by M. C. Muir
For the first time, after checking his ship and his men, Oliver took time to scan the horizon. Looking around, he could see no sign of Scorpion even though it had been sailing no more than two hundred yards from Royal Standard’s starboard quarter. In Captain Quintrell's mind, the frigate would have taken the full force of the wave and suffered a similar fate, if not worse. With most of the ship’s lantern glasses broken, he was not surprised that he could see no lights on the frigate.
‘Where is she?’ he asked, to anyone who was listening. ‘Where was the 24-gun ship before this weather hit?’
Standing within arm’s length, the topman, whose hands were still firmly gripped on the helm, answered: ‘She was a cable’s length off the starboard beam, Capt’n. But she was drifting to the south-east. The officer of the watch had made a signal for her to close up. I think it was sent twice but there was no answer.’
‘Did she continue to drift?’
‘I can’t say, Captain, I wasn’t looking out for her.’
Thanking the midshipman, Oliver tried to make sense of the situation.
‘The frigate must have gone straight down,’ the sailing master declared. ‘There’s not a sign of a spar or sail or single piece of debris – or any survivors. What say you, Captain?’
‘I say it is too dark to see anything, so one can only speculate.’ Turning to his first lieutenant: ‘The forward carronade, Mr Weir. Make a signal. If Scorpion is afloat she must surely hear it and respond. A blank shot, I suggest. We don’t want to sink her if she is out there in the darkness.’
‘Aye, aye, Captain.’
The sound of the powder exploding in the big gun brought several seamen onto the deck, thinking Royal Standard was under fire. Standing on the quarterdeck, the captain, sailing master and first lieutenant waited for sufficient time for a gun to be run out on the 24’s deck and a shot to be fired in reply. But other than the water thumping on the bow, cracks and crackles from luffing sails and the hum of the wind in the rigging, there was no reply.
‘As I said,’ the sailing master insisted. ‘I think Scorpion went straight down.’
Oliver was not ready to accept that suggestion.
‘Tell me, Mr Brannagh, in your opinion, if she stayed afloat and made sail, how far could such a wind drive her from us?’
‘More than a dozen miles,’ he replied. ‘Maybe double that. She’d sail until the wind blows itself out. Certainly out of earshot in this gale. And in the darkness, her lights, if she had any left, would be invisible for any distance more than thirty yards.’
‘You still contend she sank?’
The sailing master hesitated. ‘There should be some flotsam – sea chests, bodies, rigging but we didn’t see any.’
‘And if she ran to escape the weather, would she know where to locate us?’
‘If she ran, she might not want to locate us.’
That was hardly the answer Captain Quintrell was expecting. ‘What are you insinuating, Mr Brannagh?’
‘I’m not saying nothing, Captain, just postulating.’
‘Mr Brannagh, are you suggesting the acting captain has taken the ship. What would lead you to that preposterous idea?’
The sailing master shrugged his shoulders. ‘Couldn’t say.’
‘Couldn’t say. Wouldn’t say. But if you were pressed for an opinion?’
He shrugged again.
‘Then I am pressing you right now, Mr Brannagh. This is not the first occasion you have expressed concerns regarding Captain Brophy’s integrity.’
‘Then, in answer to your question, I would propose it is the very nature of the acting captain that was the cause, sir.’
‘You say: the nature of the acting captain. Please explain?’
The sailing master shuffled uncomfortably for a moment. ‘Captain Brophy desperately wanted a ship of his own. What I’m suggesting is that if he got separated from us in the South Atlantic, for a time, at least, he would have been granted his wish. And, after all, it wasn’t really a king’s ship, was it? You said it yourself. It was merely a salvage vessel.’
‘Hmm! But fully rigged, fully armed and adequately crewed courtesy of my men, it was damned close to one. Hopefully, most of those men had no allegiance to Mr Brophy, or did they? I find your proposition hard to swallow.’
‘Like I said, Captain, you pressed me for my opinion.’
‘Indeed, I did.’
