Nelson's Wake

by M. C. Muir

  The lieutenant lifted his hand to his mouth and coughed weakly. ‘Indeed, sir. Beg pardon. Course of habit.’

  Oliver Quintrell was not amused. ‘Tell me, Lieutenant, what more is there to know of this canine that has not already been shared with me? I trust you don’t have any other hidden surprises in store. Perhaps it has a mate or there is a litter of pups hidden in a barrel somewhere. Or a pet python in the privy?’

  ‘The dog has been aboard for a long time, Captain. I presume it came aboard when Captain Chilcott took up his commission aboard Royal Standard.’

  Mr Holland interrupted, volunteering an answer. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but that is not the case. The captain acquired the dog during the Peace in 1802. At the time, the Island of Newfoundland had a surfeit of the animals and several dozen were offered to various naval vessels. I was advised that Captain Chilcott was happy to take one. I was also told that several of the men would have also taken a dog but there was nowhere aboard ship to house them.’

  Lieutenant Brophy was quick to respond. ‘The dog’s presence is common knowledge amongst the crew. It lives on a diet of rats which it catches in the hold every night.’

  ‘Then, at least, it serves a useful purpose,’ Oliver said. ‘I would like to see it at work one night. Evidenced by its size, I am sure it is very industrious. Carry on, Mr Brophy.’

  Chapter 9

  Convicts

  Oliver Quintrell turned to the first lieutenant. ‘What is the situation regarding Captain Chilcott?’

  ‘His personal belongings have been removed but his furnishings remain.’

  Oliver nodded. ‘Is the surgeon aboard?’

  ‘Yes, Captain, Dr Hannaford came aboard early this morning.’

  ‘Then I will speak with him in due course. But first, tell me, how many souls does Royal Standard carry?’

  ‘We entered three hundred and fifty names in the muster book.’

  ‘Is that sufficient crew for a 50-gun ship?’

  The lieutenant did not answer immediately. ‘A dozen ran when we dropped anchor here in Cork.’

  ‘So we are already short of that number?’

  The lieutenant nodded.

  ‘Do you regards three hundred and thirty-eight men enough to work a 50-gun ship?’

  After waiting a few moments and receiving no reply, Oliver continued. ‘Are most of the hands Irish?’

  ‘Yes, they are, as are several of the officers.’ Brophy said.

  ‘Including yourself?’ Oliver ventured.

  ‘Yes, sir. Born in County Wicklow.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Were you aware of Captain Chilcott’s sailing orders when you left port two weeks ago? Did you know where the ship was heading?’

  ‘A course was set for the South Atlantic,’ Lieutenant Brophy said. ‘We had made three day’s passage when the captain became incapacitated.’

  ‘Very unfortunate.’

  The lieutenant showed no sign of agreement. ‘I was prepared to step up and continue along that course until the captain was fit to return to his duties.’

  ‘But that never happened?’

  Conscious of the lieutenant’s reluctance to answer more questions on the subject, Oliver decided to vacate the quarterdeck. ‘I believe we should continue this conversation in my cabin later. Join me when you are ready.’

  Ten minutes later, the pair was sitting opposite each other at the table in the great cabin.

  Tell me more, Mr Brophy. Did anything in particular prompt the captain’s illness?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘He had a fall on the very day we left harbour. The doctor examined him at the time and found a lump on his head where he had struck it, but otherwise he found the captain to be well.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Two days later, the captain could hardly speak – or walk, for that matter. Though he had periods when he was quite lucid, I thought some rest would put him to rights and suggested he take to his bed for a few days. I was quite capable of stepping up to the captain’s responsibilities in the meantime.’

  Oliver’s eyebrows rose involuntarily. ‘This was your opinion?’ he queried.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And the doctor’s opinion?’

  ‘He was concerned about the captain’s condition. In his view, he argued that his patient needed hospital care and that the ship should return to port.’

  ‘And during his periods of lucidity, did Captain Chilcott express an opinion.’

