The Oliver Quintrell Trilogy – Books 1-3 (BOX SET) (Under Admiralty Orders - The Oliver Quintrell Series)

by M. C. Muir

  Though the week’s work transporting and packing the ambergris had been conducted in a spirit of reasonably good humour, the work on the blubber again brought out the worst in the men. They were all aware that the fatty substance smeared over their jumpers and jackets carried a fetid smell which would stay with them for weeks and months. On deck there was an unspoken feeling of disgust.

  Eventually when all the available barrels were filled and sealed, Captain Quintrell turned to the cooper. ‘You can empty that barrel now, Bungs. If it is as rotten as you say then I suggest you dig out the rotten meat. Tell cook to help you. You have permission to throw the contents overboard then scrub the container quickly and douse it with vinegar.’

  The cooper nodded while the sailors stood around waiting for it to be made available.

  As the lid was lifted from cask 389 Pork, the men pinched their noses.

  ‘Phew! That pongs!’ said Masterton, the man who had a fondness for the smell of cattle.

  The cook appeared from the galley, disgruntled and inadequately dressed for the cold. He was armed with a copper ladle and the tormentor that was last used on deck as the trident carried by King Neptune.

  Handing the large fork to the cooper, he moved closer to the burning brazier and held his apron over his mouth.

  ‘Get back you men, unless you want to get splashed!’ the midshipman ordered.

  Bungs’ expression was none too happy. It was obvious from his face that he believed the barrel should have been forfeited, and disgorging the rotten contents should have been the responsibility of the cook. But there was no point in arguing about it.

  ‘Come along, Bungs! Look lively or we will all freeze.’

  Once the lid was off, the cooper dug the long fork deep inside. What he retrieved was the ragged remains of two part-decomposed rats. Holding them out at arm’s length, like crumpets on a toasting fork, he screwed up his face.

  ‘How did they get in there?’ the coxswain asked

  ‘Is that what the navy board is feeding us now?’

  ‘Stinks worse than the bleeding volcano!’

  ‘A bad egg would be sweet as a rose in comparison!’

  ‘Silence, you men!’ shouted Mr Tully, ‘or it’ll be served up for your supper!’

  Keeping the rodents at arm’s length, Bungs quickly flicked them over the side. Closing his eyes and nose to the barrel’s contents he plunged the fork in again. This time a piece of bone became lodged between the tines. Dripping with necrotic slime, it had strips of putrefied flesh dangling from it.

  ‘Get that overboard, for God’s sake!’ Mr Parry ordered.

  The next thrust stuck fast.

  ‘Come on, Bungs!’ Mr Tully was conscious the captain was watching. ‘It can’t be so difficult.’

  With his hand covering his mouth Bungs leaned over the barrel and stabbed the tormentor in yet again. As it came free, splashing his face with brown fluid, he noticed something strange hooked on one of the prongs.

  Bending forward, he peered inside.

  ‘Aagh!’ he blubbered, the wind carrying a stream of vomit from his mouth.

  Smithers jeered. ‘Got a delicate belly, have you, Bungs?’

  ‘What is it Bungs?’ Mr Parry called.

  The cooper’s legs had collapsed beneath him. He was down on the deck, on his hands and knees, shaking his head; saliva dribbling from his mouth and tears dripping from his nose.

  ‘Speak man, what it is?’

  ‘If I’m not mistaken,’ he spluttered, ‘I think I’ve found Mr Sparrow!’

  Chapter 20

  Burial at Sea

  On deck the earthly remains of Percy Sparrow, still coffined in the ship’s barrel were draped with the union flag. When the longboat was thoroughly cleaned of blubber and when all the preparations were complete, the officers and crew of Elusive were piped on deck. As the company assembled there was no noise save for the shuffle of feet and a few whispered words spoken between shipmates.

  No one looked at the barrel when the burial service commenced; the seamen’s eyes remained fixed on the deck. They did not even chance a glance at each other.

  Oliver Quintrell’s voice was soft but clear when he delivered the service. On this occasion every man was listening.