‘You don’t have to heed anything I say, Captain. Wait till the night clouds clear, and, lo and behold, in the morning you’ll find Scorpion hull-up on the horizon with her canvas hanging out to dry. Then we shall know I was quite wrong.’
‘I trust that will be the case,’ the captain said, wondering at his sailing master’s perspicacity.
It was back in Cork, during his very first meeting with Mr Brophy, Oliver Quintrell had decided that he was not partial to the attitudes and opinions expressed by the ship’s first officer, but he had tried to maintain an open mind. Prejudice was a quality he disliked. But, until this moment, he had not considered the lieutenant’s subtle innuendos to be the forerunner of mutinous behaviour.
‘What on earth was he thinking,’ the captain said. ‘He might be able to make more speed than a 50-gun ship, but he does not have sufficient crew to work the ship, the sails and the guns. Most of the powder in his magazine is likely to be spoiled. And he has a crew who are more likely to mutiny than follow him. I promise you, he will not escape. I will find him.’
‘Where do you suggest we look for him?’ the sailing master asked.
Oliver sighed, as he considered the question. ‘Because Scorpion was a French ship, she will not head for any French territory. Nor for a British port as, without orders and a full British crew the captain would fall under suspicion. Let us not forget, if he has deliberately taken the ship, he must now be branded as a pirate. I suggest, therefore that he would head for a Portuguese port – Rio de Janeiro perhaps, or Batavia or India.
‘I promise you, Mr Brannagh, if I catch the blackguard, I will delight in taking him back to England in irons to face Admiralty Justice.’
Having had his fill of this unsavoury topic, the captain called on his recently appointed first lieutenant. He needed to concentrate on the current problems facing his ship. ‘Mr Weir, kindly have the carpenter report to me. I need to know how much water is in the well. Also, if the ship sustained any damage to the hull when it went over. Go down to the cockpit and enquire if the doctor needs assistance. I fear the storm will have left him with his hands full. And have someone check in the galley. Make sure the fire was extinguished and didn’t discharge embers into the mess.’
Finally, ‘At 8-bells, call all hands and splice the mainbrace. I think a tot of rum might help raise spirits, albeit for only a short time.’
The break of day brought a hazy sun rising from a misty grey horizon. Overnight the storm had passed, the wind had blown itself out and the sea calmed. A thorough search of the area could not turn up any evidence that the smaller ship had sunk. It was agreed by everyone that any debris washed from its deck could have drifted miles away by now and would never be found.
Under the present conditions and repairs underway, making three knots was all Royal Standard could manage.
Leaning over the table, studying the chart from various angles, the captain was discussing his proposed course with Mr Brannagh.
‘I believe Captain Brophy was familiar with my sailing orders,’ the captain stated. ‘I trust that, if Scorpion is still afloat, she will be in Cape Town when we arrive. Let us hope for the best.’
‘Amen to that.’
Chapter 18
The Jolly Boat
Heading south, with almost 2000 miles to sail before raising the Cape of Good Hope, despite the cold waters of the Benguela Current flowing northwards beneath the ship, the air on deck was warm. The usually busy route for vessels sailing to and from the East, was quiet, and since departing Ascension Island, and the débâcle surrounding Scorpion, not a single sh
ip had been sighted. For a few nights, the captain was able to sleep at nights, if only in short bursts.
Early on the fifth day, he was interrupted from a deep slumber.
‘Beg pardon, Capt’n.’
‘What is it, Casson?’
‘Mr Weir says there is something you would want to see.’
Swinging his legs down from his cot, Oliver Quintrell slipped on his shoes and reached for his coat, though quickly decided against it because of the heat. He nodded briefly to his steward, as he passed him and headed out to the quarterdeck.
After rubbing the salty sleep from the corners of his eyes, he glanced around the dark and empty horizon. He felt reassured. The ship was not under threat. ‘What do you see?’ he asked the young officer.
A group of sailors congregating around the entry port had obviously been attracted by something in the water.
‘Over the side, Captain,’ the second lieutenant said.
