by M. C. Muir
‘Thank you, Mr Keath. Go eat and then sleep. I will speak with you again when you wake.’
‘Thank you, Captain,’ the young man mumbled, stumbling as he rose from the chair in an attempt to stand upright. He leaned his weight on the furniture as he crossed the room but made it to the door unaided.
Having sat silently at the rear of the cabin throughout the interview, the sailing master did not rise from his seat until the midshipman had left.
Joining the captain at the table, he watched as the brandy was poured and accepted a glass.
‘God Almighty,’ Oliver swore. ‘What do you make of it?’
‘Nasty business,’ the sailing master said. ‘I never did like that fellow from the time I first set eyes on him, but to do anything as stupid as to take a ship and His Majesty’s men, mostly against their will, beggars belief.’
‘Those are my men,’ Oliver reminded himself, ‘and I am responsible for them. As for that unfortunate ship – I care not a jot for it. What I know is that it is my duty to find that pirate and deliver him to a court martial.’
‘A noose on the end of a rope might be more fitting – and would be far quicker and cheaper.’
‘Hmm! We must find him first, Mr Brannagh. Where is he in this great ocean?’ Oliver questioned out loud. ‘Is he ahead of us or following us?’
‘If Scorpion is sailing under a jury rig, we are probably making better time than he is,’ the sailing master added. ‘We should arrive in Cape Town before him.’
Oliver wasn’t convinced.
‘At some point, he must touch land. Though the ship was provisioned from our stores, he does not have enough supplies to take him to China. Apart from victuals, he will need wood and water. But I doubt he will dare to go into Cape Town or even False Bay, as half of the crew are likely to run. And if he comes under enemy fire, he does not have enough men to work the guns.’ Oliver thought for a moment and drained his glass. ‘We shall maintain our course, Mr Brannagh. I intend to sail to Cape Town Bay, discharge the convicts and troops and enquire if Scorpion has been sighted by any of the ships in the harbour.’
‘And if there is no news?’
‘Then I intend to wait for his arrival, or continue around the southern tip of the continent and search for him.’
‘It will serve Brophy right if he encounters Vanderdecken and his ship.’
‘The Flying Dutchman?’
‘I doubt the phantom would treat him with mercy.’
On deck, Oliver Quintrell was anxious to know how the repairs aboard Royal Standard were progressing.’
‘Going well, Captain,’ Lieutenant Weir reported. ‘The carpenter and his mates are still working but say there is nothing that will delay us. The wrights have completed their work on the rudder so we can make good speed.’
‘In that case, I intend to put some of the convicts to the test again and will need you to assist me.’
The furrows in the sailing master’s brow deepened. ‘Are you sure about that, Captain. There are some ugly-looking coves amongst them.’
‘There are also some sailors amongst them and we are short of about a hundred hands. I cannot use them all but believe a few of them will be prepared to work rather than being held below.’
The following day the same seven convicts who had been tested previously were brought on deck. With two marines guarding them, along with the captain of the foretop and a boatswain’s mate, they were given instructions as to what was expected of them. After proving their competence in being part of a gun crew, there were other jobs on the ship they could be put to. The four convicts, whose records showed that they had sailed before, were taken into the rigging under the supervision of the captain of the top. Once they had shown they were capable of climbing, they were observed as they trod the foot ropes, furled a sail and secured the gaskets. The other three were assigned to the sail maker and shown how to use a palm and needle.
Eager to prove their worth, and glad to fill their lungs with fresh air, they practiced throughout the day and when spirits were piped, were allowed to join the end of the line after the rest of the watch.
Returning them to the compound on the orlop deck that night was not well received by the other prisoners. The situation was not ideal but with no time to resolve a better alternative, it had to suffice.
After sailing 2000 miles due south without another sail being sighted, Royal Standard stood to within ten miles of the entrance to Cape Town Bay. The mist-shrouded top of Table Mountain could be seen in the distance.
