by M. C. Muir
Anchored amongst other ships in the sheltered waters was HMS Royal Standard, an impressive 50-gun ship. It was certainly not an old vessel, as Oliver had initially feared.
‘Over there, Captain,’ the Lass’s mate called, pointing in the direction of a two-decker. ‘Your ship, I think, sir,’ he said. ‘We’re heading to the wharf to unload so we’ll sail right by her. The Master said he’ll put you ashore but he reckons if the fourth rate is expecting you, they’ll send a boat to collect you.’
‘Thank you,’ Oliver said, pulling his boat cloak across his chest. Sailing around the vessel would indeed give him the opportunity to look at her lines and see how much weed she was dragging. The opportunity to look inside her would come soon enough.
‘I’ll have your dunnage brought on deck.’
Oliver thanked the mate again. ‘Kindly speak with my steward.’
Swimming smoothly into the harbour, Weymouth Lass drifted neatly to its mooring at the town dock, joining a line of traders and victualling barges that were also tied up there. Extending along the dockside were hundreds of barrels, stacked high, ready for loading onto waiting ships. The crimson coats of the marines guarding them brought a splash of colour to the otherwise dismal picture.
Gunpowder was Oliver’s first thought.
At the very moment the captain was ready to step from the sloop, a naval boat from Royal Standard ran up alongside.
‘Captain Quintrell?’ the midshipman enquired. Oliver nodded. ‘Lieutenant Brophy is expecting you. If you would care to step aboard, the men will attend to your dunnage.’
From his position sitting in the stern sheets, Oliver liked what he saw. Royal Standard was neither old, nor was she a larger vessel that had been razeed to 50-guns. She appeared to have been newly coppered and there was little growth of weed or attachment of barnacles on her hull – perhaps she had been out of the water quite recently.
Gazing up at Royal Standard, he was able to observe the ship from top mast to waterline. Being in harbour, most of her square sails were neatly furled to the yards, her staysails also. He was impressed. She was a fine looking ship, boasting two fighting decks. He estimated no more than six years of age with few marks upon her. He could not have wished for more, at this particular time.
She was certainly not the largest fully rigged ship in Cork’s harbour, being dwarfed by a 64- and a 74-gun man-of-war, but she was slightly larger than the frigates he had commanded over the last few years. While he was eager to familiarize himself with his new commission, it appeared that several sailors loitering near the rails and lingering in the rigging were also assessing the cut of their new captain.
Absorbing everything he saw, Oliver was satisfied to find the hands appeared to be sober and quiet. An encouraging start.
As the cutter rounded the stern, he was impressed with the ornate carvings around the quarter and stern galleries, reminiscent of the great ships of an earlier era. They could have easily graced any sized ship of the line. The number of gunports, piercing the sides on two decks, was equal to almost all of her 50 guns. But her length and beam fell far short of the navy’s larger ships.
Having never sailed a 50-gun ship, he could only rely on hearsay. He had heard they were slow, did not sail well and were far less manoeuvrable than frigates – hence some of the reasons they were not popular. Yet, they still had a place in the hierarchy of naval vessels. Fifties were classed as fourth rates but did not stand in line in a battle.
Hopefully, on this cruise, he would not meet with much action, but with 50 guns at his command, Oliver was confident he would be well equipped to defend Britain’s naval reputation, should he be called upon to do so.
Half an hour later, with his sea chest balanced across the thwarts in the bow, the naval jolly boat slid against the hull of the 50-gun ship.
Climbing the wooden steps to the entry port, Oliver stepped aboard to the high pitched peep of the boatswains’ pipes. Lifting his hat respectfully to the ship, he glanced down to the waist where a mob of seamen had congregated. These men were also gazing up to assess the appearance of their new captain.
Lined up on the quarterdeck were the ship’s officers waiting to be presented to him. A lieutenant stepped forward. ‘Brophy, First Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘Welcome aboard, Captain.’ The Irish accent was unmistakeable.
