Nelson's Wake

by M. C. Muir

  The thought of explosions, smoke and flame and huge boulders being projected from its vent, prompted the captain to have all hands called to stations for gun practice. The gun crews were pleased to return to their regular stations and the guns they were familiar with. After the exercise, the division captains reported that the new hands performed well and that their times had improved.

  Sailing under a billow of canvas, the atmosphere on deck was relaxed. In the forecastle, two of the convicts were patiently showing the three youngsters how to splice two ropes together. A couple of inquisitive young gentlemen quietly looked on. The convict lads were quick to learn. One old salt, whittling a toy boat from a lump of driftwood fished from the sea, drew some attention. And, while knitting was not an unusual pastime, the sailor busy with his wooden needles knitting a hat from the yarn spun from the Newfoundland’s hair, caused a few sideways glances.

  With the captain’s permission, Chalmers was permitted to bring Cecil on deck to take some exercise. While a handful of sailors objected to the hound bounding round and round the foredeck and disturbing their games, most of them didn’t worry. The dog was a form of entertainment – the sailors rolling an old belaying pin along the deck and watching the dog chase it.

  Having been given a scrub with soap in Cape Town Bay, Cecil’s appearance and smell was much improved and his hair had already grown an inch since it was shorn. Johnny Kemp volunteered to comb the new tangles out of his coat and Chalmers and the dog had been quite amenable to that. Once brushed, the difference was quite remarkable. Young Johnny, Andrew Kemp’s nephew, had taken a liking to the hound and the dog followed the boy around the deck. Having asked his uncle if he could take him home when they arrived in England, Andrew Kemp had explained that when they returned to England, a prison cell would likely be their home for a long time. It was hard for the boy to understand.

  With the time the ship had spent in Cork and again on Ascension Island, Oliver had hoped to have mail from England awaiting him in Cape Town. He was anxious for news from Dr Whipple regarding his daughter’s removal to Portsmouth and word of Charles Goodridge’s progress at the Academy, but there had been no further letters. Despite no news, the captain took time to pen some correspondence knowing full-well they would reach England only at the same time as the ship did.

  With each passing day, the noon sun rose higher and the heat on deck increased till the pitch began to bubble from between the deck beams, making the sailors wary of where they stepped.

  For a while, flying fish, porpoises and wandering seabirds picking up scraps from the ship’s wake, were the only distractions. The sailors not on watch stayed below deck out of the heat. Lethargy was slowly settling in.

  Early one morning, before the sun had chance to melt the deck, the sight of a puff of sail and a broad hull rising from the horizon in the west jolted everyone’s attention. Crowding the larboard deck, the sailors watched. Those with their own telescopes related the scene to their mates. She was flying the tricolour. She was a Frog.

  As one ship turned into two, and two became three, pulses quickened. All hands were called and the deck boards shook with the pounding feet. Sailors ran to their stations and stood by their guns awaiting further orders. Any evidence of earlier lethargy was quickly cast off.

  ‘What are your thoughts?’ Oliver enquired of his first lieutenant, passing the glass to him.

  ‘A large cargo ship, Captain,’ Mr Weir said. ‘Not a fighting ship – although I don’t doubt she is pierced for a good number of guns.’

  ‘And the smaller ships?’

  ‘Looks like a brig and a schooner, to me, sailing as escorts.’

  Oliver nodded. ‘Any thoughts, Mr Brannagh?’

  ‘I would agree. And reckon she would be worth a tidy penny – heavily laden with her hold full of sugar or rum and cocoa. No doubt returning from the French islands in the Caribbean.’

  With no intention of antagonising the traders, and not wanting to engage three ships, the captain ordered Royal Standard to reef the topsails, slow and allow the French ships to sail by uninterrupted. From the foredeck and in the rigging, the crew watched as the procession slowly swam by. If they had seen the 50-gun British ship on the southern horizon, they were obviously not concerned by it.

  But attention was instantly diverted from the French convoy when two ships appeared suddenly out of the brilliant glare of the rising sun.

