Nelson's Wake

by M. C. Muir

  ‘Captain, I think you are being hailed,’ Casson dared to say.

  Oliver turned his head and politely acknowledged the group. In response, a few sailors raised their pots or knuckled their forelocks respectfully.

  Aside from the sailors – boatmen, townsfolk, artisans and fishermen were loitering around the tavern’s entrance, while children played on the short stretch of beach oblivious to the celebrations going on.

  From his purse, Olive took two silver coins and handed them to Casson. ‘Pass on my regards to the men and share an ale with them. I would like to celebrate Britain’s great victory with them, or join their wake lamenting the loss of a great sea captain, whichever it may be, but I have business to conduct. The main gate at three o’clock,’ he reminded. ‘And engage a boatman to ferry us back to Ryde.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Capt’n, leave it to me. And thank ’e, Captain,’ Casson said, clinking the coins in his hand. ‘I’ll pass on your well-wishes to the men.’

  With the cries echoing in his head, Oliver strode across the cobbles to the dockyard’s entrance. Though he had several matters on his mind, his first priority was to hear the true facts behind the stories being bandied about on the street, to discover details of the recent conflict and its outcome, and learn the fate that had befallen Lord Nelson. For the present, the information he had received was scanty and amounted to only second-hand hearsay.

  The gatekeeper at the main entrance to Portsmouth’s naval dockyard, acknowledged the captain who, though not a frequent visitor, was familiar to him. He touched his hat as Oliver Quintrell entered.

  Passing under the broad brick archway, the captain was confronted with a scene similar to that he had just witnessed on the street. Several groups had congregated in the yard and were all deeply engaged in conversation. The striking difference to those lingering outside the taverns was their appearance. Here the knots comprised of officers or gentlemen, who, even at this hour of the morning, were neatly apparelled, many in naval uniform displaying gold braid and epaulettes on one or both shoulders, with swords hanging from their belts. Another striking difference was their posture and demeanour and the sombre tone emanating from their discourse. There were no boisterous outbursts or loud drunken cheering. Here, some of the faces were drawn and pale and racked with worry, quite different to the expressions on the faces of the common seamen.

  Striding through the yard parallel to the ropewalk, Oliver spied several officers who he had encountered during his years of service – plus captains, post captains and even an admiral or two. In some cases their meetings had been brief though the consequences of those encounters had been highly significant. John Gore, the captain who had burdened him with several chests of Spanish treasure – a burden that had left a sour taste in his throat but half a fortune in his pocket. And there were several others he recognised but, being unsure if they would remember him, he strode on.

  Ahead, standing alone was a man who had intrigued him, Captain Boris Crabthorne, the man dubbed Boris the Florist by his men because of his keen interest in all things botanical, and for the array of flowering plants that always accompanied him on his voyages.

  Oliver had thought of this officer on several occasions recently and was pleased to see he was still active and, for that matter, still alive. He was also relieved to see Captain Liversedge who appeared to be in good health. From the trauma he had suffered, the last time their paths had crossed, Oliver was worried that his long-time friend would still be carrying the mental scars from that mission.

  ‘Captain Quintrell,’ the post captain called, immediately taking his leave from the group he had been talking with. ‘It is good to see you, Oliver. I read in the Gazette that you were in the Caribbean and doubted I would find you here today. I trust you are well.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Oliver replied, accepting his hand and the warm greeting. ‘And you?’

  William Liversedge merely nodded. ‘You have heard, no doubt, that the fleet won a great victory but at a dear cost.’

  ‘I have heard little more that those brief facts. I was hoping to learn more. Has the fleet returned?

  ‘I’m afraid it will be some time before it does.’

  ‘How, then, did the news reach us here?’

  ‘It came overland from Falmouth. The armed schooner Pickle was designated to convey the news to the Admiralty in London. After Nelson’s death, Lord Collingwood took command of the fleet and ordered the captain of the schooner to proceed with all haste to England and deliver the news personally to Lord Marsden and the Lords Commissioners in London.

