By the Mast Divided Read Online Free PDF Page B

that winded him. However, both had hit Pearce, one a clout that made his head reel. Trying to get to his feet, hard enough with his coattails, was made even more laborious by that blow. He knew before he was halfway up that they had got a rope on him. Pearce dropped down again immediately. He had to get that rope off – nothing else mattered ashe rolled and scrabbled at the rough fibre, getting one arm free, thrusting it out to grab at a metal boot scraper, hoping to drag himself clear. The foot that came down hard on his forearm wore a polished shoe with a garish buckle, while the calves were clothed in white stockings. It was odd to pick out so clearly the pinchbeck quality of that shoe buckle, as well as the buttons that held tight the bottom of the breeches.
    ‘Get that damned rope round him now!’
    With four or five men on him, all cursing with the effort, Pearce was soon well trussed. The little marine slipped between them while he was still on the ground and fetched him a hefty kick to his cheek that brought the taste of blood to his mouth. The foot went back to land a second blow, but the harsh, authoritative voice stopped it.
    ‘Belay that, I want these fellows whole. This one’s a fighter, so get him properly secured. Mr Farmiloe, search the tavern, make sure we have not missed anyone.’
    The ropes bit tighter as Pearce was hauled, first to his knees, then to his feet. Another rope was used to bind his hands behind him, with a tail that went to a second cord that hobbled his ankles. A torch was brought close and dazed, he looked up into the face of the man issuing orders, a purple-faced naval officer who managed a smile that had about it the look of a happy executioner.
    ‘Your name?’
    Pearce shook his head, which hurt. ‘This is illegal.’
    The thick, knotted rope, which the officer had in his hand, caught him painfully just behind the ear in a blow that half-stunned him. He would have fallen to his knees if the men holding the bindings had not kept him upright. ‘Your first lesson of your new life, do not dare contradict an officer.’
    His head numb, it was with some difficulty, and in a thick voice that Pearce replied. ‘The law says you can only press those bred to the sea.’
    The rope caught him again, and as his knees began to buckle the officer’s face came right up to him to growl, ‘From now on, for you, I am the law.’
    Pearce was hurt, but he was still trying to think what to say. It was illegal to press in the Navy any man who was not a sailor by trade, but it was, notoriously, a law frequently ignored. Press-gangs would take up anyone they could lay their hands on and hope that once confined to a ship the victim would be in no position to do anything about it. Any person who missed the sufferer was unlikely to have enough influence either to find the poor soul or to get him free. Even then, a justice of thepeace would have to be involved and, in Pearce’s case, that was not the sort of official he could give his name to.
    Those holding him spun him round and he could see, down the alley in the light of several lanterns, that the group with whom he had been drinking was reunited. They were trussed as he was, as were at least a dozen other souls, like chickens ready for the pot. All except Charlie Taverner, who, hatless now and bleeding from a head-wound, was bent over and clearly in no condition to run anywhere. O’Hagan, still shuffling and groggy, was dragged out through the door to join them, the man that Pearce had clobbered, hatless, staggering at the rear.
    ‘Tavern’s clear, sir,’ said a light, youthful voice at Pearce’s rear. ‘Except for women and the useless.’
    ‘Thank you, Mr Farmiloe, get these men into the boats and away from here.’
     
    Flickering torches lit the way to the boats, three of which, sitting offshore, were hailed to come and collect their cargo. The officer and the youngster called Farmiloe got into the smallest and were immediately rowed away.