  Lieutenant Brophy paused for a moment. ‘He seemed more concerned about the men held below deck – the scoundrels, thieves and brigands.’

  ‘And what had raised that concern?’

  ‘He had ordered the carpenter to build an additional compound on the foredeck – to serve as an outdoor exercise area for the convicts when we were at sea.’

  ‘For a period of several months, at least.’ Oliver added. ‘And were you in agreement with this order?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ the lieutenant replied. The structure he wanted would have occupied almost the entire fo’c’sle and taken up the valuable time of the carpenters and other hands.’

  ‘So you would have the prisoners confined below deck for the duration of the cruise?’

  ‘I could see no reason not to. Not a single one of them is worth doing favours for, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘And did you and the captain argue on this matter?’

  ‘I expressed my opinion.’

  Oliver did not respond to the comment. ‘I would like to visit the orlop deck and see for myself the conditions the convicts are confined in.’

  ‘But you wanted to inspect the officers and read in your commission.’

  ‘I am not short on memory, Mr Brophy,’ Oliver said, gazing at the man who he had already taken a wary dislike to. ‘I repeat: I wish to inspect the conditions below decks before we sail. Do I make myself clear?’

  The lieutenant nodded and moved to the great cabin door, holding it open for the captain to exit.

  Descending from the lower deck, the absence of fresh air on the orlop deck was evident. With no windows or portholes or gun ports, there was not a flicker of movement in the air. Below that, in the hold, was the ship’s ballast along with bilge water and barrels. The stagnant air was unhealthy – its only escape was to rise upwards to the orlop deck – the area where the prisoners were confined.

  Captain Quintrell had witnessed appalling conditions in slave ships, but never stepped aboard a convict transport ship. Surprisingly, though only catering for a small number of prisoners, the conditions on the 50-’s deck reminded him of a slaver. However, as the convicts had only been brought aboard a few weeks ago, and they had spent only a short time at sea, the deck had remained relatively clean and the smell was bearable, however, he doubted it would remain in that state for much longer.

  As used in the slave trade, chains ran along the sleeping boards to be attached to each man’s leg irons at night. Presently the convicts, housed in the wooden cage, sat about in clusters, their wrists and ankles shackled. Bunches of spare shackles hung from hooks in the deck beams.

  The simple sleeping berths consisted of large shelves fastened to the side of the hull – each shelf wide enough to accommodate three men. Apart from the sleeping berths, there were no tables or benches. There was nothing to occupy the men during the day.

  In Oliver’s opinion, such conditions could only foster mischievous thoughts and subversive chatter.

  As most of the orlop deck was below the waterline, the hull wept constantly and shone in the light of the glim. No doubt the convicts, whose places on the sleeping berth were against the ship’s hull, would constantly have wet backs.

  With only one lantern swinging from the central deck beam, the gloom made it difficult to see from one end of the confine to the other. The men’s dirty grey clothing, highlighted only with the stamp of a broad arrow did little to help; it merely enhanced the pallid expressions they wore. But above the noise of the men rattling the woo
den bars of their compound, it was the whisper of Gaelic voices that alerted the captain’s ears.

  Pushing events from past missions out of his mind, Oliver Quintrell resumed the conversation with his first lieutenant from where they had broken off.

  ‘There is no air circulating down here,’ the captain commented. ‘Do you not see it necessary to permit these men a little fresh air and exercise every day? Are you hoping to land all forty-six convicts alive when we reach our destination?’

  The lieutenant merely looked across to the faces staring back at him from their wooden cage and sniffed.

  Oliver continued. ‘How many do you think will succumb to the voyage before we reach Cape Town?’

  ‘Ain’t they condemned men, anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘In your opinion, they obviously are.’

  The prisoners shuffled about, no doubt taking heed of the conversation.

  ‘I see there are boys housed with the men,’ Oliver said. ‘How many boys are amongst them?