Oliver acknowledged the officer and then, as he walked along the line, made a cursory inspection of the other officers presented to him. It was as much as he intended to do for the present. Foremost in his mind was to open his orders and then read his commission.
‘Mr Holland will show you to your quarters, Captain,’ Mr Brophy said. ‘I have some pressing matters to attend to.’
There was no apology offered but Oliver ignored that omission, inclined his head very slightly and followed the midshipman as directed.
On turning from the quarterdeck, he noted some sideways glances from a few of the middies and wondered what prompted those expressions. Was it that he was a mere post captain occupying the quarters often allocated to a commander of higher rank? Were there concerns as to the kind of captain he would be? Apprehensions? Jealousies? Perhaps. But these responses were not new or unexpected. They were the sorts any astute captain would note when he first joined a ship.
Removing his hat, Oliver ducked his head and followed the third lieutenant through the door near the helm and entered a formal dining cabin. It occupied half the width of the deck on the port side.
It was impressive. The room was light and airy but, above all, sumptuously furnished. A large polished oak table with carvel legs occupied much of the centre of the room. It was elegantly set with crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and fine china dinner plates decorated with the letters R and S in gilt paint. The table had eight settings. Standing at each end of the table was a pair of branching candelabra. The wicks of the candles had never been lit.
Moving aft through the dining room, Mr Holland opened the far door and stepped back to allow the captain access to the great cabin – a room of even greater dimensions, stretching the full width of the ship, complete with side windows to the quarter gallery and an outdoor walkway at the stern offering a 180 degree view over the sea.
The polished table in the great cabin was large enough to seat a dozen guests quite adequately, though there were no chairs around it. Currently it was bedecked only with navigational charts – two lying flat, while several others were rolled up and tied with ribbons. The door to the outside gallery was closed but, like the array of windows overlooking it and those on the side, it was panelled in glass. Oliver’s thoughts flashed back to his friend, Captain Boris Crabthorne – Boris the Florist, who had converted his gallery into a small botanical garden.
Such space and opulence was something Oliver Quintrell had never had the luxury of before for his personal use. Negative thoughts flashed to the damage he had witnessed in ships of the line that had been raked through the stern windows – the enemy’s shot having smashed through the bulwarks of the aft cabins and barrelled through to the quarterdeck, slicing through men and furnishings indiscriminately.
While he was impressed with the fittings aboard the 50-gun ship, his face revealed nothing of his feelings.
Numerous books filled the shelves, held in place by narrow polished wooden fiddles. They were, no doubt, the property of the previous captain.
‘These furnishings,’ Oliver asked, while admiring the velvet curtains and cherry red upholstery on the chairs, ‘are they due to be removed, or do they remain?’
The young lieutenant followed the captain’s gaze. ‘I understand they will remain. Captain Chilcott’s personal items were packed in chests and removed from the ship and delivered ashore when we were in Cork.’ The officer paused. ‘Might I enquire about your personal property, Captain? Will your furnishings be coming aboard shortly?’
‘Unfortunately, no. News of my commission came as a surprise and with only short notice, I had insufficient time to organise anything more than my perso
nal dunnage. My steward, Michael Casson, is attending to it. I will instruct him to speak with you.’
‘In that case, Captain, let me show you to your sleeping quarters. This way, please.’
Opening the door from the great cabin, revealed a room almost the size of the dining cabin but this was on the starboard side of the ship. On entering, Oliver immediately sniffed the air, inhaled deeply then sniffed again.
The cabin was more than adequate in size, despite the black barrel of a 24-pound cannon abutting a closed gunport. His cot, hanging from the overhead beams and hiding half of the gun, was oriented forward and aft. For the present, being in port, the cot was showing no indication to swing. An elegant chair and writing desk were set against the centre wall. Another small table, with a china bowl and jug upon it, covered in an embroidered linen cloth, completed the furnishings. One door at the forward end provided for a private water closet. The second door led to a small cabin to be occupied by the captain’s steward. That small room had direct access through to the quarterdeck.
