By the Mast Divided by David Donachie Read Free Book Online Page A

London require to be protected. You speak of an ardour that requires to be cooled, and I feel that as a Christian soul it behoves me to oblige you with the means.’ The voice changed to a low growl. ‘Tip the bastard in the river, and let’s see if the Thames chills him enough.’
    ‘Sir,’ Gherson shouted, before adding, ‘help!’
    He got no further. One of the ruffians slapped him hard to shut him up, then, with another they lifted him bodily on to the parapet of the bridge.
    ‘Can you swim?’ asked the man who had praised his acting, taking hold of a leg.
    ‘No,’ Gherson croaked, as a second ankle was grasped.
    ‘Why that be a damn shame.’
    Both heaved together, to send him tumbling over the edge, his body spinning in the air, a scream emanating from his lips, his mind a mass of whirling thoughts, of dozens of warm beds, endless tipped petticoats and pliant female flesh, of angry spouses and wives weeping with shame. The one thing he did not think of was cold water, but that changed as soon as he hit the black, freezing Thames, disgorging icy inland waters into the sea. The shock was near to heart-stopping, the mistake of that continuedscream evident as soon as his mouth filled with liquid.
    Gherson went under, into a dark void of nothingness, but his natural buoyancy brought him back to the surface, one hand raised, his flaying feet keeping him afloat long enough to let the water clear from his eyes. He could see the lights of London Bridge moving away from him; that is till he realised that it was he who was moving, being carried downstream on the riptide of creaming water that had come through the arches of the bridge.
    The cry of ‘God help me’ was cut off by another mouthful of the Thames as Gherson went under once more, with his mind pursuing two opposing thoughts. One that he must stay afloat and survive, the other the certainty that it would be impossible and that he was about to die. Hands and feet lashing, he again resurfaced, feeling in an open palm a round piece of wood. He grasped it with all the desperation of a man in fear of death, pulling himself up until he got a second hand in place – which was just as well as his original grip had slipped due to the wet surface.
    ‘God in blessed heaven!’ cried Abraham Coyle, Master at Arms of HMS Brilliant , looking at the hands grasping an oar that, feathering, was only touching the water and acting as a brake.
    ‘What have we got here?’
    ‘Man in the water,’ cried Kemp, in a voice that had Pearce trying to sit up to see what was happening, only to find his movement constrained by his being lashed to another, so that his view was cut off by the top strakes of the boat’s planking.
    ‘In the name of Christ get a hand on him,’ Coyle cried.
    That was easier said than done; having just shot through the central arch of London Bridge they were still caught in the disturbed and fast-flowing scud created by that narrowing of the waterway. Indeed, if Gherson had not been caught in the same current he would have been lost, but the tumbling cataract was carrying him downstream at almost the same pace as the boat. Dragged inboard, Gherson felt a hand grasp his wrist just as his grip was going for the second time. Then a rope was round his other hand and he was being hauled roughly over a rowlock, before he tumbled in a soaking heap amongst a pile of other bodies.
    ‘Find out where he came from,’ demanded Coyle, passing back the lantern. The question was put to Gherson by the sailor who had dragged him inboard, with Kemp holding the light close so that Coyle could see his face, an act which revealed his own rodent like features, and highlighted a drop of mucus that glistened on the end of his nose.
    ‘The bridge,’ gasped Gherson, ‘London Bridge.’
    Pearce had a view of him now, dripping water from a sodden shirt, slicked down, soaked hair and a youthful face that, even in the grip of a deep and justifiable fear, had a sweet and innocent