  ‘Being a schooner and not a line of battle ship, while being present at the battle off Cape Trafalgar, Pickle had not come under fire and was able to make all speed to reach the English coast. On disembarking, the lieutenant hired a coach and four, and headed for London. On the journey, he shared his news at all the coaching stops; hence the news arrived in Portsmouth possibly before it reached Whitehall.’

  ‘But what of Admiral Nelson and the flag ship?’ Oliver begged. ‘I heard some disturbing news.’

  ‘His Lordship was hit by a bullet fired from the rigging of one of the French ships. He died shortly after he fell. The doctor was unable to save him.’

  Oliver was at a loss for words. ‘And what of HMS Victory?’ he asked.

  ‘Word is that Victory is still afloat, though sorely wounded. Lord Nelson’s body is still aboard her.’

  Oliver shook his head, as he tried to absorb the devastating news. ‘And the rest of the fleet? If Britain vanquished the enemy, why has the fleet not yet returned?’

  ‘The details are not yet to hand.’ William Liversedge paused. ‘Are you anchored at Spithead?’

  ‘No. I am without a ship. I returned from the Americas only a few days ago and was hoping for a new commission. However, I presume with the loss of ships and men their Lordships will be fully occupied for some time.’

  ‘And a state funeral is to be arranged,’ William added. ‘While you are here you must apply for a ticket to attend. Three thousand tickets will be available but on request only. Speak with the secretary to the port admiral. The list is filling rapidly and that is only here in Portsmouth. Imagine what the demand will be in London.’ He paused for a breath. ‘I presume you will be attending.’

  Oliver confirmed his intention, thanked his friend for the information but, with little more information to be gleaned, bid him farewell. He was certain they would meet again in the coming weeks.

  As he returned to the gate, Oliver encountered three naval lieutenants who were well known to him. Having seen all three stepped up from the rank of midshipmen to lieutenant, he held them in high regard.

  ‘Captain!’ Three voices rang out in unison.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Oliver replied.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but is Perpetual due to sail again soon?’

  ‘I fear not, Mr Hazzlewood.’ His voice conveyed his disappointment. ‘I am not yet aware what fate awaits her. That is for the Navy Board to determine.’

  ‘She’s a good ship, sir, and not ready for the breaker’s yard,’ Mr Tully said. Mr Nightingale agreed.

  ‘Perhaps repair and refit,’ Oliver said. ‘Time will tell. However, if and when I receive my orders and a new commission, word of it will be posted around town. I would welcome you to sail with me if the Admiralty should allocate you.’ He paused and considered the three men, so different in their ages, their backgrounds and their talents, but he did not doubt their courage and ability. ‘In the meantime, perhaps one of you can assist me with a minor matter.’ The three men nodded.

  ‘You all remember Dr Whipple, I am sure. I wish to locate him. The last time we spoke was nine months ago when we disembarked here. His intention was to settle in Portsmouth and establish himself in private premises to pursue his calling in the medical profession. Failing that, he said he would offer his services to the Haslar Hospital. At the time he had no desire to apply for another warrant.’

  ‘I can help you there, Cap
tain,’ Mr Tully said. ‘You’ll find Dr Whipple’s rooms on High Street. He occupies a two storey house about half a mile on the town side of the George Hotel. There’s a brass plaque on the door with his name on it. I’ve walked past it several times. As he’s established his business there, I doubt he will be wanting to sail again.’

  Oliver agreed.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen. Kindly excuse me. I have pressing business and my time is limited. Good day to you all.’

  Chapter 2

  Dr Whipple - 6 November 1805

  With three hours remaining before the time he had nominated to meet Casson at the entrance to the dockyard, Oliver Quintrell determined he had sufficient time to address a delicate matter that was currently clouding his thoughts. It was imperative he should deal with it as early as possible and certainly before he took up his next commission.

