by M. C. Muir
Extricating herself from the dressmaker’s pins and needles, Victoria Quintrell turned to face her husband, but he was standing with his back to her.
The view from the window had captured his imagination and transported him far from the confines of the drawing room. That particular stretch of sea always intrigued him. It was a body of water which carried no name, yet its position was known intimately by every man afloat. This was the point where ships from Portsmouth sailed out from the shelter of the Isle of Wight; where the full force of the westerly wind was first felt and where ships altered course and the cry, full and by, reverberated through the rigging. It was the point where the sea swayed to the rhythm of the Atlantic swell as it relentlessly forced itself upon the English Channel.
In the distance Quintrell could see the royals and t’gallants of a ship slowly disappearing beneath the hazy line of the horizon. A merchantman bound for London? A Dutch East Indiaman heading home? A naval frigate? A privateer, perhaps? The distance was too great to identify it and his glass was in the library.
‘I am required to attend the Admiralty,’ he said, the hint of a smile threatening to curl his lips. ‘Ten o’clock in the morning two days hence.’
‘At Portsmouth?’
‘No, my dear,’ he said, with a forgiving shake of the head. ‘Admiralty House in Whitehall. Casson will accompany me.’ He took out his pocket watch and opened it. ‘I will leave this afternoon and take a boat from Ryde. There is little time to delay. I intend to stay at The George overnight and travel to London on the morrow. I am sure my sister will be only too pleased to accommodate me in the City.’ He paused, cleared his throat, then continued in a softer tone. ‘Regarding the Armitages and the invitation to Stamford House, you must tender my apologies. I am sorry to disappoint you, my dear, but it is unlikely I will return to Bembridge before Saturday.
‘But Oliver!’
Though the wind hardly rustled the trees on the banks of the Bembridge River, on the north coast at Ryde and across the Mother Bank, it was blowing briskly. As the navy launch headed for Portsmouth, punching its bow into the lively waters of The Solent, Captain Quintrell was not the only one to receive a dousing of sea-spray. But the captain had other things on his mind.
Resting his right forearm across the hat on his lap, Oliver pondered the remnants of his right hand hidden within a half-empty leather glove. It housed a thumb and forefinger and the malformed knuckle bearing the stumpy remnant of his middle digit. Nothing more. Such was the result of direct contact with a four pound cannon ball. He thanked God it had not carried away his whole arm. Or his head for that matter!
Without removing the glove, he squeezed his thumb and finger together. They were strong. He had made sure of that. He was certain he could grip the rigging on a heeling ship or control a helm in dirty weather. He knew he could draw his sword and hold a pen, a brush and a telescope. But he could not hold his wife.
He pulled the glove off and pondered the thoughts which had troubled him for many months. What was it about his disfigured hand that his wife hated? From the moment she had first seen it at the Seamen’s Hospital, it had repelled her. She had said it resembled a talon or a spur. Cruel words which had hurt. Only after some argument had she conceded that it was better than an ungainly hook strapped to a stump, but she disliked it intensely and insisted he cover it at all times.
But the fact it embarrassed her in public was not the end of it. Not since his return home had Oliver been able to touch her, to run his finger through her hair, explore her contours, feel her warmth. The awkwardness of his left hand only accentuated his disability.
He still loved his wife, but by shutting off his touch, she was blocking the gangway to his affection. He could not deny that for several months while in hospital his mindless brain had failed to even recognise her, but that had been due to the brain infection and was unintentional on his part. Learning to live without affection was taking a considerable amount of conscious effort. Now when he approached her and she glanced at his hand reproachfully, she would find some minor thing on his person to complain about. There was always something to disparage him for. This time it was his shoes. But far worse than that was in the gloom of their bedchamber where her skin would tighten to his touch as if some long-legged spider was crawling over her. He needed her intimacy but would not take it unless it was offered freely. How many nights had he stood by the bedroom window gazing out to sea wishing for the confines of his cot? At least there he did not suffer the ignominy of rejection. The fact that time was dulling his own human desires worried him.
On occasions, he had thought to satisfy her by having the unsightly remnants of his hand surgically removed and the cuff of his dress coat stitched up by his tailor. Now, as the boat entered the confines of Portsmouth Harbour, he was thankful he had not done so.
The array of fighting ships made his spirits soar, and as the launch drifted towards The Hard, the smell of tar and turpentine was succour to his senses. He visualised the guns breeched behind the closed gunports of a majestic 100-gun first-rate and for a moment dared wonder if it might be waiting for him.
Tomorrow – London, he thought. And the following day? He would know the answer to that question soon enough.
When the boat ground to a halt on The Hard, Captain Quintrell stepped ashore followed by his steward. After shaking the water from the hem of his boat cloak, he raked his finger through his hair, replaced his hat and thought about his disfigured hand.
A claw? A talon? A spur? He considered the connotations of his wife’s words. The eagle’s talon was a perfectly formed weapon for snatching prey. The fighting cock’s spur – the ultimate killing device. Both birds were bold and fearless. Both were supremely equipped. One a predator; the other a born fighter.
