Blown Off Course (24 page)

‘Out with them.’

‘What for?’ asked Rufus.

‘Can’t you tell, lad?’ Charlie joked, cutting off any explanation. ‘We’s goin’ to get them drunk.’

‘Get them out,’ Pearce ordered, ‘and line them along the larboard bulwark.’

‘Might I ask you to take care, given they are quite valuable,’ Winston said. ‘French brandy fetches a very high price now.’

Pearce grinned. ‘It always did, I seem to recall.’

‘Now’t amiss with apple brandy,’ Charlie insisted.

‘People of refinement don’t agree, Charlie.’

Mock surprise was the response. ‘You sayin’ I ain’t a nob, John Pearce?’

‘No times for banter, friend,’ Pearce jerked his head to indicate the lugger was close indeed. ‘Rufus, get aloft with a line to the mainmast cap and drop it over. Quick now, before they are in range to take a potshot at you.’

Rufus had all the agility of his years and enough real fear to respond like a startled hare to what he was being told. He grabbed a spare line off a cleat and went up the shrouds like a squirrel, hand over hand, the rope over his shoulder. Once on the cap, he was told to throw his rope over and the first flagon was lashed on.

‘Haul away, Rufus,’ Pearce called and up it went on command, an act that was repeated half a dozen times.

The next report of the musket had Pearce looking at the lugger’s forepeak, where a fellow, balanced on the bowsprit, was passing back the discharged musket, while one of his mates was handing him another loaded weapon. That had to be ignored: it would be a damned lucky shot to hit anyone at that range, muskets being inaccurate at anything over fifty paces, while the fellow was standing on a moving platform, rising and falling on the swell.

Pearce called up to Rufus to give him instructions, the first of which was to crouch down behind the mast and wait. ‘Arthur, get below and fetch up the cutlasses.’

The man stood rooted to the spot, as if Pearce had not spoken, until the second musket was fired. This time the ball crossed over their heads, the crack of that making him move; Pearce ran for the binnacle, talking to the man steering.

‘Michael, you’re too much of a target and besides I need you with a sword in your hand. Let us change our course now and then lash off the wheel.’

‘We’ll need to trim the sails as well, that spanker most of all.’

Pearce grinned. ‘The navy has made a sailor of you.’

He called to Charlie to lay the pistols behind the binnacle, then had him help trim the braces on the main canvas. Even if he knew it would cost them speed, he had Michael alter course and lash off the wheel before they could attack the set of the spanker, a sail they would not have been able to handle without the Irishman, with a struggling Charlie Taverner, using what breath he could muster, calling aloft to Rufus that he was an idle bugger, and getting as much abuse in reply.

For all he was hauling on a rope he was not sure he was totally in control of – not aided by the pitch and roll of the ship – Pearce experienced a strange feeling of pride then: they were in danger and it might be mortal, but they could still jest with each other, while nothing made him more satisfied than the way they obeyed every instruction he issued without complaint; in short, his Pelicans trusted him, and for a man who had had few long long-term friends in his life it brought a lump to his throat.

That emotion evaporated as another musket ball cracked by; the pursuit had closed to the point where the man on the lugger’s wheel was edging his bowsprit close to the Bilander’s taffrail, and, as expected, to windward. Those men stiffening the keel had abandoned the bulwarks and were now preparing themselves for boarding and it was obvious they had no shortage of weapons.

‘Where’s Winston with those cutlasses?’

He was not on deck so Pearce rushed below as another musket was discharged. Once down the hatchway he found Winston crouched down and visibly trembling, the cutlasses gathered in his arms.

‘God help me, John, I fear I am about to soil myself and my stomach is in turmoil.’

The sound was so pitiful it halted Pearce’s angry bark; clearly the fellow was terrified, and if he knew anything, he knew there was no time to do anything about it. ‘Give me the weapons.’ The hands that passed them over were shaking. ‘For the love of creation stay here.’

‘I must help.’

‘The only help you can give is to pray to whatever gods you believe in.’