  ‘Privateers, Captain?’ the sailing master queried, seeing the vessels approaching fast from the east and taking the convoy by surprise. They were heading directly towards the cargo ship.

  ‘Prepare to fire, Mr Weir. Take out the reefs but maintain your course. Let us see what happens here.’

  The first lieutenant relayed the message and the call went through the ship. Sailors scurried up the rigging and out on the yards to release the reefs they had only secured a few moments before. Included amongst them were seven convicts now indistinguishable from the other hands in their recently issued slop clothing.

  ‘Why did the convoy not see them long before now?’ the sailing master asked, furrowing his brow.

  ‘Probably, the lookouts were too busy watching a 50-gun British ship appearing on the horizon. They would not have expected the pirates coming out of the sun.’

  ‘Mr Weir, take several of the young gentlemen to the magazine and the three Irish lads. They know what to do.’

  ‘Powder monkeys?’

  Oliver nodded again. ‘If it is necessary.’

  As Royal Standard’s deck and rigging was made ready, the two privateers exchanged fire with the leading French escort – a small schooner. Armed with only a pair of swivel gun on her bow and her long guns sitting amidships, she had no defence for a frontal attack and was easily dismasted. As soon as her foremast fell, two cutters were lowered from the privateer and, packed with well armed men, were rowed across the narrow stretch of water between them. Grapples were thrown, shots fired, swords and cutlasses brandished, as a small army of privateers scrambled aboard her. The large cargo ship was ill-positioned to defend itself without firing on its escort.

  While Captain Quintrell continued to observe, Mr Brannagh looked anxiously to the ship’s captain for instructions.

  On the leeside of the action, the second privateers fired its full broadside at the second escort ship, aiming low for the timbers below the gunports. He obviously had no intention of taking this ship, as at such a short distance, it was impossible to miss.

  Almost immediately there were cries from the deck of the escort brig indicating she was taking water. Intent of putting boarders on her, the second privateer steered in too close, getting her bowsprit and foreyard tangled in the rigging of the smitten brig. While some of the brig’s sailors jumped overboard and swam for the large vessel, those that remained fought with whatever weapons they could grab – staves from the capstans and belaying pins, but they were torn between defending themselves and preventing their ship from going down.

  Fully occupied with their own battles, the French crews aboard all three ships paid no attention to the British 50-gunner fast approaching from the south.

  Oliver called to the officer on deck: ‘Take us around her, Mr Weir. Let us rake her stern then be ready to pour a whole broadside to her larboard side.’

  As Royal Standard made her turn, the cargo ship’s name, Saint Lucia, came clearly into view.

  The surprise attack from the rear seemed to have little effect on the cargo ship. But the broadside from twenty-two cannon shook the very fabric of Saint Lucia. Very slowly, almost gracefully, it heeled to larboard, lying down over on its own escort brig which was still tangled with the privateer.

  While the large French ship was intent on detaching itself from the two limpets hanging from it, there was no time for hand-to-hand combat. But no sooner than Saint Lucia had righted herself, than the British gun crews were ordered to their stations, to haul in their guns and reload.

  By now, Royal Standard was ready to deliver another lethal b
roadside. This time, Captain Quintrell ordered the gun captains to aim for the ship’s bowsprit and foremast. He did not want to sink this ship. Nor did he want to flood her dry cargo with sea water. He wanted to take the ship and cargo a prize.

  ‘Bring us around, helmsman. Show me her starboard side.’

  Saint Lucia, though upright, was unable to free itself from the privateer. Attempting to protect itself, the guns set amidships fired at the British 50-gunner. But their aim was set too high and the shots succeeded only in blowing holes in Royal Standard’s main and mizzen canvas. Only one shot dropped lower, exploding the belfry to toothpicks and showering splinters over the ship. The noise of battle muffled any orders or cries from the decks, while the gun crews’ attention was purely to tending their guns.

  Continuing on its path circling the enemy, Royal Standard delivered another devastating broadside to the French ship’s stern taking out its rudder, and leaving the ship dead in the water. The crew cheered.