But it was an unhealthy odour that disturbed the captain. It was quite overpowering. ‘What on earth is that smell? Are there animals housed on the deck below?’
Mr Holland was quick to reply. ‘No Captain, the wardroom and the lieutenants’ cabins are directly below us. The manger is forward on the orlop deck.’
The captain was quite familiar with the configuration of ships of 50-guns or more. He sniffed again and looked across the black and white checkerboard pattern of tiles on the floor to an area part concealed from view by the gun’s carriage and the embroidered white petticoat, skirting the cot.
‘What is that?’ he stated, pointing at what appeared to be a pile of damp shaggy rugs.
‘Oh, that, sir, that’s Cecil. Were you not told about him?’
Oliver looked closer. ‘And what, pray tell me, is Cecil? I was not informed I was to share my quarters with some creature dragged up from the deep.’
‘It’s Captain Chilcott’s dog, sir. It couldn’t go to the hospital with him when he was carried ashore, so he made us promise we would keep him here and mind him until he returned. Then, when we heard the news that the captain would not be returning, no one knew what was to become of him.’
‘And what am I meant to do with him?’ Oliver Quintrell asked.
‘You don’t have to do anything, Captain. Chalmers, one of Captain Chilcott’s servants cares for him. He feeds him and swims him every day while we are in port. He’s very loyal. He’s been with the captain for three years now.’
‘Who has? The dog or the servant?’
‘Both, I think. Inseparable, they were – that is Captain Chilcott and Cecil. The dog always shared the captain’s berth. Always slept under his cot. Never let anyone go near him without his say-so.’
‘And you expect me to sleep in a cabin that stinks of wet dog. I do not think so. Get the animal out of here and send for Captain Chilcott’s servant. I wish to speak with him this instant.’
‘I’m not sure Cecil will want to move.’
‘I beg your pardon, Mister.’
‘I’ll get Chalmers right away. He’s waiting outside,’ Mr Holland said, before heading to the door.
At the sound of raised English voices, the hairy animal stretched out its front paws, raised its head, yawned and crawled out from where it had been sleeping against the gun carriage beneath the swinging cot.
‘Goodness,’ Oliver heaved, ‘It’s the size of a small bear. What on earth is it?’
‘It’s a Newfie, Captain. Came from Newfoundland. That’s an island in North America.’
‘I am quite familiar with the geography of the world, Mr Holland.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
Appearing to know it was being discussed, the large hairy dog slunk to the centre of the cabin and shook itself vigorously from head to tail. Fortunately, the coat – six inches long all over, though damp and matted, was not wet. The animal was completely black in colour apart from one short dirty white boot. After loosening its shaggy coat, it ignored the midshipman and proceeded to sniff the captain’s ankles.
Not knowing how protective the canine had been to its previous master, Captain Quintrell remained still.
‘Cecil,’ a voice called from the doorway. ‘Sit, dog.’ The command came from a sailor Oliver had not seen enter.
‘Chalmers,’ the midshipman interrupted, as if by way of introduction. ‘He’s been minding the hound for some time now.’
‘Indeed,’ the captain replied.
‘It’s obvious he likes you, Capt’n,’ Chalmers added. ‘He doesn’t always take kindly to strangers entering his room.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ Oliver replied, ‘but I believe this is now my cabin!’
‘I’m afraid the dog’s been here for a long time, Capt’n, and regards it as his den.’
‘Is that so? Well, it is now time to find the mongrel some new accommodation.’
The sailor’s mouth dropped. ‘He won’t like that.’
‘Won’t he indeed? What about your berth?’ the captain responded. ‘You are obviously familiar with the animal and its needs. Perhaps it can sleep with you.’
Chalmers shook his head, ‘I don’t think so, sir. I rig my hammock on the mess deck with two hundred and fifty others. There’s hardly room for the men to breathe in there and certainly no room for a large dog. Besides, there are already two monkeys, several pet rabbits, a cat, a goose and a parrot. I don’t think they would get on too well.’