‘I’m sorry, John.’

There was really no point in doing other than patting his shoulder and leaving. Back on deck he threw the swords into the bulwarks, calling on the others to get there and crouch down.

‘We can’t do a tot of rum, lads, but you might want to crack the neck off one of those bottles and have yourself a nip.’

‘I’ll drink when it’s over,’ Michael replied, which surprised Pearce: Michael was an imbiber of note.

‘Bugger that,’ Charlie whooped, as he lifted a flask and cracked it on the top of a cleat, severing a jagged edge. Then he lifted it and, keeping the glass clear of his mouth, had an untidy swallow, that before he growled. The brandy hitting the back of his throat caused that and was followed by a furious headshake. ‘By Christ, that’s a fine brew.’

They could hear loud shouting now and in amongst that clear indications of what they intended to do. There was no more musket fire now, they probably reckoned they did not need it, though Pearce harboured a hope, very faint he knew, that they had run out of powder or shot. The noise rose, the voices became clearer: their guts were going to be garters, their gizzards were going to be sliced open and most fearful of all were the threats to feed them to the fish.

Pearce, as the lugger took their wind, stood up and looked straight down into a vessel now close to coming alongside, into a sea of faces, more than two dozen in number, all screaming imprecations. A musket being levelled to take him, it was agony to hold still for several seconds before it was discharged, he ducking back down only just in time.

‘Rufus, as soon as you think you can.’

‘Not yet, John.’

Was it the wrong man in the wrong place, Pearce thought, before putting such a useless thought aside? What he did know was that he was required to cause another distraction, to stand again and let another musket fire at him – at all costs he had to keep their eyes on the deck. This time he stood and stepped out into plain view, only to see that the gap was close to gone and he was facing not one musket but three, all of them discharged as soon as he became visible.

He dived sideways and shouted as the balls cracked past him. ‘Damn it, Rufus, now!’

Back to safety, he craned his neck to see if his instructions had been obeyed. The youngster had the
first flagon, now stripped of straw, by the neck and he threw the dark green bottle, with Pearce watching it tumble through the air, its progress seeming to be dreamlike it was so slow. But there was no mistaking the sound of breaking glass, nor that the second was on the way.

‘You too, Michael,’ he called.

The Irishman, sitting with his back to the bulwark, lobbed another bottle into the forepeak and that too broke, Charlie at the same time standing just enough to throw another flagon at the head of the man on the wheel, every one braking on contact. Pearce grabbed the pistols and scurried across the planking, then got upright enough to discharge first one pistol then the second, which got heads ducking and stopped in its tracks the idea of reloading those muskets. Better still, it made those planning to board move and, as they did so, he heard the loud pained curses as they trod on the broken glass, his hope that such wounded feet would cut the numbers who could board and might even make them sheer off to clear their deck, granting him time to reopen the gap.

What followed, Pearce could not have foreseen: his idea had been merely to cause delay, coming to him from seeing those barefooted men stiffening the keel by standing on the bulwarks, reasoning that they would still be likewise when they came alongside. The notion of inflammable vapour had not occurred, while the flash he saw could only have come from a dropped musket, one that was already primed. There was a sudden burst of bluish flame and it rose high enough to shoot up
that great red sail. More than that, short in duration as it was, it scared the men who lined up on the deck and had them running in all directions over all that broken glass.

There was one fellow with sense and a healthy fear of flames. He grabbed an axe and cut away the falls holding the sail, trying to get it clear before it set fire to anything else. The sail began to flap as the way came off the lugger, its head falling to starboard as the current pressed it over, and the gap between the vessels opened up.

An elated John Pearce stood to jeer and he moved towards the larboard bulwark without looking down. Unshod, he cut his own foot on the jagged top of the bottle from which Charlie Taverner had imbibed, and the sharp pain made him drop to his knees. Looking back he was able to see the blood oozing through his toes, as well as the gash on his sole.

