‘He’s a big bugger this one.’

  ‘Pity being,’ the man called Jed replied, in a joshing tone, ‘that they don’t pay bounties by the pound weight. I can only see his outline, but we could retire on this sod if they did.’

  ‘The other two?’ demanded the fellow called Francis.

  ‘What other two?’

  ‘Don’t bother with lying, Paddy,’ snarled Jed, who had immediately picked up Michael’s accent. ‘There were three sets of feet came off that beach to the west, and my bet is you has stuck together. All you have to do is halloo from that there door and call them forward.’

  ‘They’re too sharp to fall for that,’ Michael said quietly.

  ‘Tell them you’ve found some beer, or maybe even rum. Never met a man of the sea yet who could resist a tot of rum.’

  Michael O’Hagan was a fighter as well as a fellow who had done enough bare knuckle in his time to know that the key to the art was balance. As they had exchanged these words his mind had been working, as had his feet, moving slightly apart to give him purchase. He knew, for he had seen them fired, that pistols were not accurate at much more than ten paces, which was about the distance between him and the table. Set against that, the fellow called Jed had a steadying elbow on the tabletop which might help his aim, and that would be further aided by the fact that Michael was standing silhouetted in the doorway.

  ‘We ain’t got all day, Paddy.’

  It was only to gain a moment’s delay that Michael replied, ‘How do you know I’m Irish?’

  Jed laughed, though it was more of a wheeze. ‘I thinking he’s trying to josh me, Francis, to play for time.’ The head of the pistol flicked back and forth and the voice lost its tone of banter, turning harsh. ‘Do as you’se told to or my friend here will blast out what passes for brains in an Irishman’s skull.’

  The waving of the pistol, meant to emphasise the threat, did just the opposite: it gave Michael, a man they no doubt thought, given his bulk, would be slow to move, the split second he needed to act. First his left hand shot up to deflect the gun at his head, this as he dived sideways towards the stacked pair of oars, his right hand reaching for the rounded base. The sound of Jed’s pistol, fired in such a confined space, was deafening, and if the ball hit Michael he had no way of knowing, for not only was his heart pumping blood to his veins, he had the oar in his hand and was swinging it in a wide arc aimed at the other fellow, this while his foot kicked out to seek to take away his balance.

  Time seemed to slow to a standstill: there was Jed screaming abuse, standing now and beginning to move as he turned his discharged pistol into a club. Francis was slow to bring his deflected gun back round and take aim, the barrel wavering slightly, he wanting to make sure he did not miss, so the oar that Michael swung from a position on his knees took his head just at the point where he pulled the trigger, this while the target was trying to get out of the way of the coming ball. What Michael felt along the side of his head was a searing feeling, not pain; what he saw was that oar head take Francis on his temple, with a crack that seemed no less noisy than the pistol shot which accompanied it.

  There was no time to wait to see how that affected Francis: Michael had to dive at the knees of the man coming at him with his butt raised to strike and he was in mid-air as his fist shot forward to hit his assailant in the groin, that taking most of the force out of the blow. Yet, coming, as it did, from a man of Michael’s build, it did enough, forcing Jed to bend forward so sharply his intended blow hit Michael’s shoulders, not his head. Next, Jed was lifted bodily and screaming by the knees as Michael half-stood, off balance but able to use his feet, his weight taking both men back to the table into which Jed was smashed.

  Jed knew he was doomed when Michael got one of his huge hands on the pistol-holding wrist and, with a twist, broke it. Now Jed’s screams were not imprecations but pleas for mercy mixed with pain, wasted on the Irishman, who had only one aim, which was to see this creature in hell; his blood was up and pumping and his vision was blurred with hate. Michael was above him now, as he lay in the splintered remains of that table, with the giant, using the heel of his hand to protect his own finger bones, pounding at his head until the screams faded to silence. Even then Michael did not stop, reducing the face before him to bloody pulp.

  A groan from behind him stopped the assault, and Michael took up one of the legs of the smashed table and went towards the second crimp. One swinging blow was enough, a crack on the head that told of broken bone, and it was raised again, with Michael, chest heaving, just about to deliver a swing that would, if he had not done so already, have killed the man. He stopped, for the first time aware of the blood running down his face, as w
ell as the stinging sensation in his temple.