  ‘Three. That’s how they arrived from Dublin. All in one consignment.’

  ‘These men that you and Captain Chilcott argued over – are some of these felons political prisoners?’

  ‘No, just scum brought down from Kilmainham Gaol in Dublin. Sentenced to transportation across and beyond the seas.’

  ‘And their condition when they came aboard – how would you describe them?’

  The lieutenant’s brow furrowed, as he looked at the mob for an answer.

  Oliver waited, then interrupted. ‘Were they fit or half-starved and suffering from depravation and punishments? Were they manacled and how many were chained together?’

  ‘I have a list of names for you, Captain.’

  Could the man not answer a straight question? Oliver thought. ‘I would appreciate your personal observations and appraisal.’

  The lieutenant shrugged his shoulders before he replied. ‘They all appeared to be in reasonable health when they came aboard. The doctor examined them at that time and found no signs of contagion or fever. They are all males varying in age from seven to seventy years. They were shackled, both hands and feet, when they came aboard, but when we had been at sea for a day, Captain Chilcott ordered the shackles to be removed.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Oliver said, ‘and now?’

  ‘When we returned to Cork, I ordered them to be shackled again. I was concerned for the safely of the crew should word get out that the captain was indisposed, in case they took in into their heads to run.’

  ‘To whom are you referring – the convicts or the ship’s crew?’

  ‘The prisoners, Captain.’

  Oliver sighed. ‘I understand your concern, Mr Brophy, however, in my opinion, if there is going to be any attempt to escape it will occur while the ship is in port and not on the high seas. I will review the situation when we sail and speak with you about it.’

  The lieutenant continued, ‘One other things; we also have fifty soldiers aboard. Infantry men of the 24th Regiment. They were initially due to sail with Sir Home Popham’s fleet but they arrived too late for the transports. They’ve been idling in Cork for over two months. It’s them that are making the hullaballoo you can hear.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And where are both groups destined for?’

  ‘I don’t exactly know. I was never told.’

  ‘I have seen enough,’ the captain said. ‘Kindly return to the deck and have the ship made ready to sail.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Captain.’

  ‘I presume you are familiar with Cork Harbour?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I have navigated it many times.’

  ‘Then when the tide is running, take her out. In the morning, I will talk with the doctor, and will speak with you further about the convicts when we are at sea.’

  Oliver noticed a slight curl in the corner of the lieutenant’s lips and wondered what had prompted that response.

  ‘Aye, Captain,’ Lieutenant Brophy said.

  The light was dimming, as dusk fell, though it was only 3.30 in the afternoon, the captain was anxious to depart before darkness engulfed the harbour waters.

  With the ship’s crew assembled on the foredeck and in the waist, and the contingent of soldiers lined up along the gangways, Captain Quintrell read in his commission. Having the whole crew in attendance, if not, perhaps giving their full attention, he proceeded to outline his expectations of the men and to remind them of the Naval Articles of War, even though most seamen knew the words by rote. With those formalities attended to, he deferred to the first lieutenant, who called all hands to stations for leaving harbour.

  With only pinpricks of lights flickering in the houses surrounding the bay and lanterns swaying on the nearby ships and victualling barges still servicing some of the other vessels moored nearby, the anchor was raised from the harbour floor, staysails run up and topsails set. With the assistance of the ebbing tide, Royal Standard swam from the Irish harbour with ease.

  A fresh north-west breeze caught the square canvas, as the ship cleared the twin forts and sailed from Cork Harbour into the grey Celtic Sea. Under a full head of sail, His Majesty’s Ship Royal Standard headed south-west to meet the rolling swell of the North Atlantic.

  Meeting the chop of the ocean was enough to fill Oliver Quintrell with renewed vigour. The sooner he had time to walk the quarterdeck and fill his lungs with sea air, the better. But there were matters to attend to; the most pressing was to speak with the doctor.