With each passing mile, and no change to the helm, whispers spread around the ship that the captain was pursuing a fool’s mission and it did not take long for those mumblings to filter back to the quarterdeck.
‘The men are not too happy,’ the sailing master said. ‘They fear you will follow Scorpion all the way to China.’
‘Let them speculate all they will,’ the captain said. He had made his decision. He was intent on finding Scorpion along with the rogue lieutenant who had pirated it. His aim was to return both of them to England and to deliver Captain Brophy to the Admiralty Court.
There was a chance Scorpion may have crept into Cape Town Bay before them. The captain doubted it, but it was worth checking.
‘Three days ago, I spoke with you about entering Cape Town Bay in the hope of finding the missing frigate
Mr Brannagh nodded.
‘Having given the matter some thought, I have decided we must search first. If we linger, even for a few days in Cape Town, we provide Scorpion enough time to slip by us. Once she enters the Indian Ocean, we will have no chance in finding her. We must intercept her with all haste.’
The sailing master was doubtful they would have any chance at all. ‘It’s a vain hope, Captain.’
‘Consider this,’ Oliver said. ‘Apart from the need for wood and water, if Scorpion has the problems that Mr Keath described, ‘Captain Brophy may have no alternative but to run her up on one of the southern beaches, before heading across the Indian Ocean.’
The sailing master was less than convinced. ‘That’s a dangerous coast, Captain, rocky headlands and the sea is thick with kelp. Besides, even if he finds a sheltered cove, the lieutenant doesn’t have enough men to careen the ship.’
‘True, but he has a damaged ship combined with not a logical thought in his head. Perhaps he will search for shoal waters. Anything is possible. With that in mind, I intend to make an effort. We will head around the south coast and sail in as close as is safe. If we cannot locate Scorpion within seven days, we will head back to Cape Town and deliver our charges. I may not be brought to account for losing a salvaged ship, but I will have to face the consequences for forfeiting seventy of my men.’
As he spoke, the gravity of the situation was driven home. ‘Damn the man,’ he said.
Chapter 19
The search
Table Mountain loomed over the town, shrouded in a cloth of white cloud as it so often was. The bay itself was milling with merchant ships, many being part of another East India convoy along with trading ships flying various national flags.
From the ocean, the town could be clearly seen; the neat white-painted houses gleaming in stark contrast to the black rushes that thatched their roofs. The spacious streets laid out in an orderly fashion, criss-crossed the settlement and led down to the small congested wharf where an assortment of ships of various sizes were tied up four or five abreast.
On the harbour, two large merchantmen and other smaller craft, unable to find space along the jetty, were swinging from their anchor cables. All manner of provisions, including live cattle, pigs and poultry were waiting to be conveyed by the lighters that were ferrying back and forth from the busy wharfs.
A British jack was flying proudly in the town’s centre.
For most of the vessels arriving from the East, the administration of the colony would have changed since the time they passed through on their way to the Indies creating confusion.
On board Royal St
andard, the officer of the watch echoed the captain’s order to heave to. It was relayed along the deck. Yards were braced around, causing the vast expanse of the forecourse to luff and crack and bring the ship to a virtual stop. Royal Standard would need a berth along the dock to discharge its human and other cargo; however, Captain Quintrell he had no intention of wasting time and was intent on continuing his search.
‘What do you see?’ Oliver asked of the sailing master, standing next to him on the quarterdeck.
The older man was screwing his right eye as he twisted the scope for clearer vision across Cape Town Bay. ‘More ships still arriving. But I do not see Scorpion in the harbour.’ He was aware of the Captain’s preoccupation with the missing frigate. ‘Shall we bide our time here for a short while?’ he asked.
The captain did not answer immediately. His attention had been distracted by a 64-gun man-of-war heading into the bay, having recently rounded the Cape of Good Hope.’
‘A moment,’ Oliver begged. ‘I would speak this ship when it passes. Mr Weir,’ he called, ‘kindly make a signal and draw their attention.’