  That warranted no more than a wipe and a curse. Throwing his table leg aside, he gathered up both pistols, a search of Francis producing the means to reload, while the coat Jed had not been wearing had in it a purse containing a little money and, beside it, a sack containing food and bottles. Michael knew he had to work quickly, those two pistol shots, even fired indoors, would have reverberated across this featureless land, which would alert anyone who heard it, and that might include the press gang. He had to get those oars to the boat and get onto water and away. Grabbing them, sack over one shoulder, pistols stuck in his waistband, he ran out of the door, his girth so wide and his aim so unconcerned, it knocked the flimsy thing right off the outside wall.

  Would his mates have run, for they must have heard the shots and it was the wise thing to do? Much as he reasoned that, he hoped they had waited. He needed someone to look at his wound, for he had no notion of the seriousness of the damage, and he needed him to tend it as well. It was with a feeling of joy he saw them step out of the trees to greet him, with him gabbling about what had happened as he got close.

  Rufus was examining his head, using a spare shirt to stem the blood flow, when Charlie asked him why, in the name of creation, he had fetched along the dog as well? That was before he aimed a boot at the creature, which had it scurrying away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Pearce woke in Nerot’s Hotel to the sound of loud knocking on the door and a grousing voice keen to inform him he had brought his breakfast. It was a voice he recognised from his previous stay and if it was bad-tempered he had a good notion of why that should be.

  ‘Which I wish you would shift to open the door, Your Honour, this tray I’m carryin’ being a weight.’

  The clerk at the reception table, a haughty sod, had been polite the previous night, if not entirely friendly, an attitude somewhat mollified when Pearce offered to pay for his night’s accommodation in advance, as well as asking to leave half his guineas in the care of the hotel safe. Nerot’s owners had probably hauled the fellow over the coals for allowing him to get away previously with his bill unsettled, even if it had subsequently been taken care of.

  The man bringing his breakfast, if indeed it was the same fellow, had been all over him like a mother hen previously, in the expectation of a sizeable tip for his care; all he had got from an impecunious John Pearce was one sixpence and a bit of copper and the consequences of that disappointment were in the man’s tone. Ordered for eight, Pearce knew he had ample time to consume the meal: the Admiralty might run the King’s Navy but it did not in any sense conform to naval time, four bells in the forenoon watch being the best that could be expected prior to anyone being at their labours, leaving him two hours grace.

  Opening the door, Pearce stood aside to let the servant put his tray on the table, his nose twitching in anticipation as he registered the odour of kedgeree and pork, probably a chop, the whole underscored by the smell of fresh coffee. That the tray was put down with scant care amused him, which, when the man turned to face him and saw his expression, turned what was a crabbed look into one as furious as a servant dared employ in front of a hotel guest.

  ‘You saw to my needs on my last stay, did you not?’

  That made the fellow look as if he had just bitten into an unripe lemon and his voice was a growl, with the added title closer to a snarl. ‘I did, Your Honour.’

  ‘Your name is?’

  ‘Didcot.’

  ‘Surely you have a forename too, man?’

  ‘Ezekiel.’

  ‘Well, Ezekiel, I made the singular error, being called away suddenly, of forgetting to see to you on my previous departure, did I not?’

  It was an instruction in naked greed to watch the face change from screwed-up aversion to expectation, as well as an indication that if this fellow occupied a lowly position in life, he was far from stupid: Ezekiel Didcot could smell a douceur coming from a mile distant.

  ‘Now, Your Honour,’ he said, in a voice as changed as his countenance, this before he turned to lift the cover off the breakfast tray. ‘We has here for your delectation a fine spread of kedgeree made up from fish fetched in fresh from the Billingsgate Market this very morning, as well as a chop of pork thick enough to satisfy a bulldog.’

  He was already pouring the coffee as he added, ‘Now, Your Honour, I recalls from your last stay you are not too much of a drinking man, so I did not fetch up for you a flagon of wine, but it would be my pleasure to dash and get some, should you wish it.’

  ‘Coffee will be fine,’ Pearce replied, able to grin with his back to the fellow, as he took a half-crown from his purse, a coin that once he got back to the table, was expertly palmed.

  ‘Water is on the way, sir, and I will be here in a trice with strop and razor to shave you, but you has a bell, Your Honour, for meantime needs, and you ring it at your pleasure. Ezekiel Didcot will be here in a flash, upon my soul, I promise.’