  Having only been made aware of the unusual situation since he arrived back from the West Indies, he had found it impossible to broach the matter with anyone, not least Victoria, his wife. It was a burden he was destined to carry in silence. The only person he felt he could talk to, and seek advice from, was Jonathon Whipple.

  Despite allowing ample time to walk across the town, he decided to go by cab in order to avoid the noisy rabble celebrating in the streets. It appeared the town’s people had held their combined breaths since the day the fleet had sailed, and now, with word of a great victory, they had emerged from their homes and hovels to share that news. But many of the womenfolk had mixed emotions. To await the return of husbands, fathers and sons, with the possibility of prize money to boost their pockets or save them from the workhouse, was their greatest wish, but with no ships yet returned from the battle, their more fervent hopes were that their husbands had survived the battle and would come home in one piece.

  As yet, Captain Quintrell had no idea what to expect when he visited the address on High Street. He knew the location well. It was close to the place, outside the George Hotel where the coaches to London arrived and departed daily. He had used that service on more than one occasion. However, the doctor’s residence, set somewhere close by, was new to him.

  As the carriage rumbled along, several minor questions ran through his head, first and foremost – would the doctor be at home? Not having sailed with Perpetual on its last cruise, it was possible that Dr Whipple had taken up a warrant on another ship and was away at sea. It was even possible he had been aboard one of the line of fighting ships in the recent encounter off the coast of Spain. In so, he definitely would not be home. He also wondered if Doctor Whipple was living alone. Being a younger man than himself, it was possible he had taken a wife. Or, being practical, it was reasonable to imagine Dr Whipple could be attending a patient and would not be available to receive visitors. There were many unanswered questions on Oliver’s mind. But it was imperative he speak with him – and the sooner the better.

  After fifteen minutes enduring an uncomfortable, cold and exceedingly draughty ride, the cab drew up outside the location indicated by Mr Tully. From the cab’s window, Oliver could see the polished brass plaque on the wall bearing the name: Jonathon Whipple, and beneath it the word – Physician. The tarnished metal reflected a watery sun now at its lowest point in the sky. The shortest day of the year was not far away.

  The driver leaned down, twisted his torso and stuck his head into the cab’s window. ‘This is it, Captain,’ he called, not bothering to climb down from his seat.

  Oliver reached through the window, opened the door and stepped down.

  The house before him consisted of three floors with a loft. It was a relatively new Georgian style building with Gothic columns supporting a small portico at the front door with three marble steps leading up to it. An eminently suitable residence for a doctor to conduct his trade.

  While making the short journey, he had pondered over the pressing matters he wanted to speak with the doctor about, these being the sole purpose of his visit. But how to broach one delicate subject, he had not yet resolved. He held Dr Whipple in high esteem and trusted his integrity. Besides being a skilled surgeon, he was a reputable gentleman who would hold any shared confidences and reveal them to no one.

  Stepping away from the cab, the captain removed his boat cloak, folded it neatly and draped it over his arm before climbing the three stone steps and approaching the door. When he tugged on the bell-pull, he felt slightly inadequate having no calling card on his person. Taking one step back, he removed his bicorn hat and slotted it under his arm.

  Within moments of the bell tinkling in the hallway, footsteps approached the door. It was opened by a robust matronly lady with an apron wrapped about her and a kindly expression on her face. Oliver was surprised. It was neither Mrs Pilkington, as he had half expected, nor Mrs Crosby.

  ‘Pardon me, for arriving unannounced,’ he said. ‘I do not have an appointment, but if the doctor is at home, would you kindly inform him that Captain Quintrell begs to speak with him. I promise I will not take up much of his time.’

  The woman bobbed slightly at the knees. ‘If you would care to step inside, Captain, I will see if the doctor is free.’

  After only a few moments, Oliver heard footsteps on the stairs before Jonathon Whipple stepped down and strode down the corridor, his hand extended in a greeting. ‘Oliver!’ he announced. ‘What a pleasant surprise to see you.’