Though it was unlikely, his first thought was that one of the deckhands had jumped or fallen. Visits from porpoises were a regular sight and even a close encounter with a blue whale did not demand the captain’s attention. A green turtle, perhaps? Worth netting to make more soup.
His thoughts were answered, when the matted hair on a sailor’s head appeared from the steps. The way the man struggled to pull himself aboard made him look drunk. He was grabbed by the arms to prevent him from falling back and helped onto the deck by his mates. Once aboard, he crawled up against the gunwale, his eyes immediately closing and his chin dropping onto his chest. Another sailor followed behind him, and then another, both conducting themselves in the same manner. Oliver didn’t recognise the individual faces, but behind them was young Midshipman Keath. He looked gaunt and dishevelled with salt or tears staining his cheeks.
‘There are two more,’ the middie uttered, his voice barely audible. ‘They need help.’
‘Quickly now,’ Mr Weir called. ‘One of you men, climb down. Lend a hand and secure the jolly boat until we are able to hoist it aboard.’
Looking over the rail, Oliver immediately recognised the small boat as being from Scorpion. It was the only craft that had remained on the frigate when it had been abandoned. In it, sprawled between the thwarts were two bodies that appeared lifeless.
‘Rig up a sling,’ Captain Quintrell ordered. ‘Hoist those men aboard. Mr Holland, we need blankets and warm drinks for these sailors. And call Dr Hannaford to attend.’
Mr Holland responded instantly.
‘Mr Keath, when you are recovered, kindly attend me in my cabin. I need to hear what transpired to deliver you here in this manner.’ Oliver’s immediate thought was that Scorpion had foundered after the storm and that these men were the sole survivors of the sinking.
With a cup of brandy in warm milk cupped in his hands and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, the young midshipman, seated in the great cabin, was unable to stop shivering.
‘How long were you in the boat?’ Oliver asked gently.
‘Three days, Captain. This was to be the fourth. I don’t know that we could have lasted much longer.’
‘You had water?’
‘We had taken a small barrel, but we had no mast or sails only a single pair of oars, and no compass.’
‘Had Scorpion foundered?’ the captain asked.
‘No, Captain. I took the boat,’ he admitted guiltily.
The answer was a shock. ‘You headed out into the Atlantic so ill provisioned?’
The young man merely nodded his head.
‘So, where were you heading?’
‘East – to the coast of Africa. I thought it nearer than South America. My only hope was that we would see another ship and be able to hail it. It was a vain hope, but it was the best I could do.’
‘How many men were in the boat?’
‘A dozen, including myself.’
‘Did everyone survive?’
The midshipman looked down, his eyes clouding over. ‘Amos Bickersdyke, cook’s mate, took sick the first day. He was so sick his throat swelled and he couldn’t even swallow water. Two days ago he sank into a deep sleep and never woke.’ He paused and breathed deeply. ‘We surrendered his body to the sea and I said a few words for him.’
The captain remained silent.
The young midshipman raised his rheumy eyes and continued. ‘On the second day we saw a big fleet of ships heading north; East Indiamen, I think. We were desperate to attract their attention, but we were too far away for them to see us and had no means of signalling, apart from waving a shirt tied to an oar. The men yelled until their throats were sore. They prayed and cried but all to no avail. We watched for hours as the whole fleet sailed by and disappeared over the horizon. Can you imagine how desolate the feeling was?’
There was no answer to that question.
Taking a breath, the midshipman continued. ‘Then, yesterday, late in the afternoon, we saw a sail rise on the horizon. We didn’t know it was Royal Standard, and when night fell we lost sight of it. Then early this morning, after almost running us down, you saw us. We thank the Lord, for being saved.’
‘Amen to that,’ Oliver said. ‘You are indeed lucky men.’
Casson entered quietly with a mug of steaming hot chocolate on a tray. He placed it in front of the young man. ‘Can I bring you anything, Capt’n?’ he asked.
‘Thank you, no, Casson.’
Pausing, only a moment, the captain allowed the young middie time to sip the drink slowly until the pot was empty.
