By the Mast Divided (2 page)

Four years before, in ‘89, such ideas had been all the rage – the news from Paris had been hailed by British society as a bright new dawn. It was very different now. The French Revolution was no longer a beacon for freedom. Paris and all of France lay under the shadow of officially sanctioned murder, a tyranny based on the use of the guillotine, not only
for aristocrats, but also for anyone deemed to be an enemy of the people, which included many of those who had overthrown the monarchy in the first place.

Egged on by the likes of the Irish parliamentary firebrand Edmund Burke, the people of Britain damned the Revolution now, having watched it lurch into anarchy and war. When King Louis was beheaded for scheming against his fellow-countrymen, a nation that had lopped the head off King Charles Stuart in the previous century rose up in hypocritical disgust at such an act. Laws had been passed to render anyone who spoke out for equality in King George’s dominions guilty of rebellion, and so cast as a criminal who must first be confined, then tried, and it was hoped by the more reactionary elements, executed. It was an irony too painful to contemplate that having left Paris under threat of incarceration, abandoning a father too sick to travel, John Pearce faced a similar threat in the country of his birth merely for being that man’s son.

The feeling of irritation grew. Did his fellow drinkers care that, in the whole of the British Isles, the right of free assembly had been suspended, so that any group of more than four people gathered to talk could be deemed a combination inimical to the safety of the realm? He wondered if they even knew that William Pitt was their Prime Minister, for few here would be freeholders with the right to vote. They would know that Farmer George, tainted with madness, was their King, and that the enemy in the war just declared was France. But more than that, no; they were drunk on the illusion that they lived in a free country.

Sensing his neighbour, who had turned to grin at him, recoil, Pearce removed the glare of suspicious hatred that such thoughts had brought to his face. He looked away to fix on the substantial female figure in a low cut dress who now approached, oblivious to the salacious catcalls of those trying to goose or pinch her behind. When she bobbed before him, Pearce was presented with an alarming depth of cleavage, surrounded by what seemed like an acre of pink, mottled flesh, then a pair of dark brown eyes that seemed, for a brief second, to examine some interest.

‘What, sir, will you partake of?’

This was said in a lazy, drawling voice, one supposed to encourage the customer to spend money by holding out a promise of other delights. But the look did not match the seductive tone. This wench had hard eyes that had seen and endured too much to retain any amiability.

‘Rosie,’ cried the benighted one, leaning forward, leering down that cleavage. ‘Never mind this fellow. When are you goin’ to take care of me?’

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-f 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.