  That was enough for the French merchant captain who surrendered his vessel.

  The two privateers, however, had no intention of capitulating. With cutlass blades and axes, the hands hacked through the fallen rigging and, once disentangled, made all sail back to the east. Without the hull of the privateer supporting it, the escort brig slowly went down.

  ‘Do you want to make chase, Captain,’ the sailing master asked.

  ‘I think not. We have one nice prize and have no call for a mob of angry pirates.

  As the sun slid down that evening, burning in the west, young Lieutenant Weir was given the dubious honour of becoming the captain of the St Lucia. The French sailors taken off the cargo carrier were bustled down to Royal Standard’s orlop deck and secured in the compound previously occupied by the convicts. For the present, the master and his officers were held in the cage on the deck. With a prize crew put aboard her, a cable was attached to the valuable cargo ship and it was in put in tow.

  Only when they were under way did Captain Quintrell visit the cockpit to enquire about the butcher’s bill.

  ‘Two dead and three injured from splinters, sir. One of the powder monkeys was speared through the chest and I don’t think he will survive.’

  The captain didn’t ask the boy’s name. He would discover that later. ‘Do what you can, Doctor.’

  ‘I will.’

  Returning to the quarterdeck, he was alerted by his steward to a wailing cry coming from the great cabin. ‘What is that?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘It’s one of the convict lads, Capt’n,’ Casson replied. ‘You’d best come and take a look.’

  ‘Is he injured?’ Oliver asked. ‘Why had he not been taken below?’

  ‘He’s not injured. He’s bemoaning the loss of the dog.’

  ‘What? The dog is dead?’

  ‘Seems to be that way, Capt’n. Both the lad and Chalmers went through the ship. They searched from top to bottom but with no success. Take a look and you will see where the gallery rail was smashed. That is where the dog was.’

  ‘Show me,’ the captain said, following his steward through the cabin to examine the damage. Squatting in the corner of the open galley was Johnny Kemp.

  ‘Get up boy,’ Oliver said. ‘Tell me, have you looked everywhere for the animal?’

  ‘Aye, Captain. Me and Chalmers searched, but we couldn’t find him.’

  ‘Have you looked in the water?’

  ‘No, Captain, just on the ship.’

  ‘Then I suggest you go around the deck and look over the sides. We are only sailing as fast as a man can walk so, if the dog can swim as efficiently as his breed is reputed to, it is possible he is still swimming.’

  The lad didn’t give the captain a chance to finish what he was saying before he was on his feet and heading back to the quarterdeck. Leaning over the side and shouting the dog’s name, his high-pitched cries quickly attracted several of the sailors to join him, all scanning the sea and hollering the name – Cecil.

  It didn’t take long to spot the hound. He was swimming with the dolphins at the bow. With webbed feet, like those of a duck, the Newfoundland dog was paddling strongly and obviously enjoying the challenge with his new found friends.

  Though the ship was only making three knots, the captain called for sail to be reduced. ‘Mr Holland. Rig up a hoist and someone climb down to retrieve the hound. The rest of you, go back to your stations.’

  Ready to jump over the side to save the dog, Johnny’s arm was grabbed by his uncle, while Chalmers clambered out from the head and jumped into the water.

  The dog was obviously pleased to see his friend, licking his face, and trying to climb onto his shoulders. With the pair drifting back towards the entry port, a line was thrown over and the hoist was swung out and lowered. Though Cecil wasn’t interested in getting in, the sailor pulled the canvas under his belly and held onto the dog while it was hoisted to the deck. Scrambling to jump out before it reached the entry port, the Newfoundland almost slipped back into the sea, but grabbing him by the feet, ears and tail, the sailors hauled him aboard and into the waiting arms of young Johnny.

  ‘Back to work you lot!’ Mr Holland ordered. ‘You there, get a mop and swab the deck.’

  ‘Well done,’ the captain whispered quietly to Chalmers, as a blanket was thrown over his shoulders and one over the dog also.