  After speaking the words: ‘being turned into corruption,’ the captain paused. In his mind, he considered that the carpenter’s remains were perhaps the foulest corruption he had ever seen. He did not linger over the remainder of the ritual and once the verbal formalities were completed, the flag was slipped from the barrel and it was swayed out in a sling of hemp netting and lowered to the bow of the longboat.

  As the boat glided over the shimmering pocked-pewter surface of the lagoon, the whole crew lined Elusive’s deck and watched in silence. Three hundred yards from the ship, the boat-crew shipped their oars and the cooper carefully loosened the barrel’s lid. Sliding the oak cask gently along the thwart, Bungs, Will Ethridge and Tom Masterton tilted it towards the water and with a gentle push, cast it from the boat. A plume of water shot five feet in the air when it hit the surface and the boat’s bow reared in response almost tipping two of the unprepared oarsmen over the side.

  Mr Sparrow’s curved oak coffin bobbed once then went straight down. With a loosened lid and the addition of eight twelve pound cannon balls, it was guaranteed to sink to the bottom of the volcano’s vent – however deep that might be.

  An ear-splitting shot from one of Elusive’s 24-pound carronades shattered the silence and few men on deck were able to hold back their tears.

  Mr Parry was distraught. ‘What fiend did this? This is murder most foul. Why was such an inoffensive man as Mr Sparrow subjected to such a horrendous act?’

  ‘I thought we had left this problem behind us,’ Oliver said. ‘But now it raises its ugly head again and this time uglier than ever.

  The lieutenant shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Now we know it was not the carpenter who drilled the holes in the hull. But who?’

  ‘Someone with access to his tools?’ Mr Parry added. ‘Perhaps the same person who killed him tried to scuttle the ship.’

  ‘I think Chips was killed because he was in the way.’

  ‘Or perhaps he saw something he was not supposed to see.’

  ‘Or sadly, was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Will Etheridge was certain Mr Sparrow had stayed on board in Rio to finish the pens when the others had gone ashore.’

  ‘A high price to pay for duty!’ Oliver concluded, leaning forward in his chair. ‘How are the men taking this?’

  ‘Very hard indeed, sir. Percy Sparrow was a popular man. He would happily have a yarn with anyone. No one disliked him and as far as I know he had no enemies.’

  ‘But I understand that he and the cooper used to argue, and that on more than one occasion Bungs had threatened him.’

  ‘His mess-mates assure me it was just playful banter with not a grain of malice in it. They say the two men were the best of mates. It seems they had served together for several years.’

  ‘But Bungs, being cooper, was responsible for moving the barrels. He was handy with an augur. He could put a plug in anything. And he could seal a barrel as tight as a drum.’

  ‘After adding half a dozen live rats?’ The captain stated, as he raked his hair. ‘Good God, who would do such an unspeakable thing, and why?’

  ‘Perhaps he thought the rats would consume the carcase.’

  ‘And they partially succeeded though I’m surprised the putrefaction didn’t kill them first.’

  ‘I only hope Sparrow was dead when he was put in.’

  ‘The alternative is too awful to consider.’

  For a moment there was silence as, without wishing to, the pair visualized the scene.

  ‘So, Simon, we have arrived at the conclusion that the cooper had the skill, the strength and the motive, if you class the mess-threats as serious.’

  ‘But if Bungs had known that his mate had been
stuffed in a barrel, he would not have been prepared to open it on deck.’

  ‘But he didn’t want to open it. He wanted to toss it over the side.’

  ‘A good way of getting rid of the evidence.’

  ‘But you saw the way the man wept on deck.’

  ‘I did indeed,’ Parry nodded with a sigh. ‘Those were not the tears of a guilty man. They were tears a man sheds for a lost brother.’

  ‘I will speak with our cooper, but somehow I don’t think he is our culprit.’

  Casson interrupted the conversation to clear the plates from the table while the captain and Mr Parry mulled over the question.

  ‘But who else do we have as a suspect?’ asked Simon.

  ‘What about Will Ethridge, the young shipwright?’

  ‘I don’t consider him to have any reason.’