‘Now tell me how you came to be aboard the jolly boat. What happened to Scorpion? Did she sink after the storm or is she still afloat?’
‘Lieutenant Brophy,’ he began, then corrected himself, ‘Captain Brophy has taken the ship and is heading to China. At least that is what he claims. He would brook no argument from anyone and listen to no sense. Anyone who raised his voice against him was punished.’
Oliver Quintrell was astounded. ‘Did he not realize that by taking the ship he would hang?’
‘“Only if I am caught,”’ he had boasted.
‘What!’
‘Those were his very words and I was not the only one to hear them. You can ask the other men. It was terrible aboard the frigate after the ships parted company. The captain was drunk most of the time, shouting orders at everyone. For those who did not jump to his command he had them bound up to the gratings and lashed. No one on board liked it – apart from two of his loyal followers. He appointed them as his lieutenants. Any man who refused to follow their orders was put in irons. As for the rest of the crew, rations were cut. The situation was dire.’
Oliver was aghast. ‘Had the man taken leave of his senses?’
‘That was the opinion of all the men you put aboard. No one wanted to remain. The only ones he did not bother were the carpenters and the other hands who were working below decks repairing the ship. He insisted Scorpion be made seaworthy.’
‘There must have been rumblings in the mess.’
‘Indeed there were, sir. But what were the crew to do? If they disobeyed Mr Brophy’s orders, they were likely to be flogged or worse.’
‘Did the men not consider overpowering the acting captain and wresting the ship from him?’
‘Only in whispers, but there were plenty of calls for action – everything from abandoning the ship, to murder. But the men were afraid. Every seaman knows the penalties for contravening the Articles of War – being reminded of them weekly. Some argued that if they went against the captain’s orders they would be found guilty of mutiny. After all, despite the treatment he meted out, Captain Brophy was a commissioned Royal Navy Lieutenant and the ship’s acting captain. For most of the men, his word was law. Plus they still regarded the salvaged ship as a prize which would guarantee money in their pockets when they got back to England. Because of those arguments, they could not agree on what should be done.
‘The idea of taking the only remaining boat was suggested, but it could only carry a dozen men and
there were eighty of us. Plus, the crew knew that by taking the boat they would be stealing from one of His Majesty’s ships and could be subject to a court martial according to the Articles.’
‘But that is just what you did, Mr Keath.’
‘Yes, Captain,’ the young man answered reluctantly. ‘Rightly or wrongly, I formed my own opinion and decided to take the jolly boat. Several of the men were of the same mind. I warned them of the possible consequences but assured them that if we were lucky enough to survive the sea, we would get help and pass a message to the Admiralty.’
Captain Quintrell studied the face of the lad in front of him. Sandy haired, pimpled cheeks and brow, and barely old enough to have need of a razor. ‘It was a bold decision. Did you take charge?’
‘I did. There was no one else with authority. The idea of running was not popular with all the hands but some agreed it was the only option.’
Oliver remained quiet.
‘So we waited until after midnight – four nights ago – when Captain Brophy and his followers were sleeping. Then we lowered the boat, put water and some ship’s biscuits aboard and pointed the bow to the east.’
‘How old are you, Mr Keath?’
‘Seventeen, Captain.’
‘From what you have told me, I think these men owe you a debt of gratitude.’
With eyes closing, it was unlikely the young middie had heard the captain’s response.
‘Just one more question before you take to your bunk, I must know the condition of Scorpion and how far the frigate is ahead of Royal Standard.’ Oliver shook his head. ‘I find it hard to believe that the acting captain had his sights on China? That is a long distance away.’
The young man attempted to shake the tiredness from his head. ‘I can’t rightly say how much work the carpenters have done, but when we took to the boat, I was aware some of the hands were still at the pumps day and night and were getting heartily sick of it. During the terrible storm, when the ships became separated, the foremast came down but the crew were able to rig up a jury mast and bend a sail to it. We were making four knots and the bearing was south-east. We were heading for the Cape of Good Hope, but I’d heard Captain Brophy say he would take a broad reach around it. He had no intention of making landfall there.’