It was impossible to know why the pursuit was not resumed, though Rufus, left aloft, was allotted the task of watching out for it – perhaps it was cut feet, maybe the mainsail was too damaged, it mattered not, certainly to John Pearce, who had spent an age while Michael sought to stem the flow of blood from his foot. Seeing it needed to be stitched, Rufus was fetched down to apply his superior skill and once that task was over, not without pain, a makeshift bandage was applied, though it was one which left Pearce hobbling, damned uncomfortable on a moving deck.

‘Sure, you’ll need a stick, John-boy,’ Michael opined.

That was soon provided by cutting one of the hooked poles they had used to exit the Gravelines canal, with a bit of rope work, some padding and another section providing a rest for Pearce’s arm. Even with that he had to walk on his heel, for to put any pressure on his toes might reopen the gash. He was on the wheel,
the charts he needed on the deck before him, weighted down to keep them from flying away on the wind.

Now they were within sight of the Downs anchorage, perhaps another reason the chase had not resumed, making exceedingly slow progress into an up-channel current on the seaward side of the Goodwin Sands, the anchorage as full of shipping as it had been when they departed, the flag at their masthead that of neutral Hamburg, the hope being that such a standard would keep the curious at bay. Certainly the navy, if they were even at sea, would be cautious, but the worry was a Revenue cutter and Rufus, sewing done, was back on the mainmast cap as a lookout.

‘Will that sun never go?’

Winston, who seemed to have found some passable sea legs, mouthed this complaint while looking east towards the seemingly endless, flat marshlands that lay between Deal and Sandwich, while simultaneously aching to close with the high bluffs to the south of Walmer Castle. Pearce wasn’t listening: he was too busy trying to make sense of the charts, seeking out landmarks, while the light held, to give him some clue as to his precise position in relation to the
ten-mile
-long sandbank, aware that if he got it wrong they would, like so many ships before them, end up stuck, praying for a tide to wash them clear before a storm and heavy seas came along to send them to perdition. Charlie was employing a weighted line to test the depth, one he had spent hours knotting at fathom intervals, for a search of the ship had found no such item.

‘It would be a blessing if it clouded over.’

Pearce made that remark knowing it required no further explanation: there was barely a cloud anywhere, so even with a much less than full moon, a clear sky full of stars meant a luminous sea, so anyone on those cliff tops would be able to see what he was up to when he changed course.

‘You fret too much, John.’

‘Do I, Arthur? It strikes me you might be too sanguine.’

‘In this I trust to what I have been told. The Revenue men are not numerous, while the coastline they have to protect is endless, and what does it matter if there is one fellow? The chances of a strong party being in one place is slight, and in the right place even slimmer, I fancy.’

Pearce was tempted to remark that, for a man who had so recently turned to jelly, Winston had quite surprisingly recovered his self-confidence. Perhaps it was the advantage of the fearful to be able to shed their terror as quickly as it occurred.

‘Let’s get those lanterns rigged before the light goes. I am going to change into my naval coat.’

‘To gain respect?’ Winston asked, almost amused.

‘No, Arthur, to keep myself warm.’

In some nine hours of darkness there appeared to be no trouble about timing the tide so that Pearce could safely beach, the notion being that he do so well before it was at its lowest and haul off slowly, which would allow for the unloading, while once that was completed,
it still falling would allow him to float out on a much lightened vessel, the task then to get Winston’s ship back to the Thames and to anchor: he and the Pelicans could then boat back upriver to the Liberties. Up in the bows Charlie was casting his weighted line, calling out the depth under the keel as well as reassuring Pearce that under him he had sand, not rock, for the approach into St Margaret’s Bay was not generous in that regard.

What had been white cliffs faded first to grey, then to black, and it was only then that Pearce got Rufus aloft with a working lantern and some of that straw from the brandy bottles, used as tapers to light the signal lamps. As soon as the last one was fired, two red lamps appeared onshore, the reply signal, to tell the men sailing the
Hemoine
that not only were the men who would unload it present, but that no one who could interfere was around. Pearce, as he saw them, was only aware he had been holding his breath by the quantity of air that escaped from his lungs.