  Oliver shrugged. ‘With Sparrow out of the way, I rated him as acting carpenter. That is a rapid rise in ranking for a man with less than a few weeks’ service on board ship, would you not agree?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Simon, ‘but Will does not strike me as having an ounce of evil in him. He is neither ambitious nor jealous and I cannot see that he would, or could, do such a dastardly deed. Besides, if he related well to anyone aboard, it was to the carpenter. From the day we plucked him from The Solent, Mr Sparrow took the lad under his wing and looked after him. To watch the pair together and listen to them talk, you would have taken them for father and son. Murder is no way to repay a friend and mentor. And the lad was so inconsolable when Sparrow’s remains were found, the surgeon had to administer a draft of laudanum to calm him down.’

  ‘Where does that leave us, then?’

  The lieutenant thought for a moment. ‘When we sailed from Brazil, three men were marked absent in the muster book. There was Guthrie, an ungrateful fellow who we rescued from the wreck in the Atlantic.’

  ‘Such are the thanks we receive.’

  ‘The second was Thomas Bigalow. The pair were mates and often seen on deck together, but I thought nothing of it. I think they were both Deal men.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘And the third was Mr Sparrow who we assumed had run.’

  ‘In retrospect, a regrettable assumption on my part.’

  ‘But it was the only conclusion anyone could possibly arrive at,’ Parry said. ‘Those who knew him presumed he had gone ashore yet no one could confirm that fact and no one saw him return.’

  ‘But Will Ethridge sensed there was something amiss and I felt it too, that was why I had the ship searched. Naturally no one considered looking in the barrels. A thousand curses! Now we shall never know. If it wasn’t for my orders and the ambergris, I would head back to Rio and search every bar and bordello in that town until I found the man who did this. For a crime such as this, I would have him flogged around the fleet then hung from the yard arm and left to rot till every inch of flesh was pecked from his bones!’

  Captain Quintrell glanced out of the window and poured himself a second cup of tea. He was satisfied with what had been achieved in the last week and was looking forward to the day ahead.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Capt’n, one of the men is asking to see you. He says it’s important and won’t speak with no one else but yourself.’

  ‘Thank you, Casson. Send him in and pass word to Mr Parry that I shall join him on deck directly.’

  Pushing his cup aside, he watched the seaman shuffle in, his eyes down, head bowed and a black woollen cap screwed up in his hand.

  ‘Speak man. I do not have all day to listen to your problems.’

  ‘Lazlo, Capt’n, sir,’ he said, rotating the woollen hat in his fingers.

  ‘Well, out with it. What is of such concern that you cannot discuss it with the officer of the watch?’

  ‘It’s about what happened at Rio, Capt’n,’ the seaman murmured, his eyes fixed on the Indian carpet beneath his feet.

  ‘Look at me man! What about Rio!’ the captain snapped.

  ‘It’s about that fight I was in. The one that made be late back on board.’

  ‘Two dozen lashes, if I remember rightly. I can assure you that you were dealt with very leniently.’

  ‘Aye, Capt’n. I ain’t got no complaint about me punishment.’

  ‘Then, for goodness sake man, get to the point.’

  ‘I came to tell who it was I fought with. It were Guthrie and Bigalow.’

  The two names still rung fresh in Oliver’s mind. ‘Continue.’

  ‘When we dropped anchor in Rio harbour, I was in the last boat to go ashore. Them two jumped aboard just as we were about to pull away.’

  ‘Was Mr Sparrow with them?’

  Lazlo shook his head.

  ‘So what can you tell me about the two men who ran?’

  ‘Not much. I’d never had anything to do with the pair before that day. Usually kept themselves to themselves, they did. But when we reached the beach, Guthrie said he knew a bar where the ale was cold and the women were easy… if you know what I mean. Well, I’d never been to Rio afore and after all them weeks at sea, I fancied a good time.’

  Oliver sighed. ‘So you accompanied them?’

  ‘Aye, I did, but after a few drinks they told me they’d no mind to go back to the ship. Said they’d spied a merchantman in the harbour and word was out that she was bound for London and sailing the next day. They planned to sign on and asked me if I wanted to go with them.’