‘Aye, Captain.’
After acknowledging the request from the 50-gun British ship, the 64-’s sails were backed allowing it to drift to a halt only fifty yards from Royal Standard. The officers and seamen of the larger ship crowded along the rail eager to find out what was happening.
From the quarterdeck, Oliver Quintrell waited until the ships were close then wandered over to the rail where the lieutenant hailed the ship and asked the uniformed officer on deck if any sighting had been made of a frigate recently, possibly sailing under a jury rig and probably heading east.
After receiving the message, the speaking trumpet was handed to another officer standing by the rail of the sixty-four. ‘We have not seen it,’ he called, ‘but a local boat, we bought fruit from only a day ago, advised us that such a vessel was beached or grounded in a cove on the southern coast.’
‘What ship was it?’ Mr Weir asked. ‘What condition was it in?’
‘It was described as a small ship of war,’ was the reply. ‘From the description, it could have been a frigate,’ the officer continued. ‘The master of the local boat thought it had run aground.’
Oliver took the trumpet. ‘Was there any word of men or bodies on the beach? Had any distress signal been seen?’
‘No signals were mentioned, but the master said that sailors were seen on the shore waving as if to attract attention. But it being late in the day and wishing to make Cape Town before dark, the ships did not stop. It is my captain’s intention to report those facts when we anchor in the harbour.’
‘Thank you kindly. Royal Standard will head south and investigate. Hopefully, I will return with news.’
Oliver closed the glass and handed it to his first lieutenant. ‘Mr Weir, make sail. We head south then east hugging the coastline. I need you to sail as close in as possible.’
The sailing master repeated his warning. ‘Be wary of the kelp. And there are conflicting currents and winds around the Cape of Good Hope and Cape Agulhas where the two oceans meet.’
‘I’m quite aware of that, Mr Brannagh, and I am sure Royal Standard is up to the challenge.’ The captain smiled briefly. ‘It appears Lady Luck may have glanced in our direction for a change.’
With all hands to a rope or line, the main brace was hauled around allowing air to fill the deflated canvas. And with its beak pointed to the southern tip of the African continent, the 50-gun ship began its search and once the lines were tied off, all hands were ordered to stand to their guns. If Scorpion was found, it was impossible to know what condition it would be in and what reception Royal Standard would receive from those on board.
‘Let’s take the bite out of this scorpion’s nippers once and for all,’ Oliver said. He was looking forward to the opportunity.
When night fell, Royal Standard hove to on a heaving swell with extra lookouts posted on the fore and mizzen masts. The captain was intent on finding the stolen ship and had no intention of letting it slip out of his fingers.
The following morning the 50-gun ship rolled and pitched unnaturally on a cross sea caused by the conflicting currents delivered around Agulhas. With little wind to carry them over it, the passage was uncomfortable. Resuming their hunt, however, the ship followed the rugged coast examining each bay and inlet for any trace of the French frigate.
Forward progress was slowed this time, not by the current, but by the great forests of kelp that clogged the sea and ran for hundreds of miles around the bottom of the continent. With roots set in the ocean bed several fathoms below the keel, the trailing fronds grew up to the surface making it impossible to sail close to the shoreline in many areas. However, Captain Quintrell was not deterred.
That evening, when the starboard watch was about to go to dinner, the call came down that a mast could be seen in the next inlet. It was a sheltered cove enclosed between two headlands. The mast was not upright but laying at a slight angle. It was obvious, the 24-gun frigate was not going anywhere. Everyone on board welcomed the news and a relieved cheer went up from the crew.
Had Scorpion been holed and run up on the beach then keeled over? Or had it purposely been careened for repairs? Oliver wondered but was confident he would soon have the answers.
