By the Mast Divided Read Online Free PDF

knew what was behind them.
    Pearce stayed still for a half a minute, fighting still going on at his back while individuals ran past him, his mind racing as he watched another develop out in the street. He could hear the cursing sounds of resistance as well as a loud, harsh voice of command, echoing off the walls outside, directing operations.
    ‘Let that tub of lard go, he is of no use to us. That fellow there is, and he is trying to crawl clear. Rope him, Coyle! Damn you, Kemp, club the bastard if you must. Get that damned woman off Hale before she scratches his bloody eyes out. You two, look lively! Drag those fellows already roped down to the boats. Christ in heaven, will you get a move on, before we fall foul of the watch.’
    A scuffing sound made Pearce turn. A squat sailor was coming up on his rear intent on roping him, with two others behind him carrying a trussed and groaning O’Hagan. Pearce’s assailant got a boot on the shins for his trouble, and as he bent, Pearce laid a blow on his tarred hat that cracked it wide open. That lever, when he held it out, kept the other pair, who had now dropped O’Hagan, from getting close, as, with no alternative, Pearce backed towards the door.
    ‘You might as well pack it in, mate,’ one of the sailors said, with a slight and worrying grin. ‘You ain’t goin’ no place whatever you do.’
    ‘Give in easy,’ the other one added. He was also smiling, and Pearce thought it strange that there was no malice in his look, no desire to inflict pain. ‘That way you won’t be so black and blue when you gets aboard ship.’
    ‘There’s another one getting away,’ the commanding voice outside called. ‘He’s in his prime. I want that fellow caught.’
    Still backing away towards that sound, Pearce emerged into a few feet of clear space, but there was still much wrestling going on at either end of what was no more than a wide alley, lit by the flaming torches of the sailors who closed off each end, allowing through only those that were of no use. Ben Walker was still struggling to free himself, his labouring breath a rasp, as the rope, intended to confine his body stopped at his neck and pulled tight, was almost choking him. Walker was done for – he would be taken up, dead or alive. Rufus, obvious by that flaming red hair, was under a clutch of sailors struggling feebly as they tied him up, while Scrivens had clearly taken a blow and was on his knees, a rope pinning his arms hard to his side, no terrier now, more of a sad old mutt.
    Pearce knew if he stood still he was done for. Raising the wooden lever, he started to swing it over his head, running towards those coming to take him, to try and force a passage, heading slightly uphill and away from the river. The tars fell away on both sides, backs pressed to the wall, leaving what looked like a clear route to freedom, with only a torchbearer to stand in his way, a man who would have to be a fool to try and stop him.
    What killed his hope of escape was no more than a flash of white below his eye line. Pearce fell headlong over the outstretched foot, hat flying free, landing and rolling on the hard cobbles, his thick coat saving him from injury, the lever spilling from the hand required to break his fall. Hampered by his topcoat Pearce came up to defend himself, fists ready, to find himself looking into the face of a child, the little red-coated marine who had arrived with the first party of sailors. Immature he might be, but this boy had a cosh to swing, so Pearce hit him with as much force as he would an adult. Connecting with bone, he felt the nose give way.
    As the boy staggered back, holding his face, blood streaming from between his fingers, two of the sailors Pearce had scared off jumped on him and forced him to the ground, one ripping off the high, rear collar of his coat in the process. Pearce’s response, a head butt, lost force from the prone position of delivery, but the second man received an elbow in his ribs