  Having visited the cockpit early the following morning, the captain had invited the doctor to the great cabin. There were several matters he wanted to hear the doctor’s opinion on and preferred to have that conversation in private.

  ‘Please sit,’ the captain said, indicating to a chair across the table from him. Dr Hannaford accepted the invitation, flipped up the tails of his coat and sat down. He was a man considerably older than the captain, his face furrowed with the lines of age and experience.

  ‘Tell me in your own words, Dr Hannaford, what transpired with Captain Chilcott that necessitated the ship’s return to port? Was he unwell when he sailed from England?’

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot help you, Captain. I am in the same position as you, having only stepped aboard Royal Standard four weeks ago.’

  ‘Is this your first warrant?’

  ‘No,’ the doctor replied, not elaborating on his answer but sliding a bundle of papers across the desk toward the captain.

  Oliver continued. ‘Then I must ask for the benefit of any knowledge you have of the short time you spent aboard this ship, from leaving harbour to the time you returned only two weeks ago.’

  The doctor appeared quite comfortable sharing what he knew. ‘The first officer, Mr Brophy, was the one to inform me of Captain Chilcott’s ill health, though he failed to elaborate as to how long he had been suffering or exactly what the malady was.’

  ‘So the captain was already sick when the ship first sailed from Cork?’

  ‘That may well have been the case, however I cannot say, as I never examined him prior to sailing.’

  ‘Did the lieutenant consult you about a fall the captain had had resulting in a bruise to the head?’

  ‘He did, but I felt it had no bearing on the malady the doctor was suffering from. Lieutenant Brophy insisted the captain would get well, saying that Captain Chilcott had suffered falls before and recovered. He was adamant there was no cause for concern and that if anything dire happened, or should the situation worsen, he would immediately assume command and proceed on the same course heading south.’

  ‘Lieutenant Brophy said that?’

  ‘In no uncertain terms.’

  ‘How did this state of affairs strike you?’

  ‘Unusual, to say the least. It was as if he was pre-empting the captain’s demise. But who am I to question the operations of a fighting ship. I am merely a physician engaged to assist the sick and dying, and had stepped aboard the ship only a few days before we sailed.’

  ‘Indeed.
And, to the best of your knowledge, were you alone in your way of thinking?’

  Doctor Hannaford paused for a moment before committing himself to an answer. ‘I expressed my opinion quite openly in the wardroom, that the captain should have been admitted to the hospital or at least referred to a surgeon in the town before we sailed. The sailing master and the second lieutenant were in agreement. Later, when the situation worsened, they also argued with Lieutenant Brophy that the ship should return to Cork or enter a British port as they felt the captain needed more than the services I could offer.’

  ‘Did that offend you?’

  ‘Indeed, it did not.’

  ‘They felt that the Captain should be admitted to a hospital?’ Oliver queried.

  ‘That is correct. While Lieutenant Brophy, as acting Captain, said that returning to port would delay the mission.’

  ‘In your opinion, doctor, was Captain Chilcott in a fit state to command the ship?’

  ‘No, he was not.’

  ‘Did you ague this point with the first lieutenant?

  ‘Lieutenant Brophy reminded me that he was the acting captain and that he had made the decision to proceed and not return.’

  ‘And why do you think that was so?’

  The doctor was hesitant with his answer. ‘Perhaps because the further we were from land, the less chance there was of getting the patient to a hospital. Or because he wanted to take charge of the ship?’

  ‘That is quite an accusation, sir.’

  ‘You did ask my opinion, Captain, and I gave it.’

  ‘Indeed, I did.’

  ‘Was the First Lieutenant conversant with Captain Chilcott’s sailing orders?’

  ‘I cannot answer that question, though I presume the Captain would have shared that information with his first officer.’

  ‘And Mr Brophy continued to insist that the captain would regain his health?’

  ‘He did,’ the doctor said.

  The captain considered for a moment. ‘So who made the final decision to return to Cork?’

  ‘It was Captain Chilcott himself.’