  ‘And you declined of course?’

  Lazlo hesitated. ‘I have to say in all honesty, I’d had a few drinks and I thought about my wife and bairns for a bit, but then I told them straight, “If we get caught, we’ll hang for running”, but Bigalow just laughed. “Better than going down on a sinking ship,” he said. Guthrie thought that was funny.’

  ‘But why didn’t you report this when we left Rio?’

  The gunner’s mate shrugged his shoulders. ‘I guess I didn’t think about it.’

  Leaning back in his chair Oliver looked directly into the seaman’s eyes. ‘So why now?’

  ‘There was more said than just that, but it didn’t make no sense until they found what was left of Mr Sparrow.’ Lazlo looked dolefully at the captain and continued. ‘Guthrie said that if I was fool enough to go back, I’d not be needing any money. That’s when he grabbed my purse and we got in a fight. I could have taken them on one at a time, but the pair was too much for me. They dragged me into the alley, gave me a beating and left me for dead. I felt like I was near dead. I couldn’t move, but I could still hear their voices and I remember Guthrie’s words as they walked away. “Shame we haven’t got a barrel for him too!” he said.’

  The colour drained from Oliver’s knuckles while the air whistled as he sucked it through his clenched teeth. Extending a clawed finger and thumb on the table, he asked quietly: ‘Is anyone else aware of these conversations?’

  ‘No, Capt’n. I though it best to keep quiet about it.’

  ‘Wise,’ Oliver said, quickly assessing the information. ‘I think it best you remain silent. Should word leak out, it could play havoc with the morale of the men and that is something I cannot afford to happen. Today we sail for England and for the present nothing can be done to change the events which took place on the South American coast. Do you agree?’

  ‘Aye, Capt’n.’

  ‘Then return to your station but be assured that your version of these matters will be recorded in the ship’s log. And I give you my personal assurance that one day Guthrie and Bigalow will pay for the evil crimes they committed.’

  Emile Lazlo knuckled his forehead and turned to go.

  ‘Casson!’ Oliver shouted. ‘A tot of rum for Mr Lazlo, if you please.’

  At eleven o’clock the capstan creaked and turned and Elusive’s anchor was raised from the cinder bed. The topsails were encouraged to back and as the crew anxiously held their breath, the frigate slowly slid noisily from the ashen shore. With the helm across, the staysails caught the wind and brought the head around in an
arc of one hundred and eighty degrees.

  The distance to the entrance was only a few miles and after the short slow sail across the lagoon they stood into the bay where they had first anchored almost three weeks earlier.

  By one o’clock there was not a cloud in the sky, the wind had veered easterly and providing it did not blow from the south-east, preventing them from sailing out of the island, all would be well.

  Pacing, the quarterdeck, Oliver willed the hour-glass to empty and willed the ebb tide to flow again. He needed to see how high the sea would reach up the rocky pillars which rose vertically from the bottom of this fathomless pond. Waiting impatiently, his thoughts drifted back to his youth and recollections of sailing around the Giant’s Causeway. But even those stark grey rocks were not as sombre as this ominous place. And nowhere else on earth had sights revolted him as the things he had witnessed here.

  Quintrell knew he was not alone in his thinking. In his estimation there was not a single man on board sorry to be leaving the volcanic island, though no one admitted it.

  At two in the afternoon, the sailors wandered about the deck. No longer were they huddled under layers of blankets for the day was no colder than an English winter’s day. A few men went barefooted. Such was the toughness of their leathered feet, such was the power of sunlight and such was relief at the thought of returning home.

  From the mess the lilting notes of a flute trilled the tune of a Charles Wesley hymn. It was accompanied by a choir of disorganised voices singing quietly. Others hummed the Sunday anthem.

  ‘Deck there!’ the cry came from aloft. ‘Ship ho!’

  Eyes turned.

  Blinked.

  Sailors stared silently in disbelief, as the bow of a majestic triple-decked man-of-war came in view. She was sailing between the cliffs – passing through the crack in the rim of the caldera – about to enter the island’s lagoon.