  ‘Likewise, Jonathon.’ The pair shook hands in a very cordial greeting. ‘I apologise for this unannounced intrusion.’

  ‘Do come in. I am delighted to see you. But first, I am sure you will want to warm yourself by the fire. I have ordered some refreshments for us. They will arrive shortly.’

  Oliver acknowledged the welcome and after dispensing with his cloak and hat to the care of the housekeeper, he unbuckled his sword and deposited it against the hall stand beside several umbrellas. Following the doctor up the stairs, he was invited into a pleasant drawing room with a log fire burning brightly in the hearth. It was obvious that the room also served as a library. While the number of items on the shelves was limited, from a cursory glance, it was evident that most of the leather bound volumes were of a medical nature including some prodigious tomes. An interesting display of glass bottles and specimen jars occupied a bank of shelves in one corner. The containers ranged in size from miniatures of only a few ounces in volume, to those large enough to hold a man’s intestines or lungs. They reminded Oliver of the collection the doctor had held in Perpetual’s cockpit.

  It was apparent that apart from the staff there was no one else at home, though the doctor made no mention of it. Having been invited to sit close to the fire, polite conversation ensued until the housekeeper re-appeared with a tray of refreshments, which she placed on a small table between the two men. Dr Whipple thanked her and, on leaving the room, she closed the door.

  Oliver was about to speak but Dr Whipple interrupted him. ‘Before you say anything, Oliver, let me first express my thanks to you for your very generous sponsorship of young Charles Goodridge. The funds you provided are above and beyond the boy’s present requirements – namely tuition fees, books and some items of clothing – that were indeed necessary after coming ashore with virtually nothing.’

  Oliver was taken aback. This was one matter that had not entered his mind. ‘I prefer not to discuss this,’ he said, attempting to hide a hint of slight irritation. ‘I find myself somewhat embarrassed regarding this situation because, as you are aware, in the past I have spoken out vehemently against sponsorship in the service. Yet now find myself becoming a partner in this form of patronage.’ He paused for a moment. ‘How is the boy?’

  ‘Very well, I am pleased to say. As you know, Charles has a sharp mind, is intelligent and enjoys learning. His tutors speak highly of the progress he has made in a very short period of time.’

  ‘And is he still of a mind to go to sea?’

  ‘That desire has not wavered. And I doubt it will, although,’ he hesitated, ‘with the number of questions he puts t
o me about medicine and my profession, I sometimes wonder. However, he often mentions your name and greatly enjoys recounting some of the experiences he had aboard Perpetual, especially if given the opportunity to do so when I am entertaining guests.’

  ‘What age is he now?’

  ‘Almost thirteen.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Oliver observed. ‘Kindly pass on my regards.’ Oliver considered his next statement for a few moments before delivering it. ‘There is a post captain, I have known for some years, and encountered him after a lengthy absence only an hour ago. While I have not put the question to him, I feel, if asked, he may be prepared to enter Charles as a ship’s boy or captain’s servant on his next cruise. If that is so, and if Charles agrees, it will open the way to him entering the service as a midshipman at a later date. Any study he is currently doing will stand him in good stead.’ Seeing no dissent in the doctor’s expression, Oliver continued. ‘If you have no objections, I will make an enquiry with Captain Crabthorne. In the meantime, I will continue to sponsor the lad’s endeavours while ever he is here or at sea.’

  ‘That will be put to good use,’ the doctor said.

  ‘However, if I am ordered to sea before any arrangements are made, I would have to call on you to attend to his personal requirements for a life aboard ship. And, of course, once he is at sea, he will be out of your hands and also split from Mrs Pilkington who, if I remember rightly, took him under her wing and was very attached to him.’

  Jonathon Whipple smiled warmly, ‘Indeed. Consuela – Mrs Pilkington, will miss him and worry about him as all mothers do when a son leaves home for the first time. Though she is not his mother, he is as close as any son would be. As you will remember, she lost two young infants of her own to the malignant fever in Gibraltar, at the same time Charles lost his parents.’