On closing on the inlet for a better view, it became evident that the storm that had struck both ships several weeks ago had inflicted more damage on the salvage vessel than on Royal Standard. Although the shipwright, carpenter’s mates and other artisans who had been transferred on board, had succeeded in making Scorpion seaworthy enough to sail to the tip of Africa, something was now preventing her from continuing her voyage across the Indian Ocean to China or Batavia, or whatever destination Captain Brophy had chosen. Oliver wanted to learn more.
Ever unsure of the reception he would receive and being wary of possible armed lookouts in the rigging, Captain Quintrell insisted on caution and dropped anchor half a mile from the shoreline. From a vantage point, it was easy to see the frigate’s situation. Scorpion’s stern was being lapped by gentle waves while its bow was buried deep into the white sand.
When Royal Standard had sailed around the headland with the British standard flying from the stern post, it had been quickly recognised. The sound of huzzas and welcome cries carried across the water.
‘What height are the tides here?’ Oliver asked, but before he received an answer, sailors were seen jumping down to the beach from the frigate’s sides and running towards the surf calling out and waving their arms or whatever bits of rag they could lay their hands on.
‘Who’s giving the orders, I wonder?’ the sailing master asked.
‘Is any one giving orders?’ Oliver mused.
With the mob on the beach growing in number every minute, their spontaneous behaviour was an outpouring of relief. Two of the sailors dropped to their knees and spontaneously gave thanks to the Heavens. The mob numbered about sixty.
‘I shall go ashore,’ the captain said. ‘Put away the boats. You have the deck,’ he said, turning to Mr Holland – the officer of the watch.
‘Mr Brannagh, be so kind as to accompany me. I want half a dozen marines and the carpenter and boatswain to come also. Call the Captain of Marines to have his men stationed in the rigging and along the rail. I swear I will tolerate no more tricks from this pirate.’
With all eyes to the careened ship and the rugged interior rising up not more than a cable’s length behind the beach, the cutter and launch were swung out and lowered to the water. The boat’s crew quickly dropped into the launch and took up their oars. The Captain and his party joined them.
It was an easy row to the beach, the gentle surf lifting them on their way. On touching the sand, the gunwales were grabbed by a dozen waiting hands and the boat dragged up onto the beach to the rousing call of huzzas. But Captain Quintrell still remained cautious. Scanning the faces both on the beach and the ship for his ex-lieutenant, Oliver looked at every one of
them but the face he wanted to see was not there, nor were those of the midshipmen who had also been put aboard Scorpion.
‘Who is in charge?’ Captain Quintrell asked, as he stepped from the boat, his feet sinking into the wet sand.
‘Me, sir.’ The voice, hardly broken into manhood, came from a fresh faced lad. ‘John Aitcheson, midshipman.’
‘Where is Captain Brophy? Is he injured?’
‘No, sir. He’s gone.’
‘Gone? Gone where? Please explain.’
A group of weathered seamen, gathered around the young man, as if to give him moral support.
‘When we ran the ship up on the beach, four days ago, the captain had us attempt to refloat her, but even with the kedge anchor and all hands, and the aid of the tide, we couldn’t budge her. Then another big wave came and washed her further up the beach and the bow dug in. We needed another big one to float her off, but it never came. Now the whole keel is sinking and she’s taking water again. I had the men on the pumps but it’s hopeless.’
‘Thank you, Mr Aitcheson; I commend you on your efforts. But where is Brophy?’
‘He left three days ago, on foot. He took some provisions with him and said he would make Cape Town in two days and get help. He said it was only fifty miles away. He told us to remain on the beach.’ The youth glanced to those around him for confirmation. ‘We hoped he would have been back yesterday or today with a ship. When we saw you sail around the headland we thought it was Captain Brophy returning.’
‘A bold venture,’ Oliver commented, looking at the blank faces around him. ‘But fifty miles of unknown hinterland is a foolish trek to attempt. Did he know the Dutch farmers have little respect for English uniforms? As to the Hottentots, I heard they do not take kindly to anyone on their land. Did he go alone? Was he prepared to fight?’