‘By the mark, one,’ Charlie called, ‘and shelving fast.’

‘Anchor, Michael.’

The splash of the stern anchor sounded as though it could be heard in France; was it imagination that had Pearce thinking it echoed around the bay? The time it had taken to rig that anchor cable to the capstan had underlined the lack of his ability to help. Much discussed, the notion was to use the tide, the stern anchor and the unloading in combination to keep just enough water under the keel to stay afloat: Pearce never mentioned that it would also allow for a rapid departure if necessary.

The ship was hardly moving, with Pearce listening for the first scrunch as the shallow keel on the bow touched the layer of sand that lay just beyond the shingle of the beach, that was now a strand awash with lights. By faint outline he could see that a number of men were carrying a ramp and he edged the wheel to bring the Bilander in so that the bowsprit was pointing slightly off, that allowing the ramp, which he suspected had grappling hooks, to be attached.

‘Michael,’ he called, as he felt the slight shudder under his one good foot. That had the Irishman and Charlie Taverner leaning on the capstan to halt the inward drift, while Rufus let fly the scrap of topsail, which they had used to get inshore, the north-east wind having held steady.

‘We have made it, John.’

‘We have, Arthur.’ There was a loud clunk as the ramp dropped onto the forward bulwark and within seconds the first head appeared, lantern held high enough aloft to show a very fat face, a visage, added to a body shape, made more obvious when he came closer, which had John Pearce say in surprise, ‘Barmes?’

‘The very same,’ replied Winston, as a party of men swarmed up behind him.

‘Why is he carrying a pistol?’ Pearce demanded. ‘And why is it aimed at me?’

The laugh from Arthur Winston made him examine the man’s face, lit from below by the binnacle, which made him look like the very devil. More worrying was that he, too, had a pistol in his hand, one of the
pair belonging to Michael, and it was no more than two feet away, pointed right at his gut, so he was only vaguely aware of those rushing past him.

‘Let me say, Pearce, you have done quite brilliantly, though I confess to being worried at one time that I would forfeit my life on this venture.’

‘You’re a peach,’ Barmes said, with Pearce aware that he was not the referred-to fruit.

‘Thank you,’ Winston replied, ‘but I cannot tell you how simple it was.’

‘John-boy?’

The cry came from Michael and there was just enough light, as he flicked his gaze past Winston, to see both he and Charlie with hands held out from their bodies, while others had taken over control of the anchor cable. He was looking into Winston’s eyes again by the time he replied, and that was to tell his friends to do nothing, his next call being to get Rufus back down on deck.

‘Do I warrant an explanation?’

There was a sneer in the response. ‘Are you not so clever that you can work it out for yourself?’

‘I suspect the Pelican was not “happenstance”, as you called it.’

‘It was, but in the end a most fortuitous one. I was pursuing a number of schemes, as one must, for not all will come to fruition. You, unwittingly, provided the pattern by which I could see this one in the round.’

‘The Pelican is not much frequented by sea officers.’

‘True, but it is a prime place to seek out the needy.
A man badly in debt, offered a decent sum, is a fellow easily tempted. My first impression was that you were such a fellow and so open about your dilemmas, as well as the problems of your friends, that I wondered at my good fortune to the point of near-pinching myself. Then you mentioned your prizes, which I have to admit came as a disappointment, since you seemed perfect.’

‘Did you know my name and background before we spoke?’

‘No, but you would not credit what information you can extract from an Admiralty doorman for the price of a tankard of ale, especially when the fellow in question is one he purports to despise as a low creature undeserving of his rank. My enquiries regarding you were general, but interesting, and helped to fill out a conversation that led to what I was really after. You are, after all, not the only king’s officer without employment.’

The hatch covers were off again and the first of the cargo was being rushed down the ramp to disappear into the dark and Pearce paused to watch that, really to give himself time to think through what he was being told.

‘The day I came to see you, you were expecting a visitor.’