  ‘I require writing materials. Also on my last stay, I had certain items made for me, uniforms as well as a chest of the seagoing type, to hold my possessions. I wish to avail myself of the same services on this visit, though for civilian garb and a less nautical trunk.’

  ‘Why, Your Honour, you leaves that to me.’ Didcot touched the side of his nose, his face full of cunning. ‘And, might I make so bold as to add, that with me placing the business, you will find the articles a lot less costly than afore.’

  Pearce had to struggle not to laugh at the response to his own reply: the man’s eyes were close to popping out of his head. ‘Why, Didcot, cost is not very much of a concern to a man who has taken a number of prizes, as have I. Please be so kind as to order for me a hack to take me to the Admiralty at half past nine of the clock.’

  Having eaten, and before being shaved, Pearce sat down to write a letter to be sent to William Pitt, demanding to be told what in the Devil’s name was going on, adding that the superscription at the top was where he could now be contacted.

  Emily Barclay, content with the early hour, was not happy about Brown’s Hotel as a meeting place – the note asking her to meet her husband having come from that establishment – her one condition being that they meet in a public room, one which he must secure, not his own private accommodation. On arrival she was also careful not to compromise him.

  ‘Can I say who is calling, madam?’

  ‘Captain Barclay is expecting me,’ Emily replied, turning away to kill off any further enquiries.

  It was Gherson who came to fetch her, his smirk much in evidence, and she was shown into a private dining room off the main lobby in which the table had been laid with coffee and refreshments. Seeing Gherson closing the door behind him, her first comment was a sharp one: she would not discuss anything with him in attendance. Her husband, looking set to argue, was probably persuaded by the determined look in her eye.

  ‘Leave us, Gherson,’ he said.

  ‘And keep your ear away from the door as well,’ Emily added.

  ‘You are too hard on the fellow,’ Ralph Barclay said, as the door closed.

  ‘And you are too trusting, husband, which I have to admit I would never have thought I would hear myself say to you.’

  ‘Emily,’ he said, moving forward, a soft, pleading look in his eye, which to his young wife, was wholly insincere.

  He was met by a held-up palm, which stopped him dead. ‘Please, Captain Barclay, no attempt at intimacy. You know what I am here to discuss and it would be best if we get straight to the matter without any false displays of affection.’

  The tender look disappeared to be replaced by one Emily knew better, a more habitual scowl. ‘I was not aware, madam, that the entire terms were to be set by you. You act as if I have no say in any arrangements, not that, in truth, there should be any at all. Might I remind you that you are my wife?’

  ‘That is not something of which I require to be reminded,’ Emily snapped.

  ‘Look,’ Barclay protested, ‘we mus
t not dispute like this. Pray take a seat and I shall too, and let us act upon the matter as adults, even if you are scarce more than a child, lacking in experience.’

  ‘I am woman enough, sir, to know my mind.’

  ‘I am over twice your years, my dear,’ Barclay said, emollient again. ‘Grant that I know more of affairs than you.’

  ‘You know of the sea, sir, and the unbridled use of arbitrary power, which is not a force you can bring to bear in the circumstances in which we find ourselves.’

  ‘A spat, Emily, common in marriage.’

  ‘Is it common, sir, to punish a man for a mere glance? Is it common, sir, to tell lie after lie to your bride? Is it common, sir, to use brute force to gain what the law says are your marital prerogatives?’

  ‘I admit to errors.’

  Emily had a flushed face now and she was quietly berating herself, having promised on the way here that the one thing she would not do was lose her temper.

  ‘And, my dear,’ Barclay added, ‘I am minded to change my ways.’

  With a wife still struggling to calm herself, as well as slow the rate of her heartbeat, that was a gambit greeted by silence, which encouraged Ralph Barclay to continue.

  ‘You must understand, Mrs Barclay, that I have had a harsh apprenticeship in the world, sent to sea as a tender lad and raised in brutal company, so if I have rough edges they come from what I was brought up to. I do not doubt such experiences have shaped my way of behaving but I am not without a mind of my own or a desire to be brought to a better way of acting. Might I offer you some coffee?’

  If anything, the silky tone, which had crept into her husband’s voice as he proffered his mea culpa, irritated Emily even more, for it implied that she was some kind of booby, to have her thinking changed by a few words of apology and explanation. Breathing deep to control her voice she replied.