As they neared the entrance to The George, a young lieutenant stepped aside and saluted. Oliver acknowledged the gesture touching his bare finger to his hat.
No one had noticed when he cast his black glove into the sea. And no one would see him wearing it again.
Chapter 2
The Admiralty
Oliver Quintrell was restless. He hated the stagnant confines of the Admiralty’s waiting room and had chosen to wait in the corridor, even though the wooden benches were unpadded and uncomfortable. He would have preferred to pace rather than sit but, with clerks hurrying hither and thither, it was a busy thoroughfare, so he remained seated, his frustrations festering.
His journey to London had been interrupted by several unscheduled stops due to the heavy rain and the necessity of an extra change of horses, but despite the lateness of the hour, his sister had been delighted at his unannounced arrival. After dining late and feeling obliged to consume more than his stomach required, he did not sleep well. A supper of bread and cheese and a glass of milk would have satisfied him well. On enquiry, that morning, it appeared his steward had been subjected to a similar fate in the kitchen, but Casson seemed disinclined to complain about the excess, merely stating what a fine meal the cook had prepared.
As Oliver shifted his position on the hard bench, it rocked on the polished floor. The sound echoed. As he re-adjusted his pose, the noise repeated itself.
Standing guard outside the nearest doorway, a marine sniffed like a blood-hound in a rat-infested barn. Occasionally his nasal passages exploded in a mucoid snort which jerked the other guard from the lethargy into which he was falling. After three such disgusting eruptions, the captain could bear it no longer.
‘For goodness sake, man! Stop that!’
The marine responded by snorting loudly without looking in the captain’s direction.
At last the double doors swung open and a flurry of footsteps on polished boards announced that the business which had been conducted in that chamber was over. Oliver anticipated that his time had come and rose to his feet.
Three men left the room but the door was quickly closed behind them. Oliver recognised the first of the dignitaries. ‘Lord Buckinghamshire,’ he said, inc
lining his head. The man had aged considerably from the young Bevan who he had met at a reception several years earlier. Oliver prided himself on his excellent memory for faces though at times names eluded him.
A cordial nod was all he received, followed by a moment’s hesitation on the part of the two men walking behind. But nothing further was said and the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies strode off in the direction of Whitehall followed by the other gentlemen who Oliver did not know. The pair had appeared eager to engage each other in conversation but on seeing the captain they had held their tongues. Whatever subject matter was so compelling to talk about would have to wait until they left the building.
Stretching his legs, Oliver pulled at his neckerchief which he had fastened too tightly. It was beginning to constrict his throat but now was not the time to loosen the knot. Waiting expectantly he anticipated his name being called, but the doors remained closed.
It was not difficult for him to recall the interior of the room as he had attended the Lords of the Admiralty on four previous occasions. Returning to his seat, he tried to appear relaxed but his pose was unnatural. He checked his watch. Another quarter hour had elapsed and by now the footsteps were long gone, there were no voices to be heard and even the clerks had stopped their continual ferrying back and forth. Only the sniffing continued.
Admiral Viscount St Vincent, First Lord of the Admiralty greeted him. ‘Please be seated, Captain.’
Seated to his left, at the long mahogany table, were two other Lords Commissioners. Oliver immediately recognised Captain Sir Thomas Troubridge and Captain John Markham, but on his right were two gentlemen he was unfamiliar with. Their dress, when compared to the officers’ gold-braided uniforms, was as dull as the pea hen’s feathers to that of the cock. Civilians, obviously. Possibly lawyers or ship owners, he thought.
‘You may leave us.’ St Vincent directed his words to the three marines present. As they filed out a young blond scribe shuffled nervously to his feet.
‘You will remain and record this meeting,’ he said, pausing until the door was closed. ‘Captain Quintrell, you are well, I trust.’
‘Thank you. I am in exceedingly good health.’
‘That is good.’ He glanced along the table. ‘You no doubt recognised the Secretary for War who just left us.
‘Indeed, I did, my Lord.’
‘And this gentleman on my right is from the Treasury. And Mr Charles Yorke, the Home Secretary.'
Oliver acknowledged the ministers and the admirals on the Viscount’s left.
‘I apologise for the delay but there has been much to discuss. As you are aware the responsibility of safeguarding England’s freedom and keeping her coastline safe from invasion is the role of the Royal Navy. What you may not know is that in achieving this situation, England’s financial resources have been stretched to the extreme. In 1799 alone, Mr Pitt had hoped to raise ten million pounds from his new income tax to pay for weapons and equipment, yet the actual receipts fell well short of that by four million pounds.’ He paused. ‘Another war could be catastrophic from a financial point of view and to this end the country must meet the problem on two fronts. Firstly, unnecessary expenditure must be cut, and secondly new avenues for obtaining revenue must be investigated. Above all reparation must be made.’
Oliver wondered what role he could play in rectifying England’s financial woes.
‘Tell me, Captain Quintrell, how did you sustain the injury to your hand which halted your naval career?’
‘Contact with a four pound shot.’
‘Rendering you unconscious?’
‘Not immediately. That occurred almost a week later.’
‘And when you recovered your senses?’