  Chapter 22

  Portsmouth

  Having clawed its way up the Channel, battling a strong headwind and dragging a fully-laden cargo ship in its wake, the crews of both Royal Standard and Saint Lucia were relieved to make the Solent before nightfall, and happy to drop anchor when they reached Spithead.

  Having sighted his house on the Isle of Wight, Oliver Quintrell reckoned it would be at least four days before he would be free to return home.

  The first boats to arrive early next morning were the small powder hoys from Priddy’s Hard. After hoisting the barrels of gunpowder from the ship’s hold, they were removed to the huge powder store in Gosport, across the water from Portsmouth. Oliver was relieved when the powder had gone.

  His next priority was to receive a visit from the prize agent who would examine the ship he had taken, and its cargo, and assess the value. The agent would then decide its fate. If Saint Lucia was deemed sound, she would be moved into Portsmouth harbour and unloaded at the jetty. After that she would be repaired then perhaps re-named and put into naval service. In the captain’s opinion, it would not be destined for the wreckers’ yard as so many prizes were.

  With a busy agenda to attend to, Captain Quintrell took a boat to the dockyard and paid a call on the port admiral. Lasting only fifteen minutes, the captain was rowed back to Royal Standard, not having addressed all the matters he needed to. At least he was able to collect a large sack of mail for the crew that had been waiting six months for the ship’s return to port.

  Having met the prize agent at the yard, he arranged for him to visit Saint Lucia the same afternoon.

  On returning to Royal Standard, he was about to sit down in the great cabin when Casson interrupted him.

  ‘Begging you pardon, Capt’n, Chalmers is waiting outside. He asked to speak with you in private.’

  Slightly puzzled, the captain asked his steward to show the sailor in. Though he had been in the great cabin many times before, on this occasion, he looked uncomfortable.

  ‘What is it, Chalmers?’

  ‘It’s Cecil, Captain,’ he blurted. ‘What will happen to him, when the ship is paid off?’

  ‘That is something I cannot answer,’ Oliver said. ‘I was puzzling over that question myself. As you know, Cecil was Captain Chilcott’s dog and, as the captain died, he has no master. If no one will volunteer to take him, when the ship is paid off, he will be destined for the Portsmouth alleys along with the other strays.’ The captain paused. ‘However, as you have been attending to him for two years or more – perhaps you will take him when you leave the ship?’

  ‘Much as I like the animal,’ Chalmers said, ‘he’s no
good to me. My wife wouldn’t allow him to step inside the house and, what would happen to him when I sign on another ship, he’ll have nowhere to go. Perhaps you could keep him on board, Captain? He’s used to living on the Standard.’

  Oliver shook his head. ‘I too will be leaving the ship in a few days’ time. And who knows what her next cruise will take her.’

  ‘Aye, Captain,’ Chalmers said, knuckling his forehead and heading back to the mess.

  The dog, having recognised the sailor’s voice, stuck his nose into the cabin from the gallery doorway but did not enter.

  ‘Captain,’ Casson called, ‘You might want to see this.’

  Following his steward out onto the quarterdeck, Oliver accepted the telescope handed to him. Although the line of coaches near the foreshore was not hard to see without it, he studied them through the glass. Amongst them was one stately carriage with seats for four passengers, drawn by six horses. A coat of arms was embellished on the door. Each of the carriages was attended by a driver and footmen outfitted in colourful livery. Other conveyances included a chaise, a barouche and a sporty phaeton.

  The spectacle attracted a crowd of urchins from the ragged riffraff who tenanted the back streets.

  ‘They’ve been arriving since early morning,’ Casson said. ‘Waiting to collect the young gentlemen, I don’t doubt.’

  Oliver had no comment. He also had no time to spare to attend to their disembarkation and passed that chore to the purser, advising him that the schoolmaster and first lieutenant could assist him if necessary.

  Because none of the young gentlemen volunteers had died and only one had suffered a broken leg in the storm that had subsequently healed, there were no condolences to deliver and Oliver was not inclined to meet with the parents or guardians of the older boys. He had no intention of offering words of praise to inspire them regarding their offspring’s future prospects in the Royal Navy.