Oliver could hardly believe what he was hearing. It was apparent that other than dropping the dog over the side, the problem was not going to be resolved in a hurry. ‘That is not acceptable,’ he said. ‘For the present, take him through to the great cabin and put him outside on the stern gallery. That might at least reduce the smell a little.’
‘Smell?’ Chalmers said. ‘I keep him clean, Captain,’ he argued.
‘Indeed. And I say, no more swimming him. I have no wish for sea water washing across this floor.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
‘I do say so.’
‘Might I get his rug from behind your cot, Captain? It’s what he sleeps on. Captain Chilcott said the dog could have it.’
‘Get it and get out!’ Though barely raising his voice, the captain’s tone could easily be read. Leaning down, the sailor reached for the near threadbare piece of carpet and pulled it from under the gun carriage. It looked wet and smelled as bad as the mutt, if not worse.
‘Chalmers, do as the Captain says. Put the dog outside on the gallery,’ the lieutenant ordered, before turning back to the new captain. ‘He’s popular with the men, Captain, and he’s a very good ratter.’
Oliver resisted a smile and withheld the obvious question. ‘That may be so,’ he replied. ‘However, the stern gallery will suffice for now.’
‘Come along, Cecil,’ the sailor called, but the Newfoundland dropped on its haunches and refused to move.
‘Out!’ Oliver yelled.
The dog responded with a single deep bark but made no effort to rise.
‘Get him out!’
‘Yes, Capt’n. Going, this minute, Capt’n.’ With that the sailor leaned over the animal and wrapping his arms around it lifted it just clear of the ground and half carried, half dragged the heavy beast through the great cabin and on to the outside walkway.
Shaking his head in disbelief, Oliver watched as the dog was pushed outside into the fresh breeze.
‘I can tell you, sir, that dog has been used to sharing his space with Captain Chilcott for a long time. I knew he wouldn’t move voluntarily.’
Oliver shook his head again. Stories of dogs, cats, birds, reptiles and other animals being taken aboard ship by sailors and officers alike was not new. Even recently on the dock at Portsmouth, he had heard mention of Lord Collingwood’s dog, Bounce, and both a cat and pug-dog that had been rescued from the Santissima Trinidad when it was sinking after the battle of Trafalgar.
He remembered re
ading of Captain James Cook on his second circumnavigation of the globe, being saved from near death after being fed a nourishing broth made from the pet dog owned by one of the gentleman scientists. Then he considered, Cecil – the great lump of a hound being manhandled out to the gallery. Weighing at least 150 pounds, there was enough meat on it to feed half a dozen dying men, if the necessity arose.
Then the thought of dogs served to rattle his memory. As a boy, when he sailed with his father, there had always been a dog on board – its job was to guard the ship and deter any unwanted visitors whenever they made port.
The officer interrupted his thoughts, ‘Shall I ask your steward to bring you something, Captain?’
‘Thank you, yes. Coffee,’ Oliver replied, than added, ‘and call one of the hands to mop up that pool of water.’
‘Yes, right away, Captain.’
‘And ask Mr Brophy to call all hands – I will speak with the men directly.’
From his cabin, Oliver could hear the peeps of the boatswain’s whistle and the rumble of feet bouncing on the steps in response to the call.
By the time he emerged onto the quarterdeck, a distance of only a few strides from his quarters, he was confronted by a sea of faces lining the gangways and for’ard deck and in the ship’s waist. Many of the sailors wore striped breeches and white shirts – though the shirts were mainly hidden beneath woollen jumpers, pea jackets, blankets and hand-knitted scarfs. It was a considerable company of men.
The marines, assembled along the gangways were distinctive in bright red coatees with white cross belts and tall shakos. The ship’s officers were lined up on the quarterdeck. Oliver again noticed a few half smiles exchanged between the midshipmen. No doubt the Newfoundland dog was the reason for their amusement.
The first lieutenant’s first words confirmed this. ‘You met the captain’s dog?’ Lieutenant Brophy asked, with a smirk.
‘I presume you are referring to Captain Chilcott’s dog.’