‘You have a quick mind, certainly speedy enough to make that association, which I believe I acknowledged previously.’

‘Another naval officer in need of money?’

Winston nodded. ‘But not one who, it turned out,
had your quite exceptional advantages, or, I have to say, your needs, not to mention your writ-bound friends from the Liberties, who even had protections, forsooth. It is a pity this is not an enterprise I can repeat, for the fellow was very much in need of funds.’

Pearce was back at that breakfast, reprising the conversation. This man had sucked him in, providing such a complete answer to his needs, and that had blinded him. It had been clever the way he’d been drawn in by the drip of information: there had been no ship name because the target vessel was unknown and there was a very good chance the men unloading the
Hemoine
were the very same folk who had rowed that galley across the Channel. If there was nothing he could say, he felt he had to do something, had to find some line by which he could puncture this bastard’s certainties.

Pearce leant to take up his makeshift stick, an act that got him a slight dig in the stomach with Winston’s pistol, so his notion of clouting him needed to be immediately abandoned. But the act had turned him so he was now partly facing the beach, and the first thing he noticed was that the line of lanterns, those carrying the contraband goods, were not ascending the steep hill that enclosed the bay.

He had stood off in daylight in that Deal wherry and had a picture in his mind of the shape of the bay and the arc of near-vertical hills from the beach to the heights, cut by a winding track, with no way out to north or south when the tide was in, because of the
sea. Yet the line of lanterns was heading for the cliffs and, just at that moment, one he had half an eye on was extinguished, the next in line the same, in a way that seemed altogether too sudden.

‘So this ship is stolen, after all?’ he said, prevaricating so that he could make certain what he had seen was not some illusion.

‘Profit without much in the way of expenditure, which is a very sweet trade.’

‘Except those who you took it from will not just let such a theft pass.’

Winston laughed out loud. ‘You were right to think them smugglers. Can you see them going to the forces of the law, to say that their contraband has been stolen? I think not. And should they search for the miscreant, it will not be me, will it? – given my identity and my face is unknown to them – which is not the case with yours. You even had me hide mine, so convinced were you of my tale.’

‘So you were not in terror, or really ill, but in hiding when you stayed below?’

‘Correct, and banking on your seeing off the pursuit.’

‘And if we had not?’

‘I daresay that would have taxed me somewhat, but I did have the threat of retribution, or perhaps the means to convince them I could buy them off with the purchase of their cargo, while I have to add there is no hope of yield without risk – a point you put so eloquently to me, I recall. Was it not you who persuaded me to proceed with this venture?’

‘Is your name, I wonder, really Arthur Winston?’

‘Enough,’ Barmes insisted.

That was barked in a way that indicated to Pearce it was not his real name, and he suspected the fat fellow’s name to be false as well. Yet he was curious as to their association: was it of long-standing, or had one sought out the other merely as a way of doing business? Speculate he might, but more vital was what was about to happen now.

‘Do you intend to kill us?’

‘No, no, that, as I said, is a barbarous notion. Once the cargo is unloaded and we are gone, I have it on good authority a certain party of gentlemen will come down from the heights and effect an arrest.’

‘There will be no contraband.’

‘We shall make a small sacrifice,’ the fat man sneered.

‘Enough,’ his companion added, ‘to satisfy those who oversee the Excise, and what are you doing, in the name of creation, beaching a ship so secretly in such a secluded bay with not another soul in sight?’

‘Have you bribed them?’

‘He’s not short on questions, is he?’ spat the fat one, given Pearce had addressed that to him.

‘He was long on greed and that is all that matters.’

Pearce turned his head to see the goods being fetched out of the hold, a task being carried out at speed, then he looked back again to see lanterns appear and suddenly it all made sense. The cliffs were chalk, perfect for tunnelling, which meant these villains had to be local, so there would be a route inside that
would take them up to the heights and habitation unseen. That he had bribed the local Excise men was likely, not that it made any odds, except that there would be little point in pleading he and his friends had been duped.