any other sound, O’Hagan’s progress surprised those at the front of the throng, propelling a pair into the arc of those coshes, which came down on their heads. Pearce stopped abruptly; he reckoned that once engaged those sailors could not hold a line – with such numbers they must leavea space to get to and through that curtain. He was aware that Charlie Taverner and his companions were with him, making no attempt to get past, obviously still content to let him to take the lead, which produced a sudden flash of annoyance.
It was O’Hagan who created the gap, momentum and drunken fearlessness carrying him on. One sailor missed him, his cosh taking him on the shoulder instead of the head. The unfortunate tar then found himself pinned back to the serving hatch, with the Irishman biting off his ear at the same time as he attempted to gouge out an eye. The panicked cry brought immediate assistance as his mates closed in behind and started to belabour O’Hagan without mercy. Strong he might be, with thick tight curls to protect his head and drink to dull any pain, but he could not withstand the punishment he was taking and started to sink to the floor.
Pearce followed on the Irishman’s heels, throwing out blows of his own, some of which landed on female heads rather than those of men. But he had to clear a route, whatever it took, and the women were adding to the confusion for they had nothing to fear. The sailors weren’t after women and pleasure; they were after young and fit men. O’Hagan was on his knees now, no longer a threat and the three who had subdued him turned to resume their defence of the archway, just in time to stop Pearce getting clear through. It was the rush of those following that saved him, for there were just too many heads to crown, and the man attacking him had taken his eye off his present target to look for the next, so the thick leather cosh swished past Pearce’s ducking ear. But the sailor still blocked his way, until, that was, Pearce’s fist came up hard into his groin, which doubled the man over and took him out of the fight.
Half-turning, Pearce saw Charlie Taverner go down to a cosh, now lifted for a follow-up blow. But Abel Scrivens grabbed hold of the weapon with both hands and, hanging on for dear life, saved Charlie from further punishment. Old and skinny Scrivens might be, but he had the strength of desperation. With his pointed features all scrunched up, flung left and right, he looked like an ugly mongrel dog contesting the end of a bone. The man tugging the other end left himself wide open to half a dozen fists, forcing him to relinquish his cosh just to defend himself. Scrivens turned it on the last of the trio of sailors, who dropped to his knees, forearms covering his head, and suddenly there was no bar to a general rush for the curtain.
Pearce was first through, vaguely aware of colder, clearer air, of long tables covered with dirty crockery, pewter pitchers and tankards, as wellas the row of big beer barrels that lined one wall. Ahead of him lay the open door, beyond that the street and safety, but Pearce sensed that to rush through there constituted danger, so he slowed to let others pass. Pushed into the space between two of the barrels, his hand found the thick end of a wooden lever, which would be used to move the barrels when full.
This escape route was just too easy; no press-gang in creation would leave it uncovered. Those men had been by that curtain to slow things down, not to stop them, and so allow some of the sailors now free from the struggle at the front to come round and block the way. The truth of that was proved by Ben Walker, who, having been right on Pearce’s heels, scurried past to be the first fellow through the door. Immediately he ran into a wall of sailors who suddenly filled the doorway, one throwing a rope around him, while two others wrestled him to the ground. That did not deter the crowd that had followed from still trying to escape; they
The School of Darkness (v1.1)