The muscles in his cheeks tensed pulse-like, as he clenched his teeth. ‘I did not recover my senses for some time.’
‘I understand you were returned to England in that unhappy state?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
A sheet of paper was handed along the bench, each of the gentlemen taking time to peruse it before passing it on.
At this point, Oliver felt the sweat running down his back. So much depended on the success of this interview.
‘I understand you have been quite prodigious in your efforts to be granted a commission. You contend that you are fully recovered from your incapacity?’
‘Yes, sir.’ His lips parted momentarily, but he decided to withhold his comment.
‘Continue, Captain.’
‘My Lord, I have been fully recovered and fit to return to sea for many months. And the minor injury to my hand will not limit the performance of my duty, I assure you.’
The First Lord did not look up but referred to another document before him.
‘Yes, I notice,’ he said dropping the letter back on the polished surface. ‘However, it states here: Mental incapacity. Confused cognition. Inflammation of the meninges. Possible permanent damage to the cerebellum. Tell me Captain, are you suffering from permanent brain damage?’
‘No, my Lord, most definitely not. The head injury was…’
‘Thank you, Captain. I have the physician’s report in front of me.’
Oliver swallowed. He had promised himself that he would say nothing. He knew that the Board’s decision was a forgone conclusion and that he must accept the outcome without argument or redress, but the tone of the interview was giving rise for concern.
‘My Lords, if you will allow me to speak.’ He almost added the words, ‘in my defence’, as the line of questioning was not unlike that of a court martial. ‘I assure you I am fit and well and fully capable of resuming command if the Lords see fit to grant me a ship.’
‘I note you were born in seventeen-seventy which makes you thirty-two?’ All eyes glanced up at him for confirmation.
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Then you have been in the service for only a dozen years, which means you did not enter until you were twenty.’ His eyebrows rose. ‘A little old, was it not?’
‘Begging your pardon, my Lord, but my father was a ship’s captain and I spent a dozen years by his side sailing around the Americas.’
‘Ah, yes. An American packet. And how many times have you doubled the Horn.’
‘Six times.’
‘That voyage does not daunt you?’
‘No, my Lord.
‘Quintrell. The name is Cornish, is it not?
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Your father’s father – what was his occupation?’
‘He was a herring fisherman. He owned his own boat.’
‘Captain,’ St Vincent said, ‘I can see from your expression that you are wondering where this thorough investigation is taking us. Bear with me as I feel it is pertinent.’
To what? Oliver thought. Good God, what was looming? Was he to be retired from the service? Offered a job as lighthouse-keeper on some Scottish Island or given the post of overseer on a rotting prison ship. He knew of the hulks at Woolwich, Plymouth and Chatham and was familiar with those in Portsmouth Harbour. Dead and dying ships. Repositories for the dregs of society. Floating prisons. Eleven in total – lined up in single file – a redundant funeral cortege waiting for another war. He could think of nothing worse.
With his head buzzing from unanswered questions, it was hard to maintain a dignified expression. Only one thing was certain in his mind, he had not been invited to this meeting to receive news of promotion to admiral.
‘You have no doubt seen the fleet of ships anchored in
St Helens Road?’ ‘Indeed, sir. More than forty merchantmen.’
‘As of this morning, we are informed there are forty-seven vessels and next week they will be joined by another score which are currently gathering at The Nore.’
Oliver was puzzled. Since the peace, the navy was no longer providing escorts to merchant vessels.
St Vincent anticipated his enquiry. ‘It was posted in the Gazette that a small squadron is presently preparing to sail for Kingston, and y
ou may also have read that Lord Markingham and a party of diplomats will be sailing to Ceylon to take up their appointments.’
The captain acknowledged.
‘Members of The East India Company Board and several other wealthy traders are also aware of these naval movements, and because of the recent increases in piracy, particularly in the North Atlantic, they have requested the Admiralty that their merchant ships be allowed to sail out with the naval fleet.’
Oliver waited.
‘I should add that this extraordinary requisition was supported by a handsome financial offer which the government, in its present financial position, was not in a position to decline.’
Suddenly a see-saw of possibilities presented itself. Dare he imagine he was to be offered command of a squadron? A promotion to the rank of commodore perhaps? Or command of a second- or third-rate ship of the line? His thoughts were cut short.
‘Captain Quintrell, you have not held a commission for how long now?
‘A year now.’
‘I trust you realise that currently we have three quarters of the Royal Navy’s post captains at our disposal, not to mention several Rear Admirals of the Blue who remind us almost daily of their expectations. However,’ he said, ‘it is your experience, your resourcefulness and your proven ability to handle men under adverse conditions that has brought us to the conclusion that you are the officer we will entrust with this particular assignment. You will have your ship, Captain!’
Those words struck like a bolt from the blue; like the call from the masthead when land was sighted after six months at sea; like the taste of fresh water after drinking from a water-butt tainted with vinegar; like the final moment of ecstasy lying across a woman’s flanks. The words, you will have your ship, echoed in his head.
It was a statement which did not require an answer. Oliver wanted to offer his thanks but under the circumstances decided to keep his lips pursed in order to control the corners of his lips which were intent on providing their own response.